Twelve
Trials and Tribulations
Penelope Clearwater. The name was like a siren song in his mind. Winsome and alluring in memory, yet her final recriminations still haunted him if he wanted to be honest with himself. Not that self-appraisal was one of Percy’s greatest qualities; it only got in the way of his grand plan. Dust yourself off and move on, he’d always told himself, never allowing that the heart often had a logic all onto itself.
Years later, he could still smell the sunshine on the placid Black Lake as they sat upon the flat boulder and discussed their futures. The graduation celebration was still going full tilt upon the broad lawn behind them but they had somehow managed to find a moment to slink off by themselves.
“I have an interview for a post at the Ministry,” Percy had whispered into her ear, her raven curls tickling his face as he drew close. “My dad claims I’m just signing on for a life of drudgery and frustration, but I really want to make a difference.”
“That’s wonderful, Percy.” She’d smiled with the warmth of summer shining in her eyes. “They’d be fools not to take you on, Head Boy credentials and all.”
“I’m a bundle of nerves every time I think about it,” he confessed to the one person who would not belittle him.
“Yet I expect you have your suit and tie already laid out, don’t you?” Penelope chided him lovingly.
Percy nodded wordlessly, not adding that he didn’t have much of a wardrobe to choose from in the first place.
“I’ve found a posting myself, you know,” she added with a wry twinkle. “Your ambition must have rubbed off on me.”
He should have expected nothing less, he reminded himself later. She was at the top of her form in Ravenclaw House, no less. Of course she would want to prove herself to the world. But his adolescent dreams had never taken that into account. He’d assumed she would always be within his orbit, a fixture in his life just as much as he longed to be one in hers.
Magnanimously, he urged, “You’d be an asset anywhere, Pen. I’m surprised there wasn’t a virtual tug of war.”
She’d blushed in a very fetching fashion, he recalled vividly, the rosy tint complimenting the azure flecks in her eyes. “I don’t know about that. I don’t think they had many applicants to tell you the truth; well, certainly none who had the stringent credentials they preferred…” He smiled into her eyes as she delivered the news which caused his heart to immediately cloud over. “I’m going to be teaching English to orphans in the Black Sea area, traveling among a group of government run institutions. It’s ever so exciting, Percy. I’m going to make an impact on the world just like you!”
“Are those Muggle orphanages?” he stammered, unsure what to say exactly.
She shook her head vigorously. “Wizarding establishments with the highest recommendations from our own Ministry. The Department for International Cooperation has been working closely with their recruiters to guarantee native English speakers.”
“But that’s Durmstrang territory…”
“Please tell me you’re not that type of a snob, Percy. They’re children; little witches and wizards, just like those in Britain. The government wants them to have full access to the same education available to others who can already speak basic English by the time they get their acceptance letters.”
“But you don’t speak a word of their language…” he threw out the vague roadblock.
“Not fluently, no,” Penelope admitted with a self-satisfied smile. “But I’ve been studying it. Professor Lupin was a great help “ he speaks a number of languages himself, you know. He outlined the procedure he uses when he begins a new immersion; that’s how he refers to learning a new language. The Ministry provided me with basic language ampules so I could practice inside a Pensieve. It's the latest innovation, makes you feel as if you’re right there in the middle of the conversation!”
Then as it had done a thousand times before, the images began to distort. Not that the memory was any less vivid, quite the contrary, but the intensity of his feelings seemed to leech the colors from the surroundings until what was left was a bare shadow of reality. A sepia-toned photograph, if you will. In the background, he could still hear her enthusiastic voice detailing all her plans, expounding about how kind Professor Lupin had been so intrigued that a Pensieve could be used as a study aid for languages. Although the conversation ampules were ever so expensive, she had discovered, and surely beyond what one should spend to supplement a hobby. But then none of this should be news as hadn’t Percy said that Lupin was a frequent visitor to the Burrow for Sunday dinner and a veritable fixture at Christmas and Easter celebrations?
He had tried to keep his smile bright and breezy to match her tone; he owed her that at least “ even though the last thing he felt was happiness. Truth be told, he felt an icy dread in his gut that no one else would ever understand him like Pen did, that if he looked down at his hands he would find that he had become as insubstantial as a ghost.
