Summon the Lambs to Slaughter

Chapter Two

Rebecca Stanhope would remember her first glimpse of the Great Hall of Hogwarts for the rest of her life, even after images of war and death and blood and hatred had stained her vision. She sat in the entranceway, the other students spilling around her as they moved to their seats, and stared in open awe. Nothing had prepared her for this. D.A.I.M.S. and its professors had subscribed to the philosophy of understatement and concealment. Magic was hidden, performed in the darkest of alcoves and under the watchful, draconian eyes of a staff more concerned with protecting the school from prying Muggle eyes than with teaching the great art of magic. But here, here, they reveled in magic, worshipped it, gloried in it. Magic was the reason for this place, not an afterthought or a pleasant diversion to distract the students from the fact that they were not wanted or needed by the world outside.

She craned her neck to get a better look at the ceiling, and the breath caught in her throat. She was seized by the sudden, absurd urge to weep. The high ceiling was a mirror image of the night sky she thought she had left behind. Bright stars twinkled with stunning brilliance against a backdrop of utter black, and interspersed among them like paralyzed fireflies were delicate white candles bobbing on a gentle wind. It was exquisite; it was grand. She could feel the magic of it tingling in her fingertips and thrumming in her forearms. There was power in this place, and she knew instinctively that everything, absolutely everything, was about to change.

A voice came from far away. "Easily impressed, Mudblood?"

She jerked her head in the direction of the voice, wincing as the tendons in her neck spasmed. Malfoy stood flanked by a pair of oaf-faced, heavy-footed behemoths. His arms were folded across his chest, and he looked at her with undisguised loathing. His lip curled in a dangerous sneer.

"It´s beautiful," she said.

"Some of the simplest magic there is," he scoffed, and his cronies guffawed obediently.

She merely looked at him. She didn´t know what to say. The magic in this hall didn´t seem simple to her, but her exposure to real wizardry had been very limited at D.A.I.M.S. America was still a bit frigid and wary of the magical element within its borders; the Great Witch Hysteria of 1692 was still a contentious and emotionally charged topic among the preeminent scholars of the country, and the tiny American Ministry of Magic, running things from a cramped, sweltering, windowless basement in the bowels of the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C., was determined to keep a low profile. No ostentatious displays of magic were permitted-no enchanted ceilings, no decorations, no frivolous charms. As far as the U.S. Ministry was concerned, magic was a tool, not a gift, and it was to be used sparingly.

Malfoy´s snide remark, as ugly as it was, reminded her of just how little she knew of the world into which she had been born and in which she now found herself. Hogwarts was indeed going to be an education, and a difficult one at that. She looked at Malfoy in his beautiful malevolence, blinked slowly, and then said, "I didn´t know that."

The sneer widened into a vicious smile. "That doesn´t surprise me at all, you being a Mudblood."

"Yeah," chortled the larger of the two cronies, the one she would later come to know as Goyle. "A Mudblood. And a freak." This last came slowly, as if he had been pondering it at great length. The others joined in his trollish laughter, and Malfoy rewarded him with a devilish grin and a clap on the back, a master praising his clever dog.

"Shove off, Malfoy." Fred and George Weasley materialized from among the few remaining stragglers entering the Hall. Fred was advancing on Malfoy with knitted brows and closed fists. George was equally grave, eyes fixed on the suddenly cautious Crabbe and Goyle.

"Don´t worry. I wasn´t doing anything to your latest pet project, Weasley. We were just talking. What are you so worried about? Do you fancy her?" Malfoy gave her an appraising glance. "You know, from the look of her, I´d say she´d fit right in with everything else you Weasleys own-she´s just as broken down and useless."

"I do not fancy her," Fred snapped, "and she´s not broken or useless. Leave her alone, you arrogant little tosser, or I´ll do some breaking of my own."

Rebecca watched the brewing confrontation with a stoic cynicism. Things like this had happened before, and they almost always ended badly. The kindly do-gooder versus the evil, uniformed bastard was a duel as old as affliction, and though she was always at its heart, she was never more than a periphery spectator. If all went as it usually did, Malfoy would offer up a scathing retort, and Fred, her designated knight-errant, would be obliged to respond. Soon enough, fists or wands would fly until the adults in charge arrived to break up the scuffle. A trip to the headmaster´s office would be in order for the combatants, who would each offer a jumbled account of what had happened. She herself would be ignored, a prop that had served its purpose. At least until the next round of red-faced fistcuffs. She fought to stifle a sigh.

