Weft of Power, Warp of Blood: A Tapestry of Desire

Chapter Twenty - Six
14th February - St. Voldemort’s Day


“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Settle down,” Kiaya called as she entered the seventh year Gryffindor/Slytherin classroom. They were unusually loud and rowdy. “Please pass forward your homework. Mr. Weasley, ten points from Gryffindor. You know there is no food in this class. Put it away.” She collected the papers as they petered toward the front of the class, ignoring the redhead as he shuffled the candy away. She did, however notice the half-hidden magazine that the two girls were peeking at. “Miss Thornquist, Miss Everly, if you studied potions more than you read that magazine, you would know how to make the lipstick you that are staring at so lustfully instead of having to buy it. Ten points from Slytherin.”

As one of the girls blushed and stuffed the copy of Witch Weekly under her book, Kiaya segued with a small grin, “And speaking of lusting- Happy Valentine’s Day-tomorrow. Miss Thornquist, Mr. Jordan, please hand out the ingredients for today’s lesson.” She tapped the board with her wand, the recipe faded into view and the students rose. She peered at Jordan’s desk. “Mr. Jordan, if I see that spider’s leg creep out of that box one more time, I’m going to take it away from you and give it to Hagrid. Familiar or not, keep it in your dormitory or under lock and key.”

The girls squeaked at the mention of the pet tarantula. He shut the box on his desk with a muttered apology and stuffed it into his bag before heading back to the cupboard.

“While you are waiting for your materials, please show me that you do, indeed, know the ingredients for the various contraceptive potions that you have been researching this week.”

Hands shot up though the girls were blushing and tossing their hair and the boys were looking at the girls as though they were butterbeer and cakes. Kiaya knew that the potion they made today was a good choice – she wouldn’t get anything useful out of them until Monday.

“Wild yam, leech mucus and bicorn horn.”

“Good. Two points to Slytherin.”

“Queen Anne’s lace, smartweed and cottonroot.”

“Not cottonroot – anyone else?”

“Ergot, rue and pennyroyal.”

“No! Can anyone tell me why not?” she paused, looking for hands – there were none. “It is the same reason cottonroot is not used for contraception,” she placed particular emphasis on the last word.

No hands rose.

Kiaya perched on the edge of the desk, her arms and ankles crossed. Making sure to look at each student as she lectured, she said, “Cottonroot, ergot, rue and pennyroyal are all abortifacients. Unless you are Catholic, contraception and abortion are entirely different. The point of your research is to make sure that you do not get to the point where you need an abortifacient in the first place.”

Several heads ducked down, many of their faces were flushed.

“Before you attempt any contraceptive potion or anything that might require one, please do some more research and consult your healer and/or your mother. That said, I want to make sure that you do not make any of these potions or even touch any of these ingredients, without supervision because of the possible tragic mistakes. For your safety, it is always best to have a healer or a master make these potions, which is why you are only researching them, not making them. If you have any questions that you would like to ask privately about the contraceptive potions or about the uses of those and several other herbs with the same effect, I will be in my office after class.”

“You all have your ingredients for today’s lesson. You will be making a rather trivial little potion today, in honor of St. Valentine’s Day. It’s called Orpheus Song and is usually considered to be a prank potion with little or no practical use. It is loosely classified as a philter, which is…?” she broke off, waiting for hands.

One of the Slytherin boys answered, “A love or desire potion.”

“Two points to Slytherin. The result of ingesting the properly brewed Orpheus Song is that a post-pubescent male will burst into love songs at odd intervals for approximately one hour for each mouthful. It does not affect pre-pubescent males or females at all. Historically, it is usually made by the female half of a couple to get her beloved to be more romantic. The potion fell out of fashion after the entire male half of a bridal party eloped with a brothel full of prostitutes during the chorus of “I Plight My Troth and Fortune to Thee,” in 1892. Sadly, the intended bride had made the potion so that her groom would serenade her on her last night as a single woman. As a note, do not drink alcohol while under the effects of this potion.”

Several Slytherins smirked. Weasley-on-the-right started scribbling in a diary he’d pulled from his bag.

“You have your ingredients, you see your instructions – if I hear anyone singing in the halls today, I will dock points. Please wait until tomorrow when I am not here to hear the racket. Begin.”

