Shadow of a Doubt

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Chapter Two
Familiarity Breeding Contempt

As always, the Great Hall was beautifully lit for the First Night Feast, and by the time Anders nervously slid into his seat at the Teacher's Table, the Sorting was well under way. He was somewhat relieved about this; the Sorting afforded him an opportunity to sneak in unnoticed.

Almost, anyway.

Severus Snape fixed the young man with a cool gaze that contained all the warmth and charm of a sharpened icicle. He remembered Anders Grimalkin very well indeed. It had partly been due to Snape's statement to the Council for the Prosecution that had led Anders' trial to being such hard work for the boy and his lawyer. Snape had listed Anders' less attractive traits instantly, such as the young man's tendency towards losing his temper easily, being melancholy and brooding, touchy, petulant…the list went on.

Snape had spent many long hours in Dumbledore's office, trying to convince the Headmaster of the foolish mistake that he was making in employing someone as potentially dangerous as Grimalkin, but the Headmaster would not be swayed. In vain had Snape reminded Dumbledore of the problems that had occurred when a werewolf had been given the Defence Against the Dark Arts job, what was it going to be like in the hands of a suspected murderer?

Oddly, Albus Dumbledore had displayed a rare show of anger at Snape's accusatory statement. "He was acquitted of that charge, Severus," the old man had roared, slamming his fists down on the table. "He is innocent, and has undergone an ordeal that he should not have done as a result of the foolish justice system that the wizarding world insists on adhering to."

Since that meeting, Snape had idly entertained the notion that perhaps Grimalkin would drop dead before arriving at Hogwarts. It was well known how ill the young man had been, and that he had cheated death on at least two known occasions.

No such luck.

Under close scrutiny, he noted that Grimalkin did indeed look extremely unwell, which afforded the Potions Master a modicum of satisfaction, but that was as much of a reward as Snape was going to get at this stage. He sneered and returned his attention to the Sorting.

From his seat at the end of the table, Anders watched the Sorting, entranced, remembering his own first day at Hogwarts, the feeling of trepidation and anticipation of waiting to sit under that wise old Hat. That wise old Hat that had sorted him, the eleven-year-old Anders Grimalkin into Slytherin house. He had been bullied and tormented from day one, and had even begged and pleaded for a re-Sort. The results had been the same. He was, apparently, a Slytherin.

He watched as the Hat sorted first one student, then the next, and felt that familiar sense of having been cheated somehow. He picked up his goblet and took a long drink of the wine that was in there. It was sweet and pleasantly spiced and warmed the young man to the toes. Two or three more mouthfuls, and he was feeling sanguine enough to forget the unpleasant memory.
"Look at Professor Grimalkin," whispered Ron to Harry and Hermione. "I wonder what could be so interesting?"

Harry and Hermione swung their gazes away from the Sorting and looked at their new Professor. He had a strange, faraway expression on his face, making him look a little vague and distant. Hermione again felt that pang of sympathy for the young man and sighed audibly. Ron and Harry grinned at each other again, but she didn't notice.

"He looks so…vulnerable, doesn't he?" she thought, aloud. "Almost as if the world is out to get him and he's just waiting for the next thing to pounce on him."

The young Professor seemed to be aware of her intense gaze, and his bright blue eyes turned to meet hers. She looked away in sudden embarrassment and pretended to be fascinated by the Sorting again. From time to time, however, her eyes slid to Professor Grimalkin, and always, always his gaze met hers.

Finally, after the Sorting Hat had announced cheerfully that Watson, Matthew was going to join Ravenclaw, Professor Flitwick carried the Sorting Hat out of the Great Hall and the feast commenced.

Harry and Ron launched themselves immediately into the task of eating, taking their dinner, as always, very seriously indeed. They watched the Teacher's Table with moderate interest from time to time, noting with glee the look of utter malice on Snape's face whenever the Potions Master's eyes were drawn to the young Professor. Professor Grimalkin was picking listlessly at the plate of food in front of him, looking for all the world like he would rather be elsewhere - which was, in fact, the case.

Between the main course and dessert, whilst most people in the Great Hall were leaning back in their seats swearing blind that they would never, ever eat so much again, Professor Dumbledore got to his feet.

"Students and teachers, welcome back to another year at Hogwarts. First years…welcome, just welcome!" He beamed broadly, his eyes twinkling madly. He held his arms out widely. "This year should prove to be yet another wonderful year here at the world's premier establishment of witchcraft and…."

As the speech droned on, Anders, made cosy and sleepy by the imbuing of wine began to tune him out, letting the old man's words settle on him like a warm blanket. In fact, he was maybe seconds away from nodding off when he heard Dumbledore say his name aloud.

