The Tutor

The advertisement ran in the Daily Prophet; 'a young man accustomed to tuition is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family where the children are under sixteen. He is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good Wizard education, together with extended Dark Arts, Charms, and Flying. Address, H.P., Durmstrang, Surrey.'

When Hedwig came with the letters, there was only one, and H.P. opened it with careful expectation.

'If H.P., who advertised in the Daily Prophet of last Thursday, possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if he is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered him where there is but one pupil, a little boy, fifteen years of age; and where the salary is thirty galleons per annum. H.P. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the direction: Mrs. McGonagall, Hogwarts, Scotland.'

The salary was twice what H.P. made at Durmstrang, and though Scotland was very far, H.P. felt sure the opportunity was a good one, and so he sent a letter to his natural guardian, Mrs. Petunia Dursley. She wrote back that Mr. H.P. may do whatever he wished, as she and her husband had no care to interfere in his affairs any longer. He received a testimonial from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons and sent them along to Mrs. McGonagall, who found it to her taste and took him on.

The next month passed quietly, with H.P. making preparations to change households and begin tutoring the fifteen year old. H.P., being only eighteen and recently accomplished from school himself, had never overseen someone so close to his own age. He cut down his already meager supplies to a few robes, the necessary library, his Firebolt, and his wand, placing them all in the trunk he had carried since the Dursleys.

He would have Flooed but Hogwarts was not commonly connected to the network, and so he waited for someone to take him. H.P. waited alone in a pub called The Leaky Cauldron with his trunk by his side, but it was very late in the afternoon with no sign of a carriage or driver. Finally he asked a waiter who was serving him Butterbeer if he had heard of Hogwarts, and the waiter replied that he hadn't, but went along and asked. He appeared back at H.P.'s side very quickly.

"Is your name Potter, sir?"

"Yes."

"There is a person here waiting for you."

Harry Potter took up his trunk and looked towards where a man stood near the wall. The pub's doorway was open, and Mr. Potter saw only one carriage waiting outside.

"That all your luggage?" the man asked, pointing to the large, shabby trunk.

"Yes. How far are we from Hogwarts?"

The man looked amused, and after casting a Shrinking spell on Harry's trunk, gestured him over. "A long ways, I imagine. Come here and take up the other end of this Portkey."

Harry came and took up the other end of a book the man procured from his long coat. Nothing happened for long moments; he was about to speak but suddenly there was a wrenching in his gut. When he blinked and looked around he was standing in the courtyard of a great estate. Hogwarts, he assumed, towered above them from a lofty stone height, looking very much like a castle. Harry Potter was baffled by the sheer size of the house; Durmstrang had been outsized and lavish, but Hogwarts trumped it by far.

"You got your trunk still?"

Harry nodded and felt for the miniature item tucked in his pocket. He was led inside by the man, through enormous doors that did not look to be made of wood. They walked through different portrait-filled corridors until they reached a sitting room where dust covered every imaginable surface. There was a fire going but nearly to its embers, and in one high-backed chair sat Mrs. McGonagall, who was gazing at a book across her lack with weary interest. Mrs. McGonagall was stern and matronly, just as Harry had imagined her, with an odd tartan cap atop her graying head. Spectacles nothing like the ones Harry wore perched on her nose and glinted as she studied him.

"How do you do? I hope you are not sick from the Portkey; Argus spells them so poorly. You look chilled; come sit by my side at the fire."

"Mrs. McGonagall, I suppose?" Harry came forward and sat in a dusty armchair to the right of the old lady.

"Yes." She closed up her book, Transfiguring Plants, and leaned across the space between them. Her hands took up a warm blanket and draped it over him. "Dobby, bring some Pumpkin Juice and make a sandwich for Mr. Potter." A house elf Harry had not known was there nodded and disappeared with a pop. "You look as if you have not eaten one full meal in all your life," she said kindly, and Harry immediately decided he was fond of stern Mrs. McGonagall. "Now, lean closer to the fire, it is drafty in here. You have your luggage with you?"

"Yes. It is spelled to fit in my pocket."

"I will have it unpacked. Argus, take Mr. Potter's luggage to his room."

Argus came and took the tiny trunk from Harry's outstretched palm, and stalked off muttering to himself. Harry was surprised at the kind reception - apart from the muttering Argus, although he was kinder than Harry anticipated. Dobby came back into the room with a tray, and McGonagall cleared a spot at the table beside her for it.

