A Little Knowledge

By the time Christmas Eve, a day Sissy had secretively begun to dread, arrived, Martin was in a non-communicative slump from which neither of the girls, especially Olivia, thought he was never going to recover. He wasn’t exhibiting any Yuletide cheer. Not even a glimmer of it as the castle grew festive and cheery around him. That fact made Olivia rather sad, but it could not wholly dampen her spirits.

The same could almost be said for Sissy, thanks in part to her upcoming appointment with Dumbledore and Knowles that evening in the hospital wing, which to her amazement had been arranged right under the nose of the school mediwitch.

But despite that event, Sissy was not nearly so blue and unhappy as Martin, who sat listlessly in front of the fire in the common room, regarding the divan where Corinna often lounged with looks of anxious longing. She had not answered his letter yet, although Zubin was supposed to be making his Christmas rounds that night.

As they all got ready for dinner that evening, Sissy reminded them that she would be slipping out early.

“When?” asked Olivia, fiddling with the laces of one of her boots while Sissy stashed her books away.

“Not long after the professors involved...” she answered vaguely.

Martin looked at her with special anxiety and said, “You don’t have to go. They can’t force you.”

“No one is forcing me to do anything. It’s ... a courtesy,” said Sissy in a clipped tone.

“Then why are you so scared?” asked Olivia.

“I’m not,” Sissy insisted, fumbling with her Occlumency book.

“Of course not ...” said Olivia in a mildly sarcastic tone.

“I’m just ... slightly apprehensive, nothing more,” countered Sissy with a look on her face clearly meant to tell Olivia to shut up.

“We’re just worried,” she said, not taking the hint.

“And unreasonably so,” said Sissy. “Let’s go to dinner before we’re late,” she added, effectively closing the discussion.

Martin glowered slightly, but just shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. Olivia reacted much the same way, but without the glowering.

Sissy and Olivia had noticed a witch whom they felt certain was Martin’s mother during dinner before that night, but they tried not to stare at her as this was rude. But from time to time they did risk surreptitious glances at the female Auror seated between Alastor Moody and Headmaster Dumbledore. Both girls were surprised, given the former Transfigurations’ professor’s age, which was in the vicinity of a century, that his wife appeared to be so young, somewhere in her mid-thirties. They had expected a middle-aged witch closer to Professor Vector’s age, for example. Of course, as Martin was in no mood to entertain questions regarding his parents, they could not ask him about her, though they remained quite curious.

After the meal was nearly finished that night, Professor Dumbledore leaned over and said something to his wife, which did not go unnoticed by Sissy, who had had an eye on the high table all evening. Then he excused himself and left the table.

Sissy glanced at Professor Knowles, who was seated at the far end near Krohn and looking bored. Dumbledore had barely slipped through the doors of the hall when Knowles also rose from the table, took up his cane, and made his way out of the hall.

Olivia and Martin were staring at her as she slowly folded her napkin and glanced toward the open doors.

“I will see you back at the Aerie,” she said in an even tone.

“When?” asked Martin.

“Before curfew, I imagine,” said Sissy, thinking how unpleasant it would be to walk back to the tower alone at night. She was not afraid, of course, but after her recent bout of bad luck regarding after-hours adventures, she did not think it prudent to be out at night too often. That was just tempting fate.

Sissy nodded to Olivia and Martin and left her place at the Ravenclaw table where very few students were eating their dinner.

Sissy strode purposefully into the Entrance Hall to find Professor Dumbledore waiting for her with a patient smile that she found somehow very Gryffindor. She frowned when she realized that Professor Knowles was not there.

“He has already gone to the hospital wing,” said Dumbledore.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, wondering if he had read her mind. The idea unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. However, she imagined that he had merely guessed as much.

“Very well, sir,” said Sissy evenly.

Dumbledore gestured to the stairs leading to the hospital wing and said, “After you, Miss Howard.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Have you done any reading on Memory Charms?” asked the professor as they walked.

She glanced over her shoulder and said, “Actually, I’ve been reading more about Occlumency and Legilimency.” She didn’t want to tell him that she had read about Memory Charms before, the previous year, actually, and had not felt the need to brush up on her knowledge.

