They warned him about the Potion Master but no one warned him about the Charms Professor.
So when he barges into class, ten minutes late because Seamus took them down the wrong corridor, Dean expects a bit of leeway. An it’s alright, it’s your first day, you’re just First Years after all.
Instead, he gets detention and Seamus gets detention and the entire class (quivering in their seats) get a ten minute rant on punctuality.
‘I don’t care if you were mauled by a hippogriff, if you’re late, don’t bother coming inside,’ says Professor Black, slamming his tome of spells on the desk. ‘If you can’t read a clock you sure as hell can’t be trusted to read a spell. And I’d rather drown in the Black Lake than teach idiots.’
Dean’s mouth goes dry and Seamus turns the color of curdled milk. When feathers float onto their tables and they’re taken through the motions of the spell (‘Were you raised by Squibs, Longbottom? Hold your wand properly.’) Dean finds himself afraid of so many things: this callous professor; failure; the detention that’s been stamped onto his ledger on the very first day.
With the rate he’s going at, he’ll probably be expelled before the end of the year.
The thought fills him with dread. It fills Seamus with something much more potent because he ends up setting the entire classroom on fire.
‘It was a mistake!’ pleads Seamus after Professor Black douses him (and half the class) with ice-cold water. ‘I didn’t mean it— my wand just— the spell just—‘
To which Professor Black blinks, brows lifted, as though Seamus had sprouted two heads.
This is it, thinks Dean. This is where it all ends: his schooling, magic, the Wizarding World. There’s no coming back from this.
Until an odd little grin (a bit amused, a bit weary) curls onto the man’s pale face. He rolls his eyes, looking infinitely younger, and shakes his head. ‘There’s one in every class,’ says Professor Black with a wave of the hand. ‘I reckon we’ll be going through a few more explosions before we get you settled. What was your name again?’
Seamus turns to Dean, the look on his face (‘what is going on?’) unmistakable.
Professor Black doesn’t miss it. ‘Here, kid,’ he says, snapping his fingers. ‘I’m the one asking the question. Name?’
’Seamus Finnegan.’
‘Right. And you?’
‘Me?’ A bit shocked, because Dean didn’t really do anything.
‘No, my mother.’ Before an irritable: ‘Yes, you.’
‘Dean. Uh— Thomas.’
He looks them both from top to bottom. ’Right.’
At the end of class, Dean, along with Seamus, make for their Professor’s desk. ‘Yes?’
‘About detention…’ starts Dean, because he’s not sure when or how it’s going to be.
‘What detention?’
‘The one at the start of class…’ voice dying when he notices the challenging look on the man’s pale face. ‘Oh.’
‘So we’re off the hook?’ asks Seamus, a bit too eager.
‘Get out.’
It’s a coarse dismissal— one that makes him jump— but, as they scamper out of the classroom, already late for Transfiguration, he realizes that a warning is unwarranted. The Charms professor seems more bark than bite.
His first year is wonderful, even if their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor turned out to be a host to some parasitic Dark Lord, even if Harry Potter almost got killed, even if summer means leaving Hogwarts for a few months. He does well in all his classes (even Charms) and, when he and Seamus wander about the grounds, does he catch a glimpse of Professor Black with Hagrid.
‘Shouldn’t you be heading to the train?’ says Professor Black when they approach him: two eleven-year-olds in jumpers and roughened sneakers, backpacks slung on their shoulders. At the time, Dean had felt on top of the world, giddy at the prospect of telling his parents all about school and, at the same time, giddy at being spoken to by a professor he has come to fearfully admire.
There’s something different in the way Professor Black wielded his magic. His wand fluid, his spells flawless. Effortless. Added to the fact that his attire (expensive robes and silver pocket-watch and polished wand) made him look like something out of a movie.
A shadow turned human. Something dark, brought to life.
‘We’ve got another hour,’ says Dean. ‘Are you heading home too, Professor?’
‘Obviously,’ says Professor Black. ‘Dumbledore doesn’t like it when someone holes themselves up in the castle.’
‘Like a three-headed dog?’ says Seamus.
To which Professor Black presses a finger to his lips, stifling his own smirk. He tucks his hands into his pockets and leaves, ‘have a good summer, boys.’
Second Year brings Gilderoy Lockhart and a vicious divide.
Obviously, Professor Black is a thousand times handsomer clashes against Professor Lockhart is a thousand times more charismatic. Dean can’t spend a minute in the common room without listening to girls bicker on who outshone who. However, what Professor Black has in looks, he lacks in charm, and, more often than not, Professor Lockhart wins his place in girls’ hearts because he is, simply, nicer.
‘But he’s a complete idiot,’ says Dean to a flustered Hermione Granger. He would’ve thought she, of all people, could see that. What with her being the most brilliant witch in their class. ‘What does a poem listing his achievements actually teach us?’
