Broken Quill: An Unexpected Understanding

BROKEN QUILL: AN UNEXPECTED UNDERSTANDING
by shiiki

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Susan Bones stared dejectedly at the blank parchment laid out in front of her. Her mind felt as empty as the content of her Defence Against the Dark Arts essay currently was.

She wished Hannah were here, to bounce ideas off. Hannah had the greatest imagination, which could be quite annoying when she was freaking out, but very useful when it came to essay writing (particularly homework for History of Magic). But Hannah had been pulled out of school five months ago when her mother had been killed. Susan didn’t know when – or even if – her best friend would return.

Thinking about Hannah made her feel depressed … which was probably good, actually, considering the subject matter of her essay.

Dementors, she wrote at the top of her parchment, then underlined it once, and again.

What could she write for an essay on Dementors? Susan closed her eyes and tried to bully her brains into thinking. Dementors, she thought, and she shivered suddenly as she recalled third year, when those awful creatures had been ‘protecting’ the school.

That was the first year she had been permitted to visit Hogsmeade, but the thrill of the excursion had been severely dampened by the presence of the hooded figures gliding eerily around them. Susan had felt so uncomfortable walking into Hogsmeade with the Dementors practically at shoulder length that she hadn’t gone again that entire year.

Then, there had been that Quidditch match against Gryffindor, where the Dementors had come to join the crowd. Susan couldn’t forget the bitter, rattling cold they had brought with them as they surged onto the pitch. There were so many of them, and they seemed to such the excitement out of the watching students.

Suddenly, the match had been the last thing on Susan’s mind, as she’d heard voices in her head: dimly at first, and then growing louder, like a wireless being tuned to the correct station.

Mum, gasping and repeating, ‘No, no, no,’ over and over again.

Dad, crying – a frightening sound, because Susan had never heard her father weep before.

Aunt Amelia, raging and yelling about the Death Eaters who had killed Edgar …

Susan had had no idea why she had heard all this in her head until much later, when Professor Lupin had explained about Dementors. She learnt then that she had been recalling an incident that must have happened when she was very young: her family’s reactions to the murder of her Uncle Edgar and his family.

She had foraged for old copies of the Daily Prophet in the library, trying to find out more about this unknown branch of the family. Mum and Dad had never even mentioned an Uncle Edgar previously.

When she had confronted them with the evidence she’d gathered, Susan had realized why they never spoke of Uncle Edgar. The haunted look that had settled in Dad’s eyes; Mum’s quick, sharp intake of breath – their reactions spoke a million words.

‘It’s hard to face tragedy,’ Aunt Amelia had said. She had hen explained to Susan about Edgar Bones and why he had been killed (‘so your parents won’t have to deal with it all over again.’) He had, they suspected, been working with a resistance group against You-Know-Who in the first war.

Aunt Amelia herself, to Susan’s grief, was no longer alive either.

At this point, there was a cracking sound, and the nib of Susan’s quill gave way. Alarmed, she looked down. She hadn’t realised that she had been pressing the point of her quill so hard against her parchment. There was an ugly black blot where the ink had pooled, and her quill now lay uselessly next to it.

Sighing, Susan reached into her bag for a fresh sheet of parchment and a spare quill. Her hand rummaged around inside the bag, searching … but came out empty.

Damn, she thought, remembering suddenly that the quill she had just broke was her spare. She looked up and glanced around the library, wondering if anyone present might have a spare quill to lend her, so she could finish this dratted essay.

The library was almost empty; there were a few Slytherin seventh-years in a corner, and a lone girl with a balaclava covering her face across the room.

Who wears a scarf indoors? wondered Susan, then she realised it was Marietta Edgecombe, who had been hiding her face ever since she had snitched on Dumbledore’s Army and ended up with the word ‘SNEAK’ imprinted across her face last year.

At the time, Susan had wondered if the punishment had been too harsh – after all, none of the group had been expelled, and Dumbledore had returned eventually. Now, however, she thought of the losses the war had brought: Aunt Amelia (a surge of grief, accompanied by anger, flooded through her at the thought of her beloved aunt’s murder), Hannah’s mother … and more would come. Who knew what was next?

It was people such as Marietta Edgecombe, aligning themselves with the likes of Dolores Umbridge and Cornelius Fudge, who had made way for You-Know-Who to return to power so quickly. When she thought about it that way, Susan couldn’t help but feel that Marietta deserved what she had got.

