Still Delicate

A Case Of Foot-In-Mouth Disease

It's just typical. I shouldn't even be surprised when stuff like this happens to me anymore. It will probably turn out that this so-called Brian bloke is actually a woman. Or maybe he's secretly a spy working for the Ministry of Magic and is trying to find that potted plant I stole from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement last year – I thought it might look nice in my bathroom. And it does. Note to self – never ever let anyone into the bathroom who cannot be trusted.

My expression, I can only assume, is mirroring his – complete shock and embarrassment. Mr Jackson, the principal, is looking from Richard – no, Brian – to me, confused. 'Brian''s eyes are so wide, it's as if they're about to pop out of their sockets.

"No, this is Brian McDonald," Mr Jackson tells me again, "He is your son's teacher..." I think he thinks I think he said Richard, not Brian. Now even I'm confused. "And this is Rose Weasley, Aidan's mother."

Brian-the-teacher's eyebrows are in serious risk of disappearing into his hair at the minute.

"Oh, I see," I nod and hold out my hand, "Sorry, I thought you were someone else."

"Right..." says Brian, reluctantly shaking my hand. This is so utterly mortifying. I'm never going out to a club ever again. Ever. Is this what happens to everyone who meets blokes in clubs?

"Mrs Weasley," says Mr Jackson, "Would you please come to my office? There is something important we'd like to discuss with you." This is bad. If the principal is involved, it has to be bad. A teacher's assistant stays with the children as Mr Jackson, Brian McDonald and I head for the principal's office to discuss Aidan's behaviour. What could he possibly have done?

Maybe they've discovered his magical ability. I'll have some bloody explaining to do if he's gone and turned another child's hair pink. Or maybe he did something to Mrs Murphy and that's why she's out sick. Maybe he killed her. But surely they can't throw a five-year-old in Azkaban?

Mr Jackson's office is quite small and looks like a rundown old shack compared to the Headmaster's office in Hogwarts. I know it's unfair of me to compare anywhere to Hogwarts, but I can't help it. I'm programmed that way. I've forgotten to feel uncomfortable around Brian now because I'm so worried about what they're going to give out to me about.

"Have a seat, Mrs Weasley," Mr Jackson tells me, as he sits down in his own desk chair. Brian remains standing with his arms folded, studying me with the trace of shock still evident in his eyes. "So, Mrs Weasley –" I swear if he calls me 'Mrs' Weasley once more, I'm going to jam his stapler in his eye. "You've been called here to discuss your son's performance in class. Brian," he stresses the name, "has been filling in for Mrs Murphy since the week before the Christmas break, so he is quite familiar with your son's condition."

The word 'condition' startles me. That makes him sound ill. He's not ill. I'd know if he was. What kind of mother would I be if I didn't? Or maybe they're referring to his magical ability as a 'condition'.

"What condition?" I ask warily, "Aidan doesn't have a condition." Brian looks down at his feet uncomfortably.

"Mrs Weasley..." Yes, this bloke is definitely going to get a stapler to the face. Seriously, how many times does he have to say my name? "Your son has what looks like early signs of dyslexia. Now, this isn't anything major or serious, it will just mean that Aidan will have to see a special teacher for about twenty minutes a week to help–"

"That's impossible," I interrupt, "Aidan's not dyslexic. I'd know. I read to him all the time. He's extremely clever for his age..."

"We're not questioning his intellect," Brian speaks for the first time, "Dyslexia has nothing to do with intelligence."