Untitled Ravenclaw Story

(c)2005 by Josh Cohen. May not be reprinted except for personal use. Of course, JK Rowling owns the Potterverse; I\'m just visiting.

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YEAR TWO, CONTINUED

“I can’t believe you’re not worried,” Padma said. Her hands were in her lap, and while her dark skin prevented her knuckles from going white, they were nonetheless not their normal color. “You’ve got muggles on both sides of your family; I’d be scared stiff!”

“Being scared will accomplish absolutely nothing,” I said, although truthfully I wasn’t one hundred percent sanguine about all of this. “Professor Dumbledore is the greatest living wizard of our time, and with him here at Hogwarts, I doubt anything will be able to break through the wards of the castle and do real damage.”

“You say that now,” she fired back, “but what happens if next time it’s not just Mrs. Norris!”

Padma looked very near tears over on her corner of the couch. I scooted over a little and, experimentally, put an arm around her. She leaned into me just enough.

“It’s okay, Padma. Really.”

“No, it really isn’t. I don’t want you to get petrified, or worse, killed!”

“I promise you, Padma, nothing is going to happen to me.”

Her deep brown eyes, when she looked up at me, were rimmed red. “How can you make that promise?”

Honestly, I didn’t know for sure. But it was enough that I had made it, at least in my own head. So I held Padma against me while she trembled, the worried sounds of other voices from below filtering up to my ears, until finally the common room started to empty out.

“Padma?”

She stirred, but didn’t move away; in fact, through all of this, she had grown heavier against my side.

“Padma?”

A mumbled sound.

She was asleep.

As carefully as I could, I eased myself out from beside her and laid her gently down upon the couch, then knelt to pull off her shoes. I set them under the edge of the couch, where she’d be sure to see them come morning, and then quietly crept down the stairs, back to the main room.

One of the house-elves that cleaned Ravenclaw, Tynti, looked at me with huge orange eyes. “Is Master Goldman well?” she asked tentatively. “Is there anything Tynti can get for Master Goldman?”

“No, I’m fine, Tynti. Thank you.”

“Master Goldman does not look fine,” Tynti admonished.

I shrugged. “How I look and how I am aren’t always the same. You’ve known me for more than a year; you should know that by now.”

“Ah, but Tynti is able to read Master Goldman’s body language. And the body language of his Ravenclaw friend, Mistress Padma.” Tynti – and the rest of the house-elves – referred to any set of twins or siblings in Hogwarts by their first names. “Mistress Padma worries about Master Goldman, she does.”

I pointed up toward our alcove. “Mistress Padma is asleep on the couch. Could you see to it that a blanket is put over her at some point?”

“Tynti will see to it, Master Goldman.” She snapped her fingers softly, and a blanket appeared in them. It was dark-blue with bronze highlights and red piping, like the Ravenclaw banners that were draped around the common room. “But Tynti cannot see to the feelings of Master Goldman and Mistress Padma. Only they can see to that.”

I sighed. “Thank you, Tynti. Good night.”

“Good night, Master Goldman.”

As I climbed the stairs to what was now the second-year boys’ dormitory, I thought about what Tynti had said. Perhaps the house-elf was more perceptive than I’d given her credit for. Perhaps there was something else to the feelings that Padma had – something else to her worries. I couldn\'t say I wouldn’t have welcomed stronger feelings from her; she was a pretty girl, quite a bit more intelligent than her sister.

I undressed for bed rather absently, and pulled on an old t-shirt and pajama trousers before moving to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

But as I opened the door, I heard a strange sort of grunt-moaning sound. I closed the door softly behind me and crept into the bathroom. One of the toilet stalls – the one Terry habitually used, although we really didn’t have assignments as such – was closed, and that was where the noise was coming from.

“Terry? That you?”

The noises cut out abruptly. “David?”

“Are you all right in there, Terry?”

“Fine.\" A thoughtful pause. \"Those pumpkin tarts just didn’t sit well with me.”

I raised my eyebrows, even though he couldn’t see. “Would you like me to get you a digestive potion?” Rather than force us to go all the way to the hospital wing, or force Madam Pomfrey to come up here for every minor ailment, we were provided with a small stock of what muggles might call over-the-counter medications – stomach-upset relievers, headache potions, creams to cure minor burns, things like that. The only over-the-counter potions we didn’t have were for pain relief or cold and flu symptoms; for that, we always had to see the medi-witch. Something about possible drug abuse, although that wasn’t much of a problem in the wizarding world. Our people tended more toward alcoholism, if we tended toward destructive behavior at all.

