Dark Shines | Part Two: The Thin White Lie
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“It’s nice to meet you?” It came out more like a
question, as if Hermione was waiting for her to pounce and attack; but
considering the track record for DADA teachers, Ashla supposed, she probably
was. Graciously, Hermione smiled weakly. “I mean, it is nice to meet you
but…”
“You’re expecting me to be a big old monster under this nice exterior? Or
perhaps a crazy vampire slash veela slash former Ministry of Magic posing as a
new teacher?” She laughed. “Hardly. Old Mrs. Figg needed a nice holiday
after the trouble you lot gave her last year, so Professor Dumbledore asked me
if I wanted the temporary position. It was either me,” she said with a sly
smile, “or Professor Severus Snape I believe.”
Harry roused himself finally, his dark eyes clouded with
curiosity as he regarded the new teacher. “Well, old Snape’s been after the
job for years, but I can’t imagine him even being half way fit for the job.
He’s been in a bloody dungeon for years for sakes.” Ashla shrugged and drew
her coat around her. Her eyes seemed to flash a little, Harry thought, but at
second glance they were as placid and dormant as before.
“I wouldn’t know, to be honest. I’ve only really met him in passing, and
even that was a while back.” Fixing the stole around her neck, she looked away
from the group. “But from what I’ve heard he’s more than capable of the
job in my opinion. Lord knows his past would provide adequate grounds for not to
attempt the Dark Arts.”
“Snape’s past?” Ron inquired innocently. The new teacher fixed him with an
amused look and tapped his shoulder.
“From what I’ve heard from Professor Dumbledore, you three know more about
Hogwarts going ons than he does, and that includes Professor Snape’s rather
dodgy past.” The three smiled guiltily. “Your reputation precedes you, to
say the least.”
“Well, I for one would hate to hear what Snapey-poo or any of the teachers bar
Dumbledore and McGonagall has to say about us – and Miss, if you’ve heard
anything, it’s all lies,” Harry joked. “We didn’t set the potions room
on fire, honest!”
“To be frank, Mr. Potter, if you did set it on fire I wouldn’t blame you,”
Ashla said, her face unreadable. “The horror stories I’ve heard from
Severus’ students would seem to provoke that sort of action/reaction. His
complete lack of people skills, both in and out of the classroom is beyond a
joke in my opinion.”
“I thought you said you’d only ever met him once?” Harry looked confused.
“Oh! Look at the time! I think we ought to be heading up to the school,
don’t you think?” As if sensing a touchy subject, Hermione smiled at Ashla,
who seemed a million miles away. “Ron, Harry, how about you two lead?” They
nodded and started off, leaving Hermione with the new teacher. “Miss?” Ashla
snapped back to earth and gave her a soft smile. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes, yes of course.” With a final look at the platform, Ashla fell instep
beside Hermione. “Lead the way.”
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It was past seven by the time they reached the school with
Ashla who, upon reaching the lobby, promptly thanked them and headed for the
teacher’s quarters citing extreme tiredness from travelling and saying she
“just wanted to get some sleep”. Going on without her, Ron, Harry and
Hermione arrived at the Great Hall halfway through the feast, having missed the
Sorting Hat ceremony and start of year messages from Professor Dumbledore. That,
however, fell by the wayside as the three realised how hungry they really were,
and how much they had to tell their fellow Gryffindors about the new teacher.
“So,” Seamus Finnegan said through a mouth full of sausage, “you’re
saying she’s young?” Dean Thomas’s eyes widened.
“And pretty? Like, Fleur Delacour hot? Or McGonagall fifty thousand years ago
pretty?” He screwed up his face. “I did NOT just imply McGonagall could have
been pretty.” Ron grinned and threw a pea at him.
“Trust you to have the hots for McGonagall, Thomas,” he laughed. “Nah, she
was prettier than Fleur –“ he glanced at Dean, ignoring the rude gesture he
was being given “- and McGonagall combined. Like, other worldly or
something.”
“I think she may have been a veela, or at least part,” concluded Hermione.
“The way these two acted around her certainly implied that.” Harry and Ron,
who were sitting opposite her, promptly threw a barrage of lettuce at her, which
she avoided laughingly. “You throw like girls, seriously.”
“Come on, guys – spill about the new teacher! Where is she anyway?”
