Chapter Twenty

23 December 1962

"Oi, Yaxley. Take a look at that." Goyle gestured toward the corridor.

When Quentin Yaxley looked out the compartment window to see that prat Macnair framed in it, he saw red. Macnair was talking to Annabel Nott. Not just talking to her, either. He had one of his hands on her arm and was rubbing it in a way Quentin didn't like. Not at all.

Not two months ago, Annabel had been Quentin's girlfriend. Now she was hanging around that bloody Gryffindor who thought he was Merlin's gift to witches now that he was Head Boy.

Hah! Quentin snorted to himself.

As if anyone else had a fucking shot at it, with the Deputy Headmistress' son around. Not that Quentin had wanted it, but there were plenty of fellows who deserved it more than Macnair. Marks weren't everything, and anyway, Quentin's marks were nearly as good as Macnair's. And he'd been a prefect for a year longer. But there was no way a Slytherin was ever going to get Head Boy, not with those two Gryffindors in charge of the school.

What the hell did Annabel see in Macnair, anyway? Yeah, he was okay at Quidditch, but hadn't Quentin bested him in the last game and nearly knocked the bastard off his broom to boot? And Merlin, he was so funny-looking! Freakishly tall, with that long hair and scraggly beard. It was like he was trying to imitate Dumbledore. All he needed was a pair of those weird specs and he'd look like the Headmaster's bloody doppelganger. Shit, no wonder he got Head Boy.

As Quentin eyed him through the window, Macnair leant over to kiss Annabel's cheek before she moved off down the corridor.

"He sure moved in on your girlfriend fast, didn't he?" remarked Goyle with a smirk.

"Yeah," said Quentin, drawing his wand. "Too bloody fast." He flung the compartment door open, the other occupants rising from their seats behind him in anticipation of a fight.

Macnair simply looked at him as he stood in the doorway, wand pointing at the Head Boy.

"What's the problem, Yaxley?" Macnair asked calmly. He didn't even pull his fucking wand.

Smug little prick.

Quentin just stood there seething, unable to think for a few moments until a short bark of laughter from behind him pulled him from his trance.

"You. You're the problem. Parading around here like you own the fucking place."

"What are you on about, Yaxley? I'm just doing my patrol," replied Macnair.

"Your patrol," spat Quentin. "So that includes pawing girls, now does it, Macnair?"

"I wasn't pawing her."

"Yeah? Well it's time you Gryffindors learned to keep your bloody mitts off our Slytherin girls." He jabbed his wand toward Macnair.

Macnair didn't flinch, but he looked at Quentin as if he were a bit of Kneazle-sick. Then he carefully pushed Quentin's wand aside, saying, "Sure, Yaxley. Whatever you say. Go sit down and cool off."

He turned to move off down the corridor.

Quentin felt like a complete arse just standing there watching Macnair saunter away. Hearing someone snickering behind him, he knew he had to do something.

"Hey, Macnair!" called Quentin. "I'm not finished with you!" He shot a stinging hex at Macnair's back. The Slytherins gathered behind him laughed as the gangly Gryffindor cried out, then clawed at his side pocket for his wand, and cast a hurried Finite. They gasped almost as one, though, as the boy turned, wand drawn, his face pink and angry. His height and, Quentin had to admit, the power he radiated were intimidating. But Quentin stood his ground. He really had no choice now.

He was relieved when Macnair didn't retaliate, but he felt another frisson of fear when his nemesis said, his voice a rumbling bass that was like thunder, "Never hex me when my back is turned, Yaxley. Never. Now. Go. Sit. Down."

Quentin's first impulse was to do exactly as Macnair instructed, but he could feel Goyle and the others watching him.

"Make me."

Macnair just shook his head. "I'm not going to fight you just so you can save face with your friends, Yaxley. It isn't worth it."

He turned to go again, and Quentin called after him, "Yeah, run away, Macnair. I hear it runs in your family."