Even though his mother often claimed he was the most like his father, Percy had always found this to be a superficial analogy at best. Sure, they both aspired to the bureaucracy, but he didn’t share his father’s complacent nature. No shuffling paper in some backwater office dealing with nuisances no one else wanted to handle, not for him. What had he to offer the world except his ambition? His oldest brother, Bill, had found a posting to indulge his adventurous spirit as he unlocked the secrets of antiquity. Charlie had always been the athletic one, the big Quidditch hero who turned down a chance to play professionally to follow his dream of working with dragons. The twins were, well, they were the twins. A combination of energy and wild imagination and what was looking to be good heads for business. Even easy-going Ron had made his mark, even if it was as nothing more than by being Harry Potter’s best mate. And as for Ginny, being the only girl and somewhat fearless to boot, she stood out in every way. But what was he, Percy? Even Bill had been Head Boy before him. The only thing he had to make him unique was driving ambition, the very ambition Pen had derided as being singularly selfish.
She’d also called him narrow-minded and provincial. He recalled the adjectives precisely with a dull echo of the pain they has caused him.
He had countered by calling her secretive and scheming.
“Obviously, I couldn’t expect you to understand or be supportive,” she seethed.
Abandoning all pretense of civility, he hissed in return, “I could say the same for you!”
It had been the intransigence of youth. Wounded pride rearing its ugly head and shouting down all other emotions. As much as Percy had tried to rein it in, there was no denying he had inherited his mother’s fiery temper. He just liked to think it took more to provoke him, but perhaps he’d been wrong about that, too.
Since that moment, his life had been a pale imitation of what he’d envisioned. A common enough phenomenon, he conceded. Reality was a world-class bitch, always had been; and ambition was a poor substitute for love. A quick succession of promotions were hardly a substitute for being wrapped in someone’s arms.
He supposed he could have sought solace among his family. No doubt his mum would have only been too happy to oblige. But Molly’s idea of consolation was too close to being babied for his taste. Mollycoddling, he thought wryly. So he let his work drive a wedge between them just as Penelope’s words had driven a spike he did not fully understand through his chest.
And now, there she was before him. Working in an ancillary division where their paths were sure to cross again and again by virtue of their work assignments. He wouldn’t even have to fabricate excuses to stop by her desk or worry that he was being too obvious.
She had handled the reporters from the Prophet majestically when they had worked side-by-side long into the night, insisting with unwavering sincerity that they stick to the heart of the story. Deftly deflecting interest from her own short-lived celebrity and maintaining that her previous involvement in humanitarian concerns was irrelevant. Gently chiding the reporter for subjecting her to another round of qualifying queries for her newly created position in the Preservation branch of the Cultural Affairs Division.
And despite the fact that her undulating mane had been fashioned into an elegant twist at the nape of her neck, she still looked every inch the young woman Percy remembered. Her face still lit up when she latched onto a new idea. Her cobalt eyes still shone brightly “ they just no longer shone for him.
Great Godric’s beard! How did that…witch…always manage to worm her way under his skin? Like little itchy bits of tartan that chafed until he could take no more!
For the umpteenth time he considered how a quick death at the Dark Lord’s feet would have been preferable “ then reminded himself that Voldemort’s “mercy” was just as twisted as everything else.
Slamming the dungeon door mightily, Snape barely caught one of his crystal goblets before it tumbled to the floor. With a snarl, he hurled it into the hearth, taking perverse pleasure in the musical sound it made as it shattered. With a quick Reparo, it was whole again in his hand and ready to accept the last half-inch of brandy. A few quick sips did nothing to quell his irritation.
Another growl and he had a cheery fire burning among the fragrant logs, reminding him of the fiery pit where he’d like to consign the Headmistress and all her innovative ideas. Dumbledore had never been this vexatious. Well, perhaps he had, in that maddeningly calm way of his that brooked no argument. At least he could rail at Minerva. It didn’t do any good, mind you; but it helped to clear the air. She still expected him to capitulate but at least he didn’t feel so manipulated.
She’d transfigured his contract; there could be no other explanation as he was virtually certain the offending language had not been there when he’d signed it over the summer. It had just been a formality anyway as she had long been courting him to resume his Potions post once Slughorn decided to retire for the second, and final, time.
Frankly, he’d been surprised Horace had hung around so long after Voldemort’s defeat -- considering Hogwarts had mainly been his refuge from Death Eaters who thought all former Slytherins were aching to join their ranks. But no, the Headmistress’ new vision for the school had energized Horace, allowed him to spread his wings in ways he had never imagined. The man actually enjoyed socializing with the students, striving to entertain not just those in his own House with lavish parties, but inviting the whole bloody school as well.
