The Cursed Ones

Chapter Thirteen: Silence Until Evidence

Tuesday is a dark brood of gray and steely blue as the sky tumbles and lurches above the school. Thunder plainly rings out throughout class as drizzle pats itself dully against the glass window panes in a peppered, impromptu rhythm. The gray smeared somber ambiance that has set thickly over every last student fits my own mood perfectly, though my own has nothing to do with the weather or the dim blues that have every torch in class burning to ward away.

Professor Flitwick is up at the head of the classroom, a stool pulled up to his center podium so that he can read the large book he's propped upon it, peering through the glasses that sit low on his larger nose. I haven't seen Mr. Fletcher yet today, not even at breakfast, and I'm on high alert.

I doodle a bit over my class notes, not taking in very much of the lesson Professor Flitwick is preaching to the hoard of students clogging the room. He calls my name at some point, but I only mutter a bit and keep doodling, not caring to answer whatever question he's asking of me.

Professor Sprout's class, as well as our hour up in spindly little Professor Trelawney's thickly perfumed tower, are the same story; no Mr. Fletcher. Her big old bug eyes water over Potter all throughout class, as usual, which alleviated me from needing to so much as glance at any of the class work she's assigned for today.

After lunch, I finally see Mr. Fletcher taking up a corner of Umbridge's classroom. I keep a subtle eye on him throughout, but he doesn't seem to be doing much. In fact, he seems bored nearly to insanity, and his eyelids begin to sag here and there. I don't blame him. Umbridge is the shittiest professor we've got, and we've got some pretty monotonous professors around here. The only thing that keeps students from drifting off in her class is her head aching voice that seems to raise an octave every ten or so minutes. The chirpy old prune.

I roll my eyes when I realize on our trek to potions class that Mr. Fletcher is following us. Pansy is also keeping a close eye on him. Draco is the only one of the three of us that doesn't seem to be all that bothered by his presence.

Darwin is more agitated than usual. He walks stiffly, as if he feels the weight of his father's eyes on him during every passing moment. Mr. Fletcher, on the other hand, seems not to be interested in the presence of his son in the slightest. It's as if he didn't exist to the older man.

I sit nearer to the front of the dungeon classroom than I usually would. Draco and Pansy decide to sit in the back as they always do, and I know it's purely because they want to pass notes and whisper back and forth. I don't mind being on my own today, though. If anything, I would prefer it. I'm too lost in my own troubled thoughts to be able to focus on my friends. Besides, my silence would probably just worry them, and worry would lead to questions, and questions are the last thing I want to be subjected to. For some reason, I don't want to go to either of them with this whole thing. I can't think of a single time I haven't run straight to them with any information or gossip I find interesting, so this is a new feeling.

Once again, Mr. Fletcher takes post in one of the far corners of the room behind the rest of the class. His eyes and expression give away nothing of what he might be thinking or feeling. He's entirely vacant of any helpful clues.

Narcissa is completely unbothered. Just as Mr. Fletcher has ignored his son, Narcissa ignores Mr. Fletcher. When the second bell rings, she gestures for us to settle down. Nobody disobeys. I do notice that Darwin hesitates, though. I'm not surprised in the slightest, what with his father watching over our entire group like a judge deciding our fate and all.

"Today is going to be more of an independent study. I want you all to review the material from yesterday. If anyone has any questions for me, simply raise your hand and I'll come to help you out."