Blaire Harrowgate (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blairewhich) wrote2018-08-16 09:00 am
blairewhich) wrote2018-08-16 09:00 am
{HP AU: Longest Shadow, Brightest Light}
~
Blaire Harrowgate. 'Longest Shadow, Brightest Light.'
[A/N: The continuation of this thread.]
Eight o’clock sharp found Blaire Harrowgate standing outside the Headmaster’s Office, looking up at the looming gargoyle guarding the door. The Gargoyle Corridor behind him was quiet, dark but for the two sconces on the wall he was facing and some sort of glowing overhead light shining down on the stone griffin barring the way forward.
The napkin that Dumbledore had used to issue his summons to Blaire had crumbled to ash during dinner, so the seventh-year Slytherin had nothing to look over, no physical proof that he’d been told to be here...which made sense, and was a smart move on the headmaster’s part.
Especially if he somehow knows that I’ve got the Dark Mark now...that I’m a Death Eater.
Less smart was the lack of communication here--there hadn’t been a password on that napkin. Another glance around showed that the hallway itself was clean, clear of any scraps of paper, with nothing and no one anywhere to indicate what the password might be. He had it on good authority that Dumbledore was fond of using the names of various sweets for his passwords, but it didn’t seem practical to stand here and rattle off a long list of various candies. So how, then, was he supposed to-?
There was a tell-tale whisper of air to one side of him, a brief flash of reflective eyes and a flicker of feline movement in the dark; then, abruptly, Professor McGonagall was standing in the hallway beside him, her mouth pressed into a tight, thin line as she looked at him sternly through her square-rimmed glasses. It was a bit of a shock to find that they were nearly the same height--Blaire was taller, in fact, by just a bit--though looking the fierce Deputy Headmistress in the eye was no less intimidating than looking up at her had been.
“Well then, here you are, just as he said you’d be. I certainly hope that Dumbledore knows what he’s doing,” she said brusquely, almost biting out every word. Blaire had never set so much as a toe out of line in any of her classes--he’d always been on his best behaviour, and had applied himself to the subject matter with far more alacrity than usual, from the start of his first year onwards.
“I hope he does, too,” Blaire replied, careful to keep his tone soft and respectful, though he didn’t drop his eyes or duck his head in deference.
For a brief moment that nonetheless felt like a small eternity, there was silence in the corridor, save for the muted roar of the flames in their sconces and a night-bird calling out somewhere on the grounds around the castle.
“Cauldron Cake,” McGonagall said at last, after giving Blaire a piercing look that made him more than a little thankful that he was an Occlumens, and the gargoyle moved aside, revealing a moving, circular stone staircase. McGonagall stepped forward without hesitation, taking hold of Blaire’s arm just above the elbow when he paused for half a second too long for her liking.
At the top of the stairs was an oaken double door; on reaching it, McGonagall released Blaire’s arm and turned to him, eyes flashing behind her square-rimmed spectacles as she looked him up and down. Her gaze lingered on his face, then on his left arm (which he had to make an effort not to tuck behind his back, or closer against him), then returned to his face once more.
“Mr. Harrowgate,” she began, then stopped herself, lips pressed even more firmly together than usual. “I am not your Head of House, and indeed really only see you in my classes and at mealtimes. However,” she paused again, and her gaze somehow, impossibly, grew even sharper, “even I can see that you’ve changed. And not for the better.”
Blaire didn’t like this line of conversation. His considerable talent as an Occlumens aside, McGonagall was still an intelligent, perceptive woman and if this exchange continued for much longer, she would likely see far too much for her (or anyone’s) own good.
“Am I in trouble, professor?” the seventh-year Slytherin inquired, expression and tone mild, carefully unconcerned, rife with the polite sort of interested disinterest regularly exercised by the inordinately wealthy.
McGonagall gave him a look as close to dislike as he ever remembered receiving from her, but there was a hint of regret, or perhaps pity to it as well. “That remains to be seen, Mr. Harrowgate,” she replied curtly, gesturing to the double doors in front of them. Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and bustled back the way they’d come, disappearing down the moving spiral staircase in seconds.
Blaire knew, on taking his third step into the room, that he was not going to enjoy his time here tonight.
For all the trouble Lyra had sideways-gotten him into over the years, he had never wound up in the Headmaster’s Office before tonight; and so as the oversized oak doors closed behind him, the Slytherin prefect turned a look around the room, cataloguing, analysing, observing, as he always did.
It was a large, circular room with lots of windows and even more bookshelves filled to bursting with books. Corrin would love this place, was Blaire’s reflexive first thought, followed immediately by not that it matters anymore, it’s not like you’ll ever deserve to have him call you his friend ever again, regardless of how well-intentioned your reasons for all this might be. Not after what you said to him, what you did to him-
Wrenching himself free of that precipitous downwards spiral of thought, Blaire closed it up, shut it all away--not here, he wasn’t going to allow himself to feel these things, to think about any of this here, in the office of a Legilimens of particular talent. Instead, he returned to looking around the room with an idle sort of curiosity, eyeing the many pedestals holding odd-looking, whirring metal instruments, several of which emitted little puffs of smoke at steady intervals, or spun in place frantically before going still, then started up again with no perceivable pattern. There was an empty perch beside a massive claw-footed desk, a sweeping double staircase leading up to another level where there was what looked like an enormous telescope, and on one of the shelves behind the desk sat a shabby, patched old wizard’s hat that he recognized: the Sorting Hat. The sound of lots of soft snoring filled the room in addition to the hum and puff of the metal contraptions, and Blaire turned his attention to the portraits covering the walls, all of them containing old and venerable-looking wizards and witches: former Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts, he realised, on studying a few of them and reading a nameplate or two.
He was also reasonably certain that nearly all of them were only pretending to be asleep.
As he moved to peer more closely at the portrait of a clever looking wizard with black hair, dark eyes, and a pointed beard (who proceeded to feign sleep and snore with a quite obnoxious level of stubbornness), the Slytherin prefect heard someone give a polite cough behind him. Spinning about, he found Headmaster Albus Dumbledore standing just behind the claw-footed desk, with the usual slight, enigmatic smile on his face as he gazed across the room at Blaire. He must’ve moved with all the silence of a shadow, because Blaire was certain that the Headmaster hadn’t been standing there, nearly in the middle of the room, when he’d come in through those double doors, or even a moment ago when he’d stepped closer to the portraits.
“Ah, Mr. Harrowgate,” Dumbledore said, his voice somehow maintaining its usual softness despite being projected halfway across the room. “Thank you for joining me tonight.”
