I'm completely redoing this story, because I have so many new and exciting ideas. As I said in the summary, the whole American-girl-comes-to-Hogwarts trope is definitely happening here, no matter how many times you've read it. It's also a student-teacher relationship, which I can only justify by saying that the main character is 18 years old and shut up it's sexy.

I'm going to try to keep Snape as in character as possible, I promise. Honestly, I feel like the guy is kind of prone to getting fixated on a certain girl. This is all fantasy fulfillment - I'm not trying to do or say anything important with this fic besides literally giving all my sexual energy regarding Snape somewhere to go. And if you enjoy it, great! I hope you do! Please forgive any mistakes in continuity from the books. Rating is subject to change to M.

I love you people and this site. It's good to be back.

This is set in Harry Potter's 4th year. Hell yeah Triwizard Tournament.

There was ringing in her ears. If she hadn't been so aware of the impending rush of adrenaline, she might have assumed she'd lost her ability to read English, given how the letters were swimming on the thick, tasteful parchment. The envelope dropped to the floor, and she vaguely heard Lysander hooting for a treat, but there was really nothing at that moment save for the jet black squiggles writhing over a cream colored surface.

Only one word managed to be decipherable, a taunt, the boldness of its letters incomprehensibly steady: EXPELLED.

"We regret to inform you…" Now there was anger. No they goddamn didn't. She'd been a thorn in her headmaster's side since first stepping over Ilvermorny's marvelous marble threshold, and they were only too happy that she had finally fucked up enough to be let go.

It had been a fuck-up; there was no way around that. She'd screwed up big this time, huge, and her mom was going to be absolutely furious. Ilvermorny Academy was one of the best magic schools in the country, after all. So much for that opportunity.

But she hadn't been trying to get expelled… it was simply that she'd stopped caring. She'd ended her sixth year, after all, having done all the required coursework and taken the tests, and she'd been of age for nearly a year. Sneaking up to the towers after curfew to get drunk hadn't seemed like the Worst-Idea-In-The-World at the time… but she supposed attempting a fire spell while absolutely wasted had been. Many a witch and wizard had died from attempting to create fire out of newspaper and thin air, especially the drunk ones. Widespread, documented cases of that very occurrence. Swear to god.

Okay, alright, so it wasn't the most volatile spell, which only made Liz's botched attempt the more fascinating and embarrassing.

A third of the tower wall had been blasted away, which had instantly attracted a lot of attention to a very incriminating scene: ten to fifteen broken bottles of firewhisky, four passed out, slightly singed drunkards (three of whom were boys), a number of less-than-legal items, and a swaying, bewildered Liz standing over it all, smoke still streaming from the tip of her wand.

She'd been suspended immediately, long-term action pending.

But it wasn't pending anymore.

Expelled. Jesus. What was her mom going to say?

Heaving a sigh - close to tears, but too stubborn to admit it - Liz slumped downstairs with the letter in hand. This was going to be a fun conversation.

"You're gone, Liz. That's it."

The death sentence. Kicked out of the house. That's what her mom was saying.

It didn't come as too much of a surprise, of course. Liz didn't expect to be allowed to live there if she wasn't in school. Not with WonderHusband 2.0 moving in.

"Are you serious?" she asked anyway, figuring she'd give an argument the old college try. Her mom's compressed lips, however, told her there wasn't much to hope for.

"Yes, I'm serious," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I can't deal with this anymore! You've had things handed to you too often, young lady. No school in the country is going to want you now." Tears welled in her mother's great green eyes, and her lower lip quivered in a way that told Liz she was truly, profoundly, disappointed in her.

That felt like absolute shit.

"Oh come on, mom, I'm sure someone will…"

"This is Ilvermorny," her mom cried, shaking the expulsion letter in Liz's face. "You're not getting in anywhere decent with them speaking against you! Especially given how much your headmaster dislikes you."

"Werner's a sexually repressed old toad," Liz said bitterly.

"It doesn't matter!" her mom replied. "He's the head of your school, Elizabeth…"

"Ex-school."

"Quiet. I don't know how you did it, I really don't."

"He's had it out for me since I stepped on his wand first year."

