“How does one measure honour?”
Nick Barnaby cocked a grin at the bronze eagle doorknocker guarding the Ravenclaw common room. “By ‘mettle’, of course.”
“Nice turn of phrase,” the disembodied voice of the knocker replied as the door swung open.
Turning to Felix Boot, his best mate, Nick rolled his eyes. “It’s losing its creative touch, isn’t it?”
After the two third-years settled near the fire in the common room, Felix said, “Not really. I’d have stood there for an hour trying to figure that one out.”
With a shrug, Nick said, “Maybe we should finish our Defence essays. Professor Thomas said we won’t have any time in class, since we’re practising our practical exam tomorrow.”
The boys fell into silence, with the scratching of quills being the only sound in the room. As it was a glorious spring day on a Saturday in May, not many students were to be found indoors. A mass migration of book-laden teenagers headed for the lawns of Hogwarts as soon as the dew dried from the grass.
Nick and Felix had fled to avoid Sarah Macmillan, Hufflepuff and all-around annoyance, in the one place that she could not follow. Their classmate had been coming as close to stalking Felix as one could get without actually doing it. Perhaps it was her lack of stealth or disdain for personal space that kept her from falling over that particular precipice, but she was irritating just the same.
However, their study session was cut short by a throat clearing behind them. They turned to look simultaneously, and, to their chagrin, it was Deputy Headmistress/Arithmancy Professor Vector.
Great, thought Nick, one of us must be in trouble. Professor Vector, as a general rule, hardly ever set foot into the common room, as she, all of them speculated, did not particularly like children. Why she became a teacher at all was anyone’s guess, but how else was she supposed to exercise her borderline fanatical love for Arithmancy? If at all possible, her expression was sterner than usual. That could not be good.
“Mister Barnaby, could you come with me, please?” Her question was not a request, and with a frustrated sigh, Nick closed his inkbottle and left his unfinished assignment in Felix’s custody. He followed Vector out the door and down the winding tower stairs, only to go back up the stairs of a different tower.
As they trudged the multitude of stairs, Nick could not help but wonder what he had done to earn a trip to Headmaster Flitwick’s office. He had already gleaned that it was their intended destination, as it was only one tower over from Ravenclaw Tower. He ruled out misbehaviour, as he had never been one to stir up trouble. Perhaps Felix had done something and he was to bear witness, but would the other boy not be required to come with him? Typically, he had a propensity for figuring out puzzles, but things just did not add up.
When they approached an old stone gargoyle, Nick nearly jumped when it spoke. One would think that, in a castle full of magical objects, that a talking statue would be less of a surprise. But, since he had never visited this particular sector of the school, it was foreign nonetheless. “Password?” it asked.
Vector simply said, “Sugar mice.”
The gargoyle strolled off to the side, revealing an empty stairwell. Nick once again followed the professor, his curiosity growing exponentially. When they stopped at the base of where the steps seemed like they ought to be, the stone beneath them began to ascend like a lift, only it rotated upwards in a spiral pattern emulating a proper set of stairs. The magic and the resourcefulness of it all dually impressed Nick, despite his apprehension about the visit to the Headmaster.
They reached the top, and they were greeted by yet another door, except a stone gargoyle did not guard this one . This oak door boasted only a brass knocker, which was virtually identical to the one adorning the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower. To Nick’s surprise, though, Vector did not knock; she simply opened the door.
The diminutive Headmaster Flitwick was pacing in front of the fireplace, head down in apparent concentration. His head jerked toward the approaching teacher and student when the door creaked, announcing their arrival. His face was unusually sombre, and, now, for the first time, Nick was truly nervous.
“Mister Barnaby,” Flitwick prefaced before amending, “Nicholas. I’m afraid I have some terrible news. Perhaps you should take a seat.”
Nick frowned in confusion. Were they kicking him out of school? For the life of him, he could not think of any reason why they would do that, but there had to be something that he was missing, some piece of this puzzle that he did not understand. Anxious to find out just what this piece was, he sat down in the chair opposite that of the Headmaster and looked back and forth between the two professors, really wishing that someone would come out and tell him just what the hell was going on.
“I’m not really sure how to start…” Flitwick’s voice trailed off as he exchanged a meaningful look with Vector.
The latter came to his rescue. “Earlier today, your father was attacked whilst shopping in Diagon Alley. He’s in St Mungo’s right now.”
The breath that Nick had been holding expelled with a shudder, and his heart stopped for one painful moment. It had to be some sort of sick joke, and they were just taking the piss out of him”they had to be. Why would anyone hurt his dad? He was a calm, reserved man who would not harm anyone, and, like most boys did, Nick revered his father. Who would do such a thing?
