Especially Our Enemies

“I received a reply from the Ministry this morning,” Minerva said, waving a piece of parchment. Flitwick, Sprout and I had taken seats in front of her painfully ordered desk. Perhaps I was the only one who felt like I had been sent to the Headmistress’ office for punishment, but then again I always felt that way in the old office. The portrait of Dumbledore was sleeping; otherwise, I might have felt more comforted.

“What did he say?” Professor Sprout asked.

“He agreed with my decision to lock down the school, and went one further. We’re to contact all the students’ parents and arrange for them to be shipped home.”

“What?” I asked, surprised.

“Ron, one of our professors is dead, one wounded, and a third has gone missing. You yourself could have been killed last night. It’s obvious Voldemort came here for a reason, and he’ll most likely return. Now that he has Malfoy with him…”

“We don’t know that Malfoy rejoined him,” Professor Flitwick asserted.

“I want to believe he did not,” Minerva said. “But from what Ron has told me about his behavior, I’m not entirely certain that it was up to him.”

“Well, Ron? You’ve been getting closer to him these last few weeks. What do you think?” Professor Sprout asked.

“I think Malfoy is very dangerous, especially since he seems to be confused by the return of Voldemort. Hell, I’m pretty damned confused about it myself.” I rubbed my forehead. “It was like looking through the veil, I swear. He’s come back in a body that I could swear was Harry.”

“The Minister of Magic has decided he doesn’t want to risk any students being harmed. They’ll be much safer at home with their families.” Minerva sighed. “I don’t like this any more than you do. Go to your houses, tell them what’s going on. I’ll go talk to the Slytherins myself.”

“Are we going to have classes in the meantime?” Flitwick asked.

“I’m afraid it would be impractical. Dooley’s broken ankle was unusually complicated, so he’s off his feet, and with two other instructors out of commission that leaves far too many students who would need to be reassigned. No, I think we should cancel all classes while we contact parents.”

We parted ways at the main staircase, and I headed up to Gryffindor Tower. Not everyone was awake yet, so I waited in the common room for them to assemble.

“Well, kids, I’ve got good news and bad news,” I announced, as the last few trickled in. “Which would you like to hear first?”

“The good, I should think,” called Dorothea. She was a Prefect, and most of the other students murmured their agreement. Kirke and Hobbes, sitting as always on either side of her, were among the loudest.

“The good news I have for you is that classes are cancelled.”

There was a brief commotion of excitement, but then one of the seventh-years spoke up.

“And I’ll bet the bad news is the reason why,” he said dourly. Andrew Lee was a quiet, brooding young man, nothing at all like his father. Then again, Jordan hadn’t had the kind of childhood his son had experienced; both his parents were killed in the war, leaving him orphaned to be raised as a ward of the Ministry. He tended to be the doom-and-gloom student in any class.

“Unfortunately, Andrew is correct,” I said softly, settling into one of the squashy armchairs. It seemed impossibly small, despite the fact that I had once almost disappeared into these chairs. Growing up has its downsides.

“Last night, one of our professors was murdered.” I took a breath.

“Who was it?” someone asked.

“Severus Snape, the Potions Master.”

There were a few gasps; I was relieved to hear that no one was pleased with the news, as I might have been at their age.

“Professor Malfoy has gone missing, and Professor Dooley has been injured. I myself was nearly a victim in the forest last night. The Headmistress has sent an owl to the Ministry of Magic, and the decision has been made to close down Hogwarts,” I said, folding my hands.

The room erupted into chatter, mostly protests, and I waited for them to expend themselves before I continued.

“Until we can contact your parents and arrange for you to return home, no one is allowed to leave the castle. I’m really sorry about this, but we can no longer guarantee your safety here at Hogwarts.”

“Bloody hell,” Hobbes said loudly, to no one in particular.

“If you have any questions for me, now’s the time to ask,” I said, hoping they wouldn’t ask.

“Do you think Professor Malfoy killed Professor Snape?” Dorothea asked.

“I don’t believe so,” I said, “I was with him much of the day yesterday.”

“Who was it, then?” asked a younger student. I cleared my throat.

“Well, Professor Malfoy identified him as Lord Voldemort.”

That set them off once more, and I sat back. After some time they quieted down.

“I know this is a confusing time,” I said, waving a hand. “But I want you to know that the other professors and I are dedicated to keeping you safe until we can get you home to your parents.”

No one said anything for several minutes, and I sighed.

“Come on then Gryffindors, let’s go to breakfast,” I said. They followed me out into the corridor, whispering amongst themselves. The Quidditch players assembled around me in a wedge, making me the vanguard of some unplanned attack. These were some of my closest students, and they all had faces set in stone.

“It’s not as bad as all that,” I told them quietly. “During the war, they closed Hogwarts down twice. Both times it was just until the start of the next semester.”

