Despite himself, Ignan Storm was rather looking forwards to this evening. Tomorrow was the full moon, and the almost complete moon hung in the sky, pooling soft white light over the grounds. He enjoyed the peace the castle could provide, despite containing an army of unruly students.

Some of those unruly students were turning out to be as gifted as those he had taught at Durmstrang. In the absence of a philosophy of picking the cream of the crop here in the British school, he'd made the decision to particularly single out members of the seventh year class. Some had so far singled themselves out quite by their own disruptive devices, Ignan was displeased to note, recalling the detention held in his office only two nights before, but others had shown such initiative to seek out such attention.

Dracon was one of such students - though he would tutor any of them alone if they approached him to seek it - he had a particular soft spot for Dracon, in the mentor and nothing more capacity. In the modern day all sorts of things could be accused after all. Before Christmas, in the few weeks Ignan had taught, Professor and student had found common ground instantly. It had of course helped that Dracon, a very independently minded young man, led the school's dueling club, which traditionally came under the eye of the Defences Professor. Ignan had attended a meeting only the night before.

Over Christmas, Ignan had tasked Dracon with exercises to clear his mind and practise building mental defences. Tonight, he'd begin to test them. As such, he'd avoided any wine at dinner to ensure he kept a clear head, and had purposely been closing doors in his mind, not that he'd be permitting Dracon to begin reading anyone just yet.

Hearing a knock at his office door, he tugged closed the curtains, and turned back to his cluttered room, lit by candles.

"Enter." He called, settling his hands on the back of his chair.

Dracon had spent a moderate amount of time in Hogsmeade over the holidays. He spent time with friends, exchanged gifts, participated in a snowball fight, and other activities before returning home to Wales. It was during his time home that he focused on his school work, including an essay on dragons for Care of Magical Creatures and for his side assignment that he shared with Professor Storm. It wasn’t something that many people were aware of. His private instruction with the professor remained on a need-to-know basis and Dracon didn’t flaunt his extra involvement in magical studies. It had all started one afternoon when he was in the library reading over course material. He pulled the wrong book off the shelf and began flipping through the pages before realizing this was not about how to extract a plant’s tentacle. It was a book on the mysteries of the mind and Dracon couldn’t put it down. He spent the rest of the day reading the chapters and becoming thoroughly engrossed in what was before him. The art of occulmency wasn’t a common practice, but Dracon had heard of it. The next Tuesday, after class was over and the professor was collecting his things, Dracon had approached the desk and pulled out the book. He told him rather bluntly he wanted to learn about it, and the professor had curtly replied that they had no time in the course scheduled to discuss it in class. It was then that Dracon told the professor he was willing to come in the evenings, whenever the professor had no previous arrangement, and perhaps take private lessons. It was a bold statement, but spoke with confidence and determination. Once Dracon wanted something, the wasn’t a barrier on the planet to prevent him from reaching his goal. The professor had seemed interested, whether it was because of what Dracon said or how he said it, he couldn’t be sure, but he had agreed to the terms.

The first time they met after hours, it had been a painful hour long session of learning how to empty his mind. It was harder than it sounded. Every smell, every movement, every sound creates a thought and to empty and become as blank as fresh parchment was a challenge. It was something he practiced over break regularly and felt like he did well in, but he knew there was a difference between sitting quietly in his bedroom with the curtains shut in a meditative state and when an experienced wizard is trying to break into your thoughts. Still, Dracon tried to remain confident in what he had accomplished. It wasn’t an easy skill to learn, the professor had made it very clear, and took years and years of practice to become even a novice practitioner. The more that Professor Storm made it sound difficult, the more that Dracon wanted to do it. The thrill of a worthy challenge – it was intoxicating. It was something most students his age could never dream of being able to do, and yet, here he was. He refused to be beaten by occlumency.

It was a full moon that night. The air was still cold and still, the whipping of winter winds over the last few days made this a welcomed night. Even in the depths of the castle, under the lake and buried underground, Dracon’s Slytherin house felt the bite of the chill as easily as those in the tower. The Hufflepuffs at least were walled in near the kitchens and basked in the heat penetrating through the stone walls. Only the fire in the common room had made the house livable. Dracon had left the dungeons and headed upstairs once the sun sank down behind the forest. He was only stopped once by a prefect, a Ravenclaw sixth year, as he headed up to the first floor. Dracon entered the abandoned classroom. The shadows of chairs and the general darkness of the classroom would have been unnerving if Dracon wasn’t concentrating on what laid ahead of him. He stopped  outside the professor’s office and paused, hesitating briefly before giving a gentle knock.

”Enter”

Dracon opened the door and stepped inside, closing it quietly behind him. The professor was behind his tall chair, pale fingers sitting on top of the chair. “Evening, professor,” Dracon said simply, then he removed his leather shoulder bag and approached the chair in front of the desk. He sat his bag down next to the chair before taking a seat.

"Good evening Towler." The Professor replied cordially, gesturing almost unconsciously to the chair opposite his desk. The student was punctual, and this pleased him also.

"Last time we met, we discussed and focused on the importance of clearing one's mind. A skill not only essential for occlumency, but also useful for complicated spell work. How did your practice continue over the Christmas holidays? Were you able to find time to spend on it, or was there little peace in the Towler household?"

