Shadow of a Doubt

# # # # # #

Chapter Four
Elementary Magic

After the extremely dubious start, Professor Grimalkin's Defence Against the Dark Arts class began to settle down. Still alarmed by his show of anger, the class concentrated hard on what he was telling them, and found, to their surprise, that the shy, stuttering man was actually rather eloquent once he got into the swing of his subject.

"Elementals," he was saying. He wrote the word on the board and turned round to face the class. He was visibly shaking, and he stammered over his carefully prepared notes. "I'm sure you're all aware," he said, softly, "that there are four main elements." He flicked his wand into his hand and one at a time, the four elements appeared as tiny illustrative illusions before him. "Earth. Water. Air. And fire."

As swiftly as they had come into being, the illusions winked out again.

He left a slight pause and shuffled the papers in his hand, still nervous. "To understand how to defend yourself against the Dark Arts more effectively, it is also necessary to understand more about the nature of magic itself." He looked around at the class and was somewhat startled to see he actually seemed to have their attention. Bolstered up by this, he continued.

"This is what our class today will be about. I haven't had a chance to order in the things that I want to show you on a practical level, so we're going to have a discussion about this subject."

There was a collective groan. Not ANOTHER theory lesson!

Professor Grimalkin continued, ignoring the class. "For every positive benefit of each of the elements, there is a negative. Fire burns. Fire also warms. Water drowns - water also nourishes. It is up the user to determine how each one ultimately turns. Nothing is truly evil unless it's intent and purpose is."

He was becoming more confident with each word, and soon left his notes on the desk altogether and began pacing the room, making things up as he went along. He was surprised at how easily it came.

"Tell me one thing. Have you ever stopped to consider how the elements react to each other? Let's start with fire. One of the most fearsome forces on earth can be stopped by water, one of the seemingly most harmless. Cold air can freeze water in its tracks. And sometimes the reactions are harmonious. Air feeds fire, giving it strength. Water gives dry earth pliability. Everything can ultimately be traced back to a root in these four elements. Water can help a tree to grow to be the strongest plant in the world, but a landslide of catastrophic proportions can rip it to the ground."

This was no longer the shy, awkward teacher who had entered the classroom this morning. This was an intelligent, articulate young man, passionate about his own words. The poet and artist in him gave his words credence, and complimented with his very gentle Welsh lilt gave them an almost hypnotic influx.

"Fire! Flood! Earthquakes! Tornados!" He banged his fist onto the desk after each word, as if to emphasize it. Then, in a softer voice, he said, "Warmth. Cleanliness. Nourishment. A gentle summer's breeze. The same root - different results."

His face was animated as he spoke, his wand waving around, and realistic little illusions appearing before him as he discussed each item.

"I want you to go away after class and consider the elements. Consider the good things and the bad things. Consider the pros, the cons. The strengths, weaknesses, advantages and threats. List them down. And you may be surprised at which of the four turns out to be the most powerful."

He leaned forward, his hands set on the desk, his blue eyes glinting. "I'll give you something to start with. It isn't the one that you think it is."

Flicking his wand lazily, the chalk leapt into the air and began scribbling furiously on the board. "I want you to write these things down, and tell me, from your own conclusions, what you believe constitutes the difference between good and evil. For example. Is evil purely destructive? Or can evil create as well? Summoning a fire demon, for example, is considered a Dark Arts spell. Yet it is creating something from nothing. Is that totally evil?"

A large question mark appeared on the blackboard.

He reached the crescendo of his little monologue, and as he spoke, he turned to a different student each time, pointing at them as he spoke, as if he could somehow help his words take effect.

"A spark of fire can cause a blaze that will destroy a forest in the blink of an eye, yet at the same time can warm and light the darkness. A glass of water can be the gift of life to a dying man, but to a small insect, it can be an ocean in which it drowns. A clod of earth can be home to a beautiful flower, or a poisonous toadstool. A breath of air can be the elixir of life, but to any creature with gills...it is death."

Finally, the chalk ceased its endless scratching, falling to the ground and the Professor fell silent. There was a pregnant pause. Finally he looked up, and the articulacy that had gripped him during his lecture seemed to have packed up its things and gone south for the winter. "Consider," he said, shyly and softly. "Consider and write up your impressions of the elements."

He sat down and drew a few deep breaths. "Any questions?"

For long moments, nobody could say anything. They had been captivated by his presentation. When Snape held a theory lesson, it was all they could do to keep from falling asleep. But then - Professor Grimalkin apparently had a gift for illusion that the dour-faced Potions Master didn't have. They had never seen any of their teachers use what was often considered the wasted, artistic side of the Art to enhance what they were saying in such a manner.

It was all some of them could do to keep from applauding, even, to his surprise, Ron. Finally, Hermione's hand shot up into the air.

The young Professor smiled at her. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Sir, is it true that when it comes to elemental magic, the Muggle adage 'to fight fire with fire' is truly inaccurate?"