“As if you had much choice,” an alarmingly-close voice whispered, and Blaire turned his head just enough to look back at the painting he’d been examining before. Just as he’d thought, the clever looking wizard had stopped snoring and now had one dark eye cracked open, gaze sharp and shrewd. “A Harrowgate, aren’t you. Old blood, respectable wizarding family, on nearly the same level as mine. So here’s my advice, not that you young people ever bother to listen: nothing good ever comes from trusting a Gryffindor too far. Even if they’re current headmasters. They’re not worried about anything but doing what they think is ‘right,’ regardless of what it might cost anyone else. Even themselves.”
“Talking in your sleep again, are you, Phineas?” Dumbledore called, and though his tone was genial, there was a strange sort of weight to it, and Phineas Nigellus Black immediately closed his eye again and resumed his fake snoring. “This way, Mr. Harrowgate, if you please.” Light blue eyes sparkling mysteriously behind his half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore beckoned for the seventh-year to follow him, and vanished through a door in the wall behind the desk.
“Thanks for the advice,” Blaire murmured under his breath to the portrait before heading towards that door himself, “But you don’t have to tell me not to give my confidence to anyone too freely. And I have my own ideas about what’s right, and what kind of cost I’m willing to pay for what--and whom--I deem important.” Phineas Nigellus gave a grunt in response, though whether it was approving or not, Blaire couldn’t tell.
With clear reluctance, the Slytherin prefect made his way through the room, threading his way between the spinning instruments and coming around the desk before pushing through the door the Headmaster had disappeared behind, suddenly finding himself in a small sitting room. This room was much less grand, less showy, and looked genuinely homey and lived-in. Two overstuffed chairs were pulled up close to the hearth, a fire was crackling behind the grate, and several containers of opened sweets (only a small portion of which were recognizable as Honeydukes merchandise) and a half-finished cup of still-steaming tea sat on a little table beside one of the chairs. There were notably fewer books in this room, though there were quite a few Muggle needlework magazines strewn about, as well as a large basket of yarn bristling with knitting needles and crochet hooks sitting beside Dumbledore’s chair, which he lost little time in returning to, settling in with a contented sigh before gesturing for Blaire to take the other.
“Tea?” the Headmaster queried, and even as he opened his mouth to politely decline, Blaire found himself already holding a delicate china saucer in one hand, his other automatically coming up to steady the full cup atop it.
“Begging your pardon, Professor Dumbledore, sir, but I’m not here for tea and biscuits.”
The Headmaster gave him an amused look over the rim of his teacup, which couldn’t quite hide the telling upwards curve of his mouth. “I take it you know why you are here, then?” he said after taking a long drink, and as he bent to examine the tray of cookies and sweets stacked up on the table beside him.
Blaire, who still had yet to move towards the proffered chair, narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, but otherwise masterfully concealed any trace of irritation as he replied, “I’m here because you told me to be here.”
“Asked, I should think,” Dumbledore corrected gently, selecting a square of treacle toffee and popping it into his mouth before musing around it, “perhaps requested. Advised, certainly. Nonetheless, I could very well have invited you here for nothing more than tea, could I not?”
“You’re the Headmaster. I suspect that you can do just about whatever you like.” So long as McGonagall’s not around, Blaire added to himself silently, and Dumbledore gave a low chuckle, as if he’d somehow overheard that thought.
Who knew, perhaps he had.
“Truthfully, Mr. Harrowgate, there was something of great import that I wished to discuss with you.” Meaningfully, Dumbledore inclined his head towards the other overstuffed chair, and Blaire grudgingly crossed the room to perch himself on the edge of it, teacup and saucer still in hand, the tea itself unspilled, but also completely untouched.
Get to it, he let himself think, brazenly looking the Headmaster directly in the eyes as he did so. Don’t waste my time. Tell me. Why did you call me here?
Keeping those thoughts on a loop, the Slytherin prefect tightened his hold on the rest of his thoughts, not allowing himself to spin any theories or guess at what Dumbledore might want to speak to him about. He already had a pretty good idea what it was anyway.
Dumbledore sat in silence for a long moment, placidly refilling his tea cup and then looking away to select another sweet (this time some sort of odd-looking black-and-white sandwich cookie) before returning his focus to Blaire, staring at him steadily, uneaten cookie in hand, as he finally made his inquiry:
“What, if I might ask, is the nature of the relationship between yourself and Corrin Wiseacre?”
Blaire frowned--an honest expression, not one that he had to force or fake in the least, though the root of that authenticity was suspicion, not confusion. “Wiseacre and I don’t have any sort of relationship. Aside from being occasional classmates, I suppose.”
“Ah, I see…” Dumbledore gave a considering hum as he popped that cookie in his mouth, peering at the Slytherin prefect over the tops of his half-moon glasses for a long moment as he munched on it, all in all a rather loud affair. “Well then, in that case I suppose that you wouldn’t be interested in hearing about any prophecies concerning him.”
“It sounds interesting enough. Prophecies always are, at least when they’re true prophecies. I just don’t see why it’s any of my business. Sir.”
“Because, Mr. Harrowgate, despite your claims to the contrary, I have it on good authority that you and Corrin were the closest of companions last year. Thick as thieves, according to some. Best friends, according to others.”
Blaire felt his mouth start to go thin and pursed his lips instead to hide that tell, raising his chin a few challenging degrees. “Perhaps your sources are mistaken, sir. But even if they’re not, you said it yourself: that was last year.”
“And this year?” Dumbledore pressed, eyes sharp and somehow distant at the same time. “Why should you not still be ‘best friends’ now?”
One corner of Blaire’s mouth pulled upwards ever so slightly, the faintest quirk of a humourless smile. “People change.”
“In just a few months? Over the summer holiday?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to end a friendship?”
“That’s supposing the friendship was real to begin with.” Blaire raised his eyebrows, expression bland. “Who’s to say I wasn’t just using him? I am a Slytherin, after all, and we always have our reasons for doing things, don’t we. Just as Hufflepuffs always want harmony and equality, and Gryffindors always want justice to prevail.”
Dumbledore didn’t flinch, didn’t rise to bait, his expression unwavering, unaltered, intense and serious. “And Ravenclaws? What is their fatal flaw, in your expert opinion?”
Blaire couldn’t hide how quickly, how tightly his jaw clenched at that, nor keep his eyes from flashing momentarily. “...Thinking that they’re too smart for anyone to play them as fools,” he said at last, mouth twisting into a scowl as he looked away, into the heart of the fire. “Though I suppose it isn’t only Ravenclaws who can be guilty of that, is it.” Drawing in a steadying breath, he forced himself to return his gaze to the old wizard sitting across from him. “If you want to talk to me about prophecies, go ahead. But I have no connection to Wiseacre any longer, nor he to me, and I’d thank you to take my word for it.” My actions will back it up soon enough, I’m sure, and speak all the louder.