‘Oh, you wouldn’t understand,’ says Hermione in a huff, leaving his question unanswered.
But nothing annoys him more than when word goes around that Lockhart was once a brilliant Seeker.
‘Seeker?’ says Professor Black when Dean stays behind after class. Seamus, who blew up his desk when attempting a cleaning charm, was taken to the Hospital Wing. ‘Gilderoy? Since when?’
‘He wasn’t?’
‘No,’ scoffs Black. ‘When I was at school, Ravenclaw’s team were all girls. Gilderoy couldn’t balance himself on a broom let alone catch a snitch.’ An odd little smile curls at his lip. ‘I remember once, he stood as commentator when I was in my sixth year. Said something ridiculous. Whatever it was, his own team captain sent a bludger hurtling at his head.’ When Dean laughs, Professor Black gives him a knowing look. ‘You didn’t hear it from me.’
‘What about you, Professor?’ asks Dean. ‘I heard you used to play Quidditch.’
And, for some reason, the question catches Black off-guard. There’s a blank look on his face that would’ve been worrying if the man didn’t clear his throat. Once again, he looks infinitely younger, and Dean wonders how old he is. He doesn’t look too far off from a few Seventh Years.
‘Yeah, I think I did. I mean— I mean I did. Seeker,’ says Professor Black. ‘Second Year onwards. Quidditch Captain in my Fifth Year. Or something like that.’
Dean doesn’t pay much attention to the doubt (Professor Black’s always had a way of downplaying things) as much as does to the achievement.
Because he’s starting to like Quidditch and he’s been itching to get on a broom and try.
‘Do you think I’d be any good?’
‘As a Seeker? No,’ says Professor Black. ‘You’re too tall and bit stocky. You’d be a fair Chaser, though.’
‘Really?’
‘I wouldn’t know. You need to get yourself on a broom and find out.’
They talk about brooms for a bit, with Dean finding comfort in the fact that Professor Black (whom he has recently found out descended from some sort of Wizard royalty) knows as much as about the topic as he does (which is next to nothing). Common grounds, thinks Dean, putting him at ease, making the experience all the better when Black lounges back on his chair, allowing Dean to sit up on one of the desks, the afternoon waning outside the windows.
‘Better get going,’ says Professor Black, fixing up his desk. ‘Wouldn’t want you to miss dinner. Come on, I’ll walk you to the Great Hall. Professor McGonagall’s been pestering us all about escorting students.’
Because of the attacks.
Blood on the walls and enemy of the heir beware.
Suddenly, it makes his conversation about Quidditch and brooms feel insignificantly out of place.
‘Has anyone said anything to you?’ says Professor Black as they walk down the Charms corridor.
‘About what?’ says Dean, though he has a feeling he knows what he means.
But Black isn’t one to beat around the bush. ‘You’re Muggleborn, aren’t you? I’m sure half of Slytherin house haven’t been kind about it.’
It’s true. ‘They haven’t.’ He’s been called a slurs at least twice this week.
‘Who?’
‘I don’t really know them. They’re older.’
‘Point them out to me.’
And there’s no room for debate. When they reach the Great Hall, Professor Black gives him a brief wave, parting ways.
When Lockhart mentioned a dueling club, Dean couldn’t resist the excitement.
‘It could come in handy,’ says Seamus as they scarf down sandwiches for lunch, showering their Potion’s homework with crumbs. ‘Dueling is different. It’s about reaction. Having spells ready. Tip of your tongue, like.’
‘But Lockhart?’ says Dean with a wince.
‘He fought a Wagga Wagga Wereworlf, didn’t he?’ says Seamus with a tinge of disdain. ‘Maybe he’s not all talk.’
‘Do you think he’ll do a demonstration?’
‘I hope so,’ and Seamus runs his eyes across the teacher’s table. ‘Can you imagine him against Professor Snape?’
Who was currently sneering at Professor Black.
‘Snape’d kill him. Or Professor Black?’
Who was sneering back at Professor Snape.
‘Black’d maim him.’
Dean checks out a few books from the library, running his eyes over concepts and positions, old laws regarding seconds and odd rules supplanted by aristocracy. When he finds Professor Black in the courtyard, they talk a little about dueling, with Black revealing that Lockhart had, indeed, asked him to join the class and Black absolutely declining.
‘But, Professor!’ says Dean.
‘If I were to go to Azkaban for murder,’ says Professor Black, ‘I’d rather it were someone worth the effort.’ Dean laughs. Black scoffs. ‘Anyway, enough of trifle gossip. Managed to pick up a broom recently?’
He would’ve liked to think of his Second Year as wonderful, but the rose-tinted glasses that covered his eyes for the most of his First, he has taken off, allowing him to admit a little of the truth.
