Chimaera of Judgement



CHAPTER EIGHT: The Meaning Of Pain

The first Monday in October dawned with a slight drizzle, which could be seen through the windows of the Great Hall and in the shade of grey of the clouds writhing around the enchanted ceiling. Rose was pulling a second plate of kippers toward her as Albus continued eating his way through a bowl of porridge when the owls began swooping into the room, delivering the post.

"Ah, excellent!" he heard Tranquilius Thomas exclaim from the next table. "Mum's sent on a nargle talisman - this'll help keep them away when I'm studying."

A few older students gasped when they saw it, and the Head Girl, a somewhat dumpy Ravenclaw named Lucy Corner, immediately grabbed it and raced from the room, Tranky running after her asking politely why she had taken complete leave of her senses.

"What's all this?" Barty demanded of the gathered crowd.

"That may fend off nargles, whatever they are," Gwydion Lahey said, adjusting his square-rimmed spectacles and clutching at his chest. "Unfortunately, it may also have driven us all insane eventually; it was made of a Fwooper larynx."

Everyone was still chattering about this when Albus noticed Dobby had landed in front of him, bearing a rather long package and nipping at his hand expectantly. He rubbed his soft feathers with a forefinger before offering him a bit of toast off his plate.

"What've you got there, Al?" Martin asked, leaning in for a closer look on his elbows.

"Dunno," he said, ripping off the paper hurriedly. "Oh-!"

His father's broom, the weathered, dependable Firebolt, rolled out and onto the table. For a nearly thirty-year-old sanded-down tree branch, he had to admit it still appeared to be in fine shape.

Rose's hand found a spot on the table next to his arm for support. "Blimey..."

"Hmm, not a bad broom, there," Gwydion said from over his shoulder. "Looks familiar, though..."

"Hey, that's James's old Firebolt, isn't it?" Aiden McLaggen said bemusedly. "Wow, can't believe he handed it over, the way you two go at it!"

"That's because it wasn't technically his to give," Rose snorted, crooking her arm around Albus's neck. "It's your dad's old ride from back in his day, isn't it, Al?"

"Yeah," he breathed. Then he noticed there was a note among the wrappings; he grabbed for it and read it through several times quickly.

"Dear Albus,
Well done making the House team! This broom might not be good enough for your brother anymore, but hopefully you'll find use for it until you can afford a new one of your own. We've always known you had it in you - you just had to realise it, too. Go get that Snitch, son!
Love, Mum and Dad

P.S.: Don't start any duels with the Slytherins after matches and risk getting yourself kicked off the team - trust us!"

When he'd written to tell his parents about making the team, he had asked if they could scare up the gold for a used Comet or something; he knew after he'd just been given that beautiful silver cloak that they probably wouldn't like the idea of buying him a top-quality broom. This, as far as he was concerned, was better than getting a brand new one; they trusted him with their memories. As he glanced around at the rest of the table, he found he couldn't possibly express how proud he was to be a Potter at that moment - but Rose, for one, had been reading over his shoulder, and if he wasn't mistaken her eyes were a bit mistier than usual.

Then, Ryan Macmillan tutted and said, "Wow, that thing's seen better days. Couldn't you ask your parents to get you a new broom? I mean, you're Seeker, you'll need something with speed - not that antiquated twig."

Rose laughed sycophantically. "Oh, very good, Ryan - you are ever so witty! Now, why don't you go and shove your mouldy Cleansweep Twenty-Two straight up your witty-"

"What's going on?" Olivia Wood said as she reached them; her trained eyes instantly recognised the broomstick. "Oh, you've got James's old model; good, good. It's never once steered him wrong."

That shut Macmillan up.

Meanwhile, the days continued to roll along pleasantly, even if the weather did not reflect this. Albus was getting more than decent marks in all his classes (excepting History Of Magic, perhaps), and Quidditch practise was going quite well, also - especially once he'd acquired the Firebolt, which upped his game considerably. He even convinced Rose to stop saying "I told you so" about him making the team in the face of their mounting workload.

