Trouble In Paradise

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*

October 7, 1990, 8:27 AM, The Great Hall

Deroc Rowle

*

Sitting down at his spot on the bench, Deroc threw the incessant muttering to the back of his mind, opting to look down at his meal instead. He had been given a lot of things to think about this past week, the most important of which being his recent humiliation.

'A lot indeed,' his mind unhelpfully supplied, the image of his back against a tree flashing to the forefront of his mind. 'Damned Mudblood!'

The usually mouthwatering food could not quench his vexation. Bite after bite was shovelled into his mouth and chewed violently until there was not a morsel left before him. Placing his cutlery on the plate, Deroc's eyes swept around the hall, coming to a stop at the Gryffindor table.

A sneer spread across his face at the sight of that filth smiling without a care in the world.

"What's wrong, Deroc?" Burke asked him.

His eyes stayed fixed on the Gryffindor table. He did, however, manage to slip out a reply. "Nothing, Leo, nothing at all…"

Deroc knew that the expression on his face begged to differ, but his not-so-observant friend shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly before pouncing on his own plate.

Alastair Fawley, however, was a harder person to fool. "What has you so worked up?" his blue eyes stared at Deroc from across the table, a hint of concern warming their icy depths. "Is it him?"

Deroc felt his eye twitch, emboldening Alastair to continue. "We'll have our revenge, don't you worry, but above all else we are Slytherins. We have to carry ourselves as people befitting of our great ancestor's name."

'I know he's right,' Deroc thought, his anger diminishing somewhat. 'But how am I supposed to sit down and do nothing after such a… such a travesty! We, scions of Noble Houses, had to beg a half-breed for help!'

It must have shown on his face, because Alastair wasn't quite finished with him. "I feel the same as you do, I was there after all. And let me tell you that we will not let it stand, but we have to be cunning about how we do it. If we aren't, then what separates us from those idiots over there?" he pointed his thumb back at the Gryffindor table with a scoff.

"You're Deroc Rowle, heir to the Noble House of Rowle, you must be, are, better than them." Alastair dropped his hand to the table with a soft thud. "Now, I'm going to eat my breakfast and enjoy it. We've got a free period afterwards, let's head to the library and find some tomes and spells we can practise from in our dorm. Does that sound okay to you?"

Deroc felt a smile spread itself across his face. Not the disingenuous smile he was taught to use at balls and gatherings but a real, genuine, and happy smile. He inclined his head, the smile never fading from his face.

Deroc felt his previous irritation melt away. 'How ironic that the coldest person I know would be the one to do so.' he thought, shaking his head.

*

oOOOo

First Floor, Hogwarts Library, 9:42 AM

*

Sliding his index finger down its spine, Deroc silently passed the thick, hardback tome to Leopold, who had his gangly arms extended upwards.

His face was flushed in annoyance, but it only made the situation all the more hilarious for Deroc. 'I wish I could capture this moment and lord it over him for all eternity…' but upon seeing the beads of sweat forming on his friend's face, he decided to take pity on his friend.

If anyone were to chance upon them, it would prove to be quite a comical sight. Alastair sat at the desk, his right hand held to the side expectantly, waiting for Leopold to pass him the book whilst the latter stood next to him with shaking hands.

'I would imagine it looks rather idiotic from afar.' his brain supplied as he chuckled silently for fear of drawing the librarian's ire.

"Well," Burke hissed, his arms shaking. "Pass it down here will you, I'm not a tree!"

Deroc looked down at him from atop the sliding ladder. He quirked an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth threatening to rise upwards. "Your height seems to say otherwise, dear Leo." he chuckled, slowly passing the book down to his irate friend.

"Will you both stop being such dullards and pass me the tome?" Alastair cut in. He turned around and looked at Deroc, his cold eyes fixed upon him. A hint of mirth glimmered within their icy depths, breaking his frosty demeanour. "Honestly," he sighed. "Where would you two be without me?"

"Yes, yes, Lord Fawley," drawled Leopold, placing the book on the table before shaking his arms out. There was no mockery within his voice, only amusement. "We bow down to your magical might and prostrate ourselves before you! All hail Lord Fawley!"

Deroc looked down at his friends with a smile. They had been joined at the hip for as far as he could remember. Their dynamic was one that had been played out for almost a decade. Alastair kept them in line and on-task with cold pragmatism and Leopold was as loyal as Purebloods came, despite tending to not be the smartest of wizards.

"... and I already told you," Deroc heard Alastair groan. "We aren't allowed to practise spells inside the library. Do you want us to be kicked out?"