Malfoy was about to execute his role in the sordid little drama when he stopped abruptly, eyes darting to the front of the room. Rebecca followed his gaze and saw a long table, behind which sat a row of large, ornate golden chairs. All of the chairs were occupied, save one. In the center chair sat someone who could be none other than the headmaster, and though he was regarding the unfolding scene with a level, keen gaze, it was not at him that Malfoy was looking. He was, in fact, glancing two chairs to the right, at a gnarled, bent old man clutching a stout oak walking stick. The wizened little man wore a thunderous countenance, and he was glowering at Malfoy with acute disdain.

"We´ll finish our little chat later," said Malfoy, casting a nervous glance toward the scowling professor. "I´ve better things to do than get into a scuffle over something that isn´t worthy of the bottom of my shoes." With that, he swaggered away, sniggering cohorts in tow.

"That´s right," Fred called after him, waving a balled-up fist and oblivious to the heads that were beginning to turn in his direction, "slink away, you weak-livered coward."

"Don´t pay him any mind," George whispered conspiratorially in her ear. He´s an arrogant little git with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. "Don´t worry about Malfoy, either. Come on, let´s find a seat; the Sorting´s about to start."

"The Sorting?"

"Yeah. All the first years get sorted into their Houses by the Sorting Hat, a dusty, musty, mad thing that never makes much sense. It´s only interesting if you´ve got family that´s coming up. Other than that, it´s quite dull, really."

George opened his mouth to say something else, and then he stopped short. "Oh," he said, confusion spreading over his face.

Her heart sank. She knew what that "oh" meant. Something was wrong. It didn´t take her long to see exactly what. They had reached the Gryffindor table, where the rest of the House was patiently seated before empty golden plates.

Dammit, even here reality intrudes, she thought bitterly. Her outer mask of implacable composure remained in place.

"What shall we do?" asked Fred, who had also spotted the dilemma.

"I don´t know," she answered.

This was a problem she had not foreseen. Neither had any of the D.A.I.M.S. professors. The long wooden benches that served as seats for the students were beautiful, but they were useless as for as she was concerned. There was no space, not even a single inch, for her wheelchair. She could not reach the table.

"I´ve got an idea," she ventured at last.

She pulled out her wand and pointed it at the end of the bench. "Desaparercium bench end!" she commanded.

The spell worked, but not exactly as she had intended. Instead of removing only the very end of the bench, the entire bench disappeared in a green flash. Gryffindors spilled onto the floor, sprawling in a rumpled red mass. There were yowls and barks of pain as elbows and shins made contact with smooth stone. There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the rest of the Hall exploded in disbelieving laughter.

She froze, wand clutched so tightly in her shaking fingers that she could hear the groaning of the wood. Her face grew hot. Gryffindors were staring at her as they picked themselves up and dusted themselves off. There was no understanding in their eyes, only ridicule and condescension. The laughter of the other students slashed as sharply as a razor against her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if closing her eyes would blot out the terrible sound, made worse because it was deserved. She bowed her head as though awaiting a blow. She could feel the beginnings of sharp, tearing spasms in her arms and legs.

Oh, please, please God, not here. Don´t let the cramps start here. Don´t let them see.

She took a deep breath, willing the cramps away, fighting the rising tide of panic. If she couldn´t calm herself soon, the spasms would come in earnest, ripping at her bones, muscles, and tendons with claws of jagged glass, contorting her limbs and forcing a scream from between gritted teeth. They mustn´t see her that way, especially the professors. She didn´t want them to regret the decision to bring her here. If they saw her in the throes of those terrible spasms, they would very likely rescind her transfer and banish her once again to her humdrum existence at D.A.I.M.S.

Her throat had shrunk to the size of a pinhole, and she fought to breathe air as thick cold fog. The laughter was starting to fade now, and from far away she could hear Fred or George asking her if she was all right. Another voice, strident and mocking, called, "Nice going, Mudblood!" Draco. Panic tightened its grip, and she knew that in a few moments she would pass out in front of the entire school.

