A Little Knowledge: Missing Scenes

Reynard Krohn adjusted his collar and smoothed his robes before stepping into the office of the headmaster. He wasn’t sure why Professor Dippet wanted to see him, only that it had something to do with the war on the continent. His stomach twisted as he thought about the fighting in the country where he had been born and educated. Wizard against wizard, and now a conflict that would pit the Muggles against each other seemed to be brewing too. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

He was surprised, when he entered the office of Armando Dippet, to find someone other than the headmaster there as well. Reynard adjusted his collar again as a trim and wiry fellow in Auror’s robes looked him over with an unpleasant, calculating expression in his dark, beady eyes. There was a jagged cut on the man’s cheek that was just beginning to heal. Reynard swallowed hard and looked at Armando where he sat behind his desk.

“You wanted to see me?” asked Reynard.

“This is Mister Alastor Moody,” said Dippet, gesturing to the dark-haired wizard, “one of my former students who has become an Auror. He is here to interview you regarding the recent disturbances on the continent.”

“Oh?” asked Reynard uneasily.

“Given the fact that you arrived here so soon after Grindelwald declared his intention to dominate wizarding and Muggle Europe ... the Ministry thought it might be prudent to ask you a few questions regarding any political affiliations you might ...” began Dippet in an uncomfortable tone.

“I haven’t any,” Reynard cut in abruptly.

“I’m here to question you just the same,” said Moody in an unfriendly, growling voice. He turned to Dippet and asked, “I’d like to do this on my own, in private, if you will. It makes things simpler. Do you mind if we find an empty classroom or something, professor?”

“Not at all, Mister Moody,” said Dippet with a polite nod, though there was an expression of misgiving in his eyes.

“Come along then,” instructed Moody, leading the way out of the office with hurried, even steps.

Reynard looked at Armando for a moment, wondering what all of this meant, but the headmaster merely nodded toward the door, and said, “Tell him everything, Reynard.”

Krohn’s stomach knotted as he trailed after Moody. The young Auror, who was only a handful of years older than Reynard himself, was standing with his arms crossed over his chest when Reynard reached the hall below the office of the headmaster. He seemed wary and impatient. There was a very hard look in his eyes the like of which Reynard had seldom seen before.

“Don’t dawdle,” said Moody stiffly, gesturing for Reynard to walk ahead of him even though the young master of potions had no idea where they were going.

Reynard wasn’t sure how long they walked through the castle, but he could almost feel the point of a wand at his back as they moved through the corridors, looking for somewhere acceptable for Moody to conduct his interview.

Reynard was becoming nervous. Very nervous, in fact, and was trying to find a way to beg out of whatever Moody had in mind or at least request the presence of the headmaster, whom he trusted implicitly. But he didn’t think that the Auror would take kindly to that suggestion.

“Need a room, need a room,” muttered Moody to himself, sending a chill up Reynard’s spine, though he couldn’t say precisely why.

Suddenly a door appeared to their left. Both wizards halted and looked at it. Reynard was sure it had not been there a moment ago. But then, Hogwarts was a very magical place. A door appearing out of thin air was not unheard of. He watched Moody as he opened the door, looked inside, and smiled to himself.

“Perfect,” said the Auror, gesturing for Reynard to enter.

Reynard thought to protest, but noted that Moody had his wand drawn and carefully leveled at him and decided that he had best not ask any unnecessary questions at this point. He merely nodded and stepped into the room. He swallowed hard as he caught his first glimpse of the dimly lit chamber.

There was a single chair in the center of the room, above which hung an old-fashioned lantern that was the singular source of illumination for the chamber. The chair was made of dark wood and bits of iron and had a high, straight back and curved arms. Anywhere else and it might not have seemed sinister. In that room, most of which was shrouded in deep, forbidding shadows, there was something quite forbidding about the chair.

“Mister Moody, I ...” he began to say in the slightly shrill voice of a twenty-two-year-old who had never dealt with law enforcement officials before.

