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

Chapter Twenty - Seven
Of Dungeons, Ears, Swamps and that Umbridge Woman

Because Albus Dumbledore was not the kind of man who sat in his office and summoned people that he wished to see or supervised from a distance, it wasn’t surprising to see him in the dungeons one evening a few weeks after Valentine’s Day. Kiaya was wrapping up a late afternoon class, assigning a short essay on truth serums and a longer one on the use of wines in potions. As the students filed out of the class, Kiaya noticed a typical school dynamic. Students with good marks greeted Professor Dumbledore, students who didn’t have them, scuttled through the door, trying not to be noticed. Those were the students that Dumbledore paid particular attention to in his greetings.

Kiaya greeted him with a grin, “Welcome to the Dungeons of Doom, where terror and poisons are force-fed to small children under the watchful eyes of many small dead things, Professor.” Her Horace the Hisser impression failed miserably when she giggled out the last two words.

“I do not see any small dead things, Professor Roundtree. Could it be that you are not properly terrifying the children as is stated in your job description?” he replied after looking at the shelves that were newly covered in white sheets. Blue eyes a-twinkle, Dumbledore stroked his beard with long fingers.

“Pickled dead things do nothing for me, Professor I can’t enjoy myself when there are so many… blank eyes staring at me. I had to cover them up; they were giving me performance anxiety before each lecture. I think that Professor Snape only keeps some of this stuff around for the effect.”

“I daresay you’re right, Kiaya. Now what’s this about the ‘Dungeon of Doom’? Have I missed something important in the dungeons again?”

She laughed, “It was the cleanest dungeon comment that I could come up with on short notice, Sir. Every other thought was completely inappropriate to bring up in front of one’s employer. ”

“Indeed,” He chuckled.

Several of the other comments flashed through her mind, with accompanying illustrations. They made her blush. In an effort to hide her discomfort, she asked, “Now I’m curious. I didn’t think you missed anything that happened in the school.”

“Ah, just a little matter of a rather large basilisk roaming about for a few hundred years. About four levels down from here, I believe,” he said serenely.

Kiaya’s face froze in a pale mockery of the grin she had worn. “A what?” she squeaked, looking at the floor as though she could see through it.

“Don’t worry; it’s dead, courtesy of young Mr. Potter.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t sure if that made her feel any better.

“Frivolity aside, I must ask of you a great favor, Miss Roundtree,” said Dumbledore, interrupting her thoughts.

“From me? What can I do to help?” she asked, curious at why he would ask her, rather than Snape for a potion – or make it himself, considering that Dumbledore knew ‘a little bit about potions’ as he’d once told her in a staff meeting.

“Professor Snape has informed me that his research has been getting a bit more active recently and that I shouldn’t rely on him to produce a rather sensitive potion for a friend of mine. Tell me, have you experienced any prejudice from anyone for making the werewolf tonic?”

Kiaya looked confused. “Not really, no. I make potions, I don’t have to actually deal with the werewolves themselves. The two that I make it for have it owled to them. I never met them. I don’t think people even think about it, especially if I don’t mention it.”

“You have never met some of your clients? Are you afraid of them?”

“Of werewolves?”

Dumbledore nodded. He seemed to be peering into her soul, looking for the answer before she could voice the words.

“Well, I…” she ducked her head down, avoiding his gaze. “I’ve not met one but I don’t really intend to do so – especially in a dark alley on the night of a full moon - no matter how much I’d like to do research on the effectiveness of the potion.”

“Ah. But if there was a werewolf who was willing to be a test subject for your experiments, would you wish to meet him?”

Kiaya struggled to form an answer that would convey her interest in having a willing test subject close at hand while not giving any kind of impression that she wanted a werewolf anywhere nearby. Dumbledore was a fair man; she didn’t think he’d appreciate fear and - yes, prejudice in one of his employees. The most articulate answer she could give was, “Urghm.”

The elder professor looked at her over the rim of his gold spectacles.

Kiaya felt as though she was under a particularly powerful Magnification Spell and tried not to quail under his gaze. “I have two gentlemen that I have been corresponding with for several years. They send me blood samples and have tried the variations of the werewolf potions that Mr. Basilton and I came up with.” Her tone made it quite clear that she did not know them well, did not want to know them well, nor did she want to have dealings with another werewolf.

“You are still actively experimenting with cures for the disease?”

“It was important to Mr. Basilton, so, in my free time, yes,” she latched onto the question. “I haven’t got much free time and all anyone can do at this point is treat rather than cure but on the weekends and evenings I still work on it. Wolfsbane-based potions are interesting to work with. They do so many things. Do you know that the last variation that I made killed a patch of lupine I had in the garden but made the catgloves bloom out of season? It was really quite odd but very interesting. I’m still trying to figure that one out.”

Dumbledore let her rattle on about the vagaries of the potions, offering suggestions and commentary before taking aim again. “I know a young man who is very interested in the outcome of your experiments. He is willing to offer any information he can on the effectiveness of the potions as well as donate whatever you need in the way of research materials. He mentioned to me that getting fresh blood samples during the transformation and during his night as a wolf might be beneficial, rather than just having older samples during the rest of the month.”

Kiaya held her breath and waited for the other shoe.

“Since Professor Snape is more involved in his projects, I need someone to make the standard Lycanthropy Potion for him on a regular basis. Would you do that, in exchange for whatever services that the young man can provide as a test subject?”

“Ah….” Kiaya wondered idly where Dumbledore learned to pin someone to a wall and make them do just what he wanted, just by looking at them. “Of course I will make the potion for him, but I don’t think that I really need another…”

Dumbledore interrupted, “Thank you Professor Roundtree. I will have information on his illness and what has been done for it, as soon as possible. In the meantime, please make up the potion, as needed, three days per month and leave it on Professor Snape’s desk. Either he or I will deliver it to my young werewolf friend.” With that, Dumbledore walked to the door but turned again, as though a thought had just struck. “Oh, by the by…”

Kiaya looked at him, sure that she might faint if he asked for anything else.

“We hare in the most interesting of times, Kiaya. I would hate for someone to be using you for unscrupulous means because of your field and you mentor. If you should get a business request that seems in any way odd or outrageous – or from someone that normally would never contact you, will you be sure to let me know?”

“Er…”

“Good. Edward would have wanted me to look out for you. Kiaya. I do not want to see you hurt because of your willingness to help others. Good day.” With that, Dumbledore left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Kiaya felt as though a rhinoceros had trampled over her body and she wasn’t quite sure how it had wandered into the room. She was to make a Lyncanthropy Potion for a third werewolf and she was to add him to her list of research subjects? It had sounded as though she was to meet and take blood samples from him. Meet a werewolf? Tell Dumbledore if she was contacted by weirdos wanting weird things?

Dumbledore poked his head around the door again, holding a letter out to her. “For you.”

She took it dumbly and pasted a smile on her face, “Thank you.”

“Professor Umbridge asked me to give that to you,” he opened his mouth to say more but closed his mouth again.

She wondered when the most powerful wizard in the world had become a messenger boy, but did not voice the question.

