Potions and Snitches
Snape and Harry Gen Fanfiction Archive

The Headmaster

A note arrived with a Prefect at the end of the meal.  The headmaster was requesting Harry’s presence in his office.

“I’m not going by myself,” He informed a mystified Ron.

“Well,” Ron looked at him and then at those around them.  “I’m not much use against the headmaster.  Maybe if I were Bill or Charlie . . .”

“Who?”

“My brothers.”

“Ah,” Harry answered, scanning those around them for some kind of clue.  

“What about the Prefect?”  Ron asked, jerking his head toward the girl now sitting only a few people down from them.  

“What about me?”  She called out, turning and staring at them.

“Who’s our head of house?”  Ron asked.

“Professor Flitwick.  Why?”

“What’s your name?”  Harry asked, leaning toward her.

“Stimpson.  Friends call me Mal,” Her eyes held a challenge in them.

“How do I talk to Professor Flitwick?”

“What, now?”  Stimpson asked, causing a few students near them to chortle.

“Yes.  Now,” Harry’s tone left no room for humour.

“Why?”  

He waved the piece of paper she had just given him.  

“Because Dumbledore wants me in his office after supper, and I’m not going in there by myself.”

“Ah, come on.  The headmaster is a big softie!” Another Ravenclaw argued from across Stimpson.

“Don’t care,” Harry answered stiffly, his jaw set in an uncompromising way.

Stimpson took another bite of her pie and then pointed her fork at him.  

“All right.  I’ll tell him for you, but it’s his prerogative if he goes in with you.  Understand?

“Perfectly.”

. . .

“Ah, Mr Potter.  Mal told me that you wished to be accompanied to the headmaster’s office?  I’m fairly certain that you aren’t in trouble.  It’s a bit too early in the year for that!”  Flitwick said brightly, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.  

He tried not to flinch at the name, ‘Potter,’ and instead focused on his surprisingly tiny professor.

Perhaps he wasn’t fed much as a child either.

“I wouldn’t know.  I’ve never met the man,” He countered in an even tone.  

“Will Mr Weasley be joining us as well?”  Flitwick questioned.

“Uh,” Was Ron’s inelegant response.

“No,” Harry answered decisively, glancing at him.

Ron shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and started to follow the rest of their housemates out of the Great Hall.

Harry wasn’t certain if the other boy was more annoyed or relieved by his response.  

“This way then, Mr Potter,” Flitwick interjected, breaking into Harry’s musings.

“Yes, sir,” He answered, following in silence.  

He studied his head of house as they walked.  Though the man was short, he was not spindly, and indeed, upon further inspection, seemed rather solid.  His footfalls were light, despite the relative thickness of his legs, and his shoulders and upper arms appeared to be rather muscular.  

Small, but mighty, his professor did not seem like the type to be easily cowed, and he let himself take some comfort in the thought that the man might be a good ally.  

They arrived at the gargoyle and he watched silently as Flitwick spoke a phrase to open the passageway.

Fizzing Whizbee?  What on earth--?

All too soon, Harry found himself standing in front of a large desk in the headmaster’s office.

“Thank you for bringing him, Filius.  I can take it from here,” Dumbledore said by way of greeting.

“If it’s all the same to you, Headmaster, I think I’ll stay,” Flitwick answered, hopping onto a squashy armchair.

A slight pause.

“If you’re certain, Filius?  I can’t imagine that this conversation will be of much interest to you,” Dumbledore replied, peering closely at the other man.

“I am, Albus.  Mr Potter, please have a seat,” Flitwick said, pointing a small hand at the chair nearest him.  

Harry carefully perched himself on the edge of the chair, not wanting to sink too far into its soft entrapping seat.  

“Now, can I offer either of you a lemon drop?”  

Wordlessly, Harry shook his head.  

He kept his eyes focused on the bit of wall just behind Dumbledore’s head.  Having the attention of two adults was deeply unsettling to him, and he briefly found himself wishing to return to his part of the dullard.  Idly, it occurred to him that if he were really the hero--really Harry Potter--this would be the sort of situation that he would have thrived in.

Dumbledore sighed and then rummaged around in one of the drawers of his massive desk, before pulling out a thin box.

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore said.  “Why did you not take the wand that Ollivander matched to you?”  

“Because I didn’t want it,” He answered, crossing his arms in front of his chest defensively.   

Dumbledore blinked at his answer and stroked his fingers over his beard.

“Whyever not?”

If Harry had thought the headmaster’s gaze to be penetrating before, it was nothing compared to now.

“Because Ollivander said it was the brother to You-Know-Who’s wand.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore tutted.  “Lord Voldemort.  Surely you have heard his name?  Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”

He heard Flitwick shifting restlessly in the chair next to him but didn’t spare his head of house a look.  He didn’t have the mental wherewithal to split his attention in such a tension thick conversation.

“I read in, ‘The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts,’ that there were reasons for that fear, sir.  You-Know-Who cast a spell that would cause his followers to appear wherever his name was spoken,” Harry argued, shaking his head.

In front of him, Dumbledore tilted his head and stared at Harry as though he had never seen anything like him.

Harry was certain that Potter would have said the man’s name without any problem.  He probably wouldn’t have known about the taboo or maybe he wouldn’t have cared.  Voldemort was supposed to be dead, after all.

“Lord Voldemort has been gone for a decade now, my boy,” Dumbledore said.  “You needn’t fear an idea.”

Fear?  He thinks I’m afraid?  

“I’m not afraid,” He said, finally risking a glance at Dumbledore’s face.

The solemnity and pure power hidden behind the old visage was staggering and he nearly flinched backward at the sight.  Harry quickly redirected his eyes down to the toes of his school boots.

