A Little Knowledge: Missing Scenes

“I heard about what happened today,” ventured Krohn carefully as Cyrus entered his classroom.

His hand lingered too long upon the door frame before he stepped uncertainly into the room. Knowles seemed almost lost as he took a few shuffling steps forward. Krohn could not imagine how Cyrus had made it from his office to the dungeons where the he was cleaning up after a long day of dealing with Gryffindors, most of whom seemed to prefer throwing their ingredients at each other instead of using them for more productive purposes. Krohn had yelled and taken house points all afternoon, all day even, it seemed.

Reynard turned his attention from the table in front of him, tossing his hair out of his eyes in a way that he would only use when no one was looking. Or in this case, when no one could see.

Knowles was standing there, still near the doorway, empty-handed and appearing to be unsure of what to do with his hands without his cane. Reynard rather imagined that he had become accustomed to the prop and found some sort of security in it that he had seldom found in his fellow human beings. Now it was gone.

“I imagine that everyone from the house elves to the headmaster has heard about the unfortunate incident. Why should you be any different, Reynard?” he asked his colleague. There was no edge to his voice. He was merely stating what was fact.

Reynard walked around the table where he had been cleaning, absent-mindedly wiping his hand on his robes. He watched Knowles adjust his stance in response to the sound of his footfalls, quiet though they were upon the dungeon classroom floor. His posture had become ever-so-slightly more defensive.

“No reason,” Krohn replied with a shrug. “Are you all right?” he questioned with a certain hesitance. He wasn’t trying to anger Knowles, but he wanted that question answered.

The shoulders of his colleague sagged as he answered, “I was bested by an opponent whose name I will never even know ... and in front an entire corridor filled with students to boot. I didn’t even hear the spell, though I’m quite certain it was a Reductor Curse. I’m ... I must confess that I’m relieved that their aim was so precise. My cane was destroyed, but, quite fortunately, no one was injured. Small favors, I suppose.”

That was not the sort of reply that Reynard was hoping to receive, but it was the sort which Cyrus too often gave -- glib and somewhat impersonal, relying on cold facts rather than what Reynard, when dealing with those for whom he had some affection, considered more important.

“And you, Cyrus? What about you?”

“Not injured either,” he shrugged, “though the palm of my hand burned a bit just afterward. I suppose I was lucky too.” He gave that answer quite grudgingly, though at the same time he tried to make it sound nonchalant. Krohn could tell that beneath it all, his friend was somewhat shaken even hours later. He hid that fact well.

“May I see it? Your hand, I mean,” asked Krohn.

“I don’t need a nursemaid,” Cyrus snapped, clenching his hand to his chest and drawing himself up to his full height, which compared to Krohn was not at all impressive. It only served to make him look even more defensive and perhaps even a bit apprehensive.

“Good, because I would be quite ill-suited for the job, if you did,” said Reynard, reaching quite calmly and putting his hand over his colleague’s tightly clenched fist. He made no move to force it open. “Please humor me, Cyrus,” he said more quietly, brushing his thumb over his colleague’s knuckles in a tender gesture that he hoped might cajole Cyrus into cooperation. Begging did not come easily to him, but he would never have wanted Cyrus to suffer needlessly because of his Gryffindor tendencies, which included the fine art of keeping a stiff upper lip. “Englishmen,” thought Krohn as he shook his head.

“I’d rather you than Pomfrey,” Cyrus admitted as he unclenched his hand and allowed Reynard to examine it.

“You don’t need a mediwitch for this,” said Krohn as he looked at the swipe of pink in the center of Cyprus’ palm. “I wouldn’t even call it a proper burn. I can give you something if you want ...”

“No, thank you,” said Knowles with a slight sneer, obviously intending to reiterate his ‘nursemaid’ comment in some way, though perhaps in a more kindly manner, when his colleague released his hand. But Reynard did not let go.

“I have something that might fix this,” he said.

“You said it wasn’t even a proper burn,” said Knowles in a mildly suspicious tone as Reynard’s cold fingertips ghosted over his palm.

“Not this ... the situation. I asked the house elves to fetch me something out of storage that might prove useful to you,” said Krohn in a very tentative tone as he continued to stare down at Cyrus’ hand.

He had never been very interested in Palmistry, but at that moment he would have given a lot to know what was written there. He was certain that an interesting tale could be gleaned from the deep and jagged lines etched upon the otherwise soft and delicate surface of his colleague’s hand.

“Oh?” asked Knowles, raising his eyebrows just slightly.

“It belonged to my father and arrived with an assortment of baubles and oddments. I tossed it into storage with the rest, but now ... I think I’ve found a use for it,” he said softly as he released Cyrus’ hand. “Let me get it for you,” he added, walking away with purposeful strides. He did not notice the flash of mild disappointment in Knowles’ eyes as he let go.

Krohn had stashed it behind his desk, intending to take it to Cyrus himself if he did not pay him a visit, which was something the potions’ professor had rather expected. He took the object in his hands and felt a twinge of emotion. Anger? Disappointment? Resentment? Then he thought of what it could do for Knowles and smiled just slightly.

“Here,” said Reynard when he had returned with the object, pressing the head of an old-fashioned and rather expensive-looking cane into the hand of his friend.

“A cane?” Cyrus deduced.

“Yes, and one that belonged to my father. Good craftsmanship, if I may say so. I wanted you to have it,” he said with hint of nervousness in his tone.

“I can’t accept this,” said Knowles curtly even as he molded his hand around the cool, metallic -- silver, if he had known -- head of the cane, which seemed to fit neatly into his palm.

“Why ever not?” asked Reynard in surprise.