At this moment, Liz's step-dad-to-be started chuckling. Liz spun to look at him, trying to tell him with her eyes that this was possibly the least funny thing she could think of. Tim's easy smile didn't quit, however, and it had a weird way of softening her. The tall, balding Muggle was sitting at the other end of the table, regarding the scene mildly. He'd taken an immediate liking to Liz when they'd first met, and he was endlessly fascinated by the fact that she was a witch. It made her slightly infallible in his eyes. Her mom was used to witches and wizards by now, though. She was much tougher to impress.

"How did you manage to step on your principal's wand?" Tim asked.

"Headmaster, honey."

"Headmaster's wand," he corrected. Liz blew out her cheeks and threw a look at her mom, who was only too happy to tell this rather embarrassing story.

"She was showing off for the other kids one day when he'd left the classroom. Climbed onto his desk and started dancing around. It was lying there, perfectly innocent, and of course as soon as he comes back into the room she panics, misplaces a step and snaps it like a twig."

"Oh Jesus. He shouldn't have left it there in the first place. Besides, I was twelve. "

"Well you're an adult now," her mom said harshly. "So why are you still acting like a child? I tried everything I could with your brother and he still turned out the way he did. And you're a witch! I don't want to know what could happen if you become a delinquent, too, much less run around with a wand but no school to keep you grounded. I don't want to do this to you, Liz, but you need to learn a lesson. I'm sending you to live with your dad."

Liz's blood pressure plummeted and the world went grey.

No. No, anything but that!

Expulsion was turning out to be far graver than she'd originally surmised.

Severus Snape wasn't exactly looking forward to the next academic year. In fact, dreading it might have been a more appropriate phrase, especially after last semester; that mess with Black's escape from Azkaban—not to mention the werewolf's presence on the grounds—had been straining to say the least. Snape was tired, both mentally and emotionally, from it all, and summer had flown; suddenly it was cresting August, and Autumn leaves would soon start to fall. But would the subsequent year be any better, any calmer, any less frantic?

Definitely not. No, instead the castle would be teeming not only with the Hogwartsian mass of dunderheads, but with insipid French and hostile Bulgarian dunderheads as well.

Oh yes, and Karkaroff would be there too. Excellent.

It seemed that the harder Snape tried to forget his past and everyone in it, the more often they sprung up out of the woodwork. To taunt him, it seemed. And of course, Harry Potter, the most glaring taunt of all, seemed to be the catalyst wherever trouble went.

Ah, but that brought up the one and only bright side to the Triwizard Tournament being held at Hogwarts this year: at the very least, amidst the hullaballoo these ludicrous games would generate, Potter would not be the center of attention. At the very least, Snape would be able to occupy his thoughts with something other than the dark occurrences surrounding Lily's son. And perhaps the boy's incredible ego would take a blow from it. Perhaps he'd even manage to keep his foolish little nose out of other people's business.

No, that last was entirely too much to hope for.

The shrill whistle of the teapot took Snape from his reverie, and he closed the book he'd abandoned on his lap, rising from the single worn-leather armchair in the corner to head for his cramped kitchen. He'd prepared a brew—already sitting in a strainer at the bottom of his teacup—that might help him sleep, recover some of the energy he was lacking. Pure and simple rest was the strategy this week, now that his lesson plans were complete. Next Monday he'd be Apparating into Hogsmeade, and if he was as fatigued then as he'd felt for the entire summer, things might go sour rather quickly.

Snape watched steam drift up from the flow of water he poured into the mug, the vapors of the heated herbs already soothing his overactive head. He raised the cup to his nose, breathing deeply, trying to infuse the concoction with the power running through his fingertips. The world of potions making could be extremely specific, with drastically different brews resulting from something as small as stirring clockwise as opposed to widdershins. But he liked the subtleties, and he liked that concocting could be vaguer, more shadowy, improvisational. This base sleeping potion, for example, had simply been thrown together with herbs from his personal store, concentrated over, and he was eager to discover its effects; what kind of sleep would it be? Dreamless? Vivid? Lucid? Deep?

He tipped the cup to his mouth.

