The Englishwoman

A cat appeared in the alleyway.

Lest this statement be taken metaphorically as a compliment to the legendary stealth and speed of the feline species, I wish to make the matter quite unambiguous. The reader can rest assured that the creature was not merely emerging in silence in order to investigate the contents of a dustbin, nor did it creep onto the page from beyond the text's heretofore more narrow field of vision. This was not a cat that had been reposing peacefully under a lorry until belatedly discovered by an overexcited narrator. I therefore stress again, lest there be any doubt in the matter, that a cat appeared in the alleyway.

The appearance of the animal went entirely unnoticed by the fat man in the black beard, busily unloading groceries from the back of his Ford Fiesta as fast as his beefy hands could shift them. It was overlooked by the teenage girl in the collared shirt and flowered apron, huffing and puffing as she dragged two enormous bags of trash towards the bin. The scruffy driver of the rusty pickup remained entirely in ignorance as he slowly cruised by, scanning the trash heaps for salvage. It is perhaps fortunate that the three remained unconscious of the new arrival, for its sudden appearance might have caused undue consternation or otherwise interrupted a peaceful evening. The cat can be credited with some courtesy, then, by waiting for all three to go about their business, whereupon it looked up and down the alley, emerged stealthily from behind the rubbish bins, yawned, and stretched elegantly. It stretched and stretched itself upright, all the way into a woman.

Professor McGonagall emerged from the alley onto the main road and critically inspected the familiar line of tall, red-gabled row houses barricaded behind a line of parked cars. There was no question-she had been here before.

Home visits were rare for a professor from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and return visits doubly so. Anyone with any magical blood in the family received their letter of admission by owl, and those whose parents were not witches or wizards themselves were expected to turn to wacky Uncle Richard or Cousin Molly out in Ottery St. Catchpole for a hurried introduction to broomsticks and cauldrons and dropoff at the Hogwarts Express. But the few families whose magical children arrived completely spontaneously were singled out for a more formal offer of admission, with a Hogwarts professor arriving in person to deliver the startling news and to reassure the confused and frightened Muggles. Such an announcement generally involved some small display of magic to convince the family that the entire story was not a monstrous prank; thereafter, the teacher was generally treated to a display of intemperate enthusiasm on the part of the child or unseemly aggression on the part of the parents. But once the eldest child had successfully completed a year at school and returned on a train full of friends with trunk and uniform and schoolbooks and correspondents, no one ever seemed to object when an owl arrived for a younger brother or sister.

Indeed, Professor McGonagall had never heard of any Hogwarts professor visiting the same house twice. She had been making home visits for more than forty years: first under Armando Dippet, who considered them a nuisance and tossed them off disdainfully to the most junior members of his staff, and then with Albus Dumbledore, who considered them the most pivotal moment in the induction of a new witch or wizard and assigned them to his most high-ranking and trusted professors-when he couldn't spare the time to go himself. Yet here she was again, in front of the white house with the red roof and the blue bins, carefully considering how much she would need to repeat as the representative of Britain's only school of witchcraft and wizardry.

Families were always a ticklish business. There were nice ones, like the discovery of the best Gryffindor Keeper in thirty years over that charming little pub in Swansea. There were horrid ones, like those so-called Christians in West Yorkshire who threw things and cursed and threatened to disown the child if the subject were ever brought up again. And then there were the… other ones. The Finch-Fletchleys-that had been a startling experience. Nothing she could say, no clouds of magic and midnight and mischief swirling about the head of their youngest son, could perturb the Stiff Upper Lip of British high society. Professor McGonagall had been shown to the Yellow Salon with a cup of Darjeeling and a selection of madeleines while the parents conversed in low, well-bred tones about the prestige that a Hogwarts boy might enjoy as opposed to, say, an old school tie at Eton. The fact that the school was over eight hundred years old and offered career paths straight into the Ministry impressed them. The fact that their son was a wizard? "As you say, ma'am. And about the A-levels?" She still couldn't believe how many questions the family hadn't asked. A return visit to that place would not have been unwelcome. And she'd know this go-round to arrive at teatime.

The Goldsteins, however… that had not been a scene she would look forward to reenacting. Professor McGonagall did not care for stereotypes. She did so cringe whenever a drunken penny-pinching Scot gave the rest of them a bad name, and she would have hoped that the house full of Jews would not have so thoroughly lived up to their reputation for stubbornness. It had been quite unnecessary to drag her before the rabbi over objections to the food and the potential for Sabbath-breaking. Fortunately, the rabbi had been a most open-minded fellow, settling down the overwrought parents with unflappable composure. He had listened to her arcane warnings with perfect calmness and delivered his verdict that inasmuch as the boy was a fire hazard, the parents had a moral obligation to provide him with proper magical guidance before he burned the house down. In the end, the family accepted his verdict that their unspoilt scion might wear a black hat at Hogwarts just as honorable as the one he wore to his synagogue in Golders Green. Professor McGonagall doubted the good rabbi would be quite so impartial when she came for his own daughter. She steeled herself for the scene, took several measured breaths, and rang the bell.

