Adrian knew something was wrong when the owl approaching the breakfast table had a red envelope in its claws.
Cedric noticed a moment later and lowered his toast.
“Oh, no.”
The owl dropped its delivery in front of Adrian and departed without waiting, leaving the envelope beside his plate.
His name was written across it in his father’s handwriting.
For a few seconds, Adrian considered whether leaving it unopened would improve anything.
The corners began to smoke.
“Open it,” Cedric said, moving the teapot away.
“Quickly.”
Adrian caught the flap with his thumb.
“ADRIAN SEBASTION CLARKE!”
Every conversation within twenty feet stopped.
His mother’s voice filled the Great Hall, loud enough to reach the staff table without difficulty.
Adrian sat very still while the envelope rose from his hands.
“THE SCHOOL TELLS ME YOU WERE IN A FIGHT WITH FIVE BOYS, AND THEN TELLS ME YOU’RE PERFECTLY ALL RIGHT.
DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THAT DOES TO A PERSON?”
Cedric stared determinedly at his plate.
“YOUR FATHER SAYS YOUR HAND HAS BEEN TREATED.
YOU WILL WRITE AND TELL ME THAT YOURSELF.
TODAY.
AND IF ANYTHING STILL HURTS, YOU WILL GO BACK AND TELL THE NURSE INSTEAD OF DECIDING YOU CAN IGNORE IT.”
Adrian could feel people turning on the benches behind him.
“WE KNOW THEY CORNERED YOU.
WE KNOW WHAT THAT BOY SAID.
YOU DO NOT NEED TO DEFEND MY REPUTATION TO SOME LITTLE BRAT WHO DOESN’T KNOW ME.”
Her voice caught slightly on the next sentence.
“BUT YOU DO NEED TO COME HOME TO ME IN ONE PIECE.”
Adrian stopped looking at the table.
“WHEN YOU CAN GET AWAY, YOU GET AWAY.
YOU DON’T KEEP GOING UNTIL A PROFESSOR HAS TO PULL YOU OFF SOMEBODY.
YOU KNOW BETTER THAN THAT.”
There was a rustle from inside the envelope, followed by Edmund’s voice, quieter but still audible across the Hall.
“Tell him we’re glad he’s all right.”
“I AM GLAD YOU’RE ALL RIGHT.
I LOVE YOU.
NOW STOP MAKING ME FIND OUT THINGS LIKE THIS FROM STRANGERS.”
The envelope paused.
Adrian almost breathed.
“AND IF THOSE BOYS CORNER YOU AGAIN, YOU HIT THEM HARDER.”
“Marisol—”
The Howler tore itself apart.
Pieces fluttered onto Adrian’s breakfast, and for one remarkable moment the Great Hall remained silent.
At the staff table, McGonagall sat with her cup suspended halfway to its saucer.
Sprout turned toward her, then looked back at Adrian.
Snape’s expression had settled into something colder than surprise.
Dumbledore lowered his eyes to his plate.
Somewhere at the Gryffindor table, someone choked.
Adrian brushed a scrap of red paper away from his toast.
Cedric leaned closer.
“I thought she was finished.”
“So did I.”
Fred had both hands over his mouth across the Hall, while George had turned toward the wall.
Their shoulders were shaking.
Adrian could hardly blame them.
Professor Sprout reached the table before the general noise returned to its usual level.
“Have you eaten?”
He looked down at his plate.
“Most of it.”
“Then come with me, please.”
Adrian stood, gathering his bag while Cedric quietly removed the last piece of envelope from beside his glass.
As he followed Sprout toward the doors, he heard someone repeat the final sentence.
He had a feeling he would be hearing it for weeks.
McGonagall’s office contained three chairs in front of the desk.
Adrian took the middle one after Sprout indicated it, then put his bag beside his feet.
Snape stood near the window, holding several sheets of parchment.
McGonagall arrived a moment later and closed the door.
“I trust,” she said, taking her seat, “that we do not need to explain which part of your mother’s advice you will not be following at school.”
“No, Professor.”
Snape looked up from the papers.
“An unusually qualified answer.”
