Chimaera Of Judgement

51: Tidying

None of them knew how long they waited in the secret armory. Albus, for his own part, scarcely remembered when Rose had recovered enough breath to find her way over to them, or the precise words when she cried out at the sight of Malkin's corpse.

The first memory he could bring into focus after Jezabel had impaled their fellow student was the bookcase bursting inward and Headmistress Sprout, Professor Longbottom, Professor Finch-Fletchley, Professor Flitwick and - of all people - Mr Urran flooding into the room. It was the sight of the caretaker's well-buffed pate catching the light from the torches that made him snap out of it - what was he doing there? Then Longbottom's hand was in the crook of his arm, pulling him along behind the others, back through the bookcase, the room beyond and into the cold corridor of the dungeons.

Of course, the dungeons. It seemed more than logical to Albus now, but in all the confusion of ropes being Portkeys and fellow students being murderous blackguards he hadn't really given much thought to their location. Ages passed as they ascended several floors, maneuvered around a gargoyle and ascended a staircase to land in the Headmistress's office.

Professors talked at length, which is perhaps what they do best. Caspian did the lion's share of answering their questions, filling in the ugly blanks about the boy who loosed demons on their school, and Jezabel was able to squeak out the few bits he couldn't remember (once she had been fed the antidote end of a Fainting Fancy). Nothing went through to his mind. All he could do was stare at Jezabel, watch her sobbing onto the red, shining surface of the bauble she had confiscated. Once registering that Rose hadn't been choked to death, it was all he could think about: how Jezabel had again borne the brunt of someone's wrath, and in the end had to be the one to put a stop to everything by getting blood on her hands. That struck him as unfair on so many levels he didn't know whether to be outraged, saddened, or both at once.

Finally, one subject came through that he could not block out.

"...and of course, we'll have to announce Malkin's fate to the students," Professor Flitwick was squeaking out, eyes downcast and brow furrowed. "Unpleasant topic, yes, but I think it's only right they-"

"Please, don't," Albus blurted out before he had a chance to think. "That is, er... can't it wait?"

"What's that, Mr Potter?" Longbottom asked. "To what end?"

He fidgeted, staring at his shoes; too many authority figures were watching him intently. "Come on... it's all so horrible, I can't... does it have to be made public knowledge so soon?"

"Afraid so," Sprout said, leaning across her desk and sighing. "A student has been killed - hoisted on self-made petard or not, it's a tragic loss and your peers have every right to know what's happened to him. It would be irresponsible to leave it for later."

"No, it's not that- see, all of us, we can't-"

"I think what Al's trying to say," Rose began, coming to his aid, "is that we don't want everyone throwing blame around and pointing fingers, especially at us. I... I know I've lost so much time so that nothing matches up in my head. It feels... feels like I've gone mad. Incurably mad."

Peele pursed her lips. "There's no stopping the whirlwind of rumours, Weasley. Delaying the inevitable-"

"May be wise," came a voice from the wall. All looked up in time to see a crooked-nosed, white-haired old figure edge into his portrait. "From what I glean, having been, I am ashamed to say, listening in on what may not be an old wizard's business, these four young bodies have been through enough to be going on with this day, and a, er... 'buffer' of sorts may be just the thing."

"Forgive us, Albus," Flitwick said at once, causing Albus to blink in confusion, "but at the cost of withholding information from those whom have a right-"