The Silver Lining
Everyone looked to the window, where not one, but two young girls were standing, waving to the new arrivals. In a flash, the two were down on the grounds, making introductions and giving out hugs right and left.
"Hey!" The plump one called, "We're twins, but it's not that hard to tell us apart. I'm Angela Grey, and this," she indicated the slender girl, "Is Miriam."
"Miriam Grey," her sister corrected, "I have a last name too, you know."
"Well, it's splendid to meet both of you," Harry said, holding out his hand, "I'm Harry Potter, Miriam Grey," She giggled and, ignoring his outstretched hand, wrapped a rather startled Harry in a great big bear hug.
A surprised Harry stared at Ron and Hermione of Miriam's shoulder. Ron was laughing too hard to notice the glaring, and Hermione just smiled. When Miriam finally let go, Angela motioned them to follow her up to the castle.
The twins drew the wide wooden doors open with a flourish. The procession walked inside, their eyes slowly adjusting to the cool August darkness. Outside, the sun was just beginning to set. It had been a long journey.
Angela talked nonstop during the tour through the cafeteria, the auditorium, the school museum and trophy room, with Miriam interrupting softly every once in a while. Harry and the others feigned polite interest before they got to the Portrait Room, where the courteous but distant smiles were replaced with something real.
"The most famous room in all of British Columbia!" Angela whispered.
"Perhaps even all of Canada." Miriam nodded.
One by one, the guests were ushered inside alone. They left with expressions of awe, and the others slowly grew more and more mystified.
Harry entered, in the middle of the group. The room was small, no larger than his bedroom at home. Four of the walls were hung with drapes of silk and velvet in the school colours. The fifth wall, the one that Harry now faced, was covered with Portraits - hence the name 'Portrait Room', Harry reminded himself - four in all.
The first portrait, being of wizard make and therefore slightly - how shall we put it - alive, contained the frowning face of a black-bearded wizard. His hair was streaked with silver, and his eyes were brilliant, bitter green.
"Scrawny thing, isn't he?" The portrait remarked to himself. The other three portraits scowled at him, before he conceded. "Alright, alright. No need to fuss, Junia." He turned to Harry again. "What's your name, boy?"
"Harry Potter." He answered.
"Harry Potter, eh?" the portrait murmured. "Well, you're capable enough, I guess, not remarkably, but nothing to sneeze at. A Parseltongue as well, I see." A smile slithered onto the old man's face as Harry's mouth gazed open in shock. "Determined, well, that's alright, a desire to do well, a desire to help others, a desire to save the world." The wizard rolled his eyes. "I can see it now. Well, I've seen what I've seen. What have you to say, Junia?" He challenged the portrait next to him.
She was a young witch, with brunette hair that curled where it hit her shoulders, and her eyes were not unkind. She smiled reassuringly at Harry.
"Well, he's a lovable little dear, one can tell that just by looking at him," she said, half fondly and half teasingly. Harry blushed.
"Oh, get on with it Junia," the first wizard growled, "Honestly, you're getting to be like a biddy old hen." He crossed his arms with a 'humph!'
"He's got a great big heart, for one, Salazar," she shot back, "Bigger than yours, I'd imagine. Not much artistic talent, but great modesty, and bravery, and love." In the next portrait, the first wizard rolled his eyes. She elbowed him, and he yelped.
"He works hard, not prone to shortcuts at all. Well, I've seen what I've seen. Jonathan?" She turned to the silent portrait beside her.
No response.
"Jonathan?" She asked again slightly louder.
Still nothing.
"Jonathan Dovecote!" the witch roared, "WAKE UP!"
The man in the portrait on her right stirred, dropped his glasses, and looked about dazedly.
"Another student, have we?" He asked, stupidly. He noticed Harry. "Sorry, Harry." He said, smiling good-naturedly. "Let's see then." He put his glasses back on and scrutinized the untidy-haired boy before him.
"A heart of gold!" He cried joyously. "Or almost. You have a tendency to disregard the rules when you feel they're superfluous and in your way-"
"Enough with the big words, Jonathan." The first wizard growled.
"Now, now Salazar," the last witch, on the far right said, "Let the boy speak. It does the heart good to hear him using his knowledge instead of letting it rot away into nothingness." She glared at him severely over her glasses, and he scowled insolently. "Go on Jonathan, dear," She said comfortingly. Jonathan nodded gratefully, and went on.
