Rumpole and the Killing Curse, Part Eight
Sorry about not using the lj-cut -- I clean forgot! It's fixed now.
(Parts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six and Seven)
Dumbledore was a ghost of his word; he was back at Froxbury Mansions just as I was hanging up the tea towels after finishing my dish-drying duties.
"I have warned Hermione," he said by way of preamble upon popping into the wee plein-air of Dover beach hanging on the wall by the refrigerator, "and just in time: No sooner had I got Miss Granger to memorise Hilda's story than she was summoned to meet with Minerva and Nymphadora in my office."
"'Minerva'? That would be Professor McGonagall, your deputy?"
"Correct." Dumbledore allowed himself a small, sad smile behind the wispy white fog of his beard and moustache. "Though she is no longer my deputy, and her office is no longer mine; my only claim to it now is in the picture-frame alloted to me on the office wall."
"Were you able to observe the goings-on?"
The smile lost its sadness and became positively mischievous. "Oh, quite readily, Horace. I was in my picture-frame in the headmaster's office well before she had stepped out of the fire. I am happy to report that Hermione did not put a foot wrong. She was able to reassure both Nymphadora and Minerva. It helps that she is one of Minerva's favourites; I suspect that in many ways she is the daughter Minerva never had." His smile got a touch broader. "And now, Hermione has an excuse of sorts to be seen here, though it wouldn't do for her to test it overmuch."
"Are you able to get in touch with Professor Snape?" asked She Who Must Be Obeyed as she was letting the water out of the drain.
"With difficulty, though we have our methods, which I dare not tell to you in case we have another wizarding visitor. Which reminds me," he said, straightening his glasses which were perched precariously at the end of his rather long blade of a nose, "I have been meaning to test a theory of mine for some time now."
"A theory?"
Dumbledore brushed away a stray bit of seaweed that had blown up against the hem of his garment. "I believe that the demarcation between magical and non-magical entities is not as clear-cut as it seems. Furthermore, I believe in a magical continuum -- that is, that all things are magical to one degree or another; some of us find it easier to express our magical powers, and those are the ones we call 'wizards' and 'witches'. Others do not, and they are considered to be 'mundane"' or Muggles. Yet I think that even Muggles have powers that can be tapped."
She Who Must immediately saw what he was driving at. "Are you saying that Rumpole and I could learn to cast spells, Professor?"
Dumbledore's eyes, blue as the Côte de Azur, twinkled from behind his spectacles. "I am, Hilda."
"Oh, my."
The former headmaster chuckled. "Now, I must admit that neither of you will in all likelihood be capable of using magic with the ease and efficacy of a typical witch or wizard. But there are some simple spells, spells that do not require a wand, that would be good for you both to attempt. Furthermore, there are reports in the field of Muggles successfully using these spells. I would like to teach them to you."
--------
The next two hours were, to put it mildly, very interesting. I would say that the mind was boggled, but there are occasions for which 'boggled' is just too pale a word.
Dumbledore taught us two spells, the Shield of Tranquillity and the Circle Casting. He had wanted to teach us more, but decided that it would be best if we practised these two and got them by heart before advancing to any others.
The Shield of Tranquillity had a rather ironic name, considering its actual purpose and nature. It involved shooting an imagined beam of scaldingly-hot white light towards whatever it was that you wished to quit your presence. The Circle Casting, on the other hand, also involved the mental visualization of white light, but in a protective and inviolate shell around the caster.
It seemed that Hilda had a greater innate talent for this sort of thing. We both could do the Circle Casting relatively well; we took turns walking near the mouse-hole under the sink while Encircled and, though neither of us could actually see white shells around our bodies, the mice under the sink could sense them, and scurried away from them as fast as their little legs could go.
But the Shield was where Hilda shone. Her white-hot beam was no more visible to the eye than were our white shells, but that didn't make it any less effective: She shot it through the door at a group of young Mormon proselytzers about to come up the front stoop in search of victims to bore, and they suddenly spun on their heels en masse and went back the way they had come. In contrast, I had a difficult time getting the local produce-munching rabbit family to so much as look up from their repast in the neighbor's back garden.
