A Little Knowledge

Sophia and Olivia were both a trifle concerned when Sissy did not return before it was time to go and meet Corinna. Martin had already returned to the common room, still seeming strangely out of sorts, and had joined the pair in their little nook. Sophia had asked a few careful questions and received insufficient answers. But as time wore on, her thoughts had turned to Sissy, who seemed to be serving the longest detention in the history of Hogwarts. And that bothered her since they had no specifics on whom she was serving it with nor even where. Sissy had not bothered to show them the note Flitwick had slipped her after class that morning.

“I suppose we had better go to dinner now or else Corinna will be eating alone,” said Sophia with a sigh.

Martin and Olivia agreed, knowing that Sissy would meet them there if she were late. She knew when the practices ended just as well as they did.

They were in for a surprise when they walked into the Great Hall. Sissy was already there, sitting alone and poking at her roast with mild disinterest. They all exchanged puzzled looks and joined her, but she didn’t bother looking up as they sat down. Sophia wasn’t even sure that she realized they were there. She merely continued to prod the roast and sigh very softly to herself.

“Sissy?” asked Martin hesitantly as he sat down directly across from her.

“He’s blind, you know,” she said in a low whisper.

“That’s terrible!” said Corinna, who had followed them into the hall, as she sat down with the rest of them.

“Yeah,” said Sissy dryly, “but as he informed me, at least he won’t need his glasses anymore.”

“Is ...?” Sophia began to ask.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” Sissy interrupted shortly, stabbing her roast.

“All right,” agreed Sophia.



Sissy had spent much of the afternoon with Professor Knowles, but the passage of time had hardly mattered to her. Madam Pomfrey had assigned her to help the professor learn to navigate with the aid of a cane. They had used the empty hospital wing for practice. He would barely speak to her. Perhaps, she thought, he resented her presence. Bumbling about while a student watched and offered well-meaning advice was one of the last things she imagined he would ever have wanted to do. She felt very nearly the same. It was terrible to watch him take slow cautious steps, sweeping the cane before him, only to collide with the corner of a bed and give a muted cry of pain or surprise.

In the end he had hurled the cane across the room, nearly spearing Sissy with it, and fumbled his way back to his hospital bed in defeat and frustration.

“I’ll never be able to manage,” he said to the wall in front of him.

“Give it time, sir,” she had replied. But there had been a sinking feeling in her stomach even as she said those words.

“I have the rest of the week or Professor Dippet must find a replacement for me,” he had answered with a note of finality in his voice.

The sinking feeling turned into a block of ice, and she wondered, not for the first time, why in the name of Merlin she had been given the task of helping him when it was all too obvious that he didn’t want help from anyone. He only wanted to give up. Looking at his unfocussed, staring eyes, she could hardly blame him. She was sure she would have felt the same. Sissy could hardly believe that she was going to lose such a great professor, but he seemed to be a hopeless cause.

In the end she had fetched his cane and returned it to him, pressing it into his hand and not trusting herself to speak.

“Thank you, Miss Howard,” he said shortly, “but I believe your time is up.”

“Same time tomorrow,” she reminded him in the steadiest voice she could manage.

He turned toward her and glared at her with sightless eyes, but said nothing to contradict the statement.

After that she had ventured onto the grounds to stroll by the lake while the light lasted until her wandering feet returned her to the castle and to the Great Hall.



Sissy gave her uneaten food one last stab before she said, “It’s just so senseless.”

Her friends looked uneasy and ate their meal in silence. They may not have felt so strongly about the professor as Sissy, but they couldn’t help agreeing with her. It was a great tragedy.

The next morning at breakfast the quintet of Ravenclaws walked into a Great Hall filled with students who were crowded around copies of The Daily Prophet and whispering to each other. The most popular newspaper of the wizarding world seldom attracted so much attention. Even when the article about the vampire attack had been featured, copies had only been passed around, read, and returned with some discussion. This was something else entirely.

“Bother it all. I knew I should have renewed that subscription,” said Sissy as they took their seats.

“Go see if Li Chang will loan you his copy,” suggested Corinna, noting that the cluster around their year mate seemed to be breaking up.

If they had not all been so curious, Sissy would never have dreamed of asking Chang for anything, but she was dying to know what the fuss was all about.

She walked down the table just as Chang folded the paper and put it aside.

“Could my friends and I borrow that for a minute?” she asked him.

Chang looked up at her and smiled before handing her the paper.

“Of course, Howard, have at it,” he told her. “But it’s not good news,” he added in a cautionary tone.

“I didn’t think they printed that kind anyway. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said before returning to his breakfast.

Sissy didn’t look at the newspaper until she had returned to her place at the table.