Adrian kept his attention on McGonagall.
She arranged the statements in front of her before speaking.
“We have now spoken to the witnesses, including students who had no involvement in the incident.
Mr.
Avery stopped you outside the classroom, and his companions prevented you from leaving.”
Snape placed one sheet on the desk.
“Mr.
Avery maintains that Clarke threatened him.”
“After being held in the corridor,” Sprout said.
“He also maintains that he drew his wand because Clarke advanced on him.”
McGonagall looked at the parchment, then back at Snape.
“Which is contradicted by the students standing beside the classroom door.
Adrian had turned towards my room.”
“Diggory’s loyalty to his friend is hardly in question.”
“Nor is Mr.
Diggory the only witness.”
Adrian watched McGonagall lift another statement from the pile.
Adrian could let most of Snape’s insults slide, but Cedric had told the truth, and hearing him treated like a liar for it was harder to ignore.
“I tried to leave,” he said.
Snape turned toward him.
“You will speak when you are asked.”
“He may answer an accusation concerning him, Severus,” Sprout said.
Her voice was level, but Adrian noticed that she had stopped turning her hat in her hands.
McGonagall addressed him before the argument could continue.
“We accept that you attempted to leave.
We also accept that Mr.
Avery raised his wand before you struck him.”
Adrian nodded, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
“However, that does not account for everything that followed.”
Snape moved away from the window.
“You rendered one boy unconscious, injured another, and continued striking a third until Professor McGonagall restrained you.
Perhaps you imagine that makes you a hero.”
“No, sir.”
“Then you might stop looking as though the injuries are an inconvenient detail.”
Adrian looked directly at him.
“They grabbed me.”
“And therefore anything you chose to do was justified?”
“That’s not what I said.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed.
“Your arrogance would be less tedious if it were accompanied by the slightest evidence of judgment.”
Adrian pressed his thumb against the seam of his trousers and kept the reply to himself.
McGonagall leaned forward.
“I saw the final part myself.
The older boy was against the wall, covering his face, and you continued hitting him.
You will answer for that.”
He remembered the boy’s grip on his collar, the shove, and the wall coming toward them.
The last few seconds were much harder to put in order.
“I know I kept going,” he said.
“I should’ve stopped once I could get out.”
“Yes,” McGonagall replied.
“You should.”
She allowed the answer to settle before explaining the punishment.
Three evening detentions, twenty points from Hufflepuff, and a fortnight without independent exploration of the castle or grounds.
His normal lessons would continue, but visits to Hagrid and Kettleburn would wait until the restriction ended.
Adrian looked toward Sprout.
She understood before he asked.
“I have already informed Professor Kettleburn.
He will expect you after the fortnight.”
He nodded, disappointed enough that he had to concentrate on the rest of McGonagall’s explanation.
“The other students are being dealt with separately.
The older boys’ involvement has been taken particularly seriously.
You are not to approach any of them.”
“What if they approach me?”
“You come to me,” Sprout said.
“Or to whichever member of staff is nearest.
If someone prevents you, other students are to fetch help, as Mr.
Pike did.”
Snape gathered his papers.
“And if the Weasley twins propose some idiotic retaliation, you will have the sense to refuse.”
Adrian kept his expression still.
Apparently, Snape noticed the effort.
“How disappointing to discover that the suggestion has already been made.”
“They asked if I was okay.”
“I am sure their concern was deeply moving.”
McGonagall stood.
“That is enough.
Adrian, you will attend your lessons today.
Professor Sprout will collect you after lunch.”
Adrian reached for his bag, then paused.
“Is that about the electricity?”
The three professors exchanged a look.
“Yes,” Sprout said.
“Your father has written to the Headmaster.”
The gargoyle moved aside at Sprout’s password, revealing a staircase that began turning beneath their feet.
Adrian steadied himself against the wall as it carried them upward, and by the time they reached the door, he had almost forgotten to worry about what waited on the other side.
Dumbledore’s office did little to help him concentrate.
Silver instruments whirred on delicate tables, portraits watched from the walls, and a magnificent red-and-gold bird stood on a perch behind the desk.