Blood-traitors and mudbloods. Little girls dragged to ancient Chambers. A beast within the walls, purging those who are unworthy.
Sometimes, he wonders if this is all some sort of punishment; that the likes of him have no place in this world.
‘Is it true what happened to Professor Lockhart?’ asks Seamus. They run into Professor Black in the Great Hall and, to their surprise, he actually takes the seat beside them. Their game of chess sits forgotten.
‘Yeah, the poor idiot,’ says Black with an odd little frown. ‘Shows you: you are what you are, doesn’t matter how much you try to and cover it up.’ He fixes them with a look. ‘Seen the Weasley girl in the Hospital Wing?’
‘Uh… no,’ says Dean.
‘She’s in your House isn’t she?’ he says. ‘Pay the sick a visit.’
Seamus doesn’t bother but Dean eventually makes his way down there, a box of Every Flavoured Beans in hand and a quick card (‘get well soon’) in his pocket. He finds her sleeping, a tiny wraith of a girl, and sets the gift by her feet.
He’s welcomed back to school by a Dementor on the train.
A madman has escaped from Azkaban.
‘Is he really Professor Black’s brother?’ asks Dean when the Hogwarts express starts moving again. Because the cackling maniac on the paper he’s holding looks nothing like their snarky, scowling, Slytherin Charms teacher.
‘You mean you don’t know?’ says Seamus, which is a bit annoying because he knows Dean’s Muggleborn. ‘Sirius Black was a Death Eater. He’s the one who turned in Harry’s parents to You-Know-Who. Got them killed and all.’
And that sentence alone makes everything seem a thousand times more maddening. Murder and Death Eaters and wizard prisons clash against his summer in the French Riviera, eating ice cream with his mother and swimming in the sea.
‘Death Eater?’ says Dean.
‘You-Know-Who’s followers. Mostly Slytherin purebloods, like Malfoy and all his trolls.’
‘And Professor Black’s family?’
‘Gran says the Blacks were known for it,’ says Neville, cradling his toad. ‘Dark Magic, I mean. That they were first to kind of, go for it. Join him. When You-Know-Who was gaining power.’
‘But not Professor Black, surely,’ says Dean, because the man has somehow slotted himself in as Dean’s favourite teacher.
‘I don’t think so,’ says Neville, but he sounds too unsure for Dean’s liking. ‘I mean, Dumbledore wouldn’t hire him if he were a Death Eater, right?’
‘There’s a black sheep in every family,’ says Seamus.
And Dean hopes it’s true. He looks down at the picture again— scraggily hair and maniacal eyes and a promise of hysterical chaos— and shudders. Tries to superimpose it over the image of Professor Black, sitting at the teacher’s table, during the welcoming feast. He looks paler than usual and slightly on edge, jolting when McGonagall brushes against his arm by mistake and when Hagrid nearly tips the table over as he stands.
Already, Dean can hear snippets of it all: that Harry had been attacked by a Dementor; that the new Defense teacher had repelled it; that Sirius Black had been sighted; that the mass murderer is their Charms professor’s older brother.
In the common room, Dean catches sight of a few tabloids detailing a strained relationship under a picture of two brothers. One, wears a Gryffindor emblem on his cloak. The other, Slytherin Quidditch robes.
They barely look sixteen.
‘Is it horrible of me to say that I’d still love him even if his brother murdered my parents and thirteen muggles to boot?’ says one Sixth Year girl by the fireplace.
‘Yes,’ laughs her friend, hitting her with a pillow. ‘Regulus is pretty, but not that pretty.’
‘You’re still sour he gave you detention.’
‘It was a mistake,’ huffs the girl. ‘I didn’t mean to spill ink all over the desk. You’d think I drowned his kitten or something with the way he reacted.’
‘He’s a bit off, honestly. Gets annoyed by the weirdest things.’ Conspiratorially, she edges closer. ‘I heard he gets stuff from Madame Pomfrey sometimes.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘Potions, like. To calm him down or something. Apparently he’s not…’ a faint gesture. ‘Right in the head.’
The girl scoffs. ‘Not surprised.’
‘Pretty though.’
A laugh. ‘So pretty.’
Dean finds himself a bit on edge for Charms. Sitting rather stiffly, waiting. For what, he’s not really sure. A sudden confession? Yes, notorious mass-murderer Sirius Black is indeed my brother. I send him a Christmas card every year. A sudden bout of hysteria? Yes, I will overreact to every little thing because I’m unstable and slowly being undone at the seams. A sudden proclamation of pureblood superiority? Yes, my family are well-known in the Wizarding world for roasting mudbloods on pikes and it’s a tradition I intend to uphold, effective immediately.
