Chapter Text
Educational fads swirled through the teaching practices of the Hogwarts staff at varying times - though always a good five years after they were fashionable in the Muggle world.
They were invariably introduced by a well-intentioned - though totally naive - Muggle parent who strived to comprehend what their magical child was actually doing in school. Albus Dumbledore, ever the innovator, entertained the follies for sure (students who graduated between 1966 and 1972 remembered, somewhat bitterly, about writing a lyric poem for their Arithmancy NEWT exam).
Minerva McGonagall, on the other hand, maintained a simpler teaching philosophy: know your content; be patient and honest with the students; and the children will one day leave, and were never your friends or surrogate children in the first place.
She watched, thin-lipped, as younger, less confident colleagues came and went, each applying different strategies in forming their teaching identity. Some were excessively lax in their discipline, hoping to impress upon the children their coolness and ability to relate to them. Without fail, those were the ones burning out of teaching by the end of their fifth year. Some relied on the cachet of having been a professional Quidditch career to endear themselves to their young charges. Those too saw themselves in a Ministry position and out of the classroom before too long. She despised of the hugs, the elaborate handshakes, the nicknames, the over-familiarity and the eventual fallout: young people who could not trust their elders, and teachers who could not respect their pupils.
As Head of House, she was in a position to dispense necessary affection and pastoral care where necessary - a pat on the shoulder for a tearful first year was as far as her physical affection could go. Having taught for twenty-one years, she was wise to their schemes for leniency, privileges, and better marks.
This fearful reputation she'd cultivated over the years, however, was only ever sporadically successful in dissuading students from grubbing for grades.
"Come on," Sirius Black said, running his hand through his fringe as his other hand jabbed at a scroll of parchment on her classroom desk. "How is that not worth an extra point?"
She looked up at him, lowering the glasses on her nose despite knowing that this was a gesture wasted on a child like Black, who'd received the glasses-of-doom look far too frequently already for it to be remotely effective. It was already racing past afternoon tea time, and she would be very disappointed if she couldn't take a break before the evening of marking and duty ahead of her. "Mr Black, you received 99% on this exam. You topped the year. Be satisfied."
"Let's go, Pads," James Potter moaned, leaning back on his desk. "Give it up."
"You bragged that you didn't even study for this one," whined Peter Pettigrew. "Like we actually fall for that anyway. You just want people to think you don't give a stuff. Meanwhile, the rest of us genuinely slave away for a rotten 62%."
"You have improved significantly," Minerva said gently to him. "Even if you were only getting 60% last year, the fact that you have maintained your mark despite the curriculum becoming more challenging means you are learning. You should be satisfied with your efforts."
"Yes, well, I'm not."
"Let's go," James said, tugging at Sirius's robes. "I want to go down to the kitchens before training and get something to eat."
Sirius flashed what he thought was a winning smile at Minerva. Had it been anyone else, it would have been. "What do you say, eh? One more little point. Nobody has to know."
"It would not be fair to the other students."
"If you do this for me," Sirius said, an eager smile revealing white teeth, "I promise I will never go out of bounds again. For the rest of this term."
"You're not supposed to go out of bounds anyway, you berk. You can't promise that you'll do something you already should be doing if you want to bribe a teacher."
"Mr Potter has the lay of the land on this one," she said, struggling to hide a smile of her own lest the children see her facade crack even for a moment. "It is time to go. If you are so worried about a single mark, then you ought actually complete the homework I set for tonight."
"Oh. I hadn't planned to do that."
"There are twenty points available for that. You mean to tell me you were going to waste my afternoon arguing for a single point when you had no intention of completing something far more valuable?"
"All right, old woman," he said, jovially brushing her arm. "No need to get worked up."
"Potter, Pettigrew, remove your friend from my classroom before he becomes a further liability."
Peter took Sirius by the arm. "Time to go, mate. It is over. You were against a far worthier opponent than any one of us."
Sirius wrenched himself out of Peter's grip. "I can walk myself out." And with that, he stomped his feet for effect as he exited the Transfiguration room. "You have just made a very powerful enemy," he shouted in retreat.
"I am sure when I meet him I will be very frightened. Goodbye, boys."
Her room was silent for only a few minutes again before her marking was once again interrupted by a quiet knock on the door. She looked up to see a thin, weary figure at the entrance to the room.
"You wrote on my parchment that you wanted to talk to me about my result?"
She beckoned Remus over. "I thought you would have come in with your friends a minute ago."
"I wanted no part of that rabble," he admitted as he lowered himself slowly into the chair opposite her desk. "Ignore me: muscle soreness."
"Are you all right? Do you need to go to the hospital wing?"
"No, this always happens after the full moon. I just hyper-extend all the tendons and ligaments. It makes climbing stairs a bit painful, though."
Twenty-one years of experience gave her the ability to tell when a student was being deliberately light and airy in their conversation to mask deeper worries. He was thin as ever, light brown hair falling greasily over his forehead.
"Remus." She summoned the pile of scrolls, leaving through them until she came to the shortest, thinnest scroll of all of them. "You've looked at your mark?"
"I was satisfied with it, I think."
"I wanted to check in that you were all right. It is a significant backwards leap to go from scoring 80% averages down to 51%."
"Can't believe I wasted that extra one percent," he said, chuckling hollowly.
Minerva narrowed her eyes, and rolled the parchment back up. "You know the pass mark for the final NEWT next year is 70%?"
"I do." He rubbed his face with his hands, and when he stopped his bloodshot eyes stared at her. "Please, don't take this mark as a personal reflection of how I value the subject, I--"
"I know." She reached for her tin, and pulled the lid off. "Biscuit?"
