CHAPTER ELEVEN
- Toadstools & False Friends -
Albus Dumbledore found himself in the novel position of being utterly confused by his Magical Theory professor.
He didn't know what to make of the woman, not that he'd had the time to sit down and contemplate Delphinia Dullahan much in the week since term's beginning. The lion's share of his attention went toward his duties on the Wizengamot, issues brought before the International Confederation of Wizards, and tasks demanded of Hogwarts' Headmaster. When he wasn't owling his fellows or handing out needed discipline, Dumbledore watched over his charges, contemplated the Boy Who Lived, and listened to Severus' growing suspicion of Quirinus.
His concerns were enough to cripple a lesser man, but Dumbledore wasn't considered one of the strongest wizards alive for nothing.
It was when he sat down to meals and set aside his burdens for a moment that he glanced past Minerva and Severus and contemplated Professor Dullahan.
A curious witch, Delphinia had an irreverent bearing and a yielding sense of person. To be certain, the woman was always very polite when she spoke to the other professors and faculty, but none of those he consulted could give a comprehensive view of Delphinia. She spent one lunch hour with Septima discussing the application of Arithmancy, and though Septima confided to him that Delphinia didn't have much a talent for the subject, the witch had obviously dabbled and experimented with it. She and Charity shared affable chats about Muggle sciences. She popped by during the week to borrow Minerva's issue of the latest Transfiguration journal. She had earned his Potions Master's dislike instead of his simple disregard.
Delphinia ingratiated herself at Hogwarts quite quickly, and Albus did not know why. He had seen her office, the strange floor and the contraption hidden beneath the blanket, the bird and the human skull sitting on the shelf, and though she had settled in, it was not with any sense of permanency. Albus guessed her to be a wanderer of sorts, a well-traveled woman who expressed interest in a variety of different subjects but never narrowed her focus, a witch who went where she willed with a single trunk of possessions, a shelf of odds and ends.
Indeed, Albus thought her decision to come to Hogwarts must have been rather flippant. Why would a woman like that wish to become a professor?
He sipped his orange juice as he turned the thought over in his head and stroked his beard. At the Gryffindor table, the Weasley twins went about taking their seats—then stopped, throwing enthusiastic waves toward the staff table. Albus glanced about and saw his Magical Theory professor grin before she continued to pick apart her eggs.
Perhaps Dumbledore simply didn't know anything about Delphinia Dullahan.
~.oOo.~
Fi sat on the floor of her office and glowered at the stick in her hand.
"Bloody wand," she said, the word coming from her mouth with the same intonation she reserved for particularly wicked curses. Several scorch marks marred her robes and the floor was littered with puffy toadstools. Another mushroom bloomed from the wand's end and fell with a soft plop. "Bugger."
"Delphinia, the language," Ever chided from her shelf. "You are not concentrating."
"I am."
"Don't argue with me, girl. Concentrate."
Fi resisted the petty urge to throw toadstools and attempted again to withhold her Will from the wand in her hand. Traditional magic was much like laying bricks. It was systematic and controlled by the whim of the brick-layer; the order of the blocks, the mortar, the position all explicitly controlled. The old magic of Fi's coven was more like spinning pottery. The magic remained in constant motion, wild and revolving, and a skilled practitioner could only lay their hands upon it and mold the clay: they could not control the motion, couldn't grab hold and force it into shape like sticking two bricks together. It took finesse, focused intent, sacrifice, emotional control, and patience.
For all these reasons, Fi had never picked up modern witchery with any success. Her coven had shunned wands far before Fi's birth, back when Morgana was still proving herself an absolute pain in Merlin's arse. Fi had studied the current spells, of course, and understood the application, but much like a first-year, she couldn't quite master the proper gestures. Her Will conflicted with the wand, like two hammers both going after the same nail, slamming their heads together and missing the nail entirely. She couldn't say where the mushrooms were coming form, though. Seemed an odd choice on the wand's part.
Fi gathered her thoughts and shuffled them off behind the iron walls of her Occlumency. Passive, she gave her wand a gentle flick and muttered, "Lumos."
Light blinked to life at the wand's tip—then sputtered out. Fi sighed.
"Better," Ever said, voice approving. "Though I do not know why you simply don't Transfigure a bit of wood to resemble a wand and flick it about while you use your magic normally."
They had discussed the possibility, but Fi had discarded the idea. "Any member of the faculty would recognize that the motions of the wand and my magic didn't align. In truth, I believe it would only deepen suspicions, so I'd rather learn a few paltry spells with a true wand and otherwise forego magic in their presence all together. It would be better for my anonymity if they simply think me little better than a Squib."
