Harry's mind was still turning like a carousel as he advanced towards the Great Hall for Care of Magical Creatures. The rain poured still in unrelenting waves.
When he reached his destination, Harry saw Professor Dumbledore standing upon the raised platform that usually housed the Staff Table. As it were, the table was obscured by a vast white screen that hung suspended in midair.
"Gather round, gather round." The Headmaster's low tones resonated easily around the Hall, encouraging the Third-years to shuffle closer towards the screen, in front of which were arranged three benches. It seemed that the House tables had been stacked somewhere behind the screen or perhaps even vanished temporarily.
"A Galleon says he shows us some instructional video on making Muggle sweets," Harry whispered to Ron.
"You're on mate."
"As you can see, I have acquired a sufficient projector as the weather outside remains vulgar and unsuitable for you to undertake your Care of Magical Creatures classes. Therefore, I have brought with me an old Muggle film, unwillingly donated by a Professor who will remain unnamed." He then let out an elaborate cough that bore a striking resemblance to the word 'Snape'.
The projector whirred into action as the windows magically blacked out and a forced hush descended upon the room. The film seemed to be a recording of a theatre production. Yes, it was indeed; Antony and Cleopatra, as Professor Dumbledore announced.
An aristocratic-looking, dark-haired woman filled the screen, talking in fluid tones. Although, Harry could make neither head nor tail of what she was saying (Harry Potter was never to be a Shakespeare fan). She quite reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall, albeit an Egyptian Muggle version of her. When he mentioned this to Ron on the way out of the Great Hall, Harry could have sworn he saw Professor Dumbledore smirk.
"You owe me a Galleon, mate," said Ron.
The next lesson of the day saw the Golden Trio in Herbology under the less-than-watchful eye of Professor Binns. It had taken a full ten minutes to remove the bubblehead charms from the students. Harry decided to take the opportunity to relay to Ron and Hermione what Dobby had told him earlier in the day.
Ron looked rightly confused.
"Well, it can't be Neville! As if Malfoy would make a bet with Neville. It must have been a Slytherin using his name." Harry thought guiltily back to the time that he had used Neville's name when aboard the Knight Bus. "It's the only explanation, isn't it? Dobby's never actually been introduced to Neville, has he?"
"I think Dobby prefers to introduce himself," Harry said, his mind wandering back to the day when Dobby had first appeared in his bedroom in Privet Drive. Yes, Dobby certainly was the type to introduce himself first.
"I say we ask him anyway," Hermione whispered as Professor Binns floated by as sweepingly as being a ghost would allow. "He did seem to know a lot about the venom," Hermione added almost inaudibly. Harry, however, caught the remark.
"So did you, but we aren't going to start accusing you of trying to poison teachers!"
Both Ron and Hermione scowled at him.
"Is there something that you would like to share with the rest of us?" Professor Binns' mechanical drone sounded from behind them. "Wingleby? Pinter? Gwindlespire?"
Harry could only assume that he was addressing the three of them as he looked back and forth between them.
"We were just discussing the history of how the Venomous Tentacula plant came to Europe, Professor."
Bless Hermione and her quick thinking.
"Ah, yes. Quite interesting, that. It was first discovered deep in the rainforests of…"
Ron glared at Hermione for the entirety of Professor Binns' tirade, which lasted, in fact, until the bell that signalled the end of the lesson.
A fleeting shock ran up the back of her hand, through her arm, and she quickly flinched away. She saw him withdraw his hand at the touch of her skin as well.
"Where are you going to keep all of these books?" Albus chuckled as he plucked yet another tome from a cardboard box. "Your bookcases here are already full."
"Have you never heard of an extension charm, Professor?"
"I could ask you the same thing."
"What on earth do you mean?" Minerva's voice was challenging in contrast to her previous, jesting question.
"Why all of these boxes when you could have charmed your handbag to carry it all?"
"It's such a terrible bother to get everything out of a charmed bag; I would end up cutting myself." Her reply was too quick. She knew well enough that she could easily prevent injury by summoning the required articles from her bag, but she was damned if she would tell him that it had been but an excuse to stay longer in the house. Her house. It may have been her house, but it had not been her home for a long time.
Albus knew exactly what she was thinking and he hadn't even needed to use Legilimency. That was something he prided himself on, being able to tell what she was thinking. Few friends these days could claim such mental intimacy.
However, Albus had also become fairly adept at gauging what her reactions would be to given stimuli. It was because of this ability that he chose to remain silent on the matter.
Silent, in fact, is what they remained for a while. But the silence grew more comfortable in a matter of seconds, as it is accustomed to doing between friends. One cannot usually be angry with a good friend for long.
"How did your Care of Magical Creatures cover lesson go? I bet Hagrid was glad of a rest."
"I doubt that he got that; he spent most of the morning in the rain, trying to cover the flobberworms."
"He should have asked me when I put an Impurturbable charm on the hippogriff pen this morning," Minerva sighed.
"You know how Hagrid is, Minerva."
"He likes his independence," she nodded. "I can relate to that. You're avoiding my question." The downside of being great friends, thought Albus, is that she knows me too. At what point does it become acceptable for friends to ask each other irritating questions?
"I showed them Cleopatra."
A moment of silence ensued before she turned to him and asked incredulously: "You did not?"
"I did," he said.
"What on earth could have possessed you?"
"I quite enjoyed your foray into acting," he shrugged. She answered by leaving the room in a flurry of emerald green. A trail of annoyance simmered in her wake.
"One day, I will murder you, Albus Dumbledore," she shouted from the next room. Albus almost laughed. Almost.
"As you have said many, many, many times before."
"What – may I ask – do you call this?" The trio wheeled around, only to be confronted by the solid form of Professor Snape in his usual black garb.