His eyes twinkled. “Just so,” he said and disappeared.

Kiaya turned over the pink envelope with her name written across the front. It was double stamped with the maroon Hogwarts seal and the gold M seal used exclusively by the Ministry.

Professor Kiaya Roundtree,

As you know, Educational Decree Twenty-three, the creation of Hogwarts High Inquisitor, was designed to raise the falling standards of education at Hogwarts. All educators and classes will be under examination and evaluation by the Ministry and its the High Inquisitor, Dolores Umbridge, to ascertain that the standards of integrity and quality of education are being met by the Hogwarts teachers.

Expect your sixth year class to be audited on Wednesday. Please conduct a normal lesson. The High Inquisitor may ask a few questions of you and your class, but be assured that they will not disrupt your lesson.

Signed:

Dolores Jane Umbridge

HIGH INQUISITOR


Kiaya’s head hurt from the rhinoceros’s footprint on her forehead.

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

In one of the back rooms of The Three Flowers, Remus Lupin handed Jasmine and her grandmother, Iris, long, flesh-colored strings. “Molly Weasley gave these to Dumbledore. They will allow you to hear what’s being said in other rooms – such as changing rooms – should there be something to hear.”

“How clever!” exclaimed Iris. “She was a Prewett, wasn’t she? Good family, strong stock. Where on earth did Molly get these?”

Remus snickered, “She found them underneath the beds of her twins, after the kids went off to school. They’re diabolically clever. They invented the Extendable Ears last summer.”

“And we’re to use them at our discretion?” asked Jasmine, hoping that she’d have a chance to do something useful, after all.

“Just listen. Do nothing else, please,” said Remus.

Iris pouted; clearly her idea of spying was to dash into the posh dressing room, wand drawn, to interrogate customers. “How will we let Papa know if we hear something? It would be absolutely no problem to dash over to the Order’s headquarters.”

Remus had been warned about Iris’s talent for wheedling information out of people. He said mildly, “I’ll be here every day, as usual, just in case. You can tell me then. It won’t do to put you in danger, just in case someone was to see you leaving in a rush.”

Annoyed at again not learning where the Order met, Iris led the way out of the back room, handed Remus a package and a coin, then ushered him out of the shop. He shot an amused smile at Jasmine as he passed by the window outside.

Trying to avoid the inevitable, Jasmine picked up her purse and cloak, intending to leave as well. She was unsuccessful.

Iris rounded on her, “Tell me all about your Valentine’s Day, dear.”

“It was nothing special, Grandee,” dismissed Jasmine.

“Did you get any flowers from your special man?” pried Iris, with an expression of knowing.

“I haven’t a special man, Grandee, as you well know.”

“Papa told me that he saw some beautiful glass flowers on your table last weekend. I was just wondering…”

“I’ve put them away, I don’t like them and I don’t like him. They were a waste of money. I’m not interested,” pronounced Jasmine, in a huff. She knew that she was sounding strident in her protestations. Changing the subject, she said, “I’m off to the Muggle fabric shop for some needles and some blue rayon to make a skirt. It has such a nice hand to it. Did you want anything?”

“Oh, I see,” said Iris, with a disbelieving look. She allowed herself to be distracted, “If you can find some of that acry-lack yarn in burgundy, please pick up 6 skeins. Hariolatte Nott wanted a jumper for her dear, sweet nephew.” Her smile was wicked and her blue eyes twinkled behind her jeweled glasses.

Glad to escape mostly unscathed but feeling a bit sorry for Hariolatte Nott’s nephew, Jasmine left the shop, the Extendable Ear in her purse.


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

“No!”

“I wasn’t inviting you to clean your bedroom, Arielle, I told you to do it. Now.”

“I don’ wanna. I wanna play with Skeevers!”

“You’ve been playing with Skeevers for an hour, Ari, but playtime is over. Now it’s time to clean your room like you agreed to this morning.” Jasmine struggled to keep her voice even yet firm. Giving into mindless rage was pointless with a six year old - she knew; similar conversations had been happening a lot recently.

Arielle turned her back on Jasmine, scooped her squirming Puffskein up by his armpits and plopped to the floor in a pointed gesture of passive resistance. This was the signal that the next step would involve either shouting loud enough for Mr. Percival to hear without his ear trumpet, or a spanking. Or both. The little girl had developed a nasty temper recently and every day included a fight. Frequently the tantrums ended with bruises and slammed doors. Most of the bruises decorated Jasmine’s knees, shoulders, back, arms and one good one on the cheek from a well-placed kick.

Hating to be predictable, but growing more irritated with each hissing breath, Jasmine snarled, “Do not ever turn your back on me while I’m speaking to you, miss.” She pounced on the little girl, lifting her up and turning her suddenly limp form around in a single motion; Skeevers ran for cover. Jasmine gave Arielle a quick shake which had the girl standing straight again. “I told you to go upstairs fifteen minutes ago. You still haven’t done it. Shall I bin all of the toys that are on the floor or will you be cleaning them up?”

“No!” Arielle shrieked.

The glassware on the table and the water clock near the front door trembled; the tinkling of the crystal and silver would have been beautiful under different circumstances. The dust that was shaken down from the beams in the ceiling by the force of Ari’s temper wasn’t beautiful at all. They heard Albert grumble from the attic at the rocking. Faust trilled his irritation then disappeared with a soft POP.

Her face skewed into rage, Arielle’s face flushed unattractively. Her lips disappeared, they were pressed together so tightly. Azure eyes flashed her fury while Ari’s fists clenched and her entire body became rigid. “I hate you! You’re not my Mama anymore! You’re a bad Mama! You’re mean, like a dragon!”

The house stopped shaking. Jasmine started shaking. It wasn’t fear, it wasn’t upset; it was uncontrolled magic – and she wasn’t doing it. Jasmine’s face and head tingled slightly, but the tingling became severe, then felt like the stinging of a thousand wasps. Panic burbled from her stomach; Jasmine looked to the mirror next to the front door. Long auburn hair was receding into her head. The normally tiny shells of her ears lengthened into points; Jasmine could hear every breath that every member of the household took – every heartbeat, she knew the exact locations of every creature by the sound. She felt like her head was going to explode; nausea roiled through her stomach and threatened more. Horror dimmed her vision, but Jasmine’s blue eyes stayed fixed on the mirror. Her nose lengthened, flattened, her nostrils moved to the very end of her nose and turned upwards. Idly, she wondered if Severus saw quite this much of his own impressive nose. The normally pale skin of her face and now balding head was turning lime green and scaly. She clasped her hands over her face, scraping her palms on the hard scales forming over her eye sockets. She tried not to vomit.

“Look what you’ve done!” Jasmine roared at Arielle, still looking in the mirror.

Her field of vision changed, she saw the sides of the room more clearly. Her vision was sharper and her eyes moved to the sides of her head. Colors stood out more. Seeing Arielle, Jasmine almost laughed at the little girl’s expression of gaping fascination and terror. Jasmine could see the frantic beating of Arielle’s heart against her shirt and hear her shallow panting breaths.

