A Little Knowledge

Martin was out of bed before any of his roommates early the following morning. For one thing, he had that detention with his father and wanted to send that letter to his mum. For another, he didn’t exactly relish the thought of interacting with Middleton, nor any of the others for that matter. The very notion of doing so made him more than a little uneasy.

As he looked in the mirror to comb his hair that morning, Martin winced as he noticed some light, but rather conspicuous bruising where Middleton had punched him. His face continued to smart just a bit from the blow. He hoped that his father wouldn’t notice and wished in vain that he could conjure a glamour. But such skills were far beyond him at the moment. Martin added glamours to his mental list of things he wished that he could learn.

Martin was out of the dormitory before any of the others woke up and that suited him just fine.

Flitwick’s instructions had been vague at best, so Martin made his way to his father’s office, hoping that he would be waiting for him there. The door was slightly ajar and he heard voices inside, but he knocked nevertheless. Olivia might like to eavesdrop, but he wasn’t too keen on it, especially when it came to his father, who had the uncanny ability of knowing when people were listening or watching.

“Come in,” called the voice of the elder Dumbledore.

Martin stepped into the office to find his father and the headmaster obviously just finishing a discussion, one to which he imagined he was not supposed to be privy. Dippet looked dispirited and very unhappy as he shook his head.

“I think I can buy us a few months at best, but it is only a matter of time,” Professor Dippet informed Dumbledore.

“Yes, do that, Armando,” nodded Dumbledore with a slow nod.

Dippet smiled, perhaps a bit tiredly, when he saw Martin in the doorway where he lingered uncertainly.

“We can talk about this more later, Albus, when you are not otherwise occupied,” said Dippet. “The matter will keep for the moment,” he added with a parting nod before stepping past Martin and into the corridor.

“We’ll be going down to the classroom now. I have prepared your detention there,” said Dumbledore. The he frowned as he looked at Martin’s face. “What happened?” he questioned.

“I’m sorry?” asked Martin, despite the fact that he knew what his father meant.

“Your face appears to be either dirty ... or bruised,” Dumbledore noted, stepping closer to discover that it was the latter.

“I fell out of bed last night,” said Martin, although he found the lie rather unconvincing himself. It was far better than telling his Gryffindor father that he had let a boy in his own house punch him.

“I see ...” said Dumbledore, peering over his spectacles with a look of vague disapproval.

Martin expected his father to pursue the matter further and felt great relief when he did not. They walked to the Transfigurations’ classroom in companionable silence as Martin’s uneasiness began to dissipate.

Dumbledore couldn’t help but glance surreptitiously at his son as they reached the classroom. He could recognize the aftermath of a bloody nose as well as any long term professor. He just wondered who had given it to Martin and for what reason. Of course, he also knew that Martin would not be very forthcoming. The elder Dumbledore had been in his share of fights, with wand and fists, while in school, and he had never once snitched to a professor, so why expect anything different from Martin?

Ushering Martin into the classroom, Dumbledore lit the room with a wave of his wand. At the front on the room, Dumbledore’s desk was littered with small objects: twigs, leaves, daisies, and a rubber duck. These were a selection of objects that Martin’s class had been using for their practical work.

“You will be doing some transfigurations for me, Mister Dumbledore,” said the professor, adopting the manner that he used in the classroom.

“Yes, sir,” said Martin, following his father to the desk where the elder Dumbledore took a seat.

“Please begin with the twig,” said Dumbledore.

Martin picked up the item from the desk and withdrew his wand from within his pocket.

“May I ask a question?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“This is supposed to be punishment, isn’t it?” asked Martin with a slight frown. Dumbledore nodded in affirmation, but his expression changed to one of mild amusement. “Then I don’t understand,” Martin said.

“I thought we would both be better served if this were an educational detention. You are, and quite understandably, lagging behind in my class. I want you to have the opportunity to improve your marks,” answered Dumbledore. “And I imagine that my presence is the thing inhibiting you, so perhaps that could be ... altered,” he added.

