A Year in the Life

XVII. The Game

Technically, of course, professors weren't supposed to take sides on Quidditch matches, unless they were House Heads -- in which case it was hardly avoidable. Still, this was easily circumvented, as Remus Lupin only owned one coat, and it was red. Or, after a very subtle charm, for this particular match, green.

"I cannot believe," Minerva said, helping him straighten his collar, "that you are going to a Ravenclaw-Slytherin game dressed like this."

"Dressed like what?" he asked innocently.

"You're rooting for our rival!"

"I'm wearing a coat which happens to be green. I think it goes well with my eyes," he said.

"Your eyes are brown."

"I never claimed to be a logical man."

"No, that you certainly did not," she agreed, stepping back. "How do I look?"

"Well-wrapped," he replied. "Also perfectly presentable," he added, when she glared at him. One did not take a glare from the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts lightly. "Shall we?"

He held the door for her as they left his rooms, and walked down the stone corridors, boots ringing on the floor and echoing against the walls. It wasn't as though it were illegal for professors to walk to a Quidditch game together, he told himself, when they passed out of the castle and into the chilly January afternoon, amongst small knots and crowds of students also making their way to the Pitch.

Dumbledore and Flitwick were walking together, and nobody would see anything romantic in that. Not without serious mind-altering chemicals, anyway.

"So I take it a younger, more handsome man is waiting to steal you from me?" he said.

"You know I have to sit with Lee, if only to make sure he doesn't say any more unpronounceable words," she answered. The edge of her very carefully neutral striped muffler flapped in the wind.

"Don't let his many charms fool you."

"I'm not in the habit of letting younger men fool me," she answered, and he laughed. "Finding that funny, Professor Lupin?"

"Not at all, Headmistress McGonagall," he said, grinning. "I would never presume to be amused in your presence."

"Quite right. Now, are you still going to insist on rooting for Slytherin, however covertly you may do it?"

"Yes I am," he said seriously, as a couple of first-years ran past, pelting each other with snow. "Just because I was a Gryffindor is no reason not to like all of my students."

"The primary and basic difference between you and certain Potions Masters we could mention," she murmured.

He shook his head. "I owe him, and it would be bad form to think it."

"I'm not thinking it, I'm saying it."

"My Slytherins are good students."

"You're not serious."

"Considering what I teach, it's perhaps not all that surprising, Minerva. They like learning about Dark Arts, even indirectly. Draco Malfoy, for example -- "

"Draco Malfoy!"

"He's rather clever when he applies himself. Certainly not as much of an idiot as he acts."

She gave him a look that said he was out of his werewolf mind.

"Does he actually, ever, apply himself?" she inquired.

He grinned. "I told you, Slytherins like Dark Arts. He does all right."

"Not as well as the Gryffindors."

"You mean, not as well as Harry," he said. "The truth is, Hermione's leading the Gryffindors. And Susan Bones is top of the year."

"Little Susan Bones? But she's a Hufflepuff!"

"Got a mean hex, that girl does," he said.

"House traitor," she murmured, so low he barely caught it. He grinned.

"Well, there's also the fact that if Slytherin and Gryffindor both beat Ravenclaw, Gryffindor'll go to the Cup," he said quietly in her ear, as they reached the ladder up into the stands. She turned to him, surprised. He shrugged. "Oliver Wood tutors for me, he mentioned it. After you, Headmistress."

She flashed him a quick smile, and began to climb, followed by the first-years, who got a hand up from their Dark Arts professor.

By the time he reached the top, she was already settled in the broadcasting box with Lee Jordan. He glanced around, looking for an open seat, waving absently to a few students who caught his eye.

"Professor Lupin!" a voice cried. "Oi, over here!"

He followed the shouting to a raucous crowd of students down near the front, Gryffindors by the look of it, a sea of scarlet and gold stripes. "Come sit with us!" Oliver Wood called. Fred and George Weasley turned and waved as well, and he could pick out most of the rest of the Gryffindor team, plus Ron and Ginny -- and Hermione, carefully situated as far away from Ron as possible, on the other side of Oliver. He still wasn't over the Scabbers Incident, then.

He walked down the steps and grinned when Oliver stood and shook his hand firmly.

"Brisk day for a game," he said, leaning on the railing as Oliver sat back down. "Glad you lot aren't playing."

"So're we," Angelina answered. "Do sit, sir, we'll make room."

Lupin lifted an eyebrow. "Do you really want your professor sitting with you while you watch your game, Angelina?"

She blushed. "None of us mind you, Professor Lupin."

He glanced at the others, who were mostly nodding their agreement, or watching the Pitch.

"All right then. Hermione, budge over a bit, thanks," he said, sliding onto the bench between Hermione and Oliver. "Winds aren't too bad, actually. Might be trouble -- won't knock you off your broomstick, wind like this, but it'll send the Quaffle Merlin alone knows where."