“I see,” said Dumbledore with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Is there anything in particular that you believe I should know, professor?” she questioned.

Dumbledore thought this over for a moment before telling her, “It will not be especially pleasant, but I imagine you know that much.” Sissy nodded curtly. “You are free to leave at anytime during this procedure, Miss Howard,” he told her, “but if the need arises, I may also ask you to leave.”

“I understand that, professor,” she said coolly as they reached the doors to the hospital wing. One was slightly ajar.

“This term I have often found myself wondering why you were not sorted into Gryffindor,” chuckled Dumbledore. It was his way of calling her brave, and Sissy appreciated that ... on some level.

“My mother was a Slytherin, sir,” said Sissy indifferently, considering that a perfectly valid explanation.

“Is that so?” he asked, opening the door for her and ushering her inside.

“Yes, she was in the class of 1939, so perhaps you would remember her. Silvestra Malfoy?” questioned Sissy.

Dumbledore gave her an odd look and said, “I do remember her. She was extraordinarily bright and rather popular, if memory serves.”

Sissy smiled at that very complimentary description of her mother. Coming from the head of a rival house, it was high praise indeed.

“Dawdling?” asked a slightly annoyed voice from within the shadowy hospital wing.

“Of course not, Cyrus,” said Dumbledore, illuminating the wing with a wave of his hand.

Sissy saw that Professor Knowles was leaning against a hospital bed about halfway down the wing. His posture oddly resembled the way he leaned against his desk in his classroom except that he had his arms crossed over his chest in a strangely defensive manner. He was anxious; Sissy was almost sure of that, and though he had good reason to be nervous, his anxiety disconcerted her as well.

“In that case, let’s get on with this before I lose my nerve,” he said.

Dumbledore put a hand on his colleague’s shoulder as he approached him and said, “You really should lie down for this, Cyrus.”

“If you insist,” said Knowles, “but I do not plan to faint.”

“Does anyone?” asked Dumbledore curiously, which made Knowles give him a rather menacing look.

“Very amusing, I’m sure,” Knowles responded.

Sissy realized that the two professors had probably known each other since Knowles was eleven years old and was first sorted into Gryffindor house. They had probably been in the war together too. She wondered briefly, as Knowles climbed onto the hospital bed, why the two men weren’t closer. She seldom saw them together when their positions did not require them to be. Except here and now in the hospital wing....

Dumbledore drew his wand and stood at the foot of the bed. Sissy slowly stepped toward the nearer side of the hospital bed. Knowles turned his head toward her.

“Curious, Miss Howard?” he asked.

“A bit, professor,” she acknowledged.

“This isn’t exactly Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Knowles told her.

“I don’t know. I have heard that Aurors have needed to remove Memory Charms before,” she replied, glancing at Professor Dumbledore as though for confirmation.

“I have heard that as well,” he said with a nod and an impressed look.

“Why do I feel like the victim of a private joke?” asked Knowles.

“It must be your imagination, Cyrus,” remarked Dumbledore. He turned his attention to Sissy and instructed, “Please, grasp Professor Knowles’ hand as he may fidget for a moment.”

Sissy, to her credit, did not hesitate.

“I will not!” snorted Knowles, although he permitted his student to do as the headmaster asked, which was rather to her surprise. She expected a stern reproach on account of ‘sentimentality’ or ‘emotionalism’ or another related vice. But he had none for her at that time.

Sissy noted at that moment, as she braced for the spell and Knowles’ reaction to it, that she could hear the sound of singing; Christmas carols, she surmised, coming from the Great Hall, the entrance to which, if she worked it out properly, was almost directly below them, or perhaps a bit to the left.

She imagined that it was the caroling that would keep Madam Pomfrey out of the wing while Dumbledore performed this minor procedure. She knew that Knowles did not get along very well with the young mediwitch, who was a Gryffindor too, but she also believed that Pomfrey was being carefully kept away because neither professor wanted a fuss. That made sense, in Sissy’s opinion, but using the hospital wing did not. Why not use one of the classrooms? Surely a bed could have been conjured for the occasion.

