Shadow of a Doubt

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Chapter Nine
Festive Spirit

The Yule Ball was, as indeed it always was, a great hit with both students and teachers - well, some of the teachers, anyway.

Dumbledore had laughed himself almost the other side of his face when he had caught sight of the young Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, who had finally succumbed to the wheedling pleas of the sixth and seventh year girls and braved a trip down to the festively decorated Great Hall. He was currently lost somewhere in a sea of females, all of whom were vying for the first dance of the evening with the handsome young man. Every now and again he would shoot a glance of desperation at Dumbledore, who shrugged and grinned at him.

He surprised everyone in the hall with his choice of dance partner for the first dance of the evening, but none more than Hermione Granger who blushed furiously as the Professor strode over and grabbed her hand, pulling her onto the dance floor, much to the temporary annoyance of Ron, whose resistance to the idea did not last long. He had been dreading the whole dancing thing anyway. Two left feet, his mum said, and she was not far wrong.

Anders Grimalkin, on the other hand - or indeed, the other foot - was an excellent dancer, moving Hermione lightly around the floor with a sinuous, twisting grace that made her feel lighter than a feather. He flattered her extravagantly and she blushed, wondering just what had come over the Professor. But all that had come over him was a sense of holiday spirit, and the instruction from his Great Uncle to stop worrying for just one night of the year and let his hair down.

When he finally returned Hermione to Ron's side, she was sweating lightly, but very happy. Professor Grimalkin kissed her hand gently in a quaint, old-fashioned sort of way that caused the sixth and seventh year girls to sigh audibly as he moved to be among them and find another dance partner.

"You two looked good out there," said Ron, his arm draped very lightly, but not at all possessively across Hermione's shoulder. "You're a good dancer, Hermione."

"I'm not," she said. "It's him. He made me look good. He's so light on his feet." She took a huge gulp of chilled pumpkin juice and smiled at Harry, who was on the dance floor with his date for the evening, Lavender Brown. Compared to the young Professor, now dancing with a pretty red-headed seventh year who looked dangerously near to tears of joy, Harry looked awkward and clumsy, but he was enjoying himself. That was the main thing.

She was aware that Ron was looking rather intently at her and she blushed again. "What?" she said. "Is my hair coming down?" She had her thick brown hair piled atop her head, caught up by sparkling barettes, and the curls fell down her back.

"No," said Ron, simply and honestly. "I was just thinking how nice you looked, that's all."

It was probably the best compliment she had ever received and for once in her life, she was completely speechless.

* * * * *

Anders was actually enjoying himself. It had been so long since he had done so, he found himself almost feeling guilty about it. The guilt did not last long, and he barely had time to sit down and relax, so popular was he on the dance floor.

Charis had taught him to dance, society animal that she was, and he had always enjoyed the activity. He'd managed to get out of nearly all the balls whilst he'd been at school, but now he was an adult, he was keen to show off his skill.

The seventh year girl with whom he was currently dancing was also one of his best students, a serious, dark-haired Ravenclaw girl called Melissa McRobert, who had been one of the few girls who had reasoned that the best way to get Professor Grimalkin to dance was not to bother him, but then, Melissa tried not to bother anyone. She was a quiet, studious girl, and he found himself unmistakably drawn to her.

He was also acutely aware of his position as a teacher and how it could look to form a relationship with a student. A student who was close to nineteen, and therefore only four years his junior, but a student, nonetheless. Not that he would ever behave improperly towards a young lady, that was not Anders Grimalkin's nature, but he was aware of the implications for his Great Uncle.

Melissa, for her part, remembered Anders Grimalkin. He had been a seventh year when she had been in the third and had just started noticing boys. He'd been a Slytherin, though, and the Ravenclaw/Slytherin rivalry had reached a peak at the time. She still remembered shooting the awkward, tall young man shy, hopeful looks at every opportunity, but he had perpetually seemed lost in his own world. And now, four years later, her he was, dancing with her.

And he was no less gorgeous now than he had been then. Melissa was not generally a girl who judged others on their looks, but was mesmerised by Anders Grimalkin. In particular, she found herself looking into his cool, bright blue eyes and wondering how he managed to keep so much hurt locked up.

When her fingers had reached up to brush a lock of dark hair out of his eyes, he felt as though someone had thrust a cattle prod at him, so electric was the sensation of her touch. Alarm klaxons sounded somewhere in his mind, but for now, he was content to dance with her.

Finally, he managed to take a seat at the teacher's table. He was pink and happy and his neatly combed ponytail had come loose from its bindings. His dark hair fell down below his shoulders and he felt better and more relaxed than he could remember. He took a sip of juice - having not touched wine since the duel with Snape.

He looked out at the dancing that was going on out in the Great Hall and his heart lifted. How could he be melancholy and angst filled on such a night?

