Shadow of a Doubt

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Chapter Eight

Love, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness

November disappeared quietly into the first snowfall of December, and the spirit of Christmas began to permeate the halls of Hogwarts. The Yule Ball, scheduled for the night before most students returned home for the Christmas holidays was fast approaching, and Hermione had still not plucked up the courage to speak to Ron.

But she HAD plucked up the courage to do something else.

After a particularly interesting Defence Against the Dark Arts mock examination in which Professor Grimalkin had given each of them a tiny fire demon to practise their element spells on, Hermione held back. The young Professor was busying himself with returning the tiny demons to their box when she approached him.

"Professor? Could I...er...speak to you for a moment?"

He looked up and smiled brightly at her. She felt her heart skip a beat. This would be so much easier if he wasn't so handsome! Doggedly, she continued.

"I have a problem of a...um...personal nature. I wondered if you could...er...give me some advice from a male point of view?"

His eyebrows lifted, then he smiled again. "This wouldn't happen to be about a certain Mr. Weasley would it?"

"No!" she exclaimed, then smiled herself. "How did you know?"

"I'm not stupid, Hermione," he said, stuffing the last demon into the box and sealing it with a binding spell. "I have eyes and I can recognise certain expressions. What's the problem?"

"Well..." She sat down at one of the desks and put her head in her hands. "I like Ron a lot...and we've always been really good friends. But..."

He sat down opposite her. "But you want to be more than friends?"

He was very perceptive, she thought. Lavender had been right. It WOULD be nice to have an older brother, and Professor Grimalkin, young as he was, fit that role rather nicely. Look at him - the way in which he was looking at her with such heartfelt concern, the way in which his bright blue eyes showed both sympathy and understanding...she was impulsively driven to ask him a question.

"Do YOU have a girlfriend, Professor?"

He was startled by the question.

"No," he said, finally. "Not any more, anyway. I...was seeing a girl before...before, you know...That Place." He waved his hand dismissively. "But I don't think it would ever have gone anywhere. I don't think I was...quite in her league."

That was the understatement of the year. Charis had been a sophisticated, cultured beauty who found Anders' small-town ways next to impossible to deal with at times, and who had demonstrated little or no patience with his innocent ignorance.

"I'm sorry," said Hermione, blushing. "I don't mean to pry. It's just...you sound so knowledgeable about these things...I just assumed..."

"No, Charis dropped me from a great height the second I was arrested," he said, a little savagely. "I HAD hoped she might stick by me, but two or three weeks in Azk...in That Place...had me no longer caring about what she thought." He closed in eyes in sudden, remembered pain and Hermione felt guilty for prodding at his sensitive spot. She turned the subject back to her and Ron.

"I want to ask Ron to the Yule Ball, but don't know how."

He smiled, starting to gather up his books. "Just ask, Hermione - that's all you have do." He leaned forward, as if letting her into a great secret. "Let me tell you something about us males. Flatter our egos, and we're putty in your hands. You're a nice girl, Hermione, a smart, clever girl - I think Ron would be delighted to accompany you to the Yule Ball. But he won't ask you. He's too proud."

She had blushed furiously at his compliments and gave him a shy smile. "What if he says no?"

"Then you ask someone else. Try it. Be tough. You have absolutely nothing to lose."

Inwardly he was smarting. Who was he to give advice on matters of the heart? He'd not exactly been successful in that arena. As Hermione left, he reflected on what had been the only girlfriend he'd ever had. Charis Powell, a failed witch, had latched onto him whilst he had been playing Seeker for the Cardiff Chargers, and he had been totally fascinated by the blonde bombshell who seemed devoted to him.

His Quidditch career had been blossoming, and took up much of his time. He found himself with money for the first time in his life, and spent it by buying Charis extravagant gifts, which she accepted ungraciously, looking at them with bored disinterest before throwing them over her shoulder. It hurt Anders more than he could express to see her unhappy, and he would immediately offer to buy her bigger, better and more expensive if it would make her smile.

But still she seemed unhappy.