Terry interrupted my rumination. “Nah, David. I think I’ll be all right.”

“If you say so.” I turned to the bathroom mirror over what I had come to regard as “my” sink – the sinks we did take informal ownership of – and squeezed toothpaste onto my brush. Stephen and Anthony used a tooth-cleaning potion, but Mum always said those didn’t make her mouth feel clean, and I guess the habit rubbed off on me. That, and toothpaste and toothbrushes were less expensive than potions.

Over the sound of my vigorous brushing, I heard Terry grunt again, once or twice, but I ignored it. That was, after all, the polite thing to do when someone else was in the toilet. I spat my toothpaste into the sink, rinsed my mouth and brush, flossed quickly, and returned to the bedchamber.

Terry crept out of the bathroom about ten minutes later, sliding into his bed and falling asleep more-or-less instantly. I must have nodded off shortly thereafter, because before I could take note of it, the sun was rising outside the window.

I had been sending regular owls to Dad with information on the “exploits” of Professor Lockhart. Padma had related to me a story from Parvati, that Lockhart had released a cage of Cornish Pixies into her class and then run for it, depending upon Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione to clean up his mess. There had been other things, too; for starters, we hadn’t learned even the most basic spells for defending ourselves against Dark Arts. Every time we got to a place in the texts – all of them written by Lockhart himself – where a spell would be taught, the professor would either end class early, owing to his need to answer fan mail, or he would go off on a tangent and re-enact one of his daring escapades, using one of the students as an assistant.

I was not impressed.

But when Professor Lockhart attempted to fix Potter’s broken arm and ended up simply turning it to a rubbery sack, that was the last straw for both myself and Dad.

That, and I think he was worried that something might happen to me. A Gryffindor first-year, that very same night, had been petrified, just like Mrs. Norris.

It’s not like Dad was unwelcome at Hogwarts – he was an alumnus, after all – but parents and guardians are strongly discouraged from visiting during term; they usually visit during the Christmas or Easter holidays, during the process of collecting sons and daughters. In the year-and-change I’d been at Hogwarts, I hadn’t ever seen a parent of a fellow student during term. So it was quite a shock to me that the day after I sent Dad the owl – Padma’s owl, actually; she was generous about lending it to me when I told her I was keeping tabs on Lockhart and on the Chamber of Secrets situation for him – he showed up at the school. I noticed him in conversation with Professor Flitwick as I passed the staffroom. “Dad?”

“David, hello.” Professor Flitwick, who tended to levitate himself unconsciously, so he could see eye-to-eye during conversations, floated to the ground. “Your father and I were just finishing up a conversation. I’ll make sure he comes to see you later tonight in Ravenclaw.”

I nodded. “Everything all right?”

“Fine, son.” Dad smiled. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

“All right then.”

I went on to Potions and spent a very tense two hours over a cauldron with Terry, working on headache potions – Professor Snape had said we would be learning about medicinal potions through this part of term so we could make them if we needed them in the future. Made sense to me. I didn’t mention to Terry – or to Padma, or Anthony, or even Luna when I saw her at dinner – that Dad was here. Oh, Luna had of course been sorted into Ravenclaw, but that little quote-unquote promise I made to look after her seemed wholly unnecessary now. She floated in her own little world most of the time, even more so than usual.

But when I made my way up to my alcove after dinner, a new article on wandless magic in my bag – I didn’t have any pressing homework – it was not Padma who greeted me there but my father.

“I was hoping someone would eventually come up here. You know, people used to think your mum and I warded the entry.”

“Did you?”

“Not so much.” He chuckled. “Of course, when we wanted some private time, anyone who tried to get through that hatch in the floor was liable to wind up with their feet on the ceiling for a good five minutes.”

I grinned. “You’ll have to teach me that,” I said as I hugged him. He hugged me back, and then curled up in what I’d come to know as “my” corner of the couch. I slid down to the floor, my back against the wall. “So Dad, is it that bad that you had to come out here?”

“What’s so wrong with me just wanting to visit my son?”

“Dad, I know you better than that.” And I did – my father never did anything without a reason. “What’s going on?”

“Well, a few things. First of all, did you notice a pop in your ears just as you got on the train to come to school?” I nodded. “It turns out that someone had sealed the portal between nine-and-three-quarters and the muggle side of the train station.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know that yet. Only two students missed the train, and from the tone of the owl you sent home that first week, I know you know who they were.” Dad made a bit of a face.