As he asked, the Professor sat down in his own, high backed chair, and rested his elbows on the desktop, before steepling his fingers. He would know if Dracon had not been practising, though doing it without intrusion was still a far cry away from actually defending an attack.

"This evening, I will use legilmency for you. This will undoubtedly feel intrusive, and I will of course hold anything I do see in complete confidence. Don't be too alarmed to find very unusual memories popping up, and to feel as if you have no control over them whatsoever. Occlumency does take time to master. I think I accounted for several months of study with my father when I was not much older than you.. where I felt as if my efforts were futile for weeks." He smiled just a little, recalling how his father, a former Durmstrang's headmaster, had been a far harder taskmaster than he had been. Seeing his son's memories and thoughts had rather given a twist to their parental relationship, and Ignan had been glad to escape to more formal training with the Ministry.

"If you feel ready, we will begin? You'll need to be stood, and with wand in hand. You may use spells to resist, though the object is just to repel me with your mind." They stood, and the Professor took out his wand.
"Clear your mind, focus, and legilimens!"

"Last time we met, we discussed and focused on the importance of clearing one's mind. A skill not only essential for occlumency, but also useful for complicated spell work. How did your practice continue over the Christmas holidays? Were you able to find time to spend on it, or was there little peace in the Towler household?"

Dracon resisted a chuckle at the mention of the possibility of having an unruly household. He knew there were families who spent the holidays wrapped up in one another and having distant relatives come and visit. Dracon’s family wasn’t one of those. The time he had spent in Wales, the majority of it had been by himself. Liviana would have thought this was so tragic but it wasn’t, it was just the way things have always been done. Besides, it had given him more than enough time to do his coursework and do his mind-clearing lessons. The professor, of course, had no idea about the state of Dracon’s house or what kind of people they were; Dracon had only found the thought funny. Dracon took a deep breath and nodded, “it was certainly harder than Ah had thought it was going to be, even in complete silence.  Ah practiced every night for about ten to fifteen minutes, took a break and distracted myself, and then did it for another ten minutes or so.” Dracon had wanted to see if he could fall into clearing his mind faster each time he did it, so if the need ever arose, he could do so the moment him and the attacker made eye contact. He would use his English Bulldog, Duke, for a distraction and throw his ball down the hallway a few times, or feed his barn owl, Chester – anything that wasn’t occulmency.

“… This will undoubtedly feel intrusive, and I will of course hold anything I do see in complete confidence.” Were his hands sweating? Dracon suddenly felt a pang of nerves hit him. While he had understood completely when he asked the professor to instruct him what the art entail, it was different when you were about to be confronted with your own past and a stranger was about to see it firsthand. There were things he didn’t want to relive and there were certainly things he didn’t want his professor to see, but it was the cost of doing something great. The cost of this skill was his pride. Dracon told himself that whatever memories surfaced, whatever may happen, he would keep his head. It was essential to keep his wits and try to clear his mind, create a invisible barrier around his thoughts. It was easier said than done. Hearing the professor mention his own father surprised Dracon. It was the first time he had ever heard anything personal about the professor, at least past where he went to school and where he came from. It made him curious to learn more, but before he could probe for answers, the lesson began.

Dracon stood up, taking in a deep breath and removing his wand from his pocket and closing his eyes. The professor was standing up, he could hear the chair moving and the creaks of wood. Dracon counted backwards from ten in an attempt to free himself from thought, rejecting those memories he didn’t want surfaced. He refused to be conquered by his own thoughts. Dracon wouldn’t be ruled by his past. This was something he had to do. Eye contact was essential, so when Dracon opened his eyes, he was ready. He was considered to be excellent when it came to defensive spells and it was easily one of his best skills, but it had never prepared him for what happened when the professor whipped the spell in his direction. It was something like being in the middle of the ocean with the waves slapping against him, pulling him and throwing him in all different directions. The spell hit him so hard he stumbled a bit, but it went unnoticed since the thoughts in his mind were much more pressing.

There was a flood of memories. Streams of consciousness echoed and expressed their anger at having been penetrated. The memories were of some things he recognized, others he didn’t, but for the most part, they all moved so fast and in such distorted pieces it was difficult to make anything out. A single clear memory stood out among the broken shells of others and his mind focused on it (or was it the professor that focused on it?) and in that moment, Dracon knew what he was witnessing.

One had to be incredibly careful with other people's thoughts. There was always a risk of really ramsacking and causing spell damage to the brain if done with sheer aggression - which wouldn't actually get the pursuer anywhere.

Unsurprisingly for someone being read for the first time, Dracon was not prepared, though initially his thoughts appeared calm like a sea. The moment Ignan stepped foot mentally into his mind, all hell broke loose. Deciding the least damaging memories would be those of childhood, Ignan pounced upon one of the glimpses of thought racing by and it cleared and settled, though he was aware of Dracon's surprise and alarm.

Dracon appeared to be too young to attend Hogwarts in this memory, though not far off by Ignan's reckoning. There was both fear and anger mixed as emotions in the scene. Older boys, also wizards, were taunting young Dracon. The Professor could feel the strong emotions in the memory, which was why it had burst to the surface. The trouble with hiding memories was that the ones you really didn't want to see shot to the front of your memory.

Ignan held the memory, the back of his mind waiting for Dracon to try to forcibly remove him - or to try more physical methods. He waited, clarifying and focusing on the one memory like a camera being brought into sharp focus.