Instead, he gets the usual: Professor Black a tad bit narky, snapping at Neville for not holding his wand properly, snapping at Ron Weasley for talking, snapping at Malfoy for smirking, snapping at Potter for existing. They go through Cheering Charms (the irony isn’t lost on him) before he assigns their night’s reading and homework.
He almost wanders to Black’s desk (‘had a good summer, Professor?’ on the tip of his tongue) but decides otherwise.
‘Good summer, Thomas?’ says Black a day later when they runs into each other in the hall.
‘Yeah!’ and Dean trips over his words because he’s suddenly worried. ‘Um, I got a broom,’ he says quickly, hoping to cover up his anxiety. ‘Been practicing over at Seamus’. There aren’t any openings this year, for Quidditch, but I think next year I might give the tryouts a go.’
‘Ah,’ says Black, and Dean can’t help but see the scrutiny in his eyes. A mental reel goes across his brain, whispering: mass murderer, your brother’s a mass murderer; thirteen muggles and a lifetime in Azkaban. ‘Good.’
‘Yeah, I mean, it’s not as fun as football, but, I think I’m getting a grasp of it.’
‘Football?’
‘Yeah, you know. Man U. West Ham. Arsenal.’ At this point, he doesn’t know why his mouth keeps running, because he really wants to run away. ‘I’m still trying to get used to all the Quidditch teams. Puddlemere and the Torpedoes and all. Got a brooch from Seamus’ Mum actually, for my birthday. Um— the Kenmare Kestrels. They’re an Irish team, I think.’
Black blinks at him (probably half-wondering why this conversation going longer than it should be) and nods. ‘Right.’
Defense Against the Dark Arts, once an absolute joke, is now proving itself one of his favorite classes. And Professor Lupin, who initially didn’t appear like much, is now proving himself one of Dean’s favorite teachers.
Their class with the boggart was wicked, their lectures are interesting, their homework worth the effort.
And, when he catches sight of Lupin and Black talking, rather amiably, in the corridor, he thinks: maybe Black’s not all that bad.
And immediately feels awful because he knows what it’s like to be judged for something one didn’t do. Or couldn’t control. Dean didn’t ask to be a muggleborn. He’s quite sure Regulus Black didn’t ask to have a murderer for a brother.
He soon comes to realize that it’s not a shared sentiment.
When Sirius Black breaks into Gryffindor tower— when the students are ushered to the Great Hall— when they spread out their sleeping bags and whisper, Dean can hear it almost everywhere: you don’t think Professor Black let him in, do you? Made even worse by the fact that everyone has noticed how Black’s temper has begun to flare.
‘Did you see his hand? All bandaged up?’ says on the the Fifth Years, lying a few yards away. ‘I heard he plucked out his nails.’
‘Disgusting,’ says his friend, with a greenish tinge to show for it. ‘Bloody mad.’
‘That’s what they say about Blacks anyway. Heard they all go round the twist. Apparently he’s got a cousin locked up in Azkaban too. Top Ten security. Makes Sirius Black look like a pygmy puff.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Wish I was. What’s Dumbledore thinking, letting someone like that teach?’
‘I heard Black docked a hundred points off Hufflepuff when he got angry. Jane Fellows said the class was silent, just doing their work, before he blew up. He said they were all talking when she swears no one was. And you know what it’s like in Black’s classes anyway: breathe and it’s a death wish.’
‘Reckon the Dementors’ll sniff him instead of his brother?’
A laugh. ‘Imagine that.’
Despite it all, it’s a welcome sight when Black covers for Professor Lupin. Unlike Snape, who insisted they study werewolves, Black sticks to the guide Lupin left behind, allowing them to finish their tasks at their leisure.
Dean and Seamus eventually flock to his desk, the class buzzing with a relaxed atmosphere of chatter, and ask if his boggart really is his mother.
‘Shame I missed it,’ says Professor Black with an easy grin. It always takes him by surprise, how different he looks with a smile. ‘Should’ve taken Lupin’s offer and stayed. It isn’t everyday you see Severus Snape dressed up as a medieval grandmother. Isn’t that right, Longbottom?’
Neville goes bright red, hiding his face behind his books.
The class eventually divulge what their boggarts were— spiders; a severed hand; a banshee— until someone dares ask: ‘have you ever visited Azkaban, Professor?’ when someone mentions Dementors.
Dean can hear it (Ron Weasley whispering: ‘watch him go berserk and curse the poor sod’) which isn’t too farfetched a reaction seeing as Professor Black liked to hand out detentions for an ill-timed sneeze.
But, in a feat of admirable self-control, Black says: ‘once,’ and leaves it at that.
Lupin gets the sack. Turns out he was a werewolf.
‘All a bit unfair,’ says Dean, packing his trunk. They’re due to go home tomorrow. ‘Werewolf or not, he was a good teacher.’