Just then, the doors to the Great Hall swung open, and McGonagall appeared with the first years at her heels.

"What on Earth is going on here?" she demanded, taking in the indecorous carnage the disappearing bench had caused. Her blazing eyes fell on Rebecca´s hunched, wheezing form and the still outstretched wand.

"Wait here," she snapped at the goggling first years, and marched to where Rebecca and the twins stood. "Miss Stanhope, what is going on? Why is your wand out?"

Rebecca looked up at the exasperated face of Professor McGonagall through blurred, stinging eyes. The panic attack was getting worse, numbness swallowing her hands and snaking up her arms. The teacher was standing over her, waiting for an answer. She forced her jaw to unhinge and stole a shallow breath.

"I´m sorry...Professor, I-I," she wheezed.

"She was just trying to make room to sit at the table," offered George.

"I don´t recall asking your version of events, Mr. Weasley," said McGonagall crisply. "Now, Miss Stanhope, what were you doing?"

She couldn´t answer her. It feels like I´m drowning, she thought.

She sat there, face upturned, choking on the lump in her throat, waiting for the axe to fall. Her tenure at Hogwarts had lasted twenty minutes.

A soft voice came to her rescue. "It´s quite all right, Professor McGonagall."

The headmaster had left his seat and now stood at Rebecca´s left arm. Looking at him, Rebecca felt some of the tension leave her body. The cramps that had been steadily worsening since her mishap with the bench ebbed, and the vise around her chest loosened. He radiated goodness and Light, and she was grateful for his presence.

"Aparecium bench!" he said, flicking his wand casually in the direction of the Gryffindor table, and the bench reappeared in its original place. The Gryffindors, who had been standing since the crisis had begun, seated themselves with a collective sigh of relief.

"Is there something wrong, Miss Stanhope?" he asked, peering at her over the rims of his half-moon spectacles with twinkling blue eyes.

"Well, yes, sir," she began hesitantly, so relieved to find no condemnation in those eyes that she felt faint, "the table...I´m afraid there´s no space for my chair."

Dumbledore surveyed the table for a moment. "So there isn´t," he said jovially. "Well, we´ll soon set things to right."

He stepped back and raised his wand, the sleeves of his robes sliding back to expose slender wrists. "Reducto!" he muttered.

There was another flash, purple this time, and a narrow section of bench evaporated, leaving a space just wide enough to accommodate her chair. Several students applauded.

"There now," said Dumbledore, beaming at his handiwork.

"Thank you, Headmaster," said Rebecca.

"Most certainly, my dear. However, in the future, if you should have a question concerning the proper use of magic, don´t hesitate to ask one of the professors for help. They´ll be happy to assist you."

"Yes, sir."

Oh, Miss Stanhope, come to my office first thing tomorrow so that we may discuss any other spells or assistance you might need."

Yes, sir." When Dumbledore started to return to his seat, Rebecca said, "Um, excuse me, sir?"

"Yes?"

"Where is your office?"

"Oh, Good heavens! Of course! It´s just down the corridor, behind the gargoyle statue. The password is "Bertie Botts."

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent!" To McGonagall, who had been waiting impatiently with the fidgeting, ashen first years, he said, "Carry on, Professor," and returned to his seat.

With disaster averted, the Sorting got underway, and Rebecca watched with avid interest. It was certainly a far cry from the staid, clinical procedure at D.A.I.M.S., where students were sorted and classed by virtue of extensive psychological testing. What the results of those tests were was anyone´s guess, but they must´ve shown something, because the school was divided into two Groups. Falconhawk, or Advanced Group, to which she belonged, and Badger, or Remedial Group, to which all but seven of the pupils belonged.

"Carsten, Jacob," McGonagall called, and a slender, ruddy boy with lips like a trout ambled to the empty stool. The tattered, pointy Sorting had was placed upon his head, and after some quiet rumination, the Hat bellowed, "Hufflepuff!" The Hufflepuff table clapped dutifully, though as far as she could tell, they did not care one way or another about their House´s latest acquisition.

"How does the Hat work?" Rebecca whispered to George.

"No one knows for certain, but it seems to read your mind when you wear it. Been doing it for a thousand years."

"Has there ever been a mistake in the Sorting?"