“Instauro!” spoke Dumbledore with a wave of his wand and no further preamble.

Knowles gave him a puzzled look and said, “Well, that was all for nothing. I didn’t feel a thing.”

He started to let go of Sissy’s hand, but then he twitched slightly. Knowles furrowed his brow slightly and started to say something. But he stopped rather abruptly and took a deep and shuddering breath. Then he began screaming, possibly as loudly as he could, throwing his head back against the pillow of the bed as he grasped Sissy’s hand in a strong, pinching grip.

Sissy’s instinct, or at least her first instinct, was to free her hand, but she was not one to panic and simply squeezed back against the pressure, waiting for him to stop screaming. She wrapped her other hand around his to help match the unrelenting pressure.

“What’s happened?” she asked Professor Dumbledore, who was still standing calmly at the foot of the bed and watching his colleague as he cried out. She thought she heard him mutter a Silencing Charm on the room, or at least their portion of it, to keep in the nearly blood-curdling sounds.

“He’s remembering what happened that night in the forest, what went on between him and the vampire. It was worse than I feared,” said Dumbledore with a very grim expression on his face.

“Can’t you do something for him?” she asked plaintively, watching her professor’s eyes roll back as he howled wordlessly. She felt utterly helpless to do anything to calm or assist him.

“I am afraid that this must pass on its own accord, Miss Howard, however unpleasant that might be,” he said somberly.

A few moments Knowles shuddered violently and was suddenly quiet. His grip on her hand grew slack. His eyes closed. Sissy felt rather certain that he had simply passed out.

She swallowed hard and looked down at her hands, both of which were wrapped tightly around Professor Knowles’ hand. There was a little blood, hers, from where his fingernails had inadvertently dug into her skin. She was surprised. It had not hurt nor even got her attention. She squeezed his hand. Nothing.

Raising her eyes to look at Dumbledore again, she found that he had stepped to Knowles’ other side and lifted his hand.

“He’s just fainted, I believe,” he assured Sissy. “It’s probably for the best. He will regain his senses more easily after a few minutes of peace.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she only nodded and blinked away an odd moisture that clung to her eyelashes. Tears, she realized. She wasn’t really crying per se, but a few stray tears had somehow managed to escape.

Dumbledore removed the Silencing Charm, and Sissy could hear the soft sound of singing downstairs again. So few students and professors and the ghosts ... but their voices carried through the old castle.

“Muggle music is a strange thing. The melodies are very soothing somehow,” commented Dumbledore quietly, noticing the music again as well.

“Yes, sir,” she agreed, though she couldn’t quite pick out the tune or the words.

Sissy realized at that moment why she was really there, and it came as some surprise to her. Dumbledore, despite his initial misgivings regarding her involvement, wanted her to be there to learn something: the dangers of Dark Magic. She looked down at Knowles, who was lying there so pale and still, and tried very hard not to shiver. Yes, Dark Magic, and even not-so-dark magic, could be dangerous in the wrong hands. She could see and understand what had happened to her professor because of one demented and obviously very evil wizard.

Knowles stirred slightly. Sissy squeezed his hand and glanced at Dumbledore anxiously. She was looking to him for reassurance, and on some level that galled her just a bit. Looking to a Gryffindor who was obviously trying to teach her a lesson that the Ravenclaw who had come before him could not.

“Cyrus? Can you hear me?” Dumbledore asked tentatively.

“Of course, Albus. That’s hardly the sense that’s been affected, is it?” asked Knowles in a mildly groggy, but sharp tone. He did not open his eyes.

Sissy wasn’t sure how he managed the tone, given the situation, but his voice was a bit scratchy from the prolonged screaming. It was entirely possible that he had strained his vocal cords.

“Are you all right, professor?” she asked.

“Miss Howard ... perhaps you should go. I must tell the headmaster a few things that may not be entirely appropriate for a second year student to hear,” he said quite calmly. After speaking those words, however, he required a deep breath.

“I would rather stay,” she said quickly, squeezing his hand again.