Enraged and in pain, Jasmine turned to give Arielle a full view of her face. She flared her huge dragon nostrils – her reptilian head felt heavy on her human neck. “Look at what you did to me! You naughty little girl – get to your room right now! What am I supposed to do about this? Get upstairs! Do not come out until it’s clean and you have something to say to me! I do not want to see you until that room is clean, Arielle!”

Ari stood dumbly, staring. A single tear dripped down her cheek, followed quickly by more.

Rather vindictively, Jasmine snorted. A cloud of steam drifted out of her nose and over Ari‘s head. She roared, “Get moving!”

It started with a small whimper but before her feet moved, the sounds Arielle was making escalated to a wail. She dashed up the stairs, skirts flying and hair waving out behind her.

Jasmine snarled at the girl’s fleeing backside, “This is what happens when you lose control of your temper, little girl.”

After Jasmine heard the ubiquitous chime indicating that Arielle’s door was closed (Jasmine had silenced the door several weeks earlier after Ari had slammed it repeatedly) she stared into the mirror again. Tamping down her anger and desire to retch, she thought about her own tantrums as a child and how they compared to the last several weeks of hell that Arielle’s temper was giving her. She could only sigh and hope for aid in the form of a large club to bonk Arielle atop the head with.

Sighing again, and ignoring the tears that were welling in her own eyes, she tottered to the fireplace, tossed in a handful of Floo Powder. Jasmine stayed standing, sure that her voice would carry through the fire.

“Professor Grandpa, I need transfiguration help, please. Arielle’s done it this time…”

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

It had been dropped out of a bag. She wasn’t sure whose bag it had been; she didn’t want to know. All she cared about now was that the door was closed, the next batch of heathens wasn’t due for half an hour and she could finally get a look at the mysterious Quibbler article that everyone was talking about. Every other dread, thought, plan, discussion and desire fled from her mind when she saw the coveted magazine. It had been banned from the school a week ago and everywhere that usually sold the tabloid was sold out. Kiaya didn’t have the time to go rollicking about England and Scotland to find a ruddy magazine, even if it did have a feature article about The-Boy-Who-Lived (Upstairs-But-Had-Not-Yet-Been-Met) and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named coming back to life.

She had propped the magazine against the pile of books that sat on the edge of her desk and read the narrative halfway through when there was a knock on the door. Kiaya had been mid-gasp, reading about how one of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s servants (a previously thought dead servant, that poor Peter Pettigrew, who wasn’t so poor now, was he?) cut off his arm. She looked up, pasting a smile on her lips, hoping that her face didn’t have “GUILTY OF READING FORBIDDEN ARTICLE” stamped across it.

Trying to move casually, Kiaya dumped several books on top of the Quibbler article that could get her fired, then piled several student essays around them. Just for good measure, she found a jar of frog spleens from underneath her lunch bowl of cottage cheese and carrots (so that’s where it had hidden) and placed it on an exposed corner of the interview.

Miss Can’t-Brew-A-Potion-Right-To-Save-Her-Life Thornquist peeked around the door, then stepped in. “Miss, I have a question about the essay on cunilinary potions…”

“Culinary potions?” corrected Kiaya, trying not to snicker. The girl had more hair than brain – hair that frequently fell into the cauldron.

“Yes, those! Er… that’s just like cooking, right? I mean, it’s a part of cooking. Why do we do it in potions class?”

“Indeed it is. I’m having you study it because many herbs, when combined, will do something to the human body and psyche, besides flavor a dish. The essay is for you to figure out what some of those things…”

“Hem-hem,” interrupted a voice from outside the door.

Both student and teacher started and looked toward the sound. Kiaya idly wondered if Miss Thornquist had a similar knot of dread twisting in her stomach- from the expression on her face, she did. There was something about that voice… it couldn’t really be…

“Good afternoon, Professor Roundtree, is it? I’m sure you got my little note about your review? I needed to move from tomorrow to today, I’m afraid. Oh…,” the woman trailed off, looking at the far wall in disgust. Bottles and jars of Snape’s specimens lined it. The woman, dressed in hideous tweed robes, gazed into a nook filled with oddities that Kiaya couldn’t see from her desk; it was where Kiaya had put the floating eyeball that was now staring at Umbridge.

Kiaya’s head jerked to the calendar on the wall. Tomorrow’s date was circled in red. A vision of Snape crashed into her head. ‘Do not let that bitch ask you personal questions. Keep the topic strictly about the class. Do not let her rattle you. Keep your calm and for God’s sake, take that stupid rag off your head,’ he’d snarled at her. Her chest tightened; breathing was difficult. Panic flooded over the knot in her stomach. She blinked, trying to keep her face neutral, “Er, today will be fine, of course,” she lied.

The magazine! She’d forgotten the appointment because of her excitement over the magazine. The magazine that could easily get her fired were this one woman to discover it. Kiaya scanned her desk, looking for the illicit article – it was well hidden, thank goodness.

“Hem-hem,” the woman distracted herself from the hideous jars and looked at Kiaya. She opened her mouth to speak but the rustle and thudding of students entering the classroom forestalled it. Umbridge smiled with saccharine sweetness, “You just teach your normal class, and I’ll watch and maybe ask a few questions when there’s a moment or two. I promise not to disturb you or the students at all.”

“Alright, it‘s no problem at all. Of course it’s no problem, why would it be? You’re welcome anytime, to observe or even to make something with the class. Would you care to make today’s potion? Oh, of course not, it’ll be a smelly one today. I’m sorry, I wasn’t anticipating your arrival. I had something completely different planned for tomorrow, a nice introduction to perfume making and a lesson in animal pheromone and musk uses. Of course, today, we’re working on fertilizer. I’m terribly sorry but it’s got to be done today while the ingredients are fresh. Er…,” she was rambling and she knew it. “Welcome to seventh year potions,” Kiaya finished lamely. Leading the way back to the classroom, trying not to trip on her feet, look guilty about the magazine, worry the group of teenagers that was staring at them, forget the lesson or invite anything but good will and a nice review. She had a horrible feeling that she would do all of them but walked into the classroom anyway.

“ ’Afternoon, class. Professor Umbridge will be with us today; please make her feel welcome,” she began briskly. Over what she thought was a class-wide hum of distress, she continued, “Send forward your essays on toxic Bundinium-based cleaning solutions, then review the potion on the board. It was in your reading last weekend. I want you to cut the recipe in half, then brew your potions. Those of you that did the reading know what you’ll be making and what you’ll be using and you’ve come in the proper attire. Everyone else – how unfortunate, take this as a lesson in doing one’s homework. Materials are on the sideboard, be sure to close the lids when you’re done getting what you need. In the clay pots, be sure to mix the soil, water and plant material properly. If you don’t, you will have only a slohtre which is a waste of materials. Begin.”