Susan turned away, wondering if she should go to the table of Slytherin students. But she didn’t fancy walking up to a group of unfriendly-looking seventh-years … and as she was debating, the lot of them got up to leave.

Thankfully, there was still one more person, whom Susan was surprised she hadn’t thought of earlier. She approached the librarian’s desk, where Madam Pince was busy marking a stack of books.

‘Yes?’ she snapped irritably, barely looking up as her quill flew over the first page of the book before her.

‘I was wondering if you had a spare quill I could use, Madam Pince?’

Madam Pince glowered at her. ‘Don’t be daft, girl. If I had a spare, I could set it to copy as I label this lot. Then I’d only have half the work, wouldn’t I?’

‘I – I reckon,’ murmured Susan, feeling a little wrong-footed.

‘Move along, then,’ said Madam Pince sternly. ‘I’ve work to do.’

That only left Marietta Edgecombe. Susan grit her teeth; she didn’t want to ask Marietta for any favours.

But neither did she want to run all the way to the Hufflepuff common room and back. Nor could she simply leave the essay for another day; it was due tomorrow, and Defence was the first lesson in the morning. Snape’s wrath if she failed to hand in her homework did not bear thinking about.

So, feeling as though she was bearding the lion – or the eagle, she thought wryly – in its den, she walked up to Marietta Edgecombe’s table.

Marietta looked up in surprise as Susan’s shadow fell over her. Or at least, her eyes, which were the only uncovered features on her face, flicked upwards.

‘Hi – er – Marietta. I was wondering if you – er – had a spare quill? I just broke mine, you see, and I haven’t a spare, so …’ She was rambling, not knowing exactly what to say to a girl she disliked, yet needed a favour from.

Marietta’s eyes looked her up and down, seeming to size her up. They widened in recognition at first, and then narrowed as Marietta accused, ‘You’re from the DA, aren’t you?’

Susan stuck her chin out defiantly. ‘Yes.’ She wondered if Marietta held all the DA members responsible for her current acne problem.

Then, Marietta’s tone softened and she stared at her lap. ‘Why are you asking me, then?’ Her next sentence was so quiet that Susan wondered if she’d imagined it. ‘All of you hate me.’

Susan started to say something to reassure Marietta, when she realised that Marietta had spoken the truth. Nobody liked Marietta Edgecombe much these days; now that Harry and Dumbledore had been proven right about You-Know-Who at last, no one had anything but disdain for the distinctly labelled Girl Who Tattled.

Susan felt a wave of pity sweep away her intense dislike. ‘I’m sure you feel awful enough about it,’ she said kindly.

Marietta was silent, still staring downwards. When she finally looked up, she locked eyes with Susan.

‘If I lend you the quill, will you … will you do me a favour, too?’

‘Er … okay,’ said Susan slowly, hoping that Marietta wasn’t about to demand anything too outlandish.

‘Can you ask Hermione Granger if … if she can take this off me?’ Marietta gestured at her balaclava, but Susan knew she was referring to what lay underneath. ‘I don’t dare to speak to her. I think she must hate me.’

From what Susan knew of Hermione – the girl was rather like Aunt Amelia: as loyal as Helga Hufflepuff when it came to her friends, namely Ron Weasley and Harry Potter, and she had a firm sense of justice; she wasn’t really spiteful or malicious – Susan didn’t really think that Hermione would refuse should Marietta ask her to remove the offending pimples. Nevertheless, Susan agreed, and Marietta’s eyes lit up.

‘Thank you,’ said Marietta, and she pulled a feathery quill out of her bag.

As Susan returned to her seat, Marietta’s quill in hand, she had the distinct feeling that Aunt Amelia would have approved of what she had just done. Smiling at the thought, she pulled her parchment towards her and got started on her essay.

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A/N: This was initially written for the Broken Quill challenge issued by Bren at Fiction Alley. It unfortunately broke one of the rules, though, as I wasn’t able to check because I wrote the entire thing out on a plane with no access to the internet. (Or paper, for that matter – I had to resort to covering two airplane sick bags in writing!) However, Bren was kind enough to accept the fic, so here’s a big thank you to her!

Thanks also to silvercrackle, for beta-ing despite being on holiday!

Reviews are welcome; please let me know what you thought!