And now she expected him to do the same. Claimed the Slytherins had come to expect it from their Head of House. He’d teach them to expect anything but detentions from him! But even as he thought the words, he knew they were false. Inter-house camaraderie had done much to smooth everyone’s feathers in the wake of the failed coup, making everyone feel like they were on the same side again.
The dancing flames caught the edges of the cut glass decanter on the side table, taunting him with its emptiness. Pray there was another bottle in the cupboard as he was in no mood to summon a simpering house-elf to fetch one from his private stores in the sub-basement. He’d just as soon retrieve it himself, even if he had to single-handedly hew his own steps through the granite foundations of the ruddy castle.
“Severus!” came Rho’s throaty voice from the adjoining chamber. It was the private name he’d used since he found her signing documents with the Greek symbol as shorthand. She turned disapproving eyes on the decanter he held over his head. “Despite your spell mastery, I’d really rather you didn’t toss that against the bricks. It was my great-grandmother’s after all. Can’t you find another substitute for your anger?” With a quick movement, she Summoned the decanter and set it safely on the far side of the room.
Snape huffed as he threw his lean frame into the armchair once again. “I can’t very well roast Minerva on a spit, despite the overwhelming desire to do so!”
Rho laughed heartily, a deep velvety sound he found so appealing amid the giggle of children’s voices that seemed to follow him everywhere. “You’re too much alike, you know. Both too set in your ways.”
“If that were the case, she would have just let things be when she took over from Dumbledore. Instead she has to change everything, leave her mark on--”
“Would you have done otherwise?” she posed rhetorically. “You just would’ve made different changes is all.”
“So you support this ridiculous notion of Quidditch parties?”
“Having dealt with their high spirits in the wake of a game, it’s not such a bad idea to channel their exuberance--”
“”in a way they can be supervised by their Head of House,” he finished for her. “Yes, yes, Minerva already sang that tune for me. Said she’d made excuses for me after Slytherin defeated Hufflepuff last week. Damnable baby-sitting service!”
“Pretty catchy. Perhaps if you got some engraved cards, you could drum up some extra business at the weekend. “ At the glower he trained on her, she relented. “Did Minerva mention these parties keep the losers from resorting to mean-spirited pranks?”
He nodded glumly. “As well as drinking their sorrows away, if they’re intrepid enough to lay their grubby paws on some Firewhiskey.”
“Did she not stress that anything stronger than Butterbeer is prohibited on school grounds? Even students who are of age must have the express invitation of faculty or staff before partaking.”
“So now I’m their nurse-maid as well?” Snape sneered.
“They just need a little guidance, dear. Perhaps you could lead them in a contest of lobbing glass receptacles against the stones; see who could repair the most in the least amount of time.”
“Those dunderheads are likely to drown themselves in a river of blood!” he scoffed.
“Well, a chamber of horrors would make a good theme for a party, don’t you think?” She gave him a long-suffering look as she settled herself into the opposite armchair and propped her feet companionably on the same small footstool as his.
“Hardly! Too much like a convocation of Death Eaters for my taste. All we need is Pettigrew’s ghost to stumble in with his severed arm leaking all over the place. Why do they have to have a theme anyway?” he grumbled. “A few purloined snacks from the kitchen was all we needed in my day.”
“Horace spoiled them, that’s true,” she commiserated. “And in the process set the bar rather high, I’m afraid. All those years of currying favor among the rich and powerful gave him a certain flair for that sort of thing.”
“And I’m an emotionally stunted rube, you mean?” he groused with the first curl of a smirk on his lips.
“No, my prince. But not everyone appreciates your dark sense of humor, either. You can’t expect students to engage in rapier repartées. Only you and Remus have the speed and vocabulary for that.”
“I’m not giving them Vlad the Impaler in his Transylvanian castle!” he shot back as a shade fell over his hooded eyes. “My ancestors fought that bastard’s iron-fisted rule “ or so my aged grandmother used to say.”
“Forgive their infantile minds, Severus. You know they can’t possibly know….” She left the remainder unsaid as she laid a gentle hand on his.
He nodded grimly as he fixed unseeing eyes on the fire before him. Almost twenty-five years and the memory was still fresh in his mind. The wound never healed, not with the constant reminders he heard whispered in every corner as he walked past. Only Constance was allowed to make light of his bat-like robes. The Carpathian Prince, she had called him “ at least until Voldemort cut her down in a gruesome test of loyalty. His conscience would forever bear the blame for that. But it was not the sort of story one told to one’s students; better to endure their unintentional barbs than subject himself to their pitying looks.