An hour later, Kiaya knew that it had been a good choice to brew the potion herself, along with the class. Two of the Slytherins had cauldrons full of purple sludge, though the rest were doing just fine with an insipid pink potion. Clearly the two had only been selected for the N.E.W.T. Potions class because Snape mollycoddled his house; Thornquist and the boy were both flaming morons. (That meant, of course, that one of them was going to either blow up the school or create an accidental potion capable of curing every known ill in the universe and then never be able to replicate the mistake.) Last night, she had decided that she would brew the potion with the class in order to test it on one of the students and give them all a giggle before the holiday. It was a lark but generally an inoffensive one and one of the Weasleys would be happy enough to be a test frog, showing the class what the true result of the potion was. She’d give the idiot brigade small phials of the potion just to prove that she had no Snape-like qualities.

Lee Jordan joined the idiot brigade when he added a dry jabberknoll feather to the pot instead of steeping it in the red wine provided (Kiaya was also on the lookout for tipplers.) As every bubble burst in his slowly boiling potion, it emitted a belching sound instead of the quiet, musical hum. Kiaya shook her head, gave the boy a zero for the class and set another empty phial on the desk.

Soon, the remaining cauldrons were all humming and starting to form the characteristic plumes of musical note-shaped steam. Most of the potions were verging on perfect; Weasley-on-the-left’s potion was perfect, meaning that it was George. He did have talent underneath all that red hair and the engaging grin.

“Bottle your potions – one for me and one to take with you. Clean your caldrons; you may pour the remainder of your potion down the sink this time. I need a volunteer for testing, please,” Kiaya announced.

At that moment, Professor Snape stalked into the room, aimed for the supply cabinet. He looked more irritated than usual.

Impulsively, which was always a mistake around Snape, Kiaya grinned, latched onto his arm and said, “And here’s my volunteer. Thank you so much for stopping by our class.”

“Unhand me,” he demanded under his breath.

“After you drink today’s lesson,” she muttered back, with a saccharine smile. She knew the students were watching the by-play.

“I have no desire to be laboratory rat for some blithering idiot’s botched potion.”

“I wouldn’t subject you to one of theirs. I made one, too.”

“The descriptive remains,” he scowled and looked into her cauldron.

“So nasty, and after all we’ve shared. Don’t you trust me?” She looked at her rapt audience and ordered, “Get cleaned up.”

The students bustled and rummaged through the mess, cleaning and restocking the shelves. Most spent more time watching the adults than putting away their materials, however.

“No, I don’t trust you. I can very well what you’ve concocted. Tell me, Professor,” he pronounced the word like an invective, “Is Orpheus Song on the list of possible test subjects for the N.E.W.T.S.?”

Eyeing the class as they gathered supplies to wash, Kiaya said under her breath, “Don’t play stupid, Professor Snape, it doesn’t suit you.”

He crooked an eyebrow at her backward compliment but did not pursue it. Kiaya was relieved. After an impatient motion to dawdling students to wash out cauldrons instead of giving sideways glances and outright stares, she pressed further.

“Surely you have a gorgeous singing voice, after all your speaking voice is such a pleasure when you’re not being nasty,” she teased, knowing that she was on very dangerous ground.

“You like it, hmm?” he purred.

“Every female past puberty does and some very special males do and you know it,” she retaliated, uncomfortable when he lowered his voice.

He came back to a normal volume. “No, thank you, Professor. I don’t need to be humiliated by being forced to sing in front of a class of stupid teenagers.”

“Calling your precious Slytherins ‘stupid’? Goodness, do they know what you think of them?” She gave him an innocent look from underneath her eyelashes. One of the Gryffindors in the first row coughed to cover a laugh.

Lip curling, he snarled, “Are you trying to blackmail me now?”

“No, but it’s a lovely thought,” she said in a lowered voice so the students didn’t hear.

“Don’t bother. I’m not afraid of anything that you think you could possibly come up with.”

“Prove it. Drink the potion,” she dared.

He contemplated the notion for a moment and smiled. It reminded her of a shark’s grin with coffee stained teeth. “You may wish that you hadn’t started this,” he warned, ladling a silver goblet full.

“Nonsense. I simply want the children to see the effects of this very interesting potion.”

The students were settling again, all wearing expectant looks.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Professor Snape has kindly offered to be our test subject,” she announced.

The seventh years all stared, giggled, whispered between each other or simply smirked, waiting for the show to begin.

