The Tenth Part of a Gift

The Tenth Part of a Gift

Prologue: Daumier-Smith’s Not-So-Blue Period

Christmas, 2005

The house-elves had hung the Slytherin common room with glittering strings of real icicles and green boughs of holly in the night, and for once most of the students had bounced out of bed without complaining about the early classes and the corridors so frigid you could see your breath in the morning. The first term of classes was over and they were due to go home for the holidays that afternoon; the morning would pass in a flurry of hastily packed trunks, goodbyes exchanged with friends, and early gift-giving.

Edmund Daumier-Smith had found the package outside his dormitory that morning. The wrapping paper was forest green with a pattern of small snowflakes – rather more sober than the frolicking reindeer with light-up noses that most of his classmates had chosen – and the card was unsigned. I thought you might be able to use these, it read. Best wishes and happy Christmas.

Edmund tore off the wrapping paper to reveal a brand-new sketch pad and pencil case.

“Who d’you think it’s from?” asked his friend, Prospero Mercer.

Edmund studied the handwriting on the card. At first glance, it was unfamiliar, but Edmund had not spent his primary school years forging his teachers’ writing on his school reports for nothing. He had learned there were certain essentials one could not easily disguise. When he imagined the same writing slanted in the opposite direction, and without the fancy loops...

“Professor Lupin,” he said positively.

“You’re nuts,” said Prospero. “Gryffindor, isn’t he? I think it’s got to be from Professor Nott.” The soft-spoken young History of Magic professor was their Head of House, and a great favorite with all his students.

Edmund thought back to the last inter-House Quidditch match. He could see their Defence Against the Dark Arts professor in their mind, lifting one of his small daughters onto his shoulders so she could get a clear view of the match ... Yes, he’d been wearing a scarf in House colors. Red and gold. But the writing didn’t lie.

“It’s from Lupin. Bet you a Galleon.”

Prospero didn’t take the bet. Most Slytherins learned early on not to make bets with their housemates, and the ones who didn’t were usually very short of pocket money by Christmas. “What makes you so sure?” he couldn’t resist asking.

“He caught me drawing pictures in Defence once, and he was decent about it. Asked me some funny questions, though.”

Edmund thought back to the lesson in question, some weeks earlier. It hadn’t been a boring class, exactly – most of their Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons were quite interesting – but Edmund had never found it easy to take notes without doing a bit of sketching on the side. The blank margins of his notebook were an irresistible temptation. This time around, he had been putting the finishing touches on a series of caricatures labeled “Hogwarts Professors in Their Younger Days” when their professor had come up behind him almost silently, laid hold of the notebook, and muttered, “See me after class.”

Edmund approached his desk with a sinking feeling which only intensified as Lupin examined the notebook. There was Deputy Headmaster Flitwick, with muttonchop whiskers and a late Victorian-style cravat knotted at his throat; Headmistress McGonagall dressed up as a flapper, being squired around by Hagrid, who looked very dashing as a 1930's gangster; and – Edmund steeled himself – Lupin himself in love beads and tie-dyed robes, arm in arm with a flower-bedecked and very stoned-looking Professor Trelawney (not that you would really notice the stoned-looking part, since it was almost impossible to tell the difference between that and her normal expression).

To Edmund’s relief, the Defence professor didn’t seem to take offense. In fact, his lips were twitching.

“I really ought to take ten points from Slytherin for adding about ten years to all of our ages,” he said when he looked up at last, “but I won’t. Tell me something. Do you like to draw?”

“Yes,” said Edmund. “It’s sort of hard for me to stop, to tell you the truth. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful – but there was all this white space – and all the professors sort of started drawing themselves, if you know what I mean.”

“I can imagine. Do try to keep your mind on the class next time.”

He closed the notebook and held it out to Edmund, who reached out his hand to take it back.

“You’re right-handed,” Lupin observed. “Can you do anything with your left hand? I mean, drawing cartoons or anything like that?”

“No. Why?”

“No reason. Just wondering. I had a friend once who could ... Well, never mind. You attended a Muggle primary school, didn’t you? Did you have art lessons there?”

“Sometimes. Only once every couple of weeks. Those were the only classes I really liked.”

“And are you happy here?”

Edmund stared at him. Who wouldn’t be happy at Hogwarts? Hogwarts was flying lessons, and long afternoons at Hagrid’s cabin learning how to feed Buckbeak, and pockets full of Fizzing Whizbees ... and there weren’t any maths lessons and nobody punished him for doing accidental magic. It was the best thing that had ever happened to him. “Yeah.”

“Good. But don’t forget that you have a gift. Don’t neglect it.”

Later that afternoon, Edmund made his best attempt at a portrait from memory of Professor Lupin (who was, he had decided, seriously cool). He was sitting at his desk in the attitude in which Edmund had seen him last, chin in hands, eyes on the classroom window as if watching something very far away.