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Lucien was fairly sure the castle was playing tricks on him, because the circular stairs to the Headmistress’ office seemed to wind on forever. And to make matters worse, the stairs were moving. As a result, his legs were aching with fatigue by the time he reached the double oaken doors of the office.
He took a deep breath. When the stone gargoyle guarding the bottom of the hidden staircase had sprung aside at the password (“Ilumen”), it had rumbled a gravelly “good luck” as he ventured within, whatever that meant.
The Headmistress’ circular office was light and airy. Several floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the large space in sunlight. Bookshelves lined one section of the walls; Lucien could briefly pick out a few titles on Muggle architecture before his attention was drawn to a worn, shabby black hat taking up an entire shelf of its own. Portraits of past headmasters covered the rest of the walls, except for an ornate silver frame depicting snowy mountains, snowflakes gently swirling within the moving picture. It hung directly behind an enormous claw-footed desk that was covered with neatly arranged piles of paperwork.
An icy blue fire crackled in the fireplace, despite it being the end of June, and a large white wolfhound lay in front of it, his great shaggy head briefly perking up at Lucien’s entry.
“‘Lo, Koray,” he said in a low voice, kneeling to rub the hound’s ears. Koray snuffled in contentment, his tail thumping against the floor. “Good boy.”
An amused voice said, “You know, Mr. Loire, I’ve often wondered if my pet would make a more popular Headmaster than I. He certainly catches everyone’s attention first.”
The Headmistress, unlike her hound, had not looked up from her paperwork when Lucien first entered. Lucien looks back at the desk to see the legendary witch now regarding him with a pensive, blue-eyed gaze.
Even nearing her fifties, Headmistress Rakel Graydim was an elegantly striking woman. Her hawkish nose and strong features lent an imposing air, while the snowy white hair and ice-blue eyes gave her a sort of ageless quality, despite the fine wrinkles that were starting to line her eyes and mouth. And of course, one had to be a Muggle or a Squib to miss the aura of sheer power that surrounded her.
“Good afternoon, Headmistress.” Lucien inclined his head, feeling a tad uncomfortable. He hadn’t been face-to-face with the Headmistress since the disastrous night a year ago.
“Take a seat, Mr. Loire,” she said pleasantly, gesturing to a plump armchair in front of the desk. Reluctantly, Lucien stopped petting Koray and slunk into the seat, ignoring the questioning whine from the wolfhound. “There’s no need to look as though I’m going to curse you. That would only lead to more paperwork, and I’m afraid I’m already quite swamped.”
Lucien appreciated her attempt to lighten the mood. “How thoughtful. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“So quick to the point, Mr. Loire. Why not take the time to enjoy a cup of tea?” She gave a small swish of her wand. A lovely silver-and-blue tea set clattered rather unceremoniously onto the table.
“Ah yes,” the Headmistress smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid my skill isn’t what it used to be. Blame my old age, if you will.”
“I doubt that,” said Lucien matter-of-factly, inspecting a teacup adorned with snowflakes. “Multiple historians have immortalized your impossible magical sacrifice during the final Battle with Tenebris, the one that strengthened Hogwarts’ magical borders to the point that any with even the slightest hint of dark magic would be unable to enter. The magical backlash can’t have been pleasant; it’s a wonder and a testament to your power that you can still do magic at all.
A brief disconcerting silence followed, where the Headmistress blinked in shock and Lucien had the uneasy thought that he’d revealed more of his true self than he’d meant to. He had a feeling that Rakel Graydim wasn’t very often surprised.
“You do know your history well, don’t you,” said the Headmistress finally, sounding far too pleased for his liking. “No wonder Professor Pierre is so fond of you. Not many choose to stick with History of Magic up to NEWT-level, you know.”
Lucien barked out a surprised laugh, headless of its inappropriateness. “With all due respect, Headmistress, I disagree. Professor Pierre hates me. I think I’ve lost more House points in his class than the entirety of Ravenclaw combined.”
“Well, I suppose it’d be odd of him to show favoritism to a student who sleeps through most of his classes,” the Headmistress said pointedly.
He shifted in his seat. It wasn’t exactly guilt he was feeling, but it was certainly something close. He sipped some tea to cover his discomfort.
Headmistress Rakel clasped her hands together. “I’ll be frank with you, Lucien. I’d like you to be the Head Boy for your final year.”
There was a sort of choked silence in which Lucien nearly spat out his tea. He briefly contemplated how rude it would be if he accused the Headmistress of having lost her head.
“My entire year must have slim pickings,” he finally croaked out, hands clenched around the porcelain cup, “if you’re seriously considering me as Head Boy.”