"…Defence Against the Dark Arts, Professor Anders Grimalkin."

A low murmur ran through the Hall at the name. Everyone knew who Anders Grimalkin was - the notorious Welsh Quidditch player who had apparently lost his grip on reality during an international match and caused a collision and subsequent death of the Norwegian Beater, Olaf Peterssen. Every young witch and wizard who had any interest in Quidditch knew about him.

Wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole, Anders stared at the Headmaster nervously. Dumbledore gestured to him to stand up, which he did, his knees trembling so much that he had to hold onto the table to prevent himself from falling over.

From the other end of the table, Snape snorted loudly in derision. Loudly enough for everyone to break their stares away from the pale, handsome young Professor to see the disdainful, distrustful expression that Snape was doing very little to disguise. The Potions Master raised his hands and clapped them slowly in a sarcastic gesture of applause.

"SUCH a wise choice, Headmaster," he said in his snide manner. "I am sure that PROFESSOR Grimalkin will prove to be a VALUABLE member of staff. I am positive his students will be…shall we say, held truly CAPTIVE by him?"

Ron, Harry and Hermione winced at Snape's words. He had never, ever been so publicly dismissive of Dumbledore's choice of colleague. But the thing that bothered them more than anything, more than the way that first Grimalkin's face and then his stance crumpled at Snape's cruel words, was the bawling laughter that came from the Slytherin table, led, doubtless, by Draco Malfoy.

Hermione's eyes filled with tears. "How can they be so unkind?"

"Enough, Professor Snape," said the Headmaster, still retaining his jovial tone, but glaring at the Potions Master angrily from behind his spectacles. "However, in a way, thank you for introducing us neatly to what I have to say next."

Dumbledore pushed his spectacles up his nose and waited for Professor Grimalkin to regain his composure. "Professor Grimalkin will be known to many of you here - indeed, our seventh years may just remember him, as he was in his own final year when they commenced their education with us." There were a few nods, mostly from the Slytherin table. "However, most of you will know him through the column of the indomitable Rita Skeeter."

The Headmaster's glasses slid down his nose again and he peered around sternly. "I now officially ORDER you to ignore everything that woman has written about this young man. Give him a chance. If you choose to dislike him because of reasons that you cannot possibly start to justify, then consider the implications this has on your own sense of identity. Consider that you are incapable of forming your own opinions and are easily led. Cons..."

"Thank you, Headmaster," came a voice from the end of the table. Professor McGonagall, who was sitting next to poor Professor Grimalkin was feeling acutely aware of the flush on the young man's face. "I think they get the idea."

Professor Grimalkin blushed furiously and took advantage of the interruption to sit down again. Dumbledore looked momentarily surprised, but cut the rest of his speech short, much to the relief of everyone present. McGonagall flashed him a supportive smile and he returned it with a shy grin of his own.

Wrapping up his speech, Dumbledore finally sat down, and the golden platters immediately began filling with the normal array of delicious desserts. Professor Grimalkin, Hermione noticed, stared at them with a slightly sickened expression on his face. He wasn't, she believed, concerned by the sugar or calorie content of the sticky toffee pudding that had materialised in front of him.

Once again, their gazes locked and she turned away to eat her trifle, disturbed by the haunted expression in Professor Grimalkin's handsome, blue-eyed gaze.

* * * * *

They had made their way past the portrait hole, giving the Fat Lady the new password (Canis Major) and slumped into the comfy chairs in the Gryffindor common room with enormous gratitude. Their stomachs were stretched to bursting point, but it was not uncomfortable. Ron, Harry and Hermione sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the continual chatter of the excited first years and feeling very old and wise.

"Harry! Hey, Harry!" Harry glanced up at the source of the voice and groaned inwardly. Even as a fourth year, Colin Creevey still insisted on treating Harry with something akin to hero worship.

"Hello, Colin," he replied, a little wearily. "How did the summer holidays treat you?"

Colin replied, but Harry didn't listen. He let Colin's mindless babble wash over him soothingly. Ron had entered into a heated argument with Dean Thomas about the Chudley Cannons, and Hermione had returned her attentions to her book.

"Well, I think we should complain to Professor Dumbledore," came Parvati Patil's voice as she spoke to Lavender Brown. "I don't think it's right, a known criminal teaching us." Hermione pretended not to be listening, but her ears remained tuned to the conversation.

"He WAS acquitted," said Lavender, slowly.

"That's not the POINT!" declared Parvati. "He was charged with murder. Thousands of people saw him fly deliberately into that poor man and cause his death. From what I read, he was only ever released from Azkaban because the evidence was not concrete enough. And you have only to look at him to see how nasty he could be."