With more than a little amusement at the two girls wearing stricken expressions (and thankful that Umbridge was sitting in the corner of the room, quietly observing instead of peppering her with questions), Kiaya looked around the room as the students began working. Many of them were moving gingerly. Of seven students, only three wore the proper attire to make fertilizer in. The Weasleys twins were both wearing tattered and stained workrobes and looking rather chuffed at the idea of playing with magical excrement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remember that if I hear of any dragon-dung bombs being tossed, I’ll know who did it and I will hunt you down,” said Kiaya, still looking at the Weasleys. They looked up guiltily but grinned when she caught their eyes.

“Oh, yes,” she continued as thought it was an afterthought, “you’ll be working with Strangler Cypress seeds for Madam Sprout. See that you make your potion properly. We really don’t want our experiment subject getting large enough to do damage.”

“Hem-hem.”

Kiaya winced and swallowed. Her stomach was still knotted and getting worse.

“Do you mind if I ask some questions, Professor Roundtree? I’ll try not to disturb anyone,” the woman simpered from across the room.

Several of the students looked up. Most had seen other teachers crucified by Umbridge. The Weasleys gave Kiaya a look of pity.

“Tell me, how long have you been teaching?”

“This is my first year teaching in a school, but I did spend several years guiding younger potions students during my apprenticeship.”

“I see; why are you teaching potions along with Professor Snape?”

“He has several research projects to do. Professor Dumbledore asked me to take a few of his classes, to give him the time to do that,” she said. This question had been expected. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“And what were you doing before you came to teach at Hogwarts?” asked the woman with a smile.

Kiaya was stunned for a moment, she thought everyone knew – people seemed to gossip enough. Guilt quickly washed over her; the arrogance of that thought! The attention wasn’t deserved, nor did she really want people to be gossiping. She was a trifle glad that not everyone knew about her apprenticeship and was gossiping about how she had inherited thousands of galleons upon the death of her teacher. “I was finishing my apprentice and journeyship,” she answered.

Wrinkling her nose at the smell of dragon dung and South American slug-bat guano, Umbridge cleared her throat again. “According to the Potion Masters’ Guild, you were an apprentice for eight years; that’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?”

“A bit, yes, my teacher never sent in my cards, he just kept me for my journeyman’s training and research. Professor Dumbledore was involved in my graduation of status if you have any questions about it.”

“How odd; were you close to your teacher? Is that why he kept you? It was Edward Basilton, correct?”

Feeling foolish for the flash of guilt, but not nearly as surprised as she might have been if Snape hadn’t warned her, Kiaya narrowed her eyes and nodded. “He was an excellent teacher and a brilliant potions master. We worked well together. I’m lucky that he accepted me as a student,” she prevaricated.

“You turned out to be very lucky, in the end, didn’t you? You certainly came away with a great deal when he died, didn’t you?” Umbridge probed.

The students slowed their work, then stopped altogether. Their gazes shifted between the women, waiting for the climax of the show. From the expressions of pity many wore, they expected Kiaya to flee the classroom in tears.

“I lost my teacher and friend, Miss Umbridge. The world lost a brilliant mind. I can’t imagine how that would be considered lucky,” Kiaya snapped, incensed at the woman’s gall. She was almost as bad as Snape! Kiaya had a horrible thought: she’d just snapped at Umbridge – she could be tossed out on her rear for it.

“Friend? Or was it more than that?” the woman pursued.

“Teacher, of course,” she said, struggling to remain calm. The knot in her stomach grew exponentially. She felt her cheeks grow hot.

“Oh yes. There has been a great deal of rumor about there having been something else between you? Perhaps an amour – or something… less than a romance?” the woman wheedled.

Her jaw dropped. She couldn’t believe that the woman would bring such a thing up in front of children. “Miss Umbridge, first of all, I can’t imagine how such a rumor got started. Perhaps by someone who was jealous? Second, I can’t see what bearing it might have on my teaching abilities and third, such insinuations are…”

Just then, she heard a faint but unmistakable squeak. “Uh-oh.” Miss Thornquist was making a mistake – again.

Kiaya whirled around. Miss Thornquist stood at her table, looking down at a mess. Dirty liquid had overflowed from the trough-like pot that she was supposed to be germinating her sapling in. Water gushed out of her wand. The fertilizer mixture washed over the seed.

The hard shell burst with a POP! Roots snaked across the table, thickening as they grew. The seed sprouted and a reed-like stem grew, with a dot of green on the top. Bark hardened almost instantly. Branches shot out from the sides, the needles of the cypress appearing, full sized. The roots draped down the table, some winding around the wooden legs. As the water poured over the edge of the table and mixed with the detritus on the floor, grass seeds sprouted from the clumps of dirt.

Thornquist backed away from the table but stumbled over a tree root. The tree, sensing prey, reached for her. Its branches were already glistening with drops of poisonous sap. Squeaking, the girl backed into the bag of potting soil on the floor. Hemp tore under the girl’s heel, spilling soil everywhere; she plopped in the dirt, gasping.

“Reducto,” Kiaya shouted. The tree shattered. Bits of wood and cypress needles rained over the floor and table.

Everyone in the classroom stared at Thornquist, sitting in the dirt, holding her still gushing wand. Water mixed with the dirt and the mud puddled around her very pretty black pumps.

“Do you plan to turn that off, Miss Thornquist?” Kiaya demanded sweetly; she locked her trembling knees.

The girl blushed and muttered; the waterfall stopped immediately. “Er…”

The Weasley twins snickered but wisely offered no suggestions.

“Precisely. Now you will clean this…” Kiaya looked around. Mud, water, plant material, and floating potions ingredients puddled on the floor. A steady drip of water fell from the table where the mess had all begun. On any other day, it might have been funny. On any other day, Kiaya wouldn’t be shaking with rage. On any other day, Kiaya’s chances of being fired for such a thing would have been a lot lower. She looked at Umbridge, who was busy scribbling on a clipboard, shaking her head. Kiaya thought she heard a small tsking noise coming from that direction. Kiaya winced and finished her sentence, “…clean this mess up. I suggest Vanishing and Cleaning Charms. I will leave it to Madam Sprout to dock points when you show up to her class without a plant and bottle of fertilizer. You will receive no credit for this class.”

Struggling to remain calm, Kiaya toured the room, examining cauldrons, offering advice and looking over her shoulder at the young woman cleaning the floor with very careful wand flicks. At the back of the classroom, the Weasleys were whispering to each other. The Weasley-on- the- left used a dropper to add the potion to his seedling trough, the Weasley-on-the-right scribbled madly in a notebook. Kiaya decided that she didn’t really give a damn what he was writing, as long as there was a small tree on his desk at the end of class. She ignored him.

“Hem…”

Kiaya interrupted the cough, “Ladies and gentleman, class will be over in fifteen minutes. Please pour your potion in two bottles – one for me and one for your Herbology class - as soon as your tree has reached one foot tall. You will be marked on the size of the tree, as well. If it is too large or small, you will lose points.”

“Professor Roundtree, tell me, what do you think of Professor Snape’s shirking his teaching duties so much that you had to be hired?” the odious woman asked.

“I don’t think he’s been ‘shirking his duties.’ Research is vital for our very survival. Without Professor Snape’s time away working, our society would be destroyed.”

