Disagreement
It hasn’t been more than two weeks since the term started. Wounds were still fresh, we were all licking them raw. The scabs haven’t yet healed all the way, my body was a second-by-second story of what occurred that night. Bruises, swollen bumps and cuts. Yet, the newcomer professor, by the name of Liam Reddimot, sauntered in, as he does every class, and subjected us to an even worse lesson than the one yesterday. It was infuriating, because he did it all while looking like the most attractive man I had ever seen. Dark hair was swept back, framing a face cut from a perfect slab of marble. But, the natural, midnight black, sleek waves clashed against pale skin and a white, crisp, collared shirt. Sometimes, he wouldn't even be wearing a tie, or buttoning up all the way, the absolute slut. Half of the class drooled over him, the other half feared him. I was, admittedly, in-between. There was something beneath the surface of his beauty that unsettled me. I couldn't help but think, "He's the reason for all of this. The newcomer." Something always went wrong with them in the past. His introduction by McGonagall didn't make sense. He was a former student in America? Then, why did he have a British accent? Why would they hire an outsider?
The stained windows all lost their color. Frost overtakes them now. Very monochrome. Just like him. Black hair, black pants and robes, ghostly skin and a shirt that was slowly hiding less and less. The man reminded me of Snape, if the dead spy actually ever possessed an ounce of sex appeal.
Godspeed, Snape. Hope you're in Heaven. We buried you as best we could, with the others from our side.
“Today," Reddimot announced, his voice so oddly soft compared to the hard lines of the rest of him, "you will all learn the fundamentals of how to cast the Imperius and Cruciatus curses.”
Ah, just what we need…A repeat of Seventh Year’s Dark Arts. I wasn’t eager for it. The last time such a class occurred, I was tortured later on for refusing to curse a first-year. I looked around. Most of my classmates seemed equally reluctant to start what was essentially a review lesson into the worst time of our lives. Many students started shaking from the assault of our collective, disturbing memories.
“He has to be joking,” Hannah whispered. If she wasn't seated exactly one foot from me, I wouldn't have heard her. She was timid like that, especially in front of professors.
“Or just incredibly insensitive,” I uttered, but it was louder than I had intended. Reddimot turned his head toward our direction and lowered his chalk-wielding hand from the board.
“Please, remind me of your name?” He smiled very slightly, as if embarrassed to have forgotten. He was looking right at me, though, so there was no mistake I was his target. Hannah still shied away, her face stark white. She didn't want to be in his eye-line.
I swallowed, fearful for a half-second. But, that was silly, compared to all I went through. When I said my name, I forced myself to speak with the bravery of my lion-hearted peers among the Badgers. We were two peas in a pod, anyway. Two peas in a cauldron. Burning. Burned.
“Enora Le Pen, sir.”
Professor Reddimot grinned again, a tiger's smile from the grass. It was beyond unsettling, seeing that kind of man's brand of glee. Or, maybe the hairs on the back of my neck were overreactive.
“Miss Le Pen, perhaps you could help me.” He made a small motion with his head toward the board--the front of the class.
I blinked, realizing slowly that I was to be the demonstration, rather than there being a proper, written-out lesson. I rose from my seat and approached the front of the room, apprehension filling my lungs and making it impossible to breathe correctly. The stranger looked genuine, but something in his black eyes frightened me. He was so casual, unbothered. That wasn't 'right', or proper, or natural, any one of those. Not here, not during these times. Your nerves should be frayed, that's the 'right' thing to be. He was not. He thrived in the chill and uncertainty, the lingering stench of death and gun-powdery war.
“The Imperious curse is the least harmful of the Unforgivables, but also the most versatile," the professor lectured the class. He sat part way on the desk, comfortable in his superiority over me, the lesson, and the students. His fingers brushed his wand on the desk next to him. I stood with my hand slyly fiddling for my own wand in my robes, playing it off as nervousness, finding comfort in the material. But, what could I do? I'm forbidden from cursing a teacher, even if he cursed me first!
I didn't have the luxury of a decision. He moved far too quickly, raising his wand, not even whispering the advanced spell, and a flash of yellow powder enveloped me.
A weight lifted.
It was the dark, oppressive, cold weight of her death.
I felt...happy.
It's been so long.
My lips split into an easy smile. Professor Reddimot's matched mine. He was just as joyous in this.