Macnair stopped and turned around. "Leave my family out of it," he said quietly. He stared directly into Quentin's eyes, and Quentin felt almost as if those sea-blue orbs were burning him. He lifted his wand...he felt in that moment that he'd do anything to get Macnair to take his eyes off him...and fired a Conjunctivitis Curse.

Macnair was fast, casting his first Protego without even lifting his wand, and Quentin's curse bounced off, very nearly hitting its caster on the rebound. Furious now, Quentin cast another and another and another, each easily deflected with a flick of his opponent's hand.

"Stop, Yaxley," Macnair said with that eerie calm. "You're just making a fool of yourself."

"Or what, you going to murder me?" yelled an increasingly desperate Quentin, not liking the way his voice rose to a near-girlish shriek. "You could share a cell with your grandfather or your uncle. Another Mad Macnair!" Suddenly, Quentin couldn't make a sound, and he realised after a moment that Macnair had sealed his lips. He turned to Crispian Goyle in mute appeal. Crispian pointed his wand and said, "Finite." Nothing happened.

Goyle turned to Macnair, saying, "Take it off."

"Do it yourself," said Macnair. He turned to go, and Quentin panicked. He couldn't spend the rest of the ride to London like this! What would his father say when he found out he'd been bested by a Gryffindor? He pushed Goyle roughly toward Macnair's retreating form.

Crispian took the hint, drawing his wand and casting: "Petrificus Totalus!"

Macnair froze mid-step and toppled over.

Quentin moved forward and snatched Macnair's wand from his frozen hand. The moment he touched it, a searing heat burned his fingers, and he gave a grunt, tossing it into the corridor.

What kind of fucking hex is that?

He moved to bring his stinging fingers to his mouth, but he still couldn't open his lips. He shoved Goyle toward the fallen Macnair.

"Lay off, Yaxley, I've got it. Help me move him, you lot," Goyle said, and the four Slytherin boys grabbed Macnair, pulled him into their compartment, and laid him across a seat.

Goyle bent down and pushed the point of his wand against Macnair's neck. "I'm gonna release the spell, and you're gonna fix Yaxley's mouth. Got it? Or I'll slice your neck open and they can send you back to your mummy in a box . . . . Finite."

Macnair didn't move, and Goyle poked him harder with his wand. "Release it!"

"Can't. Don't know the counter-spell," said Macnair smoothly, sitting up. "I guess you'll have to get someone at St Mungo's to do it, Yaxley."

"The fuck you can't!" shouted Goyle, but Macnair knocked his wand from his hand with a quick chop of his large arm. He dove for the door, but the four other boys fell on him, wands forgotten for the moment.

Quentin felt his fist connect with Macnair's nose, and the crack reverberated thrillingly through him. Then Macnair was down, his body half in, half out of the compartment door, and the others were kicking him, Macnair trying in vain to get up. Quentin drew his wand, preparing to cast a cutting spell, intending to hack off his stupid pony tail, and maybe give him a few light scars into the bargain, but he remembered his predicament when the only sound that came out was an inarticulate grunt. More furious now, he started kicking Macnair harder, images of him kissing Annabel running tauntingly through Quentin's mind. He drew his foot back and aimed a particularly hard kick at Macnair's crotch. He connected squarely, nearly knocking himself off balance, and Macnair howled in agony. Quentin caught his breath for a moment, then drew back again, intending to repeat the kick, when the weirdest thing happened.

Macnair simply shimmered out of being. One moment he was there, the next, he wasn't. Quentin could hear the dull whump of feet connecting with a body and the violent expulsion of breath that followed each, but they stopped after a moment.

"What the hell . . . ?" said Goyle. They fell silent for a moment, then Quentin saw the compartment door clatter shut, as if Macnair had gotten through it at last.

"Where'd he go?" asked Goyle, but nobody answered.