The shock of pain which streaked through his left forearm startled him so profoundly that he let go of the mug, the tea crashing to the floor, spraying hot water and soggy herbs all over the shins of his dark slacks. Confused, angry, and more than a little worried, Snape ripped up his sleeve and stared at the marking there, hardly believing what he saw.

Had he imagined it? Was the pain just some kind of nerve spasm, associated so deeply with the Mark that he'd seen something that wasn't there? He couldn't imagine -couldn't even begin to want to imagine - that the snake had really just been wriggling on his arm, moving its head in and out of the eyes of the skull. His Dark Mark had been inactive since the Dark Lord's fall—it never twinged, moved or even itched.

So what the hell had that been about?

If he hadn't imagined it… he didn't want to think about the consequences. Did it merit a letter to Dumbledore in any case?

Moving back into his study, tea-less, irritated and thoroughly unnerved, Snape grabbed a dark bound notebook from his desk and sank into a chair. No, the headmaster didn't need to hear about it every time he had a pain in his arm, but he thought he should record the occasion lest it prove to be significant. Just the date, the time, a brief description…

He looked at his Dark Mark again. He used to like it, back when he'd first gotten it—foolish naivety of youth—but, needless to say, now it was a stigma. It didn't allow you to forget. Snape had considered a particularly strong self-inflicted Obliviate countless times, just to erase memories of the past, but while the tattoo still marred his skin, he knew he would always recall.

He sat in silence for a long moment, telling himself everything was alright. It was a nerve pain or the like—if the same thing had happened in his right arm he wouldn't have thought twice about it. And the illusion of movement his Mark had shown had simply been caused by shadow, by the rippling of tendons under his skin. There was nothing to be concerned about...

"By gods!" The sound of his own exclamation surprised him nearly as much as the sudden throb in his arm. He lurched forward in the chair, grasping at the base of his elbow, focusing all his attention on the writhing snake, on the powerful - if brief - rush of pain.

This was not his imagination.

He flew from his seat quickly enough to upset the inkwell he'd balanced on the armrest, striding to the window and ripping aside the curtain there, eyes cast to the dark skies, wondering if the sign would be there, too. But no movement marred the purple-blue of the clouds; no unnatural, magical light had been projected against the atmosphere to announce the presence of the once-proud Death Eaters. Snape let the drape fall from his thin fingers and pressed them against his forehead, eyebrows furrowed. He dropped his gaze to his forearm, but the snake didn't move again. What was going on?

Things like this were not simply happenstance. There had to be a reason…

Snape turned on his heel in a flash, a bolt of insight making him rush to where he'd discarded his morning Prophet on the side table. What day was it?

The front page news told him what he needed to know. Of course. It had been the World Cup today, the largest multinational collection of witches and wizards in four years. The perfect place to do a bit of terrorizing, ideal for attention loving Death Eaters wishing to inform the world that they were still among them.

Had someone been trying to call comrades? If so, the attempt had been botched and greatly rushed - sloppy, but surely a sign of one of the Dark Lord's supporters. Only they could summon each other.

A deeply ominous feeling came over him then, one that had become more and more frequent in the past months. A surge of dread, accompanied by the premonition that not all was going to be well; things might turn out very badly indeed.

Sneering despite himself at the smiling faces on the front cover of the Prophet - wondering if there weren't screaming, terrorized Quidditch fanatics somewhere in Britain - he threw the newspaper in the bin, a little surprised at how sour his mood suddenly was. He sat heavily at his desk, reaching for his quill and a long sheet of parchment, and started to strategize exactly how he would phrase this to Dumbledore.

"Just like your mum, always leaving things to the last minute."

Liz hadn't seen her father in person for five years, yet he still thought he had the right to act as though they were close. When she'd stumbled off the plane into Heathrow, for instance, he'd nervously fumbled towards her, this big goofy grin on his narrow face, and enfolded her in his freakishly long arms. That wouldn't have been so bad, had he not started cooing about how much she resembled her mother, how beautiful she was, how proud he was of her academic success thus far - oh yes, Liz had found a long time ago that school was one of her talents. It came naturally, if you forgot those unfortunate extracurricular mishaps. He took her talent as his personal strength, as though it reflected his astonishing paternal techniques.