“Surely not? We’ve managed quite well so far, don’t you think? As long as our world isn’t polluted,” the woman spat the word, “we’ll do very well. The Ministry will make very sure of that!”

Kiaya muffled her argument. The woman wasn’t worth the energy of speaking to about the desperate need for new medicinal potions to prolong and revalue a wizard’s life. She started her rounds of the cauldrons again, answering only, “Indeed.”

“Tell me, do you think it’s appropriate to have a witch with a, shall we say, dubious reputation, teaching children?” Umbridge struck again.

Kiaya stuttered, “I… I... I think that one should first ascertain if the reputation is deserved or simply an unfounded, malicious rumor, before knowing the answer to that.” She suddenly felt dirty; it had nothing to do with the mud caking her shoes. She felt like someone had branded ‘Potions Slut’ on her forehead and nothing would ever take it off.

“And are the rumors true?”

Kiaya blushed, feeling tears fill her eyes. She couldn’t help it. It was a combination of embarrassment and outrage. “No,” was all she could manage before the tears spilled.

Thankfully, it was time for the students to leave. The floor was clean, cauldrons scrubbed and there was a line of potions bottles on her desk. Umbridge smiled her saccharine smile, collected her purse and left the room, still writing on her clipboard. The students left, most giving her commiserating looks. One of the students, probably a Weasley from the badly scuffed shoe, paused in front of her but moved on when she pointed to the door without looking at him.

As soon as the door closed, she fell into the nearest chair. The tears that had appeared during the interview made a trail down her cheeks. She didn’t know how long she sat, quietly crying, images from the hour exploding in her head.

“Crucified you, did she?”

Kiaya looked up, wiping her nose quickly; Snape had opened the door and crossed the room without making a sound. He stood right above her, sneering down his long nose.

“I told you not to let her rattle you. I gave you a direct order not to speak to her about anything but classroom matters. Your tears are your fault. Perhaps this will be a lesson in obeying to your betters, girl,” he derided. His thin lips were pressed tightly together in a smirk. Robes billowing, Snape whirled around and stalked back into the office.


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

Jasmine covered as much of the pink string as she could with the lime green velvet skirts of her latest design. It draped from her ear, under her hair, down her back, under the lime colored dress, between hangers of less formal robes, around the corner and lay just under a dressing room door. Iris, her grandmother, folded sweaters directly across from the dressing room door, acting as a lookout.

Whispering to an Accu-Quill hidden behind a stack of hand-dyed silk shawls, Jasmine listened carefully and repeated every word she could catch. The quill was charmed to transcribe every single utterance the user made. Because the result was always difficult to read, it was only used when The Three Flowers was crowded and measurements needed to be taken quickly. Today, it was used to transcribe the whispered conversation between the two women inside the small dressing room.

Alina is in seclusion again of course Marcus told me not to speak to her after what happened to Augustus he doesn’t want to be associated with him any more but she’s your cousin what will you do I explained it to my mother she agreed that it could only be dangerous under the circumstances he lied to him that could only be death for damn I can’t understand she’s whispering people who defend him she said that she wouldn’t have the Rookwood side of the family to the manor until things calm down oh, I do think you should get that dress it makes you look so thin I don’t like it everything here needs a few bows or ruffles I can’t believe Narcissa said we should come here to find something anyway I that’s completely understandable I don’t’ think I’ll ask Alina to the little luncheon I was planning damnit woman speak up no don’t write that something about her husband spending too much time in Wales oh never mind stop they’re coming Grandee

The door cracked open, Jasmine tossed a scarf over the quill and parchment, tugged the Extendable Ear under the dress and dropped the bit that was hanging from her ear, onto the floor.

“Get me the red one, too. I just can’t decide,” she woman demanded. She held her arm out imperiously; Jasmine obediently hung a set of red day robes over her arm. The woman slammed the dressing room door.

Immediately, Jasmine set up the listening station again, but was too late to hear the beginning of the conversation.

It’s just the Quibbler no one that we care about reads that rag I seriously doubt that anyone who is important at all has seen it I’ve seen it oh really why on earth would you read such a thing to see if Gregory was mentioned of course I’m just so she’s whispering again I can’t hear I’m not even going to bother it can’t be that bad they’ve made Potter out to be insane so nothing he says is going to be taken as truth no matter what really happened Dorcas I’m a bit worried about this don’t you remember how he can turn on people both Gregory and Herpo betrayed him last time they could be punished don’t you think that saying their names out loud so that idiot Potter could repeat them punishment enough he’s spending so much time in Wales I can’t stand it hush silly this is the advent of a new age as soon as they find whatever it is that they are looking for before Dumbledore does oh you sound just like Herpo of course I do he’s right oh look at the time, I’m finished here I really must dash it was great to see you again Floo when you want to have that lunch Grandee she’s

Iris bustled forward, drawing attention away from Jasmine frantically stuffing the quill and Extendable Ear away, “Did you decide?”

“No, I hate them both. I’m going to Madam Malkins,” one of the women pronounced; they swept out.

Iris snagged the paper, read it over, sounding out each word. Without punctuation, it was difficult going. When she was done, she looked at Jasmine, “I’ll Floo Papa.”

Jasmine waved her wand at the ivy vines that spelled out “Welcome” in a discreet corner of the front window. The plants uncurled and reshaped themselves to say “Please Come Back After Lunch,” in a script that resembled her mother’s handwriting. There was a large baroque mirror mounted on the awning of the shop across the street, Myrtle’s Maquillage, which faced the wide front window of The Three Flowers. In it, Jasmine watched the morning glories that framed the sign close their trumpets when she snuffed the flames in the Non-Smoking Sconces.

The fireplace was in a back room of the shop, keeping smoke, ash and stray Floo Powder away from the delicate clothing. Iris was already kneeling on one of the comfortable pouf cushions; her head surrounded by green flames. Jasmine settled next to her, leaning into the fire.

Dumbledore sat at the large desk in his office, looking at them with an indulgent smile. “Hello, girls, what can I do for you?”

“Harza Travers and Dorcas Goyle were just here trying on dresses,” announced Iris.

“I see. Did they purchase anything?” he asked politely.

“No, neither of them ever gets anything from here. Harza Travers requires three times as many fobs and furbelows as any sane woman needs. We’re far too boring for her tastes,” Iris harrumphed.

“And the only fabric that Dorcas Goyle wears is wrinkled, khaki-colored linen,” Jasmine added, her lip curled.

Iris jumped on that, “What else would that little troll wear? I can’t imagine why they bothered to come in here. Vesta Malkin is so very proud of saying that Mrs. Travers will only shop in her store, not that I can imagine why anyone would want to. Everything Vesta has is hideously overblown or utterly mundane.”

“The raggedy auld besom,” Dumbledore said, with a twinkle in his eyes; the rivalry between the two dressmakers was legend in Diagon Crossing.

“Indeed!” pronounced Iris, satisfied.

“She came because Narcissa Malfoy told her to try on the green and red dresses that Mum made,” corrected Jasmine.

“Narcissa Malfoy told her to, hmm?” Dumbledore looked thoughtful. “How did you find that out?”