Oliver glanced sidelong at him. "You're a Quidditch fan?" he asked, then quickly added, "Sir?"

"I was, when I was at school. Never missed a game. Up Gryffindor," Lupin answered, with a grin.

"Is that why you were asking me about the game?"

Lupin nodded as the teams came out onto the field.

Watching Quidditch with someone who played the game regularly was always more entertaining; Oliver kept his own running commentary for the benefit of his teammates. Lupin's attention was torn between the game and the students -- it was interesting to see Ginny sitting quietly, soaking up every word out of Oliver's mouth and glancing occasionally at Harry.

Hermione coughed, beside him, and he glanced at her.

"Haven't you got any gloves, Hermione?" he asked. "Here, take mine."

"Professor -- "

"You can give them back afterwards, I know more warming charms than you," he said, pressing them absently into her hands and returning to Oliver's rapt play-by-play with renewed interest. It wasn't long before Oliver caught his breath, and pointed -- just in time for them all to see Draco Malfoy to grab the Snitch, ending the game and throwing the stands into chaos.

"I think I'll get out of here before there's a line for the ladder," Lupin said, as the Gryffindor team began to gather their belongings. Oliver nodded. "Thank you, it was a pleasure hearing you discuss the game, Ja -- "

The first letter was hardly passed his lips before he froze. Oliver glanced at him, curiously.

He had not just tried to call Oliver Wood 'James'.

Fortunately, while Wood was a clever boy and a brilliant athlete, he wasn't much on subtle interpersonal relations, which Lupin suddenly had cause to be grateful for, as Oliver turned away to answer a question by George.

"There's Professor Snape, excuse me," he said hurriedly, and nearly bolted for the aisle, where Snape was following a few hulking seventh-year Slytherins out. He made up his excuse quickly.

"Professor Snape," he said, and the Potions Master looked up, a glint in his eye. "Congratulations, that was a well-played game."

He held out his hand.

Snape looked down at the hand, then back up at him.

"Yes," he said. "It was."

He pushed past him, carelessly.

"Still arrogant," Lupin murmured to himself. "That's really going to bite you in the arse one day, Severus."

He saw that there was already a crowd bottlenecking at the ladder down to the ground, and cast around. There had been some trick to this...

"Professor?"

He glanced across the aisle. Hermione was standing there, looking solitary as the rest of the Gryffindor team pressed forward.

"Yes, Hermione?" he asked. Now, what had it been...

"Here are your gloves back," she said, holding them out. He took them, stuffing them into a pocket absently.

"Thanks..." he said. If you went all the way to the end of the stands...

"They kept my hands very warm," she said, following him.

"I'm glad," he replied, still not paying very close attention. Aha, here it was. A row of stairs down one side, hidden inside the paneling of the stands. Nobody ever used them because nobody ever noticed they were there.

She followed him down the dark stairs, curiously. "I've never seen this way before..."

"Yes, nobody ever does," he answered. "We used to use them when we were bored with a game and wanted to sneak down to -- well, that's neither here nor there," he said, catching himself. He was a professor, after all, and ought to set a good example.

"Is it safe?" Hermione asked.

"Only if you use a silencing charm," he replied, under his breath, as they emerged into the chilly sunlight once more. "Hermione, there's Professor McGonagall, I'm afraid I need a word..."

"Thanks again for the gloves!" she called after him, as he hurried to catch up with the Headmistress.

It is the unique prerogative of teachers, especially those of older children, that they take the place of parents on the pedestal from which, by the age of thirteen or so, most adults have fallen. Teachers become unique confidants for some students, usually the very clever or the very troubled (sometimes they are the same). More tears of adolescent angst are shed in their offices and empty classrooms than will ever be shown to the children's own parents. Teachers, after all, are impartial. They can comfort without smothering, can listen without judging.

On the other hand, sometimes a student comes to know a teacher too well, and gets a bit ahead of themselves...

"Mister Wood, I will thank you to keep your voice within a reasonable volume when speaking to me," Minerva McGonagall said sharply. Students trembled in their boots at that tone, but Oliver Wood had spent seven years hearing it, and had, it was true, taken a few Bludgers to the head over the years. He was not as afraid of the Deputy Headmistress as he probably ought to be.

"But I don't see why -- "

"Mister Wood!"

That voice not even Oliver Wood could disobey.

"Yes, Professor," he muttered, lowering his voice. "But really, I think it's quite unfair of you to keep such a -- if you realised what a Firebolt -- "

"I am fully aware of the capabilities of the new Firebolts," she said, slightly more gently. "But you must realise that Harry's life is worth more than Gryffindor Cup, and considering the extremely suspicious circumstances under which he received it...well. You don't want Harry dying, do you?"