"Just so, Miss Granger," beamed Professor Grimalkin. "If one of you - " he whirled around and waved his wand. An illusion of a fire demon appeared in front of Neville, who pushed away from his desk squeaking in surprise, "was attacked by a fire demon, to cast a fire spell on it would be a fatal error."

A perfect, tiny replica of Neville appeared in front of the fire demon. Perfect down to the 'O' of horror on his face. The tiny replica waved his wand and chanted unheard words. A jet of flame flew from the end of his illusory wand and the fire demon swelled in size.

His blue eyes twinkling, Professor Grimalkin flicked his own wand again.

"However, if we adopt the simple...opposite principle of elemental magic..."

The tiny Neville waved his wand, and a jet of water splashed onto the demon, extinguishing it. The replica grinned and held up its thumbs before winking out of existence. The real Neville swelled with pride.

"Wow, sir," breathed Dean Thomas. "You're good at this! You should be teaching Illusion!"

"Thank you," replied Professor Grimalkin, grinning slightly. "Should the job ever become vacant, I will consider it."

Before anyone could comment further, the final bell of the day rang. "Don't forget, I want you to write up a summary on this topic for next class, please," called Professor Grimalkin, raising his voice to be heard over the increased noise caused by the rush to leave.

As the last of the class left, Anders sat heavily back down in his chair, a faint grin on his face, a sense of relief flooding through him. He had made it through the first day of school without making any major errors...apart from, perhaps, falling off his chair.

It was a much happier-looking Professor Grimalkin who sat down to dinner that night, eating his lamb chops with great gusto and noisy enthusiasm, much to the apparent disgust of Professor Snape who glowered at the young man darkly.

"That wasn't a bad first lesson," conceded Harry, when Ron asked him for his ongoing opinion of the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. "But didn't you wonder at all what Peeves was on about?"

"Peeves? Nah. He's just a trouble maker, isn't he?" Ron waved his fork around enthusiastically, sending peas spraying all over Hermione. "But he's great with those illusions! Wonder if he'll teach ME how to do that?"

Hermione coldly picked up the peas that were in her lap and put them back on Ron's plate. "Like you would pay any attention anyway?" she said, a little scornfully. "You need to have patience for Illusions, Ron."

"Didn't look like Grimalkin had that much patience to me," replied Ron, cheerfully talking through a mouthful of dinner. "Peeves really rubbed him up the wrong way, huh?"

"Peeves rubs EVERYONE up the wrong way."

"Still," said Harry, thoughtfully. "I think I'd like to know what Peeves was on about. 'What is it Professor Grimalkin doesn't have that everyone else does'?"

"Does it really matter?" snapped Hermione. "Don't you think the poor man has been through enough without us gossiping about him behind his back? Why not just give him a chance?" Her outburst caused her two friends to stare at her a little. She was clearly extremely taken with the young Professor. She broke under their stares and fell silent for a few moments. "I feel sorry for him," she added, by way of explanation. "I mean, come on Harry - you didn't believe Si...Padfoot was innocent at first. Imagine how Grimalkin must feel?"

She had a point. Harry sighed. "I'm not saying I don't trust him, Hermione," he said, picking his words carefully so as not to unnecessarily antagonise her. "I'm just curious." He shrugged. "That's all."

At the teacher's table, Professor Grimalkin was looking decidedly content as he waded through his third helping of treacle tart and custard. Snape was looking at him with utter disapproval and disgust on his face, and then the Potions Master happened to glance down the table to where Harry, Ron and Hermione were sitting.

A slow, extremely unpleasant smile spread onto his face.

He leaned across tiny Professor Flitwick who was sat between him and Grimalkin, and said something that caused Grimalkin's spoon to pause between his plate and his mouth. The young Professor looked up at the walls and swallowed his mouthful of dessert. His face drained of colour as Snape sat back, a satisfied look evident.

Professor Grimalkin ate the remainder of his dinner in a hurry, getting to his feet almost before he had put his spoon down. He made his excuses and hurried out of the Great Hall.

Dumbledore and Snape exchanged glances, and an unseen reprimand passed between them.

"I wonder what THAT was all about?" whispered Hermione. "Snape really seems to hate Professor Grimalkin, doesn't he?"

"Understatement of the year," said Ron, cheerfully.

Dinner finished, the students left the Great Hall heading for their respective common rooms.

* * * * *

"May I come in, Anders, my boy?"

"Certainly, Professor Dumbledore."

Professor Grimalkin was sat alone in his Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, apparently preparing classes for the following day. He glanced up at the Headmaster and smiled.

"How has your first day been?"

"Most interesting, Headmaster," said the young man, almost - but not quite - enthusiastically. "I was a little nervous to start with, but...it got easier as the day went on."

"I knew there was no reason to doubt you." The old wizard beamed at Anders like a father who was inordinately proud of a son, and took a seat at one of the desks. His kindly old face took on a serious mien.

"Tell me if Severus pushes things too far, please, Anders."

The young Professor laughed, humourlessly. "Was it that obvious?"

"Painfully."

Anders sat down and sighed heavily. "He always disliked me...and after that spell he cast..."

"Don't talk about it, my boy if it's too painful a memory."

