A Little Knowledge: Missing Scenes

Cyrus Knowles didn’t like venturing into the dungeons of the school. They were cold and perpetually damp and dank, and their denizens were not the most friendly in the castle. He could feel eyes, cold and calculating Slytherin eyes, upon him whenever he ventured through their ranks even in the upper corridors. And he found that both repellent and uncomfortable, though he would never have admitted it, especially to their head of house, whom he intended to visit that evening.

As his cane tapped upon the stone floor in front of him, he allowed his neutral expression to sour somewhat. Cyrus had only spoken with his esteemed colleague a few times since he had made his decision to remain at Hogwarts. And not once had Reynard even hinted that there might have been news or goings on while he had been incapacitated in the hospital wing and practically cut off from the rest of the castle and the world at large. Not once. That displeased Cyrus, and he intended to let Reynard know that he didn’t like being kept in the metaphorical dark.

Despite his reluctance to do so, Cyrus had visited the dungeons many times during his years of employ at the school, and once or twice as a student, though he would have fervently denied any rumored attempt to seal the lower halls off from the rest of the school that was made during his fifth year. Cyrus knew his way through the most important parts of the dungeons, labyrinthine though they were, and he imagined that he could find the potions’ classroom where Reynard preferred to work and sometimes experiment without any difficulty.

Of course, once he reached where he suspected the door to be located and found that there was indeed a door there, that made him a bit nervous.

“Suppose it’s a ladies’ lavatory,” he thought with a grimace as he reached for the doorknob, but thought better of it and knocked instead.

“Enter,” called a stern voice that he recognized as belonging to Krohn.

He sounded either as though he were either busy or brewing a foul mood in addition to whatever potion he happened to be working on. That was unfortunate for him as Cyrus was not put off by that trace of surliness in the least as he opened the door to the classroom.

But the foul smell that assaulted his senses as he entered the room was quite off-putting to say the least.

“What the devil are you concocting?” he asked as he fought a wave of intense nausea and covered his nose and mouth with his arm to block the scent as though it were a physical blow. The odor was like that of rancid meat mixed with bad eggs and cinders. He did not know how Reynard could tolerate such things, especially with the door closed. Cyrus fought back the unseemly urge to gag.

“I am experimenting,” said Krohn in a vaguely imperious tone before muttering a spell that would clear and cleanse the air of the room a bit.

Knowles could hear a few jars on nearby shelves rattle. This was what typically happened when Reynard cast a simple charm: havoc radiated from the end of his wand and let mercy be upon those within reach of the spell. Luckily, nothing seemed to break and the odor began to dissipate.

“You should have posted a warning,” said Knowles, slowly lowering her arm and breathing in with a look of extreme distaste.

“I did,” Reynard answered succinctly.

Cyrus shuffled his feet slightly and said, “Well, that’s hardly why I came down here.”

“Indeed,” said his colleague with a note of humor in his voice that betrayed his accent, which was something that Cyrus seldom noticed anymore. Or rather, something he had seldom noticed before losing his vision.

Knowles took a cautious step forward, knowing by the sound of his voice that Reynard was working at his desk at the other end of the room. Cyrus wanted to stay in a straight line with the door so he could find it without a lot of fumbling or effort on his part. A lot could be said for graceful exits.

“Dumbledore gave me the news this afternoon. I don’t think he really meant to, but it just slipped out. In fact I might even venture to say that he was told explicitly to see that I remained uninformed,” said Cyrus with an accusatory note in his voice that was difficult to miss.

“And what have you been told?” inquired Reynard with a certain uncharacteristic chilliness in his normally impassive voice.

Cyrus heard him lift an instrument from either the desk where he was working or a nearby counter. The sound that followed was one of something being chopped, though he could not, of course, name the particular ingredient. He didn’t really want to know as he did not care.

“Your father died,” he answered.

“Yes,” said Krohn a bit impatiently, “he did indeed. I hear that they may declare a national holiday.”

Knowles was silent for a moment as he struggled to find the right words. He knew enough of his friend’s story not to find his callous words strange or disturbing. They were what they were, and Cyrus believed that perhaps the deceased wizard had earned more than a portion of that acrimony. But he also knew something of Reynard himself.

“You won’t grieve for him,” said Cyrus in a tone that lingered between a question and a statement.