“Sit,” Moody ordered, shoving him roughly forward and toward the chair.

Reynard nodded mutely and took a seat, trying to make himself comfortable. The chair did not allow for that. It was an utterly wretched place to sit as it was very hard and seemed almost designed for the discomfort of any who sat in it. He tried not to think of that as he looked up at Moody.

“We’re going to have a talk, you and me. I’m going to ask you some questions, and you are going to answer them for me,” Moody informed him, circling the chair as he talked.

“All right,” Reynard agreed, though he felt more than a bit uneasy.

“What do you know about Grindelwald?” asked Moody.

“Not very much. Only what I read in the papers before coming here ... to England, I mean,” said Reynard, wiping his sweating palms on his robes as he turned to look at Moody who had paused just behind him.

“Face forward,” Moody ordered. Reynard felt slightly irked, but obeyed. “What did you read in the papers?” he asked.

“I think the last thing I read was an article that praised his efforts to create a unified werewolf code for all of Germany,” said Reynard, struggling to remember. He had precious little interest in politics. Less interest than most wizards, actually. He had merely skimmed the article while waiting for a train.

“So you support Grindelwald?” asked Moody.

“No ... I mean I just read the article. I didn’t really agree or disagree with it,” answered Reynard anxiously.

“You didn’t disagree?” asked Moody.

“I didn’t really think about it,” he admitted, resisting the urge to turn and look at the Auror. He risked a quick glance, but Moody had moved again.

“You didn’t even think about disagreeing then?” he asked Reynard.

“What? I ... I didn’t ... I don’t understand,” said the young professor, trying to figure out if the other wizard was just trying to twist his own words and use them against him or if he had inadvertently said something wrong. He had not been in England very long -- only a year and a few months. Maybe his English wasn’t as good as he had thought. But none of his students had ever found fault with it insofar as he knew.

“Do you support Grindelwald’s persecution of Muggleborn and Half-blood wizards too then?” asked Moody.

“No,” answered Reynard rather quickly and forcefully.

“But you support his other policies?”

“I ... I don’t really have an opinion,” stammered Reynard as Moody circled him again. He twisted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m not interested in political nonsense,” he tried to explain.

“What about your family then? Are they interested in politics?” inquired Moody as he paused somewhere just behind Reynard.

“What? What does that have to do with anything?” he asked with a frown, craning his neck to look at Moody.

“Answer,” growled the Auror menacingly, “and get your eyes off of me.”

Reynard swallowed and felt a twinge of indignation as he faced the closed door again. He didn’t like this one bit. This wasn’t an interview or a few questions; this was an interrogation. There was no doubt in his mind about that.

“My father has an interest in politics, I suppose you could say, and so do my brothers and my younger sister,” he replied tersely.

“How do they feel about Grindelwald?” asked Moody.

Reynard considered this for a moment, wondering if he should tell Moody the truth or not. He couldn’t imagine the Auror liking the answer very much. In fact, he thought it would cause considerable trouble for him.

“I ... well, I’m not sure,” he replied.

The next thing Reynard knew he was clutching the right side of his face. Moody had cuffed him and hard. He looked up at the Auror with a bewildered and shocked expression. It was met with a cold, hard stare.

“There is no need for violence ...” Reynard told him.

“Eyes ... door ... now,” he snarled at Reynard. “I’ll do it again if you don’t keep your answers truthful. I can tell when someone is lying to me, especially when they aren’t very good at it.”

Reynard looked forward again and swallowed hard. A trickle of sweat rolled from his hairline and down his face. He didn’t dare reach to brush it away, but at least the annoying tickling sensation it caused distracted him from the ache of where Moody had struck him. He thought it might bruise.

“Answer my question,” instructed Moody.

“They support Grindelwald,” he answered, “but they’re still good people and I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

His temper was beginning to kindle, though he was trying to keep it in check for his own sake. Nothing good would come from him losing his temper. But the outrage he felt at being struck was difficult to quell. He was there, he thought, of his own free will. No one had forced or compelled him to submit to the interview. He believed that he had a right to better treatment, or at least common courtesy, because of that.