Quite simply, he couldn't.

* * * * *

"Did you SEE the way he and Granger were dancing together?" whispered Pansy Parkinson in Malfoy's ear. "That didn't exactly look innocent to me. You should tell him, Draco. Tell him what you think about that sort of thing."

Draco Malfoy had noticed, of course he had. He was obsessed with trying to find a chink in Grimalkin's armour of stupid self-righteousness, and to bring him crashing down to the reality where he was an ex-convict who had been given this job only out of sympathy. The blackmail approach had proved fruitless, Grimalkin had simply refused to rise to the bait. If anything, all it had served to do was mark Malfoy's card as far as the young Professor was concerned, and he had simply become less open and more guarded with his comments around the Slytherin. His attention became caught by a sudden disturbance on the other side of the Hall.

"Peeves," he murmured, watching the Poltergeist who was throwing Christmas decorations around and generally having a whale of a time. "Peeves knows something about Grimalkin, I'm sure of it." Generally speaking, Draco had little or nothing to do with any of the Hogwarts ghosts, considering them so far below him that he would not even stoop to pass the time of day.

Peeves, in particular, he found to be next to unbearable, as did most of the usually upright and breathing contingent at Hogwarts. But if Peeves had something on Grimalkin...then Draco Malfoy felt he could alter his normal rule about conversing with the poltergeist.

Content in the knowledge that he could well be on to something, Draco smiled slyly and led Pansy out to the dance floor, elbowing Potter and Brown out of his way. They looked ridiculous together anyway.

* * * * *

As the night drew to a close, Anders found himself dancing once again with Hermione. She looked tired, but content.

"Thank you, Professor," she murmured into his shoulder. "You were right all along about Ron."

"I'm glad, Hermione. You two make a nice couple. I'm just sorry that you haven't got yourselves together sooner. Still - you have plenty of time to catch up."

The enchanted music began swelling to its finale, and Hermione stood on tiptoe and impulsively kissed Anders on the cheek. "Thank you," she said, simply. "Thank you for understanding and listening when I needed a friend." She broke free from his embrace and returned to Ron's waiting arms.

He watched her walk away and put a hand vaguely to his cheek where she had kissed him. He'd never been called a 'friend' before, and he rather liked the feeling of warmth it gave him. He watched as Ron led Hermione from the Great Hall, along with a large group of the students. There was only a handful of die-hard sixth and seventh years left now, and the teachers who had attended. Anders had already noted Snape's absence from the festivities, and despite not missing him in the slightest was quite disappointed to have been robbed of the opportunity to watch Severus dancing.

With that semi-happy thought in his head, Anders retired for the night, and had the first full night's sleep he'd managed in a long time.

* * * * *

Malfoy had approached Peeves with a deal. He, Malfoy, would put in a good word for the poltergeist with the Bloody Baron and arrange it so the Baron gave Peeves a little more leeway. In return for this favour, Peeves gleefully revealed to Draco Malfoy the truth about Anders Grimalkin and his missing shadow.

Rubbing his hands together in glee, Malfoy squirrelled this valuable new knowledge away, ready to bring it out in the open at the time that was guaranteed to cause Grimalkin the most embarrassment, and headed home for the Christmas holidays. He would strike on his return, of that he had little or no doubt.

Ron and Hermione were both staying for Christmas, much to Harry's mixed pleasure and irritation. Pleasure because he enjoyed spending time with his friends, and irritation because their presence cut into his flying lessons with Professor Grimalkin.

Harry's initial reservations about the Professor had long since morphed into nothing but respect for the quiet young man. He was an excellent flying teacher, and within two or three weeks of their first private lesson, Harry was aware of the improvement in his own style. The first match of the new year would be against Slytherin, and he planned to use one or two of the rather...unorthodox moves that he'd convinced Professor Grimalkin to teach him.

Christmas morning dawned bright and crisp, and Harry and Ron opened their presents in the girl's dorm where Hermione was alone. Over the years, the Dursleys had never failed to amaze Harry in their choice of Christmas gift, and this year was no exception. He stared incredulously at the rubber band that fell out of the card that said 'Happy Christmas 1965'.

"I mean," he said, shaking his head, "why?"

They looked at the offending article for a while, then Ron began to grin. So did Hermione. Harry tested the elasticity of the rubber band on the end of his thumb. It was warped, and broke immediately. He smiled himself. "Well," he said, "at least there's always the knowledge that one day I will be able to leave the Dursleys."

Someone else received a Christmas gift that left him baffled.

Anders Grimalkin had been up since the crack of dawn. He'd never been much of a Christmas person: particularly not since his mother's death. But this year, there was a brightly coloured envelope sitting at his breakfast place. He looked at it curiously, wondering if an owl had delivered it incorrectly, but it had his name on it.