“You do make me nervous,” Martin admitted, taking a deep breath.

“I required some time before I realized that. I thought at first that your mother and I had made an error requesting in your advancement,” said Dumbledore with a slow, understanding nod. “Now, please transfigure that twig into a tie pin,” he instructed.

About an hour later Martin found himself feeling substantially more confident as he had managed to transfigure all of the objects on the desk successfully. At first it had been difficult with his father’s brilliant blue eyes boring into him as he spoke the incantations. Martin found it quite disconcerting, but the feeling gradually went away as the elder Dumbledore offered him pointers and suggestions. By the end of the detention, Martin was doing exceptionally well.

“Four more days of this will put you on par with Miss Bellew,” commented Dumbledore, naming the top Transfigurations student of the second year.

“Maybe ...” said Martin with a slight smile.

“I imagine you will want to go to breakfast now,” said Dumbledore, leaving his desk and vanishing the objects that littered it with a wave of his hand.

“The girls will be expecting me,” answered Martin, “but I should go to the Owlery first. I have a letter for mum.”

“Really? I imagine she will be very happy to hear from you,” said his father with a soft smile.

Martin shrugged and said, “I suppose.” He didn’t want to discuss the contents of the letter with his father.

Dumbledore looked at the bruises on his face and asked, “Would you like me to make those less noticeable for you?”

Martin gingerly touched his nose and asked, “With a glamour?”

“Yes, that would be the best way,” he replied.

Martin considered the offer for a moment and realized that he would rather the girls not know what had happened. He knew that neither Sissy nor Olivia would accept his fabricated story. And he fancied that they wouldn’t think twice about retribution, which was the last thing Martin wanted. Best that they not be the wiser.

“All right,” Martin agreed.

Dumbledore drew his wand from his pocket and stepped closer to Martin. He spoke a quick incantation and slowly waved the wand across the bruised portion of his son’s face until the marks grew lighter and lighter and they finally seemed to disappear altogether.

“It should last until you go to bed tonight,” nodded Dumbledore.

“Thank you,” said Martin with a nod, resisting the urge to touch his face.

“Run along and send that letter. It will make your mother very happy to hear from you,” he said, patting Martin on the shoulder and shooing him toward the door.

Martin didn’t think so, but he nodded and started off in the direction of the Owlery.

Although he knew where it was, Martin had never been to the top of the Owlery before as he had not needed to send an owl to anyone as of yet. When he reached the top, he was pleasantly surprised to feel a cool morning breeze and delighted by the soft hooting of the birds, most of which had not long ago returned from a night of hunting. But that feeling of delight and mild awe disappeared as he reached into his bag and pulled out the carefully penned letter. He sighed softly.

“I hope she understands,” he said to himself.

“Understands what?” asked a somewhat sulky voice.

Martin started and looked up to see a thin, unpleasant looking man who was cleaning up after the owls. He had what appeared to be a permanent scowl on his rather ill-favored face. Martin knew him by sight as the caretaker’s apprentice, although the man must have been nearly thirty years old, if not even older than that.

“Understands what? Not that I particularly care, mind you,” said Filch as he went about his work.

“Oh, well, it’s just a letter to my mum,” stammered Martin with a slight blush.

“I see,” nodded Filch. “You’re Professor Dumbledore’s br... son, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Martin nodded.

“You must be right happy here then being a professor’s son and all,” he remarked.

Martin shifted his feet and toyed with the letter in his hand.

“Not really,” he replied softly.

“And just why not? Surely all of the other professors favor you,” said Filch in a very disapproving tone of voice.

Martin looked up with a snap. Such a thought had never occurred to him, and the suggestion had caught him more than a little off-guard.

“They do not!” he objected. “And I don’t expect them to.”

Filch regarded him coolly for a moment before he shrugged, “You never can tell, but I see you’re a Ravenclaw. That explains a lot. You’re not exactly cut from the same cloth as the professor, are you?”

“I suppose I’m not,” Martin admittedly a little sadly.