Neville Longbottom downed his milk and stared at them intently. “Did she seem
nice?”
“She said she was tired, so I guess she’s in her room. And she seems nice
enough,” Harry shrugged. Neville nudged him.
“Nice enough to pass me?” Laughing, Harry nudged him back.
“Nice enough to pass anyone, Nev. Don’t worry, it’s
either her or Snape and I know which one I’d prefer.” If on cue, the group
turned their head towards the Potions teacher, who seemed to be in a heated
discussion with Dumbledore at the teacher’s table. “They don’t look too
friendly at the moment, do they?”
“No, not at all.” Hermione’s forehead furrowed as she watched the two
professors. Snape was not happy, they could easily ascertain, and it
unquestionably had something to do with Dumbledore. The headmaster was simply
regarding Snape with a placid expression, a clear indicator that what ever he
had done was done and there was no use in arguing.
“Ouch,” Harry said as Snape suddenly got up and left the Hall, leaving
Dumbledore shaking his head. “That was not pretty at all.”
“You reckon it has to do with the new teacher?” Seamus asked.
“Maybe. He’s been after that job for years, remember,” Hermione supposed,
“and I bet he’d be royally annoyed if Dumbledore went and hired some twenty
year-old instead of him.”
“Yeah, but maybe he’s not qualified,” suggested Dean. “Maybe he thinks
he is, but Dumbledore just doesn’t think he’s good enough for the job.
It’d be a pretty damn demanding subject to teach, I reckon.”
“Maybe Dumbledore just doesn’t want a Slytherin teacher in such a Dark Arts
related subject.” Ron put down his knife and fork and gestured for them to
come in closer. “Maybe Dumbledore thinks that Snape’s gonna start teaching
for the Dark Arts instead of against them.” The boys murmured in agreement,
causing Hermione to roll her eyes.
“Please. If that was the case, wouldn’t Dumbledore be able to tell if Snape
was really rotten to the core?” Harry raised a finger in argument.
“He couldn’t tell with Quirrell.”
“Or the Mad-Eye impersonator,” added Dean. Neville frowned.
“Does that mean Mrs. Figg really was evil?” Hermione let out a sound of
annoyance.
“You’re all impossible.” She pushed away from the table, a haughty look on
her face. “I’m going to bed before this gets even more ridiculous.” With
that, she walked out of the hall, leaving the boys looking after her. Ron
shrugged.
“Well, put it this way,” he whispered. “Even if she’s evil, at least
we’ve got a year of eye candy.”
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You never seemed to care…what do you mean? I love you!
I loved you…She woke with a start again, her hair matted against her neck
with sweat. That dream again. But this time, it didn’t involve Harry in any
way, just blurred faces in a room she’d never be able to distinguish. Ashla
sighed and sat up. Her hair was woven around her body – she usually tied it up
into a braid for sleeping but the trip had been so exhausting she simply fell
straight to sleep, not even bothering to glance around her new surroundings. She
placed her feet on the wooden floor and pulled her hair away from her body. It
fell just past her feet, trailing slightly on the floor and deathly straight.
Almost six feet of hair, she mused as she brushed it. And almost her entire life
she’d been trying to work out where it came from.
Some supposed it was her life force, the reason for her powers. Others thought
it was simply a symbol of her authority and seniority, and that it commanded
worshipping from all those under her. Crap, she thought sarcastically. You try
living with it and then you see how damn magical it really is! Her fingers began
the familiar brading process as she finally took in her new living quarters.
Like all rooms at Hogwarts, the ceilings were high and unobtrusive; their
intricate structure was prettier than any mural or picture imaginable. It was
lit with a multitude of candles lining the walls, each held in place by small
claw-like holders, casting comfortable shadows around the space. The floors were
wooden, covered in places by rich, thick Persian carpets and similar pieces of
material were hung on the walls. She had specifically asked for a room void of
the moving pictures so common in the Hogwarts halls – not that she had
anything to hide, she’d assured Albus. Her bed was queen sized and soft,
covered in luxurious bed linen and thick, cosy cushions. It was flanked by a
night table and tallboy, both made of a rich golden wood. A writing desk took up
one corner, and a sitting chair dominated the area in front of the large open
fireplace. Ashla sighed. Some things never change, she thought.
