Shadow of a Doubt

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Chapter Three
Haunted by the Past

"Double Potions?" moaned Ron. "I don't BELIEVE it! What a lousy start to the year!"

They had trooped down the breakfast the first morning of term to be greeted by their new class schedules. A two hour long session with Snape was something that none of them really believed they would enjoy. Ron speared a piece of bacon viciously, obviously wishing it was Snape's head.

"Look at it this way," shrugged Harry, nonchalantly. "At least this way we get it over with at the beginning of the day and don't have to spend all day dreading it." He grinned at his friend and took another mouthful of porridge.

A loud groan from the other side of the table told them that Neville Longbottom had picked up his schedule. Neville, who had grown into a pleasant faced, plump young man buried his head in his hands. "Why me?" he asked the universe in general. Neville and Professor Snape were not exactly the closest of friends.

Harry watched Neville for a moment, moderately amused, then turned his attention to the door, where Professor Grimalkin was entering. The young man looked sallow and tired, as though he had slept poorly, and his scruffy robes looked even more rumpled and untidy than they had yesterday. Harry watched with bored interest for a while, noticing the malevolent stares that Snape shot at him.

He hadn't seen Snape so intent on hating someone this much since the year Remus Lupin had taken the Defence Against the Dark Arts job. There were interesting similarities between Lupin and Grimalkin, Harry noted privately. The delicate appearance, the soft and apparently gentle manner. But he did not think that Grimalkin was another werewolf.

"Where's Hermione?" asked Ron, breaking Harry's concentration. "She's usually here by now."

"I saw her heading off to the library," replied Harry, looking away from Grimalkin. "She is obviously not intending to take things any easier this year."

"Probably off on another one of her House Elf crusades," said Ron through a mouthful of toast. He noticed Harry's gaze return to Grimalkin and nudged him. "Looking forward to Defence Against the Dark Arts with the best Seeker Wales ever had?"

"Was he really that good?"

"Pulled off the Wronski Feint no less than four times in his debut match for Wales," replied Ron. "He was set to be the best Seeker in the world, but then...the accident - if that's what it was...caused the death of the Norwegian Beater, Olaf Peterssen."

Harry glanced at his friend. "You think he did it deliberately?"

Ron considered.

"I dunno," he said, finally. "I didn't see the match, and after speaking to him yesterday...I don't think he could kill a spider, let alone another wizard." He chewed his toast in silence for a while. "Think that Hermione quite liked him though."

"That was obvious," agreed Harry, starting to smirk. "Think she'll send him a Valentine like she did to Professor Lockhart?"

At this moment, there was a roar from the teacher's table. Harry and Ron looked up, startled. Hagrid had come into the Great Hall, the first time they'd seen him since they'd got back. To their surprise, he went straight up to Professor Grimalkin and caught him up in a huge bear hug.

"Anders, me old mate," he was saying loudly enough for the whole Hall to hear. Ron and Harry exchanged curious glances. Poor Professor Grimalkin, who had been tentatively buttering a piece of toast dropped his breakfast and struggled out of Hagrid's embrace.

"Hello, Hagrid," he said, his soft Welsh lilt barely audible. Hagrid dabbed at his eyes with the edge of the tablecloth.

"It was 'orrible what they done to you, Anders, 'orrible. I tried t'get them t'see what a terrible mistake they'd made, but..."

"Hagrid, it's fine," said the young Professor, his cheeks burning. "Look, how about I call round to see you later - we can talk then?"

"Yes, yes," said Hagrid, shaking Professor Grimalkin's hand. "Come round for tea." The half-giant sat down in his own seat and waved at the Gryffindor table. "Alright Harry?"

Harry and Ron waved back, then returned to their own conversation.

"Well, now," said Ron, obviously surprised. "Maybe we WEREN'T the only students who befriended Hagrid." This transpiring of events had clearly given Ron an increased level of respect for the scruffy young teacher. Like Harry and Hermione, he was fiercely loyal to Hagrid, and anyone who was a friend of the Care of Magical Creatures teacher was, by default, a friend of Ron's.

At the Slytherin table, Harry noticed, Malfoy was watching the reunion between Hagrid and Professor Grimalkin with interest. He turned and said something to Crabbe and Goyle, who immediately snorted with laughter. Harry just barely caught the word 'murderer' and his jaw set determinedly. Once more, before he got to his feet to head for Snape's dungeon, he glanced at Grimalkin, nervous and shy-looking, and did not envy the young man the difficulties he was going to suffer at the hands of Snape and Malfoy.