/***/

Albus Dumbledore had just finished dinner in the Great Hall and was intending to retire to his study to read Griselda's latest paper. When he arrived at the door to his quarters, however, he was greeted by the sight of a terribly agitated Minerva McGonagall. Her arm was extended awkwardly to her side, and she was sagging slightly as if burdened by a great weight.

"Minerva! What..."

"Let us in, please, Albus!"

Us?

He gave the password, and when the door swung open, Minerva staggered through. He went to take her arm, and she said, "No, over on this side...help me hold him."

Albus didn't know who "he" was, but he could feel a body when he went to Minerva's burdened side, and he felt along until he was able to get an arm under it. A groan emanated from the body as he and Minerva manoeuvred the unseen sufferer to Albus' settee.

"Thank you," gasped Minerva, and he noticed she was perspiring heavily.

"Minerva, who is this?"

A familiar voice said, "It's me, sir. Malcolm."

"My boy! What has happened?"

Before Malcolm could respond, Minerva cut in quickly: "He's injured, Albus. He was beaten...I can't tell how badly. I cast a few basic Healing Charms, but I couldn't do anything very specific because..."

"You can't see him," finished Albus. "Malcolm, where are you injured?"

"My ribs got the worst of it, I think," he said. "And my..." the boy stopped.

"What, Malcolm?"

"My um . . . my balls. Sorry, Mum," he wheezed.

"Don't be ridiculous, Malcolm," she said. "Did someone hit you there?"

"Kicked me."

Albus winced. "Are you having any trouble breathing, son? Any blood in your mouth?"

"No. There was a little blood, but I think it's from my lip," replied Malcolm's disembodied voice.

"That's fine," said Albus. "No punctured lungs, anyway."

"Albus, can you help him?" Minerva asked, sounding desperate.

""I will try, but he would be better off in the infirmary. I wonder you didn't go to St Mungo's...weren't you in London?"

"Yes," she answered agitatedly, "but Malcolm insisted we come back here. He thought you'd be better able to deal with...the main problem."

The boy is embarrassed and scared to death. How well I remember . . .

"Maybe," said Albus. "Can you tell me how it happened, Malcolm?"

The boy relayed his story...omitting the names of his assailants...up to the point when he staggered off the train and nearly made Minerva jump out of her skin with fright when he spoke to her.

"So I Apparated us back here and helped him up to the castle," Minerva finished. "I didn't dare Levitate him, as I couldn't see him."

Albus silently conjured a glass and filled it with an Aguamenti, handing it to a grateful Minerva.

"So you say it just . . . happened? You weren't performing any spells at the time?"

"No, sir. I just felt . . . I don't know . . . a sort of hum inside me, and then they stopped kicking me, and I just got out. It wasn't until I got partway down the corridor before I realised . . . I realised I was invisible. I tried casting an Homenum Revelio, but it didn't change anything."

"Do you think one of those boys did this?" asked Minerva.

"No. I don't think so," Albus replied. "I believe it was an organic event."

"What do you mean?" asked Minerva.

"I shall tell you, but first I would like to pay a brief visit to Madam Warburg to get a pain-relieving potion for Malcolm. What I have on hand isn't very strong."

"Oh, yes. Thank you, Albus," said Minerva.

He Floo-ed to the infirmary and was back again in five minutes.

"Here you go, Malcolm," he said, pouring out a teaspoon of green liquid.

It was odd watching the teaspoon seemingly float through the air, the fluid disappearing as it...presumably...entered the boy's mouth.

"Thank you, Professor," said Malcolm.

"You're quite welcome. You should start to get some relief in a very few minutes."

Minerva gave Albus a watery, grateful smile.

He Summoned a pair of chairs and indicated for Minerva to sit, which she did. He took the seat next to her, across from Malcolm.

"I think I know what has happened to you, Malcolm," he said at length.

"Can it be reversed?" asked Minerva.

"Mum," admonished Malcolm's voice, "I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will get to that part. But let him speak, please."