In the time that it took his mind to mull over those questions, Nick did not realise that tears had started falling down his face until one dripped onto the back of his hand. He stared down at it, stunned, as the truth hit him. His father was hurt, and it was bad enough for him to be at St Mungo’s. He, Nick, had been called to the Headmaster’s office, which would only occur for an emergency. But probably the scariest thing of all was that both of them looked like someone had just died, which meant that was not only possible, but maybe even likely.
So, Nick did the only thing that he could do; he leaned his head back, drilled his gaze into the ceiling, and started reciting the preface to the British Magical Constitution of 2001 under his breath from memory. It had always served as a way to clear his mind when he had trouble concentrating. Those words had always signified tranquillity and poise to him, but now they just felt like noise in his head. He was even starting to forget parts of it.
“…and for the liberties thus defined,” Nick said aloud, trying to get back on track, “all shall receive equal treatment under the canopy of the law. Every witch and wizard shall”“ His voice cracked, stopping his flow of pedantry, and his breath began to resemble a pant as he desperately tried to bring a measure of control over it. He tried to pick up where he left off. “Every witch and wizard shall… be allowed these rights, regardless… regardless of blood status or social standing. If an-any individual”“
Nick simply could not go on. He buried his face in his hands as both Flitwick and Vector struggled to figure out exactly what they were supposed to do. The three of them sat there like this for several minutes before Nick recovered his composure.
“Can I go see him?” His voice sounded small and helpless, but it did not matter. All he wanted was to make sure that his dad was going to be all right. “Please?” he added, the plea barely more than a breath.
Flitwick nodded. “Certainly. I’ll come with you if you wish.”
Shaking his head, Nick said, “No, that’s okay. I’m sure you’ve got other things to do. Plus, my dad will want to see me, and my mum will need me around.”
“Very well,” Flitwick said. “Take care and good luck.” The small man padded over to his chair and sat in it. “Floo powder’s in the little crock on the table next to the grate.” Without another word, he began writing furiously.
Vector merely inclined her head in acknowledgement as Nick crept toward the fireplace. He could barely put one foot in front of the other, and the speed at which he walked was the best that he could manage. He just had a feeling that this was all going to end badly. If he had a cup of tea, chances are, the leaves would tell him the same thing. He did not set much store in such things, but his premonition had to come from somewhere.
Nick’s trembling fingers extracted an overlarge portion of the silvery powder, and he replaced the lid before he dropped it. He flung it into vacant fireplace before saying, “St Mung”“ He took a deep breath and tried again. “St Mung”“ Something inside his throat kept him from properly stating his destination, as if saying it made the whole business more real than it had been a moment before.
A hand rested on his shoulder, and Nick was surprised to see Vector, a rare kind expression on her face, as she said clearly, “St Mungo’s.”
The emerald flames beckoned him forward, begging him to step into their depths. Though he had asked to go, Nick was starting to feel like he would rather be somewhere”anywhere”else than where his father lay, likely close to death.
But that’s why I have to go, he thought. He needs me, and so does Mum. This made Nick shunt aside his childish reluctance and step purposefully into the fire.
The squeezing feeling, combined with his already knotted stomach, made for an uncomfortable trip. The moment he spotted the proper exit and stumbled from the Floo, Nick fell to his knees and vomited on the floor. The smell of it made him want to vomit even more, but he choked back his discomfort and rose to his feet once more. Several people were staring at him, but he did not care about them. He was not there to see them.
At the front desk, Nick said, “I’m here to see my dad.”
The receptionist asked, “Name?”
“Travis Barnaby.”
When Nick said his father’s name, the witch froze, eyes still locked on her patient roster.
Nick was about to get irritated by her lack of response, but he did not expect her to start writing a note? Was she telling him where to go, what room to look for and such? He could not think of anything else that she could possibly be doing, so he waited for her to finish.
Just as she folded up the note and he readied to take it from her, she flicked her wand and it transformed into a paper aeroplane. It took off, flying into the hallway on the other side of the waiting room and out of sight. Nick scowled at her. “Where is my dad, or are you just going to keep ignoring me?”
“I can’t tell you anything at the moment.”
This just made Nick angry. “Now, listen, lady! If you’re seriously trying to tell me that I can’t see my dad, then”“
He was cut off by another hand on his shoulder, but Nick was certain that it was not Professor Vector. He spun around to see who was behind him, and it was a bit of a surprise to see a kindly looking man, probably in his late fifties. Judging by his robes and the insignia they bore, he was an Auror.
Perhaps this man knows what happened to Dad. “Please, will someone just talk to me?”
The Auror smiled tightly. “Come with me, lad. We need to have a chat.”