“Jasmine had that string you sent us. She listened to them in the dressing room.”

Dumbledore turned his gaze to Jasmine, “Were you careful? I do not want anyone to know that you’re doing that.”

“I was careful, don’t worry,” she reassured him. His concern was long-standing. Every time she’d sent him a bit of gossip that she’d overheard in the shop, he’d been concerned for her welfare.

He hummed and asked, “Did they say anything of interest?”

“That their husbands were spending a great deal of time in Wales, that Mr. Travers was going to purchase a slate billiard table because of it and they don’t seem very worried about the Quibbler article.” Jasmine handed him the transcription of the conversation. “I’m sorry it’s a bit difficult to read, we don’t use the quill very often and I was whispering.”

“Thank you very much for your help, girls. What you hear is extremely useful.”

“I could follow them; try to catch what they say as they walk down the Alley…” Jasmine offered, once again feeling the rush of usefulness and the desire to help a bit more.

“No, little flower, this is well more than enough, thank you,” he said. “I don’t want any of my girls put in danger. I fear that idea might be rather dangerous.”

“How can walking down the street be dangerous, Professor Grandpa?” Jasmine tossed off, not thinking.

Dumbledore looked over the rim of his crescent moon glasses and said simply, “Diagon Alley can be very dangerous, little flower, and you well know it.”

Her heart sank and she nodded even though she disagreed. She remembered the stories of what had happened years ago. “I think that it’s different now. Voldemort isn’t Grindlewald. I’m not going to get in any trouble just walking down a street.”

“I know exactly who and what Voldemort is and I will not have you in any more danger than is possible to avoid. Since I know that none of you will close the shop and come to Hogwarts, you will at least try to avoid actively getting into trouble.”

“Times have changed,” Jasmine insisted. “I won’t get hurt in Diagon Alley with a hundred witnesses. I’m not going to do anything that’s going to get myself hurt. I have Ari, remember?”

Dumbledore stood up from his desk, hitched up his robes exposing his scarred, knobbly knees and stepped through the fire into the shop. Jasmine and Iris stood up from their poufs. Dumbledore’s daughter, Iris, was studying the plank floor instead of meeting his gaze. Jasmine was glad that she was wearing her highest heels, even though Dumbledore still towered over her. She felt that they gave her some measure of emotional defense. The inkling of bravado fled, though, when he stood directly in front of her and leaned over until they were nose to nose. His blue eyes blazed azure with unleashed fury.

In his quietest tone, one that his family knew meant that he was struggling not to roar, Dumbledore said, “Grindlewald killed my wife and son whilst they sat in front of Florean Fortescue’s ice cream shop, eating Italian ices. There were twenty-three witnesses; two hundred people heared the explosion. None of them could have or even tried to stop him from doing a damned thing. The only reason that your grandmother is alive today is because she was having tea with a friend in Shereborne that afternoon.”

“I’m sorry,” Jasmine whispered. She choked back the lump that knotted itself in her throat and tried to blink away tears of shame for upsetting her normally unshakable Professor Grandpa.

“These are dark times, little girl, and the dark wizards and their allies are coming out in droves to follow another madman. The names change with new generations but their methods do not. Voldemort will use every advantage he thinks her can get to win this war. If he thinks that he can use you to win, he will do it.”

A tear rolled down her cheek but Jasmine said nothing.

“I will not allow any member of my family to play soldier. There are far too many innocents fighting this war as it is. So many of these new soldiers are just children. I can’t even protect them in my own school, much less when they leave the grounds as supposed adults.” He suddenly looked old and worn. His strong voice wavered and broke eye contact with Jasmine. His eyes were pale now, like those of an old man. He stared at his hands; the long fingers were scarred and spotted with age, the knuckles were swollen and looked painful from arthritis. He whispered, “Too many children have been sacrificed to Voldemort and there will be more, but my family will not be among them.” He looked at her again. “You will do no more than listen discreetly in this shop, fetch Arielle to and fro from school and have a few short visits to the Ministry when absolutely necessary – and you’ll have an escort whenever you wander about in London. No one will be visiting the house for your aura cleansings or for fittings.” He glared at his daughter, “And that goes for you and Rose, too. Do you two understand me?”

Both women nodded miserably

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

“The Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw second years are working on Grow-Me, instead of the Expanding Extract that you suggested. I wanted to talk about sponges and bamb…”

“Would you shut up? If I cared what you were teaching the idiots, I’d ask you,” Snape snapped.

Kiaya looked at the floor, her face flaming. She bit the inside of her lip in an involuntary effort not to snap back at him or, conversely, cry at his harsh words. Taking a deep breath and proud of holding back her tears, Kiaya said, “You usually want to know what I’m teaching. Since you were looming over me, I told you.”

He snorted, “I will tell you when I want information. Otherwise, just listen and avoid embarrassing yourself.”

Kiaya’s back straightened, “I’m not embarrassed.” She took a deep breath and plunged forward, “And I didn’t do anything to deserve you barking at me. It wasn’t fair.” As soon as it was said, she quailed. Disbelief and shock set in, turning her stomach to boiling soup.

He stared at her; his face was expressionless but for narrowed eyes.

Kiaya wanted to stand up, to gain some kind of height against this man invading her aura space. Looking into his fathomless black eyes, she felt very small and very delicate – and he looked capable and quite willing to break her into little pieces if she didn’t shut her mouth. She tucked her crossed feet under her chair and folded her hands in her lap but lifted her chin and took a deep breath. “I’m not an idiot. Please don’t treat me like one.”

In a rush, Snape leaned over, grasping the arms of her chair, his nose almost touching hers. Heavy black fabric of his cloak fell forward to curtain her body and legs. The smell of coffee on his breath was almost overpowering when he spoke. “Learn this now, little girl: life isn’t fair. Get used to it.”

A perfunctory knock sounded from the door before it swung open. Draco Malfoy sauntered in without even a by-your-leave.

The way their heads whipped around to face the door, in perfect time, with matching expressions of mixed irritation and horror was almost comic, Kiaya thought idly.

When he saw them, he raised a single, aristocratically arched eyebrow and leered at them.

Kiaya realized that the position Snape had put them in looked compromising. She felt herself blush beet red from her chest to the tips of her ears but she was helpless to explain.

Snape stood straight, glaring at Malfoy. He growled, “What can I help you with, Mr. Malfoy?”

Giving Kiaya a look that made her feel like a parfait begging to be eaten, Malfoy bowed. “I’m so sorry to have disturbed you, Professors. I was under the impression that,” he gestured royally, “Professor Snape wished to see me about an assignment.”

“Indeed, Mr. Malfoy. In the future, please work on your penmanship when you write your essays. Also, gillyweed and gill-grass are the same, thus they grow in the same place and do the same thing.” Snape took a parchment from the top of his desk and handed it to Malfoy. “Correct this and hand it back to me in the morning.”

“Thank you, Professor Snape. I’ll certainly do that.”

“Do be discreet, the chance to correct minor flaws is not given often. When it is, only those that deserve it, get the chance,” said Snape, not bothering to hide that he was allowing the boy to cheat.