He shook his head. "Not hungry."
"I don't just offer these to any old student," she said, feigning insult in an attempt to create levity. "These - these are my grandmother's recipe, these ones."
Remus Lupin was not the sort of child who liked to offend anyone, and he took one with thanks. When he chewed it, she got the impression he was barely even tasting it.
"So long as you are satisfied with the mark you earned. Obviously, I am aware of your capabilities, and in the event that you need to do a resit next year--"
"Yes, I would so hate to be precluded from all those terrific occupations available to me because of my marks," he said, bitterly.
She frowned. "Surely you are not going to throw away all your schooling because of--"
"What? My complete unemployability?"
"You know that what faces you - what faces all of us - once you have left school is far more grave than not having a job." She leaned forward, a half-eaten biscuit in her hand. "Your written marks might not be outstanding, but on your practical tests you are still in the top five in the year. Don't presume that what you learn here in class won't be of use in the tribulations ahead of us. People have already died. I would be unprofessional and remiss, as a teacher, if I let my students leave less than fully prepared for the world outside."
He nodded quietly. "I am sorry I let you down, Professor. School isn't really on my mind."
"I know." She set the biscuit down. "How is she going?"
"Fine," he said, the pitch of his voice high and strained. "She is still technically a muggle resident, and she qualifies for their free health care."
"Was there anything our kind can do?"
He shook his head. "No. Nothing. It will be fine, I am sure."
He didn't look sure. He still clutched the remainder of his biscuit so tightly it was starting to shed crumbs down the front of his shirt.
Of all the children in her house, he was the one she'd had most to do with in a pastoral sense. She remembered walking him, for the first time, to the Shrieking Shack - him, pale-faced and resolute, politely declining a need to hold her hand - and then back from it, his body wrapped in a sheet, his face so calm for a face covered in scratches and shallow cuts. She'd been swayed by his stoicism and relatively easy transition into the school, and for the longest time presumed he would be resilient enough to withstand challenges thrown at his way: academic, social, and eventually in terms of leadership.
She watched him brush the crumbs from his front, and for a moment the maternal urge to brush the hair out of his eyes overtook her.
In the last twelve months, she had come to realise he hadn't been able to meet the expectations of being a prefect. It wasn't entirely his fault: the fact that he fatigued easily, and was physically unavailable for a good quarter of the term, was enough of a hindrance. It was a change of attitude, however, that had done the greatest damage to his potential for Head Boy. While his peers spent their days comparing the entry requirements for various post-school pathways, he could only but watch and remark bitterly, his own future so desolate, and with every passing day approaching him more and more quickly. While James and Sirius (and to a smaller extent, Peter) entertained girls, she knew for a fact that he would spend his own weekend evenings up in his dormitory, a book open in front of him that he might never actually read.
And what, on first impression, looked like stoicism and reserve was nothing but a cover for resignation and pessimism and fear. And the very worst part was that there was absolutely no solace, no advice, and no guidance that would ever change this, because it was an indelible part of his destiny. Nothing and nobody could ever change that.
"Remus, I'd like to raise the prospect of letting you step down from your prefect duties," Minerva said quietly, her eyes locked on him.
"Please, I know I haven't been the most present or responsible leader, but--"
"You have too much going on at present to contend with," she replied gently. "I will tell people you approached me, asking if you could be relieved of the position."
"Professor, I--"
Minerva had no children of her own from which to draw experience on. The child in front of her - as much as she established distance between herself and all young people - was nevertheless as close as it ever would be to her own. She saw his thin, pale, lined face cracking with fear and hurt, and her resolve nearly withered. "Please, Remus. It is for your own good."
He took a deep breath, and for a millisecond she worried he might lash out. Instead, he recomposed himself. "May I have until Christmas before you make a decision? I will improve, I promise, I--"
Her resolve finally died. "Yes. Fine. If you are able to earn marks commensurate with what you were earning at the end of last year, I will reconsider my request. But you know I cannot, in good conscience, put you forward as Head Boy next year."
"I know," he said. "James or Sirius would be far better than me."
"You'd be correct one of those," she said, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. "Another biscuit?"
This time, he reached into the tin himself. The deep lines in his forehead had softened, and when he looked up, his eyes seemed clearer and brighter. "Thank you, Professor."
"You're not to tell Sirius that I gave into a student on an issue," she said warily. "I just spent twenty minutes trying to clear him out of here."
"It's in the vault," he said. She peered at him quizzically. "Muggle reference," he said. "Your secret is safe."
My father would have liked him, she thought to herself. For all his faults, she could not help but like his dry humour. "Your mother - Presbyterian?
"Anglican," he said, shaking his head. "Not that she ever really observed after meeting dad. Definitely not now."
"Of course. I will keep her in my thoughts. You'd better go and complete your homework, if you are keen on keeping that badge."
As he got out of his chair slowly to leave, he caught the crumbs that had fallen Into his lap. "I'll put these in the bin outside."
"Thanks. Have a better afternoon."
She watched him leave, his tall, thin figure casting a monstrous and skeletal shadow across the floor in his wake. In many ways, he wasn't a child and hadn't been for many years. But it was a brittle, frail grasp he had on adulthood, and she wondered to herself if - in the likely absence of a family or a career to anchor his ego to - he might ever grow up.
She looked sadly at the pile of marking ahead of her, and decided to enjoy her Thursday afternoon out roaming the grounds instead of staying ahead of her paperwork.