Knowles nodded, choosing not to press the issue. Instead he simply took another breath and began speaking.

“He ... it blinded me, Albus,” said the defense professor in an oddly clipped tone, attempting to sound calm, even unbothered, about the whole affair. “I think it was because it didn’t want anyone to know it had Legilimenced me. It was trying to get information on the school, on you, on that son of yours,” said Knowles.

“You resisted?” asked Dumbledore.

“I tried, of course, but ... I don’t know very much about that sort of thing. Because of the war, I only had a half hour seminar on Occlumency back when I was in training to be an Auror. That’s all I knew. I’m sorry, Albus.”

“If the time required for us to find you is any indication, you did well, Cyrus,” said Dumbledore, patting his younger colleague’s shoulder.

Sissy wanted to add that some of his injuries, the burst capillaries in his eyes, for instance, had probably been the result of his resistance as well, but she held her tongue. In fact, it was possible that if he had not resisted, the vampire would not have needed to cover its tracks by blinding him. She tried not to shiver.

“No, it isn’t. I’m certain he got everything he wanted from me, from my own mind, with scarcely a struggle,” said Cyrus bitterly.

“You can hardly be faulted for that. No one knew who we were dealing with...”

“Spare me,” snapped Knowles as his features contorted.

For a second Sissy thought he was going to start screaming again and squeezed his hand anxiously. His features softened again as the ugly, angry look dissipated. She couldn’t tell if he was in pain or not. Or simply angry at Dumbledore or at himself.

“Do you know what the vampire did to you exactly?” asked Dumbledore.

“I never trained to be a Healer, Albus,” he replied, “but I believe it was a disintegrating spell on the nerves.” Then unexpectedly Knowles laughed. “I thought it was painful when I was injured in France. That hardly compared to this ... to what it did. I must admit that I feel rather silly for playing the martyr all these years when there were worse things...”

Sissy tried not to shudder at the thought and was largely successful.

“You were never a martyr, Cyrus,” Dumbledore told him sincerely.

“Rubbish,” muttered Knowles before taking a deep breath.

Then Dumbledore asked a question that had been tugging at Sissy’s mind for more than a little while: “Do you know why the vampire didn’t use a more ... potent way of handling his dilemma? Of keeping us from knowing what he had done?”

“Or rather, why didn’t it bite my neck, suck out my blood, kill me, and be done with it?” snorted Knowles. Sissy squeezed his hand again. “Oh, do stop that,” he said, turning his head in her direction. Dumbledore merely raised his eyebrows a little.

“Sorry,” she said quietly.

“I suppose that was the question,” said Dumbledore.

“Because if it had killed me, Armando would have had to hire a competent defense professor to take my place. By remaining here, as it no doubt knew I would, I have made it easier for the vampire...”

“Professor!” objected Sissy in a completely scandalized tone. “You can’t be serious! You’re still a competent defense instructor. That just ... just isn’t true!”

His words of self-blame had surprised and shocked her. Sissy refrained from squeezing his hand again, though it was the only form of comfort she could provide for him, and he desperately seemed in need of something to comfort him. But this time the professor almost cautiously squeezed one of her hands.

“So much faith in one so unworthy,” he whispered, finally opening his eyes. They were bleary with tears that he could not allow himself to shed.

“But you’re are worthy, sir,” she said, and she meant it.

“Cyrus, you’ve had a trying evening. Unless there is something important you wish to tell me concerning ... the incident, perhaps it is time for you to return to your quarters and recuperate,” suggested Dumbledore.

Sissy noted that the singing downstairs had ceased. They didn’t have much time left if they wanted the procedure to remain, more or less, a secret.

“I could describe to you the ... the unpleasantness that it put me through, but I don’t think you would profit by it, Albus,” he said rather placidly.

Both Sissy and the older professor made faces at this statement and the manner in which he said it. He was offering to describe his torture for them.

“No, that will not be necessary,” said Dumbledore. “Would you like a Dreamless Sleep potion for tonight?” he asked.

“I rarely dream,” replied Knowles, slipping his hand from Sissy’s and very slowly sitting up, “but I will admit to being fatigued.”