“I see, thank you, Sir. I’ll see you in the morning, then.” With that, Malfoy saluted with the rolled essay, nodded to Kiaya, “Miss…” he acknowledged, and left. He closed the door with considerably more ceremony that was needed.

They stared at each other.

“Do you realize what that look…”

“Quiet. You’re to spend the night here on Thursday. I have been called away. Professor Dumbledore informs me that there must be an adult present for the Slytherins in my absence. You qualify – barely.”

“But… why me?”

“It seems that none of the other staff is willing to expend the energy to look in on them a couple of times. You are, however, my supposed colleague. Thus, it falls upon you to babysit on Thursday night.”

“But I can’t. I have several potions to make for clients on Thursday. They’re due Friday – every Friday, like clockwork. Some of them, like Mr. Jugson’s stomach tonic, just can’t sit for two days, so I can’t make it ahead of time.”

He looked sour and stared down his long nose. “Make them in one of your classrooms,” he grudgingly conceded. “But you’ll use your own supplies. Hogwarts’ largess only extends so far.”

“And if I don’t want to come here on my day – and night off?” she dared to ask.

“Then I will be discussing your unwillingness to do the duties that you were hired for with the Headmaster,” he triumphed.

“I wasn’t hired to babysit your charges while you go on holiday. I was hired to teach while you research potions.”

They stared at each other, each daring the other to say a word. Kiaya mind was whirling but she refused to give in to the petty bullying.

The clock pinged five-thirty. Snape jolted away from the stare with a snarl, “I’ve a student coming at six for tutoring. Leave.” He headed to the cabinet above his desk, unlocked it and pulled the lovely silver bowl from it, setting it on the desk with a soft thunk.

Elated, Kiaya started gathering her belongings – she won the stare down – sort of. Plus, it really was time to go home, Snape’s command or not. She was hungry and dinner with the students at 4:30 was far too early for her.

“You’ll need to tell me what you need from me on Thursday night,” she instructed, knowing she was pressing her luck by not adding a meek ‘please’.

“Check on them twice, once at seven to help with any homework . Dare I ask if you managed to do well in any class other than mine?”

Taking the half-arsed compliment for what it was probably not intended to be, Kiaya chose not to take offense at the half-arsed insult combined with it. “I did really well in Herbology and in Professor Kettleburn’s class.”

He scoffed, “Kettleburn was a filthy old man who was rumored to have affairs with centaurs and seventh year boys. Everyone did well in his class.”

She blinked. “Really? I had no idea.”

He harrumphed, as if it say, ‘Of course you didn’t, silly idiot.’ Instead, he said, “If you don’t know the answer to a particular question, refer them to the proper reference book or to an older student to tutor them. Do not concern yourself with Pureblood politics or payment for tutoring this time. The older students will do it once, as a favor to me.”

She nodded mutely. There were politics to homework in Slytherin House? Thank God she’d been a Gryffindor.

“At two in the morning,” Snape ignored her wince, “go in and check to see that they are all asleep in their beds, rather than in the common room and that there are no dead bodies hidden in the fireplace.”

“Is a shiv in the back common in Slytherin?” Kiaya asked, only half in jest.

“Only for interlopers and those that don’t do as they are commanded by their betters,” he quipped, eyebrow raised. Without pausing, he continued, “The Slytherin Common room is halfway down the second corridor to the left. My password into the common room is ‘Foxgloves’. The wall will open.”

Kiaya stopped herself from rolling her eyes at the password. A poisonous flower, how very original, she thought. The man was a walking cliché. “Foxgloves? I never would have guessed that you’d choose something like that,” she said in a sickly sweet tone.

“I could make it ‘Kedavra,’ if you want something just for you.”

Avoiding his glare of poisonous triumph, she clasped her hands to avoid fidgeting in panic that he could toss off that word with such ease. She pretended interest in the jars over Snape’s desk. The quill set she’d given him when she’d left school was there, tucked in a corner. The panic eased; she felt a flutter of pride and something else she couldn’t identify.

“I made that – and you still have it,” she said with a smile, forgetting about the snide comment he’d just made.

“I like it,” he said crisply before changing the subject. He pointed to a tote board on his desk; she’d seen it before but never bothered to study it (hell would freeze over before she’d let Snape catch her snooping about in HIS office.) Every member of Slytherin house was listed on it. It was seven columns wide and had about fifteen rows of names. Beside each name that was etched onto the board, was a barrel with words and pictures. Some barrels were spinning from one mark to another. “This is a Student Roll. You can see where each student is. The house crest indicates that the child is in the dormitory. The book, obviously, shows that they are in the library.” He pointed to the picture of a walking staff with a single green snake entwined about it, “The Asclepian staff means that they are in the hospital wing – do check on anyone there after six pm. Some show ‘Roaming.’ To find out exactly where they are wandering, push the button next to the name, and the second spinner will tell you.” He jabbed the green button next to Nott, Theodore, who was ‘Roaming’. The first barrel fell backward, while another barrel moved forward and started silently rolling. It stopped on “Charms Corridor.”

“Brown-nosing Flitwick,” he dismissed. “Don’t worry about anything other than students outside of the common room after ten at night – if they are, go get them. If you see skull and crossbones, call the Headmaster immediately.”

Kiaya gulped and nodded vigorously. “Er… is there anything else that I should know?”

“No. Now leave.”

She did, but not without a theatrical sniff as she opened the door. As she stepped out, another body was walking in. The only reason they didn’t collide is because they both were so slender.

“Excuse me,” she said politely, not stopping.

“Sorry,” muttered a male voice under shaggy black hair.

As Kiaya trotted down the stairs outside the castle, she realized that underneath that mop of black hair there had been a lightening bolt-shaped scar. Star-struck, Kiaya grumbled, “Damn, I missed my chance to meet him.” Then she shrugged, “Oh well. Next time.”

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

Dear Remus,

I’m sure you know that Hagrid’s back (I think that I wrote that just after he got back?) but that wounds that he got on his trip haven’t healed. I think he’s getting new ones but I don’t know where. He looks like he’s being beaten up! I can’t imagine what could hurt Hagrid like that, though.

In other news, Professor Trelawny was sacked. I can’t say that I’m sad, she was a terrible fraud. She doesn’t know the future until it’s in the past. The whole idea of Divination is just so dodgy to me. What do you think? Even though she’s still living in the castle, Trelawny has been replaced in a rather brilliant coup by Dumbledore. Umbridge thought she had it set up to kick out Trelawny and replace her with a Ministry flunky but Dumbledore brought in a new teacher - a centaur! It seems that Firenze was ostracized from his herd for wanting to work on some kind of peace with the humans, which seems very sad to me. Ron and Harry barely understand a word he says. Since I’d rather take Ancient Runes, I can’t help to translate “Centaur-ese” for them, nor do I know what kind of teacher he is. I just can’t imagine that he’ll do much better than Trelawny, but at least they will learn more about centaurs. He told Harry to warn Hagrid about something but I have no idea what – nor does Harry.