Cyrus frowned to himself, tracing the designs inlayed into the darkly colored wooden length of the cane, running his fingers over them and trying to form an image of the object in his mind. He imagined that it was a lovely piece of work. It felt heavy in his hands, but well balanced, more like a weapon than a prop for the aged or a guide for the blind.

“It is an heirloom, is it not?”

“Only for someone who cares about such things,” scoffed Krohn.

“It would probably be blasted from my hand and reduced to mere ashes in less than a week, Reynard. Even if you don’t think of it as precious now, someday you should rue the senseless loss of such a fine piece of workmanship.”

“That is where you are mistaken. Rather, I pity the imbecile who attempts to cast a spell on that cane,” said Krohn with a slight smirk that carried through quite clearly in his voice. He had been waiting for Cyrus to voice such an opinion.

“How so?”

“My father had it fashioned for his use during his last years of teaching at Durmstrang Institute. Should anyone attempt to work magic against this cane, even something so simple as a summoning spell, the force of the spell will be turned back upon them ... in the form of a curse that causes painful boils.”

Cyrus blinked and seemed to hold the cane closer to his chest as his lips quirked upward. Reynard did not often see him smile, especially during the school year and especially not such an unguarded expression of pleasure and amusement; his smiles were more often saved for summer afternoons following particularly good games of chess that he invariably won. This smile, however, was all-too-soon tucked away, presumably for those better days.

“And just how did he manage this?” asked Knowles with a great deal of interest.

“There was a certain shop, before the war, you understand, in the Little Quarter of Prague where custom orders for novel accessories of this sort were taken in the back of the shop, preferably after business hours. Father took my older brother Dietrich and me with him when he had it made. It was quite fascinating. I think the man who fashioned it was something of a Warlock.”

“Ah,” nodded Knowles thoughtfully, continuing to turn the cane over and over in his hands. “Still, I don’t think I should accept it, Reynard,” he said hesitantly. He would not say it, but he imagined that it was quite possibly it was worth more than most of his earthly possessions.

“It is too ... questionable to sell these days, but it is not exactly illegal. I can assure you of that. I would much rather it rest in your hands than to gather dust.”

He watched Cyrus test its length and adjust his grip upon the round silver head of the cane. The fit seemed perfect for him, though he wondered at this as his sire had been a man of some great height. Truly, this was a magical device and worthy to grace the hand of his brave and noble friend. Already, Reynard liked seeing it there.

“Please, Cyrus,” said Krohn, taking a deep breath, “in all these years that I have known you, I’ve never bothered much with gifts or ... or with demonstrations of my fondness for you. Accept this one, won’t you?”

“Thank you, Reynard. I will accept this in the spirit it was given. I do not doubt that it will serve me well,” he answered after a moment.

“You are quite welcome to it, and I hope it serves the villain who destroyed your first cane well too.”

There was a flash of something in Knowles’ eyes as he replied, “As do I, my friend, though I’m afraid it will cost your house some great number points should we be correct in that matter.”

“Perhaps,” Krohn reluctantly agreed. He knew what some of his students were like, and in some cases, he even knew why. He could not sanction their misdeeds, but what does one do when so many children have one parent or even both in Azkaban? “Would you care to walk down to my rooms? I was planning to have some tea before I begin marking papers. You are more than welcome to join me,” he offered, putting those less than pleasant thoughts aside.

He watched Knowles as he shifted the cane from one hand to the other as he considered the invitation. Yes, it was a good fit for him. Reynard smiled to himself.

“Another time?” question Knowles.

“My door is always open to you, Cyrus. You know that.”

A faint smile touched the defense professors lips for a moment as he nodded. Reynard fancied that he still didn’t know what to say to that. Not even after so many years.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“Not at all,” said Reynard, and though there was no laughter in his voice, it was there, in his eyes, as he tossed his hair back again.

“I should find my way back upstairs now. I have no assignments to mark, but I have other things with which to occupy my time,” said Knowles.

“We’ll find a way for you to do that as well. You won’t be able to skive off for long,” said Krohn in a reassuring tone.

“I don’t intend to,” said Cyrus with a soft snort.

Reynard started to step out his way, but his colleague had not anticipated him moving aside and did the same, colliding with the taller wizard an instant thereafter as he stepped forward. Reflexively, Krohn would later tell himself, he wrapped his arms around Cyrus to steady him.

“Pardon me,” he stammered as Cyrus lifted his face to glare at him, knowing, by virtue of striking his forehead on Reynard’s substantial chin, precisely where to glare. To Reynard, it was rather uncanny, however, not to mention disconcerting.

“Reynard, it is eccentric to attempt to dance without music,” he said quite solemnly, “not to mention a bit presumptuous.”

Krohn gaped at his colleague’s matter-of-fact statement for a moment, not quite believing, but desperately wanting to believe, that Cyrus Knowles had actually made a joke -- well, what was considered a joke coming from him -- for the first time in what felt like months. Reynard was speechless.

Then a warm hand brushed his cheek, slipping around his neck and pulling him down just far enough for Cyrus to favour him with a rather clumsy embrace that he returned perhaps a bit more enthusiastically than he was wont when dealing with his those his own age.

“Thank you again ... for everything, Reynard,” he whispered into his ear.

Reynard risked a quick kiss, just barely grazing Cyrus’ cheek with his lips. He felt rather like a school boy again as his face flushed.

“It’s nothing,” Krohn muttered, not knowing what else to say.

There was a look of vague amusement of Knowles’ face when he pulled away and Krohn let go of him.

“I will speak with you tomorrow, I hope,” nodded Cyrus before taking up the cane and bidding Reynard, who was still more than a little tongue-tied, good-night.

As he watched Knowles leave, tapping the silver-shod cane upon the stone floor, a slightly satisfied smile came to his face.

“Father would be positively livid,” he thought to himself.

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