It didn't take much to recruit other friends to help us. They've never been gun shy about sneaking around, and it's certainly not our first time doing so. Wicca and Ray are faking a fight while Nox and Deck are going to as well, thinning out authority along the grounds in hopes they'll try to break up the fight. Chief, who has potions, plans on 'accidentally' mixing an explosive mixture that will hopefully catch all the attention towards that corridor, the only space left open and away from a distracting fight. I am going to distract McGonagall in her office; I'm prepared for her and her scrutiny. Furry and Lyre are going to the tower, leaving Tenor as lookout. Furry knows the tower best, seeing as it holds his favorite class, and will lead Lyre to the room where Trelawny kept her prophecies. Though Lyre isn't the sneakiest of people, unlike Furry whose so light footed you wouldn't know he was near until he jumped on top of you, she knows what the prophecy is like and will recognize it easier than any of us. Let me tell you this; fooling the headmistress is no easy task. Luckily, she and I are somewhat close and my appearances in her office aren't all that strange. The only downside to that though is her ability to read my language, movements, and mumbled noises like a child's book in the hands of a genius. I'm perched on a chair in her office, trying to speak about the ordeal with Methaine. McGonagall is cross, frustrated after her talk with Rita Skeeter, editor of the Daily Prophet. She wants to interview us; McGonagall refused with a rather lengthy berating of how Rita could write herself to death for all she cared, that she would not intrude on her students private matters. I've never been more thankful for her sturdy decisiveness. "I do not see how that blasphemous fool of a woman could be so insistent," McGonagall grumbles, tossing yet another letter into the trash bin. I look at the black cylinder, noting how it's near bursting with parchment and shiver slightly. "Maybe you should go see her in person, show her whose boss?" I suggest, winding my fingers together and slouching back in my chair. Headmistress pauses, regarding me carefully to gauge my true thoughts on the matter, then rolls her eyes. I smile coyly, facing the stern, fond glare with an innocent smile. "I have duties to attend, dear girl. That would be counterproductive and I can only imagine the story she would stir." "Well, I don't want her talking to Olive regardless. Olive.. Says what she thinks." "A trait she inherited from you undoubtedly," McGonagall says, mouth sure and fingers placing her wire rimmed spectacles on her nose to peer properly at another sheet of parchment. I quirk my lips, knowing I do the same but purposely stalling. "But I'm practiced at it, I know better." McGonagall shoots me a glare over her parchment that would burn my skin if it had been turned up a degree higher. I wait for an opening to babble about random things to keep her set in her office but she refuses to drop her gaze. She peers at the dark circles under my lids, paling skin, furrowed brow, then my sunken shoulders. At the attention I sit a little straighter, cross my legs ladylike, and square my shoulders. It's almost comical how I pull my sleeves down and shift my weight, ensuring my skin is covered though most of my bruises are fading, or have nearly completely faded. Bruises I'll never have again. "Have you gotten the arrangements for your mother finalized?" She asks, intense gaze dropping to her paper. I take the moment of brief privacy to fidget, wince at the thought. When her eyes return to mine I am ready, strong bodied and tall, a force to be withheld. She's hardly phased at my attempt of stability. That woman has the strength of forty men and the mouth of a once wronged woman never to be wronged again. If I didn't respect her so id compare her to my mother; a hurricane with skin, full of courage and action despite the small cage in which it is kept. Only my mother let her fear and insanity consume her; McGonagall would never allow that to happen to herself or anyone else. Though she has no children of her own, she is the best mother I have ever known. "The ministry won't release her body. All her family is dead and friends...gone. We have school. Going back for a fruitless funeral would be silly." "And your house?" "Left to me in her will. Methaine paid it off in full, finally something he actually did as a decent human being." I don't mention I'm hell-bent on selling the thing. It's old, two bedrooms, has a dishwasher that runs a dark, limy colored water and cabinets that groan at the mere inkling of jarring open. Not to mention all