Adrian stopped beside Sprout, his eyes settling on the phoenix.
He had spent years reading about creatures he hoped to see, but none of those evenings at the kitchen table had prepared him for finding one within arm’s reach of somebody’s paperwork.
“His name is Fawkes,” Dumbledore said, allowing him another moment before indicating the chair opposite his desk.
“You may introduce yourself properly before you leave.
For now, I’m afraid I must ask you to settle for my company.”
“Sorry, sir.” Adrian took the offered seat, although he couldn’t resist another glance as Sprout sat beside him.
Snape stood near the window with a folded letter in his hand.
He waited until Adrian faced the desk before placing it in front of Dumbledore.
“Your father replied this morning,” the headmaster began.
“He mentioned that this has happened before, although he was unable to explain its nature.
Perhaps you can help us.”
“I can tell you what I’ve figured out,” Adrian said.
“Dad knows I can do it, but most of what he knows came from me.
He wasn’t teaching me or anything.”
Dumbledore nodded, leaving the letter where Snape had placed it.
“Then we shall begin with you.
When did you first notice it?”
“In Arizona, when I was four.
There was a Thunderbird out over the desert during a storm, and I was watching it from the house.”
He described what he remembered of the bird moving through the clouds and the lightning gathering around it, slowing whenever he reached a detail he couldn’t recall clearly.
Dumbledore listened without interrupting, while Snape’s expression suggested that he was keeping a separate account of every uncertainty.
“The feeling started after that,” Adrian continued.
“I didn’t know what to do with it at first.
Later, I worked out that if I concentrated on it, I could make a little electricity.”
“Did the Thunderbird come near the house?”
“No, sir.
It stayed way out in the storm.
I don’t think it even saw me.”
Dumbledore considered that for a moment, then asked Adrian to describe the sensation itself.
That took more effort than describing the bird.
Adrian rubbed his thumb across his fingertips while he searched for words that didn’t depend on already knowing what it felt like.
“There’s a kind of tingling when it starts.
Once I notice that, I can usually hold a small charge or let it go. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Getting it started on purpose took practice.”
“And naturally,” Snape said, “you decided that producing electricity was an excellent occupation for a small child.”
Adrian glanced toward him.
“I thought it was pretty cool.”
“I am sure that was a thorough assessment of the risks.”
“Severus.” Dumbledore’s tone remained mild, but he waited until Snape fell silent before continuing.
“What did your father do when you told him?”
“He asked me to show him.
Small amounts, mostly, and he wanted to know if anything hurt.
But he couldn’t feel what I was feeling, so I had to explain it.”
Sprout leaned forward slightly.
“Was he with you when you injured your arm?”
Adrian lowered his eyes to his hands.
“I was trying to hold more than usual.
The smaller charges had gotten easy, and I figured I could handle it.” He flexed his fingers, remembering how frightening it had been when they hadn’t responded properly.
“My arm went numb, almost to my shoulder.
Dad stopped the experimenting for a month after that.”
“And yet here we are,” Snape murmured.
Adrian had an answer ready, but Sprout spoke before he could use it.
“Did the feeling come back on its own?”
“Yeah.
It didn’t stay that way, and I haven’t pushed it that far since.”
Dumbledore asked how long it had lasted and whether Adrian remembered pain, weakness, or difficulty moving afterward.
Adrian answered as carefully as he could, admitting when he couldn’t remember something precisely.
The headmaster made a brief note, then laid down his quill.
“During yesterday’s fight, were you attempting to produce a charge?”
“No, sir.
I didn’t even know it happened until Professor McGonagall told me.”
Snape moved away from the window.
“You were striking other students while discharging magic you could not be bothered to notice.”
Adrian’s shoulders tightened.
“I didn’t decide to ignore it.”
“You appear very fond of explaining what you did not intend, Mr.
Clarke.
Unfortunately, that does little for anyone on the receiving end.”
For a moment, Adrian looked down at the desk.
He disliked the way Snape said it, but he remembered the older boy’s hand twisted in his robes and realised he couldn’t say whether the electricity had already been there.
“Did I shock somebody?”
The question brought Sprout’s attention sharply back to him.