“I know I’m a difficult man, Rho,” he breathed lowly as he covered her hand with his. The obsidian eyes boring into hers petitioned for unspoken forbearance.
She shrugged to indicate her background was not without flaws. A divorcée, twice over, practically scandalous in conservative wizarding society. Who else would have wanted her but a reformed Death Eater with dubious tastes? Yet he’d been entranced by her gross-grain voice and dexterity on the dance floor; she had found unplumbed humor in his scathingly wicked remarks. As her sharp eyes softened in response to his, she commented, “They always try to include you, the very dunderheads you decry on a daily basis. Not just the Slytherins, I might add. You’ve become an object of speculation for many.”
He issued a sharp, mirthless laugh. “The nut they can’t crack! I hardly want them eating out of my hand like Lupin’s do.”
“Even while you were in deep hiding during Voldemort’s final days, they still spoke of you. Remembered you in your darkest incarnation. Don’t forget that was the first year I took over Muggle Studies…”
“The papers they turned in after the Circus Maximus,” he finished. “Even then Minerva was intent on fostering broad displays of indecorum by the faculty.”
“She just wanted the students to see learning in a new light. No one was forced to participate.”
“You recall I had more pressing matters at the time. While the lot of you were gamboling in sheets and what not, I was trying to short circuit the Dark Lord’s plans for immortality.”
“And I was only too happy to provide you with a diversion so no one would interfere,” she reminded him gently. “Still, even though they had no real idea where you had gone or even your true loyalties, many students still included you in their essays.”
“Inspiration is a fickle thing,” he dismissed.
She wondered what he would say if he knew of Harry’s likening his tribulations to those of Odysseus, but knew she would never betray Minerva for having shared that. It had taken a heady amount of bargaining for Remus to allow her to read Harry’s actual words which rang so eloquently of compassion and objectivity.
“There was one who compared you to Vulcan,” she put forth.
Recalling her Muggle upbringing, Snape barely avoided making a passing reference to pointed ears. “Not even if he were a burly young man,” he scorned. “You’re just looking for an opportunity to play Venus in my wake.” Considering the love goddess had traditionally been portrayed as a woman of wily experience, he had no doubt Rho would relish the role too much for Hogwarts’ standards.
“A number of them suggested Pluto overseeing his kingdom in the Underworld.”
“Red demons with pitchforks aside, pet, the ancients saw their most hellacious nightmares realized in a world of utter blackness without end. Puns notwithstanding, Minerva would raise the roof if I gave them such a blatant opportunity for their sophomoric trysts.”
“There’s always the Elysian Fields,” she proposed.
“That’s a boulevard in Paris; just ask Lupin if you don’t believe me,” he noted wryly.
“I’m sure we can come up with something suited to your singular style,” Rolanda Hooch assured him. “The next Slytherin match isn’t until January after all.”
“Ravenclaw,” Snape attested sourly. “They’re surprisingly strong this year.”
She cocked an elegantly groomed eyebrow in query.
“I overhead the conversations in the common room,” he clarified.
Fisting her heavy tartan skirts, Minerva McGonagall took the last steps more slowly. It had been an exhausting day and she longed for nothing more than the privacy of her office. Perhaps she would even toast the never-ending stack of paperwork with a small glass of sherry.
After having fought Voldemort’s dark forces not once, but twice, the pettiness of Umbridge’s recent prevarications needled her more than she’d like to admit. That woman had been a thorn in everyone’s side when she’d insinuated her way into the Hogwarts faculty, but Minerva had assumed they were well rid of her. But no, like a stray mongrel cat no one would claim, Umbridge had more than her share of peevish lives.
As Minerva turned the last corner, the password ‘Culloden’ poised on her lips, she was met with a small delegation congregating at the feet of a rather put-out looking gargoyle. Mostly seventh years, she noted, with the exception of one sixth-year Prefect from Ravenclaw. As a matter of fact, the Head Boy and Girl were both present. Obviously, the movers and shakers of the Hogwarts student body.
“What can I do for you?” she offered, barely suppressing a small sigh of exhaustion.
“A brief moment of your time, Headmistress,” Cyrus Findlay, the Gryffindor Prefect, implored.
With an indulgent nod, Minerva allowed them to precede her up the curving steps as a quick flick of her wand coerced the thick door to open inward. They waited patiently for her to assume her post behind the massive desk.
“Now, what has you wandering so far from the Great Hall when supper is due to start any moment?” she urged with a small curl of a smile.
“We were concerned about the current situation,” Cyrus began then seemed to lose steam as he sought guidance among the surrounding grim faces.
