She’ll be bored within a month, Minerva thought ruefully, but there’d been little she could do to dissuade the stubborn girl.
A knock at the door roused her from her brooding. Straightening the leaflets on her desk, she called on the student to enter and squared her shoulders as the object of Miss Slattery’s distraction, strolled into the room.
“Sit down, Black,” she said peremptorily, pointing to the wooden chair she’d placed on the opposite side of the desk. She raised one eyebrow but said nothing as Sirius Summoned a cushion before he sat down. “Tea, juice, biscuit?” She gestured towards the plate in front of her and Sirius picked up a Ginger Newt.
“So,” she began when he’d taken a bite. “Have you given any thought to your future?”
Sirius shrugged. “S’pose so. I read through a few of those leaflets in the common room.”
Professor McGonagall nodded encouragingly. “Good. Did anything spark an interest?”
Sirius took another bite of his biscuit and chewed slowly. “Mmm, one or two things, actually.”
There was a long silence punctuated only by the crunching noise of Sirius finishing the biscuit.
“When you have a moment, Black ...” she said witheringly. “Would you mind sharing these ideas?”
“Mmm,” said Sirius as he swallowed the last few crumbs. He put his hand out for another, but, catching his Professor’s eye, he withdrew it. Instead, he leant forward. “I’d like to be an Auror, Professor.” He stopped and began fiddling the lapel of his robes.
“Black,” replied Professor McGonagall, “let me stop you there. I’m not sure Auror is the right choice for you.”
“Why not?” asked Sirius in astonishment. “You know my marks are good. Studying won’t be a problem.”
“There are other things they take into account, when deciding who will be accepted onto the programme,” she said firmly.
“Like what?” Sirius asked belligerently.
Professor McGonagall looked at him. She had wondered if Black’s interview would prove difficult, and as usual, her instincts had been correct.
“What?” persisted Sirius.
“The path of an Auror is a difficult one, Black. They only take the best “”
“Are you saying I’m not one of your best students?” he interrupted, smiling in disbelief.
She sighed and leant forward, elbows on the desk. “I know what a good student you can be, Black. When you make the effort, you’re brilliant. But ...”
“I would make the effort,” he began indignantly. “This is something I want to do ... something I would be good at.” He glared at her. “It’s not that, though, is it? You know I can and do put the work in when I want to. Is it my surname? Has that put a black mark against me?”
“I won’t lie to you,” she replied. “Your name does not go in your favour, but that could be overcome with a letter of recommendation from the Headmaster.”
“So, what’s the problem?” He sat back in the chair and waited for her to speak.
Aware that her words could further antagonise the boy, Minerva glanced at the photograph of her predecessor that sat atop a small bookcase. His eyes looked at her kindly but with wisdom, and she knew what she had to say.
“I do not think Professor Dumbledore would, in all countenance, recommend you to the Auror Department.” She lifted her hand to stop the protest that was erupting from his lips. “There is something else that counts against you far more than your surname.”
“And that is?” There was an edge to his voice, and she realised he’d been prepared for prejudice against his name but had not realised that other obstacles lay in his path.
“Your temperament, Black. Aurors need a degree of self-control. They need to be responsible.”
“And I’m not!” he stated scornfully. “They’d turn me down because I play a few pranks in class.” The chair leg creaked as it scraped across the polished wooden floor. Sirius got up, preparing to storm out.
“It was not a mere prank that nearly led Severus Snape to his death, Black,” Minerva stated in a low but clear voice.
Sirius’ hand stayed on the door handle. He closed his eyes and leant his forehead against the oak panelling. There was a long silence and then he turned his head around and she saw a shadow pass through his eyes.
“Thank you for your time, Professor.”
“Enter!” Minerva looked up briefly and nodded as Peter walked in, smiling nervously.
“Ahh, Pettigrew, take a seat. Tea?”
He nodded and she poured him a cup from her green and red teapot. Peter added two sugar lumps and some milk, then raised the cup to his lips.
She watched trying not to feel irritated at the ring he was leaving on her desk when he set the cup down. Flicking her wand, she levitated the cup up slightly and whisked a coaster under it.
“Sorry,” Peter muttered. He withdrew his hand from the plate where he’d been about to take a biscuit.