‘Yeah,’ says Seamus with a sigh. ‘But that doesn’t matter here.’
‘Bit like blood?’ says Dean.
‘Bit like blood.’
The World Cup may have ended in tragedy, but it has cemented, in his head, the glory of Quidditch. When he returns to Hogwarts, he promises to peel off the poster of the West Ham football team and replace it with the jubilantly waving Kenmare Kestrels.
But all thoughts of Quidditch evaporate when Dumbledore announces the Triwizard Tournament, and when a misshapen, eye-whirring, stiff-legged, ragged-looking man is announced as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.
Constant Vigilance! And Dean finds himself looking over his shoulder every minute of every day, afraid the man’s going to jump out and reprimand him for keeping his wand in his left pocket.
But the school year suddenly becomes too much to handle: visiting students from different Wizarding schools; Harry Potter announced as a Hogwarts Champion; the dormitory divided with jealously; Moody proving himself a brilliant lunatic; Quidditch cancelled for the year; a dragon for the first task.
Dean finds himself staying behind after Charms, casting a quick spell to clean up the strewn pillows (summoning charms) complaining.
(He also finds a note scrawled on one of the desks: Jane Fellows + RAB that makes him want to gag.)
‘What about the Yule Ball? They’re forcing you all to attend, aren’t they?’
‘The what ball?’
‘McGonagall hasn’t said anything?’ says Professor Black. He’s picking lint off his shoulder, frowning at the crease on his sleeves. ‘They’re going to have you prance around for some Christmas dance. Tradition and whatnot.’
‘Oh.’ And gets a vision of all the different girls in their year. If there was a dance that meant one was expected to bring a date. And as pretty as the Patil twins were, Dean had no idea how to go about asking them. Or knowing if he was even remotely interested in them beyond their looks. ‘Have you ever asked a girl out, Professor?’
Professor Black looks stiff for a moment. And then a bit uncomfortable, as if replaying an old memory.
‘First of all, Thomas, that’s none of your business,’ says Black. ‘Second of all, highly inappropriate question, so that’s five points off Gryffindor—‘
‘Professor!’
‘— And third of all, I can tell you that, in my extensive teaching experience, girls are not as scary as they seem.’ He fixes Dean with a flat look. ‘Just ask. If she says no, you’ll suffer abject humiliation for five minutes and then move on with your life. Tragic when you’re that age, but, in hindsight, you’ll realize it all means nothing.’
Vaguely, Dean wonders if Professor Black is actually married. And has a family. He tries to picture him with a child in his arms and finds that the image doesn’t really sit.
There’s something abnormally ethereal about him— his black clothes, his smooth robes, his undercut, framing his angular face— that makes him beyond this world. Meant for an altogether different realm.
‘Are you going to the Yule Ball, Professor?’ asks Dean.
‘No. And please pass the message along. I’ve already had every other Seventh, Sixth and Fifth Year come and ask me, and the last thing I need if for your lot to start marching in too.’
Dean ends up asking Hannah Abbott, mainly because she seems too sweet to reject anyone, and rushes to meet up with Seamus to relay the news. Instead, he finds an intervention group with Ron Weasley at its midst, sharing how he had screamed at Fleur Delacour and ran.
It prompts other students to relay their own experiences, with three girls admitting they had asked Professor Black.
‘He gave me detention,’ says one.
‘He docked points,’ says the other.
‘He kicked me out of class,’ says the last.
‘Well, I heard he’s officially going with Professor McGonagall,’ and Dean only believes it because it’s Hermione Granger who says it. ‘I overheard her asking him in the library.’
‘No way,’ says Seamus, arm casually slung around Lavender Brown.
But, now that Dean thinks of it, he’s always seen the two of them in each other’s classrooms, marking papers and gossiping over ginger newts and tea.
A bit funny, that.
The dance proves itself fun. Hannah is lovely (though, he doubts they’ll go anywhere from here), laughing off his apologies whenever he steps on her feet (by mistake). McGonagall does end up dancing with Regulus Black, much to the entertainment of many students, before the string quartet transforms into a rock band screeching about a mad elf.
Dean bumps into Ginny Weasley when he’s on his way back to the dormitories, suddenly taken by her glistening red hair and her freckled cheeks. He remembers her, sick in the Hospital Wing not three years ago, and admires how much she’s changed.
‘It’s great talking to you,’ he says when they reach the portrait hole and he means it.
Ginny flushes and shakes her head, ‘Goodnight, Dean,’ and, for the first time, he feels an odd little itch in his chest at the sound of his name.
The second task proves itself an adrenaline rush but everything changes when Harry collapses, Cedric’s dead body in tow. A shadow is cast over the school, haunted by death, threatened by a war that is starting to creep towards them.