But all that was immaterial at a certain level. To even be able to magically frighten bunnies from afar was a good deal more than anyone in residence á côte de Chez Rumpole had expected of themselves upon waking that morning. Dumbledore at any rate seemed quite pleased with our progress.
"Very good, very good, both of you," he beamed, as if we had both just passed our first set of class exams -- which in a way, I suppose we had. "It won't be enough to truly stop a fully-fledged witch or wizard, but it'll be much more than they'll expect to see from you, and it might buy you enough time for me to summon Severus or Hermione."
"But that only works when we're here," I pointed out rather testily; the "might" portion of Dumbledore's "might buy you enough time" weighed heavily on my mind. "What about when we're out and about?"
Dumbledore was silent. "Do either of you possess any lockets? Or watch fobs?" he said at length.
"What are you driving at -- oh. Things that could hold portraits."
"Precisely."
Hilda was already up and running for her jewel-box.
--------------
"Why, Rumpole," Claude Erskine-Brown said the next day, upon seeing me consulting my father's old Hunter watch, "you've gone and given yourself a touch of class, I see."
"Oh, I'd had it tucked away for years," I said as Dumbledore gave me a wink. "Thought I might see if I could get it running again."
"Next thing we know we'll see you going about with a shooting stick."
"The day that happens, shoot me."
Not wanting to engage Erskine-Brown's curiosity any further, I decided to go off to the loo, in the hopes of continuing my consulations with Dumbledore unobserved. There was much to consult with him about.
I had just stepped inside the sanctum bogtorum when I saw the substantial form of "Soapy" Sam Ballard, our not at all inestimable Head of Chambers, sprawled face-down in a heap on the none-too-clean tiles of the loo floor. And then I had just enough time to register this sight when I felt something warm and pointy pushed against the skin of my throat.
"You're coming with me, old man," said a male voice behind me, low and menacing.
(...to be continued...)
(Parts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six and Seven)
Dumbledore was a ghost of his word; he was back at Froxbury Mansions just as I was hanging up the tea towels after finishing my dish-drying duties.
"I have warned Hermione," he said by way of preamble upon popping into the wee plein-air of Dover beach hanging on the wall by the refrigerator, "and just in time: No sooner had I got Miss Granger to memorise Hilda's story than she was summoned to meet with Minerva and Nymphadora in my office."
"'Minerva'? That would be Professor McGonagall, your deputy?"
"Correct." Dumbledore allowed himself a small, sad smile behind the wispy white fog of his beard and moustache. "Though she is no longer my deputy, and her office is no longer mine; my only claim to it now is in the picture-frame alloted to me on the office wall."
"Were you able to observe the goings-on?"
The smile lost its sadness and became positively mischievous. "Oh, quite readily, Horace. I was in my picture-frame in the headmaster's office well before she had stepped out of the fire. I am happy to report that Hermione did not put a foot wrong. She was able to reassure both Nymphadora and Minerva. It helps that she is one of Minerva's favourites; I suspect that in many ways she is the daughter Minerva never had." His smile got a touch broader. "And now, Hermione has an excuse of sorts to be seen here, though it wouldn't do for her to test it overmuch."
"Are you able to get in touch with Professor Snape?" asked She Who Must Be Obeyed as she was letting the water out of the drain.
"With difficulty, though we have our methods, which I dare not tell to you in case we have another wizarding visitor. Which reminds me," he said, straightening his glasses which were perched precariously at the end of his rather long blade of a nose, "I have been meaning to test a theory of mine for some time now."
"A theory?"
Dumbledore brushed away a stray bit of seaweed that had blown up against the hem of his garment. "I believe that the demarcation between magical and non-magical entities is not as clear-cut as it seems. Furthermore, I believe in a magical continuum -- that is, that all things are magical to one degree or another; some of us find it easier to express our magical powers, and those are the ones we call 'wizards' and 'witches'. Others do not, and they are considered to be 'mundane"' or Muggles. Yet I think that even Muggles have powers that can be tapped."