When Nick’s father had used the phrase ‘we need to chat’, it usually meant that he was about to be lectured or told something that he did not want to hear. But that did not detract from his need for information. He followed the man to a quiet hallway, just past the reception desk.
The minute they were alone, Nick crossed his arms and glared at the Auror. “Now, I’d like some answers. First, tell me what happened.”
“The name’s Proudfoot, by the way.” He extended his hand to Nick, who took it hesitantly. “Eugene Proudfoot. I’m guessing you already know that I’m an Auror.”
Nick raised a brow. “Any young child would recognise your robes. It wasn’t that hard to figure out.” There was a sarcastic edge to his voice, but under the circumstances, he felt it more than excusable. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather skip the pleasantries. How did this happen?”
Proudfoot sighed. “Your father was at Mergle’s Mercantile, across from Borgin and Burke’s in Knockturn Alley. The shopkeeper told us that he was buying some sort of pest control potion for his plants.”
“He raises rare herbs for Draco Malfoy’s apothecary shops. He buys that stuff quite often.” Nick wanted to know where the man was going with all this extraneous information, and he wanted to know now. “Go on.”
“Anyway, as your dad was at the checkout to pay, a thief came in to rob the place.” Proudfoot marked Nick’s clenched jaw but continued nonetheless. “The store clerk managed to Stun the assailant, but not before he was able to stab Trav”your father.”
The slip-up of almost using his dad’s name did not escape Nick. “You knew him?”
“Yeah,” Proudfoot said, his first genuine smile since Nick had met him. “About ten years ago, I was hit by a rare curse by a fugitive I was chasing. I could have died, but the potion to restore my health comes from a very, very rare plant, and your dad was the only one to grow it. He actually donated it to the Department just for me.”
That sounded very much like something that Travis Barnaby would do. An herb that rare had to be expensive, but he would have simply said that lives cost more than a few Galleons. But what of this thief, who was willing to knife someone over a few Galleons? Would this bloke get his due? Did they even catch him? “So, do you have this thief now?”
Proudfoot shook his head. “Not yet, but we know who he is and where he’ll probably end up. He was just paroled, so all of our people know who they’re looking for.”
“What do you mean ‘just paroled’? You mean you had him, let him go, and now he’s off stabbing people?” Nick could not believe that someone with a history of violent and disorderly behaviour would be allowed to walk free amongst decent people.
The Auror examined his shoes like they were priceless art. “Harry passed a bill through the Ministry to lessen the number of inmates as Azkaban by initiating rehabilitation programmes for low level offenders. This fellow escaped from the rehab centre, and we’ve been tracking him for about four days.”
Nick was dangerously close to seeing red. “You mean that you had him…and then you lost him? You lost a criminal under your charge?” He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling on the strands and relishing the pain in his scalp. “Some bloody saviour Potter is. Can’t even keep hold of one bloke.”
He leant against the wall, trying to maintain his composure. “Who is it? Who did it?”
“I’m sorry, son. I can’t tell you that.”
Whipping out his wand, not even cognisant of the fact that he was aiming it at an Auror, which not only was a criminal offence but a stupid thing to do, considering their grossly mismatched skill levels. “Don’t call me ‘son’! I’m not your fucking son!” He walked toward Proudfoot as menacingly as he could, not at all cowed by the disparity in size and strength. Through gritted teeth, he snarled, “Now, who… is… he?”
Obviously not threatened, Proudfoot did seem sympathetic to Nick’s anger. If Travis died, then the boy would obviously learn the culprit’s name anyway, which was doubly dangerous as it was if his father lived. “Marcus Flint . His name is Marcus Flint. After the war, his family lost everything to reparations, because his father was a Death Eater.
“He couldn’t find work, so he resorted to theft to make ends meet instead of going through proper channels for assistance like everyone else. He was just released from a thirty year sentence for aggravated robbery and use of an Unforgivable.”
All of this hit Nick like an oncoming train. “You mean to tell me that a man who was willing to use an Unforgivable was actually allowed out of Azkaban? Who could possibly think that was a good idea?”
Proudfoot seemed taken aback by Nick’s bile. “Harry thought”“
“I don’t care what ‘Harry thought’. There was a perfectly good reason why this man was locked up, and you all bloody let him out!” Nick’s chest was heaving in fury.
Holding up his hands in a gesture of truce, Proudfoot said, “Now, Nick, there was no way for us to know that he’d”“
Nick jabbed his wand at Proudfoot once again, who did not flinch. That only served to annoy Nick further. “Don’t you dare patronise me! I’m not some stupid child that can be fed your lies and propaganda. Somebody needs to pay the piper for this. I”“
“Nick…” Proudfoot tried to stop the boy’s railing.