"Yes, Minerva," answered Albus. "You may rest assured that Malcolm will not remain invisible forever. As for what has caused this . . . interesting effect . . . I believe it to be a rare gift. A very rare gift, in fact."

"A gift?" asked Malcolm.

"Yes. Or a talent, if you will. As you undoubtedly know, Minerva, and you may, Malcolm, wizards have long sought ways to become invisible at will. But with the exception of Invisibility Cloaks, the ability to do so has remained elusive. At least, for the vast majority of our kind. However, there is a very small group of witches and wizards who are able to become invisible at will. It isn't mentioned in any but the most esoteric books because it is so vanishingly rare. There have only been seven documented cases in the past three centuries. The Ministry doesn't even bother registering them as they do Animagi."

"And you think Malcolm has this ability?" asked an astonished Minerva.

"I believe so," replied Albus. "I can think of no other explanation for what has happened, and the details of his experience are suggestive."

"How so?" asked Malcolm.

"In most of the documented cases, the first change occurred during adolescence, and generally under circumstances of great stress or duress. Invisibles have reported feeling frightened and disoriented at the change, and many had trouble changing back or otherwise controlling the ability at first, although they generally learned how to do so eventually."

"So you really think I'm one of these . . . Invisibles?" asked Malcolm in hushed tones.

"I do."

"So how do we get him back?" asked Minerva.

"Mum, I'm right here," objected Malcolm.

"You know what I mean, Malcolm," said Minerva testily.

"Malcolm, do you feel up to attempting a little magic with me?" enquired Albus.

"Yes, sir," the young man answered. "The pain potion is working. I feel much better."

"Good. If you'll stand up and take my hands," Albus said, extending his hands, palms turned upward.

He felt the boy's hands on his.

"Close your eyes, Malcolm, and just listen to my voice. I want you to concentrate on feeling your body. Start with your toes . . . wiggle them, if you like . . ."

Albus took him through the entire exercise, from toes to scalp, and when they were finished, he asked, "How do you feel?"

"Good, I guess."

Minerva interjected anxiously, "Albus, I still can't see him."

"Patience, my dear, patience," he told her. To Malcolm, he said, "Now here's the harder part: I want you to go through it again, toes to crown, and envision each part from the inside out . . . bones to muscles, to fascia, to skin . . . imagine what each bit looks like. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Good lad. Start with your toes . . ."

By the time they had finished, Malcolm had begun to shimmer back into being.

Albus said, "Very good. Do it again, and I think we've got it."

Three minutes later, a fully visible Malcolm was receiving a very relieved and very tight hug from his mother, making him yelp.

"I'm sorry!" she cried. "Your ribs . . ."

"It's all right, Mum."

"Oh, Malcolm, your nose . . . " she said, reaching up toward his misshapen proboscis.

"Don't touch it, Mum," said Malcolm flinching away.

"No, I won't, but just let me . . ." She drew her wand, pointed it at her son's nose, and said, "Episkey!"

Malcolm winced as his nose made a sharp cracking sound and put itself to rights again. Albus conjured a handkerchief and gave it to Malcolm to dab at the blood that had begun to trickle from it once again.

"Who did this to you, Malcolm?" Minerva asked.

The boy shrugged noncommittally. "Just a couple of those Slytherin gits," he said. "The usual."

"But why?"

"One of them started a fight about . . . um . . . about a girl, and things got out of hand," Malcolm said.

"Oh, Malcolm," said Minerva, pursing her lips.

"Were any of the others injured, Malcolm?" Albus asked.

"No, sir. That is . . . well, not exactly, but one of them . . . I . . . well, I hexed his lips shut."

"Oh, Malcolm! Not again! You didn't!" said Minerva.

"Yeah, I did," he said sheepishly. "I shouldn't have . . . I know it." He turned to Albus, saying, "I understand completely if you want my Head Boy badge, sir." He began to unpin it from his robe, but Albus put his hand up to stop him.