"Well. There's a tendency to break rules, but also a fierce love and loyalty to those you love, bravery in the extreme, but tempered with kindness. Always there to lend a helping hand-"Jonathan wiped away a tear. "This is beginning to sound like a Hallmark card." The man began to sob uncontrollably. Junia patted his head sympathetically and handed him a handkerchief.
"He always cries at Hallmark cards," She whispered to a speechless Harry. After a moment, Jonathan had recovered enough to say, "Well, I've seen what I've seen," and hand the torch - figuratively, of course - to the last witch. "It's your turn, Rowena." He gently reminded her.
"Yes, of course, Jonathan." She smiled dotingly. Salazar, in his corner, let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like 'old hag'. Glares from the other three silenced him. Harry was beginning to understand how their miniature caste system worked.
"Hmm." Rowena looked at Harry through her crescent-shaped spectacles resting precariously on the tip of her nose.
"Well, well, what have we here?" she whispered to herself, "Not half clever, I see, but your mind's in other places. I don't think I can do much for you." She smiled. "I've seen what I've seen. Now, I'd put you with Dovecote myself, seeing as how he idolizes you, but you're not staying here permanently, are you?"
"No." Harry found his voice again.
"Well. Send the next one in dear, and have a nice day."
Harry dazedly said good bye or something like it and went back outside. It was not long before everyone was through, and talking about their experiences. Only Draco remained silent.
"Did you ever?" Hermione asked incredulously after recounting how Rowena and Jonathan had had a terrible argument over her, ending in both sulking like scolded children. "The school Founders, acting the way they do! I daresay centuries as portraits have driven them quite mad!"
"No, they're not mad," Miriam said, "They just have a sense of humour."
"But I wonder," Ron asked, puzzled, "What two of the Hogwarts founders were doing here in America?"
"CANADA." Miriam and Angela corrected him loudly and simultaneously. He cowered.
"But anyway," Angela recovered quickly, "When Salazar Slytherin left Hogwarts, he eventually persuaded Rowena Ravenclaw to come with them. They met up with Jonathan Dovecote - a Brit himself - and Junia Felixa - a Latin, actually, - and voila! You have MBSS!"
Behind her, several uniformed students walked down the hall.
"I thought Term didn't start till September first?" Hermione inquired.
"Some students stay here year round," Angela informed her, "The most famous of the 'borders', as we call them, is probably Moril." She turned and waved, "Hey, Moril!" She yelled.
A sandy haired boy with a pale face separated from the group and came over.
"Tanamoril Dastarddanger," he introduced himself, "Don't call me Tanamoril. Moril will do." He shook hands with all the graces of a modest courtier till he came to Harry.
"You're Harry Potter, aren't you?" He asked curiously. Harry nodded. "And that must be your scar. oh. scars. cuts. wounds. blood.. gaaah.." And with his right hand pressed to his suddenly paper-white forehead, he swooned and fell backwards into the waiting arms of Angela and Miriam. This action was met with surprise and concern from the exchange students and irritation from Angela and Miriam.
"Oh honestly." They muttered, magicking up a stretcher, "That's the fourth time this week." The exchange students followed nervously, as the twins led them to what was quite obviously a hospital wing.
It was neat, warm, and homey; the beds were covered in soft, cushy blue covers. The golden-haired girl in the bed nearest the open window stirred and sighed softly before returning to sleep.
"Madame!" Angela called, "It's Moril again!"
"No!" A distinctly French voice came from somewhere else in the hospital wing. "Honestly, that boy should be taking better care of himself!"
A grandmotherly woman with braided silver hair and a decidedly no- nonsense attitude appeared before them, bustling about and settling Moril into the bed next to the girl. She tsked, much like Hermione.
"Miss Grey," she asked Miriam, "It's six o'clock. Sidra Alistaire will be in here any minute - could you get her potion from the cupboard?" Miriam nodded and went in search of this potion. Madame rushed off, leaving the exchange students mystified.
"Why'd he faint like that?" Ron asked Angela. She laughed.
"Oh, it's a habit of his. Right annoying, but it's a part of him, and, well. Moril is Moril. He does things his own way, and I personally think the fainting spells are just a ploy for attention. If I'm right, he's much like your Draco Malfoy." A teasing smile played about her lips. "One. Two. Three." she counted silently. As if on cue, Moril's voice rose behind her.
"Draco Malfoy? Are you mad? I do things with a bit of style, thank you." A pause. "Why, Draco!" He exclaimed chummishly, "What a pleasant surprise!"
"Tanamoril," Draco countered. "What a pleasant - not quite surprise, but then you always were quite predictable."