"I call it walking, Sir," Harry replied in a challenging tone.
"Enough of your cheek, Potter," Snape sneered. "Ten points from Gryffindor. Now, what are you three doing out of bed after hours?"
"We were just heading back to bed, Professor," Hermione squeaked.
"That does not answer my question, Miss Granger, as to why you are out of your beds in the first place." Hermione opened her mouth once more but another voice interrupted before she could retort.
"I am sure that I could ask the same thing of you, Severus." Harry was, for once, relieved to turn around and see Professor McGonagall looming in her tartan dressing gown. She now glared at Snape. "Why are you not in the Hospital Wing? It was the express decision of Madam Pomfrey and myself that you remain there for the rest of the week."
"I have checked myself out," Snape replied simply. "I am sure that you, Minerva, of all people, will understand the tedium that comes with spending an extended amount of time locked up in that awful place; I assume that you and Professor Dumbledore would prefer a sane Potions Master."
"Oh, we have not had one of those in quite some time, Severus," McGonagall smirked. "Now, if you would return to your quarters, I will deal with these three."
Before Snape could protest, McGonagall was shepherding Harry, Ron and Hermione down the dim corridors towards her office. The three students hurried along in the wake of her long strides, not daring to glance back to see whether Snape had taken her advice or had chosen to return and hex them all.
The portrait of Godric Gryffindor hung proudly across the entrance to McGonagall's office. He stood, sword in hand, among the bracken of an empty moor. All was peaceful when suddenly a Welsh Green dragon swooped into the frame, dousing the landscape in violent flames. Gryffindor leapt into action, jumping wildly about and brandishing his sword in a frenzy of silver. Harry, Ron and Hermione watched the scene with wide eyes. Professor McGonagall, however, seemed less impressed; she shook her head and rolled her eyes.
"Oh, Godric, what have I told you about this?"
Gryffindor, who had just managed to wrestle the dragon into a rather impressive headlock, looked up. Both wizard and dragon wore identical bemused expressions.
"And the portrait of Saint George is tired of his dragon friend vanishing," she added.
A second later, dragon and wizard had disengaged. The former flew off towards a portrait a few frames away while the latter brushed himself down dejectedly.
"Whatever happened to showmanship?" he muttered.
"A lost art, I'm afraid," sighed Professor McGonagall. "Besides, it won't work on these three." She pushed Harry a little closer to the frame so that he stood in line with Ron and Hermione. "These are the ones who managed to tackle the troll."
Harry could have sworn that there was a hint of pride there, under the professional layer of disapproval that coated it.
"In our first year," Ron added, blushing furiously when he realised that everybody had heard him.
"Indeed," Gryffindor murmured. "The elusive Potter, Weasley and Granger. From what I hear, I owe you thanks for upholding my good name."
Hermione blushed a bright scarlet colour.
"Just let us in, please," McGonagall said impatiently.
"The password?" The painted figure spread his hands in question, raising his eyebrow in a movement that rather mirrored the Head of House's.
"Du Maurier." The name of a famous Muggle author, if Harry remembered correctly. He found himself pondering what the significance of the name could be.
"Welcome back, Professor McGonagall," Gryffindor said with a theatrical bow. McGonagall rolled her eyes.
The office was its usual pristine self but for a few brown boxes littering the back corner. Professor McGonagall had just seated herself behind her neatly organised desk when the sound of muffled crashing and profanities came from the next room.
"Minerva? Is that you?"
Professor Dumbledore appeared from a room that – from what Harry could make out through the open door – was the Head of House's bedroom:
"Where do you keep your underwear?" he asked, evidently not sensing the presence of anyone either than his Deputy.
Harry, Ron and Hermione looked incredulously at each other. Dumbledore's eyes widened as he looked up to see the three students lined up before the desk. McGonagall's mouth was hanging open rather than pressed into its usual thin line.
"Not like that!" the Headmaster said emphatically as he caught the students' not-so-discreet glances. "I am simply helping Professor McGonagall to organise her belongings."
"And I specifically told you not to go into that particular box," McGonagall hissed in reply, momentarily forgetting the presence of the three Gryffindors.
A warm red spread across his cheeks like the sun creeping across a summer's sky.
"Curiosity often leads to knowledge," he said defensively.
"And, more often, to trouble. Speaking of which," she turned now towards the Golden Trio, "I believe you three have some explaining to do."
"We were going –"
"- back to bed."
"- to find Madam Pomfrey."
"- to retrieve my Transfiguration textbook."
Of course, they all spoke simultaneously. Naturally, McGonagall's eyebrows went through their process of soaring into her hairline before sharply diving towards each other and finishing in a magnificently hawk-like frown.
"I may be getting older, but I know a cover-up when I hear one." This seemed to Harry to be quite a strange thing to say, seeing as she must have reached her early thirties at most. The potion was not yet finished wearing off. "Next time, I suggest that you get your stories straight before you get caught. Now, I am assuming that you will not tell me the true reason why you are out of bed and I doubt that I would like your truthful answer anyway. Therefore you shall each lose fifteen points for Gryffindor and will return immediately to bed. I trust that you will think more carefully before breaking the rules in future. Am I making myself clear?"
"Yes, Professor," they replied.
"Off to bed then, please."
The Golden Trio trudged off towards the Common Room, barely speaking to each other. Until, that is, Ron broke the silence.
"She's going soft in her old age."
Back in McGonagall's office, Albus Dumbledore had plonked himself down onto a sofa with a sherbet lemon and a challenging expression.
"You're going soft in your old age."
A/N: I am truly, truly sorry for the lack of update on this – and all of my other – work; coursework has reached a ridiculous level even at this early stage of the school year. Therefore updates will be a little sporadical until the end of term, when I hope to have a little more spare time. I hope you will continue to read, regardless.