“Settle down, class. Professor, if you would, please?” Kiaya invited. Afraid that she, too, was wearing a smirk, she schooled her face into a mask of studious sobriety. She sincerely hoped there would be no revenge for this.

Eyebrow raised, he drank. It only took a moment for the potion to take effect. The hum sounded like it came from low in his chest, deep and rather menacing.

She awaited the sappy love song.

“Si puer cum puellula, moraretur in cellula, felix coniunctio. Amore suscrescente…”

With a pleasure that wasn’t all from winning the battle, Kiaya listened to Snape sing as she bottled the three phials of potion for the students. His voice was smooth and deep. It coated her spine in warm honey and made her want…. Wait… Kiaya flushed, mentally translating the song. He wouldn’t… he didn’t…. He did. Damn that man, she didn’t know how he did it, but he was singing one of the most lewd songs ever to have been written by fourteenth century monks – one of Mr. Basilton’s favorite songs, in fact. It was NOT a love song. She looked around, none of the children seemed to recognize it, thank goodness. Still, they were giggling and gawking.

Smiling wickedly, Snape allowed himself to be grabbed by the arm, her fingers digging into the muscle and led to the office. Docilely, he walked into the room, still singing, “Pariter e medio, avulso procul tedio….”

She slammed the door before he got to the line about limbs, arms and lips.

“Two feet on snake antivenins, due Monday. Class dismissed!”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They started arriving at exactly noon on Saturday morning, just hours after the wrong letter had been sent off. Young Gam Fenna rang the bell outside of the Hecate’s Hawthorn hedge, wearing a vacuous smile and carrying a long delivery box. Infuriated with herself for carelessly sending a letter that never should have been sent, worried that her ultimate goal of getting over That Man would be jeopardized by it, and enraged that she’d written the letter- and such a completely inappropriate letter at that- in the first place, and sickened by the possibility of what would happen now, she jerked open the door. Glaring at the bucktoothed, slouch-backed teenager beyond the hedge, she snapped, “What do you want?”

“Gots a delivery for ya, Missus, from Bettina’s Beautiful Blooms.”

Digging in her purse automatically, searching for a couple of sickles to give the boy as a tip, she called, “Who’s it from?”

“Dunno, Miss. Bettina just gives me boxes and points the way. Prob’ly a note inside.”

“What is it?”

“Dunno that either, Miss. I only heard ‘er say that she got ‘em in last week on a special order.”

Even though she was still sick with upset, Jasmine had to smile. Her great-grandfather was so sweet; he always sent “his flowers” exotic blooms and chocolates on Valentine’s Day. She walked out to the gate, gave the young man his tip and took the box with perfunctory thanks.

Once she was inside, she opened the box. Eyes wide, her breath caught. With reverent hands she lifted the gift from its carefully wrapped haven. Eighteen inches long, with colors more brilliant than had it been real, the crystal iris sparkled as sunlight shimmered through it. Flashes of rainbow and the glow of rich colors shot through the room as she turned the glass, carefully holding the slender stem. She gaped at the beauty of the flower, its dazzling sparkles and delicate craftsmanship. The petals had bright and subtle gradations of color, the stamen looked as though it would break if she breathed on it; it all glittered. The leaves, which she was careful not to touch, were a completely clear emerald but for thin strips of opaque color as ‘veins’.

She Summoned a heavy crystal bud vase from a high cabinet and slipped the beautiful flower into it. Setting it in the middle of the table where she could admire it, Jasmine searched for a note. She found it on top of the wrapping papers; she’d overlooked it in her haste to open the box.

“I” was all it said. The handwriting on the ivory vellum was flowery; it was unsigned. Turning it over, she read “Bettina’s Beautiful Blooms” in the same flowing script as the letter ‘I’ had been written in.

“How odd,” she mused, forgetting – for only a moment - the humiliation of earlier.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Juggling an overfull box, Kiaya opened the door and walked directly into a wall. This being Hogwarts, that wasn’t entirely unusual, though this wall grunted. She rebounded, dropped the box of essays and research materials that she’d been holding and stumbled. Unfortunately, she hit the doorjamb, causing her to stumble again. She landed on her derrière with a thud, shaking her brain, cracking her tailbone and knocking the wind out of her. Stunned but recovering, she looked up and gasped. “I’m so sorry, Professor Snape. I didn’t see you there.”

From high above came a silky growl, “Clumsy female.”

