Chapter One (Misha):
It had been a difficult morning for Misha Marrowstone and, unbeknownst to her, things would only manage to descend further into chaos. First, her father had owled to say that he'd be remaining in Sydney for an extra three weeks, leaving Misha in charge of the farm and business. Well, honestly, that news was not too extraordinary. In fact, it was pretty much to be expected. Besides, her job (such as it was) kept her in Hogsmeade, anyway, and the house-elves (albeit free, but still hardworking) were always around to help. Still, she was greatly displeased, for she and Pinky and spent the better part of the morning cooking a celebratory dinner which he would now not be attending.
Second, Dumbledore had owled her to inform her that her teaching schedule (pathetic as it was to even call it that) would be further discombobulated next week due to all that TriWizard Tournament nonsense. It had taken every ounce of Misha's strength not to respond with a terse, sarcastic little reply to the news. It wasn't that she hated her job, far from it. No, Misha adored Hogwarts and loved teaching there – even if it was only a day or two a week – but she loathed feeling second class. Music always got shuffled about in lieu of "more important" things – like the TriWizard Tournament apparently – and her schedule was erratic at best. And, to top it off she was forever being called in to substitute for other staff members especially Pomona Sprout, Sybil Trelawney, and Charity Burbage. The latter was particularly prone to sudden absences. "That woman took more sick days lat year than poor Professor Lupin and he, at least, had a valid excuse," thought Misha bitterly. Really, all she wanted was a steady job.
Misha was ready to throttle the next owl that came her way – an unusual reaction for a self-proclaimed animal lover.
Third, she'd seen yet in a Muggle magazine another advert featuring her horrid ex-boyfriend. "Tommy Hilfiger be damned, Chet can kiss my arse," she'd muttered at the glossy page. So what if he looked utterly delicious in those tight, blue swim trunks? He was still an arse and, to corrupt Gertrude Stein, an arse was an arse was an arse.
Forth, a hippogriff had suddenly appeared from nowhere and eaten Major General Stanley. Aberforth had only sent him over last week and now she had to explain to the old coot exactly what had happened to his precious goat. Worse yet, she felt compelled to track down the damned hippogriff. Not that Misha was angry at the beast - predation was its nature - but, Aberforth was notoriously lax in his animal husbandry skills and the buck had been riddled with worms which, although not fatal to a hippogriff, would certainly give the poor creature painful gas.
And so Misha came to find herself hiking up a hill on the outer edges of the Marrowstone property in search of a wild-but-gaseous hippogriff. She was not at all pleased. Earlier in the day she'd seen the creature carry the unfortunate ruminant up into the hills and disappear into the small cave she'd once played in as a child. So Misha slung a sack of dead ferrets (stuffed with Muggle antacid tablets) over her shoulder and set off for the cave.
By the time she reached the top of the hill she was even grumpier – not to mention dripping with sweat. Misha was just about to enter the cave when, to her horror, she heard voices. Three of them sounded familiar, Hogwarts students she vaguely recognized, but one, the adult, was gravely and unique. She held still for a moment listening to the four converse about Ludo Bagman (an absolute perv, from the rumors Misha had heard), the Crouchs (she barely knew them), and a bunch of unknown Death Eaters. In the background she could hear the hippogriff snorting softly and the muffled clicks as it chewed on what Misha surmized to be the bones of Major General Stanley. Eventually, she pinned down the female voice as belonging to Hermione Granger (whom she'd once found crying in an abandoned classroom and spent the next several hours comforting) which meant the other two were surely Potter and Weasley. Misha knew very little of the two of them other than that she'd banned the infamous "Potter Stinks" badges from her classroom and that Weasley tended to stare at her breasts.
But who was the fourth voice? And why in Merlin's name were these three sneaking about her property talking to some strange bloke? Cautiously, Misha crept around the corner and pointed her wand at the unsuspecting quartet.
"Expelliarmus!"
Three wands were set sailing across the cave.
"Accio wands!"
Three wands flew into Misha's outstretched hand – a difficult move, all things considered, since she was still clutching her bouquet of dead ferrets. Four shocked faces stared back at her in varying degrees of surprise, fear, and dismay. Indeed, it was Granger, Potter, and the breast-obsessed Weasley, but the forth person literally took her breath away. There, standing in her own cave, was Sirius Black and despite the layers of grime and obvious emaciation, he was… gorgeous. His hair hung in long, matted near-dreadlocks around the most perfect face Misha had ever seen and his filthy tattered robes were unbuttoned enough to reveal a rather intriguing collection of tattoos. "I want to lick his chest," thought Misha, mentally chastising herself for her inappropriate, inopportune wantonness. This would never do. The poor man was gazing at her with a curious mixture of apprehension and defiance and the other three were dead silent.