“Just as well. I hear that he raised cane when he was in school,” said Filch. “You’re nothing like that, I hope.”

“Er, well, I try not to be, sir,” he replied, thinking of all the trouble he had landed in so far, and how very little if any of it had been his fault.

“Good,” said Filch gruffly as he finished his task. “See that you don’t linger up here after you send that owl,” he commented and made his way toward the stairs.

When he had gone, Martin unfolded his letter to read it one more time. He had almost made up his mind not to send it, but he still felt as though it might be the best solution.

“Dear mum, I’m not having a very good time of it at school. Is there any way that I could come home? I’m so miserable here, and all the boys in my year hate me. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make friends with them. Or even be able to live in peace with the lot of them. I would much rather be back home with you and my tutors. I’m so unhappy here. Please don’t tell Father, but is there anything you can do to let me come back home? Love, Martin.”

With great deliberation Martin chose a school owl and bound the parchment to one of its legs and sent it on its way. He felt almost sick, knowing how much he would miss the girls, who had become very dear to him, and his studies. He would even miss the frightening adventures he had had, in a manner of speaking, and the classes that he wasn’t very good at. But he wasn’t sure what would happen to him if forced to spend the rest of the term, and six terms after that, with Middleton and the rest of the lot. He left the Owlery with a very heavy heart.

During classes that day their detentions were never far from the girls’ minds, which was not at all surprising given the nature of those detentions. None of them had ever received one before as they had never had the grave misfortune of getting caught, at least not by a professor or staff member willing to deal out punishment, so it was an entirely novel experience for all of them. The odd thing was that they weren’t particularly looking forward to them with dread, especially after listening to Martin’s account that morning -- and he had seemed oddly downhearted for someone who had just had an extra lesson -- but with a certain anticipation that was neither brought on by anxiety nor precisely what could be called excitement, but rather with curiosity.

The four witches parted at the bottom of Ravenclaw tower as their detentions were being held in divers parts of the castle. Sophia, for instance, was going all the way down to the dungeons where she and the others had already spent two hours having double Potions with Professor Krohn.

When she arrived, after wading through a crowd of surly Slytherin sixth years, she found Krohn marking essays at his desk with a look of distaste marring his heavy, but otherwise handsome features. He had taken removed the leathern thong from his hair allowing it to cascade into his face as he hunched over the parchments and scribbled with an elegant gray quill. He pursed his lips in what appeared to be annoyance as he looked up.

“Miss Colville, I believe classes ended some minutes ago. Two points for your tardiness. See that it does not become a habit,” he said in a sullen voice.

“Yes, sir,” she replied. Sophia was very even tempered, but the loss still stung. If only she could have avoided the delay the students in the corridors, mostly his students, had caused her.

“You will note,” he began, gesturing to a table to his right and her left, “that I have a large quantity of daisy roots that need to be chopped. It is for a potion that the first year Gryffindor class will be preparing tomorrow, and I dare not trust them with sharp objects just yet. Please neatly chop the roots into small pieces and place them in the containers also on the table.”

This, of course, beat cauldron scrubbing by a long shot, although it was still menial work and not very educational.

“Of course,” she nodded, making her way to the table.

“And if you cut yourself, please be aware that the juice from the roots will make it sting quite painfully,” Krohn warned her with a bit of a sneer.

“I will be careful then.”

“See that you are. Also, do refrain from talking while you work. I am very busy,” he said, gesturing to the parchments on the desk in front of him.

Sophia nodded silently and went to work.

Sometime later the sound of fluttering wings from a high window, which would have been at ground level, disturbed her concentration and caused her to look up from the roots, which she had been chopping in a very methodical manner. Krohn lifted his eyes as well as a large raven with a letter tied to its leg flew into the classroom with a loud, unpleasant caw. Sophia gulped and held her breath. Ravens were used only to deliver the worst news. It landed upon the corner of the professor’s desk and glared at him insolently.