“I’m not clumsy. You were standing right in the doorway. Not a very clever place to loiter, I’ll have you know,” was her rejoinder. She scrambled for the papers that were quickly rolling away, hoping Snape would just step right over her instead of continuing with a stereotypical tirade concerning her lack of intelligence, grace and right to be in his office. Instead, she was surprised when he looked down the hallway then knelt on one knee to help her pick up the scrolls, stacking them neatly in the box. She’d forgotten it after yesterday’s last class. Since she wanted the essays returned so they could read over her comments, she’d had to fetch it this morning.

They reached for the same scroll but he got to it first. She didn’t mean to leave a red welt across the back of his hand with her nail, but his hand reached right where hers was aimed. In her rush to snatch up all of the papers, it just happened. “Oh no! I’m sorry! I suppose that I really am clumsy today.”

He tossed the scroll into the box and she reached for his hand without looking at his face. She dropped a light kiss on the scrape, just as she’d do if she accidentally injured a friend or family member. A kiss always made it better at home; she hoped he took it in the spirit that it was offered – a friendly apology. Mostly she hoped that he wouldn’t yell at her for hurting him.

He looked at her, shocked.

Kiaya’s eyes crinkled in a smile. She murmured, “There now, all better. I’m sorry, for walking into you and for the scrape.”

The sounds of students making their way down the hallway distracted them him for a moment but his attention was quickly returned to her. Lips compressed, he nodded stiffly, hair swinging into his face, and continued picking up the books and parchments. When they were finished, he picked up the box and handed it to her, said. “Your -” he wiggled his finger at the top of her head, “scarf is crooked.”

Kiaya was puzzled at why he noticed such a thing, why he bothered to say anything about it, why on earth he’d stopped to help her and why he hadn’t had a fit when she’d scratched him. She juggled the box to rest on her hip and felt the edge of the grass green scarf. It exposed far too much of her hair, greasy with PMP. Tugging the heavy cotton so that it sat straight again, she murmured, “Thanks”.

He nodded.

“You didn’t drink that potion yesterday, did you?” she wondered aloud.

“Of course I did. I transfigured it into pomegranate juice before I drank it, though,” he replied. His face was carefully blank.

“That was cheating – and that song!” It was almost a pout, revealing acknowledgement of his cunning.

“Since I don’t like being blackmailed, I decided that all’s fair in love and war.”

“Just because the potion is classified as a philter doesn’t mean that it’s love, Professor,” she retorted.

“Then it must be war… Professor,” he purred.

Kiaya was again worried when he voice lowered. Over time, she’d learned that the quieter he got, the more dangerous he was. She bit the inside of her lip, suddenly grateful there were students nearby as witnesses.

Draco Malfoy separated from the flock of sycophants surrounding him and approached. “Professor Snape, Sir, we’re on our way to Hogsmeade. Is there anything you’d like for me to get for you while I’m there?”

Kiaya resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but it was a near thing. The boy was a brown-noser on his way to becoming a clone of his lecherous father. She wanted to leave, to go back home, finish marking the essays, work on the Stomach Tonic she’d set to steep for Mrs. Lewbody and spend the rest of the afternoon doing precisely nothing- but was trapped by the two tall males.

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy, but no.” He looked at Kiaya and then back at the boy. “I have everything I want right here.”

Kiaya blinked but immediately discounted the first thought that rushed into her head. Snape wouldn’t….

Malfoy the Younger glanced down her body quickly and then to the floor. He picked up one of the parchment scrolls that had rolled beyond Snape into the hallway. His eyes moved back up her form to the box under arm then to her face again. Smiling charmingly, he pulled his wand from his pocket and tapped the scroll. With a quick murmur and a look of concentration, the second year’s scroll was transfigured into a blush pink rose, still in its bud. He offered it to her with a slight bow, saying, “My father sends his regards and wishes you a happy Valentine’s Day, Professor.”

Kiaya quailed at the thought of Lucius Malfoy thinking of her on Valentine’s Day but then shrugged away the thought – at least someone wished her a happy day. So what if he was… icky. She smiled up at the boy and took the rose with a murmur of thanks. “As lovely as this is, will I eventually be able to mark this?”

“It will transfigure back in a couple of hours, Miss. Would you care for…”

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. This was very sweet of you,” she interrupted.

He gave a short bow and withdrew, saying, “Professors….”