"The daughter of Melisande Dullahan a Squib? The nerve—!"
A rapping at the window paused Ever's tirade and Fi looked about, spotting a scruffy barn owl on the sill thwacking his beak against the panes. She Vanished the glass, allowing the bird to flutter in and drop before her, leg extended in invitation to remove the scroll attached there. Fi did so. The owl flew over to Puck's perch, looking for a drink, and Fi gave her Augurey a stern word to behave himself. Puck glared at the brown fluffball and apparently decided he'd rather swoop out the open window than watch another bird sip from his water dish.
Smirking, Fi read the letter.
Delphinia,
If you have the time this evening, I will be at the Hog's Head Inn in the village tonight and would very much like to discuss new information about your friends that has come to light. I hope to see you there.
Yours,
G. Todorov.
Her finger traced the word friends as Fi considered Grigor's missive. He meant the Masked Ones. The vampire had mentioned he would poke about in search of information, but Fi hadn't expected any actual results. She rose, tucking the letter out of sight, and considered the hour. Students milled about the grounds outside the window, but the slower black dots were beginning to hasten their stride toward the castle doors. Curfew was a few hours off, but it was an easy thing to miss if one wasn't paying attention.
Fi returned to her desk and the task of reading through assignments, though her thoughts strayed from her work to what Grigor could have unearthed. She waited for dark to settle in well and proper before she tossed a cloak over her shoulders and set out for the staffroom. Fi knew the Floo Network there was connected to Hogsmeade to help the professors manage and protect the older students who frequented the village later in the term. She took a pinch of Floo Powder, tossed it into the flame, and said, "Hog's Head Inn."
The flames wavered in green hues. Satisfied, the hedge witch stepped through the hearth—swallowing a mouthful of ash—and arrived coughing on the other side.
Fi squinted her eyes against the dark to see the dim interior of a grubby tavern. It only took a moment for her to see why Grigor had chosen this locale: it was, without a doubt, a seedy place with less than utterly reputable clientele. The few people inside sat slumped under their hoods and threw suspicious glances toward Fi as she stepped forward from the fire. The bartender was a whip-thin fellow with a mass of long, stringy gray hair and grumpy eyes. He stared at Fi with his lips pursed.
"Firewhisky, if you would," she told the man, though she wasn't keen on burning her throat at the moment. She found Grigor easily enough, sitting in one of the far booths, waiting expectantly. Fi made her way over to him and the vampire smiled at her approach.
"Fi," he greeted, rising. "I'm glad you could get away. How are things at the castle?"
"Fine, fine," Fi assured Grigor as she slid onto a chair opposite him and he seated himself once more. The bartender approached after that and set down a grubby shot glass, pouring a serving from the bottle. Fi fought the urge to wrinkle her nose as she slid a Galleon across the table. "Thank you."
The man took his payment, grunted, and moved off. Pleasant sort.
"So?" Fi asked once certain the bartender had retreated and the others had averted their eyes. She flicked her hand beneath the table to cast the equivalent of a Notice-Me-Not spell. "How are you, Grigor? Your letter said you have news?"
"I do." He sipped his ale, though his mouth puckered and a slight tremor went through the vampire at the sour taste. Grigor was one of Fi's oldest friends, having an extended lifetime himself, and so she felt she knew the man quite well. Fi had the sudden impression he didn't truly want to be there at that table with her having that particular conversation, that he had something he didn't want for her to know. "I made…discreet inquiries. It took time to ensure your safety and my own, but I discovered our initial suspicions were correct: the wizards chasing you are Death Eaters, followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
Fi swore under her breath, and a knot that had been loosely twisted in her middle tightened itself. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but I had hoped…."
"They are also aware of your presence at Hogwarts."
She froze. Alarm unfurled in her belly as Fi's mouth opened and closed. "How are you so certain…?"
Grigor rolled up his sleeve, then with tentative motion turned the limb toward the watery candlelight to reveal a tattoo inked upon the inside of his forearm. He made as if to hide it beneath the table again—but Fi's hand shot forward, grabbing him by the wrist with enough force to jostle their glasses.
She stared at the faded Dark Mark branded upon her friend's flesh. The air had never tasted so foul on Fi's tongue.
"What have you done?" The demand came out in a hush, for Fi had quite lost her voice. She felt every one of her years pressing down upon her shoulders at the moment, and though her nails dug into Grigor's wrist, the vampire had the good sense not to push the hedge witch.