The headline read: ARMANDO DIPPET INCOMPETENT? BOARD OF GOVERNORS ORDER INQUIRY.

Corinna inhaled sharply while others just gaped. She was the first to glance toward the high table where Professor Dippet was eating. He looked troubled as did all of his colleagues, except Krohn and Knowles, who were both absent from the table. Professor Dumbledore, for example, was frowning at his kippers.

“We’re going to have a new headmaster before the end of the year,” said Corinna. Her mouth went dry even as she spoke. It was the first premonition she had had since the previous Friday night.

“You’re sure?” asked Sissy, looking up at the high table too.

“Yes,” Corinna whispered, desperately wishing that she could be wrong or that she didn’t really know.

Those thoughts stayed with Corinna throughout the day and bothered her so much that it affected her performance in Transfigurations where they were turning forks into fish. It required several disheartening attempts before she managed it, much to Sissy’s amusement, although the other girl had not fared any better. At the end of the day Corinna was glad to be trudging up to see Professor Mallaghan as she wanted very much to tell him what she had foreseen.

“Good day to you, Miss Bellew,” the professor of Divinations greeted her as she emerged from the secret staircase and into the classroom where he taught.

“And to you, professor,” she replied, feeling immediately cheered as he ushered her over to a tea set.

“I’ve made a spot of tea for us. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve taken the liberty,” he said as he offered her a seat.

“Not at all. Thanks,” she replied.

“I thought we could perhaps read the tea leaves. It’ll be a nice warm up for me as my third years are doing that just next week,” he informed her.

“I think I’ve seen enough for one day already,” she said with a slight wince.

“Really? And what do you know, Miss Bellew?” Mallaghan inquired as he prepared their tea, ignoring her comment, in a manner of speaking.

“That Headmaster Dippet will be leaving us ... before the end of the year,” she replied.

“Ah ... I take it you have read the morning paper then,” he commented.

“Yes,” she nodded.

“You shouldn’t let such things cloud your vision. Professor Dippet has got out of worse situations than this before,” Joseph assured her confidently.

“Really?” she asked, taking a proffered cup of tea and sipping it slowly.

“Goodness, yes,” he answered with a chuckle.

Corinna felt a little relieved, but a nagging voice told her that she had no reason to be.

“I am wrong sometimes,” she admitted.

“Most Seers are,” he said with a nod, drinking his own tea.

“Has anyone ever calculated the odds?” Corinna asked hesitantly. She thought this might make a nice project for Olivia, if she chose to take Divinations next term.

“No ... I don’t believe they have. That would be interesting to know,” Mallaghan replied thoughtfully. “But I suspect that no one except the truly great Seers would have odds higher than three out of four.”

When they finished their tea Joseph gave her instructions on how to go about reading the tea leaves. After they had both swirled the tea around and upended the cups, Joseph and Corinna peered into them.

“How do you tell what it means?” she asked, having never read tea leaves before.

“You find shapes in the remaining leaves and interpret their meaning,” he said, turning his cup around and around with a furrowed brow. “I’ve got a ... sun, or a half of one anyway,” he decided. “Of is it a boat? No ...” he said, squinting. “A moon at half phase?”

“What about me?” asked Corinna, holding out her teacup to him.

He stared at it blankly for a moment before muttering something unintelligible and adding, “Just let me get my book.”

Corinna looked at the soggy dregs and sighed as Mallaghan scrambled toward the nearest bookcase to retrieve a copy of Your Tea Leaves and You from a high shelf.

“Let me have another look,” he said as he returned to his chair and opened the book on his knee. He studied the grounds for another moment and flipped through the dusty tome. Finally he asked Corinna, “What do you see, lass?”

“Nothing,” she answered.

“Er, maybe we ought to try again. Another cup?”

“All right.”

When Corinna left to go to Quidditch practice, she was feeling quite jittery as she had drunk a grand total of five cups of moderately strong tea. She had not had the heart to ask Professor Mallaghan to stop pouring as he consistently could not make heads or tails or any other shape out of her tea leaves. He had used three books on the subject to aid him, but to no avail, and when Corinna left, he seemed to be muttering darkly to himself in Gaelic, which was rather disturbing.

On her way out of the castle, she ran into Olivia, who was humming a happy tune after spending an hour or so learning Cheering Charms from Professor Flitwick, who after three or four charms admitted that he had been using them on himself on a daily basis for nearly eighty years. Olivia could hardly find fault with that, especially after giving a couple of them a try. Corinna could not remember the last time Olivia was in such high spirits.

“Do have fun at practice! It’s not raining or anything,” Olivia told her with a slight giggle.

Corinna merely gave her an odd look and told her that she would see her at dinner before going on her way, still feeling quite jittery.