After he had been arrested, but was still in the hospital recovering from his broken ribs, she had come to visit him. He'd gazed up at her cold, impassive face, hoping that she would say she'd come to stand by him, but she had something much less pleasant to say to him.

After she had left, he had cried non stop for a day and a half.

And he had never opened his heart to anyone else again.

Viciously, he berated himself for lingering on what was past. Charis had never loved him the way he'd loved her, that much was obvious. She'd just been out for whatever she could leech from him. He envied Hermione and Ron. Two young people, whose only real issue was that they were awkward around one another. He had no doubt things would work out for them.

Sighing heavily, Anders packed up his books and left the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

"Professor."

He turned at the familiar drawling voice. Draco Malfoy, who had more or less seemingly given up on attempted verbal bullying of the young Professor, stood in the corridor, flanked by his usual henchmen.

"What is it, Mr. Malfoy?" said Anders, his voice almost bored.

"What were you doing in there with Granger? She came out looking extremely happy, Professor. You ought to be careful. You wouldn't want people to get the wrong idea about you, now, would you?"

Anders stared at him in utter disbelief, but Malfoy hadn't finished.

"Of course, if you were to, say, make sure that our marks in the Defence Against the Dark Arts examinations were supremely high...then I'm sure no rumours would ever start."

The young Professor's eyes narrowed.

"Blackmail, Malfoy?"

"Sir! What a terrible thing to accuse me of!" There was something so malevolent, bordering on evil in Malfoy's eyes, that Anders shuddered involuntarily. "Just think about it, that's all I'm saying."

With a motion to Crabbe and Goyle, he slunk off down the corridor, leaving Anders standing, books in his arms, staring after him, a look of guilt, worry and anger mixed on his face.

* * * * *

"Ron?"

Ron had been hard to track down. Hermione had finally found him, in of all places, the library, where he was hard at work, revising for an Astronomy exam that he was due to take that night. He looked up as she approached his table and grinned at her. It was unusual for Ron to be without Harry - who was out beating his Quidditch team into shape, and Hermione decided to seize the moment as Professor Grimalkin had suggested.

She slid into the seat next to him and looked at the books. "You...er...enjoy Astronomy, don't you?"

"Yes," said Ron, watching her closely. He had a feeling he knew what this was about. He had been building up courage for weeks now to ask Hermione to the Yule Ball. He'd asked Harry if he could test the water and find out whether she would be interested, and now she'd come to tell him, 'thanks but no thanks'.

Hermione fidgeted uncomfortably.

"I find it...it's always cold standing on top of the tower at midnight. I prefer Arithmancy. It's warmer."

"Yes," said Ron, almost miserably. Why wouldn't she just get it over with?

At that moment, the library door swung open, and Professor Grimalkin wandered in and went up to the desk to speak with Madam Pince, who seemed rather flustered to be in the company of the handsome young Professor, and who was patting at her bun in a rather flattered way.

Ron and Hermione watched, both twisting pieces of paper between their hands.

Then, at the same time, they both blurted out, "Will you go to the Yule Ball with me?"

"You?"

"Me?"

"You asked me?"

"I asked you?"

"Yes!"

"Yes!"

Professor Grimalkin saw their mutual glee from the corner of his eye and smiled in a slightly bitter, twisted sort of way. Good luck to them. He wished them more luck than he had ever known. He took the book that Madam Pince returned with and slunk out of the library.

* * * * *

Harry stared at the book Grimalkin handed him. "Basic Broomstick - A Guide for the Beginner." He looked up, his eyebrows raised. "With due respect, Sir, I'm not exactly a beginner."

"No, Harry, you're not. But when someone flies as well as you do, it becomes all too easy to forget the basics of broomstick flying. So study that book, and you'll be surprised just how you can improve simply through practising the simple stuff. Trust me."

They were standing out in the snow, Grimalkin shivering slightly through his thin, worn robes, and Harry had just landed after showing what he was capable of. He'd been full of himself, convinced that Grimalkin would say what a good flier he was, but he'd been quite literally brought down to earth with a bump.