He startled as Reynard slammed the knife down upon the counter with some force. Cyrus didn’t like that at all and narrowed his eyes, hoping that his colleague would take the hint and refrain from further outbursts. He knew that it was unlikely, but he hoped.

“I dare say that I will not,” said Reynard in a firm voice.

Knowles started to say something, but paused as a pungent, but not entirely unpleasant aroma began replacing the stench that had previously filled the room. He narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Are you preparing asphodel?” he questioned abruptly, momentarily forgetting any inquiry on the previous topic that he might have made.

“My second year students will need it for their next lesson,” said the potions’ master in a guarded tone.

“Potent stuff, that,” Cyrus ventured carefully, but in a very neutral voice.

Asphodel was not to be trifled with, especially not by someone with so many unique reactions to potions' ingredients as Reynard possessed.

“I am aware of that,” said Krohn.

“Good,” nodded Cyrus, “because we all remember the last time you were careless and ...”

“For God’s sake! I’m not nine years old. I’m not even nineteen anymore. I am a mature, adult wizard with many publications to my name concerning a variety of topics related to my chosen field, which I must remind you is POTIONS! Will you please refrain from patronizing me,” he erupted, causing the glass jars on the shelves to rattle again.

Cyrus allowed his face to become a mask that he hoped remained unreadable to those who looked at him. He could not be so sure anymore. He tried not to feel hurt or embarrassed by the words of his colleague. He tried to feel nothing and nearly succeeded in that endeavor.

“So sorry,” he said with a slight drawl that hid his feelings and sucked the emotion from his voice.

They were both silent for several long moments before the sound of Reynard chopping resumed, breaking that silence, and Cyrus chose to speak again..

“If you need more asphodel chopped, I think I could manage it. I would like to give it a try anyway,” he offered, shuffling his feet slightly and adjusting his cane so that it rested in the crook of his arm.

“I’ve nearly finished, but thank you. I only need to wash up,” said Reynard tiredly.

“Of course,” said Cyrus, wondering if he were telling the truth or if Reynard merely did not trust him to handle sharp objects in his condition.

“Have you any other business in the dungeons this evening?” questioned Krohn in a conversational tone.

Cyrus could tell by the ensuing clatter that his colleague was putting away the tools of his trade as he spoke. The sound distracted him from a momentary feeling of hurt caused by Krohn’s flippant words.

“There was a time not so long ago when I didn’t need to have any business to come down here,” he remarked, listening to heavy footsteps that carried Reynard to the classroom sink.

Over the sound of running water, Reynard told him, “I believe we called that time September.”

“That we did,” Cyrus nodded as he turned toward the sound of his voice. “When you requested that I stay here, I never imagined that it would be just so that you could give me the cold shoulder,” he quipped.

“I’m not,” said Reynard in a short tone.

His voice was much nearer. Cyrus wasn’t sure if he found that comforting or unsettling. He didn’t want to feel either: comforted by his friend’s presence or unsettled by it. He just wanted to be.

“Oh?” questioned Knowles, taking a half-involuntary step back and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I merely don’t wish to discuss ... certain recent events with you nor with anyone else for that matter,” answered Krohn in a less biting tone that made Knowles relaxed ever-so-slightly. “Surely you of all people can appreciate that,” he added.

“I can,” Cyrus agreed.

He could smell the scent of asphodel more keenly as a hand was placed upon his shoulder. He almost chided Reynard about washing up more thoroughly, but he also imagined the scent was difficult to get off one’s hands or out of one’s robes. Knowles had never been especially partial to potions’ work, so he could not say for sure.

“Perhaps in time, but not now, Cyrus,” said Krohn very softly.

“Understood,” he replied with a nod.

“Would you care for a cup of tea or something? You look a bit tired,” observed the professor of potions.

“I do feel a bit tired, but no thank you,” replied Knowles, not especially liking the fact that Reynard could so easily tell that he was weary, almost bone-weary if he were honest with himself.

“You’re still recovering,” Krohn observed.

“So they say,” Cyrus answered, keeping the edge from his voice with great difficulty, “but I don’t need to be coddled.”

“Who’s coddling you, Cyrus? Tell me and shall most certainly give them a piece of my mind,” said Reynard quite placidly.

