Shut Up, Padfoot!

104

Disappointment is a reoccurring emotion everytime I speak to the Headmaster.

He drums his fingers on his oak desk. He peers at me over his half moon spectacles. The chain attached to the glasses handle dangles closely to the longer strands that frame his wrinkled cheekbones. The silver adorned man pretends to listen attentively.

My back aches in this uncomfortable seat. After I ceased talking, my lips pressed together. I feel myself melt into defense when he thinks before responding.

"Have a lemon drop," he suggested.

I inhaled sharply, irritation heavy on mind. My gaze followed his gesture to the candy pot on the corner of his desk. Deciding to humor him, I snatched a lemon drop. Bittersweetness twanged along the curve of my cheek. I leaned back again.

I've always had a disdain for Professor Dumbledore.

Whether it be my general dislike for respecting elderly for no initial reason, or my complete letdown of aide in the entirety of my Hogwarts experience; I wouldn't know why. He's actually quite a pleasant man. Aside from the fact that he turns a blind eye to struggling students.

"Now... Do remind me of one thing of the incident in the train station. Who stabbed you?" he interrogated.

Fear of being caught crawled up my nape. The hairs on my arms stood on end when the need for secrecy appeared again. He sees right through me, I just know it.

"I don't know. All I remember is I was on the platform one second, then, the next I was at Pandora's. Is this really important? We should be doing something about Vol-"

"Voldemort? Yes, I understand. You, however, must stay here. Protected and...dormant," he ordered.

Narrowing my eyes, a crunch resounded when I bit the lemon drop in half. He doesn't believe that I'll actually reside willingly? When I could be out there doing something about Voldemort?

That's the thing about all these teachers and Dumbledore. They put on a stern and 'Leave it to us' ego but don't get anything done. They might be planning, but there's no movement.

"When will you tell me the truth, Professor? That you wish I'd have stayed dead. So you can continue on and let someone else handle Voldemort," I challenged.

Now, I do admit that I let my anger get the best of me. His brows rose and he let his hands fall to his lap. Don't get me wrong, I do have a high regard for him. He's a brilliant wizard and could probably knock me out with the twitch of his pinky finger. He's an enigma, rightfully so.

Every powerful wizard deserves the mystery that surrounds them. They only divulge the smallest most insignificant detail. But they'll be out doing tremendous things. Without another word.

On the other hand, he forgets that I wield a power no other witch possesses. I'm a strega mortale. Much to my dismay, I'm unbelievably capable. So long as I have control over it.

"Miss Phoenix, believe me when I say; I am astounded you are still breathing...And grateful," he began.

He stood from his creaky chair. I side glanced his phoenix in the open door cage. I frowned when the bird's eye caught mine. He ruffled his tail feathers, a quick puff of his red plume along his neck. With a long exhale, I refocused on the Headmaster.

"I know you don't consider me positively. But you are my student, I was devastated when I heard what happened to you. Each and every incident, including your death," he continued.

He walked away from our little discussion nook. His footsteps sounded off behind me. I looked over my shoulder. His figure leaned over the stone basin. His wand came to his temple, the small end pressing lightly into his rough skin.

Short lashes fluttered as he pulled his arm away. A long lining that seemed to be attached to the mystics of his brain came out. I came to my feet in alarm.

The thread-like object collapsed in the liquid of the metal bowl. My curiosity got the best of me when I found myself by his side. With wide eyes, I centered on the swirling bewilderment.

"Look closer, child."

He didn't have to tell me twice. I felt bewitched, my shoulders straining when I leaned further. What even is this thing? I still have a lot to learn about all these magical items. Like what does this even-

"You can do things, can't you, Tom? Things other children can't."

Fair skinned boy, scrawny in his large chair. His black hair slicked to the side, genetic eyebags worsened with the sickly hunger that came from this orphanage. Where the walls encased lonely kids and bland dinners.

An orphanage that completely replicated the one I grew up in.

"Is there something you wish to tell me?"

"No sir, nothing."

I only had a second before I glimpsed at another younger Dumbledore with my first version of Tom that I've encountered. Whatever I was watching shifted a third time. From my orphanage, to the staircase, and back in the office.

Twirling around, I caught Professor Dumbledore standing next to his chair. Another student seemed to come in while I was preoccupied. I approached the desk once more.

In a confused tone, I started, "What did you just show me? Why was-"

"I'm afraid I'll have to take some more time to dwell on it, Tom."

"You won't let me take the position, will you? Professor, I want to teach here. Just like you did. I'm thoroughly educated in the Defense Against the Dark Arts. Please-" Tom argued.

"I understand...but I cannot take you in. We have another contender waiting outside. Let me walk you out," Professor Dumbledore told.

I jumped slightly when mid-twenties Tom stood from his seat. His chin tilted downward and his irises blended with his pupils. I watched his jaw clench and the vein in his neck protrude.

"No, you can stay. I'll let them know to come in. Have a nice day, Professor."

He didn't spare me a glance but the murderous glint in his eyes frightened me. He spun around and confidently made his way to the exit. I noticed the whitening fingers on his tightly gripped bag.

"I hope you found what you were looking for. These memories of mine might prove to be useful," Dumbledore interjected.

I took a step back, recemented in my reality. We made eye contact, a knowing look in his. I tried to wrap my head around what I had just seen.

The pieces finally clicked together.

-lana