"No need for that at present, Malcolm. From what you've said, the Slytherins were spoiling for a fight. And I think you've certainly paid for your minor lapse in judgement."

Albus thought the attack by the Slytherins must have been a bit more severe to have prompted the boy to become invisible. All kinds of thoughts were roiling through Albus' mind, but he put them aside for the moment.

He said, "Malcolm, if you think you are well enough, please return to your common room to rest. I'll have a house-elf bring you something to eat shortly."

"All right, Professor. Thank you for everything," the boy said.

Minerva said, "Yes, thank you, Albus," and turned to follow her son.

"A moment, Minerva, if you would. I have a few things I'd like to discuss with you briefly."

"All right," she said. "Malcolm, I'll come by in a bit to check on you."

Albus thought he saw Malcolm begin to roll his eyes, but then the boy checked himself and gave his mother a brief smile.

"All right. Good night, Professor."

"Good night, my boy."

When the door had closed behind Malcolm, Albus turned back to Minerva.

"This is quite a surprise," he said, watching her closely.

She noticed his scrutiny, and he saw her fingers begin to rub nervously at the selvedge at the neck of her over-robe.

"Yes."

"Has he ever given any indication . . . any hint of this ability before?"

"No. Never. When he found me after getting off the train, I was certain it was a practical joke."

"No. Not a joke," said Albus. "I'm sorry your holiday was spoiled . . . or at least, postponed."

Minerva waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, no matter. We were just going to do a bit of shopping, maybe visit the theatre. Since he had to be on the train to supervise, I thought it would be a good opportunity to meet up in the city. We can do it another day."

After a short silence, Albus asked, "Minerva, has there ever been anyone in your family with this ability?"

She looked surprised at the question. "No. I thought you said it was rare . . . only seven people in the past few centuries..."

"Seven documented Invisibles," Albus corrected. "As with Animagi, it is likely that there are more than we know about. There isn't much evidence, of course, but it appears there may be a genetic component to the ability. Among the documented cases, four were from a single family line, and two others were more distantly related."

"And the other?"

"The other was apparently a Muggle-born wizard."

"Odd."

"Yes. May I assume you are aware of no one in his father's family with the ability to become invisible?"

"No. But I don't know very much about the Macnairs. Or the Rookwoods. If there were anyone, I wouldn't necessarily know about it."

Albus was quite certain none of the documented Invisibles was a Macnair or a Rookwood. He was familiar with all the ancestral lines of each of the seven.

"Well," he said, "I won't keep you. Tell Malcolm to come see me tomorrow in my office...say around two? He will need to learn to control this rare gift, and I would be pleased to help him to the best of my ability."

"Thank you, Albus," Minerva said quietly. "I'm terribly grateful. For everything."

Albus took her hands and kissed her cheek.

"Good night, my dear."

When she was gone, Albus sat gazing into his fireplace. He wasn't sure how long he sat, turning events both recent and distant over in his mind.

When he rose, he had come to a decision.

He went to his office and crossed to where the Great Book sat on its stand. He paged through the tome until he found the entries for 1945.

The first portion of each entry used an ancient and powerful magic that detected each new magical life as it separated from its mother. Inscribed in red ink was the precise date and location of the birth of the magical child:

Magical Birth

Seventh bedroom from the left of the main staircase, second floor, Macnair family manse, Aberdeen, Scotland

The second portion, added in black ink via a more mundane Ministry spell once the child's name and parentage was registered, read:

Macnair, Malcolm Gerald

to Macnair, Gerald Findlach & Macnair, Minerva Maighread McGonagall

Albus counted backwards from 14 February.

Thirty-seven weeks.

It was thirty-seven weeks between the conclusion of N.E.W.T. exams and the Feast of St Valentine.

Albus closed the Great Book and went up the spiral staircase to his library to hunt for the spell that would tell him conclusively what he needed to know.