"Not before he catches the Snitch," Oliver agreed. "Harry's very quick, though, and there's no reason we can't have a game played and done with by the time -- "

"Wood, I'm surprised at you! You were appointed Captain because it was assumed that you would act responsibly."

"I am! I'm thinking of the team, you know," he said, slightly reproachfully.

Minerva McGonagall fought the urge to cover her eyes.

"We've had this discussion, Oliver. This broomstick may very well be hexed to murder Harry," she said, measuring each word slowly. "What if it throws Harry off in the middle of a match?"

"As long as he catches the Snitch first -- "

"Consider your priorities."

Oliver sighed. "How much longer are you going to keep it, Professor?"

"As long as necessary, Wood," she said, with an air of finality. "I promise we will have it cleared as soon as possible. You may go."

Oliver, casting a regretful glance over his shoulder, left in a slouch, muttering under his breath.

***

"Professor Lupin?"

Remus looked up from a particularly ill-written paper on simple hexes, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Hermione," he said. "Come in, sit down."

He laid down his quill and stretched, popping a few stubborn vertebrae in his back. She sidled through the open door of his office, and sat on the edge of a chair, letting her book bag fall to the floor. It made rather a louder thud than he expected, and he noticed it was full almost to bursting with books.

A conversation with Hermione Granger, on anything, was bound to be a welcome relief from papers. She reminded him of himself when he was a student -- well, all right, a bossier, louder, less tactful version of himself -- really, she was more like James. Still, he liked intelligence in a student, and Hermione had that in spades.

"Did you have a question?" he asked, folding his hands on his desk and leaning forward slightly. She looked tired -- closer to exhausted -- and her face was pale, eyes nervous.

"I...um...about the assignment for Thursday..." she said.

"Was something unclear?" he asked, worried. If Hermione was confused, he could expect mystified befuddlement from the rest of the class.

"No, I was wondering..." she looked down at her knees. "ficodaveanstenshn."

He tried to make sense of what sounded like a spell gone wrong. "I'm sorry?" he asked.

"I was wondering if I could have an exension," she said, slower but no louder.

He sat back, and regarded her.

"Are you ill?" he asked. She shook her head. "Have you been called out of school?"

"No," she said softly.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but it's school policy not to -- oh, blast."

He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief as she began to cry, quietly and with more dignity than one normally expected a thirteen-year-old girl to possess. He crouched by the chair and offered it; she took it, stared at it for a moment, and then crumpled it in her hands, twisting it in her lap.

"There's just so much work and I haven't had t-t-time to go to the library and I can't find anything on the topic and..." she trailed off into another discreet but heartfelt stream of tears.

"Minerva told me you're taking a heavy courseload," he said, then bit his tongue. "Headmistress McGonagall," he corrected, hoping she hadn't noticed, "did have reservations -- "

"I can do it!" she said defiantly. He took the handkerchief away from her and dabbed at her face.

"I've no doubt, but there's no shame in not doing it," he said, wishing Dumbledore was here. He'd barely encountered children at all before Hogwarts, how did one deal with a blotchy-faced, defiant teenage girl?

"But I can," she insisted. "Just a weekend extension, I promise I'll have it on Monday, I can even turn it in Sunday night..."

He sighed, and put the handkerchief back in her hands. She swiped at her eyes with it.

"It's just Ron and Harry won't talk to me and that means Dean and Seamus don't want to and I was only trying to help," she continued, sniffling every few words. "I don't want Harry to die!"

He smiled. "None of us wants that, Hermione. Harry and Ron are just being typical boys. They'll grow out of it. Most of us do."

She tried to match his smile, only half-succeeding. "You weren't ever like them, were you?"

He thought, reservedly, of a few times when he desperately wished he'd opened his mouth and said something to James.

"As a matter of fact, I was," he answered. "I was probably worse. There now, that's amusing, isn't it?"

She nodded, and blew her nose noisily. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make a scene -- "

"Nonsense," he said, sensing vaguely that this might not be the most appropriate thing to say, but not having any better ideas. "Now, about this extension..."

"Please, you can take points for lateness. I'll write an extra-long essay to make up for it," she said desperately.

"I tell you what, I'll give you until Sunday night, you can slide it under my door. But I really do think you should at least consider lightening your workload, Hermione. Between you and me and the grindylow, Divination isn't worth your time, and Muggle Studies is ridiculous when you were raised in the Muggle world." He straightened. "You look a bit better now. Run on and get some rest. And that's an assignment, not a request," he added. She smiled, and shyly offered him the damp handkerchief back.

"Thanks," she said, in the doorway. "I'm sorry -- "

"Don't be sorry, Hermione," he interrupted. "Just have the paper to me by Sunday, and get some sleep in the meantime."

