Mad North

--"I am but mad north by northwest--when the wind blows southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw"

--William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Chapter 6

It had been a long time since Professor McGonagall had seen that kind of look in a child's eyes. It was the look of a demon, one that made the eyes appear red and glowing, no matter what color they supposed to be. It made the whole face look like some caricature of a human being, something out of a nightmare. And it was no different with Isolte Stands-Rike.

McGonagall had thought nothing of grabbing the girl's hand. She had been waiting for a fight to break out. It was only natural, with the two of them sitting at the Ravenclaw table. She was surprised it was a Ravenclaw that started it, though. She had expected a Slytherin to come over and start harassing the boy for not sitting at his own table. But when Miss Stands-Rike had punched Miss Smithely, McGonagall's breath had caught in her chest. When the girl had raised her wand in the air, her first reaction was to pull out her own wand. Reason got the better of her, and she'd grabbed the girl's wrist instead.

But then, Miss Stands-Rike had turned around and looked at her. She had almost lost it--almost let go of the girl's wrist, almost stepped back in surprise. Her eyes were devoid of--what? There was nothing in them save that demonic glow that could not be called apathy, because there was something there. But what it was, was indescribable. McGonagall couldn't have called it rage. She had seen rage in a child's eyes before. She seen children rage at each other, at teachers, at her. But she'd never seen this in a child before. It touched something in the back of her mind, spectral fingers of thought tried to grasp the word for the emotion she saw. But it slipped through like water through the rocks. A hot wave of frustration started at her chest and exploded though her reaching her fingertips before they loosened their grip on her wrist.

Relief hadn't swept through her until she'd managed to get Miss Stands-Rike into her office. She had flung Miss Stands-Rike's arm, catapulting the girl in front of her. She turned around to shut the door and she saw the Headmaster had followed them, Miss Stands-Rike's wand in his hand.

"I do not know what they allowed you to get away with at your other school," McGonagall fumed, turning around to the girl again, "but such behavior is completely unacceptable here!"

The girl simply stared at her, that same demonized hatred in her eyes. No, hatred isn't right.

"Why don't you have a seat, Isolte," Dumbledore said.

Miss Stands-Rike rested her glare on him. She then took a step backward and sat down in the chair in front of McGonagall's desk. The Transfiguration teacher tightened her lips into a thin, straight line and opened her mouth to speak. She blinked in surprise when she heard Dumbledore's voice come out it.

"I am sure that Isolte understands that what she has done is unacceptable, is that not so?" Dumbledore was speaking, and he turned his bright blue eyes onto the student in the chair. She made no move that she heard him other than her hard stare. "How do you propose you make up for it, Isolte?"

The girl didn't answer.

"You can apologize to Miss Smithely," Professor McGonagall answered for her, "and then you can help to clean the tables that you found so irresistible to sully."

Miss Stand-Rike's look didn't change. In fact, the look that had been brewing in her eyes became a concentrated beam directed at McGonagall in full force. Again, McGonagall tried to identify the look, but it was hidden from her, as if she'd forceably stuffed into the receses of her mind so that she couldn't grasp it. The room was silent. All McGonagall could hear was the three of them breathing.

"I am not sorry," the girl said loudly, raising her chin toward McGonagall.

"I beg your pardon?" McGonagall said before she could stop herself.

"I am not sorry," she said again, "I will not apologize."

"Miss Stands-Rike--"

Dumbledore interrupted her for the second time that night, "Very well," he said. "Then you can simply help to clean the tables. The house elves will appreciate that chore being taken off of their hands for the evening I am sure." He shut the door gently behind him, and walked over the length of the room to stand beside McGonagall. "Dobby," he called softly. A moment later the house elf appeared. "Would you tell Mr. Filch to come and fetch Miss Stands-Rike for her detention this evening?" The little elf nodded his head, his ears flopping. "After he's finished his tea, of course. And speaking of tea," he continued, "could you have some brought up for us. I don't believe Miss Stands-Rike has eaten yet."

A moment later, much too quickly McGonagall thought, another house elf appeared with three tea trays floating in the air. Dumbledore took one, McGonagall followed suit, and the third floated onto Miss Stands-Rike's lap. The house elf, wearing a tea towel that had a little fringe on the end looking somewhat like a flapper's dress, gave the girl a sympathetic look before saying, "Is there anything else that you bees needing?"

"No thank you, Tutu," said the Headmaster, "but you can tell everyone that they'll not be cleaning the Great Hall tonight."

Tutu blinked, and then stared with her large, bulbous eyes at the student in the chair, "B--b--but, but Tutu hasn't done anything wrong, sir!" Her squeaked so high McGonagall had to squint. "Why can't wes be cleaning the Hall tonight, why?"

Dumbledore looked down at her, smiling. "Miss Stands-Rike is being punished for dirtying the tables," he explained softly, "so she is to clean the Hall tonight."

"But Tutu hasn't done anything wrong, sir!" the elf wailed.

"No, you haven't, Tutu," Dumbledore bent down, eyes still on her, "but Miss Stands-Rike has. She won't get the same pleasure out of cleaning the Hall that you do."

"The whole Hall?" Tutu's voice was as small as she was, "Tutu can't clean any of the Hall?"

Dumbledore chuckled. He turned his gaze to McGonagall and said, "Isolte will be cleaning just the tables?"

McGonagall caught the question, her anger abating slightly. At least I'm not totally out of the loop, she told herself, nodding to the Headmaster.