“So after Christmas we’ll come back?” asked Graham Henderson, the sixth-year Beater.

“I hope so,” I said honestly.

Professor Flitwick darted through the crowd of students more quickly than I could have imagined. His shock of white hair was in disarray, as though he had been pulling at it.

“Professor Weasley!” he shouted, skittering to a halt in front of me.

“Flitwick,” I said, taken aback by the suddenness of his arrival.

“It’s your son, Professor Weasley. He’s gone missing!”

I felt my blood turn into liquid nitrogen, and I’m sure the color drained from my face.

“When?” I asked breathlessly.

“The last time anyone saw him was at dinner last night,” Flitwick said, wringing his hands. “No one remembers seeing him in the dormitories.”

“And you talked to his friends among the first-years?” I asked. My legs began to feel like they might collapse beneath me.

“All anyone could tell me was that he was going to go see Hagrid before curfew,” Flitwick said.

“To see Hadrian,” I murmured, looking about for a shaggy head above the students.

“Hagrid!” I called. He turned, and we caught up to him. The Gryffindor students streamed past us, except the team, who waited quietly behind me like my own personal guard.

“Good morning Perfessor Weasley,” he said good-naturedly.

“Did you see Chaz last night?” I asked.

“Why no,” he said, stroking his beard. “He said he might come down to visit the unicorns right after dinner, but only if he got his homework finished. I just figured he had more work to do.”

“He never made it back to the Ravenclaw dormitories after dinner,” I said. Hagrid’s bushy brows dipped low.

“And you think he was on his way to see me?” he asked.

“It would have been about the time the older students were returning from Hogsmeade,” Flitwick said.

“Yeah, I know,” Hagrid said. “I had a couple of visitors, actually, around that time, some students from Hufflepuff.”

“Did you tell Minerva?” I asked Flitwick. He shook his head.

“I came to you first,” he said.

I spotted her tall hat and took off through the crowd, still trailing my Quidditch escort. I looked back at their stern faces for a moment. How quickly our children are forced to grow up.

“Minerva, there’s a problem,” I said, touching her arm. She turned.

“What is it, Professor Weasley?” she asked, pinching her lips. More trouble was not what she wanted to hear.

“My son has disappeared.”

Minerva closed her eyes for a moment.

“And all the other students are accounted for?” she asked.

“All of Gryffindor, certainly,” I said. “Flitwick didn’t mention any others of his, and I haven’t seen Sprout yet.”

“I’ve spoken with her already,” Minerva said. “She didn’t mention anyone missing. And all of Slytherin House were in their dormitory when I arrived.”

I could feel the sweat starting to prickle on my lower back, the first evidence of anxiety.

“We have to find him,” I said desperately.

“You still have the Marauders’ Map in your office,” she suggested. “It would take a long time for me to cast a Searching spell, but the map would show if he is on the grounds.”

“I’ll meet you back in the great hall,” I said, jogging off down the corridor. My office seemed impossibly far away.

I found it difficult to say the words I needed in order to activate the map, but I knew that Moony, Prongs, and Padfoot wouldn’t begrudge me an honest use of their dishonest toy.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” I said, and the map burst to life.

My eyes started to water as they darted over the map. Harry and Hermione had put their heads together to alter it a bit, and I touched my wand to it once more.

“Find Chaz Weasley,” I said. The map swirled and then returned to normal. If he was on the grounds, he would be highlighted by a glowing spot.

There was no such spot.

“Mischief managed,” I sobbed, stuffing the map back into a drawer. I sat at my desk for a moment and let the emotion overtake me. My son was missing. Even if he were dead, the map would have located his body. The only thing that I could imagine had happened was that the Dark Lord had taken him. I let the tears flow freely onto my blotter, wailing like a little boy.

Finally, I pulled myself together and wiped my face. The mirror by the door showed me that my eyes and nose were red, but I didn’t care if anyone saw. I went back into the corridor and made the long journey back to the Great Hall.

Minerva looked at me questioningly when I came in; I shook my head. She nodded grimly and I sat down beside her in the empty seat she had reserved. The two additional empty chairs at our table seemed to leap out at me. I begrudgingly let her put food on my plate.

“Eat something,” she insisted. “You had a hard night.”

“And a harder morning,” I said softly.

“After breakfast I’ll cast a more thorough Searching spell,” she said. “We mustn’t panic the students.”

But word had spread through the Gryffindor table, and now many of the students were looking at me. Several Ravenclaws were staring silently at their food. I picked at my own half-heartedly and waited until I could leave.

Bugsy settled on the arm of my chair just as I was standing up. The little owl was panting, and I let him drink some of my water before feeding him a bit of leftover bacon. He took off, and I looked at the letter.

It was from Hermione. I laughed bitterly and put it into my robes, dreading the response I would have to give to her note.