Cast yourself (you are the spell)

Chapter 6

After classes, the professors and staff choose to convene in the headmaster's office once again, as Albus Dumbledore wished to be informed of any progress with the prophecy daily.

"It was quite awful. Neither of them said a single word the entire lesson," Professor Slughorn was talking, but it was not his usual voice. Instead, his tone was grave and somber, contradicting the usual joy he inflicted into it.

"Well, they had plenty to say during my class," Professor McGonagall comments next, but the rest of the staff can tell that's not good news by the frown planted against her lips.

"Did they?" Dumbledore asks, not immediately understanding her sarcasm. The teachers around him sigh.

"Oh, yes," McGonagall affirms sardonically. "Miss Saltzman seems to particularly favor spiteful remarks. In fact, I would actually say that Miss Mikaelson was the least hostile between the two of them in their encounters."

"Wonderful!" drawls Professor Snape from behind McGonagall, before sobering up. "It's hopeless, Albus. This afternoon, I gave my class the perfect excuse for childish chit-chat, and still, neither girl uttered insult nor sound."

"Maybe not so, Severus." Dumbledore seems to think hard for several long seconds. "What were you saying earlier, Minerva? Concerning the incident with Penelope Park?"

"Oh, that spoilt child!" McGonagall recounts slowly. "She had the nerve to transfigure Miss Saltzman's uniform buttons into insects. That poor girl! If Miss Mikaelson hadn't handed her that robe, I fear she would have faced even worse humiliation than she had already endured."

Snape's eyebrows knit thoughtfully for a moment before he speaks up. "So that was Miss Mikaelson's robe? I thought I recognized the M stitched into the right pocket."

McGongall nods, as if finally realizing the implications of such a generous act. Dumbledore smiles-a hint of satisfaction raising the corners of his lips-and then places his attention back to Snape.

"It might not be so hopeless, yet," he says, an odd half-smirk on his face, but Professor Sprout quickly disagrees.

"I am afraid that the omens Sybil prophesied have already arrived. My plants are already beginning to become unresponsive and uncooperative. This morning, I had a Shrivelfig catch fire. Let me assure you, Albus, that catching fire is not in a Shrivelfig's nature. Furthermore, it rained the entirety of this morning. We are only in October!"

Snape and McGonagall roll their eyes. Not a single person could have missed the peculiar weather that morning. However, the room quickly grows frantic with the obvious harbingers. Demented suggestions begin to be offered.

"Let's dose them with a love potion," says Professor Flitwick suddenly, crazily, madness written between the wrinkles of his forehead.

Professor McGonagall stares in disbelief as the entire room quiets in contemplation.

"Would that work?" Dumbledore voices, the madness consuming him as well. Snape and McGonagall meet eyes above his head, the both of them frowning.

"Merlin, are you seriously considering this, Albus?" McGonagall grabs a hold of him, her hands wrapping tightly around his wrists.

The entire room shakes themselves out of it.

"Of course not, Minerva," Dumbledore replies, but his words are stiff and rushed. It has only been a day, but McGonagall can see that the stress of the prophecy has already put him through. The light has almost entirely left his eyes, and the previous positive aspects of their predicament have been sucked dry.

"I have a plan," he says, shrugging off her worried gaze. "Something we should have done a long time ago."

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