Then Moody slapped him with the back of his hand, only the blow was a bit harder this time, and said, “I’d watch that tone, if I were you. I’ve got no tolerance for cheek from the likes of you.”

Reynard reached to rub his cheek and noticed something. Dark tendrils had snaked out from the arms of the chair and were slowly, insidiously binding him to it, winding around his arms from wrist to elbow like vines made of hard, cruel iron. He struggled for a moment, but that only made the tendrils snap tight around his forearms. Reynard half-imagined that the chair made a triumphant hissing sound, like a serpent, as it did so.

“I demand to be let go!” he said loudly, tugging hard against the living restraints.

“In good time,” said Moody with an almost fanatical gleam in his beady eyes.

“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Reynard objected in a desperate tone, leaning forward in the seat.

“We’ll see about that,” said the Auror as he began walking around Reynard again, surveying the man he was supposed to question. “Do you send letters home very often?” he inquired conversationally.

Reynard was panting from a sensation somewhere between horror and indignation and hardly heard the question as he continued to try to find some way by which to free himself. It wasn’t until Moody struck him again and asked the question for a second time that he replied.

“I send my brothers and my sister cards and gifts for Christmas and letters on their birthdays,” he answered, struggling to quell the panic that was rising from deep within him. Fear welled up in his chest like a fountain, threatening to spew forth in the form of cries of desperation and despair.

“What do you say in these messages?” asked Moody.

“I ... I tell them how I am doing, how much I miss them, and such things as those,” he said as the restraints began to dig into his arms.

“Tell me about these siblings of yours. What do they do?” he asked.

“Why do you want to know these things?” asked Reynard as he grimaced from the pain that he restraints were beginning to cause him. He looked down at them and clawed desperately at the arms of the chair with his fingernails.

Suddenly his head snapped back as Moody grabbed a handful of his long blond hair. He saw spots for a moment as his head slammed against the back of the chair. The sharp edge bit into his scalp. He could feel blood welling to the surface. Moody gave his hair a second wrenching, twisting pull.

“Eyes on the door,” he growled before releasing him.

“You’ve no reason to treat me like this, no reason at all,” panted Reynard as blood began to trickle underneath his collar and down his neck. “What have I done to cause this?” he asked.

“Their occupations,” pressed Moody, ignoring both the statement that Reynard had just made and the question he had asked.

“They work for the Ministry of Magic,” he replied. He was afraid to argue or even to ignore the question. He was afraid of what was going to happen to him, even if he did answer.

“What sort of work?”

“Bureaucratic.”

“Your father as well?” questioned Moody.

“He is a retired professor of potions,” said Reynard.

“And they are all in league with Grindelwald?” asked the Auror, though the question was mostly perfunctory as anyone who worked for the Ministry of Magic in Reynard’s country of origin had to be his supporter.

“They supported him before his true intentions were known,” said Reynard.

He reeled as Moody struck him again. This time he tasted blood. He had bitten his tongue. The metallic taste of it made his stomach roil.

“Don’t dissemble,” Moody warned him.

“I’m not dissembling,” said Reynard bitterly.

“Do you give them information that might be used to undermine England in the event that Grindelwald should attempt to invade?” he asked.

“No,” he answered, “never, and they don’t ask for such information either.”

“Would you give it to them if they asked?”

“They are good people, my siblings. They would never ask that of me,” answered Reynard in a defiant tone. He loved his brothers and younger sister, and the things that this man was insinuating made him far more angry than even the blows did.

Moody’s fist connected with left eye, and a sound of pain escaped from Reynard’s lips.

“Would you?” barked Moody angrily. “Would you sell us all out?” he asked, striking him a second and third time in rapid succession.

“No, God damn you, I wouldn’t,” spat Reynard as blood from his mouth splattered on his robes.

He couldn’t see properly out of his left eye, which was already beginning to swell closed, and his lower lip had split, which was where the blood had come from. He expected Moody to strike him again and braced for it, but the blow never came.