She Who Must immediately saw what he was driving at. "Are you saying that Rumpole and I could learn to cast spells, Professor?"
Dumbledore's eyes, blue as the Côte de Azur, twinkled from behind his spectacles. "I am, Hilda."
"Oh, my."
The former headmaster chuckled. "Now, I must admit that neither of you will in all likelihood be capable of using magic with the ease and efficacy of a typical witch or wizard. But there are some simple spells, spells that do not require a wand, that would be good for you both to attempt. Furthermore, there are reports in the field of Muggles successfully using these spells. I would like to teach them to you."
--------
The next two hours were, to put it mildly, very interesting. I would say that the mind was boggled, but there are occasions for which 'boggled' is just too pale a word.
Dumbledore taught us two spells, the Shield of Tranquillity and the Circle Casting. He had wanted to teach us more, but decided that it would be best if we practised these two and got them by heart before advancing to any others.
The Shield of Tranquillity had a rather ironic name, considering its actual purpose and nature. It involved shooting an imagined beam of scaldingly-hot white light towards whatever it was that you wished to quit your presence. The Circle Casting, on the other hand, also involved the mental visualization of white light, but in a protective and inviolate shell around the caster.
It seemed that Hilda had a greater innate talent for this sort of thing. We both could do the Circle Casting relatively well; we took turns walking near the mouse-hole under the sink while Encircled and, though neither of us could actually see white shells around our bodies, the mice under the sink could sense them, and scurried away from them as fast as their little legs could go.
But the Shield was where Hilda shone. Her white-hot beam was no more visible to the eye than were our white shells, but that didn't make it any less effective: She shot it through the door at a group of young Mormon proselytzers about to come up the front stoop in search of victims to bore, and they suddenly spun on their heels en masse and went back the way they had come. In contrast, I had a difficult time getting the local produce-munching rabbit family to so much as look up from their repast in the neighbor's back garden.
But all that was immaterial at a certain level. To even be able to magically frighten bunnies from afar was a good deal more than anyone in residence á côte de Chez Rumpole had expected of themselves upon waking that morning. Dumbledore at any rate seemed quite pleased with our progress.
"Very good, very good, both of you," he beamed, as if we had both just passed our first set of class exams -- which in a way, I suppose we had. "It won't be enough to truly stop a fully-fledged witch or wizard, but it'll be much more than they'll expect to see from you, and it might buy you enough time for me to summon Severus or Hermione."
"But that only works when we're here," I pointed out rather testily; the "might" portion of Dumbledore's "might buy you enough time" weighed heavily on my mind. "What about when we're out and about?"
Dumbledore was silent. "Do either of you possess any lockets? Or watch fobs?" he said at length.
"What are you driving at -- oh. Things that could hold portraits."
"Precisely."
Hilda was already up and running for her jewel-box.
--------------
"Why, Rumpole," Claude Erskine-Brown said the next day, upon seeing me consulting my father's old Hunter watch, "you've gone and given yourself a touch of class, I see."
"Oh, I'd had it tucked away for years," I said as Dumbledore gave me a wink. "Thought I might see if I could get it running again."
"Next thing we know we'll see you going about with a shooting stick."
"The day that happens, shoot me."
Not wanting to engage Erskine-Brown's curiosity any further, I decided to go off to the loo, in the hopes of continuing my consulations with Dumbledore unobserved. There was much to consult with him about.
I had just stepped inside the sanctum bogtorum when I saw the substantial form of "Soapy" Sam Ballard, our not at all inestimable Head of Chambers, sprawled face-down in a heap on the none-too-clean tiles of the loo floor. And then I had just enough time to register this sight when I felt something warm and pointy pushed against the skin of my throat.
"You're coming with me, old man," said a male voice behind me, low and menacing.
(...to be continued...)