Dumbledore turned back to Tutu, and nodded, "Just the tables then." The house elf nodded back, noticeably happier and disappeared.

Dumbledore took one of the little sandwiches from the tray that floated in front of him and began eating. His eyes rested thoughtfully on Miss Stands-Rike, who was plugging her sandwiches into her mouth as if she expected them to disappear from her plate at any moment. She never once looked up at either of them.

To be honest, McGonagall would not have expected this type of behavior from Miss Stands-Rike. She thought, during Transfigurations earlier in the day, that Dumbledore had been wrong, there was no way she could be violent. She paid attention during class, nodding when appropriate, taking notes when appropriate. She had a habit of looking about her at the other children, but that was normal, it was her first week after all. She had managed to turn her cup into a frog on her third try. Not great, but not bad. Her brother had done it on his first, so she was expecting similar results from her. But getting it on the third try wasn't bad at all.

But the child that she had brought up to her office was not the same one she had taught in her Transfiguration class. This girl was disobedient, sullen, and refused to look at either them, she simply stared at her empty plate, and occasionally took sips of her tea. McGonagall couldn't catch her eye, couldn't see if that same look was there. What was it? She knew, she knew that she knew, and that frustrated her. It's not the girl's fault you cannot identify an emotion you claim to see in here eyes. But that didn't make her feel any better.

A knock brought McGonagall's attention to the door. It opened, revealing Filch, at his feet Mrs. Norris. He smiled, looking at Miss Stands-Rike like a piece of meat he was about to put into the oven. "Washing the tables, eh?" he said.

Miss Stands-Rike looked up and blinked. The look was gone from her face now, there was no light in her green eyes, from either a demonic hell that shone through them or from the wonder of excitement that had been there earlier in the day. Her rosy cheeks had gone several shades paler. "Yes sir," she said, standing up and reaching out a hand to Dumbledore. McGonagall wanted to bat her arm away, how dare she suppliant him now, after her blatant defiance only a few moments earlier.

"You won't be needing that," Filch said, his head moving in the direction of Dumbledore's hand. "You'll be doing your work with good old fashioned elbow grease."

Dumbledore still held her wand in his hands.

Miss Stands-Rike's shoulders slumped and she turned toward Mr. Filch. He led her out of the room, "Good evening Headmaster," he said with a nod, "Professor McGonagall."

"Good evening Mr. Filch," he replied, "good evening Isolte."

The girl turned around, her eyebrows came together slightly, as if she were thinking hard about something. She didn't look at McGonagall, only Dumbledore, before turning from them and grabbing the door knob. The door shut softly behind them.

McGonagall turned to Dumbledore, "Albus--"

He held up his hand, "She's paying for her crime, Minerva," he said. "And her crime is a relatively small one."

"She was going to cast a spell on Miss Smithely," she said.

"Sara didn't have her wand out," Dumbledore took a sip of his tea. "I imagine Isolte was going to send her across the rest of the room."

McGonagall sighed. "When I had her in class today, I was sure you were wrong."

Dumbledore raised his white eyebrows. "Wrong about what?"

"Her being violent," McGonagall said, "she was so well behaved."

"She has apparently been well behaved in her other classes too," Dumbledore said.

"It was if she were some other child, the look in her eyes," McGonagall shook her head. "There was nothing left of the girl in class there." The look had pushed Miss Stands-Rike out of her body, replacing her with something else. Just like...McGonagall let out a gasp. She saw in her mind's eye, Dumbledore, twenty years earlier, sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. He looked up at her, "I had so hoped," he said, "that we had made some impact on Tom Riddle. I had so hoped..." The look in his eyes was the same as the one she had seen in Miss Stands-Rike's. "Despair," she said. "There was nothing but despair."

"But not when you taught her in class today," Dumbledore pointed out.

McGonagall shook her head. "What does a fourteen year old know that she could despair?" she asked. "She hasn't lived long enough to know how to despair." McGonagall had lived through two World Wars, fought in the one of them, and fought in the war against Voldemort that none of the Muggles knew of. She knew what it was to despair. A fourteen year old girl couldn't possibly know anything about despair.

Dumbledore took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He swirled his tea around in his cup, as if examining the brown liquid for his thoughts. "I think she is just getting used to us," he said. "It is very different here from what she is used to, after all."

"But Albus," she said, "shouldn't she eat at her own table then? How is she going to get used to us if she's not sitting with her housemates?"

He looked up from his tea and regarded her. "Isolte, Tristan and Galahad appear to be very close." He paused, looking into her eyes in that way that made it seem as if he were looking into one's soul. "But they need to know their housemates." He nodded, more to himself it seemed than to McGonagall. "They can eat dinner at the Ravenclaw table," he said, "but breakfast and lunch must be at their own tables." He put his teacup down on the floating tray, which then disappeared. "I will tell Severus to tell Tristan." He held up Miss Stands-Rike's wand and said, "This wood is Baobab." He lifted it up and down as if weighing it in his hand. "It has been a long time since I've seen a Baobab wand. Made by Belawi Teniu, no doubt. I wonder what's in it."

"Should something else not be done, Albus?" McGonagall called after him.

He turned. "About what?"

McGonagall sighed. "Miss Stands-Rike."

"Oh!" he chuckled, and tucked her wand up his sleeve. "No, I don't believe so. What she did wasn't that bad." He turned back to ward the door. "After all, Minerva, you didn't even take any points from her."

McGonagall opened her mouth to protest, but then realized that she hadn't.

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