This time it was Dumbledore who looked away, once again seeming to turn his attention to the cookies and candies at his side, though this time he made no move to select any of them. “Forgive me, I did not mean to imply that I doubted your word. I am merely curious as to what sort of change could prompt such a sudden reversal...since I have seen for myself, on numerous occasions over these last two years, how truly and deeply...happy it made you, being at Corrin’s side.”
For the first time, the cup in Blaire’s hand wobbled, clinking unsteadily against the saucer as the Slytherin teen swiftly sought to steady it, silence it. “...I can’t answer that question, sir,” he murmured, scarcely to be heard above the low roar of the fire.
“Mr. Harrowgate--Blaire-”
“I prefer ‘Harrowgate,’ if you please, sir.”
Dumbledore’s eyes glittered unreadably behind those half-moon glasses, and Blaire tensed at the subtle pressure he could feel as the Headmaster tried to read him; but he didn’t look away, didn’t back down, maintaining his steady inner calm, letting those questing mental fingers scrabble in vain, then fall away, unable to find any cracks or handholds.
“You can say whatever you wish here, Mr. Harrowgate,” the Headmaster said at last, softly. “I can assure you that there is no one in this room aside from the two of us, and there are no unwanted listening ears.”
“With all respect, Headmaster, I still can’t say whatever I wish.”
A hint of a smile played around Dumbledore’s mouth before he replied. “Oh? And why might that be?”
“Because I don’t trust you...sir.”
For the first time, a spark of surprise flickered in those light eyes, followed by a very closed, tightly-held curiosity, mostly masked by a low chuckle and wryly amused smile. “Really? And why, pray tell, is that?”
He doesn’t really care why I don’t trust him, Blaire suddenly realised as he looked at that affable, impenetrable, ultimately deceptive-feeling smile. The Headmaster was playing some other kind of game here, though what it was, the Slytherin couldn’t say for certain--but being a Slytherin, he could recognize a game when he saw one, even if he hadn’t figured out the rules. Maybe the Headmaster was stalling, waiting for Blaire to slip, biding his time until he had a chance to pry his way into the newest, youngest Death Eater’s head. Maybe he didn’t trust Blaire either, and fully expected the Slytherin to tell his new master all the details of whatever prophecy Dumbledore was so intent on making Blaire ask to hear.
Or maybe, somehow, he wanted to use Blaire to get to Corrin...or perhaps, instead, he wanted to gauge the depth of Blaire’s devotion to the younger boy.
But Blaire said none of that aloud; instead he answered the actual question that he’d been given.
“Why don’t I trust you?” He huffed out a low, bitter laugh, and let a raw, toothy smile flash onto his face. “I could write you a fifty-inch essay on that, I think, professor. But the bones of it are: you’ve been trying to read my mind on and off the whole time I’ve been here, no doubt with frustratingly limited results, which isn’t a good way to get an Occlumens of any skill level to trust you--and I’m quite sure that you knew I was an Occlumens already. Worse than that, you’re playing some sort of game here, maybe giving me some sort of test, maybe just wanting to see how badly and why I might want to hear about these supposed prophecies concerning Corrin. Which brings us up to ‘worst of all’.”
By now, Blaire’s gaze had gone hard and frigid, his eyes naught but narrow chips of icy jade set in an equally cold, still face.
“Worst of all, you clearly know things--you’ve known things for years, most likely--but you haven’t ever told Corrin, even though they’re important. Even though they directly concern him. Even though he should have some say in it all, since it’s his life, no matter how much you might want to meddle in it and help him make the ‘right’ decisions.” The cup in Blaire’s hand rattled alarmingly, tea sloshing over the edge as he shifted in his chair, leaning forward so fast and far he nearly came off the edge of it with a mercurial speed and grace, jabbing a finger at the Headmaster with conviction, and marrow-deep condemnation as he hissed out, “But is he the one sitting here now? Is he the one you’re offering to tell about these prophecies? And yet you you have the gall to ask why I don’t trust you.”
Through it all, that entire tightly-controlled tirade, the Headmaster simply sat there, unruffled, nibbling on another biscuit and blinking at the infuriated Slytherin with a slow, nearly bovine sort of boredom. Even though Blaire knew that disinterest to be false--for surely it must be, surely this man, this intelligent and trusted adult, couldn’t be so cold, so much without a moral compass that his indifference to Blaire’s concerns was genuine--it still set the Slytherin student’s teeth on edge, and only the knowledge that it was probably intended to do just that let him keep a firm hold on his tongue and his temper, and remain silent.
For his part, Dumbledore continued his unflappable rumination, and Blaire simply glowered at him, simmering with impatience (an emotion he was not used to feeling) as the elderly wizard chewed, swallowed, and washed whatever remained of the cookie down with more tea...then proceeded to devastate the foundation of Blaire’s entire ‘aloof pureblood’ demeanor with a single carefully-worded, even more carefully-spoken, sentence:
“For someone who claims to have no special relationship with him, you certainly seem to care about Corrin-” Dumbledore placed deliberate, almost delicate emphasis on the younger wizard’s first name, “-quite a lot.”
At that, Blaire pulled back as if stung, realising with a gut-wrenching, slowly-sinking sense of horror that he had been referring to Corrin by his first name, had been speaking about him as only a close friend would, out of old habit. He was caught out and he knew it, Dumbledore knew it--but then again, Dumbledore also knew that his initial claim of not caring about Corrin any longer was a lie, so really nothing new had been brought to light. The Headmaster was simply calling him out on his inconsistency, a perhaps not-so-subtle jab and nonverbal if you’re going to convince anyone of that, you’ll have to do better than this.
The saucer in Blaire’s hand was shaking again, hard enough that the teacup jolted worrisomely, its balance precarious; this time, even bringing up his other hand in an attempt to hold it steady didn’t prevent several drops of tea from escaping both cup and saucer, splattering the thick, ancient-looking Persian carpet beneath them with pale sepia stains. Swallowing hard, Blaire swiftly rose, setting saucer and cup on the table beside Dumbledore before returning to the overstuffed chair, self-consciously wiping his hands on his robes.
“Now then, since we seem to finally be on the same page-”
Blaire made a low scoffing noise, but didn’t otherwise interrupt.
“-Unless you have anything further to add, Mr. Harrowgate? No? In that case, I must confess that I invited you here for another reason, other than tea and biscuits and the previous questions. I wish to make a request of you.”