At the mention of their possible expulsion, Deroc glanced at the Librarian. She was absorbed within her book, pausing every once in a while to rake her eyes across the library. 'No, I don't suppose it would do for us to be kicked out of the library, would it?' he frowned.

"How many spells have we written down so far?" Deroc asked Alastair, climbing down the ladder before taking a seat at their table.

"Seven."

"That's more than enough," he stuck up finger at Leopold's incredulous expression. "Think about it Leo, seven is the most powerful magical number, right? Maybe we'll have some luck on our side for it?"

He saw Alastair roll his eyes from his peripheral vision and stifled a chuckle—Alastair had never been a fan of Wenlock's work.

"She's a scatterbrained, dunderhead of a witch who chalked down a series of coincidences as fact," he had told him. "And the most idiotic part of all is that we believe her!"

On the other hand, Leopold simply nodded his head and dragged over a seat from the adjacent table. "So, now that we've got our spells, what do we do?" there was a pregnant pause as they wondered.

Deroc turned to Alastair, who solemnly nodded at him before he brought his attention back to his taller friend. "Practise Leo, we practise and return everything Dovahkiin inflicted on us with interest."

And if his friend's reaction was anything to go by, he seemed sold. Deroc looked at Alastair and quirked an eyebrow. "What do you say, Al?"

"I say," he hedged, a ghost of smile flickering across his face. "That we have at it."

*

oOOOo

The Dungeons, Slytherin Common Room, 3:55 PM

*

Back in the common room, Deroc stared at the greenish flame of the dorm. It flickered and danced, creating swirling emerald patterns within his grey, unflinching eyes, giving them an unholy glow.

The fire wasn't truly green, but the Slytherin Common Room was partly submerged under the lake, dyeing the common room in a turquoise light.

Smoke curled upwards, seeming to disappear into the very air. The lack of the acrid scent of firewood was a blessing for the boy— he hated the smell. Ironically, the sound was one that he found soothing ever since he was a little boy. It calmed him, its many crackles and hisses bringing a much needed calm to his heart.

'If Al hadn't calmed me down, I think I might have stormed off to find Dovahkiin.' he thought with a frown.

Even now, more than a few hours later, he shuddered in disgust at what he was almost about to do. It went against everything that he had been raised to be: calm, rational, level-headed. Yet all of that faded away once he was challenged.

"Challenge is good," his father had told him as a child. "It means that there is still somebody to test yourself against, ways to polish your craft and improve. Never grow stagnant my son, for the moment you do that is the moment that you fail."

'But that's exactly what's happened,' Rowle thought morosely. 'I came here, and everyone bent over backwards for me. At least at home, I had father to keep me in check…'

Deroc's father was a hardy man, not lacking in power, be it political or magical. Although they weren't the most powerful family in Britain, they most certainly weren't the weakest. In fact, his father—Thorfinn Rowle—was a notable figure amongst the Malfoy circle. He treated his son with a characteristic sternness, expecting the best from him, and not a knut less.

Deroc would do his best to meet that goal. Staring intently at the fireplace, Deroc's gaze was resolute. 'And that will mean taking revenge on Dovahkiin.'

*

oOOOo

October 8, 1990, 4:07 PM, Third Floor, Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom

Aaron Ancile

*

Watching his fourth-year class wander out of his classroom, Ancile let the whispers and mutterings of his students wash over him and slowly but surely, fade out of his mind. With a casual wave of his palm, he closed the classroom door behind their retreating figures and slumped against his cushioned chair with a tired groan.

'I'm decades too early to be feeling any kind of back pain,' he huffed, leaning forwards and hunching over the desk.

Teaching, he thought, was a far harder task than he had once thought. Sure, it wasn't comparable to being an auror, but it was still sufficiently taxing in its own right. He had a newfound appreciation for his colleagues at the school, especially the Deputy Headmistress; she seemed to have the greatest workload of all. Though he by no means hated the job. In fact, he loved seeing the kids' faces light up once they understood a concept or got down a spell. It was the marking that really got to him.

'It's almost as fulfilling as catching scum of the earth and throwing them into Aula Carceris.' he mused.

With another wave of his hand, Aaron floated the pyramid of first year essays onto his desk. It landed on his desk with a soft thud. The roll of parchment at the very summit of the pyramid shuddered, as if it were threatening to topple over before coming to a stop. He swiped it off its spot and unfurled it.

Aaron's eyebrows twitched imperceptibly at the sight of the student's name. It was streaked across the top of the parchment in beautifully written cursive text like a comet piercing through the pitch black expanse of the night sky.

'Asim Dovahkiin.'