No… now, really, that wasn't quite fair… Most likely, he took it to mean he was an extremely gifted, mighty wizard, and he had passed on this trait to his only child. The terrible thing was that Liz couldn't entirely discount this. Her mother and relatives on that side were muggles, after all. She only had her father to thank for any raw, genetic power.

But that did not mean five years without a single visit could be forgiven or forgotten. Sure, he'd owled her regularly, and even called once or twice (he was always extremely nervous about using a real telephone), but he'd been remarkably absent from her thirteenth through eighteenth years… which, of course, happened to be the period during which her emotions sometimes got out of control. His absenteeism could probably be accounted for by fear of Muggle technology - which was also part of the reason for his divorce from her mom - because he absolutely refused to get on a plane. And, since Apparating such long distances was extremely dangerous, practically impossible, the only other option was going by boat, the voyage of which took weeks he did not have out of his work schedule.

But the fact of the matter was, he'd completely missed her progression into woman-hood, and she'd gotten relatively bitter about it. He'd even been a handy source of angst while she was a young teenager, the hurt and betrayal pulled out and dusted off when she wasn't feeling melodramatic enough.

So his level of familiarity with her was incredibly disconcerting. He'd known her as a child. Now, he was meeting her again as a woman. How could he tell her she was just like her mom?

But he had a point in the "last minute" thing. School started in three days. She'd barely have enough time to shop for supplies, much less get accustomed to England.

Liz looked over to her dad, who was grinning in a surprisingly endearing way; indeed, he hadn't stopped smiling since she'd gotten off the flight. That had been an hour ago, and after a brief, easy lunch in a tiny tavern, they were walking side by side down a cold, wet - but, she had to admit, absolutely charming - lane, lined with pubs and bookstores.

"I wanted to say goodbye to my friends" was all she could think to say.

Her dad's smile faltered and he looked down at her.

"I'm sorry, love," he said earnestly. "I know it wasn't your choice to come here. Though I can't say I don't love seeing you."

"I know," Liz muttered, totally at a loss. Her father really was trying; she could see that. But bitterness remained, coating the back of her throat, making her tongue sharper than it should have been. She had to keep swallowing jabs at him. Much as she wanted him to understand her pain over his absence, she didn't want to blatantly hurt him.

"And you'll like Hogwarts, I think," her dad went on, scratching the light stubble forming around his chin. He'd grown out his hair a bit, and now it was easy to see how closely the dark mahogany and thick strands matched hers. "I did. Best seven years of my life, really. If you get into Gryffindor, tell the fat lady hello from me." His crooked grin told her she was supposed to giggle or something. Instead, Liz gave him a blank look.

"What's Gryffindor, some kind of club?"

He chuckled. "No, no. It's a Hogwarts house… a bit like an academic family. Of course, you're broken into years, but all the students are clustered into houses as well."

They arrived at a diminutive pub, shabby and dim-looking, squashed between two taller, more modern buildings on either side - not that London was particularly modern when it came to architecture. The sign above the pub's entrance proclaimed that it was called The Leaky Cauldron, which seemed rather conspicuous for a wizarding establishment on a muggle block. It was probably hidden, visually, from them. Her dad steered her towards it as he continued to explain the stupid housing system. Liz couldn't pretend to be very excited about it.

"There are four of them: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin and Ravenclaw." He pushed open the establishment's grimy wooden door and ushered her into the dark barroom, lit only by candle and absolutely vacant, save for a hunched old barman polishing bottles. "You'll probably be sorted into one for the year, so you have a dormitory to sleep in. I don't know, really; I'm not sure what they do with transfer students."

Liz had to subdue her biting remarks about the British educational system. Come to that, what kind of ridiculous name for a school was Hogwarts?

There she was, being overly critical again.

"Hallo, Tom!" Her father hailed the barman - bald, broken smile, thin arms. He raised the glass he was cleaning in response, eyes darting curiously towards Liz. Her father wrapped an arm around her shoulder, but she didn't lean into it. "This is my daughter, Elizabeth. She's spending her seventh year at Hogwarts… kind of an exchange trip."

Well, at least he made it sound good. If you put it like that, this whole experience almost seemed impressive, like she was choosing to study abroad as opposed to being expelled from one school and begrudgingly accepted by another. Liz waved at Tom; his smile got softer.