“What exactly would that be?” Minerva inquired. “Has there been some glitch in your plans for the Yuletide break?”
“No,” Beatrice Grady, the Head Girl, supplied. “We’re all looking forward to the hols… It’s just that your speech at the Sunday feast… well…”
“It was intended to be inspirational,” the Headmistress allowed. “I apologize if my frustration came across as well.”
“Are teachers to be held to the same standards as students?” Henry Middlestone ventured as he worked his way to the front. “Today’s Prophet…”
“Did that story finally run today?” Minerva posed quietly. “I confess I’m often too busy to review the newspaper until bedtime.”
“Then you knew about it?” Beatrice inquired with a set to her jaw.
“Of course, they quoted me as well. Or did they edit me out? One never knows for sure with the press…”
“No, you’re included,” Henry supplied as he smoothed the front page of the Daily Prophet on the desk before her. The lurid headline seemed to jump right off the page.
Cyrus pointed to a smaller article in the corner entitled:
Although she was once numbered among them, the faculty and staff of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry each recall Dolores Umbridge in their own way. Appointed to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts under an impromptu Ministry mandate, Ms. Umbridge arrived on school grounds in the fall of 1995 intent on conveying Cornelius Fudge’s unique view of the world. It was an approach that did not sit well with the students and teachers alike.
In spite of all the changes that have occurred in the intervening eight years, much of Hogwarts’ staff is still comprised of the same familiar faces, reshuffled with new duties and new responsibilities. Many were only too glad to offer their comments for our readers.
Recalling the repressive attitudes of the government at the time, Sybill Trelawney, Divination instructor, remembers her colleague as possessing “the loyalty of her convictions “ or rather those of her superiors at the Ministry.”
Rolanda Hooch, currently in charge of Muggle Studies, was Quidditch Coordinator and Games Mistress during the time when Ms. Umbridge was intent on reworking Hogwarts’ traditions. Her description echoes a common theme: “Unwavering loyalty even in the face of facts which might have led a more reasoned person to reconsider.”
Even though Ms. Umbridge was appointed over the late Headmaster Albus Dumbledore’s objections, there were some who welcomed a change in the status quo. Argus Filch, Hogwarts’ caretaker for most of his adult life, had only praise for Ms. Umbridge’s innovations. “Great mind for discipline, she had, yes indeed,” he maintained. “The castle never ran so smoothly. She was a hammer disguised in velvet.”
Poppy Pomfrey, school matron, recalls treating numerous students who had crossed Ms. Umbridge and offered up this commentary, “Many students were still traumatized by the tragedy of the Triwizard Tournament which resulted in the death of an innocent classmate. Compassion and willingness to lend a sympathetic ear would have gone a lot further than totalitarian methods.”
Rubeus Hagrid, Care of Magical Creatures, recalls Ms. Umbridge did not espouse the basic principles the school strives to instill in all its students. “Makin’ friends is more important than makin’ enemies; Dumbledore always held to tha’. The House system is intended ta foster ties among students not ta transfer a healthy rivalry from the Quidditch pitch ta the castle corridors.”
Venerable Charms instructor, Filius Flitwick, had this to say, “Hogwarts has always exemplified the diversity of wizarding society in a microcosm by employing those with dwarf and giant blood, Squibs, centaurs and even a ghost. Ms. Umbridge did not always demonstrate a willingness to treat everyone with the same regard she demanded as her due.”
Potions Master, Severus Snape, remembers those tense months with great clarity. In his customary succinct manner, he proclaims that Ms. Umbridge had “the courage to bring education to a standstill.”
Pomona Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff House and current Deputy Headmistress, recalls Ms. Umbridge daring to inspect her Herbology lessons with an undeniably condescending attitude. “She disbelieved everything she did not understand. Teachers are the visionaries of society; it is our duty to distill the incomprehensible into learning. Otherwise, it is we who fail and not the students.”
These sentiments were echoed by members of Hogwarts Board of Governors who issued the following statement: “There is a very good reason why the Ministry does not have a Department of Magical Education.”
But perhaps the most illuminating testimonial came from Minerva McGonagall, current Headmistress and deputy under the august Albus Dumbledore until his death seven years ago. She describes Ms. Umbridge’s presence as “a dark time in the history of Hogwarts. Students forced to learn in secret. Study groups banned as seditious. The Headmaster’s role usurped amid false allegations of treason”all because he was dedicated to furthering the cause of learning.”
