CHAPTER EIGHT- Revocation and Interrogation
Surprises in Albert Dunmore's-or Albus Dumbledore's-line of work were few and far between, but a surprise he had as he strolled into his office whistling after sending young Robert Wesley and his nemesis Drake Mallory onto their classes.
He'd nearly let his hair down, so to speak, nearly let himself become Albus Dumbledore as his office door shut, and then he'd seen Lucia Lovejoy sitting in the chair across from his desk.
Had he been a lesser man, it would have given him quite a fright. As it was, he merely raised an eyebrow at her and smiled serenely. "I seem to have missed an appointment," he said pleasantly. "With what may I assist you, Miss Lovejoy?" She was a jewel, he thought, the kind of girl-and the kind of witch-who would never look at her talents askew, who would never doubt. No skeptic she, he thought, and appreciated it greatly.
She reminded him of his mother.
Lucia folded her hands in her lap and stared forthrightly at the man. He didn't seem crazy to her, even though that's what everyone said.
But, she thought uncomfortably, perhaps she wasn't the best judge. Her actions of late hadn't been altogether cohesive.
"You requested an assignment of me, sir, and I wish it revoked." The words shocked her as they left her lips. They were uncharacteristic, for she wasn't a quitter. And she hadn't planned on stopping-she liked asking Robert questions. She liked learning things about him, even when he wasn't answering her. He told so much, in the way he held himself, in the way his eyes looked, in the way he played, the way he defended his sister.
And he'd told her plenty when she'd kissed him, and even more when he'd kissed her. She blushed at the thought and dropped her eyes to her hands.
Perhaps she wasn't quite ready to listen to that yet. It was much easier to think she'd been right to apologize.
"Revoked?" Dunmore asked, bringing her rather rudely back to the present. She'd just been about to replay the whole vignette in her mind again, to think about the strength of his hands, gentle hands with rough skin, chafing over her wrists, the bump of his knees just above hers-
"Yes, revoked," she said impatiently, tossing her hair back. "If you need me to be more specific, sir, it's the assignment for the-"
"Personality profile of our illustrious young footballer," Dunmore said, inexplicably smiling once more, voicing a small harrumph as he leaned back in his chair. "No, no, no, that won't do," he said. "I'm afraid you'll have to finish the article. You're quite committed already, you know. You even told the newspaper staff what you were planning."
It was a tightly knit school and staff, certainly, she thought, but it was bordering on eerie how the man seemed to know the oddest things.
"He's uncooperative," she said faintly, feeling that sense of dread, that twist in the pit of her stomach that said she wasn't about to be taken off, not in this lifetime. "I feel he would rather someone else complete the assignment."
The headmaster had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright at the poor, mixed up girl. She looked miserably, and he pitied her immensely, but youth… well, he hated to be trite, but ah, how it was wasted on the young. Any old fool-or ancient fool, as he proudly considered himself-could see poor Rob Wesley was suffering from little more than a severe case of female frustrations. And as unwilling as Lucia was to see what was plainly in front of her-a trait the headmaster thought she and Rob had in common-it was no wonder they were both so tightly wound.
"I feel," Dunmore said graciously, poking through a candy dish with one long finger, looking at her over his glasses, "That you are the ideal scribe for this particular tale, my dear." And as though that answered everything, he leaned over, dropped a brightly wrapped toffee in her hand, and winked. "I look forward to reading your opus."
She started to walk out of the office, dazed and holding a candy in her hand, when Lucia turned and looked back at Dunmore. "If you don't mind me saying so, Professor, you would have made a smashing reporter. Something tells me you'd get an interview whether the subject happened to cooperate or not."
He was still chuckling to himself, flattered, when the door shut and he faded back to Hogwarts.
~~~
"Bloody fantastic!" The coach blew his whistle and jogged across the field-it was rather badly battered after
three hours of practice-and stood in front of his goalkeeper. Robert Wesley had been a player to watch, even from his
first few practices, but he'd never played with confidence or aggression. Instead, he'd always played as a
strategist, trying to do everything right rather than doing what he felt.
But tonight's practice had been different.
