章 83: CH83 - Contemptible Cuthbert
"Percy Weasley, last year's Head Boy from Gryffindor, now aide in the Department of International Magical Co-operation under Bartemius Crouch Snr., had this to say about History of Magic as taught by Professor Cuthbert Binns," Marvolo Slytherin read from a large stack of bound parchment. A mild version of the Sonorous charm had been applied to his throat, allowing him to speak for extended periods without straining his voice.
Around him, the other members of the Hogwarts Board of Governors shuffled their papers around to find the account being discussed. In contrast to their first meeting, most seemed relatively relaxed in the setting. As the school year grew closer, their group gatherings had increased, both in number and length. There were still looks of awe directed his way, but generally, the governors had grown used to the presence of Lord Slytherin among them. The majority of the formality had been done away with, allowing the conversation to flow more naturally.
From budgeting and school rules, the main subject of debate had turned to course content and teaching staff. As always, there were gripes about DADA and its ever-changing array of instructors, complaints against Professors Snape and Trelawney, and of course... History of Magic.
"'Although Hogwarts is doubtlessly the premier school of magic, History of Magic does leave something to be desired. I have a tremendous amount of respect for all educators. However, Professor Binns hardly qualifies as one, in all honesty,'" Marvolo quoted neutrally, his eyes on the reaction of those in the room.
"From a sycophant like Weasley, that's the harshest disparagement we could hope to receive," Lord Vance smirked wryly, earning chuckles from those who had met the overeager boy during his short tenure at the Ministry.
"Evangeline Pyrites, renowned researcher and past Ravenclaw said this," Marvolo continued. "'History of Magic is little more than a children's read-along. Admittedly, Professor Binns sometimes deviates slightly from the textbook, but that's the only reason students don't bunk off class. Even that's a nonissue for those lucky enough to get notes from an older peer. After all, the material hasn't changed in over a century, and neither have the exams.'"
Miranda Goshawk, author of the Charms spellbooks used at Hogwarts, raised her eyebrows. "No revisions in a century? So Grindelwald's war and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's rise are irrelevant in his eyes?" she murmured with a scoff.
"I always thought he had an odd fetish for goblins. We definitely didn't need to know about Urd the Unclean's various 'conquests,' if you know what I mean," Adrian Gamp whispered in her ear, receiving a smack on his arm in return.
Lord Slytherin cleared his throat in an unspoken request for silence. "Nerys Orpington, a Slytherin graduate from 1983 who works at Scribbulus Writing Instruments in Diagon Alley, had much less to say. Just one sentence. 'I'm glad I only had to take it till O.W.L. year.'"
"Thank Merlin for that," Tiberius Ogden snorted.
"Lastly, I would like to include an excerpt from a letter penned by Argo Gibbon of Hufflepuff approximately 70 years ago," Marvolo concluded. "He writes: 'History of Magic is the most unrewarding class at Hogwarts. The curriculum is designed in such a way that requires rote memorization rather than an understanding of what is being taught. The material lends no insight into the topic at hand. Instead, it forces you to remember an endless list of names and dates that you will forget after an equally monotonous assessment. Over the years, I have visited Ilvermorny, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and even Mahoutokoro. I can confidently say that it is not the course but the instructor I take issue with. As long as Cuthbert Binns remains in office, History of Magic will remain insufferable."
The room was quiet as Marvolo slowly folded up his notes, sitting back down again.
"I am always happy to hear what students think of Hogwarts, whether positive or negative," Dumbledore smiled. "However, I must ask you to speak clearly. What is it that you wish to demonstrate with these words?"
"Whether it is in terms of reliability, content, or teaching ability," Marvolo listed off on his fingers. "The consensus across alumni from all four houses is that Professor Binns and History of Magic are ineffective in their intended purpose. There have been less than ten History of Magic N.E.W.T. students since Professor Binns began teaching, and each has self-studied to reach that level. Our noble history is forgotten more and more with each year, and the blame is almost entirely on one man. Or rather, one spirit. I say it is high time to find a more appropriate replacement."
"Oh? Let us assume that all your accumulated data and statements are wholly truthful and accurate," Dumbledore patronized. "How exactly do you propose we find a new instructor within the next several weeks? As you said yourself, there is a severe lack of eligible applicants. Not to mention the funds that we would have to divert toward such an endeavour would be astronomical."
"Astronomical?" Marvolo questioned. "I agree that any master in their discipline will want to be adequately compensated for taking such a demanding post, but it should not be a much greater financial burden than we already have to bear."