“”can’t believe that you would let this happen”“
“Nick,” the Auror repeated more forcefully.
“”to decent people, especially when it’s someone who”“
“Nick! Listen to me!”
Finally, Nick’s harangue stopped. He knew that, for this man to lose his composure like this, he was either getting into his head or it was something even more important.
“Nick,” Proudfoot began again, “you really should go see your dad.”
It did not take long for Nick to realise that this was code for ‘he doesn’t have much time’. A dead weight settled in his lungs, impeding his ability to breathe, and his brain was overwrought with anger and frustration. His dad was going to die, and Proudfoot had known this the whole time. That was why he did not react to having a wand trained on his throat. It was pity.
“You know something else, don’t you? You think he’s going to die because of it.” Nick lowered his wand. “Please, just tell me and get it over with.”
“The knife that was used in the, er… attack was what is called an Everblood model. They’re extremely illegal, because they’re charmed to keep the wounds they inflict from clotting blood.”
Nick remembered enough from basic anatomy to know what that meant. “You mean whoever he stabs is going to bleed to death.”
“Yes.”
It was too much. It had all just become too much very fast. Nick’s knees gave out, and Proudfoot had only managed to keep him from falling by inches. The Auror wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulder to support him. “Come on. I’ll take you to see him.”
Nodding numbly, Nick allowed himself to be led down a hallway to the Critical Injury Ward. He saw his mother slumped on a chair outside of a door. This had to be the place.
As soon as she spotted her son, Sandy Barnaby stared at him with sullen, glazed eyes. Nick ran to her, and they wrapped each other in a fierce embrace. Smouldering tears poured down both of their faces, but they went unnoticed.
Sandy finally pulled away, and she framed Nick’s face in her hands as if she could never look at him enough. “Sweetheart, I”“
Smiling wanly, Nick said, “I love you, too, Mum.”
“Nicholas.”
That could not be a good sign. She never called him anything but ‘Nick’ or ‘Nicky’ unless it was bad. And, at this juncture, ‘bad’ could only get worse in one way. Nick barely dared to even move his lips, to form the thoughts he feared so deeply that his mum would confirm, but he had to. “He’s… he’s gone, isn’t he?”
When Sandy bit her lip and tears welled in her eyes, Nick knew that it was over. His father was dead, and he did not even get the chance to see him again.
Nick barely heard the strangled cry erupt from his own throat as he launched himself at Proudfoot, the only representation of the bureaucracy that had failed in its duty to protect good people like Travis Barnaby. He pounded the man’s chest as hard as his thirteen-year-old frame could handle, cursing and crying at the same time.
No matter how hard he fought it, how much he wanted to make it stop, nothing was ever going to make this go away for Nick. For the rest of his life, this was going to haunt him, the knowledge that someone could have done something, but misplaced magnanimity had taken a law-abiding man’s life, had taken away a husband… had taken away a boy’s father.
And for that, Nick would never forgive Potter. Though he had never met the man, he wanted to curse him, to spit in his face, to wound him in the deepest way possible. It was through that man’s actions that all of this had come to pass, and for that, Potter deserved to suffer as Nick was suffering. Chosen One or not, that did not give him the right to risk lives.
Nick knew at this moment that he would do whatever it took, however long it took, to see that the true criminal was brought to his knees. Flint was merely a pawn in this, a product of a broken system in troubled times, and while it did not excuse what he did, Nick could understand why he did what he did.
But not Potter. What was his excuse? How could he sleep, knowing that unbalanced maniacs were on the streets, and he put them there?
It was at that moment when a phrase popped into Nick’s head”ironically from that very constitution that he had held so dear up until that point.
‘Justice shall be served for one and all, without exception of blood status and social standing’.
He nearly laughed at the hypocrisy of it all, amazed at his naïveté. Justice was not a bit of parchment with words on it, laws enforced by mankind upon others; it was the balancing of good and bad, of light and dark, of saviour and menace. It was all in the eye of the beholder. For so long, he had believed that justice was being served, that it was upheld to a golden standard by which every Auror, every Magical Law Enforcement officer swore, by which Potter staked his life.
It was a lie, every last bit of it. Nick knew that now, and it had taken the death of his father, the most important person in his life, the man by which he judged all other men, to see that. It was a cruel, torturous lesson, and he swore that, even if it took every last breath in his body, he would devote his life to justice, even if it meant something different than the law of the land.
And with that, Nicholas Barnaby vowed that Harry Potter, the man that no one would blame, the man that no one could hate, the man that the darkest wizard who lived could not kill, would get his just reward.
Eye of the Beholder by ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor
Story Notes:
Thanks mucho to Natalie/hestiajones for reading this through for me. She is a star and my e-bestie. :D