Lavender replied with the words that were in Hermione's own mind.

"He doesn't look strong enough to be nasty," she said, slowly. "I don't know, Parvati...what Professor Dumbledore said about forming our own opinions and not listening to those of other people..."

Hermione slammed her book closed, making everyone in the common room jump. "I'm going to bed," she announced in a cold voice. "Good night."

As she strode from the room, eyes followed her, and there were one or two nervous giggles.

Harry didn't giggle, though. He was concerned by Hermione's reaction to the strange new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.

* * * * *

Right now, the strange new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was sitting on the steps of the castle, a cigarette between his fingers, a wistful, lonely expression on his face. He cut a forlorn figure indeed.

He had known that Dumbledore had meant well, but there was an aching feeling in his heart that more damage had been done by the Headmaster's fierce defence of him than if he'd simply introduced the new Professor and left it.

"Ignito," he muttered at the cigarette, which flared into life. He took a long drag on it and immediately began to calm down. He knew that smoking with lungs as delicate as his was a crazy thing to do...but it gave him means to an end. Smoking calmed him, took away some of the constant fear that hung around him like a cloud.

He had only been out of Azkaban for a few weeks, he kept reminding himself. Only a very few weeks. Of course it was natural he should still be nervous and edgy.

The cloud cover broke, and a bright moon shone down on him, bathing him in soft, eerie silver light. By all accounts, the school had previously hired a werewolf in the Defence Against the Dark Arts position. Why should an ex-Azkaban inmate be any less of a surprise?

He smoked in silence for a while, then flicked the finished cigarette into the night, where the tip glowed for a moment, then died in the damp grass.

Anders Grimalkin got to his feet and went back into the castle. To his enormous displeasure, Severus Snape stood in the Entrance Hall, apparently waiting for him.

"Professor," he said, softly, acknowledging his superior's presence.

"Grimalkin," responded the Potions Master coolly, treating the young man to a cold stare. "Not packed your things and left yet?"

The young Welshman bristled. Snape had never liked him, and Anders had the dubious distinction of being one of the few Slytherins from whom Snape had taken House Points. "Why would I have done that, Professor?"

"Don't you understand, Grimalkin? You always were...simple." Snape stalked towards him, like a hungry raven. "Nobody wants you here. It would be better all round if you were simply to leave."

"Professor Dumbledore..."

"...is well known for taking pity on idiots and charity cases. Introducing a werewolf to the school is one thing. That, at least, could be controlled - after a fashion. But you. You!" He waved vaguely towards Anders with a contemptuous expression on his face. "You are a loose cannon. Volatile. A liability. Untrustworthy." His dark eyes glinted. "A murderer, Grimalkin."

Anders clenched his hands inside his robes. "Goodnight, Professor," he said, his voice even and controlled. He would not rise to the bait. He COULD not rise to the bait.

He turned and walked off, climbing the great marble staircase slowly and with purpose. His fists were so tightly clenched that his hands were hurting.

"What's the matter, Grimalkin? Are you still frightened of your own shadow?" Snape laughed nastily and seeing that his words had no effect on the young teacher whatsoever, finally gave up the taunting and stalked off in the other direction.

Anders walked slowly towards the room in the Teacher's wing that was now his. He entered and shut the door quietly behind him. He uncurled his fingers and rubbed at the deep indentations his fingernails had left in his palm. Severus Snape. Just one of the things that Anders did not know how to deal with.

He sat down in the battered armchair in the corner of the room and thought for a while. 'Still frightened of your own shadow'. Trust Snape to drag that up. The Potions Master was, of course, not referring to Anders' inherent and very obvious nervousness, but to a Duelling class...where Anders had been deeply embarrassed in front of the whole year...

No. He would not allow himself to dwell on the past. Damn Severus Snape and his petty need to bully those weaker than himself. He, Anders Grimalkin, could simply not afford to fall into the traps he was sure Snape would leave for him at every possible opportunity.

He let his thoughts wander to the events of the day. He hadn't considered the possibility that he would be teaching the famous Harry Potter. He had been surprised by the boy, that was for sure: there had been an air of faintly bored cynicism hanging around him, but then...he had been the most famous wizard in the world since the day he had defeated You-Know-Who. He'd even heard his name whispered reverentially in Azkaban.

Casting his mind back, Anders recalled reading about the escaped Azkaban inmate, Sirius Black, who had apparently been out to kill Potter. He'd either clearly failed, or it was all more media propaganda. And the gods only knew that Anders had seen the power of THAT particular machine. He felt a sudden wave of sympathy for a fellow inmate. Twelve years, Black had been in Azkaban, twelve long years. Anders had been there for only eight months - and that had nearly broken him.