Her hair wove through her fingers as she braided it, the blonde seeming fairer
in the dark light illuminating from the fireplace. Do you think it wise? I
have to do it. I have to do it. She finished the braiding and conjured a
small knot to keep it from falling out, flipping the long braid over her
shoulder as she stood. Maybe it wasn’t wise for her to be here. Maybe she
should have taken the other Commission work Serendipity offered her. But the
dream was so clear and so confusing at the same time – she had to be here, she
knew that. The Potter boy was the key to something bigger than her and him
combined, and Ashla had felt that when she’d met him today. It was as though
every single hour of her life had lead up to that moment, like what she’d been
working towards suddenly had a purpose in face of Potter and his extraordinary
friends.
“Accio notebook,” she whispered, and caught the book in her hand as
it flew to her. Flipping it open, she quickly found the passage she was after
and began to read.
October 31st, Nineteen Eighty-Two: Have received word from the
Commission – the Potters have perished under the hand of Lord Voldemort, who
also seems to have perished. Have not had word of what is to be done, nor what
the future of the Potter heir is to be. Contacted Serendipity and rest of the
board, but was shot down when suggesting that I contain the situation with and
for Albus. They tell me that they want no evidence of the Commission’s
involvement for fear of mass retaliation. Tried to also suggest the involvement
of other Keepers, such as Figg, but no avail. When will they learn that what
they are doing is bordering on death?
She could remember that night so well. It was two days after she’d heard
from Riddle – Voldemort – while working in the French Alps. He’d told her
in no uncertain terms to stay away from England for a two-month duration while
the Commission under went some ‘changes’, or her job would be in jeopardy.
She knew his book cover to cover; she’d known it the moment he’d overthrown
Serendipity in ’77 and had taken over leading the Commission. He was evil. He
was Satan in a handbag, but all she could do was sit back and let him run the
most important industry in magic.
No one in the magic community, from the Ministry to the Hogwarts School Board
knew of Voldemort’s infiltration, and worse, no one could help the evil that
was polluting them from the inside out. He had not only Serendipity in the palm
of his hand, but the thousands of Commission workers who were blind to his
malevolent rein. They put aside the real reasons for their work as Providences
to concentrate on Voldemort’s detailed and structured plan to conquer the
world by changing people’s fate. He began sending Providences out to shift the
life patterns of witches and wizards so they would eventually find their place
in his army of Death Eaters and make him almost impossible to bring down.
Ashla, he knew, was the only cog in his elaborate plan. He knew what she was.
More importantly, he knew what she could do if given half the chance. So, he
employed his twisted brain cells and made sure that if she wouldn’t join them,
her mouth would stay shut. With help from Serendipity, he took away and
practically held for ransom the one thing she knew to be true and thus had her
full, if reluctant, word to keep quite regardless of what happened. It was the
first and last selfish thing she ever did and look where it got her.
The Potters may have died at her own hands, she thought. She should have been
there; she should have gathered that Voldemort considered the Potter’s more
than a passing threat. That night was both a tragedy and blessing – they lost
their best Keepers in Lily and James but gained back the control of the
Commission in Voldemort’s suspicious disappearance, despite Ashla often
questioning Serendipity’s intentions. And they still had Harry. The Boy Who
Lived despite the massive plans for his and his family’s end. The one person
that Ashla knew, that of age, would stand up beside her and end this once and
for all. The back of her notebook was covered in names; names she knew would
also be standing beside her when the time came. The walls of Hogwarts held the
brightest lights that magic had ever seen and as if in a flash, she knew her
reasons for having the dreams and for being there at that very moment.
She grabbed her cloak and notebook and headed towards Dumbledore’s quarters.
They had to devise a plan before time ran out – and they were left defenceless
to Voldemort’s scheme.
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“Boys.” Hermione crossed her arms across her chest and
walked quickly down the empty corridor. Their implications of the new teacher
and Dumbledore seemed unfeasible in her opinion. As if Dumbledore wouldn’t
know if one of his faculty was evil – especially Snape. The man was an
ex-Death Eater, for God’s sake; don’t they think he’d be under the closest
of scrutiny from the headmaster?
And as for the new DADA teacher, well, there was no doubt in her mind that Ashla
Morgan was nothing but an advocate for pure decency, even if she was part-veela.