“So, Pettigrew,” she began, ignoring that strange slurping noise he made when he drank, “what would you like to do when you leave Hogwarts?”
He swallowed and mumbled something.
“Speak up!” she ordered.
Peter sighed, placed the cup down very carefully on the coaster, and sat back in his seat. “I don’t know,” he said biting his lip. “I’d like to do something useful “ like Auror “ but I know I’d have to seriously improve my marks.”
What is it with these Gryffindors and their desire to be Aurors? she asked herself.
“Tell me something, Pettigrew. Has this desire to be an Auror got anything to do with your friends?”
Peter blushed. “Uh ... yeah ... well ... we were talking about it, and it does sound like a great job ... And it’s important too.”
“Hmm,” she said and sighed inwardly. Helping herself to a biscuit, she tried to think of how to phrase her next words. “Do you remember that time you tried out for the Quidditch team?”
Peter nodded, but it was clear he was unsure what she was going to say.
“Potter was already on the team, wasn’t he? And I could see you at the try-outs aping his style.” She paused. “You didn’t get a spot on the team that time ... and then you gave up.” She proffered the plate towards him. Peter picked up a Chocolate Dragon
“Are you saying I shouldn’t have tried?” he asked her as he bit off one of the dragon’s legs.
“No,” she replied. “I’m saying that if you’d flown the way you usually fly, you might have made it as a Beater. You’re small, but you’re steady and your aim is good. The trouble was that you tried to be like Potter.” She smiled warmly at him. “Don’t be a follower all your life, Peter. You need to carve out your own niche “ perhaps at the Ministry. After all, Potter and Black won’t be by your side for the rest of your life.”
Professor McGonagall smiled as Phyllida Lacey left the room, clutching some pamphlets. It was always rewarding when she had a student whose ideas matched their prospects so accurately. Phyllida had stated confidently that she wanted to follow her mother into the law department. She was, she said, particularly concerned with witches rights in the workplace.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, Minerva realised she had a good ten minutes before her next appointment. She smiled to herself. This one should be interesting.
“A QUIDDITCH player!” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “That’s what you want to do with your life, Potter?”
James tilted the chair back on two legs and swung his wand between his hands. “Uh-huh,” he said. “I love Quidditch. I’m good at it, and Dad’s got contacts with Puddlemere United.” He reached over and picked over the biscuits finally selecting a shortbread finger. “I shouldn’t have a problem. In fact, I might not even take my N.E.W.Ts.”
“Potter, what are you saying?” gasped Professor McGonagall. “You want to leave Hogwarts ... to play Quidditch. I can only say that would be a monumental error on your part. Far be it from me to pour scorn on your dreams, but ...” She paused, trying to garner her thoughts.
“But I’m good, Professor,” James protested. “You know I’m the star of the Gryffindor team. And I don’t want to do anything else. Aren’t you always saying we should play to our strengths? Well, Quidditch is mine.”
She gulped at her tea, wishing for once there was a slug of Firewhisky in it. “Mr Potter,” she said sternly. “You have a lot more strings to your bow than Quidditch.”
“Uh-huh.” James nodded his head and reached for another biscuit. She had an overwhelming urge to slap his hand away, but watched as he picked a Chocolate Dragon. “I know I get good marks and stuff,” he continued as he carried on eating, “but ... Quidditch is fun.”
“FUN!” She was getting cross now, and clenched her teeth in an effort to stop herself shouting at the boy. “Mr Potter, as much as you love Quidditch, you do yourself a grave disservice by not exploring all your options.” She leant across the table, and this time, as James reached for another biscuit, she levitated the plate away from him. “Listen to me, Potter. I agree that you’re a good player “ and very possibly, you could make it as a professional -- but you also have a brilliant mind. You cannot waste it by becoming Bludger fodder.”
Warming to her theme, she stood up and walked around to his side of the desk. She opened her mouth and was about to speak again when she noticed the photograph of Professor Dumbledore smiling benignly, his eyes twinkling. Shrewdly, she stared at Potter “ his expression mirrored that of the headmaster.
“I get the feeling you’ve been pulling my leg, Potter,” she said in reply.
“Mmm, just a bit,” he said cheekily, and then “ suddenly “ he stopped smiling. “If things were different, Professor, then I would like to turn pro “ just like my Dad. I’d give myself a few years to get to the top, and then find another career. Like I said, Quidditch is fun ... but ...” He paused and then took a deep breath. “We’re at war and so I know there’s only one thing I can do ... and that is fight.”