"Painful memory? Oh, no, Headmaster, you misunderstand, see. It's not about the pain of that day. It's about the pain of how I had to live with the consequences of what Snape did. It was alright for him. He just stood back and watched."

A flash of anger glinted in Anders' eyes, and Dumbledore put a hand on his arm. "Easy, my boy. Severus likes to hold grudges, as you know - but he also likes to hold his...shall we say...successes, too."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, as Anders continued to bustle around getting his stuff together. Occasionally Dumbledore would offer up a comment or suggestion and the young man would nod, his dark ponytail bobbing in response.

"Anders..." Dumbledore said, finally, when the last book had been placed. Anders tipped his head on one side and looked carefully at the Headmaster. "I came here to explain something I know has been bothering you."

Anders sat down again and looked across the desk at Dumbledore, a slightly sad expression on his face. "You can read me like a book, Headmaster. You always could. Yes. Tell me."

"Your trial. I could not appear as a character witness...because..." Dumbledore hesitated, stroking his long white beard. "Because they found out the truth about our...relationship. Said it would be biased."

Anders sighed heavily. "How did they find out? I never told a soul."

"Unfortunately, somebody in your mother's family answered an innocent question that traced back to our ultimate relationship. The two-and-twenty were aware from the middle of the trial that I am your uncle."

Anders shook his head. "Great Uncle." He smiled very weakly. "I had to keep that to myself all these years." He looked up at Dumbledore, his eyes bright with tears. "You're the only wizarding family I'm aware that I have. Do you have any idea how hard it's been to keep this quiet?"

"I know, Anders. And maybe...one day we can make it public knowledge. But for now...it's easier - and safer - that we don't." Dumbledore patted Anders' arm again. "There is nobody in this school who knows the truth," he said. "And that's the way I would like it to stay - for now."

"Yes, Headmaster," said Anders, a dull ache in his heart. "I understand." Of course Dumbledore wouldn't want it public knowledge. How ashamed would one of the most powerful wizards in England - in the world - be to have an accused murderer for a nephew?

Dumbledore stood up, and - as he always did - seemed to pull the thoughts out of Anders' head.

"I AM proud of you, my boy. Just as your mother would have been and her family still are. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. You are a credit, Anders Grimalkin, not a failure."

He touched his nephew's shoulder briefly, and Anders dropped his head in shy embarrassment. "We will clear your name totally one day soon," promised Dumbledore in a low, passionate kind of voice. "Then our relationship need no longer be kept purely to ourselves."

And then he was gone, leaving Anders standing, his head bowed, tears leaking slowly from his eyes. The agony of having a blood relative and not being able to acknowledge them was just another stone on his already breaking back.

* * * * *

"Found out anything interesting, then, Hermione?" Harry slid into the squashy armchair next to where his friend was poring over the newspaper cuttings.

"Nothing we didn't already know," she said, scanning another article. "These articles mostly rave on about what a good Seeker he is...was. You would probably have enjoyed watching him." She handed him one of the articles which more or less praised the young Welshman as the 'finest export Wales had seen since Merlin'. The magical pictures of him showed a young man happy but uncomfortable with his growing fame, a young man who was constantly battling to overcome his natural reticence at being in the public eye.

"And then..." Hermione passed Anders another newspaper. It was the report on Anders' arrest and removal to Azkaban. It described, naturally in full and bloody detail, the incident on the Quidditch pitch that had seen the death of the Norwegian Beater and the serious wounding of Grimalkin after a death-plunge of nearly one hundred feet.

The magical photograph in that edition had been taken by one of the crowd at the moment of impact. It was a poor picture, but constantly replayed the moment that the slender young Seeker slammed into the Beater, knocking his opponent from his broom and tumbling to the ground in a mass of arms, legs and broomsticks. Harry shuddered, handing Hermione back her paper.

"It's amazing he survived at all," he said.

"He landed on top of the Beater," said Hermione softly. "Otherwise he would have ended up as a stain on the pitch as well."

Harry winced again.

Hermione flipped through the editions of the Daily Prophet. "From that point on, he stopped being a hero and became a target and an object of directed hatred." She scowled. "Rita Skeeter ripped him to shreds, calling him all sorts of things - and the public just lapped it up. Within about two months of his arrest, he was one of the most hated people the wizarding community has ever known."

She threw down the edition in disgust. "Just another example of how easily led people can be."

"You have to admit, Hermione," said Harry, carefully. "That photograph DID look like pretty damning evidence." He held up his hands as she shot him a furious glance. "I'm not saying he did it - the judges found him not guilty, and I'm not about to start questioning their reasons. But...just suppose - just hypothesize for a moment - that he DID do it?"

"Dumbledore obviously believes in him," she said, stubbornly. "And when have you ever known him to be wrong?"

She had a good point. Harry, like the majority of people, trusted Dumbledore's judgment without question. But there had been something more than that in the Headmaster's words at the Feast, something that reeked of 'if you mess with Professor Grimalkin, you mess with me'. Why was the Headmaster so obviously protective of Grimalkin?

Just another unanswerable question to add to the growing list.