To be completely truthful, Aaron didn't know what to make of the boy. At first, he saw him as no more than a child with an interestingly coloured pair of eyes and a slightly above average academic intelligence. The boy had never really made any sort of impact on him beyond that. Not until he came up to him on a weekend. Though it was really the question the boy had asked him that brought it home.

His lips quirked upwards, the memory of the day causing an unexpected wave of pride to rise from within his chest. He remembered the boy's eyes, flashing with unconcealed fear and a hint of hesitance. The obvious fear and trepidation aside, within the child's eyes sat the beginnings of a formidable determination. It sparked like the beginnings of a fire; one that, if cultivated correctly, would no doubt grow to become a roaring flame.

Moments like those were what made Ancile want to continue teaching. To not only inspire the next generation, but to make sure that they were armed and ready to face the cold, unforgiving world that would most definitely be ahead of them.

Sighing contentedly, Ancile twirled his finger, the cold mug of coffee beginning to steam. Bringing it up to his face, he took a sip and hummed happily.

'Though it's obvious that there's something bothering him.' Ancile set the mug on the table and continued to read through the essay.

Unlike that fateful day, Asim seemed to be constantly absentminded. Almost lost, as if his mind wandered elsewhere. This didn't affect the quality of his work, not in the slightest. Asim's essays and classwork were still as superb as always, but it was plain to see that he lacked the same fire and enthusiasm that had become his usual.

In class discussions, he'd stare vacantly at the air, not inputting anything unless Ancile prompted him to do so. Even then, his responses were air-headed, textbook correct, but lacked any real personality to them. As if he were simply regurgitating facts before zoning out again.

Reading over the essay's contents, Aaron furrowed his brow. It felt soulless, like he was staring into the lightless eyes of a corpse. No longer did the boy's essays include thoughts, not-so-subtle jibes at academics and his intriguing evaluation.

It would be enough to keep his spot as first in his year, that was a certainty, but the ex-auror wondered what could possibly have jarred the boy to such an extent.

He stamped the essay with a sigh, returning it to its place before leaning backwards. 'It seems like I have a long night ahead of me, huh? Thank Merlin for coffee.'

Looking upwards, Ancile stared at the skull's hollow pits. He snorted and chose to voice his dilemma out loud. "So, what do you think? He's certainly a gifted child…" he drummed his finger against the table. "Mhmm… yes, yes, you're right indeed…."

A peal of laughter escaped his throat, it was a coarse and rough thing. Once his laughter had subsided, he summoned another roll of parchment and unfurled it, adjusting his chair.

"This one is…" he paused, hunching over the essay. "Eddie Carmichael."

Another boy who had also grabbed the ex-auror's interest. He was, for lack of a better term, completely ingenious. He wasn't like the stereotypical Ravenclaw who gave out textbook correct answers and little else. The boy's answers were completely abstract and he contributed greatly in forming thought provoking and genuinely interesting class discussions.

It was a breath of fresh air for him. He taught at a school where the majority of children never grasped the wonders of magic, opting to laze around or partake in pissing contests. Though it did make some sense. Why would they be astonished with something that they had spent their entire lives around?

'Not to mention that most of the Muggleborns are silenced through bullying for being studious…' he frowned.

Skimming through the essay, Ancile cracked a smile before picking up the stamp that he had just set down. 'Another one bites the dust!' Ancile sent the essay towards the pile with a cheerful smile before summoning another.

"Well," he muttered, dipping the quill in its inkwell. "Let's try to finish these first-year essays before dinner."

Psyching himself up, Ancile began marking in earnest. The only thing audible being his soft mutters and the scratching of a quill against the coarse parchment.

*

oOOOo

Seventh Floor, Filius Flitwick's Office, 10:17 PM

Filius Flitwick

*

In his office on the Seventh Floor, the Charms Master was outfitted in a deep purple robe. Unlike the usual wizarding attire, Flitwick's robe was soft, almost silky to touch. It flowed across his skin like a cool breeze, not a single crease in sight.

'The wonders of magic indeed.' he thought appreciatively, adjusting his position on the couch with a smile.

A similarly coloured chequered blanket was draped over shoulders and partly across the couch. Flitwick's office served doubly as his room, as well as his base of operations. His living quarters and working office were separated by a single curtain, but with magic, that was more than enough.

Sitting on his lavish couch, Flitwick held within his hands a mug of piping hot chocolate. He sipped from it, enjoying the taste, and the warmth of his office. The chocolate was pleasant, slightly smoky and somewhat bittersweet.

He let the crackling wood filter through his mind, reflecting on what the eagle knocker had told him.