"Ma'am," Harry asked, after handed a roast beef sandwich, "when shall I have the pleasure of meeting the child, Mr. McGonagall?" She stared at him strangely and he repeated the question.

"Mr. McGongall? Oh! You mean Mr. Malfoy; your pupil is named Mr. Malfoy."

"Indeed? He is not your son?"

"No. I have no family, you see." Harry was puzzled at the relation, then, but it was not polite to ask. "I'm glad you're here now, it will be pleasant to have some company now, aside from Draco. To be sure Hogwarts is a fine old place, if in disrepair of late, and the winters are terrible. The sunshine sets all to rights though, and this summer Draco came with his nurse. Between us all it should be quite gay."

Harry said he hoped Mrs. McGonagall, whose Christian name turned out to be Minerva, would find his company as enjoyable as he was finding hers. She smiled faintly and glanced at a tall grandfather, which said it was nearly 12 o'clock.

"I will not keep you up late to-nite. It is twelve and you have just Portkeyed in, you must be very tired. If you're ready I will show you your bedroom. It's the room next to mine; a small apartment, but very agreeable and cozy. Not like the front chambers, which are dustier than this, and very solitary."

Minerva cast a Lumos and took him out of the room and up some stairs. She chattered to him about the Prophet and her book about transfiguring plants (which she said was awfully boring and little-minded; turning poppies to forks and silly things like that). The portraits stared at Harry as he went along, all either severe men with large noses they looked down at him over, or pointy blonde wizards who looked slightly like rats. Nowhere could Harry see anyone who looked stern but gentle like Minerva, and he imagined she must have been a keeper of some sort.

Minerva said good-nite and gave him the password to his room, which she said he may change at will. Harry took her up on it, changing the password from 'mugwart' to 'Nimbus 2000,' as he could easily remember it.

His trunk was unpacked and standing empty against the wall, a tall oak breakfront standing with a few lone robes in it. Harry's Firebolt, which had taken four months to save for, was propped on the wall opposite Harry's bed. He didn't care to venture a guess as to where his books had been stored.

Harry changed into his nightshirt swiftly, staring idly at the sparse but comfortable furnishings (a desk, the breakfront, a large bed, and a chair). A portrait that had been sleeping before he came in waved groggily at him as he slipped beneath the cool covers of his bed.

Sleep came quickly, and with ease.

The next morning Harry rose quite early, and took tea still in his nightshirt. When he finally dressed he wore his black robes over plain trousers and a shirt, because it was the best ensemble he owned. He went downstairs and studied the portraits at length, some of whom were still asleep. Dobby came and checked if he needed anything, and Harry asked to be brought to the library, which is where Minerva found him.

"Why, aren't you an early riser?" She sounded pleased, and Harry set down his Potions text to speak with her. She took his hand and squeezed it warmly. "How do you like Hogwarts?"

"I like it very much."

"Yes, it is an impressive place, but I fear it will fall into a worse state with Draco here, unless Mr. Snape should come home and decide to reside here permanently."

"Mr. Snape? Who is he?"

"He owns Hogwarts. Didn't you know his name?" Harry had never heard of a Mr. Snape before. "Oh, dear, you must have thought I owned it," which was not true; Harry thought the owner must have been a Malfoy. "I'm simply the housekeeper. I believe I am distantly related to the Snapes on my mother's side, or at least Albus was - my husband, you see - but I'm nothing but an ordinary manager."

"And Mr. Malfoy, what of Draco?"

"He is Mr. Snape's ward, Lucius Malfoy's son. They were friends, and distant cousins. He commissioned me to find a tutor for the boy. He wanted Draco to grow up in the country, in Scotland, instead of in London or in some deplorable French villa. Ah, and here he comes, with his nurse."

Harry thought it was queer that a boy of Draco's age should still have a nurse following him around, but that was before he set eyes upon young Mr. Malfoy. Draco did not seem to notice Harry, and he strode up to Minerva, a reed-thin boy with a sharp face and shocking hair.

"Good morning, Draco. Come and say hello to your tutor. Perhaps he will make you a fine wizard some day."

From the narrowing of Draco's silver eyes, this was not a decent thing to say. He gestured with his shoulder towards Harry, and said to his nurse in a bored voice, "C'est le ma professeur."

"Mais oui, certainement," his nurse replied, eyeing Harry with a good deal of distrust. He gathered it was because of his age.