"I don´t think so."

She turned this over in her mind for a while, while the Sorting went on and on, one wan, pinched terrified face after another made the short pilgrimage to the three-legged stool and the ragged hat that would decide their wizarding future. It seems to read your mind when you wear it. She found the thought profoundly disturbing. She was suddenly very glad she had been spared the Sorting Hat. There were things in her mind that belonged to her and her alone, and nothing, not even a magical Sorting Hat, had any right to them.

Would you understand, oh wise and wonderful Sorting Hat? Would you understand what lives and breathes inside my mind? Would you understand what you saw there, or would you shy away just like everyone else and leave me to be a shadow child?

She was jerked from her reflective reverie by the pronouncement of "Zyrbysk, Charles" as a Slytherin. The rowdy crows and catcalls of the Slytherin table nearly drowned out Dumbledore as he rose to make the beginning-of-term speech.

"Greetings and welcome to what I hope will be another wonderful and fulfilling year at Hogwarts. I am so glad to see so many familiar faces as well as faces I hope will become just as familiar. I have a few announcements to make before we can get to the more serious business of filling our stomachs. First years should note that the Forbidden Forest is off limits to all students. Students are not to leave their Common Rooms after supper. Also, in light of the unfortunate events of last year, all students are advised to travel with a companion or teacher whenever possible. Any suspicious activities are to be reported to myself or any other staff member at once."

No one, not even Rebecca, needed to ask what the "unfortunate incident" might be. Lord Voldemort had risen again and killed a Hogwarts pupil named Cedric Diggory in the process. His murder had even made the American wizarding papers, though most of the small community there quickly forgot it. It hadn´t happened to them after all, and an entire ocean separated them from the shadow of corruption that was stealing through Great Britain like a disease.

"Visits to Hogsmeade for those students in the third year and above will continue," Dumbledore went on, and this was met with a low cheer, "but from now on Hogwarts staff will be chaperoning these trips, and all participating students will be required to check in with a professor every two hours. Any student failing to abide by these new rules will be prohibited from going on all future trips. Therefore, any student not wishing to remain behind with Professor Snape, who had graciously volunteered to remain at Hogwarts, should follow these rules precisely."

A collective groan rippled through the Hall, and a chubby boy seated toward the middle of the table blanched to the color of rancid cream and began trembling from head to foot.

Rebecca leaned over to Fred. "I take it this Snape fellow isn´t terribly popular."

Fred snorted. "The day Snape is gracious about anything is the day Professor Trelawney makes an accurate prediction."

She was nonplussed. "Professor Trelawney?"

Fred shook his head, as if to say he would explain everything momentarily, and she fell silent.

"Now, with all that bothersome and likely ignored huggermugger out of the way, let´s eat," exclaimed Dumbledore with a clap of his hands.

Rebecca had never seen so much food in all her life, and she blinked in surprise at the mountain of food she discovered on the plate in front of her. Whipped potatoes, green beans, sugar peas, chicken legs, and pumpernickel bread were piled upon her platter, and even more food lined the table. There were steaming bowls of butterbeans, tureens of thick gravies, plates of warm, syrupy candied yams, and endless jugs of pumpkin juice and buttermilk.

"George," she said after they´d been eating for a while, "who was that professor that unnerved Malfoy so much?"

George spluttered, spraying breadcrumbs across the table. "That," he said, swiping at his mouth with a linen napkin, "is quite the story. That´s `Mad Eye´ Moody, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. He´s a good teacher, but he´s a bit of an odd duck, if you see what I mean. Bit paranoid, especially after spending an entire school year trapped in his own trunk."

"Well, he was daft before he went in there; that just exacerbated the problem," interjected Fred, spearing a forkful of green beans.

"Well, yes, conceded George, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.

She threw up her hands. "Wait, wait, locked in his trunk?"

Fred shrugged. "Long story. The point is, Moody turned Draco into a ferret last year for trying to sneak-attack Potter. Bounced him like a Bludger against the floor. Since then, Malfoy has given him a wide berth."

"A ferret? Really?" She eyed the bent professor with new respect.

"A ferret. He squeaked with every bounce." He threw back his head and emitted a high, terrified squeak.