Snape looked after him a moment – the boy swaggered back to his clique but several pairs of eyes remained trained on them. Kiaya stood dumbly.

Snape stole the pink rose from her with a sneer, “How utterly insipid. The boy has no style.”

“It was a nice gesture, Professor. I’m happy with that,” she retorted quietly, aware the children were still watching them.

He smirked at her, “You seem to have very low standards. It doesn’t take much to please you does it?”

Her eyes narrowed.

He lifted the rose to his lips and breathed a word onto the tightly closed petals. The soft pink turned darkest crimson. Gently, he blew another word across the petals; Kiaya was transfixed on his lips as they brushed the delicate petals. His peppermint and coffee scented breath reached her; she was shocked at the incongruity of it. As if in a dream, the petals unfurled into their full glory. Tilting the rose toward her, he offered it back but didn’t move his arm.

Kiaya reached for the flower. She wasn’t smiling. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth and her chin was ducked down though her eyes met his from under her lashes.

Before she noticed what was happening, his other hand had caught hers. He drew it higher. She stared, a tingle fluttering in her belly. He touched his lips to the tips of her fingers. It was barely contact at all, the kiss was so light, but she felt heat flow through her arm like warm molasses.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he breathed onto her skin.

His typical sneer quirked into one of his rare half smiles, handed the blooming rose to her and swept past her into the office, closing the door.

Draco Malfoy stared after him and then turned his attentions back to her. He leered in the most polite way possible and guided the others down the hall.

Standing still, clutching the box under one arm, and the rose in another, she felt slightly dazed and deeply confused. Her last thought before wandering home was, “Slytherin men are so… smooth.”

Inside the office, where there were no witnesses, Snape flopped into his chair. His arms were crossed and he was wearing a sour look. To no-one- in- particular, he muttered, “The things I do for Dumbledore.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I
Don’t
Know
Your
Favorite
Flower
Yet.
I
Love
You.

Those were the notes that came with each flower, in chronological order. One flower and cryptic note had arrived every half-hour since noon (purple bearded iris). By four-thirty (yellow tulip), Jasmine was puzzled, tired, frustrated and sickened by the letter. She was dreading what would happen next and she was afraid that this was the ‘next’. Her toes hurt from where she’d kicked the oven in a fit of temper about said letter and frankly tired of hearing Arielle’s happily chirping voice.

Berri had jumped up on the kitchen table to investigate the flowers and Skeevers had wended his tongue up the side of the table and licked several of them to determine what they were. Jasmine hadn’t seen it happen but she did see the cat nose prints marring the glittering crystal of the tall, pink aster. There was a saliva trail from the floor up the table leg, across the wood and wrapping around the wide stem of the third flower to arrive, a brilliant sunflower. Only the fuzzy puffskien had a tongue like that and unless he wanted to be made into a muff, he needed to learn to keep his tongue off of the table. Jasmine contemplated pouring vinegar across the table in case they decided to investigate again.

Whoever was sending the flowers had constructed an elaborate, expensive plot to drive her insane. She suspected that it was That Man, but wasn’t going to invoke him, just in case it wasn’t. At one o’clock (jonquils), Gam Fenna, the delivery boy, had told her that it was his employer, Bettina’s, handwriting and that no, he couldn’t tell her who’d sent the flowers or how many there were. Yet he’d shown up ever half-hour with another glass bloom. By two o’clock (cream and lime primroses), she’d run out of small vases. She thought about Duplicating one of them but was afraid the charm would fail before she could get more real vases; she didn’t want the beautiful things to fall when the charmed vases disappeared. Instead, she hauled out a large, clever vase that Severus had bought several years ago– it had come with roses on their first anniversary. It could hold twelve flowers in individual wells encircling a solid crystal column.

The water clock struck five. The doorbell rang again. Jasmine was getting tired of that particular litany.

“I’ll get it, Mama!” Arielle yelled as she clattered down the stairs.

“You will not, miss. You do not open this door by yourself, ever. Understand me?”

“But, Mama, it’s just Gam again,” Ari said with a ‘you’re such a silly mama’ air and pointed out the window. “Can I go, please, please, please, please?”

“You can come with me.” Jasmine didn’t have enough energy to enforce a ‘go upstairs and play’. Together they trotted out. Since Arielle had seen Gam several times already, she ignored him to gambol about with the chickens and goat while Jasmine talked to the young man.

