Eight Shades of Green

Chapter 2-The Staff Meeting

"Settle down, people, settle down!" Dumbledore called the meeting to order and immediately everyone stopped talking and looked towards him. He smiled at them all, although his smile was lacking some of its usual twinkle.

"To begin with," he asked, "are there any messages or other such announcements?" Two people raised their hands. One was a small, stumpy witch who taught Advanced Alchemy to a small group of NEWT-level students, and the other was the unmistakable Care of Magical Creatures teacher, Rubeus Hagrid. Dumbledore indicated towards the small witch, who was chewing her hair nervously. During her first term teaching at Hogwarts, Dorothy Denney had gained a reputation for being even more nervous that Professor Quirrell.

"W-w-well, I th-th-thought that p-p-perhaps we, we could m-m-maybe have a-a, emm, some refreshments." With an almost lazy wave of his wand Dumbledore conjured up some goblets of pumpkin juice and several steaming tankards of butterbeer.

"Anything else?" he asked. "Ah, yes. What is it, Hagrid?"

"Well Professor Dumbledore, I don't mean ta' sound rude, but some o' them ruddy firs' years 'ave been usin' my pum'kin patch as a shortcut to the 'erbology green'ouse, and it's tramplin' all my pum'kins."

" I'll see to it that a message is put up in all of the common rooms. Now, down to business..." he was interrupted by a sharp tap at the door, and the clanking of the door-handle. It opened a few inches and in walked a man. He was thin and pale, with very fair blond hair, features that seemed to be both sharp and soft at the same time and eyes the colour of the sky on a dull, cloudy day. The combination of his fairness and his paleness made him seem at times almost translucent. It also made him look a lot younger than his forty years. He was too delicate to be considered handsome, but was undeniably attractive, possibly even pretty. He wore a long, emerald cloak fastened with a silver clip at his right shoulder, which he managed to wear over his thin body in a way that was perfect yet seemed to have cost him no effort at all. The only things that really showed his age and his profession were the dark bags under his eyes, which gave him an air of a world-weary person.

"Sorry I'm late. I had Third years, Susannah Longbottom managed to melt another cauldron and I had to supervise her cleaning it up. When do they learn cleaning spells?" said Draco Malfoy with a tired drawl.

"Fourth year," replied Harry, who was laughing at the memory of Susannah's father, Neville, who was famed for his abysmal potion-making skills. Neville was currently in New Zealand, working on a plan with their Minister for Magic, Augustine Periwithiel, to try and prevent an influx of black-market wands now that they had introduced a three-sickle wand tax. At least, that was what the Daily Prophet cover-up story had said. Harry, and all the others in the staff-room, knew better.

"There is no more time for apologies and excuses," said Dumbledore, frowning slightly at Draco, who grinned back. "We have a meeting here, and I will allow no more interruptions. Else, we might miss the beginning of what I am sure is to be an excellent Quidditch match. To begin, I would like to welcome the latest member of staff, Mr Sirius Black." The whole room turned around to stare at him, and he looked very embarrassed. "Many of you will be familiar with Sirius," Dumbledore continued, "but that is not to say that you will not treat him with the respect that you would any other teacher. He will be temporarily replacing Harry as head of Defence Against the Dark Arts, and will be teaching alongside our excellent Professor Remus Lupin." Lupin blushed, but no one noticed; they were too busy looking at Harry and Sirius, both of whom were wearing expressions of aghast.

Dumbledore adjourned the meeting shortly after, and requested that Harry and Sirius remained behind.

"Please come with me to my office," he said, very gravely.

*

Oh, it's you. Do come in, I have been expecting you for some time. Please take a seat. I think I know why you are here, but I'd like you to tell me anyway. Oh really? How very... Interesting. The truth? I can do that for you. I can give you the truth, but I need to know a few things before I do. Can you handle the truth? Can you live with yourself knowing it? Of course I trust you, but since you are so very useful to me, a rash decision may be one I later regret. Well, if you are sure, come a little closer...

He slapped her sharply across the face.
"Silly little bitch. Did you come all this way just to find the truth?" he spat. "Did you really think I'd give you it? Surely even you know me better than that." A thoughtful expression flashed across his face, and he changed tact with a cruel smile. "All right. I'll give you the truth. To what extent do you want it? To know that your mother, the woman you idolise, was nothing but a careless, silly little whore? That it was her loose and idiotic nature that enslaved you? That she gave away both her soul and yours for a little bit of power, a few empty promises? Is that the truth you want?"
"No!" she sobbed. "No, you're lying. My mother was good, she was innocent. You robbed her of her innocence." Her voice broke down into a flurry of tears.
"Answer me, you worthless piece of human filth," he roared. "Is that not the truth you want?" He slapped her again, harder this time, and as he drew his hand away he let his long, claw-like fingernails scratch her left cheek, piercing her skin and making her bleed. She shrank away from him, afraid to speak.

"You asked me for the truth. I gave it to you. What did you expect? For me to dilute it with rosewater until it became inextricable from the childish fantasies you have woven about your origins? You are mine, wholly, and you serve only me. That is thanks to your wonderful mother and all of her purity, her innocence, her goodness and all of the other lies you have comforted yourself with. As you have wallowed in self-pity you have created a heroine. A heroine that never was. I have given you your truth, and I hope you have enjoyed it."
"No you don't." Her voice was strangled and bitter, contorted with rage. "You hope nothing, feel nothing and care for nothing. My mother may have sold you my soul but she did not sell you my spirit. Why is it that you crave possession of my soul when you gave away your own."
"You have forgotten your place. Perhaps I ought to remind you. Crucio." His cold, hard, voice rang out through the bare stonewalls of the room and all the passageways surrounding them. When he had grown uncharacteristically bored with torture, he lowered his wand, leaving a young woman, little more than a girl, twitching and writhing on the floor.