Dumbledore blames the Dark Lord and there is a hush of fear in the Great Hall.
Seamus presses a hand onto his shoulder.
He doesn’t keep up with Wizarding news when on holiday so he’s flabbergasted when he sees Harry’s face on the Prophet with LIAR for a heading.
‘World’s gone mad,’ says his mother, wincing at the vicious tone of article. ‘You always said he was a nice boy.’
‘He is,’ says Dean, stomach twisting at the sight of Dumbledore’s picture, the words SENILE written in bold ink. ‘What have I missed?’
A load of bollocks, he decides, as he reads through the paper, twice, over his glass of Fortescue’s ice-cream. His Muggle mother, now accustomed to Diagon Alley, has gone to Flourish and Blotts to collect his books.
‘Mr Thomas.’
On pure instinct, Dean sits up, as though told off in class. To his utter surprise, he sees Professor Black, his mother standing with him, looking quite enamored.
‘Professor!’ and in his haste, bangs his hip against the table. ‘Um— what are you doing here?’
‘Escorting lost mothers,’ he says wryly and his mother actually giggles.
‘I wandered for a bit and got lost; your teacher was kind enough to bring me back,’ says Mrs Thomas, a blush streaking her cheeks. ‘I was telling him how highly you speak of him. Dean loves Charms. I said: the moment you’re of age, the first thing I want to see is that levitating spell you keep going on about.’
Dean flushes, because it’s somewhat humiliating for his mother to run into his teacher, but it’s twice as embarrassing for his mother to talk to his teacher about his teacher.
‘Glad to see the only thing that stuck with you is what you learnt in First Year,’ says Black, but there’s no malice in that.
‘Afraid I’d blow up the house otherwise,’ says Dean.
‘With Finnegan as a friend, I’d say that could be true.’
‘Won’t you join us, Professor?’ says Mrs Thomas, gesturing to the table.
Professor Black looks rather awkward, shaking his head. ‘That’s kind, but I really have to be off. Mr Thomas, a word? Just something about the homework I assigned.’ And Dean tries to cover up his confusion. Because, last he checked, Professor Black didn’t assign them anything for the summer. ‘Before you open your mouth, yes, I know, I didn’t assign anything, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.’ His eyes stray to the paper, resting on the table. On Dean’s mother, checking the books against her list, making sure she bought the right ones. ‘Keep close to her, alright? When you’re out here, in the Wizarding world. Your mother knows her way around, but it’s obvious she’s a Muggle. Things aren’t quite safe for her anymore.’
‘Is this about You-Know-Who?’ says Dean.
‘That’s just the tip of it. I’m afraid…’ Black winces. He looks thinner than usual. His eyes, hollow. It’s as though he hasn’t slept in years. ‘You’ll find Hogwarts a very different place this year.’
He claps Dean on the shoulder.
‘Good summer, Professor?’ asks Dean, because something feels off.
Professor Black grins, slightly roguish but, for once, unmistakably exhausted. ‘Ghastly.’
Within the span of one class, Umbridge declares Harry Potter a liar, You-Know-Who a fable and Cedric Diggory’s death a tragic accident.
She also slaps Harry with a detention.
That ugly, pink toad.
‘Serves him right,’ says Seamus during lunch, still bitter that Harry had called his mother stupid the night before.
‘I don’t think he deserves it,’ says Dean, earning him a vicious glare.
But things only get worse when the Prophet begins to unravel: Professor Lupin’s background as a werewolf; Professor Quirrel’s involvement with the Dark Arts; and, of course, a detailing on Professor Regulus Black: brother to mass-murderer, Sirius Black; cousin to Azkaban inmate, Bellatrix Lestrange; schoolfriend to the very same Barty Crouch Jr who infiltrated the school just last year; and, suspected ex-Death Eater, saved from arrest by the intervention of Albus Dumbledore himself when he was just eighteen.
‘Merlin’s beard, that’s one hell of a repertoire,’ whistles Fred Weasley over breakfast, reading the article just over his twin brother’s shoulder. ‘By the looks of him, he’s one maniacal laugh away from St Mungos.’
Dean thinks the comment a bit cruel. But, when he catches sight of Professor Black wandering aimlessly through the school, eyes glassy, fingers scarred from all the picking, he wonders if it’s true.
Weeks tumble and soon, he’s buried under the workload. There’s five years of content to revise. And, not to mention, Dumbledore’s Army.
It’s exhilarating: the magic, the community, the friendships he begins to forge with classmates he knew, but never took the chance to understand. And, when Seamus finally joins, Dean feels at ease again. Everything survivable again. A silver lining on the horizon.
Clattering when he runs into Ginny Weasley one afternoon. He had forgotten his jumper in the Room of Requirement and she had forgotten her school bag. They end up walking together, to the Great Hall, and he finds himself craving her attention.