"Erm, sorry?" Misha squeaked, handing the students back their wands. Realizing that Black had no wand she looked at him and shrugged apologetically. She twirled a strand of her light brown hair around her finger wishing desperately she could fix her messy ponytail and at least make some attempt at a decent impression.
"Professor Marrowstone, this is my godfather, Sirius Black." Potter turned glowered at Misha. "HEADMASTER DUMBLEDORE CAN ATTEST THAT HE IS PERFECTLY INNOCENT," he all but bellowed.
Misha looked at him blankly and turned back to Black with a smile. Hesitantly, she held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Misha," she said. Though attempting to keep herself composed, to her great horror, she heard herself giggle.
Black ignored it and took her hand, bringing it up to his lips in a painfully awkward gesture. "Please call me Sirius, " he rasped, "and I assure you that I am NOT a mass murderer."
"I rather assumed that," replied Misha, feeling absolutely stupid.
"Why?" Weasley broke in. "My father says that everyone in Wizarding Britain believes Sirius to be a murderer."
"Your father is an unwitting pawn of the oppressor," Misha shot back, adding more kindly, "Well, not in a bad way, I mean, I've met him and he's a nice bloke and all, but he does work for the Ministry."
Hermione flushed a nervous pink. "Professor Marrowstone, I'm not sure I understand."
"Sorry," began Misha, wishing desperately to be anywhere else than where she was. She wiped her hands on her Muggle jeans and squared her shoulders. "I was raised to look at things a little differently, I suppose." She blushed deeper than Hermione and stared at her feet, suddenly aware that she was wearing absurdly chunky, brown hiking boots. Sweet Merlin on toast! Her mother had always warned her never to discuss politics and always to wear proper shoes in public and here she was making a dreadful first impression, sweaty, political, awkward, and clutching a brace of dead rodents.
Four faces looked at her expectantly.
Misha turned to Hermione. "Well, Hermione, you're a Muggleborn, you've studied Muggle history, you of all people should get it."
Hermione said nothing, but appeared lost in thought.
"You, too, Potter," she added hopefully, but Harry just looked confused.
An eternity of silence followed as each occupant of the cave tried to make sense of the situation. It was agonizing. Worse than agonizing. Horrifying. And, to compound the issue, Black – or Sirius – seemed to be looking right through her. Merlin, but he made her nervous. For the millionth time in five minutes, Misha wished that she were not wearing old, faded too-tight jeans and an unwisely chosen jade green tank top that kept her cool, but did little to conceal her sizable chest. She looked ridiculous, like a fifteen-year old American tourist rather than a twenty-something pseudo-professor. It was really quite humiliating, but in her defense she was on her own property and she'd not expected to run into anyone but a gas-filled hippogriff.
Finally, Misha swallowed her pride and continued. "Well, you know, when a government wants to keep tight control over its citizens it instills fear in them to keep them in line. Part of that includes false accusations, disappearances, show trials, unfair incarcerations, and the suspension of the rule of law. Stalin was especially adept at it, but it's been done in virtually every dictatorship. Even in so-called "first world" countries like Britain and America many people are imprisoned falsely without…" She trailed off and looked hopefully around the cave. Hermione was nodding slowly and Sirius was actually beaming at her. Bravely, she continued, "Well, Sirius, you never got a trial, right?"
Sirius nodded, eyes firmly fixed on Misha's.
"So, logically, it stands to reason that, since nobody has ever successfully proved your guilt, you could just as easily be innocent and, frankly, most people who do not receive a trial are the latter."
"Thank you," asked Sirius said quietly. "Are you in Magical Law?" He shuffled almost nervously from foot to foot as if he'd not spoken to another adult human being in a decade – and perhaps he hadn't.
"Oh, hell, no," laughed Misha, green eyes flashing with mirth, "I'm a musician – and not a very good one at that."
"Huh," broke in Weasley, "I've heard you play and it was beautiful. I mean, you're like famous and everything. Your father is like some important composer or something and…"
Misha laughed again and shook her head. "Thank you, Ronald, that was very sweet, but hardly true. In the Wizarding world, I may be considered a bit talented, but in the Muggle world - as where my father performs - I am quite sadly average. Hence, I teach music at Hogwarts instead of landing a real orchestra job."