The image of prim, haughty Draco squawking in abject terror as his beady rodent eyes bulged and his whiskers twitched was too much. She laughed, her arms jerking up once more into the posture of an overburdened weightlifter. The whipped potato-laden fork she had been holding in a trembling hand snapped up and forward with catapult force. The potatoes it had been cradling flew through the air to spatter on George´s forehead.

She was instantly appalled. "Oh, George, I´m sorry! Merlin´s beard, forgive me! It is George, isn´t it?" Her face had gone a deep plum.

George sat quietly for a few seconds, a dollop of potatoes dripping from his forehead onto his spotless robes. She hid her face behind the golden curtain of her hair and waited for the indignant remonstration. Instead, she heard him laughing. She looked up to see him wiping off his forehead with his linen napkin, a broad grin etched across his face.

"No worries. Fred and I usually end up covered in something, what, with all our exploding experiments." He finished cleaning off his face and returned the wadded napkin to his lap.

"Experiments?"

"That´s right. We want to open a joke shop someday, only we don´t want the same old things everyone else has, so we invented some things of our own."

"Yeah, like Ton-Tongue Toffee," offered Fred. Suddenly, he perked up. "I don´t suppose you´d like to help us test some of our newest products?"

She considered it for a moment. They seemed like nice fellows; they certainly treated her with a respect she had not expected to find so quickly. And it was only joke paraphernalia, after all. How bad could it be? "All right."

"Fabulous," said Fred, a glint in his eye that she didn´t quite care for.

"Now," said George, throwing a chummy arm around her misshapen shoulders, "let me tell you about our esteemed faculty."

While the twins were regaling Rebecca with various amusing anecdotes about the Hogwarts professors, Severus Snape sat at the High Table, stabbing irritably at his food. Though his pale face was devoid of any expression, his black tar eyes smoldered with mute fury and dismay. He stared at the pitiful hunched form of the new student as he shoved a slice of smoked ham into his mouth.

What was Dumbledore thinking? He couldn´t possibly expect him to teach her, could he? He could see just by looking at her that she would be a bigger disaster than Neville Longbottom, the bane of his existence, could ever fathom. He had been tallying the number of cauldrons she would melt, disintegrate, implode, or otherwise mangle over the course of the school year, and she had already trebled the number that idiot Longbottom had obliterated in his first four years.

Not to mention the accidents. He impaled an unfortunate cluster of carrot slices on the tines of his fork. There were a thousand different ways in which she could maim or mutilate her fellow pupils. True, he had often secretly wished for those bothersome Gryffindors to be immolated into a mist of ash, but he was not keen to have it done on his watch, not in his precarious position. Suppose she should have another one of those monstrous spasms that seemed to wrack her every time she became agitated, and spilled an excessive amount of an extremely volatile ingredient into a delicate potion? The results could be catastrophic. The Gryffindors, the Slytherins, perhaps the entire school, could be vaporized in a mushroom cloud of magical mishap-all because Albus Dumbledore had decided to be charitable. It was madness. He brutalized a piece of beef with his fork.

"Is something wrong, Severus?" asked the Headmaster, sensing his discomfort.

"Surely you can´t expect me to teach her?" he retorted, flicking his eyes to indicate Rebecca.

"Why not? All her transcripts indicate that she is fully capable of performing her assignments."

"You can´t be serious. Look at her, for Merlin´s sake. She can barely hold a fork, much less a beaker of volatile potions. You´re begging an accident, Headmaster."

"I´m quite sure you are capable of keeping things well in hand, Severus. You´re an excellent teacher," came Dumbledore´s placid reply. He popped a segment of tangerine into his mouth.

"Perhaps if I had been graced with any competent students at all, you might have a point. But I am not so fortunate. I´ve never been cursed with a more hopeless bunch. No, Headmaster, it´s impossible."

"Severus, you´re overreacting. How can you possibly be certain they´re all incompetent when you haven´t even had a first lesson yet? Besides, they aren´t all horrible. There is Hermione Granger."

"I know because it has always been so," he sighed. "In the entire seventeen years I´ve been forced to interact with these little cretins, not one of them has shown any aptitude for Potions whatsoever. I don´t expect them to start now." He dropped his fork with a clatter and kneaded his temples.

"Except Hermione Granger," Dumbledore reminded him cheerfully.