"All right, all right, you don't have to go and get all shirty about it," she griped one Tuesday night as he continued to try to break through her defences and tweak her nose, something he knew she loathed for whatever reason. "But you do owe me something nice... perhaps your firstborne?"

"Duly noted. Now, should we start in on Sinistra's essay or Dryden's?"

Her eyes popped. "Have you gone round the twist?! Dryden's, you git!" she exclaimed, causing a group of second-years to look up in alarm from across the common room. Had he been in a more daring mood he'd have informed her she sounded like Hugo, but he valued his own life more than a brief laugh that might endanger it. "We've got him again tomorrow, and it wouldn't do for him of all people to catch us with our pants down!"

Albus wished very much, for her sake, that Macmillan hadn't been walking by as she said this; alas, he had been and was now chortling loudly.

"Why are you talking about whipping off your knickers? Albus here calling for a private show, or will you be giving us all the pleas-"

Before he knew what was happening, Ryan's arms and legs were flailing, and Rose's fists were raining down on the boy's face and chest again and again as she sat atop his stomach. Albus froze; should he alert Professor Longbottom, put a stop to it - or perhaps it would be best to let this happen? Then again, maybe he should be lending a hand, should have done the instant the scuffle broke out, it would be the loyal thing. Before he could decide on any course of action, however, Ryan's foot sank into the side of his pelvis and his mind suddenly became made up - grabbing, punching and generally scrabbling, Albus pounced on him, landing a blow or two before he heard a voice ring through the common room.

"My word, roughhousing in Gryffindor Tower! Shame on you, I say, whoever do you - WHAAAAAT?!"

There was a BANG, and the three of them were thrown from each other; they looked around to see Barty Weasley standing over them, wand held aloft and expression livid.

"Disgraceful! My own cousins, prefects, wrestling around like we've initiated some form of Muggle sport! And you, Macmillan, I thought you had more sense as well! Your parents would be ashamed - I'm ashamed!"

Albus started to explain. "But Barty, Ryan was making Rose sound like a-"

"Twenty points from Gryffindor!" he piped, straightening his robes unnecessarily. "It's less than you deserve, and I hope you'll think twice before losing your heads again! Behaviour like this could cost you your badges!"

As he stalked away and Albus helped Rose to her feet, Ryan chuckled, "Better not let your cousin find out what you two were talking about. Wouldn't want to bring more shame on your family name... even if it is Weasley."

Fortunately for all of them (except Ryan), Barty was not quite far enough away when he said this, and was too busy shouting at Macmillan and offering to curse him thoroughly to notice Rose straining against Albus's grip, desperately trying to begin their fight anew. Some third-year shrieked when a hex flew over her shoulder, and the whole thing ended with Professors Longbottom and Weasley shouting at them in Longbottom's office, threatening to suspend badges and send the four of them packing. Barty was the only one whom didn't receive a detention, as it was evident from all accounts that he'd been trying to break up the fight to begin with - though his mother kept talking about giving him a good spanking, and Albus thought the mere mention of this in front of other people was punishment enough.

Divination, the second class of the following morning, was held in old classroom eleven on the ground floor. It had been converted into a sort of enchanted indoor wood for the sake of Professor Firenze, who was a centaur and more at home in the forest. Their classes usually consisted of a lot of star-gazing and burning of herbs, though they employed many other methods such as dream interpreting and tea reading (practises which their professor insisted were "abysmally human and ultimately fruitless", but nevertheless taught at the Ministry's insistence - and because there's only so long you can stare at the stars before you've got the hang of it).

It also happened to be the only class he did not share with Rose - her mother had insisted most forcefully that she take anything but Divination, and faced with a choice like that Rose had taken the easiest of the remaining courses: Muggle Studies. Aunt Hermione had nearly been as disappointed with this choice as if she'd chosen Divination after all, but Albus had overheard her telling her husband, "At least she'll learn something real this way."

"Is this making you sleepy?" he asked the others as they breathed in the heady fumes from the sage and mallowsweet ablaze in front of them.