“And why would you think that?”
“Because...well.....” He floundered for a moment before the school’s rules floated into his mind. “Because a Head Boy or Girl is supposed to be the best of the school. Someone with outstanding academic achievements, a solid reputation, and a hard-working, honest, and good personality.”
“And you don’t believe you qualify?”
“Madam,” said Lucien, a note of desperation leaking through. “I appreciate your candor, so allow me to return the favor. Surely you know that I am the furthest thing from respectable, you can’t have forgotten-“ He bit off his plea, carding a hand through his thick blonde hair. The last thing he wanted was to flaunt his past mistakes.
(Sometimes, he was so tired of trying to live the way he did, of constantly toeing the line without crossing it.)
“I have not forgotten.” the Headmistress said calmly. “Certainly, one must recall the incident in the Hog’s Head at the end of your fifth year. Many on the faculty even questioned if your prefect status should be revoked, before ultimately giving you a second chance.”
“Then why are we having this discussion now?”
“Because I believe there is more to you than what you show the world, Lucien Loire,” Headmistress Rakel fixed him with a piercing look, her eyes like ice chips. “Let’s share an example. Despite your partying tendencies last year, you scored an astounding 11 OWLs.”
Lucien winced. “A fluke.”
“Hmm. And what of this year? Sonya tells me you’ve kept your head down and performed your prefect duties quite admirably, especially after last year. And I’ve heard from multiple professors that you’re doing quite well in your NEWT-level classes.” She scanned one of the many parchments on the desk, and Lucien felt a lurch in his stomach realizing that those were his records on the table. “Clovicus, Rothbart, and Willow all say you’ve a bright mind and a clever tongue. Even Angelique—loath as she may be to admit it,” added the headmistress with a private smile, and Lucien flushed at the reminder of his past behavior, “agrees that you are a brilliant student when you choose to apply yourself.”
“Sev’s the brilliant one, not me,” Lucien muttered. He bore no resentment towards his little brother; it was a fact.
“Young Severin has a good head on his shoulders and a fine mind for strategy. But I think you undersell yourself, Mr. Loire.”
“If you ask anyone else at school, I’ll wager that they’d say the opposite,” Lucien was well aware of the reputation he’d cultivated: arrogant, thoughtless, lazy. He didn’t particularly care as long as it didn’t affect Severin.
“Deflect all you want, Mr. Loire, but the Sorting Hat did place you in Ravenclaw. And do not tell me it was because of your brother, since Severin Loire was all of nine years old when you were being Sorted.” The Headmistress’ gaze felt a little too discerning. “And speaking of your brother, I do find it an interesting coincidence that the year his illegitimacy was publicly revealed in that disgrace of a gossip rag is the same year that your more…outlandish tendencies began to surface.”
“Call it a delayed teenage rebellion,” Lucien said in a vacant sort of way, face purposely blank. “I didn’t like all the attention he was getting, that’s all.”
The Headmistress merely hummed. “Perhaps I’m biased, but it seems Hufflepuff may have also suited you quite well. Your loyalty is commendable.”
Lucien kept his face blank, grimacing internally. He was starting to wonder if she had laced the tea with some sort of Veritaserum, or if his poker face was just that bad. “If you say so, madam.”
Headmistress Rakel stared at him a moment longer, her gaze probing. “I will not push you, Mr. Loire. Your self-worth is something you must work out for yourself, so I only hope I can be there when you realize your full potential.”
Each word felt like a stone hitting his chest Lucien idly wondered if her intense idealism was a result of battling one of the most evil wizards in history, or simply a byproduct of her days as a Muggle Studies professor years ago.
She has a way of making one want to be better. He realized, his mind whirring. No wonder darkness could not stand before her.
“So what will it be, Lucien? We don’t make a habit of forcing responsibilities on unwilling students, but I haven’t yet heard a denial.”
Perhaps her idealism was rubbing off on him, for he found himself jerkily nodding. “I...accept. Thank you.”
For the first time, Headmistress Rakel smiled.
“Normally, we would let students find out on their own through the mail, but I thought it prudent in this case to speak with you beforehand.” No question about it, Lucien can see the twinkle in Headmistress Rakel’s brilliant blue eyes. “Particularly as I’m told you have an...interesting history with our future Head Girl.”
Lucien frowned. A history? “Who-?”
The door swung open, a pretty dark-haired girl hesitantly stepping into the room.
Lucien’s heart immediately sank like a rock. Merlin’s pants, not her.
Ariane Noyers, the Gryffindor Beater and quite possibly the last person who would voluntarily work with Lucien, stopped dead in her tracks and glared.
“What is he doing here?”