“Give me a hug,” his voice sang in my head, but, just like with the spell, he did not ever open his mouth. That silent, mental command sounded like the best idea in the world. I figured, why not? He's handsome enough, it's just a harmless hug, anyway. We're in a class. Safe, protected. It'll be just how I hugged May, my therapist, or...
Or...
I hugged Reddimot. My arms rested against his shoulders, my hands met each other around the back of his head. I craned my neck and turned my head, comfortable enough to find purchase for my chin near his collar bone. A chill fluttered through me when I felt his hands join at my back. Each, individual finger pressed into my skin, through my clothes and robes, hitting my spine. The disturbance of memory, of remembering my awful hug with You-Know-Who, broke me out of the spell. I didn't think it was possible to defend against an Unforgivable like that. The twirling cloud of happiness evaporated, and I hit the ground, hard. Metaphorically. Physically, I pushed myself away from my teacher. I grabbed my wand. I...I almost pulled it out.
Reddimot gave me an affectionate, proud sort of grin. “Very good. Your self-control is admirable. And, next, the Cruciatus curse.”
My heart jumped. Out of terror, I ripped my wand from my robes.
“Don’t fret, Miss Le Pen," the professor assuaged. I was aware of the class now, their judging stares, confusion, fear, ridicule, for all I've just done, under a spell or not. My eyes flicked to the professor's wand. He gripped it, ready to react to me. I forced myself to relax. It was just a stupid demonstration, and my memories got in the way. Embarrassment heated my cheeks. When I disengaged and put my wand away, Professor Reddimot said, "I won’t need your assistance with this one. You may take your seat. Unless, you would like to try your hand.”
“I’ll pass,” I said flatly. “Thank you, sir.”
Moments later, I regretted it, because an innocent took my place.
The blue, miniature pixie screamed, its high-pitched wailing like the terrible cry of a baby mandrake. It was unbearable, and I found myself breathing harder and harder as the torture continued. I gripped my desk, nails dug in, bending back, but even then, with the extra pain, it still didn't stop. I couldn't breathe. The scream morphed into one I heard so many times that night. It echoed in my mind, forcing up memories I wanted to keep buried forever. Alice’s scream…
“Merlin, enough!” Hermione slammed her palm down on her desk, and Professor Reddimot ceased the spell. The class collectively breathed out in relief. The Gryffindor girl stood up, her chair squeaking sharply back. “Every one of us here already saw the demonstration. By a death eater in disguise, no less, when we were only fourth years. And likely several times since. Last year with the Carrows, at the Battle…”
The professor didn't care for her argument. He nodded, as if his lecture was now too tedious for him. “Yes, you’re quite right, Miss Granger. But, not all of you had the same experiences, as this class is a mix of two different years. At any rate, it is time for all of you, new and returning seventh years, to now perform the spells.”
The classroom went grimly silent.
“Any volunteers? The pixie is all yours.”
The professor's direction hung in mid-air. Most addressed it as a threat. I know I did. One student, a suck-up Ravenclaw, stood up and took the bait. I shot up from my chair immediately after, no mercy, I flung my wand out of my robes and pointed it at the boy.
“Don’t you dare,” I warned him. He lowered his wand and sank back down to his seat.
“Miss Le Pen, are you eager to try your hand–-”
“No, sir,” I said sharply. For a moment, I almost pointed my wand at him again, but caught myself in time. “I am not. None of us are.”
Professor Reddimot gave a small smirk. He looked among the silent, cast-down students. The very few who would be cruel or cowardly enough to hurt the pixie for extra points were also too cowardly enough to face Hermione and I. Our eyes met. Zero tolerance, that was our policy. It's the same now as it was back then. No Unforgivables.
“That seems to be the case," the professor uttered, disappointed. "Very well. We will table the curses. For now, we will move onto the next chapter, that of dark creatures: dementors.”
I actually would have preferred the curses.
After a thorough and entirely unhelpful lecture on the properties of the dark, hooded monsters that took Alice's life, Reddimot's gaze found mine again. “Perhaps, given your avid participation and input," the professor dared to taunt me after his several minute monologue, "you would demonstrate for us the counter curse. If you know it.”
Of course, I did. He knew that, he MUST have known. He said, repeatedly, the same awful line: that to be Kissed by a Dementor was worse than any other death. I think he was teasing me with that fact, he must have been. Why else would he focus on it so much?