*

oOOOo

Half an hour earlier, Outside the Ravenclaw Common Room

*

Flitwick stepped out of the common room after bidding his wards a good evening, as per usual. He closed the door behind him with a mere wave of his hand and began walking down the corridor, the whistling wind of the night ruffling his hair and causing his robes to dance about his ankles.

"Professor, would you mind waiting for just a second?" called out the boisterous voice of the eagle knocker.

Flitwick halted, his brows raised in surprise. The eagle had never called out to him outside of the standard riddle to gain access to the common room. He turned around, walking back down the corridor, curious.

"What's the matter, knocker?" he asked, twirling his magnificent moustache around his finger.

"Well Professor, earlier today, somebody answered a riddle."

Flitwick blinked owlishly. 'Is that not what the knocker is for?' he wondered, voicing his thoughts aloud.

"Is that not the purpose of your existence, knocker?"

"It is indeed," it agreed. "But the problem is not that a riddle was answered, rather, the person who answered the riddle is the source of this splendid conversation, Professor."

"Oh?"

"It is quite the interesting situation, Professor," said the eagle, nodding its head comically. "You see, the person who answered the riddle was not a Ravenclaw. No Professor, the pupil was a Gryffindor."

"A Gryffindor you say?" asked Flitwick, his voice heightening in surprise. "Could you describe to me how they looked?"

"Well you see," the eagle paused, clearing its throat.

Flitwick furrowed his brow, confused. The eagle didn't have a throat to clear to begin with.

"They were a tiny thing, not much taller than yourself," it began. "And he had quite the enchanting pair of eyes. They were the colour of the sky on a beautiful summer's day, with flecks of sunset scattered within them."

"Flecks of sunset…" mused Flitwick, adopting a pensive expression. He muttered for a few moments before his face lit up. "Ah yes! You must be talking about young Dovahkiin!"

"Dovahkiin?" asked the eagle. "Quite the exotic name that one."

"He's a gifted first-year, who takes first place in all of the wanded subjects," answered Flitwick, seeming to be on a roll. "In fact, his questions in my class often make me think twice about their answers. Alongside Mister Carmichael, one of my ravens, I haven't met such a free-thinking student in a while"

He paused, for a moment, whatever words he was thinking of swiftly died on his lips.

"But these days, he seems to be affected by something," said Flitwick. His voice was low, pained, and helpless. He was silent for a moment before a curious expression resurrected his face. "Say, knocker, did the boy look somewhat lost or upset at any point during your interaction?"

The eagle was silent for a little while. It hummed, sending small ripples across its length. "The riddle seemed to require his utmost focus so not at the start, no. Though once he had answered it, he peered into our common room before all the interest disappeared from his face and he turned around, walking away from me. Why he would do such a thing is beyond my illustrious self."

'That's concerning,' thought Flitiwck. 'But at least I can bring him to my office for a chat without the possibility of him refusing.'

"Thank you, knocker." said Flitwick, turning around and walking down the corridor.

As it was well past curfew, the corridors were mostly vacant, save for a few prefects who were on patrol. The tapping of his footfalls allowed Flitwick to chew on the morsel of information the knocker had given him.

Asim's mental state was not news to him, not at all. His multiple invites to his office had fallen on deaf ears—though the boy had politely declined them all—and as he was not his House Head, there was not much Flitwick could do.

As headmistress, Minerva was swamped in work, so it did not surprise him that she did not notice Asim's troubles. He truly did sympathise with her, but it did not change the fact that she failed to notice his plight.

Though Flitwick thought he was also at fault for not bringing it to her attention.

Still, it saddened him that he was unable to help the boy. At the very least, the night had brought him some good news. He now had viable grounds to bring the boy into his office for a well overdue talk, some cupcakes, and a hot cup of tea.

With that in mind, Flitwick travelled up the moving staircase with a spring in his step. The stairs seemed to have sensed his good mood, turning and rising in order to shorten his journey to the seventh floor.

*

oOOOo

*

Flitwick waved his hand, his mug floating over towards the sink. With another twirl, the faucet turned on, dousing the mug in water. He turned it around, making sure that each corner of the mug was free of any chocolate before setting it down next to all the other bits and bobs.

Snuggling into the sofa, Flitwick debated whether or not to go to his bed. Eventually, his more rational side won out, prompting him to put on his purple and white night cap and crawl under his covers. Leaning against the bed frame, he summoned the candles scattered around his office, putting them out with a single exhale.

Sending the candlesticks back to their positions, Flitwick lay within his bed, slowly relinquishing his consciousness to the abyss that mankind called sleep.

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