“You’re working late?” Professor Duerr posed it like a question. Since Professor Storm had married and his wife had insisted, he no longer lived in the castle during term time, so came and went between the school and the village. Despite this, his presence never seemed to be lacking when students were up to mischief. She would not ordinarily disturb him, but their family relationship emboldened her to call on him for more than school business.
“Needs must,” the wizard replied, seated at his desk in the cluttered office, lit by clusters of candles. His attention hardly lifted from his work which he was bent over with quill in hand. Either genuinely busy or a ploy to discourage an interruption.
Camille slid her hand down the edge of the heavy office door, glancing about his desk, the lines of his forehead and the presence of an empty teacup beside his inkwell. No, she had let men dictate her behaviour and curiosity before, she would not lose confidence now. With that decided, she stepped inside, the door creaking in protest on its hinges, before she pressed it home and released the latch. The occupant of the office paused in his work long enough to glance at his visitor’s waist height, avoiding unnecessary eye contact.
“When were you going to fill me in then?” Her question was posed inquisitively, but somewhat directly for her usual. She felt rather bold speaking to Ignan in such a manner, but she had begun and she would jolly well continue.
The interruption would not be leaving him be any time soon. At the desk the silver haired wizard paused in his work, and raised a thinning eyebrow. He could appease her with a little information, or he could ask her to leave. Camille’s manners would dictate she had to leave, but her wrath would be an irritation to deal with. He bit.
“… on what?”
“Feliks and the girls at the weekend,” Camille answered swiftly, sinking into the chair opposite the office occupant. Out of context her statement might have sounded like her grandson had made friends or begun misguided romantic liaisons. But Camille had heard this was much more serious, so she fixed Ignan with her blue gaze.
“The children are saying he got out to Hogsmeade and attacked the Gryffindor girls.”
“Children will tell tall tales.”“But this was
real, those … werewolves… were attacked.” She persisted. Eyebrows drawing together, her concerns lining her forehead, “And you were there.”
“And Feliks wasn’t.” Ignan’s voice was quiet, just enough to be firm, to convey his power. Backed up by finally meeting her eye with his own cool gaze.“But someone wanted us all to think he was there.” Camille fussed, still frowning, crossing one leg over the other. “Has this got to do with those dreadful parcels? Why has it got to do with
werewolves?” They were her least favourite topic of conversation of late.
Resigned that it was an impossibility to escape this conversation, Ignan sat back and sighed. His quill was still in his hand, and he looked to it, ordering his thoughts before entering the conversation fully.
“There’s no confirmation,” he began, “but it is not a huge jump to such a conclusion I agree.” The office fireplace gave a crack and a hiss, stirring the slightest of jumps from his visitor. Her gaze did not break its intent examination of his response.
“What are they trying to gain?” She persisted, on the defence of her grandson. “To besmirch his name? Goodness his late mother already did!” Ira Almasy had been a horrific woman on near Voldemort proportions in Camille’s eyes. She had forbidden herself from reading any more about the woman once Feliks came along. She did not want to know or even think about her when she looked upon her only grandchild.
“And whatever is the utter fascination with werewolves?” She asked, as Ignan had not yet replied, dealing with the rapid fire of her questions. He visibly drew breath and set aside his quill, resting it beside the inkwell.
“Someone who holds the same views as your late husband,” the older wizard explained, referring to Wolfgang, who had also been involved with Ira Almasy it was claimed. The true cause of her late husband’s death in the courtroom had never been accurately traced to Ira.
“Or a group,” he added, for a group of people would explain the regularity though not some of the messages which inferred an individual. “The parcels, the Daily Prophet flyer, the attacks on the safehouses, on Grant and Temple, even the joke shop…”
Ignan grasped a bright orange note from Zonko’s complaining about the protest at the weekend, addressed to him, rather than Greyfriar. It wasn’t something Ignan wanted to deal with - there had been no witnesses inside the shop as to which student had planted the stink bomb, and if the shop stocked said product…
Camille eyed the bright parchment with frustration. She had heard about what had happened at the joke shop from other professors. It was that SAWS group that Zeta Pepper headed up. That had been the start of all this disagreement with Ravindar, too.
“The trouble with that group is
dweilen met de kraan open[1],” Camille replied, exasperated. Then, naturally recalled Ignan did not speak Dutch, “Everyone wants to treat the symptoms but not the cause If these safe houses are not safe, then nobody can trust them.”
She threw up her hands for emphasis and scowled uncharacteristically. “Ravindar’s decided I need to do my research, we’re not speaking over it, for goodness sake.”
