"Cut!" Was scrawled on page two-hundred-fifty-three of the Prisoner of Azkaban galleys in a red ink that rooked no refusal. It was followed by a rather distressed asterisk. The asterisk was met by another, similarly distressed, at the bottom of the page giving the following legend: "Pertinent to nothing."

And, with a sigh, out the offending passage went; chucked into the bin where all chucked passages go. It's a sad place, that realm of written refuse; a muddled place where excessive adverbs and unresolved plot points dwell, a place where we are given access:

"You're the cleverest witch of your age I've ever met, Hermione," said professor Lupin, appalled that his--shhh--secret had been unearthed by a thirteen-year-old girl, but stunned by her prowess just the same. So stunned, in fact, he had to give the narrative pause to voice his surprise.

"Thank you, professor, but I prefer the term 'wizardess.'"

A chuckle was heard from the corner of the room. Lupin ignored it for he recognized the timbre despite the withered texture twelve years of Azkaban had warped it into. The note was still the same, however, it was Sirius having a snicker at old Moony's expense.

"Wizardess?" Lupin said, "I don't think that's the correct terminology."

"It is!" Hermione cried. "It is! True, it's not official yet, but through use it will be!"

"What's wrong with 'witch?'"

"It's not the same," she said. "Everyone knows witches are warty old women, single and fat, with cats because no one else can tolerate their lack of personal hygiene."

More chuckling sounded. It was dry and broken, a garbled variation on the standard "heh, heh."

"But wizards, wizards are old men, figures of reverence, tall and thin, with cool hats. Single, usually, just like the witches, but not fat and ugly. And they'd never go 'bibbidty-bobbity-boo.' Honestly," she said, turning up her face and allowing a beam of light from a broken slat in the Shack to hit her eye, giving it a glare of maddened fury, "if I hear 'witch' one more time, I'm going to ram my wand up someone's nose."

More chuckling.

"Mr. Black, would you like to be the first to receive my wand's nasal excavating?"

The chuckling ceased.

"But wizardess," Hermione continued, "that is worthy of praise: gosh, picture a woman in black robes, with long hair and maroon nail polish, her hands outstretched, a curse on her lips--"

"Like Elvira?" said Peter.

"Yes! Though, um . . . Did she call herself a wizardess?"

"I dunno; I was always distracted by her anatomy."

"She's got a good anatomy," Sirius echoed.

"Mr. Black, I told you to be quiet."

"Very well," Lupin said, massaging his temples, "you're the cleverest wizardess of your age I've ever met, Hermione." There was a pause. "God forbid you give one of these modern kids a compliment."

A suspicion of chuckle made another "heh" not finishing the follow-through second "heh" for Sirius Black was shot a look that not even the foulest Dementor could send his way. Hermione's wand circled idly in her hand, its end pointing upward, considering how deep it should plunge into Sirius's head without jabbing his brain.

"Sorry," he said, and sulked in silence.

It is here that the familiar plot resumes.