Again, I rose from my seat, bile rising. The last time I had cast this was…
Alice’s body laid among bricks and several dead. A dozen dementors floated above her and countless other fighters, all white in the face and devoid of life. An explosion threw me back, but I forced myself up and cast the spell. My terror impeded me. The Patronus got to her too late. I saw her soul, a brilliant white light as small as a pin prick, floating up from her open mouth and into the air. The spectral bloodhound chased away the dementors, but her soul would not return. I called up to it, the small star which joined all the others in the sky. I lifted Alice onto my lap and screamed at the air for her to come back. But, she didn’t. Her soul, her little light, was gone. I never felt so cold.
My legs wobbled. I stayed upright only by holding my desk.
I croaked, “I don’t think I can, sir. I apologize.”
I'm going to run out of here.
He wasn't sympathetic in the slightest. In fact, he only became firmer, more direct, a professor demanding progress from a student. “Don’t apologize until you’ve failed, Miss Le Pen," he chastised me.
I swallowed a lump in my throat. But, the discomfort only settled deeper, choking me, then becoming a cramped stone in my stomach. It passed by, right in my chest, the knife to my heart that won’t ever dislodge. I hadn’t cast the spell since…
I could think only of Alice. Her weird jokes, her shy, but keen eyes, her sunlit hair. She was a friend to everyone, but few really knew her. I knew her. I knew she loved to go out after it just rained. I knew she loved to dance and spin after too many butterbeers. I knew…I knew her.
Past tense.
I felt something swell up in me. I raised my weak wand arm. “Expecto Patronum,” I chanted, with her face dominating my mind. And the white ghost of the spell took the form of something entirely foreign. It pranced, like a deer, but much less whimsical. The creature was one I missed seeing. They had all ran away, leaving the carriages bereft, in the soil path to the castle.
“A Thestral,” Professor Reddimot announced. “Weak, but successful casting.”
The smaller-in-scale, skeletal figure galloped morosely about the room. I fell down into my seat, tears threatening to fall. The spell dissolved into the air, as fleeting as my happiness. It was pitiful compared to what I was capable of before the Battle. I could have lit up the whole castle at midnight. I could have...
I could have saved her.
Hannah grabbed my hand and squeezed, and it took everything in me not to start bauling right there in class. I turned away, letting the tears fall, hoping most couldn’t see. My hair was helpful for that, I tore her ribbon out of my hair and let it hang like a curtain, protecting me from view.
It makes sense why my Patronus changed. I love someone who is dead, so my bloodhound became something of Death. It made sense…but that fact was so devastating. Like a final nail in the coffin. She’s dead. And I’m doomed to live on.
I couldn't hear the lecture Reddimot put on after that.
I stewed.
I had such awful thoughts.
No, righteous thoughts. There's something about this man. He is evil. He has to be. And I am good. I can vanquish...
Silly.
Silly Hufflepuff thoughts.
Wait...Silly? Why did I think of that word in two different circumstances today?
The creepy, vague answer: it wasn't my own voice that said it. I didn't ever think I was truly 'silly', such an odd word, nor did I ever define myself by my House, but only the values of the House I happen to share. It certainly was never derogatory, belonging to Hufflepuff, or recognizing my particular beliefs. I don't flagellate myself for those things; rather, only Alice. I dared to meet the professor's eyes several times, and, in each instance, I felt more of his voice invading my mind. Like with the curse. He would say one thing about Dementors, but I would receive another voice, a hidden whisper I tried desperately to decode.
The lecture continued until the bells chimed at the appropriate hour. It was End of Day, the ringing lasted much longer--a final, concluding point. Like those bells that rang at the funerals.
I had made up my mind about what I will do. Hannah gripped my hand sympathetically before leaving. She was nervous, using the crowd as an excuse to linger and stay back for as long as possible, but, eventually, she just had to leave.
And, I approached the front.
My friends and I exchanged enough looks during the 'lesson' that they all knew about how this conversation needed to go. We were a psychic enough group by now. I can hear people scuttling against the stone floors outside. They haven't fully left. They won't. Just in case something goes wrong. We always have each other's backs. I can hear Ernie's distinct laugh echo.