* * * * *

Double Potions - as always, with the Slytherins - was as difficult and unpleasant as Snape's classes ever were. Hermione finally showed up, and she had a number of scrapbooks and old copies of the Daily Prophet poking out of her bag. Ron and Harry looked at them curiously, but she was not forthcoming with information.

"This year," Snape said, in his low, sibilant voice, "we will be working very closely with poisons and antidotes, as well as going over much of what you SHOULD already know, but which some of you clearly don't, yet, and yes, I do mean you, Longbottom."

Neville cowered.

Snape got to his feet and paced between the desks. "This is your O.W.L.S year, which I am sure you are all perfectly aware of. I will not accept this as an excuse for sloppy or unfinished homework, Mr. Weasley, neither as an excuse to continually show off your ridiculous overweening bossiness, Miss Granger."

Ron and Hermione glowered at the Potions Master's back.

It didn't improve from there. For what was probably the first time they could remember, the Potions lesson was entirely theoretical. Snape told them about the different kinds of poisons, the ways to counteract them, and the nasty, lingering effects some of them could have.

"Of course," said Malfoy in a low, drawling whisper to Harry, Ron and Hermione. "We need to be on our guard with that murderer, Grimalkin in the castle."

"Shut UP, Malfoy," chorused the three, earning a Look from Snape.

"What's so interesting, Potter? Ten points from Gryffindor for talking in class."

They had learned a long time ago that it was not worth the house points in complaining, so fell silent and contented themselves with working out which of the snakebite based poisons they would slip into Malfoy's dinner.

* * * * *

When the lunch bell finally rang, releasing them from Snape's evil clutches and back to the Great Hall, Snape had taken another fifteen points from Gryffindor, Neville had been reduced to a quivering wreck, and they had a five-page essay to write by Thursday.

"Snape never gets any better, does he?" said Ron. They were sat at the lunch table, eating the normal winter fare of casserole and warm bread. Hermione had an old copy of the Daily Prophet next to her and was reading an article with apparent interest. Occasionally she would say something like 'really? Wow!', until Ron could stand the suspense no longer and whipped the paper from her.

"What's so interesting, Hermione?"

"Give that back," she said, her face flushing, but Ron's freckled face split in a wide grin as he read aloud to Harry.

"Anders Grimalkin, 20, was announced today as the new Welsh International team Seeker. Grimalkin, who has already achieved a certain cult status amongst the Welsh Quidditch-loving community, is currently playing for the Cardiff Chargers. When asked about his reaction to the news, Grimalkin, pictured here with his girlfriend, Charis Powell..." Ron looked over the paper at Hermione. "He has a GIRLFRIEND, Hermione. You must be SO disappointed."

Hermione said nothing, but her face was red with embarrassment and anger. Harry took pity on her and, taking the paper from Ron glanced at the article briefly. There was a picture of Professor Grimalkin, looking not that much different than he did now, but certainly happier and neater - and most certainly full of health. A stunningly good-looking young, blonde witch was hooked onto his arm and smiled out of the picture at Harry. He passed the paper back to Hermione, who folded it and put it away.

"Looks to me like nobody could resist a smile like that," he said in an undertone to Ron. "Maybe his girlfriend is part Veela?"

Hermione's face was set in stone as she ate the rest of her lunch in silence, then got up to head for her Arithmancy lesson, whilst the two boys walked slowly and unenthusiastically up the stairs towards Madam Trelawney's Divination classroom.

* * * * *

Anders Grimalkin sat back in his chair, a thin trickle of sweat running down his face. He had successfully lived through his first Defence Against the Dark Arts class, with the third years. Not ONE of them had said anything about Quidditch, or Azkaban. They had listened in apparently rapt attention as he had shyly stuttered his way through the lesson, discussing (but not demonstrating) Boggarts.

Apologetically, he had explained that there were no Boggarts apparently resident in the castle at that particular moment, but the story of Snape in Neville's Grandmother's outfit had long since become legendary. Under extreme pressure from disappointed students, Professor Grimalkin had promised to try to arrange one for their next class.

He was free now until the final hour of the day, when he had a single class with the fifth years. Harry Potter's year. How could he possibly teach Harry Potter how to defend himself against the Dark Arts when the boy had clearly defended himself admirably already?

Studying the curriculum, he noted that the fifth years were going to be covering Duelling against the Dark Arts this year and groaned. He remembered his own fifth year when Snape had stood in as the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher for a few weeks. His life had been a living hell during that period.

No, he corrected himself morosely. Azkaban had been a living hell. What Snape had done to him may have had a lasting effect, but it hadn't really scarred him. Not like the eight months in that fortress.