His heart skips a beat when she smiles and there’s something about the flush on her cheeks that makes his blood rush.
‘Um, so, I’ll see you around, then,’ says Dean when they reach the doors. Seamus is waiting for him at their usual spot.
‘Yeah, see you around,’ and Ginny dips away to her own group.
When he reaches his place at the table, he barely catches the tail-end of a conversation. Not that it matters, anyway, seeing as the papers bring him up to speed.
There had been a mass breakout from Azkaban.
And, thirteen years ago, Bellatrix Lestrange had tortured Neville’s parents to insanity.
As much as he would like to, Dean doesn’t bring it up. He knows Neville doesn’t like being pushed.
So, he quietly makes sure he’s there for him, sitting beside the timid boy in the common room, handing him a glass of pumpkin juice at dinner, even helping him out in the greenhouses when the Mandrakes need re-potting.
All of it paying off when Neville quietly admits that it’s true: Bellatrix had done it and his parents have been at St Mungos ever since.
‘But look at this,’ says Neville, pulling out a book from his bag. ‘It’s a rare edition of Kempert’s Herbology. Professor Black let me borrow it.’
‘Really?’ says Dean, turning the book over. ‘That’s surprisingly nice of him.’
‘I know,’ laughs Neville. ‘He’s always snapping at me, I was sure he was going to expel me when he told me to follow him to his office. But he sat me down and gave me this. We talked a little about her. Bellatrix Lestrange.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ He hesitates. ’Um, well, I’m supposed to give it back and… I don’t really want to go alone.’
It’s a good thing Seamus isn’t here (detention for blowing up a chair in Transfigurations) because Seamus would’ve laughed and Neville would’ve gotten all embarrassed. Dean, on the other hand, says sure, downing the last of his pumpkin juice, and hiking over the bench. They talk about the DA, Neville’s disarming spell and Dean’s patronus. Knock on Professor Black’s classroom and slip inside when no one answers.
They find his office door slightly open and Dean ventures towards it, saying they’ll leave a note if no one’s there.
Instead, they find him there, sitting up on his desk, as Minerva McGonagall of all people, paces up and down the room.
‘That foul woman and her medieval ways. Have you heard the utter vitriol she’s been spewing— why, I knew Dolores was a piece of work, but I didn’t expect her to transform into this.’
‘Gargoyle,’ nods Black, biting into a ginger newt.
‘By the end of this, she’ll have half the students purged or expelled! Not to mention the ridiculousness of her class content. How on earth are we supposed to bring Aurors if they can’t cast a single spell let alone stupefy?’
‘Don’t need a spell if you can just chuck a book. Have you seen the size of those Defense texts?’
‘And have you heard of her plan to invigilate? Not once, in my forty years of experience, have I ever been invigilated. Just yesterday I saw Peeves trying to loosen the chandelier and do you know what I did? Told him: it unscrews the other way—’ a laugh of disbelief— ‘this is what we’ve come to: instead of condoning mischief, I’ve been forced to resort to it.’
‘If only Sirius could hear you today.’
‘And that’s an entirely different conversation. How dare she excavate the privacy of teachers in front of their students?’
‘I don’t know, I find the newfound fear in the eyes of my First Years good for class discipline.’ A languid roll of the eyes. ‘Mr Thomas, when, exactly, are you going to announce your presence? Oh, and Mr Longbottom too,’ adds Professor Black when Dean guiltily widens the door. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’
‘Now, boys, eavesdropping is very unbecoming,’ tuts Professor McGonagall.
‘We didn’t want to interrupt,’ says Dean. ‘Neville wanted to return the book he borrowed.’
‘Page turner, isn’t it?’ says Black when he takes back the book. A bit dryly, Dean realizes, which means it completely goes over Neville’s head.
‘Amazing,’ gushes Neville. ‘Kempert’s one of my favorites. His methods of investigation are odd but, when you look at the details, you realize it really makes sense. He’s a true pioneer in the field of marshland Herbology.’
‘Well, Longbottom, it’s good to see you’ve an interest in something,’ says McGonagall with a sigh. ‘Keep this up, and you’ll make a fine Herbologist one day.’ To which Neville goes scarlet. ‘And what about you, Mr Thomas? Careers Advice are weeks away, but is there anything you’re considering?’
‘Oh— uh—’ he stumbles for a bit, stopping himself from blurting the first thing that comes to mind (which is football and then Quidditch) because he doesn’t want to embarrass himself. ‘I— um— an Auror?’
Which is what every other Fifth Year is saying.
‘A noble choice,’ says McGonagall, turning to Black with a pointed expression. ’If only we had the capacity to prepare one for it.’
Chaos reigns supreme every time a new Inquisitorial Decree is hammered onto the walls. And when Sybil Trelawney is sacked.