Maybe Potter would be used to disagreeing with powerful people, but he wasn’t.

“Well,” Dumbledore sighed, “Good.  Then why don’t you want your wand?”

Harry shook his head and ran a sweaty hand through his hair.

Why didn’t he want the wand?  

It was complicated.  It had more to do with the idea of what he was supposed to do as compared with what he was going to do.  The entire thing stunk to him. It was too easy.  Why did he have to be so difficult to fit for a wand?  And if Voldemort really was dead, then why was this esteemed old man so interested in his choice not to pick a wand tainted by the man?

“I don’t want anything to do with You-Know-Who,” He said after a moment of rapid mental warring.

“It’s a bit too late for that, Mr Potter,” Flitwick chuckled dryly.  

“Anything more then.  You-Know-Who is the reason for . . . my lot in life.”

The dullard.  Potter.  I just want to be me!

Flitwick nodded.  

“This wand has nothing to do with Voldemort.  They both have a tail feather from the same phoenix, but nothing else is shared between them.  Do you know what a phoenix is, Harry?”  Dumbledore pressed, standing up and walking around the desk toward him.

Harry thought about reeling off some of the information that he had learned from his research, but quickly decided against it.  Offering unasked for information was akin to revealing one’s hand too early, and he had no desire for Dumbledore to get further into his headspace than he already was.  He swallowed and ran his sweaty hands over his trousers, trying to ignore the tremble in his fingers.  

“Yes, sir.”  

“Then you know that they are one of the most pure creatures in existence.  It should be an honor to have a wand with the feather of a phoenix as its core,” Dumbledore said, hands behind his back as he walked toward Harry.

Too close too close too close!

Petunia’s dullard reacted, and Harry tripped on the edge of his robes as he scuttled backward away from threatening figure looming over him.  

“Are you all right, Mr Potter?”  Flitwick was the first to recover, hopping off his chair and walking slowly to where he lay panting on the floor.

“Fine, fine,” Harry muttered, picking himself up and pushing back until his backside hit the door.

Professor Flitwick shared a worried glance with Dumbledore before waving his hand at the seat Harry had just vacated.  

“Then come back.  Sit down,” Flitwick’s voice was a soothing timbre against the frantic pounding in his temple.

“I’d really rather not,” Harry swallowed hard.  “I’m uh,” He swallowed again, his heart pounding wildly in his throat.  “Isn’t it sort of late?  That train ride was rather long.  And, I still haven’t seen my dorm.  Or my bed.  And uh,” His fingers convulsively gripped the doorknob behind him, but he resisted the urge to twist.

He didn’t know what he would do if the doorknob didn’t turn.

“Of course, of course,” Dumbledore rumbled agreeably, moving back and dropping into his desk chair.  

Harry felt some of his fear drop a notch as the desk regained its place between them.  

“I assume this means you are wandless?”  Dumbledore asked gently.

“Ah,” Harry shook his head and managed to pry his hand off the doorknob.  “No.  I--I found one.  But, not,” He glanced at Flitwick a little desperately.

He wasn’t used to having conversations with adults at all.

“Did you get it from somewhere other than Ollivander’s?”  Flitwick eyes were shining.  

Expressing opinions was something that the dullard didn’t do. He did what he was told, more or less.  His words were limited to “Yes” or “No” answers.  

“Yes.  Yes, sir,” Harry nodded, carefully not letting any image of Dumbledore in his sight.

“Where?”  Dumbledore’s voice bit into their conversation and Harry flinched.  

Answering questions that were outside the realm of “Yes” or “No” invariably led to trouble.

“Kn-Kn-Knockturn Alley,” He stuttered.

“Did you go there by yourself?”  Flitwick asked, concern etched in every line of his face.

“Yes, sir.”  

“Did anyone try to hurt you?”  

“No, sir,” He said, shaking his head for emphasis.

He had reverted to his dullard mindset, and had drifted along unseen with the crowd.  It had been surprisingly uneventful.

“Mr Potter.  May I call you Harry?”  Flitwick asked, hands open and unthreatening.  

“If-f-f you want, sir.”

There was no way to tell him that he was neither of those names.  Certainly not in front of Dumbledore.  

“Harry,” Flitwick smiled, bright and easy.  “Will you show us your wand?”  

“Master Burnum also said that I was a difficult one to match, but he didn’t mention anything about You-Know-Who,” Harry whispered.

He lowered himself down onto one knee so he could be at eye level with his head of house.  Reaching into his sleeve, he pulled his wand out of the holster that Burnum had gifted him.  

“Twelve inches, somewhat bendy,” He said, holding his wand out for Flitwick to see.  “Australian Blackwood with the tailfeather of a Malham bird.”

“Very impressive, my boy,” Dumbledore interjected, making him jump and nearly drop his wand.

Harry’s hand twitched, and the wand went back up into the holster that was affixed to his arm.  

“May I go to bed now, Professor Flitwick?”  He asked, purposely ignoring the bright smile Dumbledore was sending his way.

“I should say so, lad,” Flitwick answered.  “Go wait at the bottom of the stairs while I ask the headmaster a question, please?  And then I’ll come down and show you where the Ravenclaw dorms are.”

“Yes, sir!”  Harry said, before scrambling to his feet and shooting out of the office.  

. . .

“I’d say you made a fairly good impression on him,” Albus said, smiling congenially.

“I’d say that you made a fairly terrible impression on him,” Filius answered with a scowl.  “I assume you know the significance of such a wand?  This is not a story tale and that child is not a knight in shining armour.  He is frightened and overwrought, and you have made it just that much more difficult to connect with him,” He spat, drawing himself up to his full height--such that it was.  

“If you need to talk with him again, you’ll do it with me present, or so help me, Albus, you’ll regret it.”


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