The Slytherin prefect raised an eyebrow, but again, otherwise didn’t answer.
“I believe you know the Arithmancy professor, Professor Catalano? She is a Seer of exceptional and fairly prolific talent--though of course, being possessed of a much more scientifically exacting mind, this gift is often a frustrating one for her…”
Get to the point, Blaire’s glare all but shouted, though Dumbledore seemed to take no notice of the Slytherin’s thunderous expression.
“...Nonetheless, she has given us many prophecies--more than any witch or wizard in recent generations, more even than the combined contributions of all the rest of the Seers currently alive today--and all have proven true. One such prophecy concerns your close friend, Corrin Wiseacre...though in fact, that prophecy potentially concerns us all, seeing as it could very easily change the future of the entire Wizarding World.”
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows at Blaire mildly, as if asking whether or not he should go on; Blaire gave him a flat stare, but didn’t attempt to dispute the ‘close friend’ bit this time, though he was still unwilling to go so far as to actually ask to hear the damn prophecy.
“In any case...myself and others, most notably Harriett and Oswalt Wiseacre, think it quite probable that this prophecy is about Corrin...which would make it of the utmost importance that he remain safe, and unharmed.”
Blaire crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head, expression guarded. “You said before that you had a request, sir, but you’ve yet to make it.” Say it flat out, old man. No more word games or beating around the bush.
“...Blaire.”
The Slytherin tensed again, I told you not to call me that hovering on the tip of his tongue, but the suddenly softer, almost pitying look on Dumbledore’s face brought him up short, left him wondering if he’d misjudged everything about this situation, this man, their entire conversation.
“I know a great deal more about you--about both your past, as well as your present situation--than you might realise. And so, although I doubt I have any need to make this request of you, nonetheless I will, selfishly, ask.”
Light eyes gleaming in the firelight, the Headmaster leaned forward, and suddenly he seemed taller, grander, and there was an unexpectedly dark, almost rough sort of intensity about him that was only just short of terrifying.
“Protect him, Blaire.”
The Slytherin’s eyes flew open wide, for Dumbledore suddenly had ahold of his arm--his left arm--and though he gave a reflexive, twisting jerk in an attempt to free himself, that gnarled hand didn’t so much as budge.
“Protect Corrin Wiseacre, your dearest friend. Protect him from everyone...including yourself, if it comes to that.”
Dumbledore’s thumb was digging into the crook of his elbow painfully--he was certain that he’d have a bruise tomorrow, though at least in a few days, after the weekend, it would be easy enough to explain it away as being from Quidditch practise--and there was a fervour, a white-hot intensity in those eyes that Blaire had never seen before, hoped he never had reason to see again...though after years of living with Lyra, that kind of overwhelming show of power made some foolish, stubborn part of his downtrodden spirit dig in its heels and try to fight back, however weakly.
“I don’t...I don’t know what you’re-”
That hand on his arm only tightened its grip, cutting off his words as he clamped his jaw shut to hold back a soft sound of protest, his usually stoic face twisted into a grimace of pain. (It was that arm, it still hurt, still ached, throbbing with every pulse, with every unsteady, racing beat of his heart, a relentless burning that drilled all the way down to his bones, into his very marrow, still agonizingly tender more than three months after that bloody Mark had been seared into his flesh, skin and muscle and sinew scarred and scored and twisted by Dark Magic.)
“Protect him, Blaire!” There was a thread of desperation, the barest hint of what could only be fear in the Headmaster’s voice as he pressed the seventh-year student back into the chair, though Blaire wouldn’t fully comprehend it, or really recognise it for what it was, until he went back over it in his mind later, analysing everything that had been said and done that night. “You are the only one who can! ‘The longest shadow is cast by the brightest light’!”
“Professor,” Blaire gritted out through clenched teeth, “it’s Harrowgate, and I-” he sucked in ragged half-breath before soldiering on, “-I don't know what you're talking about. Let go of me.”
Something else unreadable but ugly flickered through the Headmaster’s eyes for a fraction of a second, so swift and fleeting that Blaire could almost tell himself that he imagined it, that the waves of agony washing through him had clouded his vision, that there was no way an expression like that could belong to the docile, kindly-seeming old man with cheerily twinkling eyes who knitted socks by hand instead of with magic, doodled in his library books, and enjoyed sweets so much that he used their names as the password to his office. And yet, Blaire still found himself trembling in spite of all that as Dumbledore seemed to suddenly come back to himself, realise what he was doing, that he’d practically pinned one of his students against one corner of his chair by the arm. Quicker than blinking, he pulled back, looking a bit shaken himself for a moment as he rose and moved across the little room, pointedly placing the chair he’d been sitting in between himself and the Slytherin prefect.
“...Forgive me, Mr. Harrowgate,” he murmured after a long, uncomfortable silence had stretched thin between them. “I had thought my temper was less inclined to flare up like that at my age, but it would seem that I was not entirely correct.”
“Yes, imagine that,” Blaire muttered, trying and failing, rather, not to be obvious about how much his arm still hurt him. “If that’s all, Professor Dumbledore, sir, may I be excused? I do still have homework to finish, you know.”
Dumbledore turned an inscrutable sideways look on him, and Blaire found himself caught between the urge to look away and avoid eye contact at all costs, and the self-preservation instinct to never, never take one’s eyes off a source of potential danger.
“Perhaps that would be for the best, yes,” the old wizard sighed at last, quietly, though his expression had once again gone closed and contemplative as he looked across the room at the seventh-year student.
Fight or flight reflexes kicked in then, and Blaire hastily scrambled to his feet, too unnerved by that unexpected break in character to even attempt to disguise the fact that he was very clearly running away. “Goodnight, sir. Thank you for the tea.”
“And thank you for your time, Mr. Harrowgate. Goodnight.”
Something about the sorrow, the note of defeat in Dumbledore’s voice caught at Blaire, and a feeling of incompletion, of something important left undone here wedged itself in the forefront of his mind. He paused in the doorway, looking back at those ancient, suddenly very weary and stooped-looking shoulders, his right hand creeping across his body to clutch at his left arm protectively.
...Then again, if I leave now, without even hearing what he wanted to tell me, then I’ll have come here for nothing, suffered for nothing. Left not only empty-handed, but a bit more empty-headed as well...
“...You know,” Blaire suddenly spoke up, though Dumbledore didn’t so much as turn his head to look over at him, “...Since I did come all this way...perhaps I wouldn’t mind hearing that prophecy after all. Purely for curiosity’s sake, and intellectual reasons, of course.”