the memories. Most I wouldn't want to keep if it killed me because some of those memories almost did. Everywhere I look reminds me- like, "Oh, she slapped me the first time there at the front door," or, "Oh, she shattered the lamp I bought her for Mothers Day on my head near the couch there," and, "Oh, she preformed the sectumsempra spell there, on the carpet." You can still see slight rifts in the carpeting of places I've shed blood on, though I've scrubbed them near to the bone. "Rieki. When was the last hour you slept?" I quirk my lips, weighing whether lying would be of any use. She peers at me, warm, but sharp gaze intent to pull the answer right out of my eyes. "I dunno." "Have you eaten?" "Yes," I say, firmer than before. I have, that wasn't a lie. Still McGonagall tips her nose down, peers at me over those wire thin glasses, and squints. "You're worn." "I'm fine," I say, the word echoing through my mind in a never ending tandem. It sounds strange, tastes strange even, rolling off my tongue. Swallowing a wince I sit a little straighter, so straight my spine begins to ache. "I'll call lunch-" "No!" I nearly shout, jolting from my seat to grasp her arm. She flickers her gaze pointedly down to my bone white grip against her robes, but doesn't move. I cough, retracting my hold as if burned and stand straighter, though now positioned between her and the door. "I did eat, earlier, I promise. Can we just enjoy one another's company here?" "And whatever is the matter with me stepping out the door for a moment?" She asks, suspicion lacing her tone. I shuffle awkwardly, shrugging off my glamour of courage and stoicism; leaving exhaustion and raw emotion plainly painting my features. "Nothing. But I ate already, Chief made sure of that, and... I do need to talk," I find myself saying, words spewing from my mouth in a slur. McGonagall nods sharply, pushing her papers aside with a swish of her wand and tilts her head; pointed hat angled at 2 o'clock. "Then by all means." She motions for me to continue with a wave of her wrinkled hand; I gulp. "How'd Methaine get in?" "Apparition." "And what 'matters' did you have to deal with off grounds?" I ask. Her lips tighten in a thin line, shoulders stretching to accommodate her erect posture. The way she sits is nothing shy of erect though uncomfortably so. "I do not see how that is any of your business." "The moment Methaine apparated into this school it became my business," I growl, banging my fist on the table. She looks at me in slight shock, casting a curious brow on my clenched hand. I shake my head, withdrawing my fist. "Look. I've got one dead mother, one dead father, one dead sister, and one living sister and I don't want to end up with another body on my hands. Now, you weren't here when I needed you, or worse when Olive needed you. I got cursed and hexed and soul sucked and I deserve to know what's going on," I say sternly, forcing my voice to level out and appear convincing. McGonagall's exterior shrinks away slightly; all the tell tale sign I need to know she's giving in bit by bit. She glances around fleetingly and leans towards me. "You are just a child." "You and I both know that's not true," I say with a voice even more sure than before. Headmistress sighs, pulling her robes into her lap. I inch forward, raising my brows expectantly. "There was a… A break out of Azkaban. Many of the hardened criminals have escaped and we were called out to help." "So basically you're saying Methaine broke out his people to distract you all then came after Olive. And why were you teachers called out? Don't we have Aurorers for that?" McGonagall regards me slowly for a moment, shakes her head in disappointment, and raises her brow. "It was a mistake calling; they couldn't figure out who called us out after we arrived. And, no, I'm saying he's after you, and now he has an army to follow suit." "Wait a minute. You're saying there's going to be another war?" I ask, somehow able to keep my rock hard stability though my mind won't stop buzzing around like a swarm of bees. "Yes, my dear, I'm afraid so," she says so lightly I begin to fear for her wellbeing over mine. McGonagall is a strong woman made of iron and rock, an unmovable force against any disaster. But, ever since the last battle here, so I've been told, she's softened from diamond to simple stone quartz. "And... He wants to kill me or at least hurt me in the... Headmistress what if he goes after Olive? He'd know that's the deepest he could ever cut me," I say with a slight trembling hitch to my decaying voice. McGonagall tightly blinks as if the thought nearly twists her stomach in half. She doesn't have to answer.