“Would you ever willingly serve Grindelwald?” asked Moody.

“No,” Reynard replied, “I am my own master.”

Moody gave a short, dry laugh at that and stepped away from the chair. He nodded to himself and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Reynard was afraid that the Auror was trying to think up more questions. But none came. He watched Moody as he made his way to the door.

“Interview over,” said Moody over his shoulder on his way out, closing the door behind him and leaving Reynard where he sat.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there in that infernal chair under the glaring light when he heard the door open again. He pried his right eye open, but still couldn’t make out very much. He could not even lift his head, but he saw a shadow, accompanied by the sound of hurried footsteps, play upon the stone floor in front of him. Part of him was afraid that Moody was coming back to ask more questions or worse yet, to arrest or Obliviate him. He wasn’t certain which would be worse.

But those fears proved unfounded as a pair of gentle hands clasped his bruised and bloodied face, tilting his head back a bit so that he could see the owner of those tender, careful hands.

“Sweet Merlin, Reynard!” breathed Professor Dippet incredulously. “What did he do to you?”

“Mmm...” was all that he could manage in reply as his lips and tongue were both painfully swollen and dry.

For a moment the aging professor just stood there, slipping an arm behind Reynard’s neck and caressing the uninjured portion of his face, hushing him as though he were an injured child. Reynard closed his eye and allowed relief to engulf him. He knew then that the ordeal was truly over.

After a few minutes, Dippet released him and quickly left the room. While he was absent the chair slowly turned itself into a rather small, but comfortable bed. The restraints were gone. The hard chair had turned into a soft mattress covered by clean and fragrant linens. Reynard thought he could smell daffodils and morning rain for a moment. But more importantly, he was free, though his body still ached from sitting in that instrument of torture for so long.

He started to drift away, but then there was a soft voice in his ear, calling out to him.

“Vater?” he questioned, though speaking made his face ache all the more.

“No, it’s only Armando, child. I’m going to fetch Madam Plummer. I want you to stay still and quiet while I’m gone. All right, Reynard?” asked the headmaster in a kindly tone that the young professor had seldom heard. Trembling hands arranged his limbs more comfortably on the bed, straightening his arms and legs with a firm, but gentle touch. “All right, Reynard?” he asked again, trying to cajole a response from him.

“All right,” he managed to reply.

The footsteps of the headmaster retreated, and he heard the door to the room close with an audible click. He opened his right eye and saw that he didn’t appear to be in the Spartan and shadowy interrogation room anymore. This room was well lit, thanks to numerous floating white candles, and had eggshell colored walls and matching draperies that made it seem impossibly airy and bright. The ceiling was painted blue with white clouds covering portions of it, like a child’s drawing of the sky. A few of the puffy clouds moved as though with the wind. He wasn’t sure how he had got there. He could not remember being moved. He closed his eye again and tried not to think so much.

Then the door opened again with a slight squeak. He thought Armando had said that he was going to get the school mediwitch. Not nearly enough time had passed for that. Then there was the thudding of fast, vibrant footsteps on the carpeted floor.

“Professor?” questioned the voice of someone who sounded shocked, possibly even frightened.

Just a moment later, a delicate feminine hand grasped his right hand and fumbled inexpertly for his wrist. His fingers tingled as though blood flow had only recently been restored to them. That was, of course, precisely the case as the restraints on his arms had been very tight.

“Professor Krohn?” she asked for a second time, shaking him vigorously by both shoulders.

He couldn’t quite make the necessary sounds to articulate the student’s name. She was the seventh year prefect for Gryffindor house and a brilliant student, surprisingly adequate in potions’ work, but quite annoying too. He could picture her face clearly without even opening his eyes because she was rather lovely to behold as well.

“Miss McGonagall,” he said in a thick, slurring voice that more than half mangled her name.