“We have no report of an electrical injury,” Dumbledore said.
“Professor McGonagall noticed it after restraining you.
That does not tell us precisely when it began.”
Adrian nodded slowly, his earlier reply losing much of its appeal.
“Usually I can feel it building.
Yesterday, I was paying attention to everything else.”
“Which is why we must consider more than what you can do while sitting quietly in an office.” Dumbledore glanced at Adrian’s hands.
“Has it ever appeared unexpectedly at other times?”
“Sometimes when I get excited or upset.
I normally catch it before much happens.”
Snape’s mouth curled slightly, but Dumbledore continued before he could comment.
“That is something Professor Flitwick may be able to help us examine.
For the present, I would like you to tell us whenever it happens, even if it seems insignificant.”
“Okay.” Adrian hesitated, then asked the question he had been holding back.
“Have you heard of anything like this?
With the Thunderbird, I mean.”
“I have encountered magic that first appeared under unusual circumstances,” Dumbledore replied.
“I have not yet encountered enough evidence to explain yours.”
Adrian glanced toward the letter, disappointed despite himself.
“The timing is certainly interesting,” the headmaster added.
“But I would rather ask a few more questions than give you an impressive answer we later discover is wrong.”
“There is another matter,” Snape said.
“During our visit to Diagon Alley, several creatures responded to Mr.
Clarke’s attempts to communicate with them.”
Adrian looked up, surprised that he had brought it up again.
“Because I was talking to them.”
“Yes, that was your explanation at the time.
Repeating it has done remarkably little to improve it.”
“I mean actually talking, Professor.
Asking questions and understanding the answers.” Adrian shifted in his chair, looking between the three adults.
“I know what it sounds like to everybody else.
You hear squeaks and grunts, or whatever noise that animal makes.
I hear what they’re saying.”
Sprout’s hand went still on the arm of her chair.
Dumbledore watched Adrian for a moment before drawing his quill toward him again.
“Words?”
“Whole sentences, sometimes.
It depends on the animal and how well I know the language.” Adrian glanced at Snape.
“I wasn’t just making noises in the shop and hoping something would look at me.”
“Then perhaps you should have supplied that rather significant detail when I first asked.”
“I thought saying I could talk to them covered it.”
Sprout intervened before Snape could answer.
“When you say you know the language, Adrian, do you mean you have to learn each one?”
“Yeah.
I didn’t start out understanding everything.
I spent years listening, trying sounds, and getting them wrong.
Sometimes I still do.” He rested his hands on his knees, grateful to have something concrete to explain.
“If I’ve never talked to that kind of animal before, I usually don’t understand it.
I have to spend time around it and learn.”
“And this extends to magical creatures?” Dumbledore asked.
“The ones I’ve learned to talk to.
Being magical doesn’t mean I automatically understand them.” Adrian’s eyes drifted toward the perch behind the desk.
“I’ve never met a phoenix before.
I couldn’t just walk up to Fawkes and ask how his day’s going.”
At the sound of his name, Fawkes turned his head.
Adrian smiled at him, then returned his attention to Dumbledore.
“He might figure out that I’m being friendly, but that’s different.
I can tell when somebody’s smiling at me without knowing what they’re saying.”
Dumbledore made a short note.
“An important distinction.
And when you speak a language you have learned, does the animal understand you as clearly as you understand it?”
“If I get it right.
Sometimes I use the wrong sound, or I think I’m asking one thing and get an answer that makes no sense.
Then I have to figure out where I messed up.” Adrian paused, considering the limits of what he could honestly claim.
“They don’t always want to answer, either.
Understanding me doesn’t mean they have to listen.”
“Does Professor Kettleburn know about this?” Sprout asked.
“He’s heard me do it, but I haven’t explained all of it to him.”
“I think you should,” she said.
“Particularly if you misunderstand something while helping him.”
Adrian nodded.
“I will.
It happens with insects, too, by the way.
It’s not just bigger animals.”
Snape looked at Dumbledore, who had stopped writing.
“Insects as well,” the headmaster repeated, his interest now quite plain.