As he watched, the Headmaster slowly raised his head, and though there was only the hint of a smile about his mouth, Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with their usual merry light as he nodded very understandingly. “Of course, Mr. Harrowgate. Of course.”
Blaire Harrowgate. 'Longest Shadow, Brightest Light.'
[A/N: The continuation of this thread.]
Eight o’clock sharp found Blaire Harrowgate standing outside the Headmaster’s Office, looking up at the looming gargoyle guarding the door. The Gargoyle Corridor behind him was quiet, dark but for the two sconces on the wall he was facing and some sort of glowing overhead light shining down on the stone griffin barring the way forward.
The napkin that Dumbledore had used to issue his summons to Blaire had crumbled to ash during dinner, so the seventh-year Slytherin had nothing to look over, no physical proof that he’d been told to be here...which made sense, and was a smart move on the headmaster’s part.
Especially if he somehow knows that I’ve got the Dark Mark now...that I’m a Death Eater.
Less smart was the lack of communication here--there hadn’t been a password on that napkin. Another glance around showed that the hallway itself was clean, clear of any scraps of paper, with nothing and no one anywhere to indicate what the password might be. He had it on good authority that Dumbledore was fond of using the names of various sweets for his passwords, but it didn’t seem practical to stand here and rattle off a long list of various candies. So how, then, was he supposed to-?
There was a tell-tale whisper of air to one side of him, a brief flash of reflective eyes and a flicker of feline movement in the dark; then, abruptly, Professor McGonagall was standing in the hallway beside him, her mouth pressed into a tight, thin line as she looked at him sternly through her square-rimmed glasses. It was a bit of a shock to find that they were nearly the same height--Blaire was taller, in fact, by just a bit--though looking the fierce Deputy Headmistress in the eye was no less intimidating than looking up at her had been.
“Well then, here you are, just as he said you’d be. I certainly hope that Dumbledore knows what he’s doing,” she said brusquely, almost biting out every word. Blaire had never set so much as a toe out of line in any of her classes--he’d always been on his best behaviour, and had applied himself to the subject matter with far more alacrity than usual, from the start of his first year onwards.
“I hope he does, too,” Blaire replied, careful to keep his tone soft and respectful, though he didn’t drop his eyes or duck his head in deference.
For a brief moment that nonetheless felt like a small eternity, there was silence in the corridor, save for the muted roar of the flames in their sconces and a night-bird calling out somewhere on the grounds around the castle.
“Cauldron Cake,” McGonagall said at last, after giving Blaire a piercing look that made him more than a little thankful that he was an Occlumens, and the gargoyle moved aside, revealing a moving, circular stone staircase. McGonagall stepped forward without hesitation, taking hold of Blaire’s arm just above the elbow when he paused for half a second too long for her liking.
At the top of the stairs was an oaken double door; on reaching it, McGonagall released Blaire’s arm and turned to him, eyes flashing behind her square-rimmed spectacles as she looked him up and down. Her gaze lingered on his face, then on his left arm (which he had to make an effort not to tuck behind his back, or closer against him), then returned to his face once more.
“Mr. Harrowgate,” she began, then stopped herself, lips pressed even more firmly together than usual. “I am not your Head of House, and indeed really only see you in my classes and at mealtimes. However,” she paused again, and her gaze somehow, impossibly, grew even sharper, “even I can see that you’ve changed. And not for the better.”
Blaire didn’t like this line of conversation. His considerable talent as an Occlumens aside, McGonagall was still an intelligent, perceptive woman and if this exchange continued for much longer, she would likely see far too much for her (or anyone’s) own good.
“Am I in trouble, professor?” the seventh-year Slytherin inquired, expression and tone mild, carefully unconcerned, rife with the polite sort of interested disinterest regularly exercised by the inordinately wealthy.
McGonagall gave him a look as close to dislike as he ever remembered receiving from her, but there was a hint of regret, or perhaps pity to it as well. “That remains to be seen, Mr. Harrowgate,” she replied curtly, gesturing to the double doors in front of them. Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and bustled back the way they’d come, disappearing down the moving spiral staircase in seconds.
Blaire knew, on taking his third step into the room, that he was not going to enjoy his time here tonight.
For all the trouble Lyra had sideways-gotten him into over the years, he had never wound up in the Headmaster’s Office before tonight; and so as the oversized oak doors closed behind him, the Slytherin prefect turned a look around the room, cataloguing, analysing, observing, as he always did.
It was a large, circular room with lots of windows and even more bookshelves filled to bursting with books. Corrin would love this place, was Blaire’s reflexive first thought, followed immediately by not that it matters anymore, it’s not like you’ll ever deserve to have him call you his friend ever again, regardless of how well-intentioned your reasons for all this might be. Not after what you said to him, what you did to him-
Wrenching himself free of that precipitous downwards spiral of thought, Blaire closed it up, shut it all away--not here, he wasn’t going to allow himself to feel these things, to think about any of this here, in the office of a Legilimens of particular talent. Instead, he returned to looking around the room with an idle sort of curiosity, eyeing the many pedestals holding odd-looking, whirring metal instruments, several of which emitted little puffs of smoke at steady intervals, or spun in place frantically before going still, then started up again with no perceivable pattern. There was an empty perch beside a massive claw-footed desk, a sweeping double staircase leading up to another level where there was what looked like an enormous telescope, and on one of the shelves behind the desk sat a shabby, patched old wizard’s hat that he recognized: the Sorting Hat. The sound of lots of soft snoring filled the room in addition to the hum and puff of the metal contraptions, and Blaire turned his attention to the portraits covering the walls, all of them containing old and venerable-looking wizards and witches: former Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts, he realised, on studying a few of them and reading a nameplate or two.
He was also reasonably certain that nearly all of them were only pretending to be asleep.
As he moved to peer more closely at the portrait of a clever looking wizard with black hair, dark eyes, and a pointed beard (who proceeded to feign sleep and snore with a quite obnoxious level of stubbornness), the Slytherin prefect heard someone give a polite cough behind him. Spinning about, he found Headmaster Albus Dumbledore standing just behind the claw-footed desk, with the usual slight, enigmatic smile on his face as he gazed across the room at Blaire. He must’ve moved with all the silence of a shadow, because Blaire was certain that the Headmaster hadn’t been standing there, nearly in the middle of the room, when he’d come in through those double doors, or even a moment ago when he’d stepped closer to the portraits.
“Ah, Mr. Harrowgate,” Dumbledore said, his voice somehow maintaining its usual softness despite being projected halfway across the room. “Thank you for joining me tonight.”