"Didn't know they did that there," he replied, his accent different from her dad's… Cockney? East End? Were those the same? Was that even his accent?

"Special exceptions." Her dad winked.

Special exceptions indeed. Her father's high-paying, respectable job at the British Ministry of Magic had a lot to do with her acceptance; had he not been alumni, made generous annual donations and kept on good terms with the Headmaster, Liz probably would not have gotten in.

"We're just going for her school supplies now… only three days till commencement, after all!" Her dad clapped his hand on her shoulder and she grimaced at the nodding barman, who waved them towards a door in the back.

Liz wasn't exactly sure what to expect. Her father had told her they were visiting a wizarding marketplace, all the stores clustered together, forbidden to muggles. In America - at least, in the large city Liz came from - magical shops hid behind mundane facades in plain buildings along the street; you could shop for jeans and get potions ingredients in the same trip. She had a feeling this would be quite the culture shock.

She'd even heard robes were still in fashion over here, a fact she didn't quite believe. Of course, she'd seen the British Minister of Magic in the newspaper once or twice, sometimes wearing the cloaks and maybe a traditional hat, but that was to be expected from a formal bureaucrat. This was 1994! Robes weren't casual dress anymore.

Her father, of course, wasn't wearing a robe, but he had recently been among muggles, so that didn't quite settle the issue. She supposed she'd find out soon enough.

Through the pub's back door was a tiny courtyard surrounded by high walls, the dead thorns of scarce wild roses strung over the tops, shifting in the breeze, moss creeping between cracks in the brick. Liz stood, her arms folded across her chest to brace against the cold, as her dad approached the far partition and tapped it with his wand. Slowly, in response to his touch, the bricks began to slide out of place, gathering themselves in a wonderful little enchantment to form an archway. Liz raised her eyebrows, impressed by the simple beauty of the ritual, and waited until the new doorway was complete.

Then, she got her first look at Diagon Alley.

"Oh wow..."

Never in her life had she seen such a charming place, so completely true to the spirit of witchcraft and wizardry. American wizards spent a lot of their time blending in with muggles, becoming part of them, adopting their customs and styles. Here it seemed the culture had remained fully intact, separate, perfectly preserved as though in time. She'd never known her father to talk much about his home so, while she had heard European witches and wizards liked to segregate from muggles and live secretly in a different way, she certainly hadn't been expecting this.

Liz was absolutely enchanted stepping through that archway, gazing around in wonder at the beautiful little shop windows with their ornate wooden signs, the old fashioned buildings trimmed in slate and scarlet. She watched two children race by, their voices raised in exertion and excitement, lobbing balls which exploded into puffs of smoke upon impact. A witch down the lane stood by a quaint wooden cart, selling quills and parchment (they still used quills and parchment!), her shocking green robe managing to look quite ordinary given the setting. Everyone was in robes, come to it, but it didn't seem as weird as Liz had been expecting. She'd entered this thriving, busy, beautiful world and felt, for the first time, as though she was exactly where she belonged.

Because the fact was, these people were her kin; these people weren't afraid to stay true to exactly what witches and wizards were. There had always been a strange kind of longing in Liz for the traditional wizarding culture; Ilvermorny's version was far too orderly, clean cut and monitored for her liking. Everything she knew about magic told her it was fluid, it rose and ebbed, it was often chaotic and disorganized. It fit exactly with the feel of this place, the look, the smell, the sound.

For the first time since boarding the plane, Liz found herself wearing a genuine smile.

"So… what do you need?" Her dad was distractedly digging through his pockets, obviously far less impressed than Liz, who wanted to visit every store in the alley. But his nonchalance had a sobering effect. She kept herself from acting too swept up in the locale, pretended to be just as unimpressed as he was.

"Uh…" She pulled the folded parchment list from her back pocket, suddenly realizing she must look very odd in her dark ripped jeans and Nirvana t-shirt, running a nervous hand down her leg and hoping no one stared. "I need… robes, I guess, first. Black robes as well as dress robes."

"Ah," her father said, smiling. "I heard about the reason behind the dress robes. You have a very entertaining year ahead."