"A bit," Wayne confessed, scratching at his chin. "Still, we're supposed to be seeing something, aren't we?"

"The professor says it doesn't matter if we see anything or not," Elizabeth hissed at them from several feet away. "Remember? Witches and wizards aren't as adept at fire-readings as centaurs."

"That's not entirely true," said Caspian. "Some wizarding folk in the Far East have been known to-"

"Please keep it down," Firenze said in his usual measured tones. "Concentrate."

Albus returned to peering into the flames and hoping he wouldn't damage his eyesight this way, but his mind felt far from the indoor forest and closer to the real one. Professor Longbottom, as their Head of House, had told them they'd be serving their detention in the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid - which might not be so bad, but then again if they met the wrong beast in there...

When the bell had rung, he slipped a bit further down the corridor and out into the courtyard, where he found it easy to ignore the light mist falling on his head as he walked along, not paying attention to where he was going. He spotted Rose coming toward him and he stopped short halfway across the grass, near the statue of some unknown wizard in the centre. Before he could greet her, she blurted out, "I'm sorry."

"What?"

"Y'know, about getting you in trouble." Her expression was kind of hard to read. "Ryan's a blighter and he's not worth it, and- and we've been under so much stress, and I couldn't control my temper. Then there's the bit where prefects shouldn't be beating anyone up, and now we both have to do a sodding detention on Sunday night with Macmillan. It's all my fault, Al, and... well, sorry."

He almost laughed. "What are you on about? The pillock had it coming."

"But Barty caught us, and now we-"

"Okay, so maybe you shouldn't have actually gone and done it, but... it's not like I can really blame you, I've been wanting to pound the stuffing out of him for ages."

"And-" Her eyes darted to his fearfully. "Well, you'd said you didn't want a girl defending you, which is a load of macho rubbish, but... but I didn't mean to, y'know, emasculate you or anything."

"Yeah, well, it's not like I don't emasculate myself just by breathing," he gusted, wishing he were simply lying to make her feel better. "It really doesn't matter, don't worry about it."

She shook her head idly, leaning against the statue and staring toward the ground. "The worst part is, I don't really even feel better. Maybe while I was knocking him about - a smidge - but now I just feel stupid."

"Detention has that effect sometimes. Er, just try not to let him rile you so much, we all know what he says about you is bollocks."

"Me? What about you!" She turned to look at him sideways, and he could see she was almost as angry as if the fight were happening all over again. "The ponce is always having a go at you! You really think I care he was talking about my knickers? He lives in the same room with you - you ought to be mates after four sodding years, and yet he won't stop taking the mickey out of you, and I can't stand it!"

"Oh, Rosie..." He was painfully aware of a few heads a short way away that had turned in their direction when she was shouting, but he didn't care; he grabbed her shoulder and shook it roughly, noticing how tense the muscles were. "Hey, seriously, don't worry about me so much, okay? It's all a load of hot air from a salamander, I can handle it."

Straining against her self-control, she eventually let out a gust and returned to looking resolutely at the grass, muttering things like "bloody git" and "worth twelve of Ryan", which only served to make the colour rise once more in Albus's damp cheeks.

As they ate lunch, he couldn't help but feel the eyes the other Gryffindors on him. Undoubtedly, the story of his and Rose's attack on their classmate was already fodder for the rumour mill, and he even noticed a first-year quicken his pace as he passed them, as if afraid they would pounce without the slightest provocation. Martin Finnigan, meanwhile, agreed that Macmillan had got what was coming to him, and thought the whole affair a great laugh.

Professor Longbottom seemed to be of a different mind, as he was distinctly frosty toward Albus, Rose and Ryan in Herbology that afternoon. He called on them unexpectedly and more often than usual, putting them on the spot and causing them to stammer and answer incorrectly, or else end up covered in a substance that wouldn't come out of their clothes for several washings (which, thankfully, the house-elves took care of). Albus tried to catch his eye, to somehow apologise more earnestly, but the chance never came; he supposed their Head of House didn't think they should be fighting amongst themselves like that and wanted to impress this upon them through the cold shoulder.