I was confident, but when I walked up to the professor, I didn't get any reaction I prepared for, such as a frown, or a 'what are you still doing here?'. Instead, he said, gesturing with his thumb nail against his hairline, “Hm, that must have hurt.” He frowned with concern, and his hand left his forehead in favor of pointing at mine. I stilled, taken a bit off guard, when I realized he was referencing the partially healed scar on my forehead. It was where You-Know-Who struck me with a wandless, nonverbal relatio...after I had turned our 'hug' into a strangle. Not even a spare amount of dittany could get rid of it all the way. The blood pouring from the wound at the time blinded me for the next battle, nearly killing me.
“Well, at the time, sir, I barely felt it," I answered him, my voice hollow. I briefly lost the argumentative points I was about to bring up. But, a moment later, I mentally scrambled and retained them. All the while, Reddimot gazed at me, half sitting on his desk, amused. With a bit of a shakiness in my voice, I stated my case. “I strongly oppose the curriculum, sir. And, so do a lot of my classmates. I feel like it’s necessary to make this known. You know, we were made to learn these things last year. We don’t really want a repeat of that.”
The Carrows, namely.
Reddimot pursed his lips and crossed his arms--arms which were not obscenely large, but I'm also not ignorant to the strength in them, especially when his rolled-up sleeves exposed as much. I've also...felt them.
“As much as I want to make sure you and those of your class are comfortable and accommodated, given what you went through, it would be a disservice to the new seventh years," he argued, convincingly caring but practical. "They must also be given an opportunity to learn these spells.”
“Before the Carrows, it was never a part of the curriculum. These curses are not necessary to master. Nothing good can come of casting them.”
He smirked, clearly a patronizing action. “Have you ever casted an Unforgivable, Miss Le Pen?”
“No, I’ve never performed anything that dark, sir.”
“Not even in battle?”
“Why should I?” I asked, veering on improper.
“Because it is you, or them," Reddimot answered, matter-of-fact about death. I was jealous of that.
“I know enough and worked to become skilled enough not to resort to them. It’s actually pretty easy when you think about it. The Unforgivables aren’t as impressive in a fight as they seem.”
“Really…" He hummed, a corner of his mouth perking up when I soured even more. "And how would you propose to defend yourself against the indefensible spell?”
Getting huffy, I possibly answered with too much truth, revealing my own strategies. I recognize that, but it doesn't keep me from hastily saying, “I’ve done it several times. Avada Kedavra is blocked by a conjured mirror, or pillar, or even a small stone placed correctly. I was taught more than just the protego charm. I believe it’s a sign of weakness to use the Killing Spell. It’s a crutch, a supposedly sure-fire end to your enemy. It means you don’t believe you can beat them fairly. It’s a spell for a coward, a spell for the unscrupulous and narrow-minded. I don’t want to use it, and I’ve put in the effort to make it not worth casting.”
Reddimot laughed. No, not with a subdued chuckle, a breath of air, and a smirk...This was a full, disturbing, in-my-face laugh. “You are quite prideful for a Hufflepuff.”
My fingers itched against my wand in my robes.
“This isn’t about pride," I snapped, forgoing propriety and respecting one's "elders", even though he was hardly much older than me. "It’s honoring principles, a dedication to something beyond just myself. My beliefs aren’t new. Many in my house feel the same way. Some of us died upholding them.”
“Was it worth it, then?”
Those words stabbed me deeper than he knew. Was it?
More importantly, why is this man asking??
My entire body ignited from outrage at the professor's callousness. “Who’s to say they would have lived if they did betray their values? A lot on the other side died, too, and they didn’t care about anything outside of causing the most suffering. In the end, we won. I think that says enough, Mr. Reddimot."
But, some doubts reign over my convictions. The Summer sun has left us too soon, and every day brings a little more of the cold. It does not feel like we’ve won. Not anymore.
I'm aware we are in this classroom together, alone. Yes, there are others outside. Some passing to the Great Hall. But...
“Values?" Reddimot leaned up from his perch on the desk. He was casual about his encroachment on my personal space, tucking his hands in his pockets while towering over me, but I couldn't back down. Not even when his eyes briefly twitched with a playful malice. "Was it a part of your values to deceive and attack in such a brutal, physical manner?”
“What?” I shook my head, unsure what he was referring to.
“Of course, you must know how…notorious your actions were during the final stand against You-Know-Who.”
Oh.
That.
I locked my jaw and kept my chin up--I kind of had to, just to maintain fierce eye contact. “People respected me…thanked me for it…Are you really calling me dishonorable…just for that? Really?”