"Why?" Liz frowned. Dress robes didn't sound terribly entertaining.

"The Triwizard Tournament will be held at Hogwarts this year!"

For once, she wasn't completely in the dark about this. Everyone knew what a Triwizard Tournament was, and everyone wanted the opportunity to see one at some point. Liz spun on her dad, who had just found his little black satchel of coins, and stared at him, trying to make sure he wasn't taking her for a ride. They hadn't had Triwizard Tournament in years - too dangerous. People fucking died in them.

"Are you serious?"

He ran a hand through his hair and laughed at her skeptical expression.

"Oh yes, quite. But run on, run on. I've some shopping of my own to do." He tossed her the sack of galleons. "That should be more than enough. I'm sure you can find your way."

One thing Liz had always liked about her dad: he was far from overbearing. She was glad for the opportunity to be rid of him for a bit, and started off down the cobblestone path, her list in one hand, staring around at the buildings on either side.

She came first to a place called Madam Malkin's, a cute little robe shop across the street from a deliciously fragrant ice cream parlor. The owner turned out to be a squat, dimpled witch in her late forties, who was selling a bright scarlet robe to a tall blond wizard and who smiled widely at Liz when she came through the door. Once finished with the preceding customer, Madam Malkin made herself busy with Liz, asking what she needed, her color preferences, whether she preferred a flowing or sleek fit. Liz, completely unsure, finally had to tell the witch that she had literally never worn a classic robe before; Ilvermorny's uniforms comprised of plaid skirts and short blue capes, nothing like these flowing black numbers she guessed would be part of her uniform at Hogwarts.

Hearing this, Madam Malkin launched into a new flurry of questions, mostly about America, all the time flicking her wand at a long piece of measuring tape which wrapped itself around different parts of Liz's body. She then showed her the deep black fabric school robes were made out of, had her choose her favorite type of cloak, and asked her to pick a style and color for her dress robes.

The term "dress robes" turned out to be a bit of a misnomer, for women, at least. Most of them looked to be simply formal gowns, often with a wizarding edge - a flared sleeve, an elaborate neckline - and Liz found it awfully hard to choose just one she liked. In the end, however, she decided upon a midnight blue number with white accents, long bell sleeves, off-the-shoulders, its skirt gathered and dropped in a really elegant way. Madam Malkin cooed over it for a solid minute before she swept it away, got Liz dressed once more in her street clothes, and ushered her out with a "Half hour and it will be ready for pick up, dear."

After that, shopping was relatively easy. Everything on her list was within a one or two block distance, and she could omit buying items required for Ilvermorny, ones she already had - the cauldron, the telescope, the brass scales. She did stop in Florean Fortescue's for a delicious honey ice cream, and bought a few treats for poor, irritable Lysander at the Owl Emporium because he was feelings terribly down after his horrid plane ride. Before she knew it, Liz was heading back to The Leaky Cauldron with armfuls of supplies.

She and her father Apparated to his home shortly thereafter, burdened with purchases. Liz had had a grand old time trying on her new cloak, which she paraded down the street with an amused grin, but she was starting to feel extremely jet-lagged and irritable, despite the long nap she'd charmed herself into on the plane.

Her father noticed the increase in tension - he'd been remarkably blasé about her sometimes-snide comments thus far - and ushered her into his wonderfully British home, what Liz thought looked like a large cottage in a tiny wizarding township just outside of London. Therein, Liz promptly found her room, fed a very grumpy white barn owl his treats, and collapsed on her bed, asleep before her head hit the pillow.

"Ah, Miss Gosling, right on time. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Hogwarts."

With these words, Liz was ushered into the Headmaster's office, gazing around a little stupidly at the vast and beautiful collection of fine magical instruments. On the walls hung moving portraits of older witches and wizards, possibly old Headmasters or teachers; in the corner was a cabinet that emitted a faint blue glow Liz generally associated with a pensieve; God, the man even had a beautiful red phoenix, perched magnificently atop an elaborate black perch.

With deliberate effort, Liz returned her attention to the old man gazing at her with a smile, his blue eyes twinkling from behind half-moon spectacles. He seemed immediately to understand her expression at the sight of his beautiful office - moreover, he seemed to like it.