Gam smiled pleasantly and called, “This’un is the last, Miss, just so’s ya’ know.”

“Thank you, Gam. You have certainly made the day interesting.”

“You, too. Miss. Say, did’ja ever find out who they’re from?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Nope, Bettina said it came from Gringotts. They was innerceedin’ on b’half o’ one of the vaultholders or sumthin’ like that. Didn’t say who.”

“Oh.” The idea that had been creeping about for several hours finally settled low in her belly. She knew whom they were from. That Man.

“Them chocolates from Dumbledore was great, Miss, thanks. Bettina don’ ever let us eat ‘em from the shop. I never had one before.”

“You’re welcome,” she said with a forced smile. Should she shatter the flowers? No, they were works of art. Should she put them away? No, they were too beautiful; she wanted to see them. Could she ignore That Man’s gifts? No way. Damn him. Had he received the letter yet?

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Miss Swan. Hope your admirer reveals himself in this one,” he said as he handed her the box. This box was wide and flat. The boxes had come in all shapes and sizes. So far, the largest had been for the lavender hyacinths, the smallest contained a cyclamen stem.

“Thank you,” she said. She gave the boy yet another sickle and walked into the house, calling Arielle to follow.

Forget-me-nots; the symbolism of the flower was clear. The “Y” shaped stem and branches made her scowl, it was huge - and she never wanted to see him again. She definitely wanted to forget all about That Man…. The sky-blue and yellow glass of the buds and blooms winked at her in the dying light of the day. They were so lovely – damn him. She put the stem into the vase, between the white butterfly orchid and the peach sword lily, then found the note.

Jasmine,
These made me think of you – beautiful, delicate, sparkly and full of color and light. There are twelve of them. I have the last one but am waiting to deliver it to you personally. Happy Valentine’s Day. I love you.
S.

She threw the note into the fireplace and stomped away before the flames had consumed it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

His stomach had harpies dashing about in it. Not butterflies, not cute little owls – full-fledged she-bitch harpy vultures that nest in the cypress trees of hell. Nerves. He, Sirius Black, former carefree, leash-free womanizer, was nervous about talking to a woman. The woman. His woman. The woman who apparently hated his guts. The woman who’d once threatened to neuter him – and still might if he let her get too close before he did some fast talking and serious seduction. But, he’d start with a heartfelt floo conversation to break the ice.

Dumbledore, Shacklebolt, Dung and Remus sat at the table with him, though he ignored them. Again, they were discussing the floor plan and charms in the Department of Mysteries. Again he ignored them as he wouldn’t be on guard duty – he never was. He was too busy navel gazing, staring at the clock on the mantle, then into the cold fireplace and back at the clock. Seconds were hours as he waited for the last flower to be delivered.

The other men occasionally looked at him, amused that he was mooning about over a woman. Shacklebolt even had the nerve to polish his wedding ring and say that he was glad to be safely married so that he “didn’t have to deal with that courting crap ever again.”

Rap! Rap! Rap! One of the many owls that flapped through the house daily knocked on the window. Sirius saw it out of the corner of his eye. Since it wasn’t the snowy Hedwig, he ignored it and jiggled his knee.

Remus, being the good sport that he always was, opened the window. The Great Horned Owl flapped to the table, landing between Sirius and Dumbledore. The old wizard greeted him with familiarity and took the letter from his beak. He read the name on the letter, then back at the owl. “Are you sure this was supposed to come here?” Dumbledore asked the bird.

Florentine did not deign to answer. Instead he drank from Remus’s water glass and stole a biscuit from the plate on the table. He launched himself at the perch in the corner and settled down for a kip after the long flight.

Dumbledore looked again at the name on the letter.

Sirius Black.
14th Feb.

He handed the letter to Remus, who also read the name. Remus shrugged, silently asking what the confusion was about. Dumbledore lowered his nose to peer at the werewolf over the rim of his crescent-shaped glasses. Remus goggled. Dumbledore nodded.

“Sirius,” Remus said, trying to get his attention. He was ignored.

“Padfoot!” This time Remus shoved Sirius.

“Wha?”

Sirius turned around with a curious glare. Remus handed him the letter. Sirius, too, looked at the handwriting on the letter, puzzled.

“Who’s it from?”

“I think you’ll want to read it.”

“Read it, you nitwit,” instructed Mundungus Fletcher, hoping that the mystery of the letter would be revealed. Hopefully out loud.