"Ah... That would be true for any other professor, but as you so aptly put it, Cuthbert is but a ghost. Since he has not negotiated a pay raise—in, oh, a hundred and fifty years, give or take—his salary remains the same as the day he passed away. That is, approximately 3% of what the average Hogwarts personnel earns today," Dumbledore contradicted far more suavely than was necessary.
The other governors remained silent, content to watch the back-and-forth clash between the two legends without intervening.
"Oh, to be young and eager again," Dumbledore laughed, his eyes twinkling in signature fashion. "The drive with which you have approached this position is laudable, Lord Slytherin. Unfortunately, we cannot always get what we want."
Marvolo grit his teeth, an insincere smile of contriteness forming on his face. 'We'll have to see about that, won't we?'
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- (Scene Break) -
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[BEGIN Excerpt from "The Warmage's Chronicles: Salazar Slytherin"]
I was eleven when this occurred. Of course, I didn't know it at the time. All I was told was that my magic had stabilized enough to wield a magical focus.
Before then, our teachings were different: primarily potions, herbology, and the study of magical creatures. We learned how to survive on the land. How to best use magic's gifts whilst avoiding its terrible wrath.
But this was it—the first step on the path to becoming an adult warmage.
Crafting a wand.
There was no particular reason for doing so individually beyond custom and tradition. "So why didn't you just go to Ollivander's then?" I can almost hear you say, though I cannot be sure that Ollivander's even exists in the present, whenever that may be. Regardless, going to a wandcrafter was not an option. Ollivander was firmly rooted in the pro-muggle camp, whereas the Gurutzada were decidedly not. We would never seek his kind out for aid, and he was unlikely to grant it to us even if we did.
And so, we made our foci ourselves. I had already gained my core from the horn of Nerea, my basilisk familiar. Yet I was still lacking suitable wood. On that day, I had the feeling I would find it.
The day we were meant to scale the towering walls of a granite quarry.
It is a beautiful location. Craggy rocks surround you from all sides, small trees jutting out from them rebelliously. A small lake sits in the very center, spotless and clear.
...Though that morning, it ran red with blood.
You see, my reputation for having a sharp intellect was known to all. But those that hated me for it always hoped—nay, believed—that it would not translate to magical ability. It was a gamble and one they would lose in hindsight. However, wisely, they did not wish to wait for the outcome to be rid of me. So, they concocted a duplicitous plan. After all, it was a treacherous climb. If I lost my footing and fell to my death... Well, who could be blamed?
The Gurutzada elders knew such behaviour was bound to occur. Truth be told, they encouraged it. Only the tough and strong were valued in the clan. No one would raise a word for a child who was not powerful enough to survive, no matter how talented.
And so, those skilled enough to apparate popped away, leaving twenty or so of us to clamber behind them. Those that did not wish to be a part of the fight that was to come scurried away, leaving me, Godric, and three others against us.
To this day, I find it hard to fathom the idiocy of those three boys. Godric and I were both well achieved in battle, having drawn our fair share of blood through scuffles and brawls over the years. If the fight were fair, they would not have lasted two minutes.
Of course, I did not plan to fight fairly anyways.
One look into Nerea's eyes, and the three went tumbling down, their stiff, lifeless bodies battering against the rocks and staining them crimson. Above, the elders hooted and hollered for our victory, no better than the Roman Christians they so detested cheering for their gladiators in their fighting pits.
We did not bother obliging their praise with feelings of pride, instead choosing to do the climb we were now behind on silently.
As I reached the summit, I felt a tug. A type of pull I had only felt once before. And there it was. Less than ten strides from where I lay, a gnarled, ancient-looking tree stood, the likes of which I had never seen before.
Snakewood.
The last piece of the puzzle—though, I suppose most puzzles have more than two pieces.
You may think all's well that ends well, right?
Wrong.
Even in that brief moment of euphoria, I could not help but lament my circumstances. More than that, my heart grieved for the countless other magical adolescents who doubtlessly had it even worse than I did. Was this the best that could be done? Should a handful of conclaves be bestowed the power to decide which child would be granted the gift of magic and which would not? Should they be allowed to puppeteer the youth as marionettes for their own cause? Most importantly, was there even anything I could do about it? After all, I was alone, an eleven-year-old child in a harsh world.
However, as I looked into Godric's eyes with my own, I found a similar fire to mine reflected within them. An understanding that just because things worked the way they were, did not mean that they could not be improved. A desire to be the ones to build that safe haven for all magical children that we were envisioning. To grow amidst the hostile environment and bloom against all odds like a stalwart hogwort germinating in the unforgiving soils of the barren prairies.
Hogwarts. Not a bad name for a magical school. At least, that was what we thought at the time.
[END Excerpt from "The Warmage's Chronicles: Salazar Slytherin"]
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