Liz liked him immediately - she couldn't see how anyone wouldn't. The long, immaculately white beard, the draped blue robes, the charm of his crooked nose… He gave off such a kind, wise energy, and he looked as though he was more than willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Good afternoon, Headmaster," she replied with a genuine smile. This was already going much better than expected. Her first impression alone of Albus Dumbledore far outweighed any impression she ever had of Werner at Ilvermorny. She could definitely go to school here.

Dumbledore swept around beside a little table set up near a window facing a distant Quidditch pitch, waving his wand and conjuring a little tray of crumpets and a delicate white teapot.

"Tea?" he asked pleasantly. "Biscuits?"

Liz accepted a cup of tea - she felt it might be rude not to - and went back to hovering awkwardly, silent and unsure. The night before, her father had told her that she was to attend a meeting with Dumbledore before the start of term, but otherwise gave her no information. She assumed the headmaster wanted to size her up, make sure he wasn't taking on a delinquent.

But he was very casual, at ease, sipping his tea for a moment before turning the glimmer of his eye back on her. It made her feel a little more relaxed. She sipped her tea, too.

"So, tell me," he began, and Liz braced for a question about the expulsion. What he said, however, surprised her. "Why, upon absconding from Ilvermorny Academy, did you choose to come to Hogwarts?"

For a moment, Liz wasn't sure how to respond. Her mouth gaped open like an asinine fish until she realized what she was doing and closed it with a snap.

"I… didn't, sir," she explained honestly, sure he knew the real story. This was some kind of test or something. "I was moved here after being expelled from Ilvermorny. It was a really stupid mistake. I was just blowing off a little steam, I really didn't mean anything by it, but of course you won't have to worry about me ever doing anything like it ever -"

Dumbledore raised a hand to stop her ramble. Liz put a hand to her mouth, embarassed. She talked too much - this was something she'd been reminded of constantly at Ilvermorney.

"Expelled?" Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, still smiling mildly, not seeming a bit surprised. "Perhaps. But it is not your expulsion that interests me. If I am not mistaken - and I am rarely mistaken - it will not be what you are known for as you begin your life in these halls." He winked at her and swept around to her, the movement of his robes causing a strange golden instrument on his desk to begin to turn. "I, personally, am a man who truly believes in new beginnings," Dumbledore said, waving a hand mildly towards the phoenix. Liz smiled. "And I feel, if you are willing to begin again at the beginning, you should at least have the opportunity to do so with a clean slate. And Hogwarts will open its arms to you."

"I'm quite willing to begin again, sir," Liz replied.

"Wonderful." He clapped his hands once, folding his extremely long fingers together - the fingers of a wizard with more than just tricks up his sleeve - and sank into his chair. "You'll be sorted tomorrow night, before the commencement feast. I look forward to seeing you again then. But for now, though I know this meeting was indecorously brief, I must bid you adieu. A headmaster's work is never finished - far from it at this time of year. Though I can't imagine you'll have many complaints about leaving my company. You are free to wander the castle or, if you so wish, to return to Hogsmeade for a quick nip and a firewhiskey." He smiled and his eyes twinkled at her, surely eager, expression. "Oh yes. I remember the joys of seventeen only too well, Miss Gosling."

"Eighteen, sir," she corrected. "I started a year late."

"Ah. Of course. Go. Enjoy the weekend before the last year of your education begins." He stood. "Allow me to show you out."

And suddenly they were moving towards the door, Liz still a little befuddled by the whole encounter. Dumbledore gently took the half-full teacup from her hands, pausing when she got the threshold, where his private spiral staircase extended downwards towards two gargoyle statues.

"Enjoy the rest of your holiday, my dear."

"You too, sir. Thank you so much."

"The pleasure is all mine. Hogwarts has gained itself a worthy student."

And he waved and she stepped away and the door clicked softly shut behind her.

That… was completely bizarre.

This place was so different from the sterile marble halls of Ilvermorny, where order and seriousness were the edicts of the day - and Liz was in complete bliss. Dumbledore was so cool! In essence, he was completely erasing her record, allowing her far more of an advantage than she ever thought she'd get. It was freeing, wonderful. Liz was smiling as she stepped out from the gargoyle's post, into the grand old castle halls - she loved them already; the idea of living in a castle was too much to hope for.