He slit the envelope open and was mystified when a key fell out. He looked at it, and then felt Dumbledore's eyes on him. He gave his uncle a quizzical look, but the Headmaster just tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. Anders pocketed the key, a sense of something between excitement and trepidation filling him. Another one of his uncle's surprises.

He found out extremely quickly. The key fit an old shed out in the grounds near Hagrid's hut and when the Headmaster directed him there, he nearly cried.

Albus Dumbledore had made arrangements to have Anders' beloved motorbike delivered to Hogwarts, and it was an extraordinarily happy young Professor who turned up for Christmas dinner, a smear of oil already on his face, and an expression of sheer bliss. He slid into his seat next to Severus Snape, who wrinkled his nose at the smell of machine oil.

"Merry Christmas, Professor," beamed Anders, holding a cracker to his colleague. Reluctantly, Snape pulled the other end, and the cracker burst into a million shiny pieces of paper that rained down over them, settling in their hair and on their robes. Anders picked up the novelty hat, that of a pirate, and put it on, adopting the pseudo-pirate accent to go with it. This caused Snape to sneer at him, but Anders did not care. He couldn't imagine how, if at all, things could get better than this.

He ushered Hermione, Ron and Harry out to see his bike after dinner, and they were politely impressed, but could not see anything except a big, black Muggle machine. The young Professor, still wearing his pirate party hat announced happily that he was going to strip down the bike clean it piece by piece, cog by cog. Hermione found her tongue then.

"Best not do that inside the castle," she said, carefully. "I don't think the House Elves would share your enthusiasm."

"I'll speak to them," Anders said. "They'll understand. I mean, I'll clean up after myself and everything."

Hermione and Harry exchanged dubious glances. They had seen the House Elf war machine at full tilt and seriously doubted that Anders Grimalkin could use his undoubted charm to get them to agree to bringing filthy engine parts into their super-clean castle.

They could not burst his bubble, though, so decided to let things be.

* * * * *

Anders peered cautiously around the door of the Great Hall. He had, in his hand, a bag, containing bits of stripped-down and exceedingly dirty engine parts. He had never quite got around to broaching the subject with the House Elves, and so had resorted to the backup plan.

Subterfuge.

Looking around the abandoned Great Hall - it was, after all, close to midnight, he was relieved to note that the coast was apparently clear. He began to tiptoe cautiously across, praying that he didn't step on the ...

...squeaky floorboard...oh no...

...there it was.

He cringed. He'd often contemplated writing a thesis paper on what he referred to as 'tiptoecoustics - the science that explains why, when you're trying to sneak about in the wee small hours, every tiny sound is amplified beyond belief'.

"Master!" A swarm of house elves immediate came out through the kitchen doors and formed a somewhat intimidating and remarkably accusing circle around him.

He tried to hide the bag, but knew that the oil and grease that covered his hands and face were going to incriminate him, so gave it up as a lost cause. About twenty candles were held up and illuminated the young Professor's grime-streaked face.

He smiled sheepishly.

"I...was just taking this to my room..." he began, feebly.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

Three more elves passed out. Anders stared at them guiltily. "Um..."

"To your ROOM, Master? Just think of the laundry! Think of the stains! No, no, master mustn't take dirty things through Hogwarts. Hogwarts must be clean and tidy at all times!" The elf reached out a hand to take the bag of engine parts. Grimly defiant, Anders clutched onto it as if it were a drifting log in the sea of angry house elves.

"It's MY bag and it's going with ME!" he said, sternly. "I promise that I'll clean up after myself, you won't have anything to do..."

"Bag must stays HERE, master," insisted the elf.

"It's going with me." Hot anger rose in him and he glowered furiously at the House Elf ringleader.

The Elves stared impassively back at him, and then they attacked. They were all over him like a rash, and despite his advantage of greater height and strength, within seconds, Anders found himself overpowered. In the mass of elves that flocked around him, he was dimly aware of snatches of conversation.

"Tsk! Robes is filthy!"

"Oil in hair, master, that's not good!"

He closed his eyes. This was a nightmare.

When he opened them again, Anders was alone in the Great Hall. Everything had gone.

Including his robes.

One small cog clattered noisily onto the ground as he stood up and shivering, he bent down to pick it up. It rolled around in a lazy circle and then before it lay to rest, one of the smallest elves rushed out and grabbed it, turning to stare at Anders accusingly before disappearing into the kitchen again.

All that was left of the carefully stripped-down bike was the Hessian sack in which he had carried the parts into the castle. He picked it up and used it to cover himself with. The one House Elf who reappeared and made as if to take the sack met with such a stare of cold fury from the young Professor that it wisely decided against the move and disappeared.

Slinking out of the Great Hall, with nothing but a sack to cover his modesty, his cheeks aflame, Anders made his way upstairs to his bedroom.