"It was not my choice," he said softly, laying his other hand upon her own. "It happened a number of years before the war came to an end. You see, the Ministry likes to make it sound as if every Death Eater and follower of the Dark Lord bent the knee at the earliest opportunity and capitulated to the madman's whims, but that simply is not the truth. Many did not have a choice. If he came for you, you could not turn away. If you were destitute, Sorted into the wrong House, cursed or afflicted, he drafted you and you had no where else to turn. The Ministry was more concerned with protecting decent witches and wizards, not the rabble skirting the edges of society. I am a vampire, Fi. Two-thirds of the people I knew were being swept into the Dark Lord's clutches, and they did not give a single care for blood superiority."
Fi loosened her hold on his person and instead slid her hand into his. "Why did you not come to me?" she asked. She looked back upon those years and cursed herself for her idleness, her inattention to her friend's needs and plight.
Grigor snorted and smiled. "What would you have done, Fi?"
"I would have protected you!"
"From the Dark Lord himself?"
"Yes!" She realized her voice had risen and hushed it, embarrassed. "I didn't save your life in Romania for him to take it from you. I would have tried, at least."
He patted her hand. "I know. I did go to you, Delphinia, and you did help me, though I did not say why and what the help was for. I…I was never one of his favorites, as it were. I think he recognized in me a scholar rather than a killer and only demanded research and the occasional acquirement of a Dark object. I was spared the fate of torturing people."
"But you said I helped you? I don't know what you mean—."
"Do you not remember?" Grigor smiled again, showing his fangs, and he recovered his hand to run it across the nape of his neck up into his hairline. The move could be mistaken for a self-conscious one, like a teenager trying to avoid his mother's scolding, but Fi realized the gesture was deliberate for the vampire.
"Oh!" Her mouth formed a circle before Fi clapped it shut. "Oh. It's been so long, I totally forgot."
There, hidden beneath Grigor's dark hair, was a very small mark, a twisting of Runes, placed upon him by Fi herself—and though thoughts of the parallels to the Dark Lord's insidious tattoo made her ill—Fi's mark had been created on Grigor's insistence. It was an old ward of sorts fashioned by her coven, a little boost for an Occlumens' mental resistances. Fi had thought it odd when Grigor had come asking for it but had not considered denying the vampire anything he so dearly wanted.
An uneasy silence fell between as Fi retreated to her side of the table, still feeling her age and miserable for her friend. Fi ran in some suspect circles; how many of her acquaintances had fallen to bloody Voldemort's influence and had hidden the truth from her? Face scrunched, Fi snatched up her drink and downed the whiskey, grimacing as it went.
"So…did you make contact with past associates? Is that how you found out?"
"Not exactly." Grigor steepled his long, pale fingers. "I've no interest in bringing my continued existence to their attention, and the, ah, society has changed. The defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named left a bit of a power vacuum behind, as you would expect, and those lieutenants of his that were clever or rich enough to escape Azkaban have either cut all ties or have done a damn good job burying their indiscretions. Some, however, are absolutely barking mad and have rallied just enough support to hold together a threadbare network of Death Eaters working to return their Lord to power."
Fi pursed her lips. "How did they discover me? How do they know where I am?"
He shook his head. "I haven't the foggiest, but they are aware." A severe look crossed the man's face, and for an instant he looked quite terrifying, very much like those exaggerated images of vampires Fi saw drawn in Defense textbooks. "One of your friends is false and has betrayed you."
"No," Fi replied automatically, though she did rub her face. "No, I trust those who know the truth of me, several of which are not even on this continent. I trust that they would keep my secret, or come forward to say they had let it slip—by torture or by volition, but they would warn me nonetheless."
"There is no other alternative, scumpa mea. Someone has betrayed your trust."
The hedge witch exhaled and slumped in her chair, the hard wood of it digging into her back as Fi glared at the cobwebs overhead. "Do you think I should leave Hogwarts?" She didn't want to. She liked the school, liked the children, liked those bloody stairs that never cooperated and liked her colleagues. Fi guessed she was lonely and hadn't even realized it. Had she spent too long in the highlands?
A more pertinent question weighed upon her mind: who knew the truth of Delphinia Dullahan and had brought it to the Death Eaters? Had she been betrayed?
"No, I think you should stay put. Death Eaters are terrified of Dumbledore."
"With good reason. The man wears so many clashing patterns and colors it's blinding."
Grigor gave her a disapproving look and Fi chuckled, spinning her shot glass on the table's scarred face. "Be careful, Fi."
"I will."
She would have to be.