He took the book, almost in embarrassment. But he understood the logic of what the young Professor was saying. It was the same principle that most of the Professors applied to all branches of magic. Remember the simple things and the rest will follow naturally.

Harry flipped through the book and told himself that if it would make him into the best Seeker ever, then it had to be worth doing. A cough came from the Professor and he glanced across. Grimalkin did not look too well.

"Are you alright, sir?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, Harry. Just a little...cold, I guess." He pulled his robes around him more tightly, for what little good that did. "Now why not try that dive again?" He pulled a few golf balls from his robe pockets. "Let's practise Snitch catching." He smiled and coughed again. Harry looked at him in concern again, but mounted the broomstick. Grimalkin threw golf balls into the air, and Harry dived to catch them, often just missing crashing into the ground.

For his part, every time Harry came plummeting towards the ground, Grimalkin's heart leaped into his mouth. The scene was so reminiscent of the moment he and Peterssen had come plunging down from the skies during that Quidditch match.

~Didn't even get that right, boy,~

"Sorry?" Anders glanced up at Harry. "Did you say something?"

"No, Sir," replied Harry, looking at the young Professor in confusion.

"I thought I heard you...no matter. That'll do for today. It's getting a bit too cold out here now. Are you going home for the Christmas holidays?"

"No," replied Harry, grimly. "The Dursleys - my aunt, uncle and cousin, who I live with, prefer me to stay here during Christmas. Don't like to have me around."

Anders nodded, sympathetically. He knew THAT feeling as well. He smiled. "Well, maybe we can fit in another couple of lessons between now and the new term. You have great potential, Harry."

Harry beamed broadly at the shivering young Professor, then his smile faded. "Sir? Are you SURE you're alright?" There was a strange, distant expression on the man's face, and he turned away and walked off without another word to Harry.

"Suit yourself," muttered Harry, picking up his Firebolt and heading back into the school.

He headed for the Gryffindor Common room, more than a little surprised by the Professor's odd behaviour, but put it to the back of his mind as he headed through the Fat Lady's portrait and straight up the stairs to his dorm. He stashed the Firebolt under his bed and then, after an embarrassed pause, put the 'Basic Broomstick' Guide under his pillow where it was not on display to everyone else. Fancy Professor Grimalkin giving him that book.

"Hey, Harry," said Ron, who had entered the dormitory at that moment. His red-haired friend looked suspiciously pleased with himself, like a dragon who'd got the last of the charcoal. Ron threw himself down on the edge of Harry's bed and sighed contentedly. "I did it," he said, triumphantly. "I asked Hermione to the Ball, and she said 'yes'."

Harry grinned. "Finally!"

Ron stared at him. "What's that meant to mean?"

"You two should have got together YEARS ago," he said. "I've never seen such a perfect match since Dudley met Pansy Parkinson at King's Cross last year!"

Ron let out a snort of laughter. "The expression on your Uncle Vernon's face when he realised that his Darling little Dudders was going all pie-eyed over a witch was priceless."

They laughed together, enjoying the memory. Harry's cousin had not slimmed down with the advance of the years, indeed, if anything, he was more rotund now than he had ever been in his life. Part of this was down to Aunt Petunia: although she had genuinely tried to stick to Dudley's diet sheet, she had given in to Dudley's well-rehearsed look of quiet starvation by slipping him the occasional pork pie or packet of bourbon creams.

* * * * *

And Anders Grimalkin?

Harry's reference to not being wanted around by his relatives had released another memory that had been locked up in the young Professor's confused mind. He walked around in something of a daze, ignoring the chill of the snowflakes that settled in his hair, on his nose, on his robes, and finally stopped walking when he was clear of the castle.

Since the incident with Snape, his lost memories had been returning one at a time - and most of them were memories he fervently wished he had simply never regained.

Like this one.

The Quidditch trials had gone excellently, he had felt, remembering it like it was just yesterday, and not five years ago. He'd performed the standard dives and Snitch catches with more than impressive effect, and one of the judges had even clapped loudly, to the chagrin of the others. They would contact him in two days, they said, but even he could tell from the smile on their faces that he was in. His career was going to take off - quite literally.