It was nearly over, she thought, but this was the one she’d been dreading the most.
“So, Lupin,’ Professor McGonagall began in a slightly strained tone, ‘have you given any thought to your future once you leave Hogwarts?”
Remus looked at her and smiled slightly. He presented his professor with a leaflet that he’d been perusing in the common room.
Interested in Healing?
“A Healer?” she declared and bit her lip as she saw Remus frowning. He must have heard the shock in her voice. She assumed a calm expression and waited for him to continue.
“Yes,” he answered. “My Charms grades are good, as are my Herbology ones. I know I probably need to put in some extra work with Potions and --” he looked her directly in the eye, “-- and Transfiguration. But I’m prepared for that, Professor.”
There was a long silence. Professor McGonagall pushed the plate of biscuits towards him, but Remus shuddered involuntarily. He shook his head and pushed the plate away. “No, thank you, Professor McGonagall. I’m not that keen on chocolate. My mother and Madam Pomfrey always give it to me after ... well, you know.”
Realising he meant the liquid chocolate that Poppy insisted was the best remedy for pain and shock; she shivered, finally understanding his aversion, and quickly removed the plate from sight.
“Lupin...” she said after a while, “you must understand that however good your grades -- and let me assure you I have no doubt you will make the grade in my subject -- the College of Healers will not accept you onto their course. Your condition makes this impossible.” She paused and then leant forward. “You must think again.”
He held her gaze for a few seconds and then looked through the other leaflets on her desk. Ministry jobs in offices such as Muggle Liaison, Law Enforcement, and the Auror Department, were splayed like a fan in front of him. Steadily, he placed his finger on the last one.
“Auror, then. My Defence grades are good. I could track down dark wizards. I could do this, Professor...” He trailed off, perhaps knowing what her response would be.
“You could think about the Ministry,” she replied kindly, “but perhaps you would not find it as rewarding as you think.”
Oh, Merlin. The poor boy knows that the Ministry will not accept him. Why did I ever think I could prepare him for this?
“What do you suggest, then?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts.
Professor McGonagall looked at him; he held her gaze. “Lu --” she said placatingly, and then she corrected herself. “Remus, my dear boy, you always knew this would not be easy.”
Deciding this talk was over, Remus stood up, careful to avoid scraping the polished floor with his chair. As he left, he echoed his friend’s words of two hours earlier. “Thank you for your time, Professor,” he muttered as he shut the door.
Minerva sat very still in her chair. She could hear a persistent thud outside in the corridor, but did not go out to investigate.
Again and again, Remus’ fist punched the wall. How stupid he was to think that just because they dealt with his lycanthropy at Hogwarts, the outside world would welcome him.
Finally, he turned around and slowly slid down the wall. His fist was bleeding, the knuckles raw, but the pain was nothing to him. In his pocket were some more leaflets. He was looking at them, intent on ripping them to pieces, when he heard a familiar voice.
“Not good, then, Moony.”
He looked up to see Sirius standing there. “Not really, Padfoot. Apparently, my tendency to rip humans apart every month isn’t a qualification desired for a Healer,” he said, adding a light tone to his voice. “And you? Are you about to take the Auror Department by storm?”
“Nah, changed my mind. Looks too much like hard work.” Sirius sank down on the floor next to him.
Remus frowned, and Sirius knew he hadn’t quite believed him. But then, he didn’t believe Remus’ laissez-faire attitude either.
“Where are the others?” Remus asked.
Sirius shrugged. “In the common room. Wormy’s looking through some more Ministry leaflets, whilst Prongs is talking in a very loud voice about how McGonagall kept saying he had a brilliant mind.”
“I take it Lily’s within earshot,” Remus said, feeling a bit brighter.
“Do you want to join them?” Sirius asked.
“Not really.” He stood up. “I’m hungry. Let’s go down to the kitchens.”
Sirius grinned wickedly. “I have a better idea.” He brought something out from behind his back. “I’ve ... er ... borrowed the Cloak, so let’s sneak down to Hogsmeade instead. Those two won’t miss us, and I’m sure Rosmerta will take pity on a couple of unemployables like us.”