Res Ipsa Loquitur/ The Thing Speaks for Itself

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Res Ipsa Loquitur/ The Thing Speaks For Itself

Nymphadora Tonks sat in the Hogwarts library, almost hidden behind the teetering piles of books. Madam Pince had been kind enough to give her access to the restricted section. Well, perhaps kind was too generous a description. Madam Pince had pursed her thin lips in a grimace of distaste and wrinkled her long nose as if she had smelled something nasty, but then she had given Tonks the required access. Four hours later, Tonks was manically flipping through books, looking for the information she needed. Clouds of dust rose from the pages, enveloping her like a fog.

She was at Hogwarts on business for the Order. She was deep in research about gems, opals in particular, and if there were any charms to turn them into miniature pensieves. Pensieves could be rather unwieldy, and you always needed a cupboard or closet at hand to hide them from prying eyes and curious minds. In instances of war, a portable pensieve could be quite useful – allowing a warrior to look back at their memories to see if there was anything they had missed the first go ‘round. Also, a portable pensieve could be handy when dealing with prisoners of war. You could take their memories, uncover where their allegiances lay and do so anywhere you liked. Most convenient.

She tossed aside a book about the mystical powers of the egret and her eyes alit on a book she did not recognize. She ran her hand through her hair, creating a lilac path where her palm had passed, and took a deep breath. She slid the book closer. It was bound in claret-coloured leather, the parchment pages sepia-ed with age. Curiously, only two words marked the leather. In curving, golden script the words “Read me” were etched.

She laid her hand on the book. The leather was cool and smooth under her palm, but the gilded words felt warm, as if heated by some flame within. Tonks had a vague feeling of foreboding. She remembered a story from her childhood, a Muggle tale, of a girl dropping down a rabbit hole. That girl had eaten something with “Eat me” on it and drunk of something with “Drink me” on it. Tonks remembered that strange things had happened after that. Even then, she had learned the moral of that tale – be very suspicious of things that tell you what to do. She pressed a fingertip into the binding, and then traced the words with her fingertip. The binding smelled as it should have, of old leather and glue; the pages smelled of dust and aged ink. She tried to imagine the hands that had traversed the bindings, the fingers that had turned the pages before her, but she failed. The spine was uncreased and the pages appeared smooth, untouched. It was almost as if the book had not existed before it had appeared on her desk, as if it were for her eyes alone. She couldn’t remember having pulled it from a shelf. It seemed to be her book and hers alone.

She sucked in a quick breath, cast a quick glance around, and opened the cover.