“As if you had much choice,” an alarmingly-close voice whispered, and Blaire turned his head just enough to look back at the painting he’d been examining before. Just as he’d thought, the clever looking wizard had stopped snoring and now had one dark eye cracked open, gaze sharp and shrewd. “A Harrowgate, aren’t you. Old blood, respectable wizarding family, on nearly the same level as mine. So here’s my advice, not that you young people ever bother to listen: nothing good ever comes from trusting a Gryffindor too far. Even if they’re current headmasters. They’re not worried about anything but doing what they think is ‘right,’ regardless of what it might cost anyone else. Even themselves.”
“Talking in your sleep again, are you, Phineas?” Dumbledore called, and though his tone was genial, there was a strange sort of weight to it, and Phineas Nigellus Black immediately closed his eye again and resumed his fake snoring. “This way, Mr. Harrowgate, if you please.” Light blue eyes sparkling mysteriously behind his half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore beckoned for the seventh-year to follow him, and vanished through a door in the wall behind the desk.
“Thanks for the advice,” Blaire murmured under his breath to the portrait before heading towards that door himself, “But you don’t have to tell me not to give my confidence to anyone too freely. And I have my own ideas about what’s right, and what kind of cost I’m willing to pay for what--and whom--I deem important.” Phineas Nigellus gave a grunt in response, though whether it was approving or not, Blaire couldn’t tell.
With clear reluctance, the Slytherin prefect made his way through the room, threading his way between the spinning instruments and coming around the desk before pushing through the door the Headmaster had disappeared behind, suddenly finding himself in a small sitting room. This room was much less grand, less showy, and looked genuinely homey and lived-in. Two overstuffed chairs were pulled up close to the hearth, a fire was crackling behind the grate, and several containers of opened sweets (only a small portion of which were recognizable as Honeydukes merchandise) and a half-finished cup of still-steaming tea sat on a little table beside one of the chairs. There were notably fewer books in this room, though there were quite a few Muggle needlework magazines strewn about, as well as a large basket of yarn bristling with knitting needles and crochet hooks sitting beside Dumbledore’s chair, which he lost little time in returning to, settling in with a contented sigh before gesturing for Blaire to take the other.
“Tea?” the Headmaster queried, and even as he opened his mouth to politely decline, Blaire found himself already holding a delicate china saucer in one hand, his other automatically coming up to steady the full cup atop it.
“Begging your pardon, Professor Dumbledore, sir, but I’m not here for tea and biscuits.”
The Headmaster gave him an amused look over the rim of his teacup, which couldn’t quite hide the telling upwards curve of his mouth. “I take it you know why you are here, then?” he said after taking a long drink, and as he bent to examine the tray of cookies and sweets stacked up on the table beside him.
Blaire, who still had yet to move towards the proffered chair, narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, but otherwise masterfully concealed any trace of irritation as he replied, “I’m here because you told me to be here.”
“Asked, I should think,” Dumbledore corrected gently, selecting a square of treacle toffee and popping it into his mouth before musing around it, “perhaps requested. Advised, certainly. Nonetheless, I could very well have invited you here for nothing more than tea, could I not?”
“You’re the Headmaster. I suspect that you can do just about whatever you like.” So long as McGonagall’s not around, Blaire added to himself silently, and Dumbledore gave a low chuckle, as if he’d somehow overheard that thought.
Who knew, perhaps he had.
“Truthfully, Mr. Harrowgate, there was something of great import that I wished to discuss with you.” Meaningfully, Dumbledore inclined his head towards the other overstuffed chair, and Blaire grudgingly crossed the room to perch himself on the edge of it, teacup and saucer still in hand, the tea itself unspilled, but also completely untouched.
Get to it, he let himself think, brazenly looking the Headmaster directly in the eyes as he did so. Don’t waste my time. Tell me. Why did you call me here?
Keeping those thoughts on a loop, the Slytherin prefect tightened his hold on the rest of his thoughts, not allowing himself to spin any theories or guess at what Dumbledore might want to speak to him about. He already had a pretty good idea what it was anyway.
Dumbledore sat in silence for a long moment, placidly refilling his tea cup and then looking away to select another sweet (this time some sort of odd-looking black-and-white sandwich cookie) before returning his focus to Blaire, staring at him steadily, uneaten cookie in hand, as he finally made his inquiry:
“What, if I might ask, is the nature of the relationship between yourself and Corrin Wiseacre?”
Blaire frowned--an honest expression, not one that he had to force or fake in the least, though the root of that authenticity was suspicion, not confusion. “Wiseacre and I don’t have any sort of relationship. Aside from being occasional classmates, I suppose.”
“Ah, I see…” Dumbledore gave a considering hum as he popped that cookie in his mouth, peering at the Slytherin prefect over the tops of his half-moon glasses for a long moment as he munched on it, all in all a rather loud affair. “Well then, in that case I suppose that you wouldn’t be interested in hearing about any prophecies concerning him.”
“It sounds interesting enough. Prophecies always are, at least when they’re true prophecies. I just don’t see why it’s any of my business. Sir.”
“Because, Mr. Harrowgate, despite your claims to the contrary, I have it on good authority that you and Corrin were the closest of companions last year. Thick as thieves, according to some. Best friends, according to others.”
Blaire felt his mouth start to go thin and pursed his lips instead to hide that tell, raising his chin a few challenging degrees. “Perhaps your sources are mistaken, sir. But even if they’re not, you said it yourself: that was last year.”
“And this year?” Dumbledore pressed, eyes sharp and somehow distant at the same time. “Why should you not still be ‘best friends’ now?”
One corner of Blaire’s mouth pulled upwards ever so slightly, the faintest quirk of a humourless smile. “People change.”
“In just a few months? Over the summer holiday?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to end a friendship?”
“That’s supposing the friendship was real to begin with.” Blaire raised his eyebrows, expression bland. “Who’s to say I wasn’t just using him? I am a Slytherin, after all, and we always have our reasons for doing things, don’t we. Just as Hufflepuffs always want harmony and equality, and Gryffindors always want justice to prevail.”
Dumbledore didn’t flinch, didn’t rise to bait, his expression unwavering, unaltered, intense and serious. “And Ravenclaws? What is their fatal flaw, in your expert opinion?”
Blaire couldn’t hide how quickly, how tightly his jaw clenched at that, nor keep his eyes from flashing momentarily. “...Thinking that they’re too smart for anyone to play them as fools,” he said at last, mouth twisting into a scowl as he looked away, into the heart of the fire. “Though I suppose it isn’t only Ravenclaws who can be guilty of that, is it.” Drawing in a steadying breath, he forced himself to return his gaze to the old wizard sitting across from him. “If you want to talk to me about prophecies, go ahead. But I have no connection to Wiseacre any longer, nor he to me, and I’d thank you to take my word for it.” My actions will back it up soon enough, I’m sure, and speak all the louder.