Anders got to his feet and moved towards the bathroom. He stood and stared at his reflection for a long time. Maybe it was just age, or perhaps it was the time he had spent in Azkaban, but he was starting to resemble his father more and more. The cruel expression was missing - the cruel expression that was so similar to that he had seen in Snape's face. Did he miss his father? He supposed so. But it was an empty feeling. The man had never liked his son whilst he had lived, and the feeling had been shared by Anders. He had been on the receiving end of Dafydd's temper one too many times - a temper that he had inherited, but rarely acted on.

He scrutinised himself for a while. The dark shadows under his eyes gave him a faintly haggard expression and made him look older than his twenty-three years. Bright blue eyes - his mother's eyes - stared out at him from a pale face accentuated with high cheekbones. His thick black hair had grown long and unmanageable whilst he'd been in Azkaban, and he'd had it tidied, but had kept the length, rather liking it that way.

He rubbed his nose thoughtfully and stared at the man in the mirror. Good looking? So he had been told by admiring female Quidditch fans. He didn't see it himself. All he saw was Dafydd Grimalkin. He could feel the familiar surge of anger. Why hadn't he taken after his mother in appearance? Why had the Fates seen fit to carry on the torment by making him into an almost exact replica of his father?

He didn't care to question it right now.

Morosely, he began unpacking the meagre contents of his holdall, putting the things away. Even when he had done that, the room still looked large and empty. But then, compared to the tiny cell that had been his home for the better part of a year...it was luxury itself.

He lay down on the bed, another luxury - he'd gotten so used to sleeping on the floor, he felt almost guilty at the feelings of gross opulence that the bed gave him.

Taking up his book on the Dark Arts, he began to read. He supposed he had better do the job to the best of his ability. He had never, ever taught before, and just the thought of standing up in front of a class was making him feel physically sick.

The words swam in front of his eyes, blurring his vision and giving him a headache. Finally, the book slid out of his hand and he fell asleep, atop the covers, still fully dressed.

* * * * *

"Hermione?"

Lavender's voice came to her through the curtain. "Hermione, are you sure you're alright in there?"

"Yes, Lavender, I'm just very tired," said Hermione, more sharply than she had intended. Immediately contrite, she pulled back the curtains around her bed. Lavender gave her a look of concern. Over the years, Lavender had become the closest Hermione had to a proper girl friend unless you counted Ginny Weasley (which Hermione didn't, because she and Ginny were practically sisters). Lavender handed Hermione a steaming mug of hot chocolate and gave her a look of concern.

"Is this about..." She glanced at Parvati, who was holding court the other side of the dormitory and lowered her voice. "About the new Professor? I don't believe he's a murderer, if that helps..."

Hermione couldn't stop the blush that crept onto her face. "Well," she admitted finally. "Yes...I think I was just so angry at the way Parvati's so quick to dismiss him. She doesn't even KNOW him." She sipped angrily at her hot chocolate and continued.

"We sat with him on the train coming up to Hogwarts," she said. "He seemed really nice - and didn't even take the bait when Malfoy came into our carriage and taunted him. But...he seems really...well, sad, too. Not just Azkaban-sad. As if he's...on his own."

She took another sip of hot chocolate. "He's only - what, Professor Dumbledore said he'd left Hogwarts about five years ago...so that would make him twenty-two, twenty-three at the most."

"He IS very young, isn't he?" said Lavender, stirring her chocolate idly. "And...rather good looking, too, don't you think?" She shot a glance at Hermione, who shrugged indifferently.

"Better than the alternative," she said. "Out of Snape, Flitwick and Grimalkin, I know who I would rather have sitting at the head of a class."

"Oh, Hermione! Surely you must have noticed how blue his eyes are? He is so handsome!"

"Yes, well," she said, curtly and dismissively. "I learned THAT lesson with Professor Lockhart. Looks aren't everything, Lavender." She smiled a little as her friend blushed. "I'm more interested in his history. He must be one of the youngest Professors that Hogwarts has ever had. He must be exceptionally gifted magically."

"Rumour has it," said Lavender, dropping her voice still lower, "that he's Muggle-born. Dean Thomas used to support the Cardiff Chargers when Grimalkin played for them, and is a bit of an expert on the subject. He doesn't believe Grimalkin is a murderer, either. But he WAS a Slytherin, apparently...and, well...we know what THEY'RE like."

Hermione said nothing, but considered Lavender's words. "I think a trip to the library might be in order tomorrow," she thought, aloud. "See what I can find out about Professor Grimalkin."