“Of course,” said Dumbledore in an understanding tone.

Sissy could tell by Knowles’ expression that it rankled slightly. He reached for his cane, but she was faster, grabbing it and placing it in his hand. He favored her with a smile that contained both amusement and mild affront.

“Perfectly capable,” he said quietly as he left the bed.

“I know,” she said, quickly wiping her eyes on her sleeve. They still felt damp and sticky.

Knowles took a step away from the bed and swayed dizzily. He might have plunged face first into the floor, but Sissy was there to catch him. She vaguely remembered a slightly disparaging comment he had made about her reflexes earlier in the term, but she simply didn’t have the heart nor strength to smirk under his weight. Dumbledore was at his elbow in an instant.

“Just dizzy for a moment ...” said Knowles clumsily waving the older professor away. Somehow he knew that doing the same to Sissy would prove impossible. Either that or he would fall flat on his arse without her.

“I’m afraid one of us should escort you to your quarters,” said Dumbledore.

Knowles gave him a clearly disgusted and irritated look. Sissy, who had her arms around his midsection and was still attempting to steady him, blushed a very prominent shade of red at the suggestion.

“You’re insisting?” Knowles questioned.

“I am,” nodded Professor Dumbledore. “Unless, of course, you wanted to wait for Madam Pomfrey to return. We could ask her opinion. She never hesitates to give it,” he added.

“Is it after curfew then?” asked Knowles.

“Not yet,” Dumbledore replied.

“Miss Howard, would you mind?” asked the defense professor indifferently. “You see, I’m a bit concerned that my esteemed colleague would try to giving me a sleeping potion or otherwise attempt to charm my sleep ... without my consent,” he said with a slight frown that was undoubtedly directed at Albus Dumbledore.

“I don’t mind, professor,” said Sissy, although she was under the impression that a draught of some kind would do him good, “but I don’t know where your private rooms are.”

“Would that I could keep it that way. Students should never know where their professors sleep. It invariably leads to pranks or worse mischief,” said Knowles, finding his balance and starting toward the door as though Sissy weren’t really there. She was quick to catch up and take his arm.

“Oddly enough it does,” agreed Dumbledore thoughtfully as he followed them from the hospital wing. “But I don’t think you need to worry about that, Cyrus,” he said with a chuckle.

“Of course not, professor,” said Sissy coolly as she helped him down the stairs, “and if it would make you feel any better, I won’t divulge the location of your rooms to anyone.”

“Miss Howard, I doubt that anything could make me feel better right now, but I thank you,” said Knowles with a tired sigh that he could not have suppressed, even if he had tried.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the headmaster bade them good-night and went on his way. Sissy and Knowles crossed the Entrance Hall and started down a corridor that led vaguely toward the stairs to the library, or it did so most of the time. That evening Sissy had the odd feeling that they were walking in the direction of a secondary passageway leading down to the dungeons, but then Knowles turned, knowing his way through these corridors better than any other part of the castle, and started up a half hidden staircase.

“Never been here before, have you?” asked Professor Knowles.

“No, I don’t believe I have,” she replied.

“Was you curiosity satisfied tonight?”

Sissy frowned and said, “I believe so. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asked with a hint of interest and surprise.

“The obvious discomfort that this has caused you. If I hadn’t pried into matters best left....” she began to explain with a stiff shrug.

“Rubbish. I would rather know if someone’s sifted through my brain than not, despite any minor discomfort experienced in the acquiring of that knowledge,” he interrupted as they emerged from the secluded staircase into a narrow and somewhat dusty corridor with windows lining it on one side. Outside was dusky and nearly dark.

Sissy raised her eyebrows at his description of what had happened. Minor was hardly the word she would have chosen. But he was being very brave about the whole unpleasant affair.

At the end of the hallway, they stopped in front of a very old portrait of a witch in dark purple robes who was seated at the foot of an empty, but ornately sculpted granite throne on a dais. She was rather lovely, but there was something about her lips and eyes, a certain cruelty, that Sissy did not like. Her hair fell in long tresses to be lost among the shadows of the hall and the picture itself. The woman in the portrait regarded Sissy with a haughty expression that made the young witch want to look away.