“I suspect Professor Kettleburn will have considerably more questions than we have time for this afternoon.”
For the first time since entering the office, Adrian felt himself relax a little.
Questions about animals were considerably easier to face than another account of what he had done in the corridor.
Dumbledore set his notes beside Edmund’s letter and began clearing a space on the desk.
“We shall return to this, with your help.
First, however, I would like to see the small electrical charge you described, provided you feel able to produce it.”
Adrian checked the feeling in his fingers before moving his chair closer.
“Yeah.
I can try.”
“Only a small amount,” Sprout reminded him.
“And if anything feels wrong, stop and tell us.”
He nodded, resting his forearms near the edge of the cleared space.
Behind the desk, Fawkes gave a quiet, musical call, and Adrian resisted the temptation to turn toward him.
He had no idea what it meant yet, although he very much wanted to learn.
Dumbledore cleared a space on a side table and moved one of the delicate instruments farther away.
Adrian stood opposite him while Sprout remained nearby and Snape watched from the end of the table.
“The smallest amount you can comfortably manage,” Dumbledore said.
“We are interested in your control, not your capacity.”
Adrian moved his sleeve back from his wrist and held his hand above the cleared desk.
Producing a little charge was usually easy enough, but with three professors watching his fingers, he found himself concentrating on everything except the sensation he needed.
He let out a breath and tried again.
A thin blue-white arc jumped between his fingertips, flickering once before settling into a faint, uneven thread.
Sprout leaned forward, while Dumbledore watched over the rims of his spectacles.
Snape remained standing beside the desk, his expression giving Adrian no useful indication of what he thought.
Adrian let the charge fade and lowered his hand.
“That’s about what I usually practice with.
If I hold more, the tingling gets stronger.”
“Does it hurt at that strength?” Dumbledore asked.
“No, sir.
My fingers feel a little tingly afterward, but it goes away.”
“And you have taken the absence of pain as evidence that it is harmless,” Snape said.
“A conclusion Madam Pomfrey may find less persuasive.”
“I was going to say I don’t know if it’s harmless.”
“Then do try to reach the useful part of your answer sooner.”
Adrian pressed his lips together, deciding that smiling probably wouldn’t improve matters.
Dumbledore gave them both a brief glance before asking him to repeat the demonstration.
“This time, please release it when I ask.”
The second charge came more readily now that he knew what they expected.
Adrian watched the light gather between his fingers, then let it disappear at Dumbledore’s instruction.
“Thank you.
That will do for today.”
Adrian flexed his hand and drew his sleeve down while the headmaster reached for a fresh piece of parchment.
“I would like Professor Flitwick to work with you,” Dumbledore continued.
“You can produce and dismiss it deliberately, but we still need to understand why it appeared without your noticing yesterday.
Madam Pomfrey should also examine you before we ask you to do any more.”
Adrian glanced at the note taking shape beneath his quill.
“Am I supposed to stop practicing until then?”
“Yes.
You may explain your methods to Professor Flitwick when you meet with him.”
“And should it happen again without your intending it,” Snape added, “you will inform a member of staff immediately.
You will not conduct a private investigation first.”
That sounded enough like something Adrian might have done that he couldn’t reasonably object.
“Okay.
But can we keep this between the people who actually need to know?
I’d rather not have everybody asking me to do it at breakfast.”
“Certainly,” Dumbledore said.
“Professor Flitwick and Madam Pomfrey will need an explanation, as will Professor Kettleburn if you are to continue assisting him.
Your classmates do not.”
Adrian turned toward Sprout.
“So I can still go back after the two weeks?”
“Provided you follow these instructions.” Her expression softened at his visible relief.
“You haven’t lost your place, Adrian.
I have already told Professor Kettleburn when to expect you.”
Dumbledore finished his note and set it aside.
“I shall write to your father as well.
He may remember something about the earlier incidents that helps us, and he will want to know what we have arranged.”
With the discussion apparently finished, Adrian stood beside his chair, then hesitated as he looked past the desk.
Fawkes had tucked one foot beneath his feathers and seemed considerably less troubled by the meeting than anyone else.
Dumbledore followed his gaze.