"Hermione Granger would excel in the Botany of Slow-Growing Mold Spores Only Found Between the Toes of Hogwarts House Elves Forty or Older if there were such a subject," he groused wearily. "That isn´t the point. She isn´t in Miss Granger´s league."

"Indeed not," Dumbledore conceded. "Then again, not many are."

"Pointless and nauseating praise for Miss Granger aside," snapped Snape, "I cannot teach that girl, Albus. Between her and that hapless Longbottom twit, they would be carting me off to St. Mungo´s inside of a week."

"Really, Severus, I think you´re behaving ridiculously. All indications are that the young lady is perfectly qualified to be here. I think you should wait until you´ve had an opportunity to instruct her before passing judgment," said Dumbledore, becoming slightly exasperated.

"I don´t need to wait; I trust my eyes implicitly, and they tell me this is a mistake. She´s a danger, Albus, to herself and anyone unlucky enough to get within a hundred meters. She doesn´t belong here. Send her back where she belongs, and spare us all a great deal of trouble."

"And on what do you base that assessment, Professor?" asked Dumbledore, turning the full brunt of his gaze on Snape.

Snape shifted uncomfortably in his chair. This wasn´t going as well as he´d hoped. "Professor Dumbledore, sir, look at her. She´s a travesty of the human form, an-,"

"Appearance has nothing to do with intellect," Dumbledore cut in.

"As Miss Granger so admirably demonstrates. But she will be a distraction."

"One could classify Neville Longbottom as a distraction," the headmaster pointed out.

"Precisely. And you know what I think of him."

"Or Harry Potter," continued Dumbledore.

"Yes," he hissed through gritted teeth. The mention of his arch nemesis always brought bitter bile to his throat. "And you know what I think of him."

"Indeed. You´ve never been shy concerning Mr. Potter," observed Dumbledore drily. "Then there´s Seamus Finnegan."

Snape groaned at the mention of his least favorite pyromaniac. The boy incinerated something with his wand at least once a week. "Yes. And you know what I think of him."

"Absolutely. And they´re all excellent pupils. Mr. Potter, in particular, has distinguished himself, in spite of your less than sparkling opinion."

Snape said nothing. The headmaster had trapped him with his own logic quite neatly. So he tried another tack. "Professor, how can you be certain that she hasn´t caused some calamity at that obscure little school?"

"D.A.I.M.S. has informed me of no such incident."

Snape snorted. "How can you be sure those people would know what such an accident was?"

A heavy silence descended upon the table. All of the mundane chatter ceased, and all heads turned in his direction. McGonagall especially was radiating dignified horror.

"Those people? Pray, what do you mean by `those people?" Dumbledore´s normally placid gaze had suddenly gone glacial, and Snape realized he was treading brittle ground.

"People in her condition, sir. They don´t attend that school because they happen to be sparkling examples of wizarding excellence."

"Miss Stanhope performed magic perfectly well at King´s Cross," McGonagall sniffed. "Honestly, this is ludicrous."

"She destroyed the Gryffindor bench because she didn´t know a simple removal charm."

"Have you never made a mistake, Severus?" Dumbledore said quietly.

Snape bristled. The Headmaster was not referring to his potions or his teaching, skills, and he knew it. "Of course I have," he said tightly. "But-,"

"That´s enough, Severus," Dumbledore said, his voice clipped and making it abundantly clear that he would tolerate no further argument. "That young lady deserves the best education we can give her, and as a professor at Hogwarts, it is your sworn duty to see that she gets it. Is that clear?"

Snape was gritting his teeth so tightly that he could hear them grinding against one another. Blood was pulsing in his temples. From the corner of his eye, he saw Moody watching him with a smirk. "Yes, sir."

"Good."

Dumbledore stood to draw the welcoming feast to a close. As the students filed out, their bellies full to bursting with succulent delights, Snape watched the retreating figure of Rebecca as she moved slowly toward the exit. So Dumbledore wanted him to instruct her? Fine. He would instruct her. He would teach her everything he knew about the unfairness of life, the wanton cruelty of it, and by the time he was finished with her, she would crawl to Albus on her knees and beg to be sent home. Yes, she was going to have quite the learning experience.

It was almost enough to make him smile.