A stout Jamaican woman opened the door, and for a brief instant, Professor McGonagall wondered if she'd come to the wrong house. But no, there was the little lacquered box on the doorpost, and past the entryway was a familiar hutch with a silver candelabra and a set of little goblets. "Good evening, ma'am," she began. "Is Rabbi Zeller in?"

"Oh honey, he left for shul already," said the woman on the doorstep. "It's almost licked benching." At least that's what it sounded like to McGonagall's ears. She frowned as she tried and failed to parse the woman's words, but the lady at the door added helpfully, "The services are fixing to start any minute now. "

Professor McGonagall blinked in surprise. She had come in the evening in hopes of finding the family at home: the fact that the rabbi might have gone to Evensong had not occurred to her. Now she would either have to wait awkwardly in the parlor or go for a drink in the pub and come back later. The flustered expression on her face was so transparent that the woman continued kindly, "If you brought a kugel or something, you can just give it to me. I always heat up the dinner while they're out at shul."

Professor McGonagall pulled herself together. "I do beg your pardon. I'm afraid I'm not the woman with the dinner. I had come to speak to Rabbi Zeller about a family matter of some importance. Is he expected home soon?"

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Home? Tonight? No, ma'am, he ain't."

"Dear me." This was not the answer Professor McGonagall was hoping for. "I'm afraid it is a rather pressing matter," she pursued. "Am I addressing Mrs. Zeller?"

The affronted woman drew herself up like a mountain. "Mrs. Zeller? No, you certainly are not! What's all this about, then? Who are you, to be coming to the door and asking about Mrs. Zeller?"

"I beg your pardon," replied Professor McGonagall gently. "I have come about a school matter. I have some very important information to share with Rabbi Zeller. Could you tell me what time he is expected in?"

Instead of a civil answer, the woman returned her a long, searching look of undisguised suspicion. "You ain't even Jewish, are you?" she concluded after a long scrutiny.

"I have not that honor," replied Professor McGonagall cautiously. She was not sure what she had stepped into, but she had clearly not come at a good time. "My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall. I'm the deputy headmistress at the Hogwarts School. I have come to speak with Rabbi Zeller about his daughter Rose."

For the life of her, Professor McGonagall never could figure out what she had said or done to cause such offense. The housekeeper surged forward like an angry bull, eyes blazing in outrage, the whole of her enormous frame blocking the doorway. "Who do you think you are, coming out to the house like this? See the rabbi, indeed! You want to see the rabbi, you can jolly well call him on the telephone at his office, and make an appointment to see him in the synagogue! You talk to the secretary and state your business, you hear? Don't you come creeping around the house like this asking questions about no family! You ain't got no business to come poking around young Rose, you hear? She's well taken care of, you needn't trouble yourself about that! Now, you turn 'round and go right back where you came from, and if you want to see the rabbi you can pick up the blower and make a proper appointment like a respectable woman!" The woman paused for breath as McGonagall stood stock still on the doorstep, staring in surprise. "Go on, now!"

Ominous grey clouds rumbled overhead as Professor McGonagall took in the enraged figure lodged in the entry. There was no point in complicating the already-delicate relationship with the family by antagonizing the housekeeper. And of course, the woman might well be right. Perhaps the clergyman was a busy man, who valued his privacy and was not be best pleased if members of his flock intruded when he was already home in dressing gown and slippers for the evening. At this stage, a retreat was undoubtedly the best policy. One way or another, it would spare her being caught in a cloudburst.

"Then I beg your pardon for the intrusion," she replied with dignity. "I shall do as you say. Good evening, ma'am."

She could feel the woman's eyes on her back as she turned carefully down the stairs and closed the gate behind her. The door slammed with icy finality, but Professor McGonagall could see the thunderous face watching through the front curtains as she proceeded down the sidewalk and back around the corner. The window did not close until she was quite out of sight.

Professor McGonagall let out a long breath. That certainly made the list for Shortest Home Visits Ever. She wracked her memory for what on earth might have caused the housekeeper to react so explosively. Surely it could not be that she was herself not Jewish. Neither was Cerebus at the door, if she was any judge-who was this woman to chase her away entirely unheard? The rabbi himself had been ever so courteous on her last visit. The day she had descended in company with the Goldsteins, they had all barged in on him without any of this kind of fuss. Her father the Reverend would never have treated-

Goldstein.

Goldstein's essay.

