A Drop in the Ocean / 24 March 1976
The smell of reheated Mongolian beef and sticky rice permeated Sturgis’ Puddlemere flat. He usually reserved Thursday evenings for Chinese takeway, and ate the leftovers sometime over the weekend. It wasn’t bad now on Saturday afternoon, no, but Sturgis poked at his food with chopsticks more often than actually eating it.
Although, it should be noted, his lack of appetite had nothing to do with the leftover Chinese takeaway, and everything due to the Daily Prophet unfolded on his coffee table.
Given the events of the week, it would be hard-pressed to find a witch or wizard without an opinion on the growing protests at the Ministry of Magic. Sturgis had an opinion, of course; his reaction to the events, however, was still to be determined.
Dinner the night before at Wyvern’s Eve with his parents broached the topic. “It’s not that your father and I disagree with those protestors,” Lavinia Podmore replied in between sips of Argentinian Malbec, “But it’s not really our place to speak out against the Ministry, darling.” Patrick Podmore, a man of considerably fewer words, nodded in agreement.
Sturgis didn’t fault his parents for their opinion. As the Head of the International Magical Trading Standards Body, Patrick’s substantial Ministry salary came with the unspoken requirement of never speaking ill of his employer. Sturgis’ parents began their careers with nothing but their own hard work, ambition, and cleverness---never any handouts. They had reputations to maintain, which could be easily lost in seconds, but Sturgis couldn’t shake the notion that silence was complicity.
Finally giving up on the Chinese leftovers and succumbing to his body’s disinterest in eating, Sturgis waved his wand and casted a dish cleaning charm. He sunk deeper into the couch, fingers habitually rubbing his temples. If he participated in the protest, would it impact his parents? What about him, too? Was it right to quietly support from a distance? Would his one voice even make a difference? Sturgis let out a grunt. He needed guidance, advice, clarity---something.
He sat up, arms crossed in front of his chest, as he absentmindedly scanned the flat. An unopened box of Bertie Bott’s caught his attention; the candy had been a moving-in gift from a neighbor whose name Sturgis couldn’t recall. He didn’t hate the sweets, no, but he preferred Chocolate Frogs. He left the box of Bertie Bott’s in a bowl near the front door, hoping someone visiting would take it home. Months later, it still sat unopened in his flat.
And then suddenly, a memory slid into Sturgis’ consciousness.
“Mr. Podmore, why don’t you take a seat.” Albus Dumbledore gestured for a twelve-year-old Sturgis to plop into a rather large armchair. Sturgis felt nervous and guilty.
“I didn’t want them to call him that, I promise. I don’t say that word,” Sturgis interjected before the headmaster could broach the topic.
A kind smile tugged on Dumbledore’s lips as pulled out a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. “Would you like some?”
Sturgis nodded tentatively and stuck out his hand. After Dumbledore placed a few beans in his hand, Sturgis picked one. His mouth immediately tasted like buttery popcorn. Despite the savory taste, he couldn’t shake the uneasiness he felt from the incident that occurred earlier in the morning.
“Is he okay?”
“Mr. Spleen is understandably upset, but he will be okay.”
“I told them to leave him alone,” Sturgis replied, recalling the group of Slytherin boys calling the Hufflepuff boy terrible names---things that were never to be spoken, according to his mother. “I told them all to stop, but they wouldn’t listen to me. I guess, I thought... I’m just me. What can I do?” Sturgis shrugged defeatedly.
“There are moments in life, Mr. Podmore, where we all feel like nothing more than a simple drop in a vast ocean. But aren’t oceans made up of countless, single drops?” Dumbledore plopped a bean into his mouth.
Sturgis stared incredulously at the headmaster, who smiled back.
“Ah, bogey-flavored. What a peculiar taste.” Dumbledore’s blue eyes glinted behind half-moon spectacles. “Why don’t you take the rest of those beans with you and head to History of Magic? Professor Binns tells me you’re quite interested in Gifford Ollerton the giant-slayer.”
At twelve-years-old, Sturgis could hardly decipher Albus Dumbledore’s message. At nineteen, he still wouldn’t claim to wholly understand, but the lesson provided the clarity he desired.
Sturgis sprung from the couch, fetching his wallet and a jacket, and then scribbled note. He rolled up the letter, and Cornelia’s talons wrapped around the parchment. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back,” he stated, giving the owl a few treats and then leaving more in her cage for later, “But take this to Dorcas. And don’t bite her.”
After the owl flew away, Sturgis entered into his flat’s fireplace, floo plowder clutched in his hand.
“The Ministry of Magic.”
