Author: Lyta Padfoot
Category: Angst, Drama
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling. Characters and situations are used without permission, no infringement is intended.
Summary: Professor Flitwick informs a student that her parents have been killed by Death Eaters and rediscovers the power and beauty of words.
* * *
How does one tell a child that their parents have been murdered or tortured into insanity? How can such news possibly be broken gently?
Professor Filius Flitwick never knew quite what to say in such circumstances. He felt as though the appropriate words crumbled to dust on his tongue before he could use them.
In a way he really did not have to say anything; every Hogwarts students knew what it meant to be pulled out of class by a sombre House Head or Headmaster. There was no doubt in his mind that Rosalind Prosser knew. He witnessed firsthand the horror in her young face when he called her out of Professor Wormwood's lesson. The only questions he needed to answer for her would be the name of the one who was lost and whether that person was dead and beyond all further suffering, or screaming and clawing at the walls of a padded room at St. Mungo's Hospital.
Flitwick could not bear to look at the girl seated across from him. The soft sniffling sounds that carried across his desk told him of her tears. He located the black sealed parchment from the Ministry and sliced it open. Then he cleared his throat and read the parchment's neatly printed contents aloud. The words tasted of smoke and burned his throat.
"The Ministry regrets to inform you of the deaths of your parents Mark and Emilia Prosser. They were slain by Death Eaters early in the morning of December 16, 1977. Cause of death was the Killing Curse. The Ministry wishes to assure you that no evidence of torture was discovered. New Holiday arrangements have been made with your paternal grandfather, Francis Prosser."
Flitwick set the parchment down on his desk and forced himself to look his student in her red rimmed eyes. Rosalind was an exemplary student with a very good chance of becoming Head Girl. She had been in his office many times before for happier reasons, now any future meeting would be tainted by the memory of this one.
"Do you have any questions, anything at all that you would like to ask me? Would you like me to contact your grandfather now for you?" He asked quietly.
Rosalind nodded. Her head bobbed up and down like a loose branch in the ocean. "Yes, please, I want to attend the funeral."
"Of course, I'll find out when it is for you and arrange for you to speak with your grandfather through the fire this evening."
"Thank you, Professor," Rosalind said as she got up, pushing her chair back into place with one hand.
"If you feel the need to talk, come see me at any time."
Rosalind nodded; her grey eyes clouded and distant. Her voice was almost below his range of hearing as she whispered, "Our revels now are ended. These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air; and, like the baseless fabric of this vision, the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea all which it inherit shall dissolve, and, like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep."
Flitwick sighed at the beautiful words, "Rosalind?"
Rosalind blinked, "I was just remembering a passage from a Muggle play my mother loved. It seemed fitting. I was named for a character in another of his plays."
Flitwick sighed. "Such lovely words. Who was the playwright who penned them?"
"Shakespeare. A Muggle-born student Mum knew at school gave her a collection of his plays for her birthday. She loved As You Like It when she was at school, but lately I think The Tempest eventually became her favourite." As though suddenly realizing that she now spoke of her mother in the past tense, Rosalind crumpled, mopping her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. She whispered her thanks to Flitwick and fled the room in the direction of the Ravenclaw tower. Flitwick knew her friends would already be gathered there to support her.
It was not fair, but Flitwick knew that life was seldom fair. Why should Rosalind and her classmates have to suffer the unnatural loss of their loved ones? Flitwick scrounged about in his memory for information about the Prossers. Mark and Emilia left before he began to teach at Hogwarts; Mr. Prosser owned a Magical roof repair business and his wife had been a successful Keeper for the Tornados before a nasty wrist injury forced her to retire early. Flitwick recalled that she co-founded the Nimbus Racing Broom Company with a former team mate. The Prossers' were not Aurors or Unspeakables, had few tangible political connections, and were both purebloods. There was no reason for the attack on them.
Flitwick shook his head. He was looking for logic to Death Eater actions. The Death Eaters were not logical, their motives fathomable only to each other. Reason was something abandoned so they could commit murder after murder. He shook his head again and opened the top drawer of his desk to reveal a second black sealed parchment bearing the name of another of his students. The Death Eaters had been busy of late.