That older woman who'd escorted her up here was gone, but she wasn't sorry for it. She'd been so stern looking, her hair tied back tightly, those glasses, that pursed mouth. But she, too, was pleasant enough. And apparently unconcerned that Liz was wandering the castle alone.

Her little exploration didn't go long, however. Only ten minutes after she'd left Dumbledore, a strikingly ugly old fellow with a narrow chin and scraggly hair shuffled around a corner and she asked him the way out. She was a bit peckish - to use her father's word - and a firewhiskey really did sound good. The man told her gruffly to follow him. He limped; it made Liz feel ill at ease, as though she should help him, but the thought of touching him made her skin crawl a bit. So she followed silently, gazing at the majesty of the architecture, noting with shivers of delight the amount of old magic echoing in these halls. The place was, in and of itself, completely enchanted. It was the most wonderful place she'd ever been.

Liz had just gotten around to scarcely believing her luck when she was led into the castle's enormous entrance hall, and she took a moment to once again pause at its grand beauty. She'd passed through here on her way up to the Headmaster, but she'd been so distracted by that older woman—McGinnigan? MacGonnal?—she hadn't really taken time to appreciate it.

"So," Liz said awkwardly, as she and the man started down the grand staircase, "are… you a teacher here?"

He snorted derisively and shook his head.

"Caretaker," he grunted, not even glancing over his shoulder at her.

"Oh," said Liz. She seemed to be saying that a lot lately. This place was throwing her many a curve-ball, and she wasn't sure how to handle them.

The grumpy caretaker hobbled quickly over the last yard or two of ground after he'd descended the staircase, clumsily unlatching the great wooden front doors and pulling one open with a grunt. He pressed his back against it, holding it open for Liz, gesturing out across the threshold in a blatant mockery of chivalry—as evidenced by the contemptuous twist of his mouth. She stepped outside, into blustery fall weather, and smiled at the sloping lawns, the border of trees an acre or three away, the sparkle of the distant lake. God this place was gorgeous.

"Straight down that path there," the caretaker said, his tone about as pleasant as he smelled. He pointed a crooked finger at a trail leading towards an opening in the tree line, the same one she remembered coming through when she'd been escorted up the path from the little village, Hogsmeade. "Once you pass the gate, you can Apparate. Stick to the path. Wood's full of dangerous beasties." The cruel smile he sent her way was remarkably unpleasant; it told Liz he wouldn't be upset if she met one of the monsters of the forest—he'd be entertained by the very notion.

"Thanks," she smiled at him, just to make him uncomfortable. "Take care!" Stupid farewell joke—a play on his job description; care-taker, get it?—but it went completely over his head. Probably not surprising. It wasn't a very good joke. In any case, he grunted again and slid inside, the great door slamming behind him.

Pulling her—surprisingly warm—cloak around her shoulders, Liz started down the path. It didn't take her long to reach the high silver gates that marked the border of Hogwarts grounds, and they swung open at her approach to allow her through. It took even less time for Liz to decide she didn't want to return immediately to her father's little cottage; he wouldn't be home for hours, anyway. The meeting with Dumbledore had been the epitome of short and sweet; it was only just now four o'clock. So Liz kept to the path, walking briskly to stave off the cold, and found herself fifteen minutes later on the main street of the quaint little Hogsmeade.

She spent a few hours in the shops there, still not used to the charm of blatantly magical establishments which didn't have to hide or mute their enchantments. They were wonderful, especially Dervish and Banges with its interesting, if needless, assorted magical instruments, and Honeydukes, the fantastic sweet shop where she picked up an irresponsible amount of Chocoballs.

Before eating herself into a sugar coma, however, Liz decided she needed something to eat and a tall glass of red currant rum—more than a year later, and she still hadn't gotten over the distinct pleasure of being of-age and buying stiff drinks in wizarding bars. There seemed to be two pubs in this village, but one of them was a ways up the road, shabby-looking, sketchy. So she headed towards the cozy, brightly lit tavern on the well-traveled path, hoping it would have decent meat pie.