"Are they foreigners?" he asked Minerva with some surprise.

"The nurse is, yes, and Draco was born on the Continent. He came here only six months ago, and his English is often interspersed with French. His spells are fine, the Latin especially, and you can make out his meaning well enough."

Fortunately Harry had previously spent two years at Beauxbatons, where all in the house were French. It was part of his duties to learn the language so he might understand his tasks, and how to teach the other children dueling techniques. He smiled at Draco, who said nothing in return, and Dobby came to take them to breakfast.

Harry was ignored over the meal, and he conversed casually with Minerva until he overheard Draco and his nurse discussing his person. He waited for a lull in the conversation, which was predictably about his plain robes and young age, and posed a question to Mr. Malfoy in French.

Instead of being embarrassed or insulted, Draco merely blinked. "You speak my language as well as Snape does. You can talk to Pansy; she will be glad, as I am the only one who speaks to her. What's your name?"

"Potter--Harry Potter."

"Pott'r? I cannot say it."

"You can understand him?" Minerva asked Harry, although it was perfectly obvious he could. He nodded. "I wish you would ask him about his parents. I wonder if he even remembers them."

"Draco, Minerva would like to know if you remember your parents."

Draco's eyes widened in shock but quickly narrowed again in what looked like fury. With his mouth pursed in irritation, he reached for a grape and rolled it between his fingers. "I lived with my mother before she died." It was all he had to say on the subject.

Harry conveyed this to Minerva, who shook her head in something like sympathy. "Narcissa Malfoy was peculiar in the worst way. They say she danced and drank herself to death. But she taught Draco very pretty songs in French. Perhaps if we're polite he will sing one."

Harry watched Draco's expression very carefully as the boy put the grape to his lips and chewed it slowly. His skin flushed a sickly pink when Minerva spoke of his mother, which prompted Harry to wonder if maybe Mr. Malfoy knew a bit more English than he had led them to believe.

They finished with breakfast and Draco disappeared with his nurse Pansy in the direction of the library. After speaking with Minerva for a few moments more, Harry followed, as he wanted to take up his book again, and perchance speak with Draco at more length.

When he entered the library, Draco was barefoot at a window seat, reading a book of poetry aloud to Pansy. Her wand was crocheting a black scarf as she looked on, eyes slightly glazed. Draco read 'La Ligue des Rats: fable de La Fontaine' before he glanced up and noticed Harry in the room.

"My mother loved that piece," he explained, drawing his knees up closer to his chest and resting the book atop them. "When she used to say 'Qu' avez vous donc? lui dit un de ces rats; parlez!' she would move her hands and raise her voice at the question." Draco had done the same.

"Whom did you live with, after your mother died?"

"With Madame Lestrange and her husband. We are not related, but she took care of me. She is poor, for her house was not so fine as mother's. I was not long there; Mr. Snape took me with him to here, and I have known Mr. Snape far longer than Bella. The furnishings are nicer," Draco said, as if that settled it all.

"What of your father? Lucius Malfoy, I think?"

"He died in St. Mungos." It was clearly not a subject Draco wanted to dwell on.

"Where is Mr. Snape?"

Draco sighed, stretching his legs out again in front of him. The book fell to the floor. "He has not kept his promise," Draco complained. "He has brought me here to Scotland, but he has gone back to England. Mother always said a man who doesn't keep his word is worth his weight in owl droppings." Harry stifled a laugh at the expression, and Draco swiftly moved up from his seat and left the room without another word.

Harry turned to the book he had been reading earlier, but it held no sway over him. After trying to read the same section over three times, he gave up and slid the text back onto the shelf. He decided he should set to work at Draco's lesson plans, for they were sure to start soon.

However, somehow he became lost. Harry was surprised to learn, in his effort to extricate himself from the labyrinth of the halls, that not all of Hogwarts was as dusty as the library and sitting room. Indeed most of them were extraordinarily well-kept; pristinely dusted and in total order. When he rounded a corner, he found Minerva waving her wand at a stack of papers, which promptly sorted themselves into smaller, neater stacks.

"You keep this place in commendable order, Minerva. Though the air always feels chilly in the rooms, but you would think they were lived in daily."

Minerva nodded. "Mr. Snape, while he may not visit often, when he does it is without notice. I try to keep the place to his standards. This end of the house is near his Potions lab, and Mr. Snape constantly worries that the dust will contaminate his elixirs."