This time it was Dumbledore who looked away, once again seeming to turn his attention to the cookies and candies at his side, though this time he made no move to select any of them. “Forgive me, I did not mean to imply that I doubted your word. I am merely curious as to what sort of change could prompt such a sudden reversal...since I have seen for myself, on numerous occasions over these last two years, how truly and deeply...happy it made you, being at Corrin’s side.”
For the first time, the cup in Blaire’s hand wobbled, clinking unsteadily against the saucer as the Slytherin teen swiftly sought to steady it, silence it. “...I can’t answer that question, sir,” he murmured, scarcely to be heard above the low roar of the fire.
“Mr. Harrowgate--Blaire-”
“I prefer ‘Harrowgate,’ if you please, sir.”
Dumbledore’s eyes glittered unreadably behind those half-moon glasses, and Blaire tensed at the subtle pressure he could feel as the Headmaster tried to read him; but he didn’t look away, didn’t back down, maintaining his steady inner calm, letting those questing mental fingers scrabble in vain, then fall away, unable to find any cracks or handholds.
“You can say whatever you wish here, Mr. Harrowgate,” the Headmaster said at last, softly. “I can assure you that there is no one in this room aside from the two of us, and there are no unwanted listening ears.”
“With all respect, Headmaster, I still can’t say whatever I wish.”
A hint of a smile played around Dumbledore’s mouth before he replied. “Oh? And why might that be?”
“Because I don’t trust you...sir.”
For the first time, a spark of surprise flickered in those light eyes, followed by a very closed, tightly-held curiosity, mostly masked by a low chuckle and wryly amused smile. “Really? And why, pray tell, is that?”
He doesn’t really care why I don’t trust him, Blaire suddenly realised as he looked at that affable, impenetrable, ultimately deceptive-feeling smile. The Headmaster was playing some other kind of game here, though what it was, the Slytherin couldn’t say for certain--but being a Slytherin, he could recognize a game when he saw one, even if he hadn’t figured out the rules. Maybe the Headmaster was stalling, waiting for Blaire to slip, biding his time until he had a chance to pry his way into the newest, youngest Death Eater’s head. Maybe he didn’t trust Blaire either, and fully expected the Slytherin to tell his new master all the details of whatever prophecy Dumbledore was so intent on making Blaire ask to hear.
Or maybe, somehow, he wanted to use Blaire to get to Corrin...or perhaps, instead, he wanted to gauge the depth of Blaire’s devotion to the younger boy.
But Blaire said none of that aloud; instead he answered the actual question that he’d been given.
“Why don’t I trust you?” He huffed out a low, bitter laugh, and let a raw, toothy smile flash onto his face. “I could write you a fifty-inch essay on that, I think, professor. But the bones of it are: you’ve been trying to read my mind on and off the whole time I’ve been here, no doubt with frustratingly limited results, which isn’t a good way to get an Occlumens of any skill level to trust you--and I’m quite sure that you knew I was an Occlumens already. Worse than that, you’re playing some sort of game here, maybe giving me some sort of test, maybe just wanting to see how badly and why I might want to hear about these supposed prophecies concerning Corrin. Which brings us up to ‘worst of all’.”
By now, Blaire’s gaze had gone hard and frigid, his eyes naught but narrow chips of icy jade set in an equally cold, still face.
“Worst of all, you clearly know things--you’ve known things for years, most likely--but you haven’t ever told Corrin, even though they’re important. Even though they directly concern him. Even though he should have some say in it all, since it’s his life, no matter how much you might want to meddle in it and help him make the ‘right’ decisions.” The cup in Blaire’s hand rattled alarmingly, tea sloshing over the edge as he shifted in his chair, leaning forward so fast and far he nearly came off the edge of it with a mercurial speed and grace, jabbing a finger at the Headmaster with conviction, and marrow-deep condemnation as he hissed out, “But is he the one sitting here now? Is he the one you’re offering to tell about these prophecies? And yet you you have the gall to ask why I don’t trust you.”
Through it all, that entire tightly-controlled tirade, the Headmaster simply sat there, unruffled, nibbling on another biscuit and blinking at the infuriated Slytherin with a slow, nearly bovine sort of boredom. Even though Blaire knew that disinterest to be false--for surely it must be, surely this man, this intelligent and trusted adult, couldn’t be so cold, so much without a moral compass that his indifference to Blaire’s concerns was genuine--it still set the Slytherin student’s teeth on edge, and only the knowledge that it was probably intended to do just that let him keep a firm hold on his tongue and his temper, and remain silent.
For his part, Dumbledore continued his unflappable rumination, and Blaire simply glowered at him, simmering with impatience (an emotion he was not used to feeling) as the elderly wizard chewed, swallowed, and washed whatever remained of the cookie down with more tea...then proceeded to devastate the foundation of Blaire’s entire ‘aloof pureblood’ demeanor with a single carefully-worded, even more carefully-spoken, sentence:
“For someone who claims to have no special relationship with him, you certainly seem to care about Corrin-” Dumbledore placed deliberate, almost delicate emphasis on the younger wizard’s first name, “-quite a lot.”
At that, Blaire pulled back as if stung, realising with a gut-wrenching, slowly-sinking sense of horror that he had been referring to Corrin by his first name, had been speaking about him as only a close friend would, out of old habit. He was caught out and he knew it, Dumbledore knew it--but then again, Dumbledore also knew that his initial claim of not caring about Corrin any longer was a lie, so really nothing new had been brought to light. The Headmaster was simply calling him out on his inconsistency, a perhaps not-so-subtle jab and nonverbal if you’re going to convince anyone of that, you’ll have to do better than this.
The saucer in Blaire’s hand was shaking again, hard enough that the teacup jolted worrisomely, its balance precarious; this time, even bringing up his other hand in an attempt to hold it steady didn’t prevent several drops of tea from escaping both cup and saucer, splattering the thick, ancient-looking Persian carpet beneath them with pale sepia stains. Swallowing hard, Blaire swiftly rose, setting saucer and cup on the table beside Dumbledore before returning to the overstuffed chair, self-consciously wiping his hands on his robes.
“Now then, since we seem to finally be on the same page-”
Blaire made a low scoffing noise, but didn’t otherwise interrupt.
“-Unless you have anything further to add, Mr. Harrowgate? No? In that case, I must confess that I invited you here for another reason, other than tea and biscuits and the previous questions. I wish to make a request of you.”
The Slytherin prefect raised an eyebrow, but again, otherwise didn’t answer.
