The Three Brothers: The Cure

Good to be Back

4th September 1992

"They did what?!"

"Flew our Dad's car to Hogwarts. All the way from London," Fred answered merrily, drumming his fingers on the table with each word.

"Because they missed the Express?" Neville tried to confirm. "Are they barking mad?"

"I think that was sufficiently established when we began this conversation," Mark commented dryly. Unlike the twins, he wasn't of the opinion that this was some spectacular prank, planned or otherwise.

"That isn't even the best part," George grinned, "Mum sent Ron a Howler. Right here, in the middle of the Great Hall."

Neville had his mouth hung open at that. Mark could understand; Howlers were the worst sort of reprimand a kid could get, especially one in public. He'd seen the effects of it first-hand.

Mark would never have claimed he was some saint-like kid—he had done his fair share of idiotic mistakes at school. Technically, some weren't even mistakes; just experiments gone awry. But never had his Dad reprimanded him in such a fashion. His Dad—and even Mark by extension—believed in the effectiveness of measured and rational teaching. No scolding, no hitting. Mark didn't even recall being grounded. His Dad explained and he listened. Simple.

So, to say Mrs Weasley's Howler was something terrifying to experience was an understatement. Anyone in the Great Hall who hadn't known about the incident previously surely came to know then. He'd never forget the sheer fear and embarrassment that had run through Ron at that very moment; he would have seen it on his face even if he hadn't felt it while gleaning into his mind.

Hermione Granger wasn't of the same opinion as him—she thought that the punishment was well deserved. She was now back to loathing Mark during the classes. He could see her trying even harder, obviously with the goal of firmly surpassing him this term. She was not the kind of person to settle for a draw, and Mark was happily prepared to offer a challenge.

Now that a few days had passed, Mark realised that he actually had missed Hogwarts. Not the castle itself, or the physical distance that separated Scotland and London. He would have rather preferred to attend a day school, staying close to his Dad as much as possible. No, it had been the study of magic that he had missed—the freedom to use his wand, to transfigure a snuffbox and charm a teapot, and to brew some fantastical potion.

While some things were good, some things were still the same. Professor Binns was still his ghostly self, allowing Mark the much-needed opportunity to nap in the class. Professor Sprout was still having them handle various confusing plants—if they weren't similar in appearance, they were probably similarly named. Mark was glad that Neville was finally back; he was sorely bored in the last class. Professor Snape was still his grumpy self, especially sadistic towards Harry. Mark was properly confused by the behaviour of the potions master—none of it made any sense.

In the same but diametrically opposite position was the odd behaviour of their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher—Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin Second Class. If being pompous was some rare fabric, the man wore a whole set of robes made from it.

The very first class, he had given the students a pop quiz. Mark had gone through the prescribed books on the list during the summer. They were alright, if a little too story-bookish. If one combed through the self-aggrandizing stuff that the book was full off, you could find some really insightful information.

But that was not what the quiz was about at all. Instead of questions about Defence—hell any sort of useful information—it only contained questions straight out of a Witch Weekly issue. Who cared what Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour or his secret ambition was?