Fic: Lost Boys 3/14 - Detention (Harry Potter)
In honor of the fact that I finished the story today (it'll still need to have some polishing done and for my betas to comment on the second half) I'm going to go ahead and post part 3 tonight as well. So, here goes. Previous parts are here:
Prologue - Two Dads
Part 1 - Visions of the Afterlife
Part 2 - Little Boy Lost
Title: Lost Boys, 3/14 - Detention
Rating: FRT (PG)
Distribution: Sure. Let me know where it’s going.
Feedback: Um, yeah. Did I not mention that? Anything up to and including flames is perfectly fine.
Thanks to lady_clover and clavally for comments on early versions of this section, and to sniggs for a fascinating extended discussion that helped me quite a lot.
DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else.
David Dursley, however, is mine. Please ask before you borrow him.
Summary: Past and present are about to meet in the dungeons of Hogwarts. Set not long after the epilogue to Deathly Hallows.
A few nights later, the ghost was inspecting the potions classroom supply cupboard when he found himself joined in the room by a familiar boy and a fairly daunting Potions Mistress. “Sit here, Mr. Dursley,” she commanded imperiously, and the boy stumbled over himself to comply.
“Now, Mr. Dursley. I am aware that this castle can be difficult to navigate at first. Regardless, your absence for my first lecture places both you and your classmates in an untenable position. Tell me, Mr. Dursley, what do you think would happen if I allowed you to begin brewing potions without your knowing any of the proper procedures?”
“I’d probably blow stuff up,” David replied. From the boy's expression, the watching ghost could tell he was not the only one who thought this was likely, regardless. The Potions Mistress appeared to take no notice.
“Just so, Mr. Dursley. Now, as my time is valuable, and I am not in the habit of repeating myself, this is how we shall ensure that you possess the necessary information. You will copy out this lecture,” she handed him a neatly penned sheaf of parchment, “and then you will summarize it for me orally to my satisfaction. Only then will you be allowed to participate in laboratory activities with your classmates.”
David took the proffered parchment. “Yes, Professor Harridan,” he replied dutifully. He pulled a bottle of ink and his quill from his bag and began to copy. Madame Harridan watched him for a moment, then nodded in a self-satisfied way and went to her desk on the far side of the room, where she pulled out a stack of much less neatly-written parchments and began to mark them, muttering under her breath.
The ghost returned his attention to the potions cupboard with an approving nod. For the most part, it was well organized, though he found himself in some disagreement with certain of the Potion Mistress’ choices-- surely powdered griffin talon was too volatile a substance to be so readily available to students. And storing bloodroot next to hellebore-- what in Merlin’s name was the woman thinking?
He glanced back toward the living occupants of the room and was surprised to see the boy looking directly at him, curiously. The cheeky fellow gave a small grin and quick wave before turning back to his task. The ghost studied him thoughtfully for a few moments, then drifted over to read the boy’s version of the introductory lecture he had missed.
“Atrocious penmanship, Mr. Dursley,” he sniffed. “And I see you received a well-deserved detention.”
David risked a quick glance up at his Professor, who was still scratching away at her own marking to a steady stream of hisses and growls, then whispered, “Yeah. And my penmanship would be just fine if I didn’t have to use these bloody feathers. Why can’t ballpoints work in this stupid castle?”
“Language, Mr. Dursley,” the ghost reproved mildly. “And you will get used to them,” the ghost reassured him, remembering vaguely he’d had similar thoughts at that age. “I trust you will be a little more circumspect about class attendance in the future?”
The boy nodded, then continued to attempt to write, and the ghost returned to his survey of the potions classroom. An idea was beginning to form in his mind. After the teacher and her charge had left for the night, he could easily “borrow” a few items. He knew a perfect space, two floors below. He would set up his own private laboratory. He’d had a passion for the art, once, and more than passing skill. As he handled various implements and ingredients, he discovered he could indeed perform the necessary motions for most brewing tasks. He smiled to himself.
The boy cleared his throat, then said, “Um, excuse me, Mister Ghost....”
The ghost looked up murderously, but the Potions Mistress was no longer in the room. Slightly mollified, he merely glared at the child. “What do you want now, Boy?”
“How come I can see you, but Professor Harridan can’t?”
“How in blazes should I know?” the ghost replied shortly. In his experience, nobody could see him at all, though admittedly, he didn’t get out much.
The boy flinched at the tone, then shrugged. “Just kinda odd, is all.” He turned back to his work a little sadly. The ghost studied him for a long moment. Then he came over and slid into a seat across from the boy at the work table.
“I see they have yet to ‘chuck you out,’” he observed finally, grudgingly.
The boy snorted. “Week’s still young.” He said it with the air of one quoting someone else, perhaps an older relative. The ghost nodded approvingly.
“That’s the spirit,” he said. Then, frowning, he felt compelled to add, more kindly, “Though I must tell you it’s quite unlikely the headmaster would have sent you a letter if you were entirely without ability. And I have seen a number of students considerably more hopelessly dunderheaded than you complete their educations satisfactorily at this fine institution, over the years.” He wondered where that knowledge had come from, but in that moment, he knew it was quite true. A number of unconnected facts began to swirl through the ghost's mind-- things he had once found interesting, or amusing.
The boy looked up. “Really?”
The ghost smirked darkly as one such fact surfaced. “Of course. I seem to recall one in particular who managed to melt an entire gross of cauldrons in a single term.”
“No way,” the boy grinned. He was about to continue when a voice from the doorway froze them both.
“Mr. Dursley, perhaps you have not made it to that part of the lecture, but conversations with imaginary friends are strictly forbidden in my classroom. Get back to work.”