Both of Ignan’s white eyebrows climbed up this time, surprised at this admission. Professor Singh had infinite patience as far as he knew, so to not be speaking to Camille over something was practically an impossibility. She was either exaggerating or had completely misunderstood the situation. Either way, he perceived Camille was actually more irritated with Ravindar questioning her views than any actual risk from werewolves at this point.
Given he was a grumpy old wizard, he didn’t offer her any advice or words of consolation but lowered his gaze instead and wished he was finishing his paperwork rather than having this conversation.
“Feliks is just a boy,” Camille persisted, “he doesn’t need to be caught up in this.” She shook her head, thinking of how young he was, and as ever, underestimating the boy’s resilience, and implored “Have you spoken to him about this?”
Ignan let out a long low sigh.
“At the time, but this is more Greyfriar’s domain.” Knox did the pastoral chats, the father-figure type, Ignan was the disciplinarian.
“No, no I think it should be yours.” Camille insisted, less of a request, more of an instruction. She got to her feet, and folded her arms, turning away to prowl the cramped space between door, chair and shelves of books and strange objects Ignan had kept from his travels for teaching or slim sentimental value. Behind her, sat still at his desk, the Deputy Headmaster shook his head, unseen. The wind would drop from her sails eventually, he hoped.
“Your father told me stories about you, you realise,” Camille continued, he gaze settling on a photograph of Ignan and Georg in a group crowded around a hunted nundu they had taken down. “About what you got up to.” The tone she used had an edge of threat which didn’t suit her.
“Did he,” Ignan replied flatly, in effort to cast doubt, “before or after he was senile?” His father had been looked after by a house elves in his final years, one had perished in the house and Gerda, the elf he retained in the tiny Hogsmeade cottage with Miranda, had been its replacement. Camille had visited from time to time with Wolfgang, given they had not lived all that far by apparition.
“That you used to hunt them, werewolves.” Camille explained, looking up, past a pickled snake head, with oversized fangs, there was still persistence behind her tone, a determination to see this conversation through. She looked over her shoulder and turned back.
“Why did you do that? Did you ever kill one?”
“It was a long time ago, cousin.” He drew his hands from the desktop blotter to his lap, feeling lethargy at this whole pursuit. “So you did, and you must have had reasons.” Her eyes were alight, not just from catching the light of the flames in the fireplace. “I’m trying to understand you see, it’s not that I want them dead, but if one creates another, why the first is not … ended.” Her curiosity and frustration had grown rapidly the last few days with events and conversations. She was sure there had never been so many werewolves in her childhood as there were now!
“Cousin Wolfgang brought his affliction on through his own choices, he and young Feliks are entirely different situations.” Ignan countered, trying to think two steps ahead of her, and comparing her experience of her late husband being turned at a werewolf fighting ring with her grandson being radicalised against werewolves. Her look darkened to something more reminiscent of her husband.
“I haven’t said they are the same Ignan, will you answer the question.” She should have demanded he answer, rather than
will you - despite her irritation and determination to seek answers from him her polite habit got in the way. He gave way, more because he was alarmed to see her look this way.
“Yes,” he nodded once, “yes I hunted them.” He spoke softly but surely, and elaborated in a fuller tone, “When they were viewed as cursed without any possibility of control. When wolfsbane was a possibility for only the minority, before there were such things as ‘safehouses’.” These more modern possibilities had felt like foreign concepts when he had encountered them.
“A wolf could slaughter a family, turn others. The average wix is unprepared to face that. Sometimes it was a mercy to the afflicted, who was more beast than being in time.” He lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug, “but now there are laws. There is a whole Ministry body here to address it, and to a point, we accept it as a curse which can be controlled, that they are victims and nothing more.”
“And do you think it is a curse which can be controlled?” She grasped the back of the chair, leaning over as if to study him.
“Far more than it ever was in my day.” He countered, holding her gaze, unsure as to which side she wanted him to take here, or if she had firmly chosen hers. The tension was punctuated by a rapping at the door which led from the classroom, rather than the corridor which Camille had entered. The tempo, and a tentative but purposeful tone behind the wood sounded like a Prefect, citing Peeves. Ignan let out a low rumble of frustration as he drew up from his chair, wand in hand. The poltergeist was paying him an unwitting favour.
“I will speak with him, if it is so important to you, cousin,” he added quietly, given the potential audience, “but on my own terms. I remind you the promise you made not to share my history with him or any other here, for we are still colleagues despite our family ties.” Camille nodded, though bit back frustration.
“Thank you, Ignan.” She uttered, “see that you do.” Setting her jaw, she turned away, and left through the door she had come through. Behind her, he frowned thoughtfully and hauled open the other to discover what fresh havoc greeted him.
[20 Mar] While I Wond’ring Pause (Snapshot)