As always, his mind flashed back to the life he had spent waiting for his case to come to trial. Although he was technically not a prisoner of Azkaban, his life was little better. As a suspected murderer, he was kept chained and, although the Dementors did not, as a rule, enter the part of the fortress where prisoners awaiting trial were kept, their chill permeated every pore of the body.

The Dementors were by no means the only terrible thing about Azkaban. The non-Dementor wizards who were employed as guards to the still moderately sane, like Anders, were downright unpleasant and never missed the opportunity to taunt their captives. Anders had been particular vulnerable to their attacks: so convinced was everyone of his guilt, they would haunt his day with tales of what the Dementors would do when they got their hands on him, leaving his nights to torment him with those thoughts.

He could, he supposed, have taken the easy route and simply lost his mind. But he had been so desperately sure of his own innocence - it had been the only thing that had kept him going.

"Looky, looky!" came a sudden, shrill voice that set the Professor's teeth on edge. "Ooooh! NASTY little STUDENT'S back! How's the temper, Grimm? "

"Get out of here, Peeves," Anders said mildly, actually quite glad to see the poltergeist, as his arrival had snapped him out of his reverie. The ghost danced in front of him for a while and, despite himself, Anders smiled. "You just here to taunt me?"

Peeves looked genuinely surprised. "There's another reason?" He circled Anders once or twice, shaking his ghostly head in mock sadness. "You never did find it, then? Dear oh dear."

"Drop it, Peeves," said Anders, in a pleasant voice that held a dangerous undercurrent of threat. "Nobody cares about it. And anyway...sometimes I have it, other times I don't." The young Professor shrugged. "It isn't a problem."

"Not a problem, Grimm? Tsk, tsk! Makes you into a walking freak if you ask me! Even the ghosts were scared of you after you lost it. Not natural. Not natural at all." He leaned right into Anders' face and grinned wickedly. "Unnatural."

"I said drop it, Peeves." Anders flicked his wand and a jet of sparks shot from the end of it, sending the poltergeist shooting backwards. With a final, gleeful and accusatory shout of "unnatural!", the poltergeist was gone.

Anders threw his wand at the wall that Peeves had just passed through, a look of pure ire on his normally placid face. Being reminded forcibly of his personal - peculiarity - still stung, and had done since the day Snape had cast the spell on him. He got to his feet and retrieved his wand, deciding he would leave the confines of the classroom and go for a quick smoke before preparing the lesson for the fifth years.

Composing himself, divesting himself of the rage that was creeping through his veins, Anders heading towards the main door and took a seat on the steps. Somewhere over the crest of the lawn, he could hear muffled shouts of laughter. Hagrid and his class, no doubt. A genuine smile came onto the young Professor's face. He had been extraordinarily fond of Hagrid during his student days, and to find out that Dumbledore had rewarded the faithful Gamekeeper with the Care of Magical Creatures position had filled Anders with quiet pride.

With a soft 'ignito', he lit his cigarette and smoked contemplatively for a while, noticing how his anger began to drain. This was good. Very good. The last thing he needed was to be on edge and snappish in a class that contained Harry Potter.

Anders Grimalkin - known to his fellow students and, evidently, the ghosts of Hogwarts as 'The Grimm', because of his perpetual air of gloom, and the fact he'd been Professor Trelawney's chosen 'victim' one year, had been in possession of one of the hottest tempers any of the Professors at Hogwarts could ever remember seeing - and they had seen some firecrackers in their time. Twice he had had to be forcibly restrained after launching himself in a state of blind fury at those who would taunt him.

As he had grown older, it became widely accepted that the best way not to fire him up was simply to ignore him, and he had become more and more withdrawn. The temper had faded with age, though, as his logical, rational side began to rule his actions, and following the death of his mother, he had seemed to lose it altogether. Even after the Duelling incident, he had not been angry, but had simply moped about the situation in his own way.

He flicked the spent cigarette away and got to his feet, dusting down his crumpled robes before heading back into the school.

He paused for a moment before the smiling portrait of the current Headmaster. Albus Dumbledore. His personal benefactor, saviour and idol. What that man had done for Anders went way beyond the call of duty, and it was up to the young man now to repay some of the debt. He would do this job and he would do it well.

"Just keep Snape out of my path," he begged no-one in particular.

"Keep out of his way, my boy," the portrait of Dumbledore smiled at him. "One good turn deserves another. Never forget that."

Anders smiled gently and headed back to his classroom.

