Ambition [Deathly Hallows]

“What are we waiting for? Someone grab him.”

Toward the back of the crowd, a pair of small fists clenched so tightly that the owner had to bite her lip to keep from making a sound. Stretching up as far as her small legs would take her, the first year stared through the crowd, blasting her eyes at the speaker. How dare Parkinson? This House had carried enough shame in the past few decades. Idiotic seventh-years hardly needed to add to the list with cowardly (and ill thought-out, to boot) proposals that the entire bloody castle would rally against. (Already was, too, it seemed- a rather impressive crowd was starting to form around Potter.) Why, if those blasted escorts had put Maeve just a few meters nearer the front, she would-

What exactly Maeve might have done was shoved aside by the abrupt arrival of a screaming Filch. Despite the tension of the situation, she had to break off her angry glare to laugh at his bumbling confusion. Buoyed by this amusement, she opened her mouth to cheer when McGonagall ordered the school’s caretaker to remove Parkinson- only to snap it shut moments later, burning in rage, at the addition of the rest of Slytherin. Maeve didn’t care how high this woman’s status was, she had no right to make such broad assumptions! Sure, members of her House didn’t have the best reputation, but- but- but ambition wasn’t the same thing as evil!

Pandemonium broke out, forcing Maeve to stop stewing. Students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor began moving toward the exit of the hall in one massive wave. For a split second Maeve, bemused by the sudden rush, wondered why she didn’t recognize any Slytherins in the mass; then she remembered that her House was supposed to be taken to the dungeons. Sure enough, Filch was up at the front of the hall, rounding up her Housemates with the help of his hissing feline.

Pursing her lips, Maeve squared her shoulders and turned away from the collection. No doubt she would get in trouble for this later, especially if it went badly, but she didn’t care. The entire House had been lumped together often enough, and Maeve was both tired enough of it to protest and frightened enough to take risks. Quickly she scanned the hall, hoping that the person she needed was nearby. She was in luck; McGonagall was still there, her tall head rising above the throng of students. The woman was moving away, but if Maeve started now, she should be able to catch up.

Hurrying wasn’t easy; wounds from the recent Cruciatus lesson still marred her legs, hindering her with a limp at an angle that made running agonizing. All the same, she ran, gritting her teeth and dragging her limbs forward with the sheer force of her will. She needed to do this, and a little bit of pain was the last thing that was going to stop her.

But McGonagall was slipping out of reach, swallowed by the mass of staff and students, and a wave of human bodies was pushing Maeve back without even trying. Desperate, the child shrieked, knowing that her voice would be lost in the crowd but unwilling to let herself give up. “Professor! Professor McGonagall! Headmistress!” Nothing. If anything, McGonagall seemed to be walking away even faster. Maeve spat a few words that she wasn’t supposed to know and sped up, ignoring the tears that welled in her eyes at her leg’s protests.

A hand caught her shoulder. With a few more curses Maeve pulled herself to her full height (which wasn’t, unfortunately, overly impressive) and turned, already preparing to launch into a verbal battle. The fight never came; her supposed assailant, a massive boy who must have been in his last two years, simply took a deep breath and bellowed “McGonagall!”

His deep voice sliced through the turmoil. The transfiguration teacher’s grey hair stopped, shifted, and began returning. Almost sobbing in relief, Maeve squeezed the stranger’s hand in silent thanks and stumbled forward, waving her right arm madly. Within moments McGonagall had caught sight of it and was moving toward her, lifting the eleven-year-old’s spirits immensely.

As soon as she actually reached the professor, that lift halted and then slid backward. McGonagall barely glanced at her before turning to leave again, muttering a sharp “Go with your House, Doirnín.”

Doirnín-Dhuibhshíthe, Maeve thought bitterly. Old wounds of pride were unimportant right now, though, and she shoved the issue out of her mind. Lifting her chin high and pushing down any possible quaver, she followed in McGonagall’s wake. As loud as she could make herself without yelling, she said, “I want to help fight.”

That earned only a passing glance and a shaking head. “You’re a first year, Doirnín. You can’t possible know any of the spells we need. Go to the-”

Set ablaze, Maeve threw her voice into the professor’s. “Then let me run errands!” Suddenly she found herself on the verge of tears, and fought them back valiantly. She hadn’t come all this way to be disgraced and rejected, just like she was at every other turn- except by members of her own House, of course, who offered a solidarity that was at times her only comfort. Wherever she went from here, the dungeons were last on the list. “This is Slytherin’s school too, you know,” she spat. “Some of us love it just as much as you. And some of us hate V-v- You-Know-Who just as much, too. There were a few of us moving toward that crowd around Potter, didn’t you see?” Panting, she broke off, then stamped her good foot into the stone and flew forward again. “And anyway, if you’re going to just- to assume, and throw me off to the side like a chunk of snake meat, well- you can at least call me by my proper name!”

McGonagall stared down, boring her eyes into Maeve’s own. All too aware that she had just screamed at the acting headmistress, Maeve shrunk down a little, sure that she had just ruined any chances of being allowed to stay. She refused to shut her eyes, though, instead meeting the professor’s eyes with the same fiery gaze she was used to turning on any challenge. Let McGonagall see what was there, and judge it as she would. Maeve was in the right here. Whether her professor knew it or not, she knew it, and that was enough for her.

“Doirnín-Dhuibhshíthe, you are a phenomenally presumptuous child... and an ambitious one.” McGonagall gave one small nod, as if to herself; Maeve tried to read it, but the expression on the old witch’s face was beyond her.