“Yes, I believe you were promised an introduction.”
Adrian walked around the desk, slowing as he reached the perch.
Up close, he could see how the scarlet feathers overlapped along the phoenix’s breast and how the gold in his tail caught the light whenever he moved.
“Hey, Fawkes,” he said softly.
The bird lowered his head to inspect him, and Adrian stayed still, smiling despite himself.
He had no familiar sounds to try and no idea what a phoenix might consider polite beyond giving it room.
“May I?” he asked, looking toward Dumbledore before lifting his hand.
“Offer him your hand slowly.
He will let you know.” Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Adrian did, stopping within easy reach.
Fawkes studied his fingers before gently touching them with his beak, then tipped his head forward.
The invitation was clear enough.
Adrian stroked the feathers carefully, his smile widening as the phoenix leaned into his touch.
“Oh, you’re gorgeous.”
Behind him, Sprout rose from her chair, but Dumbledore made no move to hurry them toward the door.
For another minute, Adrian was allowed to stand beside the perch and marvel at the warm, impossibly beautiful creature nudging his hand for another stroke.
Filch was waiting outside the trophy room with a bucket and a tin of polish, and the sight of Adrian approaching brought a deeply unpleasant smile to his face.
Mrs.
Norris sat beside his feet, her tail curled neatly around her paws.
“No magic,” Filch said, opening the trophy-room door.
“Keep your wand in your pocket.
You’ll be doing this properly.”
Adrian followed him into a room lined with cups, shields, and glass cases.
He would have liked to examine a few of them, but Filch handed him a cloth and pointed toward a shelf of elaborate silver trophies.
“Start there.
Handles, bases, all the lettering.
Leave any polish in the grooves and you’ll be doing them again.”
Adrian carried the first cup to the worktable and inspected the twisting vines worked into its handles.
They were impressive until he considered having to clean between every leaf, at which point he began to appreciate plain cups considerably more.
By the time he thought he had finished, his fingers smelled of polish and one corner of the cloth had turned black.
Filch took the trophy before he could return it to the shelf, examining it beneath the lamp.
“Under the handle.
There.”
Adrian leaned closer, spotted the streak, and reached for the cloth again.
Filch watched him remove it before setting the next trophy on the table, close enough to interfere with his elbow.
Mrs.
Norris wandered over while he worked, pausing beside the bucket with her tail hanging over the rim.
Adrian reached down to move it before she dipped the tip into the water.
“Careful.
You’re gonna get wet.”
“Leave her alone,” Filch snapped from beside the cabinet.
Adrian set the bucket out of her way and returned to polishing.
Mrs Norris remained by his feet for another moment before following Filch, apparently satisfied that neither the water nor Adrian required further investigation.
Once he settled into the work, the inscriptions gave him something to think about besides the ache in his fingers.
Several Quidditch trophies bore surnames he recognised, and he began checking the dates, wondering whether he was cleaning awards won by his classmates’ parents or grandparents.
One smaller shield caught his attention.
Its inscription thanked a former student for services to the school without explaining what those services had been, and he turned it over to check the back.
Filch’s reflection appeared in the polished surface.
“Less gawping.
You’ve another shelf after that.”
“I was trying to see what they got the award for.”
“You can read it when you’re not in detention.”
Filch tapped a dull patch beside the inscription, then moved away to inspect the trophies Adrian had already finished.
Adrian worked the cloth over the spot, silently repeating the recipient’s name so he could write it down later.
By the third repetition, Filch had found something else for him to clean.
Cedric had saved him a seat near the common-room fire, with their Transfiguration books open on the table and a spare sheet of parchment laid beside Adrian’s bag.
Adrian dropped into the chair and stretched his fingers.
Even after washing his hands, he could smell the polish.
“Filch kept finding bits I’d missed.
I’m pretty sure he was having the best night of his life.”
“He usually looks pleased when somebody’s in trouble.” Cedric moved a book closer, revealing several lines of notes beneath it.
“We went over the essay after dinner.
I marked the bit you need, but you’ll have to explain the last stage in more detail.”
Adrian looked from the notes to his own unfinished work, then tipped his head back against the chair.