Dean catches her sobbing in the hallway, Professor McGonagall trying her best to comfort her (there now, Sybil, stiff upper lip) and even Professor Black carrying her bag for her and helping her up the stairs.
But nothing could prepare him for the madness of the Charms exam, the Weasley twins lighting firework after firework, threatening to bring the castle to the ground.
Nor the Prophet’s declaration—
HE’S BACK
— with the Dark Lord sighted in the Ministry of Magic.
He finds Ginny tucked away in the common room, bearing the bruises of battle, and listens to her recount the whole thing: Thestrals to London, Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries, Voldermort rising from the ashes. And in that moment, with the summer sun streaming through the windows onto her beautiful, red hair, he can’t help but admire her, completely in awe of her, tilting down to meet her lips.
‘Write to me?’ she says when he pulls away.
Dean can’t help but laugh. ‘Everyday.’
It’s a good summer, despite the warnings in the Prophet, the disappearances, the imminent explosion of war. A good summer, tinged with teenage infatuation, made all the more wonderful when he’s back at school. He likes talking to Ginny, likes kissing her, but he hates the way her eyes latch onto Harry’s, following him as though on a leash.
Dean brings it up once and she blows up in his face, a red-haired torrent of fury, and he’s left feeling more than a little heartbroken.
Seamus is the last person he wants to talk to about girls (and the fact that they’re competing for the same Quidditch position isn’t doing their friendship any favors) and his mother’s too far away. So he wanders after-hours, trying to clear his head, picking two strained voices in the dusky courtyard.
Draco looks haggard but he’s nothing compared to Professor Black: a trembling mess of a man with bruised eyes and matted hair, robes hanging off a viciously thin frame.
‘I know Snape is extending a hand. If I were you, I’d take it—‘
‘You know nothing,’ hisses Draco. ‘So don’t try and give me advice— don’t try and make this better because you don’t know how.’
‘Better?’ A raspy laugh. Almost cruel. ‘You think things are going to get better?’ And to his surprise— and to Draco’s— Black grabs the boy by the collar, shaking him. ‘I told you a thousand times— warned you, a thousand times— but you don’t listen. No you, not your father, not even Cissa. Things are not going to get better but things can be easier. Talk to Snape. Let him help you—‘
Draco rips out of Black’s grip, stalking away. The sound of hollowed sobs echo in the emptiness.
Alone, Professor Black pulls up his sleeves.
Mangled skin and a faded tattoo.
It slithers on his forearm.
It’s difficult keeping it altogether. His relationship is crumbling (there isn’t a day where it doesn’t end with a screaming match) and Seamus is distant (Dean was made Chaser) and Defense Against the Dark Arts is a nightmare (with Snape as its teacher).
The NEWT workload is twice that of the OWLs, made a thousand times worse with Charms being completely null. The class is almost always cancelled and, if it’s not, it’s a loss. Professor Black— looking more deranged everyday— would assign a chapter and either storm out of the room or simply stare out the window, grey eyes glassy, bruised hands trembling at his sides.
At one point, the entire class quietly file out, Black barely reacting, and Dean slowly makes his way towards him.
‘Professor?’ asks Dean. ‘Professor Black?’
Prompting a slight twitch. Black snaps out of it, rubbing a (trembling) hand over his face, clearing his throat. Dean wonders why Dumbledore keeps him here, like this, instead of letting him go so he can find some help.
‘Is everything alright, sir?’ asks Dean.
Black takes in the empty room. The book on his table. The splattering of rain.
‘Get out,’ he says, more feeble than coarse, and Dean is reminded of that day, First Year, when that very demand made him jump. Now, it makes him feel a potent dose of sorrow.
Death Eaters attack. Dumbledore falls. And they’re fishing a body out of a lake.
Dark hair and dark robes and pale, bone-white skin.
A cry bubbles out of his throat. Before he knows it, he’s sprinting across the blood-soaked grounds, slamming into strangers, elbowing his way through.
How miserable had every breathing moment been, for him to look so peaceful in death?
As they lay him down on the grass, clothes singed by the curse that killed him, Dean sees the canvas of mangled scars. And can’t help but realize how young he had truly been: barely seventeen; drowned in a Great black Lake.
He packs his trunk for the last time; he knows he won’t return next year. After the Headmaster’s funeral, he wanders about the castle,, stopping just outside the Charms classroom.
Dean imagines going in and seeing him there: expensive black robes and haughty expression; you’re late and detention; waving him off when Dean asks if, this time, he’s really going to go through with it.
But, when he does step inside, he finds nothing but ice-cold emptiness. A forgotten book on the table. Unintelligible words dusted on the chalkboard.
As though, in all those years, Regulus Black had never truly been there.