“Professor, what’s happened to you?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he replied, not wanting her to know the truth, that he had allowed an Auror to bind him to a chair and deliver what he considered to be a rather significant beating. She made a soft, disbelieving sound, but didn’t press the matter.

He trembled slightly as she examined one of his arms before methodically beginning to loosen some of his clothing, including his buttoned sleeves and his collar. She hushed him softly as he made quiet sounds of protest at the pain, which diminished when she had completed the task.

“Thanks,” he murmured, tasting blood as his lip opened again.

McGonagall was quick to wipe his lips and chin for him with her sleeve. He shivered as her fingertips ghosted over his face as though she had never seen someone so bruised before. Truthfully, she had not, even though she was a Beater for her house’s Quidditch team.

“Professor, should ... should I get Madam Plummer?” she asked with a certain anxiousness in her voice.

“Armando is getting her,” he replied with some effort.

“I thought I saw the headmaster leave this room in a hurry. I guess that explains it,” she commented mostly to herself.

“Have I missed all of my afternoon classes?” he questioned.

“It’s early Saturday morning, sir. Most of your classes were canceled yesterday,” she told him with a frown.

More than half a day had passed? Much more than that, in fact. He wasn’t sure if Moody had simply been that long in questioning him or if he had blacked out for some reason shortly after the end of it. He found that he couldn’t remember.

“Oh,” he said very softly.

She brushed his lank blond hair from his forehead and said, “I hope they expel whoever did this to you, professor.”

“It wasn’t a student,” he murmured, though he appreciated the sentiment.

She didn’t say anything for a moment as she stroked his hair, which served to make him feel more calm, and listened to the quiet rattling of his breath. He opened his right eye and looked up at her. For a moment he was confused as there appeared to be unshed tears in her dark eyes.

“Can I do anything for you?” she asked him carefully. “To make you more comfortable, while we wait for the headmaster to come back?”

“No,” he said quietly, though he wanted to ask Miss McGonagall why she was troubling to be so kind to the head of a rival house.

He still did not understand the intricacies of house politics at Hogwarts. His closest friend, Professor Dippet, for instance was a Ravenclaw, but had embraced him whole-heartedly as a colleague and friend, despite the fact that he was the appointed head of Slytherin house. House loyalty at times seemed to mean everything to the students and even to a few of the professors. Reynard decided that it might be better not to question some things as McGonagall continued to comb her fingers through his hair with a worried look in her eyes.

“Professor, you’re bleeding,” she said.

“Where?” he asked as she held her fingers so that he could see them. They were sticky were dark red blood.

“Your head,” she said rather obviously, wiping her fingers on her robes with a look of revulsion, before gingerly attempting to find the source of the blood. Reynard imagined that it was the injury he had received from the back of the chair. “I think you’ve bled a lot, professor,” McGonagall informed him grimly. “That would explain why you’re so pale,” she added, touching his cheek with her knuckles, “and clammy too.”

“Scalp wounds bleed heavily sometimes,” he murmured.

He complied with her completely as she turned his head slightly to the side to get a better look at the injury. He heard her stifle a gasp as she pulled his collar away from his skin. He could feel the material stick for a moment before giving way.

“How does it look?” he asked.

“Not good, professor,” she told him, replacing his blood-soaked collar.

Reynard turned his head and looked at the young prefect before telling her, “I’ll be all right, Miss McGonagall.”

“Of course, you will be,” she agreed, pursing her lips just slightly. He watched her eyes dart nervously toward the door.

“Any minute now,” he said softly.

She nodded her agreement and lifted his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. He matched her pressure, though it made his fingers prickle again and his arm ache. The chair had been no easier on him than Moody himself had been. He closed his right eye and tried to tell himself that everything would be all right. But a nagging feeling more closely associated with his stomach than his brain said that it wouldn’t be.

The sound of the door opening jarred him back to complete wakefulness again. Reynard felt a twinge of disappointment as Miss McGonagall released his hand and moved from his side to be replaced by the school mediwitch, Madam Constance Plummer, who was a too-cheery witch who was many years his senior and had curly, dark brown hair that stuck out from her head at all angles. She tutted softly as she sat down next to him on the bed.

