Orders From Above :: Galen

03 February 1924
3:00 pm, Sunday

Gideon sighed as he walked down the corridor with purpose. Irritation was clear across his face, the crease between his eyebrows threatened to become permanent. There was no point pretending he was looking forward to this meeting.

Another directive. Another change. Another piece of parchment with the Ministry seal.

When Wizarding Civics was first introduced, Gideon knew exactly what it was. It was never about helping Muggleborn students understand the magical world. There had always been politics behind it. James was clever enough to wrap his intentions in words like guidance, structure, and responsibility.

Now the mask was beginning to slip.

A fifth table. Not for another House. Not for a school club.

For Muggleborns.

His jaw tightened. He didn't agree with it. Unfortunately, agreeing had very little to do with it anymore.

James Laurence made sure Gideon never stepped foot inside Azkaban after the Dark Tower incident. Not guilty. Whether he liked it or not, he owed the Minister more than he could ever repay.

And James knew it.

So Gideon would attend the meetings. He would carry out the directives. He would stand beside the Ministry when required because that was the deal he made.

Headmaster Galen, however, had no such obligation.

Reaching the stone gargoyle, Gideon gave the password and waited for the staircase to appear. The statue stepped aside, revealing the familiar spiral staircase leading to the Headmaster's office.
This wasn't going to be an easy conversation.

Galen never hid his opinions on the Ministry from Gideon. He didn’t support James during the election, and as the months came and went, the tension around the new rules grew.

Gideon wasn't climbing the stairs to debate politics. He wasn’t meeting with the Headmaster to have a drink and laugh in the face of the new administration. He was there to make sure the Ministry's newest directive was carried out.

Reaching the top, he raised a hand and knocked firmly against the oak door, waiting for the familiar voice to invite him inside.

His father’s words had been echoing in his head for almost a month. While Galen was nearing forty, he had been taught to respect his father. His father had told him that he had to fall into line with the new rules the Ministry was pressuring him about.

But he did not agree with them.

The knock barely rattled him. He did not look up.

“Come in.”

Galen was at his desk, which was its usual state of controlled precision: papers squared, nothing extraneous, a half-empty glass of water at his right elbow. He had been reading the same Ministry correspondence for the third time, because the third time was when he usually stopped hoping he had misread it.

He set it face-down when Gideon entered.

He looked at him for a moment – the set of his shoulders, the crease between his brows – and understood immediately that this was not a casual visit. Gideon Blackwood was not a man who climbed to the Headmaster’s office on a Sunday afternoon for nothing.

“Close the door,” Galen said. He did not offer a seat; the man would sit. He leaned back in his chair instead, fingers laced, watching his Deputy with the patience of a man who had already decided he was not going to like what came next.

“Sit down, Gideon,” he said after a moment, motioning to the chair.