Sophia watched as he took the message from the bird with trembling hands. Some of the color seemed to have drained from his face. He waited until the raven was gone to open the letter and begin to read it. She could not tear her eyes away as she watched him, his eyes moving from side to side as he read. Then Krohn simply folded the letter again and laid it on his desk.

“Miss Colville, you may go now. Your detention is over,” he said to her in a strained voice that seemed to raise an octave inadvertently as he spoke.

“Sir, is anything the matter?” she questioned.

Sophia wiped her hands on her robes and took a step in his direction.

He slowly raised his eyes from the desk. She could feel them upon her, even obscured though they were by his hair. He cleared his throat before he said anything more.

“There has been a death in my family. It seems that my father has died,” he informed her.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” she said awkwardly.

“Then you did not know him, but nevertheless, thank you for your condolences. As I said before, you may leave now and return tomorrow afternoon,” said Krohn more forcefully.

Sophia knew that she had better go or else possibly face his temper, which was a very unpleasant prospect.

“Yes, sir,” she said quietly, walking to the door, which slammed just behind her. She didn’t know quite what to make of it, but she knew that he wanted to be alone. She could hardly blame him, even after his callous statement regarding his father.

Sophia was the first to finish her detention and chose to await the others in the common room. There was no sign of Martin, but she imagined that he had gone to the library while it was still light outside and he would not need an escort. She considered this rather sensible and debated joining him. But by the time this crossed her mind, Olivia and Corinna were both coming in through the portrait hole. The former looked rather dusty and the latter rather pensive.

“For a man who knows more that twenty different types of cleaning charms, Professor Flitwick’s classroom is rather a mess,” observed Olivia as she took a seat and smiled at Sophia.

“Very instructive then?” she asked.

“Of course,” said Olivia with a rather tired smile.

“What about you?” Sophia asked Corinna, who was staring out the window.

“Professor Mallaghan and I mostly talked. He showed me a few books on visions, dreams, and prophesies, but I didn’t have to do any work,” she said, admitting the last part rather sheepishly.

“Anything of note?” asked Sophia.

“Not really, but it’s ... nice to read something on the subject. He loaned me one of the books. I plan to read it when I have the time. Speaking of which, I’ll have to be off to practice in a moment,” said Corinna with a soft sigh.

“Will we be meeting you here or in the Great Hall?” asked Olivia.

“There,” said Corinna, hoisting herself up from her seat.

“Have fun,” said Olivia cheerfully.

Corinna just gave her a dirty look and left for Quidditch practice.

“That’ll be you next year,” commented Sophia.

“Both of us, unless Corinna decides not to play, which isn’t likely,” said Olivia quite confidently.

“Don’t be so sure.”

“She will love the game once she actually plays.”

“And when is that?”

“In just eleven days. The last Saturday before Halloween.”

“Which are you looking forward to more?” asked Sophia.

Olivia seemed to think about it before answering, “The game, definitely the game. And you?”

“I think ... Halloween. It’s one of my favorite holidays. Everything’s so festive, and everyone is so happy,” answered Sophia. For some reason she thought of Professor Krohn and his letter and felt strangely sad again.

“Yeah, happy,” scoffed Olivia, seeing the look that came over Sophia’s face. “What ever is the matter?” she asked with a puzzled look.

“Professor Krohn received a letter while I was having detention. His father died,” she answered.

“No wonder you got back before us. I imagine he started hexing everything in sight,” said Olivia.

Sophia just blinked at her for a moment before saying, “Just the opposite. He handled it quite well actually, but I do feel sorry for him.”

“Well, you would,” shrugged Olivia. “I mean, it’s terrible and all, but I’m just surprised the man has a father.”

“Had,” Sophia corrected coolly.

None of her friends had the same appreciation for the professor or his subject that she did. In the cases of Olivia and Sissy that attitude manifested itself in indifference or outright dislike of the potions’ master.

“Right ...” said Olivia. “But at least we don’t have class with him for a day or so. I’d hate to see him blow up.”

“I’ll agree with you there,” admitted Sophia.

“I suppose we should hit the books until Sissy comes to join us,” said Olivia, reaching for her things.

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