The boy traded a look with the ghost, then sighed. “Yes, Professor Harridan,” he replied. But he gave the ghost a quick grin and a wink before settling back in to his copying.
Part 4 - An Intruder
Prologue - Two Dads
Part 1 - Visions of the Afterlife
Part 2 - Little Boy Lost
Title: Lost Boys, 3/14 - Detention
Rating: FRT (PG)
Distribution: Sure. Let me know where it’s going.
Feedback: Um, yeah. Did I not mention that? Anything up to and including flames is perfectly fine.
Thanks to lady_clover and clavally for comments on early versions of this section, and to sniggs for a fascinating extended discussion that helped me quite a lot.
DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else.
David Dursley, however, is mine. Please ask before you borrow him.
Summary: Past and present are about to meet in the dungeons of Hogwarts. Set not long after the epilogue to Deathly Hallows.
A few nights later, the ghost was inspecting the potions classroom supply cupboard when he found himself joined in the room by a familiar boy and a fairly daunting Potions Mistress. “Sit here, Mr. Dursley,” she commanded imperiously, and the boy stumbled over himself to comply.
“Now, Mr. Dursley. I am aware that this castle can be difficult to navigate at first. Regardless, your absence for my first lecture places both you and your classmates in an untenable position. Tell me, Mr. Dursley, what do you think would happen if I allowed you to begin brewing potions without your knowing any of the proper procedures?”
“I’d probably blow stuff up,” David replied. From the boy's expression, the watching ghost could tell he was not the only one who thought this was likely, regardless. The Potions Mistress appeared to take no notice.
“Just so, Mr. Dursley. Now, as my time is valuable, and I am not in the habit of repeating myself, this is how we shall ensure that you possess the necessary information. You will copy out this lecture,” she handed him a neatly penned sheaf of parchment, “and then you will summarize it for me orally to my satisfaction. Only then will you be allowed to participate in laboratory activities with your classmates.”
David took the proffered parchment. “Yes, Professor Harridan,” he replied dutifully. He pulled a bottle of ink and his quill from his bag and began to copy. Madame Harridan watched him for a moment, then nodded in a self-satisfied way and went to her desk on the far side of the room, where she pulled out a stack of much less neatly-written parchments and began to mark them, muttering under her breath.
The ghost returned his attention to the potions cupboard with an approving nod. For the most part, it was well organized, though he found himself in some disagreement with certain of the Potion Mistress’ choices-- surely powdered griffin talon was too volatile a substance to be so readily available to students. And storing bloodroot next to hellebore-- what in Merlin’s name was the woman thinking?
He glanced back toward the living occupants of the room and was surprised to see the boy looking directly at him, curiously. The cheeky fellow gave a small grin and quick wave before turning back to his task. The ghost studied him thoughtfully for a few moments, then drifted over to read the boy’s version of the introductory lecture he had missed.
“Atrocious penmanship, Mr. Dursley,” he sniffed. “And I see you received a well-deserved detention.”
David risked a quick glance up at his Professor, who was still scratching away at her own marking to a steady stream of hisses and growls, then whispered, “Yeah. And my penmanship would be just fine if I didn’t have to use these bloody feathers. Why can’t ballpoints work in this stupid castle?”
“Language, Mr. Dursley,” the ghost reproved mildly. “And you will get used to them,” the ghost reassured him, remembering vaguely he’d had similar thoughts at that age. “I trust you will be a little more circumspect about class attendance in the future?”
The boy nodded, then continued to attempt to write, and the ghost returned to his survey of the potions classroom. An idea was beginning to form in his mind. After the teacher and her charge had left for the night, he could easily “borrow” a few items. He knew a perfect space, two floors below. He would set up his own private laboratory. He’d had a passion for the art, once, and more than passing skill. As he handled various implements and ingredients, he discovered he could indeed perform the necessary motions for most brewing tasks. He smiled to himself.
The boy cleared his throat, then said, “Um, excuse me, Mister Ghost....”
The ghost looked up murderously, but the Potions Mistress was no longer in the room. Slightly mollified, he merely glared at the child. “What do you want now, Boy?”
“How come I can see you, but Professor Harridan can’t?”
“How in blazes should I know?” the ghost replied shortly. In his experience, nobody could see him at all, though admittedly, he didn’t get out much.
The boy flinched at the tone, then shrugged. “Just kinda odd, is all.” He turned back to his work a little sadly. The ghost studied him for a long moment. Then he came over and slid into a seat across from the boy at the work table.
“I see they have yet to ‘chuck you out,’” he observed finally, grudgingly.
The boy snorted. “Week’s still young.” He said it with the air of one quoting someone else, perhaps an older relative. The ghost nodded approvingly.
“That’s the spirit,” he said. Then, frowning, he felt compelled to add, more kindly, “Though I must tell you it’s quite unlikely the headmaster would have sent you a letter if you were entirely without ability. And I have seen a number of students considerably more hopelessly dunderheaded than you complete their educations satisfactorily at this fine institution, over the years.” He wondered where that knowledge had come from, but in that moment, he knew it was quite true. A number of unconnected facts began to swirl through the ghost's mind-- things he had once found interesting, or amusing.
The boy looked up. “Really?”
The ghost smirked darkly as one such fact surfaced. “Of course. I seem to recall one in particular who managed to melt an entire gross of cauldrons in a single term.”
“No way,” the boy grinned. He was about to continue when a voice from the doorway froze them both.
“Mr. Dursley, perhaps you have not made it to that part of the lecture, but conversations with imaginary friends are strictly forbidden in my classroom. Get back to work.”
The boy traded a look with the ghost, then sighed. “Yes, Professor Harridan,” he replied. But he gave the ghost a quick grin and a wink before settling back in to his copying.
Part 4 - An Intruder