Since no one had a response to that, Misha forged awkwardly onward. "So, anyway, is that your hippogriff?" she asked Sirius, curtsying politely to the large, grey beast crunching chicken bones in the corner.
Sirius seemed to relax. His face broke into a grin, all yellowed teeth and shining eyes. "This is my friend, Buckbeak."
Misha smiled. There was something rather endearing about a man who referred to a hippogriff as a friend rather than a pet or a possession.
"Do you mind of I give him something?" asked Misha. "Apparently, he ate Major General Stanley and…"
"What?" asked Sirius, looking both horrified and thoroughly confused.
"My goat... Major General Stanley… well, actually Aberforth Dumbledore's goat, but he'd loaned him to us for breeding and Buckbeak… that is his name, right?... ate him and so now I have these ferrets stuffed with Muggle antacids and…" Misha was painfully aware that she was speaking at the rate of a speeding thestral, but had little clue as to how to stop. Thankfully, Harry Potter stepped in to do it for her.
"YOU'RE NOT GOING TO POISON HIM, ARE YOU?" he cried, looking suspiciously at the dead ferrets.
"Oh, hell, no," giggled Misha (again mentally kicking herself for the giggle). "But the Major General Stanley had… erm... worms… and, whilst they won't hurt poor Buckbeak, they will give him rather painful gas."
Silence filled the cave and Misha cringed inwardly at the thought of discussing internal livestock parasites with a man she'd barely me. What a first impression, she worried. He would surely find her a fool.
But Sirius seemed immune to such thoughts and continued to stare at her with a frown. "Oh, I'm very sorry," he apologized, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
Misha looked at him perplexed.
"Your goat, I mean. I'd offer to pay for the damages, but…" He shrugged, obviously indicating the fact that he had nothing in the way of money.
Misha shook her head and began tossing ferrets to the excited hippogriff. "Oh, not at all. Major General Stanley was a terrible goat - dreadful, really - and he was starting to get stinky, too. He's no loss, I assure you, and I certainly don't…"
"…seek a penalty fifty-fold?" finished Sirius, offering her a charming smile.
"What?" asked Harry. "Why would you penalize Sirius for Buckbeak kiiling a goat you didn't even want? That seems a bit unfair, mind you."
Hermione rolled her eyes, but Misha laughed again. "It's a line from an operetta," she said, eyes fixed firmly on Sirius. She hummed the song softly under her breath and threw another ferret to Buckbeak who caught it in mid-air. Oddly, Sirius began to hum along. "Sirius, may I ask you a personal question?"
Sirius looked at her with those incredible grey eyes and nodded.
"How do you even know that song?"
Now it was Sirius' turn to bark out a laugh. "After Hogwarts I lived with Remus Lupin and he was, shall we say, very fond of Pirates of Penzance."
For a moment, Misha wondered precisely how close the two of them had been. She'd known Remus for years and knew of his orientation. She opened her mouth to ask and then decided that was utterly inappropriate and settled on merely nodding.
"You'd think that I'd have forgotten that," continued Sirius, growing slightly more agitated. He wrapped his arms across his too-thin cheat and mumbled into his shoulder. "You forget so many things in Azkaban… so many happy memories… and…" he trailed off looking quite nervous and uncomfortable.
Misha fought the urge to take his hand. "Well," she said, "it proves my theory then."
"What's that?" asked Hermione, looking altogether too interested in the subject.
"That, no matter how one looks at it, Gilbert and Sullivan is NOT a happy memory."
Everyone laughed, but Misha continued to feel slightly foolish. The absolute last thing she wanted to do was to lead Sirius to believe she was making light of Azkaban. But, to her great relief, he was the one laughing the hardest. Perhaps he'd take the remark as a sign of acceptance, she hoped. She was about to say something to this effect when a low, blatting sound filled the cave. This was followed by a vicious stench not unlike rotten eggs.
"Sweet Merlin, what IS that," gasped Ron, looking slightly green.
Another rumbling blared and this time Misha picture it as a great, green cloud rolling across the dusty floor of the cavern. "Erm, yeah," she said, "I'm afraid that, in order to prevent build-up, the antacids might make Buckbeak rather flatulent."
"Oh," said Harry, sounding a bit nauseated. Hermione appeared she might vomit and Ron had turned an alarming shade of green. Sirius, on the other hand, seemed positively unfazed, causing Misha to wonder just what olfactory horrors he'd experienced since being arrested.
"So," began Misha brightly, "anyone want to come for tea?"
To be continued... (Please review.)