She nodded, and vanished out the door, leaving him with a damp square of cloth and the feeling that there were probably better ways to handle this.

***

"My god. Possible murders, upset students, civil wars in the hallways, and it's only January."

Minerva smiled as she continued answering her correspondence, seated at the large writing desk in her private study. Remus was slouched in one of her chairs, feet propped on another, eyes closed, hands folded on his stomach.

"And it's full moon next week," he moaned. "This job should come with sedatives."

"You look fairly sedate already," she observed. He opened his eyes and turned his head to grin at her.

"Not for me," he answered. "For the students. I had someone weeping in my office today."

"Really? Who? No -- don't tell me," she held up a hand to stop him. "Student privacy."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Headmistress," he replied.

"What did you say to them?"

"Not much really. What do you generally say?"

She dipped her quill in the inkwell. "Depends on the student. And the problem."

"Speaking of problems, did you know the Gryffindor boys are ostracising Hermione Granger?"

She looked up sharply. "Why on earth would they do that?"

"Might have something to do with this," he said, gesturing to Harry's Firebolt, which at the moment was suspended in a tank of gelatinous orange liquid. It was supposed to leech out any harmful hexes. It looked like the biggest fruit cup he'd ever seen, with a gigantic cricket caught in the middle.

"Ridiculous boys," Minerva muttered.

"Well, it was rather a sneak thing to do, you know."

"It was the right thing to do," she replied, in the same tone of voice he'd used. "Besides, she spends entirely too much time running about with Potter and Weasley as it is. It'll do her good to socialise with the other girls."

"How delightfully parochial!" he cried. "You don't mean that, do you?"

"I do. I don't think Hermione's attitudes are entirely healthy. Of course she's the smartest witch in her year, but intelligence will only ever do her so much good if she can't talk to people. Perhaps it's not so much that she should spend more time with the girls, as she should simply spend less time with two particular boys. And one particular professor," she added. He frowned.

"A professor?" he asked. She gave him a small smile.

"Surely you've noticed? She hasn't much time to spare, but she always manages to hang about after Dark Arts..." Her smile widened when she saw his confusion. "She fancies you."

"She does not!"

"She does. I'm willing to bet she's not the only one. It's one of the perils of being youthful and charming," she added. He leaned his head on the edge of the chair.

"Minerva."

"Yes?"

"Please put your quill down, stop being rational, and come here and kiss your admirer."

She smiled. "One more letter."

"You murder me." Remus clutched his chest. "He asked for a kiss and instead she wrote a letter. So be it. How was your day?"

"Well, I taught classes, ate lunch, yelled at Oliver Wood, and made myself radically unpopular with the Gryffindor Quidditch team, which is quite a lot to accomplish in an afternoon."

"I hate January," he decided. "It's cold and boring."

"At least it's almost over," Minerva answered, quill scratching away on parchment. "Not that February will be that much more interesting, I imagine, but -- "

" -- it'll be shorter," he finished.

"There is that."

He closed his eyes again, and slouched down a little further in the chair, listening to the sound of her writing -- the pleasant scritscrit of the nib on the paper, the occasional clink when she dipped it in the inkpot. It was so easy to just stop thinking for a while...

He woke from a half-doze to hear her folding paper, and when he opened his eyes the room had grown considerably dimmer.

"Enjoy your nap?" she asked.

"I wasn't napping. Professors do not nap," he replied.

"Gathering your thoughts for a lecture, then?"

"Precisely."

"So the snoring -- "

"Professors also do not snore."

She lifted an eyebrow. He grinned and slid awkwardly out of the chair, stretching. "Have we missed dinner?"

"I rang for a house-elf to bring some up," she answered, gesturing at a covered tray on a nearby table, he lifted it, and presented her with a bowl of soup and a plate of hot fresh bread.

"It's gone nine already," he noted, glancing at her clock. "Remind me to be cautious when I sneak out tonight."

"Or you could sneak out tomorrow morning," she said, spreading butter on a slice of bread. He watched her. They hadn't had much spare time together since school had started again, and it was tacitly agreed that discretion would have to take more precedence than passion.

"I could," he agreed. "An early-morning consultation about some...troubled students."

"I am the Deputy Headmistress," she said.

"So, Deputy Headmistress McGonagall," he added, sliding his chair next to hers and stealing a piece of bread, "I was wondering if I could have your thoughts on some problems that I, as a junior faculty member, am having at Hogwarts..."

She smiled tolerantly as he kissed her neck before going back to eating. "Oh?"

"Yes, I've become infatuated with a fellow professor -- "

" -- Severus Snape? -- "

"Oh, it wouldn't do to tell," he whispered. "Leave the soup. Come consult with me."

He held out his hand, and she took it, allowing him to pull her close as he stood.

"January's suddenly gotten better," he murmured, leading her away from the table.