I do not own Harry Potter. All original characters, spells, magical objects and creatures, etc, belong to J. .
It could have been lightning; flashing lights of an overhead aeroplane perhaps. The cloudy white light spiralled with incredible speed over the hills and streets of Scotland. Almost like a comet, the main body could be seen, followed by a thick trail in the sky. Then, suddenly, it descended, hurtling straight down into a small, urban town. It danced along rooftops and circled houses before it finally landed on the street.
The white cloud dispersed into the air, leaving the figure of a woman.
The woman walked through the suburban street, engulfed by dripping, bullets of rain. Children on bikes, hooded in black, crowded on the pavements, stopping to stare at the peculiar woman, in her tall black heels, emerald dress and fluffy black, fur coat as she continues to trot through the rain in the middle of the road. She holds a black umbrella over her head like a shield, with the firm grasp of her green gloved hand, which is probably not needed as the large, purple turban she wears would almost certainly shield her from the rain. What was more peculiar than her, trotting around like a royal in a glamorous dress on a suburban street in Scotland, was, perhaps, the weather. It was the first week of August and already the street was being attacked by bullets of rain, hard and cold on the slate roofed houses. Nevertheless, the woman in emerald was out on the street. Her and the children on bikes were maybe only people not to be crawled up inside by the TV, watching the Olympics in HD whilst gorging on hot curry with sticky, sausage like hands, too used to using cutlery and jaw muscles.
The clip clop of her heels stopped abruptly. And she turned to face the wooden door to house 21. She stretched out get finger and prods at the doorbell; it rung a sweet melody inside the house. Briefly, where was a soft rustling of footsteps before the door swung open to reveal an old woman with a strong, commanding, expression on her face, dresses in black robes with a tight cut on the torso and flowering fabric around her arms and legs. The woman smiled warmingly, "good evening, Professor. I invite you to come in." She gestured for the emerald woman to enter; so she did, closing the door behind her.
"I must say," the emerald lady gasped, "this house is divine." She was very right. The house was much bigger on the inside than outside would've suggested. Pearly white paint covered the walls of the large entrance hall with a gold leaf pattern; the floor and large, twisting staircase wear marble. Shiny black doors to mysterious rooms line the walls on both the upstairs and downstairs floors. It is incredibly bright. "I hope you don't mind." She folded her black umbrella and stood it up by the front door.
"Come this way, Madame; I'd hade you feet to drop off in a bloody mess in my nice, clean house." The elder lady beckoned as she pushed open a black door on the right. Both women entered.
The room they entered was just as outstanding and posh as the entrance hall, with the same marble floor and pearly white walls. In this room, there were several bookcase, full of multicoloured books, a couple of plump fabric sofas and a trolly, holding crystal goblets and spirits. "Will you be needing a drink?" The elder woman asked in her faint, accented voice, taking out a goblet to be ready for the emerald woman's order.
"I'm fine, I'd rather we got down to business . . . Sober." Was the reply, the emerald woman took a seat in one of the sofas and took off her black, fur coat. The design of her dress was more clear now, it was hundreds of intertwining serpents. Her turban also had a serpent sticking out at the front, glaring its long, forked tongue.
"Oh, I took you for more of a drink all day, drink all night, type of a person. I apologize." The woman poured herself a glass of gin and then sat opposite her guest.
"I also misjudged you: I took you for more of a sober all day, sober all night person . . . McGonagall."
McGonagall placed her goblet of gin on the table beside her after taking a sip. "So far, yes, I have been. However, since a recent tragedy at the school, including the son of a favourite student of mine, I have, to say, derailed slightly. I will, I hope, be able to gather my wits for the child's funeral next week. Being a family friend I shall be attending." McGonagall took another sip of gin. "So, what brings you here, Serpentina?"
The cool face of Madame Serpentina smiled, "I was sent to clear up some loose ends and gather as much information as I can, about being the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, at your school."
"Of course, Serpentina. I have looked over your application again recently, and I was rather impressed with your experience. I also believe that you worked as a gypsy fortune teller and gift maker at a circus for some time?"
Serpentina lay back in the sofa. The serpent on her turban cast an unusual shadow on her face. "McGonagall, I think we both know what your real question is, don't we? Yes, I did perform the Somnior Curse on Hugo Weasley in the summer of two thousand and ten."
"I must ask, why did you perform the curse?"
"The boy wanted to ensure that he'd have magical talent, I provided him with this. He was fully aware of the guidelines and rules. I had no part in his death," Serpentina looked away from McGonagall and at the bookcase.
"He, he! He, was a defenseless young boy. You tempted him with the one thing he wanted, and because you made the Unbreakable Vow with him, he saw no other option but to jump off a tower! How dare you say that you had nothing to do with his death!"
"If anyone, you should be blaming your own staff, Professor Trelawney for example . . ."
"And why should I?!" McGonagall snapped.
"Because prophecies only start to become a single bit dangerous when you start believing them. If Voldemort did not believe the prophecy, Harry Potter wouldn't have lost his parents. If you have such strong, negative, opinions, McGonagall, why did you hire me for the job at the school?" Serpentina challenged, leaning towards and raising a blade like eyebrow, questioningly.
"The choice was out of my hands. Kingsley suggested you and heavily insisted that you take the place. I am to guess that you know why this is?"
"I do indeed know why. But me and Kingsley have agreed not to say a word of it to a single being; you included. If I were to say, the Ministry would be locking me in an Azkaban cell, guarded by dementors and a nagging old lady, like yourself," she smirked.
"Another one of your twisted little Unbreakable Vows! You are an unpleasant snake aren't you. Nevertheless, it is my duty to inform you on your new role at the school." McGonagall explained the basic rules of being a teacher and the general flow of things, with the occasional witty remark which Serpentina chose to overlook. She continued the explanations. "You may come up with your own syllabus for years, which I will view and then, if I approve, will be issued to parents shortly before the new term with a list of appropriate reading materials. One last rule: do not make two way promises with students, it may give a boost to their confidences but I would hate to see another pupil being flattened into a bloody mess on my lovely courtyard. Is that all?"
By then, McGonagall and Serpentina had gulped down a whole bottle of gin between them and neither was the least bit nauseated or unbalanced.
"No." Serpentina replied bluntly. "I would like to know who I will be teaching."
McGonagall scowled, "Professor, Hogwarts does not pride itself on the names and popularity of students! You may get to know your students in class."
"I understand, McGonagall. I prefer to be called Madame . . ."
"And I prefer to be called Professor!"
"Petty little corrections? You're a lady, not a young child, aren't you?"
"I can tell already that we will not be getting on in September. Therefore, I must ask you to leave, unless you have anymore official business to talk through." McGonagall was deadly serious. Her eyes were dark and face was twisted into a threatening scowl.
Serpentina shook the bottle of gin to check for any stray droplets. None. "I believe I am done here. It's been a . . . Rather pleasant talk." With the last emotional slap taken, Serpentina strutted out the room. The door crashed shut and was accompanied by the clip clop of black heels as Serpentina trotted away down the wet, cold street.