There was something about her that had struck Hermione from the moment they met,
may it be those clear blue eyes or the way that she had almost looked right into
Hermione’s soul. Of course, there was no point in asking Ron and Harry if
they’d experienced it too, considering their main focal point was situated
between her neck and waist. Boys.
Quickening her pace, Hermione tightened her Gryffindor cloak around her. Not
that Harry and Ron would notice anything in regards to emotion or feeling, she
thought angrily. It had been obvious that she’d not been in the greatest of
moods of late, yet when they asked after her, they simply asked once and never
asked again, like it was of little importance in light of the latest Chuddley
Cannons game or how short the Patil twins’ uniforms had become.
Well, she supposed, perhaps she wasn’t being all that fair. Granted, she had
shot them down when asked. And she had gone to tell them but stopped; they
hadn’t tried to stop her. She sighed again. Everything was just getting so
confusing! If only she’d hadn’t have gone on that holiday with Viktor, she
mused, everything would be settled and fine and a-okay and groovy, and she would
be able to concentrate on the start of the year like the good little A-grade
student she was.
Sighing again, she rounded the corner that lead to the Gryffindor common room.
Maybe that whole ‘A-Grade Student’ thing was her problem to begin with.
“Do you have permission to be outside of the Hall, Miss Granger?” She jumped
at the voice and a startled expression crossed her face before being replaced
with one of scorn.
“I could ask the same for you, Malfoy.” Draco walked slowly out of the
shadows with his hands in his pockets, almost cat-like and liquid in his
transition. His hair was scruffed slightly, with blonde tufts sticking out here
and there, and his tie was loose under his usually impeccable blazer. There was
an unreadable expression on his face, replacing the usual cat-who-ate-the-cream
look that she had come to know and loathe.
“I have permission, actually.” He pulled a piece of parchment out of his
cloak and held it up between two tapered fingers. “My father delivered an
urgent owl and I was given permission to receive it.”
“Secret Malfoy Business, no doubt,” Hermione scowled. Shrugging, Draco
walked closer to her, still with the same placid expression.
“Probably. Or a subtle form of a Howler. Or my booklist. Or even a wedding
invitation to my cousin’s wedding.” She looked at him in surprise.
“You didn’t read it?”
“Why should I?”
“Because, it’s from your father?” He laughed dryly.
“Yeah. Oh, I forgot,” he said derisively, tapping his forehead. “Your
mummy and daddy actually send you care packages and parchment filled with
hilarious anecdotes about the time Uncle Louie’s pants fell down when he was
dancing the Bus Stop at cousin Felecia’s wedding before he fell into the cake
and we couldn’t stop laughing, gosh, Honey, I wish you could have been
there!”
“Don’t you dare take that tone with me.” He was standing extremely close
to her now, closer than that morning at King’s Cross Station. She could feel
his breath on her face, and for once, his grey eyes seemed to be filled with a
little more than hatred. When he finally spoke, it was deep and barely above a
whisper.
“I can take whatever tone I want, Hermione.” The way he said her name was
like a shotgun going off in a small room, her body jumping physically at the
sound. The hairs on her arms were standing up, her breath quickened and the
blood was rushing rapidly to her head. This was ridiculous, she reasoned with
herself, and tried unsuccessfully to get away. Draco’s hand fell on her arm
and he leaned back a little, like he was watching an exceptionally interesting
play. He bit his lip thoughtfully.
“Did you know I spent the summer in the Alps?”
The look on her face said it all. She gasped and threw his hand off her before
turning and entering the relative safety of the Gryffindor common room, leaving
Draco far behind. Watching the Fat Lady, he sighed heavily. He’d said it to
her, yet he’d garnered no pleasure from it. His father would be mortified,
Draco thought sullenly.
The letter from his father, the one delivered by urgent
owl post? He’d read it all right. And despite whatever threats Lucius Malfoy
threw at him, Draco knew that he could never stoop so low as to commit to the
plans his father had outlined. “Slytherin pride, son,” he’d said. “Think
about your goals!” ‘Your
goals’? His goals more like it. Draco turned on his heel and started
towards his room. This year, he decided, this year was the year that Draco
Malfoy stepped out of his father’s shadow and made his own choices. And if his
father’s letter was to be believed, the sooner the better.
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