“What have you done now?” she asked, treating him, as always, more like a student than a professor. He was very young for the job, and she had been doing hers for quite some time.

“Nothing,” Reynard murmured. His lips and tongue felt uncomfortably large and painful, not to mention dry.

He glimpsed Professor Dumbledore over Plummer’s shoulder, standing well out of the way. He held out his arms to his student, who accepted his embrace with a naturalness that made Reynard feel quite envious of the older man as he comforted the pretty, young witch. She practically melted into his embrace, resting her cheek against his chest and looking as though she belonged there.

“Isn’t that the truth?” said another voice in rueful tones.

Reynard turned his head to see Armando looking down at him with sad brown eyes as he took a careful seat on the bed, opposite from Madam Plummer, who was waving her wand over him with practiced ease.

“I’m sorry,” said Reynard softly.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Dippet assured him, glancing at the student in the room. He cleared his throat. “As pleased as I am that Reynard didn’t need to wait alone, you really should escort her out of here, Albus. Miss McGonagall has seen quite enough,” he told his deputy sternly.

“Of course,” Dumbledore agreed, taking his student by the shoulders to lead her from the room.

Madam Plummer made another tutting sound as she examined Reynard. He wasn’t sure whether to feel patronized or comforted.

“What is it?” asked Armando.

“Just a nasty cut that’s been unattended all night. He’s fortunate that infection hasn’t set in yet,” said Constance, referring, no doubt, to the scalp wound he had received. “Turn him toward you, professor, so I can apply a dollop of healing salve,” she instructed, reaching for a bag that she had brought with her.

Reynard made a sound of protest as the aging professor grasped him by the shoulder and hip and rolled him onto his side.

“I know it hurts,” said Dippet, hushing him as he held him still and Plummer applied the salve, “but it’s going to be all right.”

The salve was cold, but it didn’t burn or sting very much as Madam Plummer carefully applied it. The scent of lemons, one of the ingredients in that particular healing substance, filled the air. Reynard breathed it in and tried to ignore the residual ache that afflicted his entire body to his very core.

“Does he need to go to hospital wing?” asked Armando as he helped Constance turn Reynard onto his back again.

“I wouldn’t mind keeping him there for the rest of the day,” she said, rifling through her bag, “but I can treat him here well enough and send him on his way. He’s going to need to rest up though. The amount of blood he’s lost is no trifling matter.”

“Reynard?” questioned Dippet.

“I want to go to my chambers,” he answered as the mediwitch rubbed a different sort of salve on his bruised face to take the swelling down and remove the ugly marks. He closed his eyes and let her work her magic.

“All right,” said Armando before giving Reynard’s upper arm a gentle squeeze.

“Do you want me to cast a pain-relieving charm on your arms, Reynard?” asked Madam Plummer a few minutes later as she pushed up his sleeves to look at the ornate pattern of bruises that covered his forearms. She treated those marks with salve as well, but the bruises were so much deeper, so much more severe that it only reduced their color from dark purple to a sickly shade of grayish blue.

“I’ll manage,” he told her, wanting nothing more than to lie down in his own bed and pretend that everything that had happened to him was only a bad dream.

Reynard was glad that the halls were nearly empty so early in the morning. No one saw him leaning on Professor Dippet for support as he stumbled through the corridors with the headmaster at his elbow. He didn’t think his students would approve of accepting help from a former member of one of the so-called lower houses, regardless of the circumstances. But Reynard also knew that he would never have made it to his rooms alone and unaided.

They were both silent as they entered the chambers of the head of Slytherin house, which were very austere in their decor as Reynard had few possessions. Too few volumes filled his vast shelves and the only thing that adorned his hearth was a pot of floo powder. The pot had been purchased in Hogsmeade; the powder he had made for himself. There was a painting of a gray stone castle on the wall above the writing desk that belonged to him. The furniture, that desk included, was not his own. Reynard had yet to make a clear imprint upon the room. Sometimes he still felt like nothing more than a guest there.