“Potter and Ron. Didn’t surprise me much. Also didn’t surprise me that they didn’t get thrown out of school, either.” I shrugged. “Of course, never let it be said that I disparaged The Boy Who Lived, especially since I know how powerful he is.”

“You touched him?” I nodded again. “What did you think?”

I tried to put it into words – explaining a power flush, even to a witch or wizard that can read them, is a little difficult; like trying to explain the sound of silence to a deaf person. “Imagine your own power.”

“Okay.”

“Now cut out everything you know about potion-making and charms that you learned after your first year.”

“That’s an awful lot, David.”

“Yeah, I guessed. But you’re still a powerful wizard, right?” Da nodded. “It’s just that you don’t have as many directions in which to put your power. So you put it into what you can do – in Potter’s case, broom-riding, hexes, offensive and defensive spellwork. But without finesse.”

“Like fighting in a bar, as opposed to fighting in a boxing ring.”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Interesting. Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome.” Dad has a talent for deflecting discussions and forgetting where he left off, so I gently reminded him that he was going to tell me about the portal.

“Ah, indeed. So all the parents and guardians and some of the younger siblings were all stuck on the wizarding side of the portal. Lucius Malfoy tried to Apparate out, but he couldn’t leave. I tried a few testing spells on the portal itself, but to no avail. It was a magic that neither I nor anyone else could break.”

“You had to get out somehow. You’re here.”

“That I am,” he said. “Arthur Weasley had a mobile telephone in his pocket; he’d planned to drop it at his office and tinker with it on the way home. I used it to call your Mum, and she got in touch with the Ministry. But by the time Kingsley Shacklebolt – you remember Kingsley, yes?” I nodded; Kingsley was an acquaintance of my parents, a tall black wizard who worked with the Aurors. “Well, he and a couple of other folks from the Ministry showed up, but they had no trouble at all coming through the portal. Whatever magic had been blocking it had lifted.”

“I wonder what it was.”

“All we know is that it was very powerful. Brian from the firm is on loan to the Ministry; they’re still testing the portal and trying to figure it out.” Dad shrugged. “I’m just glad no one got caught inside the portal when whatever it was that happened happened. And that no one else got stuck and missed the Express.”

“Yes, well.” I thought for a moment. “What about Professor Lockhart?”

“Ah. Him.” It was amazing the disdain my father put into those two syllables. “It turns out our esteemed Professor Lockhart is exactly what he says he is – he’s been to all those villages, eliminated all those dark creatures. Funny thing, though, is that no one can remember what exactly he looked like. They remember a tallish wizard, and they remember blond hair, but that’s the extent of it.”

“D’you think they might have been Obliviated?” Mum and Dad had Obliviated me once, in a very limited fashion, so that I’d know what it felt like. They said they wanted to make sure I realized it if someone was messing around inside my brain.

“Got it in one, son. Someone had been rooting around inside their heads with some very precise and well-done Memory Charms.”

I started to put things together – there was a reason Ravenclaws were sorted into Ravenclaw. “So this Professor we have might not be the real Gilderoy Lockhart?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s the real somebody,” Dad said, “it’s just that we don’t know who that real somebody is.”

“What did the headmaster say? I’m sure you told him.”

“That I did. He said that, without concrete proof, nothing can be done. Unless Lockhart slips up and says something, or harms a student, or endangers the school, I’m afraid you’re stuck with him.”

“Oh, lovely.”

“Indeed. Just keep an eye on him, would you? And ask some of your friends. That Boot fellow seems trustworthy enough.”

“He is.”

“And there’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

Dad got serious in less than a second. “This Chamber of Secrets business. Students getting Petrified. All the hullabaloo. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“You’re not going to pull me out of school, are you?” I sincerely did not want that to happen, no matter how dangerous it was; of course, if I told him that, I’d be gone in an instant. I kept my own counsel.

“I don’t think so. With Professor Dumbledore in charge, the castle and its grounds are safe from outside interference. But I do have something for you.”

“What?”

He pulled from his robes a small box, about the size of a ring box at a jeweler’s shop. From inside he took what appeared to be a tiny toothpick. A muttered word and a complicated pattern with his wand later, I saw in his hand a tall, narrow crystal vial with a dropper built into the stopper. “This is an anti-Petrification potion.”

“Dad,” I said slowly, “those are illegal.”

“I know.”

“Dad, I can’t do this.”