They had left the greenhouses and reached the doors to the entrance hall, reeking like nothing they'd ever smelled before, when they noticed a great crowd of people already there, and they weren't moving along. Rose, the taller of the two, stood on tiptoe to see what was going on - then dropped back to her heels, eyes wide as she told him, "A chandelier fell on someone!"

Pushing and shoving, they were able to maneuver their way to the front of the crowd; Albus suspected this was made possible by the pungent odour they were giving off. There, flat on his stomach in the middle of the chamber, was Puerilis Logan, moaning and sobbing as he bled all over the flagstones. The wrought-iron chandelier looked like it had fallen from a great height, the pointed bottom of it stuck right through his calf and cracking the stone beneath.

"Calm down, young man, calm down!"

Professor Peele was already squatting beside him, the tip of her tongue clenched between her teeth as she gently moved the leg about to better assess the damage. After a moment, she withdrew her wand and said, "Mmm, quite a nasty puncture you've got there; lets try... Accio Dittany!"

With a sickening squelch that made Rose's nails dig into his arm, Professor Peele began to pull the chandelier from Logan's leg, leaving a gaping wound that only flowed more freely as she muttered a quiet incantation. Albus was on point of shouting that she was mad when he saw something very small shoot from the door to the dungeons and into her outstretched left hand. Her long fingers unstoppered the tiny bottle and allowed several drops to fall into the wound, and with a flash of greenish smoke something very strange and disgusting happened - the hole had been bad enough to look at, but watching flesh and sinew grow at an alarming rate, filling in the empty space, was just as awful if not worse. Albus felt his stomach turning.

"What the deuce is happening? Lautitia, why has a bottle of Essence of Dittany zoomed from my- Merlin..."

Professor Dryden had made his way through a knot of Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, knocking a few of them to the floor, and was now gaping at the student laying in the pool of blood. Logan had stopped crying, but he was still grunting from the lingering pain. Even as they watched, Professor Longbottom came in behind them, wiping his hands on a handkerchief - he stopped at the sight before him.

"What the - how's this happened?"

"Did you see what did this?" Professor Peele asked Logan gently as she helped him to a sitting position; Albus noticed Dryden muttering "Tergeo" and aiming his wand at the blood on the floor, which began to disappear. "Was it a student, or-"

"I don't know," he replied in a shaky voice, squeezing his calf gingerly; the wound might have magically sealed itself, but there was still an ugly-looking scar there, and it seemed a bit raw. "I was j-just walking through to the Great Hall for a bite of supper, and- and it fell on me!"

"You're sure, Logan?" Longbottom followed up swiftly, bending down to examine the chain that had once suspended the chandelier; it looked broken enough to Albus. "Nobody was around, nobody cast a spell to sever this chain?"

He shook his head. "Didn't hear anybody do anything."

"Was there-"

"Neville," said Professor Peele quietly, "this boy should be off to the hospital wing. I've sealed up the wound, but perhaps Madam Pomfrey could do something more...?"

"Yes, right you are," he sighed, mopping his his brow with the filthy rag. "Allow me, it'll be faster if - Wingardium Leviosa!"

And Logan gave a shout as he was lifted magically from the ground and began drifting toward the stairs.

"Don't squirm around so much, makes it harder to maintain the spell," Longbottom grunted as he followed the floating boy. "Okay, let's go and get you looked at, come on..."

"Move along," Professor Peele was telling the crowd. "I'm sure he'll be all right, so you needn't continue clogging the entrance hall! Go on, then! Shoo!"

As many students went their various ways, Albus found he no longer desired food; not knowing what else to do, his feet took him into the Great Hall anyway, and he suddenly found himself staring blankly into a pile of chips.

"Al?"

Never having seen something quite that horrifying, he was having a hard time shaking the image. First Headmistress Sprout, now this? Not that the two incidents had anything to do with each other, but... what if they did?

"Earth to Al!"