In a weird hybrid of masochistic self-discipline and brilliant training, Rob had commanded the other players to scrimmage using only one goal-his. Each squad would be required to defend more voraciously to keep the ball from falling into enemy hands, and each squad would now focus on small, tight movements, the movements that often mattered most in a game.
And Robert took every single kick that came his way, and he missed very few. He was forceful, nearly belligerent in his keeping, paying no attention to the scrapes that arose, the knocks he received, the risks he took.
He was angry, damn it, good and well red at the thought of what she'd done to him. He'd spent Saturday night suffering-yes, suffering-over the memory of kissing her, over the odd thrill that she'd initiated it, over the smug feeling that he'd known it was coming.
And he'd suffered over the shame of scuttling away from it like some sort of goggling idiot, over saying "Keep up the good work" like he couldn't control his flapping jaw. But in that moment, he'd been so dangerously close to something…
It had felt not like watching your team make the winning goal, but like batting out the one shot that would have made it a losing game.
Saving the day.
Football was the only thing at which he'd found himself good, or even passable. He wasn't smart, he wasn't funny like some of the guys on the team, he wasn't as personable as his sister. He didn't have money, prestige, or in his opinion, looks.
What he had was the stupidity to get between the posts and let people kick things at him, and by God, he was all right at it.
He didn't think he'd find that feeling elsewhere, and the prospect of doing so had been a bit unnerving.
And then she'd apologized for it.
Like it had been some sort of sodding mistake.
And with every goal he prevented from happening, Rob tried to get that glow back, that just right on the edge feeling.
He saved nearly every goal, and didn't get that feeling. Even when his coach and players broke practice to come and ask him what had gotten into him, he didn't feel it.
Instead, he just heard the word sorry buzzing around in his brain like some sort of annoying fly.
"You play a hell of a lot better without Loopy Lovejoy hangin' about," one of his teammates said, clapping him on the shoulder. They didn't notice his eyes harden jut a bit, his mouth firm beneath the muddy smudges on his face.
"Yeah," a first-year player chimed in, all too eager to congratulate his team captain on a smashing practice. "Guess you really told her the other night, di'n't you, out in the parking lot? You were really givin' her wha' for!"
Rob winced; it was precisely what he'd needed to hear, and precisely what he hadn't wanted to hear.
He really had told her what was on his mind, and the worst of it was, she hadn't deserved any of it. In fact, she'd taken more than her fair share from him, and he'd just kept dishing it out.
"Bugger and shite," he said quietly, too tired to be miserable. He'd exhausted himself on purpose, and then come to the stunning conclusion that he'd been a major arsehole.
No wonder she thought he was mad at her.
He'd given her no reason to expect he'd react in any other way.
"Bugger and shite!" the first year repeated, as though to cheer on what Rob had said.
"That's enough," the coach said quietly, shooting a dirty look at the first-year. The kid clearly had more brawn than brains. Hell, the kid probably had more toes than brains. "Practice is over," he said, concerned that his captain, his best player, was about to have some sort of breakdown. For a few moments, he'd looked as though he were going through every emotion he could muster.
"Thank you, sir," Rob said absently. He wandered to the shower blindly, seeing her face in his mind, the shocked, hurt look on her face when he'd all but bitten her head off. He'd gone over there to apologize once, and he'd buggered that all to hell.
So he'd give her the only other thing he knew she wanted.
Twenty minutes later, he wandered down the corridors of Holforth, led by a hunch, a feeling, a stupid intuition. He was scrubbed clean but no less sore than he had been when he'd flipped on the cold water, and the hooded sweatshirt he'd thrown on gave him something to shove his hands into.
He didn't want to grab her again, for God's sakes.
Well… that was a matter he'd have to hash over with himself later, he thought as he stood in the doorway of the Holforth Herald newsroom, watching her type at an unbelievable pace, her eyes affixed to a handwritten sheet next to her.
"Lovey?" he said quietly, watching her shoulders tense, her head stiffen. She didn't turn around, didn't even acknowledge his presence, but because Rob knew he'd heard her, and because he'd planned this, had decided this the appropriate tactic, he continued to speak.
"I'm ready to answer your questions."