This. Meant. War.

* * * * *

By the end of the Christmas holidays, Harry was definitely seeing an improvement in his flying skills, and was extremely grateful to the young Professor for the time and effort he was putting in. What he didn't realise was that Anders was getting as much pleasure out of teaching Harry as he would have done were it him on the Firebolt.

The two were spending more and more time in each other's company: since the Yule Ball, Hermione and Ron seemed to be unable to put one another down, which frankly annoyed Harry beyond rational belief. He knew that he was being ridiculously jealous, but he couldn't help it. However, aiming to be positive, he took that emotion, recycled it, and threw it into his flying, which caused Professor Grimalkin to actually applaud some of his dives.

Skimming across the surface of the Quidditch field, Harry leaped nimbly off the broom. "Want another go?" he said, seeing the longing in the Professor's face. Anders glanced at the castle and back at the broom, chewing his lip. He hadn't taken a ride on the Firebolt since that first night, and had been yearning for the opportunity again.

"I..." he began, then grinned. "You just try to stop me."

Harry grinned back and thrust the broom at him. "It's all yours."

He knew he shouldn't encourage the Professor to break the terms of his release from Azkaban, but the minute risk involved was worth it to see how his perpetually worried expression changed to one of sheer exhilaration and joy when he was flying around the field.

Anders took a ten-minute flight and cruised to a beautifully controlled halt. "Wonderful broom," he said, dismounting and patting it gently. "You're really lucky, Harry. Where did you get it?"

"My godfather gave it me," replied Harry, proudly.

"Your godfather?" Anders was surprised at this bit of news, he had thought Harry had no relatives other than the Dursleys he had mentioned before.

"Yeah...I don't see him much right now, he's...uh...he's been travelling the world. Nice guy. You'd like him. And I'm pretty sure he'd like you." Harry had been writing to Sirius about his illicit lessons, and Padfoot's response had been that Harry should continue to enjoy the lessons, but that if Anders got into trouble, there would be Words. Sirius had also mentioned that he was of the camp that believed Anders Grimalkin was not guilty of the crimes he'd been punished for. Harry had expected nothing else.

"Well, who knows. Maybe one day." Anders glanced at Harry. "Listen, term starts again next week, and we'll have to cut the lessons back a bit."

"Yeah, I know." Harry made a face as he took the broom back from Anders and they began walking back to the castle. "And it's exams term as well - not to mention the Slytherin-Gryffindor match coming up in three weeks. Bet you anything you like my team returns from their holidays forgetting everything we've practised. And you can almost guarantee that one of them will have lost their team socks..."

Anders let Harry's chatter wash over him. Something the boy had said had given him the germ of an idea for getting his own back on the House Elves. By the time they reached the Entrance Hall, the idea had sprouted and taken on a shape that brought a slightly wicked grin to the Professor's face. Harry glanced at him. "Sir? Did you hear what I just said?"

"Huh? Oh, yes. Er...no, actually."

Harry shook his head. "I said, would you like to come into Hogsmeade tomorrow evening with Ron, Hermione and I? We're having a last moment of freedom before the term starts. Hagrid will be there, too."

"Yeah, sure," said Anders, his mind elsewhere. "Whatever."

Harry watched as the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor walked off, a faraway look in his eyes. "He REALLY needs a holiday," he murmured.

* * * * *

"Welcome back, one and all to the start of the new term," beamed Albus Dumbledore, smiling round at the assembled student body. "I hope all of your Christmases were as satisfying and warming as our own."

He glanced down the teacher's table at his great-nephew and sighed. "I have a small announcement to make before you all wonder what on earth has been going on. A little...disagreement took place between a member of the faculty and our resident House Elves, which has resulted in my necessary intervention before things got any further out of hand."

From the corner of his eye, he could see the blush creeping up Anders' face, and fought back the urge to smile. "So when you all retire to your dormitories tonight, please be aware that the pink sheets, a result of a Gryffindor Quidditch team sock - er - 'accidentally' finding its way into the whites wash - will only be on the beds until an appropriate bleaching spell can be performed."

Anders shrank into his seat, grinning a little nervously. It had been a moment of extreme tension when the House Elves had unloaded the washing machine that day. The sight of the pink sheets had caused four of them to faint dead away, and had necessitated Dumbledore taking Anders in hand and forbidding him to cause the little fellows any more grief. An uncertain, but grudging alliance had finally been forged between the two sides, and Anders no longer brought his bike parts inside the castle.

"And now, please enjoy the rest of your evening," continued Dumbledore, sitting back down and munching on the leg of a bird that could well have been an ostrich in a former life. Everywhere was full of merriment, of chatter and of comfortable conversation.

And at the far end of the Slytherin table, nobody noticed Draco Malfoy talking earnestly to Peeves the Poltergeist.