Albus Dumbledore was grading essays in his office when a Ministry owl flew through the window and landed deftly on his desk. The phoenix resting on a perch nearby, his companion since early childhood, gave it a funny sort of stare, almost as though it were wondering what the little gray-brown owl would taste like. But as the phoenix had returned from an extended hunting trip just that afternoon, he made no move toward the other bird, which was glaring rather impertinently at Dumbledore.

But the gaze of the owl was not what caused him to drop his quill, but rather what the bird was clutching: a bright red envelope. It was a Howler, and it was already beginning to smoke. Fawkes, having noticed it as well, was already edging toward the far end of his perch with an anxious look in his eyes.

Dumbledore had no choice. He cast a Silencing Spell on his office to contain the noise to come and swiftly ripped open the envelope.

“ALBUS PERCIVAL WULFRIC BRIAN DUMBLEDORE! I AM ASHAMED OF YOU! HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW UNHAPPY OUR SON IS RIGHT NOW? I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO LOOK OUT FOR MARTIN! BUT, NO! HE IS MISERABLE AND WANTS TO COME HOME! FROM HOGWARTS! WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN LETTING THEM DO TO MY LITTLE BOY? AND FURTHERMORE, WHY DOESN’T HE FEEL THAT HE CAN TELL YOU THAT HE’S THIS UNHAPPY? I DEMAND AN EXPLANATION! I DEMAND THAT YOU DO SOMETHING! AND YOU HAD BETTER, OR BY MERLIN, I WILL!” screamed the voice of his adoring wife before the Howler exploded, singeing his beard.

After he had put out his beard and cleaned up the ashes left by the Howler, which had left his ears ringing, Dumbledore sat down in one of the chairs by the window and rubbed his eyes. He had had no idea that it was that bad for Martin. Then he remembered the bruises from the day before and felt very guilty. But he wasn’t sure what course of action to take. One thing was certain. He needed to speak to his son, and he didn’t think it could wait until morning.

Meanwhile, Sissy was serving her second detention with Professor Knowles, although since he had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want her there, she had begun to consider Madam Pomfrey in charge of the matter. Knowles had crawled into bed again and turned his back to her, leaving his cane on the floor. It was pretty obvious that he had no intention of cooperating. He was simply going to curl up and die. Or at least curl up.

“Cyrus, you are not behaving sensibly,” said Madam Pomfrey in a very serious tone.

Sissy had fetched her to let her know what was going on, and because she did not think that she could handle the professor on her own.

“Oh, I’m not? That’s too bad,” said Knowles over his shoulder as he continued to lie on his side in bed.

With that Pomfrey conjured a bucket of water and levitated it to a position just a few feet in the air above the professor.

“I’m giving you ‘til the count of three to get out of that bed and stop acting like a child,” she told him curtly.

“And then you’ll what?” he asked.

“Professor, there’s a pail of water just above you right now,” Sissy warned him.

“You wouldn’t,” Knowles hissed.

“One,” said Pomfrey.

“I’ll never be able to walk around with that thing!” he protested, sitting up and narrowly missing hitting his head on the floating pail. Pomfrey levitated it higher, and Sissy bit her lip.

“Two.”

“Fine,” he relented angrily, “threaten a blind man.”

His foot nearly slipped on the cane that was lying on the floor as he stood. Pomfrey vanished the bucket. Whether she would have used it or not, Sissy would never know. She rather suspected that the mediwitch would have.

Knowles picked up his cane and snarled, “Now what?”

“Miss Howard will assist you in more practice. I expect you to leave the hospital wing tomorrow,” she said firmly.

The door was wide open this time when Martin arrived at his father’s office, having been summoned by a house elf. Dumbledore was pacing in very precise steps from the perch of his preening phoenix to the far window and back again with an inscrutable look on his face. Martin thought he looked worried or perplexed or a little of both. The elder Dumbledore paused when he realized his son had arrived.

“Close the door, please, Martin,” he instructed. Martin had a bad feeling about this meeting, but he did as he was asked of him. “Come, have a seat,” said Dumbledore, motioning toward the couch. Martin followed. His father sat down heavily next to him, removed his half-moon spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. “I received a letter from your mother,” he said after a moment.

“She told you,” said Martin flatly. He immediately knew what had happened.

“I dare say she did,” replied Dumbledore.

“I asked her not to. There was no reason ...” said Martin miserably.

“She thought it was for the best, I imagine,” said Dumbledore, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner.”

“Why? There isn’t anything you can do about it without making me look like a spoiled brat,” said Martin, hunching forward and resting his chin on his hands.

It seemed like a lose-lose situation to the young Ravenclaw. If he didn’t say anything, there would be trouble with his year mates, who had thankfully resumed ignoring him. If he told his father and his father told Flitwick, he was a whining little tale-bearer who couldn’t stick up for himself.