“Cyrus, you know that you aren’t permitted to have students so young in your quarters, but I won’t say anything ...” she said in a low, seductive purr.

“Morgana,” snapped Knowles, coloring just slightly, “I am in no mood.”

“Then she’s the one you should be telling,” smirked the portrait figure.

Sissy blushed brilliantly, but said, “I take it that this is your door warden.”

“And a genuine pain in the arse,” nodded Knowles.

“Do introduce us,” said the witch, resting her elbow on the throne behind her.

“Miss Howard, Morgan le Fay, or rather her likeness. Morgana, Miss ... Sissy Howard,” said Knowles rather perfunctorily.

Sissy was surprised that he was willing to take orders from a painting, and a painting of a notorious Dark Witch at that. What was a picture of her doing in the castle in the first place?

“Charmed,” said Morgana before turning her attention to Cyrus for a moment. “Do tell me, what house is she in?” she asked him curiously.

“That is none of your business,” said Knowles in a snappish tone, carefully removing Sissy’s hand from his arm.

“Ravenclaw,” she answered.

“Good girl,” said Morgana with a bit of a smile. It was not a very pleasant smile, but rather hungry or devious in nature. “They were always very apt...” she added.

Sissy furrowed her brow, ready to dispute with Morgana as Hogwarts had not yet been founded when she was alive, according to historical records, such as they were, but Knowles interrupted.

“She means the family of Ravenclaw,” he told her. “The ancestors of Rowena Ravenclaw, the founder of Hogwarts and of your house.”

“But aren’t they rather the same? Both learned and loving knowledge more than anything else under the sun?” asked le Fay with a slight pout.

Knowles had an uncomfortable expression on his face as he said, “I’m not certain that’s exactly fair.” Then he turned to Sissy and said, “I think you should be going, Miss Howard. I feel that it is nearly curfew.”

“You will be fine then, professor?” she asked.

“So polite,” murmured the portrait.

“Of course, Miss Howard,” he said, deftly ignoring Morgana, who had been bothering him for ten years that term without letting up even in view of his recent difficulties. “I am rather tired, and I do appreciate not hearing a single word from you that sounded like I-told-you-so, though such words would have been well deserved,” he said with a weary smile.

“I would never, sir,” she said in a tone that perhaps suggested otherwise.

“If I may be so bold as to say so, I think perhaps you would make a very good mediwitch or Healer when you are older,” he said.

“That’s silly. When I grow up, I’m going to be an Auror, professor, like you were,” she answered, “or, failing that, an Unspeakable like my father.”

The look of pride on his face was unmistakable, though he tried very hard to conceal it.

“I’m flattered, Miss Howard, but you have many years to decide,” he told her.

“You could always get married and have a family,” suggested Morgana quietly in a slightly acerbic tone.

“Do you mind? I’m talking to a student,” snapped Knowles.

“I should be on my way,” said Sissy, eyeing the sulking portrait and wondering if she were still capable of doing magic. She didn’t like that idea very much, but soon brushed it aside as silly.

“Of course,” he nodded. “The hour is growing late, I’m sure. Thank you ... for acting as my escort, Miss Howard.”

“You are quite welcome, sir,” she said coolly, turning to go.

“Do come again,” said Morgana in a false-friendly tone.

Sissy pretended not to hear her and walked away. She heard Knowles mutter something behind her, possibly his password, but continued walking. It was a long way back to her Aerie, darkness had fallen upon the castle, and she knew that Martin and Olivia would be growing concerned.

But she smiled slightly to herself as she walked. Like Morgan le Fay’s smile, it was not entirely pleasant. There was a hint of grim satisfaction, fulfillment of duty, and smugness in it. She was glad that it was all over and done, that she didn’t need to worry about what had happened anymore; she knew now. The subject was closed, and perhaps even for the better. She glanced down at her scratched hands and winced slightly. She could just imagine Olivia’s reaction.

“Well worth it,” she murmured, putting her hands in her pockets as she continued on her way.

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