Apparently, Rose was trying to talk to him; his head snapped up to see her blue orbs boring into his. "Sorry... what's up?"

"What's up? Albus, that Logan dingbat nearly snuffed it just now, and you have to ask?"

He sighed, staring blankly ahead. "I know... strange, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I mean, we're supposed to be safe here, but I guess it doesn't matter where you are; if the Reaper decides today's the day, then there's nothing else for it."

"No, not that - I mean that this is the second attack."

She blinked. "Second? Wait, d'you... you think Peeves did this?"

"Why not? That multicoloured nutter would think it great fun to drop a big old piece of iron on somebody, he's always been that way."

"Hmm..." She chewed the ends of her hair absentmindedly, mulling this over. "It's weird, though - this is so much worse than his usual shenanigans."

"You're forgetting that Sprout's lights are still blinking on and off."

"Okay, fair point, but... why? Why would he suddenly decide to raise the stakes?"

Albus frowned, pouring himself a goblet of pumpkin juice more as an excuse to busy his hands. "Maybe he's bored. I mean, who knows how long he's been a poltergeist, shut up in this same old castle? That lot has to lose its seal of freshness after a century or two."

"Maybe." She shrugged, stretching her arms over her head and yawning the next few words. "I'm sure the teachers will get it all sorted soon enough. Meanwhile, do you want to hop in the bath first or should I? Cos one way or another, we need to scrape off this stench."

"You go," he said. "Age before beauty."

She smirked, then thumped him on the head affectionately before heading for the stairs and the prefects' bathroom. He spent a few more moments sipping at his pumpkin juice distractedly before something occurred to him - a way he could have proven Peeves had or hadn't done it. Taking another quick gulp and wrapping a few chips in a napkin, he made his way slowly up to Gryffindor Tower, taking most of the steps two at a time.

When he reached the dormitory, it was deserted again. In seconds he had crossed to his trunk, thrown it open, and found the Marauder's Map; taking a quick listen at the door for anyone coming up the stairs, he activated it, watching the ink spread from its magical depths and outline Hogwarts and its environs.

There was Peeves, lounging around the North Tower. He knew it was foolish to think he'd learn anything from this, too much time had already passed since the incident - the poltergeist wouldn't even have needed to hurry to get there from the entrance hall in the time it had taken Albus to watch the aftermath of his attack, sip a goblet of pumpkin juice and dash up eight flights of stairs.

But what if he'd had it with him? What if he'd taken it out as soon as he'd seen Logan sprawled beneath that chandelier - would he have seen Peeves hovering over the scene, pleased at his handiwork? Or would he have seen someone else fleeing the scene - another student, perhaps? Or-

A chilling thought occurred to him, one he didn't care for; Professor Peele had already been there. They hardly knew anything about her - what if she were the culprit? But then she wouldn't have been trying quite so hard to mend his leg - she'd have simply said there was nothing she could do, perhaps send him along to the hospital wing only to arrive moments too late. No, it couldn't be her.

However, Professor Dryden seemed just the type. His shock at seeing one of his students lying there, his presumed ignorance of why Peele had Summoned that bottle of medicine, could have all been playacting. What if he thought Logan's potions were so abominable that he had to be disposed of? That didn't make sense, either; much easier and less messy to simply fail the boy.

Unless he found out something he ought not to have. Dryden hadn't liked it when Macmillan had contradicted his claim of inventing the Wolfsbane Potion - what if Logan unearthed something worse? Perhaps that he was not a certified Potions Master, or that he wasn't really Professor Dryden? Much nastier yet, what if he'd already killed someone - several people, and Logan had stumbled upon the bodies, or even just the murder weapon?

Fighting to control his breathing, he ground his racing mind to a halt. Very soon, Rose would have finished bathing and he could take his turn, and as he soaked he could calm down and rationalise these wild theories better - then maybe he and Rose would pick them apart before their Astronomy practical that evening. That thought comforted him as he cleared off the map and tucked it away again, then grabbed some clean clothes and went downstairs to wait for the bathroom to free up.

END Chapter Eight