“Perhaps, but if you would have talked to me about it, maybe you would have felt better,” said Dumbledore.

“None of the boys in my year like me. How would talking about that help anything?”

“I think it would be better than keeping something like that inside,” offered Dumbledore, gently rubbing his son’s back as he urged him to open up.

“I don’t know,” sighed Martin noncommittally.

“Did one of them hit you?” asked Dumbledore carefully.

Martin gave him a sidewise glance and said, “I’m not telling you which one.”

That was as good as a ‘yes’ to the professor, but he had been almost certain that that had been the case. In anyone else Dumbledore would have admired the stubbornness and stoicism, but he would rather Martin had told him everything.

“Fine,” said Dumbledore.

“I don’t understand why they don’t like me, but none of them do,” Martin admitted. Then he closed his eyes. “Well, maybe I do, but it’s so silly,” he said quietly.

“They don’t need to have a reason, Martin.”

“They called me a ... a girl and a ... a stuck-up toad,” he confessed, not realizing how much the barbs truly stung until he spoke them out loud.

“You would think that bullies in Ravenclaw house would be more imaginative than that,” Dumbledore commented, but he knew quite well how much such words could hurt an eleven-year-old boy.

Dumbledore understood well why that had called Martin a girl, although as a pejorative, it was a rather weak one, in his opinion. But then he was married to a female Auror. The boys in Martin’s year probably didn’t understand why he had four girls, and older ones at that, for friends. Dumbledore couldn’t exactly explain it himself. But this was not the taunt that worried him.

The professor knew his son well enough to be able to say that Martin was most certainly not stuck-up. His life so far had been one of privilege perhaps, but he had been taught not to look down on people because they were poor or because some of their ancestors were muggles or any of that other nonsense.

“Why did they call you stuck-up?” asked Dumbledore, choosing to leave out the rather irrelevant ‘toad’ portion of the gibe.

Martin shifted uneasily as he looked up at his father. It was nearly impossible to explain, but he decided to make the attempt.

“I suppose it’s because I can’t answer their questions and they figure it’s because I don’t want to tell them stuff,” he answered.

“What sort of questions?” asked Dumbledore with a frown.

“About you mostly ... and the war,” said Martin. “They want to know how you defeated Grindelwald,” he added.

“Ah, now it all makes sense,” said Dumbledore as the realization hit him.

The conflict was about the Ravenclaw sense of needing to know things and hurt feelings that were the result of that need being denied. Unless he was much mistaken. He imagined that they believed that Martin was refusing to answer their questions because he didn’t want them to know things or because he didn’t think they were good enough to hear stories about the war.

Of course, Martin had never really asked about the Grindelwald conflict nor about the elder Dumbledore’s part in it. Martin was born less than a year before its end, which had been the worst part of the war as both sides had become desperate. All of those who opposed the Dark Wizard had feared for their families. Dumbledore had married during the war, and then, not long thereafter, Martin had been born. Nothing had made Albus happier than holding his auburn-haired son in his arms for the first time, but with that happiness had come responsibility. He had known then that Grindelwald must be defeated or he would risk losing the two people he cared about the most, his wife and son.

He wanted to think that Martin didn’t remember any of it. And until Martin began having nightmares about the war when he was four years old, Dumbledore had been free to think that. Then he had learned otherwise.

“What should I do?” asked Martin expectantly, interrupting his father’s thoughts.

“If you want to answer their questions ...”

“I don’t have the answers.”

“Do you want them?” asked Dumbledore.

Martin bowed his head and replied, “This is why I wasn’t fit to be in Gryffindor. I don’t really want to know about the war. Everything I’ve heard makes it sound so terrible. And Grindelwald ... my friends are afraid even to speak his name, which is so silly, of course.”

“The war was terrible,” Dumbledore admitted.

“Did you duel with him, father?” Martin asked hesitantly.

“Yes, and he nearly got the better of me several times. I was lucky to have Fawkes with me. I think that was my secret ... a loyal phoenix by my side ... and the thoughts of my family, you and your mother, waiting for me at home,” said Dumbledore, squeezing his young son’s shoulder.

Martin gave him a lop-sided smile, but could hardly think of what to say.

“Do you think if I told them that, they’d leave me alone?” he questioned.

“Perhaps,” said the professor hesitantly.

“They really seem to admire you, even though you’re ... from a different house and all,” Martin told him.

“Funny way of showing it,” said Dumbledore, “giving my son a rough time of it.”

“I try to get along with them,” said Martin with a muted sigh.

“Do you still want to go back home?” his father asked.

“No ... I think I’d miss the girls too much,” he replied. But he really wanted to tell his father that he would miss him too much as well.

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