Goldstein had handed her an essay.

She had been too busy fretting about the upcoming home visit-and breaking up the fight between Millicent Bulstrode and Mercy Montgomery-to pay much heed, but Goldstein had indeed pressed on her a long roll of parchment as he dashed off to the greenhouses for his next class. She remembered it now. Goldstein in his little round skullcap, handing in his essay that would not be due until Friday. Professor McGonagall frowned deeply. There was only one reason Goldstein ever handed in anything early. How could she have been so inattentive as to have missed it?

Professor McGonagall made for the nearest garden wall, where she set down her handbag and opened it. Snapping shut the section with keys and handkerchiefs, she opened a different set of clasps unlocking the secret compartment that led to her desk. Bending over and reaching in all the way up to the elbow, she managed to snatch Goldstein's essay from atop the jumbled pyramid of papers yet to be marked. She also knocked over a pile of N.E.W.T. requisition forms as she navigated around the corner of the table, but that could be cleaned up when she returned to school. By now, she could hear the loud clicking of wheel spokes, so she hastily closed the handbag and stepped back to make way for three teenagers zipping past on bicycles. Then, resettling herself by the low wall of a garage, she opened the scroll. A piece of lined Muggle paper fluttered out.

Dear Professor McGonagall, she read. I am handing in my essay on insubstantiary locomotion today, because I will be on holiday tomorrow and Friday. I will get the notes from Michael when I return, and I will make up my examination on chairs taking exercise when I return on Monday. Please let Professor Flitwick know if further arrangements are necessary, and I will follow up with him. Sincerely, A. Y. Goldstein.

Professor McGonagall indulged herself in a full minute of recrimination and felt uncommonly foolish. Of course the housekeeper had been a bit ex colore. How would the Reverend Dr. McGonagall have reacted if someone had come banging on the door, demanding a family meeting on Christmas eve? Professor McGonagall gave herself a D for conduct and a T for inattentiveness. Not one of her finer moments as a teacher. Seven weeks after Easter Sunday. There had been a time when she would have known better.

At the church of St. Michael's in the Highlands, Pentecost had hardly been a memorable occasion for anyone except the treasurer, who pointedly passed the church plate for the Pentecost Offering and called it a day. However, this Rabbi Zeller seemed to have a more formal view of matters and was apparently celebrating the gift of the Spirit with his countrymen at the synagogue. It simply went to show, didn't it, that there was no forgetting before the Lord's throne. There was always a test, if only to catch you napping.

Well, there was no point in shilly-shallying around northwest London watching the Muggles go about their business. She would come back, and she would place a call on the telephone this time to make sure the family was not in chapel. And if she could come so early in the day as to avoid the housekeeper entirely, that would undoubtedly save the good woman the trouble of snubbing her unmercifully.

Professor McGonagall tossed Goldstein's essay unceremoniously onto her office floor, retrieved her compact mirror from a side pocket, and closed the handbag. A few raindrops spattered on her hat, heralds of the incoming shower. "Amelia?" she addressed the mirror. "It's Minnie. Yes, it is quite, quite over. At least for the present. Fancy a drink?"

"I say, Mrs. Higgs, who was that?" Shoshanna Zeller inquired, padding down the stairs with a towel wrapped around her hair.

"Land sakes, Rosie, ain't you ready yet? They going to be bentsching licht and starting your birthday tea without you!"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Higgs," said Shoshanna, airily waving her hand. "Fraidy's mother's never ready on time. They won't be bentsching licht for another three-quarters of an hour. I just need to do my hair and pack my brush and then I'll walk over. I'll be fine."

Mrs. Higgs harrumphed. "The way you do your hair, girl, you going to be here until midnight. Get a move on, now! Don't keep nice Mrs. Katz waiting."

Shoshanna airily dumped her wet towel on the staircase railing and began primping in front of the hall mirror. "Who was that at the door, Mrs. Higgs?"

"Some busybody, that's who. Don't know better than to come calling on erev yuntif. Don't you concern yourself about her, you get that mop of yours combed before they give up and decide you ain't coming. Never you mind about that hot air machine-it's fixing to rain hard enough as it is. Fetch your bag and your shoes while I get my keys, and I'll drive you."

"Oh, thanks all the same, Mrs. Higgs, but you needn't. It's hardly ten minutes' walk to Fraidy's." Shoshanna pulled her hair up into a swift knot and fastened a jeweled bow on top of it almost as big as she was. "Really, I'll be fine."

The housekeeper was unrelenting. "You'll be fine, I'm sure, but if that new dress of yours ain't dry clean only, I'm the queen of Hengland. What are you going to wear to shul tomorrow if you ruin your new dress in the rain tonight?"