“I’m not going to read you my mail, Dung. Get your own,” Sirius retorted. He opened the letter.

Sirius,

Please stop writing to me, I can’t take it anymore; your letters are getting to me even more now. I tried not to open the last one, but did. I could almost feel your body next to mine. I don’t know what kind of charm you’re putting on these letters to make them irresistible, but it’s working. I will never – ever admit it to you, though…

They watched as his face went from stricken, to puzzled, to elated, back to puzzled and then gaping and flushed. He flipped the letter over, checking to see if there was writing on the back that the others could read – there wasn’t. Sirius stood in a rush, his hand shoved in his pocket, tenting his robes; he strode out of the kitchen without saying a word, still reading.

The men, all but Dumbledore, chuckled at their doomed friend.

When Sirius came downstairs a bit later, Dumbledore, Fletcher and Kingsley Shacklebolt were gone. Remus explained that the old wizard had thought it was best that he not have part in whatever Sirius was going to get himself involved in. As long as Sirius stayed inside 12 Grimmauld Place, then Dumbledore didn’t want to know anything about it. Plausible deniability was the safest bet when it came to Jasmine’s ire.

Sirius waved off the explanation. Wearing a goofy cum wolfish grin he said, “She wrote back.”

Remus looked amused, “I can tell.”

“She wants me. She doesn’t want to, but she does. She’s been writing and not sending them. I don’t know why she sent this one but I think it was a mistake. I have to talk to her!”

“Sure that’s a good idea, Padfoot? If the letter was an accident, she might be a little miffed if you call her on it.”

“Moony, she wants this, it’s everywhere here,” he waved the letter around. “She’s still angry but she wants… I’m going to do it.”

Remus just shrugged.

Sirius snagged the flower from the table and the pot of Floo Powder. He knelt down, pushed his head into the fireplace then tossed a pinch of powder into the cold hearth, calling, “Dumbledore’s Garden!”

He felt dizzy from the spinning for the Floo Network and queasy from nerves; his head arrived in her fireplace in seconds. He knelt in his own kitchen, looking into hers.

Jasmine stood with her back to him, busy at the stove.

Sirius caught his breath, trying not to stare at her bottom as it wiggled while she stirred the contents of a frying pan. Carefully, he reached to the edge of the flames, near to the floor and dropped the glass flower, hoping that it wouldn’t break on impact. It didn’t.

“Jasmine,” he called.

She whirled around, seeking the voice. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

He tried to sound confident, “I got your letter.”

“You! Go away- leave me alone! I never want to see or hear from you again!” she screeched.

“But, the letter….”

She jerked up the frying pan from the stove, “Get out!”

“Jasmine, please, I…”

“OUT!”

She threw the frying pan at the fireplace, striking a glancing blow to the side of his head. Carrots, celery, chopped tomatoes and chucks of sausage flew into his kitchen. He tumbled backward; the flames went out.

Rising from the heap he’d landed in, Sirius quickly tossed a desperate handful of Floo Powder into the hearth, yelling, “Dumbledore’s Garden,” again.

The fireplace stayed cold.

Again, he reached for another handful of the powder but Remus caught his wrist.

“She’s locked it.”

“Fuck me,” Sirius muttered.

Remus didn’t respond but let his friend’s wrist go.

Sirius tucked his legs up, resting his elbows on his knees, his chin on his chest. He sat still for several minutes until he noticed the vegetables tucked into the folds of his robes and on the floor next to him. The frying pan was upside down underneath the table. He ignored them all and tugged the letter closer, reading it over again. Absently, he picked up a carrot from the floor, popping it into his mouth and chewing it thoughtfully.

Molly Weasley bustled in, laden with bags from the market. Gasping, she looked around the kitchen, “What happened here?”

Sirius was silent, reading, occasionally popping a bite of food into his mouth.

Remus answered for him, as tactfully as possible, “He finally Flooed Dumbledore’s great-granddaughter. She decided to... share her dinner.”

With a woman’s wisdom, Molly nodded her understanding. “Threw it at him through the fire, did she?”

Remus nodded.

Molly looked at Sirius again. “He’s eating off the floor!”

“I don’t think he even realizes it,” said Remus.

“Should we tell him?” Molly sounded scandalized.

Remus looked at his best friend, considered the situation and said, “Nah.”