"Is Mr. Snape a terribly exacting man?" Harry was curious to know.

Minerva actually laughed. "Well, yes. He is a Master, and he has a gentleman's taste and habits. Snape is the most exacting wizard I know."

"Do you like him? Is he well-liked?"

"The Snapes are very highly respected - much like the Malfoys used to be, before Lucius, and then Narcissa... well, Narcissa was born a Black, that's all that can be said for her. Almost all the land in this area belongs to Snape. That's a funny story, in fact; Lucius left Hogwarts to Snape before he died, but Snape owns Snape Manor and several other properties. He is quite rich, and his skill at Potions is unheard of."

"Well, do you like him? Is he liked for himself, not his money or his potions?"

"I have no reason to dislike Mr. Snape, and all of his tenants will say he is a fair and just landlord, though he never lives among us."

Harry was beginning to be frustrated at the lack of personal response. "So he has nothing about him that is distasteful? What is his personality?"

"Oh, Mr. Snape is impeccable. He is rather peculiar, I suppose, with his Potions and his cumbersome robes. He is traveled, and very clever, though every time I speak with him I feel as if there is some great joke I do not understand. As though the joke is me." Minerva frowned. "He is a curious man," she decided.

"In what way is he curious?"

Minerva shook her head. "I cannot say. It is incidental; he is a very good master."

She was done with organizing the papers, and so she moved on to other parts of the house. Harry followed, at a loss for anything to do but Draco's lessons, which were not particularly thrilling to contemplate.

"Would you like to see more of the house?"

Harry agreed and they set out to examine the various bedrooms. There was a whole wing of Hogwarts that was kept as meticulously as Snape's Potions wing, and Harry wondered if these were the servant's quarters. He said so aloud.

"No, they occupy apartments in the back. No one ever sleeps here. There are no ghosts at Hogwarts, but if there were, this would be its haunt."

"You have no ghosts, then?" The other old family estates Harry had heard of all had ghosts.

"We have none but Peeves, who is a poltergeist."

"No traditions either, then?"

"I don't believe so. Although both the Malfoys and the Snapes were known to be violent and disruptive in life. Perhaps that is why they sleep so soundly now." She sighed, looking around the blue bedroom they currently stood in. "If you will excuse me, I have to see Dobby about tonight's supper."

Harry stayed in the room even as she left, for there was a small selection of Quidditch books piled on a large desk. He picked one up he hadn't heard of before and sat down to pursue it. He was reading on a very interesting trick-dive when a sound caught his ears.

Someone laughed; the sound a deep, mirthless shiver that chased up Harry's spine. He set down his book and went to the door, wondering if Draco was outside of it. There was no one in the hallway. Startled, Harry retraced his steps to the kitchens.

"Minerva?" he asked, and she turned to him. "Did you hear that loud laugh? Who was it?"

"Laugh? It was probably one of the servants, or possibly Peeves."

"But did you hear it?"

"Why, yes. I am sure it was Peeves now; he's often in that wing, causing all sorts of trouble." Before she was done speaking, the laugh sounded again, though much fainter and cut off abruptly.

"Peeves!" Minerva bellowed.

Harry did not expect Peeves to come rushing through a wall, whistling a bawdy tune and juggling a vase from foot to foot. "Yes, Kitty?"

"Too much noise, Peeves. Remember."

Peeves gave an affirming whistle, louder than the rest, and nodded. Before leaving, he gave a mighty kick and the vase flew high in the air. He watched it fall to the floor and shatter with gleaming eyes.

Minerva muttered the charm to repair it and shooed Peeves out of the room. "I honestly cannot fathom why Mr. Snape prefers to keep that nuisance in the house. He's nothing but a distraction. By the by, did you happen to speak with Draco again after breakfast? How are you getting on?"

Harry shrugged. "I cannot tell. He spoke to me in the library about a Mrs. Lestrange and a poem his mother enjoyed."

"Ah, Bella. When Mr. Snape found out where Draco was staying, I swear I have never seen him so angry. She isn't all there. Before the Ministry intervened, she was fond of giving the odd Crucio or two to her help. Or anyone else she deemed beneath her, for that matter."

Harry shivered at the idea of such a woman bringing up a child. He considered himself lucky, in retrospect, that the Dursleys were Muggles and knew nothing of the Unforgivables, or he would probably be worse off than Lestrange's oldest house elf.

"Well, Harry, why don't you go upstairs and change for lunch?"