Shoshanna stared at her housekeeper in surprise. "It's all right, Mrs. Higgs, I can take a brolly and leave it there. And isn't this the week when Charlie is coming up from Uni? I thought you were going home any minute."

Mrs. Higgs jingled her keys at the girl impatiently. "I most certainly am, so you hop to it! Hurry fetch that bag now, pickney, and don't be making me late, neither!"

Shoshanna complied in surprise, secretly gratified by the free ride-and without the usual tirade castigating her poky, time-wasting ways. But she was no fool either, and no sooner had Mrs. Higgs backed the ancient Volkswagen out of the garage like a motorsport driver and screeched into Woodstock Road than she asked again, "Mrs. Higgs, is everything all right? Who was that woman at the door? What did she want?"

The housekeeper cut off some undeserving motorist and turned left onto the main road. "Some interfering Henglishwoman poking about. You don't concern yourself with her, you hear?"

The old car changed gears. "Only, before we left, you took a pinch of that red earth from St. Andrews from the yellow bowl under the hall table. And you only do that when you're really worried about something."

The traffic light turned red, and Mrs. Higgs slammed on the brakes with a loud huff. "Rosie-pickney, what we agree about old Mrs. Higgs' little yellow bowl?"

"It's not avodah zorah," her passenger recounted dutifully, "it's a time-honored folkway of the Afro-Caribbean people, just like us throwing salt over our left shoulders or saying God bless you when someone sneezes. Yes, Mrs. Higgs, I know. I don't mention to Tatty your little bowl of earth, and you don't trouble him whenever I have a 'little accident.' I'm not interfering. It's just that you're very upset about something, and I want to know what it is."

The Volkswagen screeched to a halt in front of the Katz house. "There!" the housekeeper exhaled. "Quarter past on the dot! Now, mind your manners and don't be staying up giggling to all hours. And you be in shul tomorrow before they read them Commandments so nobody have to go fetch you up. And you have a happy birthday, Rosie-Blossom, you hear?"

Shoshanna rolled her eyes, exasperation and affection co-mingled. Sometimes the direct approach was not the best. Never you fear-she would find out what all this was about. But not on her eleventh birthday, on her way to a sleepover. She hugged the old woman. "Thank you, Mrs. Higgs. And thanks for the ride."

The old woman enveloped her in a fierce embrace that crushed her against the steering wheel with a loud beep. "Many happy returns, darling. Now, you go get yourself inside and light them candles. Go on, now. Inside, where you belong."

Obediently, Shoshanna gathered up bag, coat, and hostess gift and staggered out onto the sidewalk. "Good yuntif, Mrs. Higgs!" she called. "Best to your nephew!" The old Volkswagen drove away, and Shoshanna sped up the steps to Fraidy's house.

A note on names-

Rose Zeller appears on page 208 of the original U.S. edition of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix; the character's Hebrew name was selected by Laazov, whose "Goldstein" universe I am honored to be writing in. The Hebrew name is not intended as any homage to any Shoshana's I may know, either little ones with curls or tall ones with graduation speeches. Frankly, I always pictured Shoshanna Zeller as looking more like Ayelet Goldson, with little rectangular glasses and sixteen tons of hair, but if any Broadway-bound STEM nerds want to read for the part, they will get preferential treatment at the auditions.

Many thanks to Laazov for kindly giving me permission to manhandle characters from Goldstein in this wholly uncanonical AU. Those of you gentle readers who have stumbled over here without reading the first novella and a half of the original, look up Laazov's story in the search window above-you're in for a treat!

Glossary:

Avodah zorah: idol worship (Hebrew)

Cerebus: the three-headed fierce canine guarding the gates of of the Underworld, ancestor of Fluffy in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (Latin)

Ex colore: off color (Latin). McGonagall is not using the term entirely correctly: she is flustered and her classical education is rusty with long disuse-as is her knowledge of the ecclesiastical calendar. Amelia Bones presumably got quite an earful at the pub later that evening. Her friend Minnie is not having a good day.

Licht bentsching: saying the blessing over the candles to begin the Sabbath or festival (Yiddish)

Kugel: a pudding (Yiddish)

Mrs. Zeller: Mrs. Baila Rochel Zeller, Shoshanna's birth mother, has been dead and gone for nearly eleven years now (as per the parent fanfic Goldstein). Mrs. Higgs has every right to be suspicious of some nosy stranger who doesn't know the sad story of the late Mrs. Zeller. (All of us read it in in Laazov's clever little epilogue months ago.)

Shul: the synagogue (Yiddish). I'm a little bit impressed that Professor McGonagall picks up on this one so quickly.

Tatty: Daddy (Yiddish)

Yuntif: yom tov, a holiday. Erev yuntif = the eve of the holiday. Gut yuntif = happy holiday (Yiddish).