* * * * *

Divination was an ongoing nuisance and thorn in the side as far as Harry and Ron were concerned - but they were both moderately confident it would be an easy O.W.L. to get, which was why they had carried it on to the fifth year. Sybil Trelawney, as vacant and desperate to be mysterious as ever had welcomed the students with her usual sad eyes and set them away reading each others fortunes in the Tarot, which was her subject for the term.

"Don't tell me, let me guess," said Harry, covering his eyes in mock terror. "The Death Card, right?"

"Harry, you're amazing," gasped Ron in pretend amazement. Professor Trelawney, who was hovering nearby, wringing her skinny hands together, stepped up. "The Death Card doesn't necessarily mean Death, dears," she cooed. "Besides, Harry, I'm pleased to tell you that your year ahead is looking remarkable rosy!"

"It is?" Harry was naturally cynical.

"Ohh, yes," breathed the Divination Professor. "All the signs for a year of portent-free studying are excellent." She leaned in as if sharing a great secret. "There is another who will be dogged by the omens of doom this year, I am pleased to tell you."

"Oh?"

But no further information was forthcoming. Ron and Harry exchanged glances and barely stifled their sniggers.

The rest of Divination passed, as it always did, in a smoky haze of incense and low lighting that made them all feel rather sleepy. When the bell finally rang for the final lesson of the day, it was a very dozy Harry and Ron who made their way to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

When they entered, they saw Professor Grimalkin leaning back on his chair, his feet up on the desk, seemingly in some sort of deep meditation. Either that, or...

"He's ASLEEP!" hissed Ron.

It was true. Anders had come back inside after his cigarette and decided to steal the opportunity to snatch forty winks. Sadly, however, his forty winks had turned into eighty, then one hundred. With low giggles, the fifth year Gryffindors all entered the classroom and slid into their seats.

Hermione entered last, and looked at first the class and their strange behaviour and then at the young Professor, whose mouth had fallen slightly open, giving him a vaguely idiotic appearance. "Well, isn't ANYONE going to wake him up?" she asked, her hands on her hips. Ron put a finger to his lips.

"We're just going to sit here and wait until he's ready for us," he said, a wide grin splitting his face.

"Oh, Ron, honestly. Professor! Professor Grimalkin?" She reached over and shook the young man gently, much as she had on the train yesterday.

This time, however, he did not awaken gently. With a yell of horror that sent Hermione reeling backwards in shock, his chair tipped over, and the young Professor went down on the floor in a tangle of chair legs and scruffy black robes.

Hermione's natural reaction was to giggle - he looked so funny struggling to get up. Indeed, the rest of the class were roaring themselves hoarse with laughter. But then she saw his face, the look of distress that crossed it, and she hated herself more in that moment than she had ever done in her life - even when she'd believed Crookshanks had eaten Scabbers.

She stopped laughing immediately. "Here," she said, putting out her hand to help him up. The look of gratitude he shot her almost brought tears to her eyes, and when his hand closed around hers, she held it a little more tightly than was necessary, in an effort to communicate her support to him.

The young Professor got to his feet, shamefaced, and rubbed the end of his nose nervously.

"Not a good introduction," he said, finally to the class, who had, by this time, settled down somewhat and were watching him intently. "I think I'd be grateful if you didn't mention this to anybody...but then again, I can't stop you." He smiled a little lopsidedly. "It's just the sort of thing Professor Snape would enjoy strangling me with."

At this moment, he formed an instant bond with the Gryffindors. If Professor Snape didn't like Professor Grimalkin, then they, by the very principle, liked him.

"Yoo hoo! Grimm!"

~Not Peeves, please, not Peeves. I'll give anything if it's not...~

Peeves floated into the room. "Hello little students! Is The Grimm treating you well? Wouldn't trust him too much, he's got a NASTY temper, has The Grimm."

Anders was starting to lose the tiny shred of self control he'd managed to regain as he glared at the poltergeist, who fluttered to hover in the air next to Neville.

"Has The Grimm told his students about it yet?"

"Peeves..."

"Told us about what?" Neville was fascinated.

"Look at him!" smirked Peeves. "Here's a riddle for you, fifthies. What has The Grimm here not got that everything else, animal, vegetable and mineral does have?" The poltergeist floated particularly close to the DADA Professor, who gripped his wand so tightly that it turned his knuckles white. "Particularly at noon," cackled the ghost, passing right through Anders and out the classroom.

Anders turned and slammed his wand down on the desk, his placid face furious with rage. "Now does anybody else - anybody at all - want to get their digs in now?" he roared, in an incensed voice.

There was a sound of squeaking chair legs as the class collectively backed up a few inches. Peeves had been right. Professor Grimalkin certainly DID seem to have a temper.