The Headmistress skimmed the words until she found her own name, then assured them she had not been misquoted in this instance.
“You told us to stay out of it,” Winifred Sloane, a Prefect from Hufflepuff, complained. “Yet here your lot is trotting out--”
Her words were cut off by a gentle hand on her arm. Seeing that it was the Head Boy, Winnie gave him a contrite look as she backed down.
“Please, Headmistress, we just want to understand our proper role in this,” Patrick Mulvaney, Head Boy, offered with quiet gravitas.
Despite the dark curly locks and vibrant blue eyes identifying his Black Irish heritage, Patrick was steadfast and seldom ruffled. He was a natural leader who commanded with a calm self-assurance Minerva had not seen in one so young since she’d had the pleasure of teaching Cedric Diggory. What a tragedy that had turned out to be, she sighed inwardly.
“It was my intent you be spared participating in this petty skirmish entirely,” the Headmistress intoned as she gazed at each expectant face in turn. “Yes, the teachers spoke to reporters. It was important those present during Ms. Umbridge’s brief tenure acquaint the world with the truth. What’s more, as adults, the teachers are free to use their own judgment when it comes to these things.”
“But many of us are of age!” came a strident voice from the back Minerva was not quick enough to identify.
“That, ladies and gentlemen, is not the issue,” the Headmistress proclaimed. “None of you were present at the time in question, none had parents who were involved or even siblings….A few distant cousins at best. Try as you might, any quotes you give to the Prophet would only be your opinions. Opinions are not news.” Should she warn them of the last time students had been urged to spout off to the press? Not only had the coverage been entirely one-sided, but it had also escalated the hostilities within the school to near breaking point.
“Our feelings are to be discounted then?” cried Alice Bridges, the only sixth-year, as she flung her long braids over her shoulder.
“Of course not, my dear,” the Headmistress soothed. “Any concerns you have can be addressed to me as well as any of your teachers. Other than Professor Snape who has a rather formal view on what constitutes acceptable decorum between teacher and student, have any of us ever turned you away? Belittled you in any way?”
Amid a sea of shaking heads, Beatrice poked Henry in the ribs. “You should say something,” she muttered.
Henry looked helplessly at Patrick who cleared his throat meaningfully and volunteered. “We…a group of us present today…attempted to offer our support to Professor Lupin. He reacted as if he wished we’d said nothing at all.”
So this was the crux of the matter, Minerva surmised. Aloud, she prompted, “Can you remember the exact words?”
“I believe so, Headmistress,” Henry offered humbly. “It was us seventh years, you see. He’s always joking and laughing with us. Except for the last few weeks, there’s been a pall over him.”
“As if he’d had a death in the family,” Beatrice supplied. Then realizing her blunder, she added, “That hasn’t been it, has it?”
“No,” the Headmistress assured them. “I would have found a way to let everyone know if it had.”
“Look, there’s no use sugar-coating it,” Cyrus argued. “We know about the book. The one with no name and no author. We just wanted Remus -- I mean, Professor Lupin -- to know that none of us took those words to heart. That’s pretty much what was said.”
“After class, when no one but our small group was present,” Winifred clarified.
“How exactly did Professor Lupin react?” Minerva beseeched.
“He seemed shocked as if someone had just dowsed him with a bucket of ice,” Patrick remarked. “And then in a very formal manner, he reminded us that he was enjoined from discussing personal matters with his students.”
“All true,” the Headmistress maintained diplomatically.
“He then stood up abruptly and left the room, barely stuffing his papers into his briefcase,” Millicent Humphries added.
“Did he deduct any house points or set any other punishments?”
“It’s not that,” Patrick argued. “We…I wouldn’t have cared about that. Not that he did…”
“What did he do then?” the Headmistress delved.
“He just had the saddest look on his face,” Beatrice noted.
“Misty-eyed,” Millicent interjected.
“He looked like he needed someone to tell him a joke, more than anything,” Henry opined. “Only the lot of us were afraid to go after him.”
“But you felt someone should have,” the Headmistress finished intuitively to a chorus of nodding heads. “First of all, none of you did anything that was inappropriate. But you have to realize Professor Lupin is a very private man. Yes, despite his good-natured joking and easy-going manner…. Life has often been unfair to him. He guards his hard-earned happiness with a iron fist, is the best way I can put it. And in his eyes, this book you mention is a threat to all he holds dear.”
“Wouldn’t he welcome our support then?” Beatrice asked incredulously.
“Not in this case, I’m afraid; it just makes him feel more vulnerable.”