Thus it was, he entered his family home in Ebbw Vale enthusiastic and eager. He bounced happily into the kitchen, to find his father sitting, glaring at the noise his son had made. All the good intentions of resolving his differences with his father drained away as Anders met the cold stare of the dirty, unshaven, gaunt man in front of him.

"You're back, then."

"Yes, Da."

"When will you be leaving?" The older Grimalkin turned his attention to his newspaper, ignoring Anders completely. Suddenly angry, Anders turned on his heel and stormed upstairs to his room. He slammed the door shut and threw himself moodily down onto his bed. Only a few short hours ago, he had been on a high like he had never known. And with less than ten words, his father had taken the wind completely out of his sails.

He lay on the bed, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The house was filthy, as if Dafydd hadn't cleaned in weeks, and the smell of stale beer was offensive to the young man's nose. With a sigh, he rolled over and stared at the photograph of his mother next to the bed. "Mam...I don't know what to do for the best any more."

The photograph, unlike the wizarding ones he had gotten used to, did not respond in any way, but there was still something unusually calming in the expression of the pretty blonde in the picture. Anders loved that photograph. He had taken it the summer holidays before she had died, and there was something sad and unhappy in her face that touched him deeply.

Staring at her image calmed him down, and he began to plot out his future. He had to stay here for a least a couple of days until he heard from the Cardiff Chargers. If he got on the team...then he could move out. He'd seen the notice board in the dressing rooms. There were plenty of other young Quidditch players looking for room mates. At least he'd be among his own kind. He could check in on his father from time to time...everything would be fine.

He got back up and went downstairs. Dafydd hadn't moved an inch and barely glanced up as Anders entered the kitchen and began tidying.

"Well?"

"I'll leave day after tomorrow, DA But in the meantime, let me do something to help." He flicked his wand out and waved it. Immediately, the kitchen began to take care of cleaning itself. Dafydd muttered something under his breath.

"What was that, DA? I didn't hear you."

"Showing off in front of me again, are you, boy? Because you can do all this fancy wizard stuff and I can't, is it?"

"No, DA, I..."

Dafydd had got to his feet. He was taller than Anders by at least two inches, and Anders was 6'4". He was skinny, but powerful across the shoulders, and had a punch that Anders had been on the receiving end of too many times. "I want you out of this house, do you hear me? You're a stain on my good name. The lies I've had to tell about you to people." His breath stank of beer, and Anders knew he should get out of the way now, but something in him brought his utter defiance to the fore.

"DA, I only need two more days, then I'm gone. Two days, do you hear me?" His own voice was raising in anger and he clenched his hands into fists of his own.

"I want you out and I want you out NOW!" Dafydd roared, taking a step towards Anders who considered casting a freeze spell on the man, but he had made it his policy never, ever to use his magic against Muggles. To help them, yes. But against them...? Never. He put the wand down on the table.

"There. Now it's just you and me and no magic. You want to have this discussion in a civilised manner, or are you going to talk with your fists as usual?"

Dafydd's face, already purple with rage, darkened even more at his words. "I'll teach you some respect, you little..." He raised one fist, but instead of ducking, or moving away as he'd always done in the past, Anders stood his ground. This seemed to confused Dafydd.

"I'm not a little kid any more, DA I'm eighteen years old now. Not a student, not a child. I'm a man."

Something flashed across Dafydd's face at Anders' words, and he smirked knowingly. "You're a brat. You can stay for two days. But no more." His fists loosened and he patted Anders' cheek with a little more strength than was necessary. "And get the dinner on, I'm that hungry."

"Yes, DA," said Anders, turning away from his father, angry, hurt and confused. He hated the man so much, but loved him because it was his father. He would never, ever resolve that paradox.

Not ever.

And then had come the news - just before he had entered Azkaban - that his father had gone missing whilst abroad, presumed dead in an air crash. And that wound with his father had never been healed, and it never would be healed.

Sighing heavily, realising for the first time just how cold he was, the young Professor walked slowly and unhappily back to the castle.