“I believe you know the Arithmancy professor, Professor Catalano? She is a Seer of exceptional and fairly prolific talent--though of course, being possessed of a much more scientifically exacting mind, this gift is often a frustrating one for her…”
Get to the point, Blaire’s glare all but shouted, though Dumbledore seemed to take no notice of the Slytherin’s thunderous expression.
“...Nonetheless, she has given us many prophecies--more than any witch or wizard in recent generations, more even than the combined contributions of all the rest of the Seers currently alive today--and all have proven true. One such prophecy concerns your close friend, Corrin Wiseacre...though in fact, that prophecy potentially concerns us all, seeing as it could very easily change the future of the entire Wizarding World.”
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows at Blaire mildly, as if asking whether or not he should go on; Blaire gave him a flat stare, but didn’t attempt to dispute the ‘close friend’ bit this time, though he was still unwilling to go so far as to actually ask to hear the damn prophecy.
“In any case...myself and others, most notably Harriett and Oswalt Wiseacre, think it quite probable that this prophecy is about Corrin...which would make it of the utmost importance that he remain safe, and unharmed.”
Blaire crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head, expression guarded. “You said before that you had a request, sir, but you’ve yet to make it.” Say it flat out, old man. No more word games or beating around the bush.
“...Blaire.”
The Slytherin tensed again, I told you not to call me that hovering on the tip of his tongue, but the suddenly softer, almost pitying look on Dumbledore’s face brought him up short, left him wondering if he’d misjudged everything about this situation, this man, their entire conversation.
“I know a great deal more about you--about both your past, as well as your present situation--than you might realise. And so, although I doubt I have any need to make this request of you, nonetheless I will, selfishly, ask.”
Light eyes gleaming in the firelight, the Headmaster leaned forward, and suddenly he seemed taller, grander, and there was an unexpectedly dark, almost rough sort of intensity about him that was only just short of terrifying.
“Protect him, Blaire.”
The Slytherin’s eyes flew open wide, for Dumbledore suddenly had ahold of his arm--his left arm--and though he gave a reflexive, twisting jerk in an attempt to free himself, that gnarled hand didn’t so much as budge.
“Protect Corrin Wiseacre, your dearest friend. Protect him from everyone...including yourself, if it comes to that.”
Dumbledore’s thumb was digging into the crook of his elbow painfully--he was certain that he’d have a bruise tomorrow, though at least in a few days, after the weekend, it would be easy enough to explain it away as being from Quidditch practise--and there was a fervour, a white-hot intensity in those eyes that Blaire had never seen before, hoped he never had reason to see again...though after years of living with Lyra, that kind of overwhelming show of power made some foolish, stubborn part of his downtrodden spirit dig in its heels and try to fight back, however weakly.
“I don’t...I don’t know what you’re-”
That hand on his arm only tightened its grip, cutting off his words as he clamped his jaw shut to hold back a soft sound of protest, his usually stoic face twisted into a grimace of pain. (It was that arm, it still hurt, still ached, throbbing with every pulse, with every unsteady, racing beat of his heart, a relentless burning that drilled all the way down to his bones, into his very marrow, still agonizingly tender more than three months after that bloody Mark had been seared into his flesh, skin and muscle and sinew scarred and scored and twisted by Dark Magic.)
“Protect him, Blaire!” There was a thread of desperation, the barest hint of what could only be fear in the Headmaster’s voice as he pressed the seventh-year student back into the chair, though Blaire wouldn’t fully comprehend it, or really recognise it for what it was, until he went back over it in his mind later, analysing everything that had been said and done that night. “You are the only one who can! ‘The longest shadow is cast by the brightest light’!”
“Professor,” Blaire gritted out through clenched teeth, “it’s Harrowgate, and I-” he sucked in ragged half-breath before soldiering on, “-I don't know what you're talking about. Let go of me.”
Something else unreadable but ugly flickered through the Headmaster’s eyes for a fraction of a second, so swift and fleeting that Blaire could almost tell himself that he imagined it, that the waves of agony washing through him had clouded his vision, that there was no way an expression like that could belong to the docile, kindly-seeming old man with cheerily twinkling eyes who knitted socks by hand instead of with magic, doodled in his library books, and enjoyed sweets so much that he used their names as the password to his office. And yet, Blaire still found himself trembling in spite of all that as Dumbledore seemed to suddenly come back to himself, realise what he was doing, that he’d practically pinned one of his students against one corner of his chair by the arm. Quicker than blinking, he pulled back, looking a bit shaken himself for a moment as he rose and moved across the little room, pointedly placing the chair he’d been sitting in between himself and the Slytherin prefect.
“...Forgive me, Mr. Harrowgate,” he murmured after a long, uncomfortable silence had stretched thin between them. “I had thought my temper was less inclined to flare up like that at my age, but it would seem that I was not entirely correct.”
“Yes, imagine that,” Blaire muttered, trying and failing, rather, not to be obvious about how much his arm still hurt him. “If that’s all, Professor Dumbledore, sir, may I be excused? I do still have homework to finish, you know.”
Dumbledore turned an inscrutable sideways look on him, and Blaire found himself caught between the urge to look away and avoid eye contact at all costs, and the self-preservation instinct to never, never take one’s eyes off a source of potential danger.
“Perhaps that would be for the best, yes,” the old wizard sighed at last, quietly, though his expression had once again gone closed and contemplative as he looked across the room at the seventh-year student.
Fight or flight reflexes kicked in then, and Blaire hastily scrambled to his feet, too unnerved by that unexpected break in character to even attempt to disguise the fact that he was very clearly running away. “Goodnight, sir. Thank you for the tea.”
“And thank you for your time, Mr. Harrowgate. Goodnight.”
Something about the sorrow, the note of defeat in Dumbledore’s voice caught at Blaire, and a feeling of incompletion, of something important left undone here wedged itself in the forefront of his mind. He paused in the doorway, looking back at those ancient, suddenly very weary and stooped-looking shoulders, his right hand creeping across his body to clutch at his left arm protectively.
...Then again, if I leave now, without even hearing what he wanted to tell me, then I’ll have come here for nothing, suffered for nothing. Left not only empty-handed, but a bit more empty-headed as well...
“...You know,” Blaire suddenly spoke up, though Dumbledore didn’t so much as turn his head to look over at him, “...Since I did come all this way...perhaps I wouldn’t mind hearing that prophecy after all. Purely for curiosity’s sake, and intellectual reasons, of course.”
As he watched, the Headmaster slowly raised his head, and though there was only the hint of a smile about his mouth, Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with their usual merry light as he nodded very understandingly. “Of course, Mr. Harrowgate. Of course.”