Harry has been having an easier time of it at school since the Quibbler article came out. He’s not nearly as angry now that people believe him. Students and teachers have all been really nice to him, I think he’s coming out of the depression. I am SO glad that I had Rita Skeeter in hand to do that, after she did so much harm last year.

Ronald, on the other hand, is not happy. He’s the new Gryffindor keeper and his nerves aren’t quite what you would call lionish. He lets the crowd, especially the Slytherins, distract him from catching the ball. They’ve been singing a horrible song, “Weasley is Our King,’ that Malfoy made up just to torture Ron with. He may deserve it, though, since he does allow so many points through. I’m afraid that he’s a terrible keeper but don’t quite know what to suggest to make the situation any better for him. Ginny is doing well as seeker, though she isn’t nearly as good as Harry – though I can’t imagine who is. Harry is still very bitter about not being able to play, mostly because Umbridge doesn’t like him. I don’t blame him one bit – even though he did get into a fight, the punishment certainly doesn’t fit the crime here. S.P.E.W. isn’t going as well as I’d hoped. I have been making little hats for the House Elves and leaving them in the common room for them to pick up and be freed. The problem is that the hats are going missing but I’m not seeing any obvious reduction in numbers of House Elves. What am I doing wrong?

I really am grateful to Sirius’s friend (owner?), Miss Swan for teaching me how to knit. Learning that I could do something that looks so hard, and finding it to be so very easy was almost like learning that I am a witch! I like knowing that I can do something useful with my skills and help others to be as happy as I am.

Classes are going well and I feel good about my O.W.L.S. in that I’ve been studying all along, but I know that I have so much more to study – I’m worried that I won’t be able to get it all done. I’m only up to the third Goblin War in History of Magic (I keep falling asleep when I read about Knashtooth the Elder and Younger and Ethelrod the Short in political negotiations with Herbert the Humpback) and haven’t read nearly enough about Hinkypunks nor Redcaps. Since we missed those chapters in your class, I’m still very nervous about them. The boys aren’t nearly ready. I’ve been trying to get them to settle down and revise but Harry can’t concentrate and Ron won’t get off his broom to make time to study. Nothing changes much, does it?

As I told you last time- and yes, I am heeding your warnings – DA is progressing nicely. Neville is getting a lot better with his defensive spells, thank goodness. He even managed to knock me down a few times during our sparring. I’m beginning to think that there is a lot more to Neville than we give him credit for. We are being careful and no one has told about the DA. I’ve got a very nasty little hex embedded in the contract for the members – I hope no one ever has to see just how nasty it is. I don’t want to have to stop “for our own good,” so please don’t tell Dumbledore about us. I just know that we’re doing the right thing by practicing. I have a horrible feeling – and don’t you dare call it Divination or a premonition – that we’re all going to need the spells that we’re working on very soon.

As always, your input is valuable, especially when it comes to suggesting defensive spells that we should be learning while Umbridge is off sacking teachers and torturing students with her nasty quill. What’s going on in the rest of the world while we sit in our little bubble of safety? I know that you can’t tell me certain things, but are we making progress? Is there any hope what-so-ever?

I’ve enclosed a recent essay that I did for Charms. I think it’s particularly well done, if you’d care to read it

With affection,
Hermione


Dear Hermione,

First and foremost, be careful with the DA! I don’t like hearing that you’re being knocked down, much less that this is happening in secret. Dumbledore should know. I do agree that you should be learning defensive spells though – I just want them supervised by someone that can fix any problem that might come up. My suggestion is that you stop practicing at school for now and work on researching the spells that you want to learn. When you get here in the summertime, I promise to work with you on the practical part of it.

In other news, Dumbledore put me in contact with another Potions Master – at Hogwarts, actually. Her name is Kiaya Roundtree – do you know her? She’s teaching some of Severus’s classes while he does “research,” I’m told. She is going to be making my potion when Severus can’t and researching improvements to it. I’ve sent her a couple of blood samples. I’m really interested in hearing from her again; from her letters, she sounds like she knows what she’s talking about and has been working on the lycanthropy potion for years. I can’t always make sense of what she’s saying – but she certainly is saying something scientific. Since she’s also writing to me, I suggest that you bundle your letters with hers, if you feel that she’s trustworthy. Dumbledore said that Umbridge was muttering about searching student mail. I always direct my letters to Miss Roundtree’s Norwich address, so there is less chance of our correspondence being ready by someone that shouldn’t be seeing it.

Arthur Weasley’s health is improving every day while Molly’s temper gets even worse. She didn’t take well to the news that the twins were in trouble after the Quidditch match. Unfortunately, by dint of proximity, Sirius and I have become her children now. Her mothering, while comforting at times, can be a bit overbearing at others. It drives Sirius batty – which isn’t hard these days. I frequently wonder if something odd is happening to him – he’s acting strangely since we got to London. Let me rephrase that – Sirius has always been a little bit odd – but now it’s out of character for him. He’s always been very gregarious but he seems to prefer solitude, while he’s never been even tempered, he doesn’t normally lose his temper quickly. He’s also still trying to fit Harry into James’s personality, it sounds like the names are interchangeable to him, sometimes. I think he just needs to be able to get away from this house, he’s been cooped up for far too long. I think the best place for him would be somewhere in the country, without too many people around, where he can roam at will and still have a warm bed at night. I have to say that I would like that myself.

I’ve started cataloguing the Black library, it’s even more scary than you and I thought last summer. Almost everything in there is dangerous and ought to be locked away. I think I’ll be locking the door when you get there, just to stave off your temptation. You’re too dangerous as it is – I don’t want you learning more! Perhaps I am joking – perhaps I am not. We’ll wait and see. The cleaning is coming along well. Things go missing all the time, of course. We check Kreacher’s hole and most things turn up there. I wonder if there is some kind of asylum for pitiful servants? I’m afraid that Kreacher is beyond anything that we can do by being kind to him and Sirius only makes it worse by abusing the poor thing. That’s another thing that worries me – it is completely out of character for Sirius to pick on someone that can’t fight back. Of course, if someone could fight back, then Sirius gives just as much as he gets and it becomes a game for him. He really does need some time away.

Again, congratulations on the Quibbler article. I knew that you’d had something to do with it, the minute I saw it. Well done! I am still seeing it everywhere around town. The tide of public opinion seems to be favorable to Harry and Dumbledore again. Do be careful of Rita Skeeter. I can’t see her allowing you to use her so easily. Watch out for some kind of revenge – have you got a plan? There seems to be a bit more grumbling about Fudge, as well. Don’t be surprised if he’s ousted soon. I favor Amelia Bones to step in, she does seem to be the logical choice since Dumbledore won’t do it. She’s fair and doesn’t have her hand in any pockets, as far as I can see.

The essay is excellent. Very well done, Hermione, thank you for sharing it. I’m not sure that wizards need to worry about carpel tunnel syndrome from waving their wands about excessively. Is that perhaps a Muggle problem that we don’t need to worry about? I have yet to see a wizard with arthritic wrists because of a repetitive swish and flick.

As always, yours,
Remus