“Give me five minutes.
I’ve spent two hours cleaning things nobody’s touched since before my dad was born.”
Cedric left the book within reach and returned to his own essay.
Adrian closed his eyes, grateful for the warmth, until a thought made him sit forward again.
“Actually, hand me my notebook.
There was something on one of those awards I want to look up.”
Cedric passed it over with a small smile.
“You found something to investigate during detention?”
“They left me in a room full of stuff with dates on it.
What did they expect?”
The restrictions ended gradually enough that Adrian noticed each part.
First came the final detention.
Then the end of the fortnight, which allowed him to cross the grounds without explaining where he was going.
On Saturday morning, he reached Kettleburn’s work area before the professor had finished opening the store cupboard.
Kettleburn looked at him, then handed him a bucket.
“Put that beside the bench.”
Adrian took it with a smile.
The professor paused.
“I understand there are things you’re to report if they happen.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then report them.
Otherwise, we have work to do.”
Adrian was grateful enough for that arrangement that he didn’t complain when the work involved cleaning.
November brought rain, early darkness, and enough additions to the maps that Cedric suggested they stop squeezing directions into the margins and start using fresh pages.
Owen found a cabinet whose eagle token had already been collected, while Beatrice returned from a staircase they thought they had finished searching with a serpent token and very little sympathy for their complaints.
One rainy afternoon, Adrian brought Fred and George into the Hufflepuff common room and found Cedric studying their maps at a table near the fire.
George pulled out the chair beside him, borrowed his quill, and crossed out an arrow near the trophy room.
“Filch’s cupboard,” he explained.
“Full of buckets.
We checked.”
Fred dropped into the remaining chair and reached for a biscuit.
“Peeves said there was a passage behind it.
Told us Filch was down in the kitchens, too, which would’ve been useful if he’d bothered telling Filch.”
Adrian looked at the crossed-out arrow.
“He caught you opening it?”
“Caught us trying to get everything back in,” George said.
“Fred pulled a bucket out and half the cupboard came with it.
Peeves was shouting for Filch before we’d picked up the first mop.”
Cedric began laughing, and Fred paused with the biscuit halfway to his mouth.
“Yes, very funny.
You can come and help us clean the lot tomorrow.”
“Didn’t you explain what happened?”
“Of course we did.
Apparently being stupid enough to listen to Peeves isn’t an excuse.” Fred bit into the biscuit while George added a warning beside the cupboard.
“He seemed quite pleased, actually.
Don’t think anyone’s cleaned those buckets in years.”
Adrian leaned over to read what George had written: Cupboard.
Peeves knows we know.
“You’re going back?”
“For Peeves,” George said, returning the quill.
“We’ve seen enough of the cupboard.”
Fred pushed the biscuit plate toward his brother and leaned across to examine Beatrice’s additions to the map.
Within a few minutes, they were arguing about which staircase she meant, although Cedric quietly moved their proposed route farther from the trophy room.
Avery kept his distance through those first weeks, and the boys who had helped him block the corridor stopped gathering so conveniently near Adrian’s classrooms.
That made getting through the day easier, although the story of the fight had travelled much farther than he would have liked.
His mother’s final instruction proved especially popular.
Students who had never spoken to him before repeated it as he passed, usually with a grin that suggested they expected him to join in.
At first he managed a smile, but after hearing it shouted across the entrance hall, he began to understand how quickly a funny story could become tiresome when everyone thought they were the first to tell it.
There was little time to dwell on it during lessons.
Cedric had begun finishing practical exercises early enough to help the people beside him, and his confidence grew along with his results.
He volunteered answers without checking them against his notes first, then looked faintly surprised when Flitwick called on him to explain something to the class.
Adrian particularly noticed it in the air.
During one flying lesson, Madam Hooch corrected Cedric’s approach to a turn, and he adjusted so smoothly on the next circuit that Adrian had to ask what he had done differently.
Cedric borrowed his timetable afterward and used the back to sketch the two approaches, talking him through the change until Adrian could see where he had been losing speed.
Potions gave Adrian more opportunities to return the favour.