“Your words, not mine.”
“Sorry to disappoint, sir,” I said bitterly. And I kept my mouth shut after that, because I feared what could come tumbling out of my mouth next.
“I doubt you could ever disappoint me, Miss Le Pen. Bore, maybe. Annoy, definitely. I will say, it was entirely Gryffindor of you.”
Why did this outsider even care about that?
“I didn’t do it out of bravery,” I admitted.
“No. Loyalty, I imagine.”
A truly loyal subject, at last.
I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to scream. But, instead, I managed a smile and shoved all those feelings down deep. “Have a wonderful rest of your afternoon, Professor Reddimot.” I turned to leave, but, damn it…Damn it, don’t say it, Enora. Don’t say it–- “Sir, one thing. I noticed that you were really demonstrative with the curses, but you did not do the same for the Patronus Charm.”
“The lesson was Dementors, Miss Le Pen, not just the defensive spell against them,” Reddimot replied tensely.
Ooh, I knew I finally struck a nerve and found gold. The bad feeling I had about him was slightly vindicated. No one less than moderately good could cast the Patronus Charm.
Prying suggestions tumbled from my lips before I could stop them. “Ah, right. Sorry to ask about it, I am just considering teaching someday, and knowing how professors create their lessons is something important to know. The rationale and all that…”
“Of course, your question wasn’t impertinent. What subject would you like to teach?” His twisted, silver-tongued words were even better placed than mine. I poured all of my effort into saying just the right things.
“Well, it’s not really my main goal, just something I’m thinking about…a possibility…” A Hufflepuff can never lie well. In my case, damn, it was true. Reddimot looked at me expectantly. I felt like he was somehow encouraging me to lie to his face. This man oozed an ability to corrupt people. Maybe that's his whole career goal. “I guess I could see myself teaching Charms or Defense the most.” Not a lie. Just not the full truth.
“And, if you wouldn’t teach, what would you do?”
“Maybe…an Inquisitor. Law-maker. Or…”
“Ministry Investigator?” He finished, as if reading my mind.
“Yes,” I said, unable to utter anything else. How did he know? Lucky guess? Or am I that transparent as a person?
He raised his eyebrows in a condescending sort of expression, having regained whatever advantage he thought he had against me. “I suppose that’s the component of justice.”
“You know a lot about our house stereotypes for someone who has never been a student here,” I pointed out.
“Truth be told, it is difficult not to pick up on the stereotypes. Everyone is so obvious.” Reddimot grinned, a slight movement which betrayed a bite of his inside cheek.
He left it at that. With his oddly curious gaze, I thought he meant to say at the end, ‘except for you’, but I was definitely just too full of myself. No way. It’s impossible for the mystifying professor, with something dark and demonic slinking around him, to be, in any way, interested in me. I’m no enigma. I’m almost too plain.
“I kind of like to think I’d fit the stereotype,” I said without much inflection or meaning behind it. I said it just to get it out there. Or, maybe, it was just crawling out of my throat and begging to be released as an admission to a man I'd much rather run away from. It's confusing how he brought these things out of me. “I’d be proud of the Hufflepuff description.”
“I’m sure…but, that doesn’t change who you are, does it?”
I sour instantly on the inside. On the outside, my face remains pleasant. “I guess. I have to go, sir. Sorry, I’m going to be late.” For nothing.
I turned to go and nearly reached the door.
“An enigma," he called after me. "I’d say that’s more your description.”
I swear, he’s reading my thoughts.
Molding them.
Eh...Maybe that's just what May meant by PTSD paranoia.
“Or a riddle,” I quipped, thinking nothing of it. Just something playful and good-natured. I thought he would appreciate it, seeing he’s so maliciously playful with his words.
He didn’t. He soured again and gave the kind of dark look that makes a younger student run--Snape was perfect at those. But, I wasn’t young. I stood my ground, not yet pushing through the escape door, even if I was scared.
“I’m…sorry, it was just a…joke, I guess,” I lamely excused myself.
Reddimot instantly shifted, the darkness was chased away, like a Jekyll and Hyde scenario. He smiled easily. “Sorry to keep you, Enora. See you in class tomorrow.”
Enora.
Why did my heart skip a beat?
I guess the devil was always said to have been an attractive fallen angel.