“Of course I am,” the student murmured, feeling like she had to say something. “I’m not Slytherin for nothing.”

An expression that didn’t quite reach a smile, but bordered one, broke into McGonagall’s features. “Yes. The Sorting Hat chooses well.”

Unsure what that meant, Maeve simply nodded and kept her mouth shut while McGonagall studied her face. After what felt like an eternity, but couldn’t have been (Minerva McGonagall was not the type to waste needed time), the professor took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “All right.”

Don’t celebrate. Don’t celebrate. “Headmistress?”

“I have two jobs for you.” Maeve bobbed her head up and down rapidly, breathless with excitement (and, if she was to be honest, terror- but no one else needed to know that). She wanted to offer thanks, but couldn’t take the risk that interrupting would break this unexpected spell. “First, go find anyone else in your House who wants to stay and-”

“Here are three!”

Maeve glanced around, confused- and then grinned widely as the speaker stepped into her line of vision. A familiar pair of brown eyes beamed warmly back at her for a split second before turning serious and moving to McGonagall. “Colby Misra, ma’am, fourth year Slytherin. The three of us want to fight with our school- and our friend,” he added with one more tiny smile toward Maeve, whose feet almost floated off the ground.

“All of you, then.” McGonagall expanded her gave to encompass all four students. “I’m trusting you to judge well. Find fighters, and then organize the evacuation of the underage. The passages to Hogsmead will be best.” Her eyes shifted then, focusing directly on the two furthest from her. “Abbey, Oakley, make sure Doirnín-Dhuibhshíthe and Misra don’t try to sneak away.”

Colby’s two friends, neither of whom Maeve recognized, nodded gravely. Chewing on her cheek, Maeve ducked her head to hide the mess of emotions on her face. Gratitude at being allowed to help, pride at convincing the headmistress, fright, hope, dread anticipation, and resentment at being made to leave all swirled together so closely that even Maeve wasn’t sure which she should be paying attention to. “Do we have to go?” she asked, this time unable to quell the tremor in her words. All she could imagine was leaving, and coming back to find her friends dead and the castle ruined. If the worst was to occur tonight, she wanted to be here for it.

A new voice echoed toward them. “McGonagall!” All four turned their heads to find Professor Slughorn bustling toward them through a hall that had become surprisingly empty in a short time. “The front of the castle needs you!”

“Them and everyone else,” McGonagall muttered in a voice that Maeve doubted she was supposed to hear. Then she shook her head and looked back at her students. “You three boys, go to the dungeons and start sorting. Doirnín-Dhuibhshíthe, walk with me for a minute.”

Confused, Maeve gave Colby a quick grin, which he returned with his own encouraging thumbs-up. Heartened a little, she waved at the two older boys, then set off with McGonagall. Her small legs had to work overtime to keep up with the headmistress, who was wasting no time in meeting Slughorn, but she managed, passing the second professor only a few steps behind McGonagall.

Looking deeply concerned (like that was a shock), Slughorn fell into step on the other side of the transfiguration professor. “Minerva-”

“A moment, Horace.” McGonagall waited a second to make sure that the Potions master didn’t plan to speak, then turned to Maeve. The girl was limping alone beside the two teachers at a pace she never could have managed without this crisis, which had sent adrenaline pumping through her veins and pulled forward the stubborn pride that would not allow her to stand down. “What happened to your leg, child?”

“Cruciatus Curse,” Maeve answered hesitantly. “From the other day, when they made the older students practice it on us.” What did that have to do with anything?

McGonagall sighed. “Yes, I thought that might be it. That is why you must leave, Doirnín-Dhuibhshíthe. No, not because you’ve been weakened,” she clarified, stilling the protests that had been on the tip of Maeve’s tongue. Blushing, the first year shut her mouth and let her teacher speak. “He wants to take our hope, you see. This is something you may not understand for many years, but you are our hope. All our children are. You will be among the youngest to remember this war, and among the last to carry its story to the next generation. We need you to remain safe, Maeve Doirnín-Dhuibhshíthe.”

At least one thing about that speech was wrong: Maeve did understand. Not entirely, but in part. Though too young to appreciate the hope that adults can draw from the resilience and dreams of their young ones, she had grown up with parents who wrote and was familiar with the power of a story. “Yes, ma’am,” she said softly, ducking her head again- this time in respect. “I’ll do as you said. I promise.”

“Thank you. Now go, help you classmates. Oh- one more thing.” Maeve, who had already been turning to run, glanced back over her shoulder. That almost-smile had returned to McGonagall’s face. For a brief interval she turned it to a bewildered Slughorn; then she locked gazes with Maeve and, now smiling truly, said, “Twenty points for Slytherin.”

Maeve’s jaw hit the floor. The points system had more or less been discounted as a joke this year; as Headmaster, Snape had poured so many emeralds into the bottom of Slytherin’s hourglass that the other Houses didn’t even bother trying to keep up. Many had speculated that even trying to compete with Voldemort’s former House could be a fatal mistake, and so none of the teachers had made an effort to keep track of points for months now. “Th-thank you,” she stammered, her gaze flickering between the two teachers. (Slughorn’s reaction mirrored her own shocked joy almost exactly, although with significantly more composure.) “I- I won’t let you down.”

Smile lost now to the gravity of the situation, McGonagall nodded. “Good.”

With great effort, Maeve shoved her limp aside and took off for the dungeons.

There was work to be done.