“You need to rest,” said Armando gently as Reynard began to drift toward the couch. He gestured toward the bedroom. “You will feel better after a proper sleep in your own bed,” he said, taking Reynard by the arm again.

“Of course,” he said in soft reply, allowing the older professor to lead him into his bedroom, which was nearly so bland and un-lived in as the other room.

Just an old-fashioned bed with four posters and a dark green canopy and matching curtains, which he only closed in the winter time ... or when he chanced to have an overnight guest. Sometimes he thought the mattress was too soft. At other times it seemed to welcome him at the end of the day like a lover’s arms. That morning as he sat down upon it, it was the latter. He sighed softly and leaned back, letting his long legs dangle over the edge of the bed.

“You should change before you go to sleep,” said Dippet in the same gentle tones he had been using since they had left the room. Reynard grunted in response. “There’s blood on your robes, Reynard,” he informed him.

“I don’t mind. It is only mine, after all,” he replied.

“I never meant for ...”

“Of course. I know that. Just let me rest for a moment.”

He was aware of Armando unlacing his shoes and pulling them from his feet. He couldn’t tell him not to do it. He wasn’t sure if he could have taken them off by himself. But he felt embarrassed that he should need help with such a simple thing. He stared at the green curtain above him as his eyelids grew heavy and tried to find the right words to say. None would come.

“Do you want to bring charges against Moody?” asked Dippet as he slipped the shoes beneath the bed.

Reynard hesitated, but told him simply ‘no’ and left it at that.

“Are you sure?”

“There would only be more questions, wouldn’t there?” Reynard asked him in a tired voice.

“Perhaps, but ...” the headmaster began to argue.

“No, Armando, I don’t believe it would do any good. The Ministry needs its Aurors right now. They would not punish him for doing this to me,” said Reynard as he closed his eyes. “To them, it would be but a trifling matter, I’m sure.”

He heard the sound of a bureau drawer being opened. Then another and another until the top drawer, where he kept his pajamas, opened with a slight squeak and he assumed that Armando found what he was looking for.

“I never imagined that he would hurt you,” confessed Professor Dippet. Reynard made a soft sound as Armando began undoing the buttons of his robes. “Or leave you in that room overnight. We couldn’t figure out where he had meant by ‘the room with the chair’ for the longest time. It was Albus who figured it out, though he couldn’t say where this mysterious room was located. It moves, you see,” Armando explained him as he removed the robes, which would need a thorough cleaning indeed if they ever hoped to be worn again.

“Oh,” Reynard murmured, not understanding very much of what was said to him.

“Can I help you change, Reynard?” he asked.

A sound that resembled a snore escaped the lips of his battered, young colleague. Reynard had dozed off, slipping away from the pain of the waking world again ... for a while at least.

When Reynard woke again, the covers of his bed were just being pulled up to his chin and smoothed. He realized that he was in his pajamas and that he was still wearing his socks. He couldn’t figure out how the former had happened until he heard Armando say a quiet Warming Charm over the linens. The older wizard obviously had a few tricks up his sleeve. The warmth of the charm seemed to permeate his body as well, causing him to sigh softly in contentment.

“There, there, child,” said Armando, patting his shoulder and hushing him.

Reynard wondered how many children of his own the professor had besides his many students and guessed that there must have been no fewer than three. He was awfully proficient at tucking in. Reynard felt more than a bit guilty and ashamed that Armando had needed to do this for him at his age. He was embarrassed to have needed the help at all.

A moment later the lights in the room dimmed, and he knew that the kindly professor was going to leave soon.

“Armando,” he called out, though his voice was still not very strong.

“Yes?”

“I told him everything,” said Reynard, letting the words tumble from his painfully swollen lips.

He didn’t know why he had needed to say those words, but he had needed very much to tell the headmaster that he had done as requested of him, that he had not earned the bruises, that he wasn’t guilty of anything.

“I know,” Armando replied.

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