Knowles couldn’t stop himself from chuckling at Reynard’s dry, disarming sense of humor. It was something he had always liked very much about him. There was a sense of security in that wit, which was often far more kind than the words that came from his own mouth. They both could build a fortress around themselves with their words, but only Reynard could build something in which anyone might wish to dwell.

“Thank you,” said Knowles softly.

“Quite all right,” answered Krohn with the barest hint of amusement still in his voice. “I think perhaps you should return to your rooms. You will need all the rest you can get before you begin teaching again,” he advised.

“I’ll need more than mere rest,” said Cyrus, though he did not wish to tell Krohn that the thought of teaching had suddenly become the most daunting notion of which he could conceive.

How would he maintain discipline and order much less teach as he was now? He still did not know the answer to those questions. He still could hardly believe that the headmaster was even allowing him the chance to try. The weight of what was to come felt heavy on his shoulders.

And something else was heavy upon his shoulder; Reynard tightened his grip upon the sagging shoulder of his friend and colleague. For the briefest moment Cyrus found comfort in that gesture. He found himself suddenly less alone in his inner struggle. He smiled slightly and clasped his hand over Reynard’s.

“When you first joined the staff, you had a lot to overcome. I believe that you will be able to do it again,” Reynard assured him in a firm voice that betrayed no doubt in the statement that he made.

“It was not so much as this. Hardly more than a thorn in comparison.”

“But it was a lot,” said Reynard, referring to the wounds Cyrus had suffered as an Auror during the war against Grindelwald, “and you conquered the worst of it, didn’t you?”

“Years were required,” Cyrus answered, lowering his head as he thought how very long it had taken for him to feel well and whole again after receiving those injuries.

“And this may also take some years,” said Reynard judiciously as he gripped Cyrus by his other shoulder as well. “But this time you do not begin the journey alone,” he added.

“Not alone,” he murmured quietly in agreement, trying to allow himself to take comfort in that instead of feeling weak or guilty at the thought of requiring such assistance. It was not easy for him and never had been, though he knew that Reynard meant well and had always been kind to him in the past.

Cyrus lifted his head and fervently wished that he could see again, if only for just a moment, if only to see the eyes of his friend. He wanted to see the warmth that he instinctively felt was there; that he had seen often enough in days that were long passed. He blinked and sought the memory of those keen brown eyes. But they were not easy to recall now. The images of what had been were slipping away from him like a fast-flowing stream against which he felt utterly powerless.

He did not know what Reynard could see in his expression, only that something spurred the younger professor to pull him closer for a moment and softly kiss his furrowed brow. The meaning of Reynard’s quietly murmured words was lost on him, but he understood the sentiment, the empathy and sorrow, in those tones well enough. But he could feel strength and resolve radiate through them too. Cyrus tried to take those things into himself to replace the wretched and lingering sense of weakness that he felt and had too often possessed him of late.

“Thank you, Reynard,” he said in a soft, tired voice that hardly sounded like his own. That voice was strained and weary beyond mere words, nearly beyond reason.

“Not at all,” Krohn replied with less emotion in his tone as he released Cyrus, “but I truly believe that you need your rest. You’ve overtaxed yourself coming all this way merely to visit me. A poor errand to begin with, but an unwise one as well.”

“A worthy errand,” he corrected with a slight upward twitch of his lips as he found comfort in Reynard’s humor, nearly so much as in his presence. “Nevertheless, I believe I shall take your advice,” said Cyrus.

“Would you care for an escort?” asked Reynard carefully.

“Some things I must learn to do on my own,” he replied with an acknowledging nod. Navigating the corridors of the castle was one of those things. In fact he considered it to be one of the most important.

“Of course,” said Reynard, stepping away from him.

“Then I bid you good-night,” he said rather suddenly, taking his cane from the crook of his arm and orienting himself toward the door.

As his colleague did not attempt to stop or dissuade him, he felt confident that he was correct and strode purposefully forward. Minutes later he found himself emerging from the dungeons, feeling worn, but otherwise better than he had in days as he began to take the words of his friend to heart: He was not alone.

And Cyrus imagined that he heard the sound of heavy, yet quiet footsteps receding behind him back into the dungeons as he reached the main corridors of the castle. He smiled slightly to himself and shook his head. Not alone.

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