He liked the precision of the work, but he was becoming even more interested in the small changes the instructions didn’t fully explain.
His notes began to include the texture of crushed ingredients, the way a mixture moved beneath his stirrer, and the difference between a colour beginning to appear and settling properly.
Snape inspected those notes during a lesson and stopped at an observation Adrian had underlined twice.
“Your potion, Mr.
Clarke, is still over the flame.
I suggest you attend to it before this becomes an account of how you ruined it.”
Adrian moved the cauldron at once, then checked the surface before adding anything else.
Snape remained beside the desk long enough to inspect the result, leaving without finding another correction.
Adrian counted that as a good morning.
His sessions with Flitwick required considerably more patience.
They worked with small electrical charges, pausing between attempts while Adrian explained what he could feel.
Sometimes the professor asked him to stop before any light appeared, and sometimes they spent most of the session discussing why one attempt had been easier than another.
By their third meeting, Adrian could recognise the first faint tingling sooner.
Flitwick had him repeat the exercise several times, pleased enough with the improvement that Adrian stopped wishing they were doing something more impressive.
Ordinary spells still needed practice, Kettleburn expected him on Saturdays, and his own exercise fitted into whichever gaps remained between homework and bad weather.
His letters home grew longer as he found more things he wanted to tell his parents, though he read each one before sending it to make sure nothing required an immediate explanation.
Marisol sent cookies with her next reply.
Edmund added a note stating that these did not constitute approval of her final instruction.
Adrian kept it with the letter.
By the last week of November, frost had begun appearing in the grass outside the common-room windows, and the twins’ plans for Avery had progressed from whispered suggestions to actual attempts.
Cedric objected to a scheme involving an entire dormitory, pointing out that most of the boys sleeping there had done nothing to them.
George considered the sketch, then drew a line through the part connecting the beds.
“We only need his, anyway.
Be better if everyone else could watch.”
Fred accepted that readily enough, although making anything happen to a bed they couldn’t reach remained a problem.
They put the idea aside and began listing charms they could actually perform, which shortened the possibilities considerably.
A week later, Adrian was finishing a letter when Fred set a small wooden box beside his elbow.
“Have a look at that.”
Adrian finished his sentence before putting down his quill.
George had taken the chair opposite, while Cedric shifted his essay away from the box without being asked.
“That’s encouraging,” Adrian said, noticing the movement.
“It’s only a noise,” George assured him.
“We’re trying to get it to go off when the lid opens.”
Fred reached across and lifted it.
A loud, strangled quack interrupted the quiet around their table.
Adrian jerked back, catching his sleeve before it knocked the ink bottle over, while Cedric stared into the empty box.
For a moment, Fred looked just as surprised.
Then he began laughing.
“Go on, do it again.”
George took the box and worked the lid slowly.
This time the noise faltered halfway through, producing a wheeze that sent Fred folding forward over the table.
“It’s supposed to whistle,” George explained, although he was grinning now.
“We had it working before dinner.”
Adrian waited until Fred had recovered enough to sit upright.
“And you were gonna put that in Avery’s bag?”
“Not the whole box.” George turned it over to examine the underside.
“We wanted to see if we could get the charm to work first.
Then we could try it on something smaller.”
Cedric reached for the lid and opened it just a fraction.
A faint squeak emerged, followed by the full, indignant noise as he raised it farther.
“It changes depending on how far you open it.”
That brought George closer, and Adrian pulled a spare piece of parchment out from beneath his letter.
They tried it again, watching the hinge this time, while Fred glanced toward the doorway at the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Shut it.
Someone’s coming.”
Cedric closed the lid, but a final quack escaped before it settled.
Across the room, a prefect stopped and looked toward them.
Fred had already picked up a textbook.
“Something wrong?” the prefect asked.
“Just helping with Charms,” Fred said, keeping one finger on the page.
The prefect looked at the box, then at the four of them.
“Keep it quiet, please.”
They waited until she had moved on before Adrian leaned across to see what Fred was pretending to read.
“That’s my Transfiguration book.”
Fred glanced down, then turned a page.
“Well, you need help with that as well.”