“Yes you can,” he said, “and you will.”

“But why?”

He took a slow breath. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you, the long-term Petrification that I hear that young man and Mr. Filch’s cat are under is usually harmless, except of course that time basically stops for you. But in one of every one-thousand Petrifications that last longer than one hour, there’s a risk that the person may not be able to come back from it, even with potions brewed from Mandrakes. Better safe than sorry.”

“Dad, if the Ministry finds out about this...”

“They won’t. There’s a reason these potions were made illegal, and it’s not because they’re proof against Petrification.”

“Then why?”

He lowered his voice. “If you tell this to anyone, I will be in an extremely large amount of trouble.”

“I won’t tell, Dad. I promise. But if someone uses Veritaserum on me and asks directly about it, I won’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you will.” And he proceeded to explain, his voice still low and conspiratorial, that anti-Petrification potions were also proof against Veritaserum and most other truth-telling potions.

I nodded when he finished. “How much do I use?”

“Each time Madam Pomfrey refills your kidney potion, add exactly three drops of this other potion to it. Then shake it vigorously for one full minute. When you take your kidney potion each night, the anti-Petrification potion will work as well.”

“What about now? I have about half a bottle left.”

He produced a fresh one from under his robes. “Now you have a full one. Pour out about as much as you need so Madam Pomfrey doesn’t get suspicious.” He passed it to me, and I tucked it into my bag. “And tell no one.”

“All right, I won’t. But look, Dad, why doesn’t the Ministry just get over themselves and give everyone an anti-Petrification potion to begin with.”

Dad sighed. “Ask Minister Fudge. I did.”

The opinion my parents held of the Minister of Magic was well known to anyone who started a political discussion in my house. But since my parents were half-bloods, they were unlikely to have any chance at a higher-up position in the Ministry. It’s just the way things run.

“Anything else going on that I should know about?”

He shook his head. “I think that’s everything.” Dad got to his feet; I stood up as well and slung my bag over my shoulder. “C’mon. Walk me to the Grand Hallway; I’m Flooing back home from Dumbledore’s office.”

I followed Dad back out of Ravenclaw and through the halls of the school until we arrived at the closed doorway to Dumbledore’s office. It had been a good, if unexpected visit with my father, and Dad seemed pleased, too; at least, until he saw Professor Snape.

“Mr. Goldman,” Snape said simply, drawing himself up.

“Severus!” Dad strode to him – I stayed back by the windows – and held out his hand. “How are you?”

But Snape didn’t shake my father’s hand. He simply inclined his head toward me. “Did your son do something to get himself expelled?”

Dad put his hand down. “No, of course he didn’t. I just came by to check on him. I was in the neighborhood. But is all well with you, Severus?”

“Mr. Goldman,” Snape said, his face frozen in an expression halfway between shock and disdain, “there is no reason for you to be asking that question.”

“Dammit, Severus, just talk to me!” Dad was fuming. “It’s been more than a decade since that day; grow up and forgive me already!”

Snape simply shrugged it off. “I have rounds to make, Mr. Goldman. A good evening to you.” He turned, the black cape he customarily wore swirling around him, and disappeared around a corner.

“Dad?”

My father’s face was unlike anything I’d ever seen, equal parts fury and confusion and sadness. “David, I don’t care what anyone else says about Severus Snape. He’s a good man. Just don’t get into a position where he holds a grudge against you.”

“I’ll do my best, Dad,” I said.

Dad walked slowly to me and hugged me. “Be well, and don’t forget to take your kidney potion. You know what happens if you do.”

I nodded; when I forgot, stones would form very quickly in my kidneys, and although they could be magicked out of existence by a skilled medi-witch or medi-wizard, they were still the most painful thing I had ever felt – worse even than when I broke my leg crashing my broom into the side of the house five years previously. “I’ll owl you if anything else happens with Lockhart or the Chamber.”

“If you can. If not, use the instant letter. I’m keeping that parchment in my office now.”

“Right, Dad.”

We separated, and he walked slowly, thoughtfully, to the closed door. He mumbled something, too soft for me to hear, and the door opened. I watched him ride the stone escalator upward; the moment his robes disappeared from sight, the door – emblazoned with a phoenix – closed behind him.

“Goodbye, Dad.”

***

Year Two will continue. If all goes well, I will write a little more of this story each morning.

I\'m sure you can guess what Terry was really doing in the bathroom.

A/N Update: 4/12/05. This chapter has now been beta\'d.