"How's life been treating you? More importantly, how's Lucius been treating you?"
A nasty smile appeared on Draco's face.
"Just fine, Tanamoril."
Then Madame returned, bearing smelling salts and cutting off this quite entertaining exchange of insults.
"Naomi!"
"Moril!"
"Moril?"
"Nina!"
The collective eyes of the throng passed from Nurse to student to student, baffled further when a silver-haired girl, smaller than the rest, came in behind the crowd of confused British students and demurely pushed her way to the front.
"Naomi?"
"Sidra.."
"Nina! Moril!"
"Sidra!"
"Enough!" Hermione shouted. She shoved her way to where four people stood, sat, and lay. "You-"she pointed to the small, dark-eyed girl, "are Sidra. Right?" Sidra nodded, and Hermione moved on. "You are Moril. Right?" The sandy-haired Moril nodded as well. "Now," she said, turning on the Madame, "You are either Naomi or Nina."
"I'm Naomi, Naomi Plantagenet," the old woman told her, "But most everyone calls me Madame."
"Then why do they call you Naomi?"
"They are my most regular visitors to the hospital wing. We're on first name basis, after four years of fainting, collapsing, and taking ill."
"This is beginning to look like a tangled logic puzzle." Ron muttered before cowering under Hermione's wrathful gaze.
"Now, you are the last, and by the process of elimination, you must be Nina." Hermione said to the golden-haired girl by the window.
"No, I'm a rutabaga," the girl said, a faint smile on her face. "Of course I'm Nina. I'm in here because I was dancing, forgot to eat, collapsed, and am getting better. Sometime next week I will be dancing, forget to eat, and will collapse, then be shipped off to the hospital wing to get better." She sighed. "It's a never-ending story."
"I think we're finally getting this sorted out," Hermione sighed. "Moril faints, Nina collapses, so Sidra must 'take ill'". Hermione glowered at Sidra, daring her to disagree.
"You're absolutely right," Sidra said softly, "I've always been like this. It's like I was born without an immune system - but my family had to keep me. I'm the first daughter on my father's side in over a century."
"Now that we've got that straightened out," Hermione said triumphantly, "Let's go out and eat and. meet the other. several. hundred. students.." She sank to her feet with a moan. "This will take forever!" She said hopelessly.
"Well," Ron said to Harry, "At least the girls are pretty, eh, Harry?"
"I never noticed." Harry replied softly, gazing warmly at Hermione.
She blushed.
[A/N: AWWWW!! Big hugs for Harry, King of Cuteness! And Hermy, his Queen!]
Everyone looked to the window, where not one, but two young girls were standing, waving to the new arrivals. In a flash, the two were down on the grounds, making introductions and giving out hugs right and left.
"Hey!" The plump one called, "We're twins, but it's not that hard to tell us apart. I'm Angela Grey, and this," she indicated the slender girl, "Is Miriam."
"Miriam Grey," her sister corrected, "I have a last name too, you know."
"Well, it's splendid to meet both of you," Harry said, holding out his hand, "I'm Harry Potter, Miriam Grey," She giggled and, ignoring his outstretched hand, wrapped a rather startled Harry in a great big bear hug.
A surprised Harry stared at Ron and Hermione of Miriam's shoulder. Ron was laughing too hard to notice the glaring, and Hermione just smiled. When Miriam finally let go, Angela motioned them to follow her up to the castle.
The twins drew the wide wooden doors open with a flourish. The procession walked inside, their eyes slowly adjusting to the cool August darkness. Outside, the sun was just beginning to set. It had been a long journey.
Angela talked nonstop during the tour through the cafeteria, the auditorium, the school museum and trophy room, with Miriam interrupting softly every once in a while. Harry and the others feigned polite interest before they got to the Portrait Room, where the courteous but distant smiles were replaced with something real.
"The most famous room in all of British Columbia!" Angela whispered.
"Perhaps even all of Canada." Miriam nodded.
One by one, the guests were ushered inside alone. They left with expressions of awe, and the others slowly grew more and more mystified.
Harry entered, in the middle of the group. The room was small, no larger than his bedroom at home. Four of the walls were hung with drapes of silk and velvet in the school colours. The fifth wall, the one that Harry now faced, was covered with Portraits - hence the name 'Portrait Room', Harry reminded himself - four in all.
The first portrait, being of wizard make and therefore slightly - how shall we put it - alive, contained the frowning face of a black-bearded wizard. His hair was streaked with silver, and his eyes were brilliant, bitter green.
"Scrawny thing, isn't he?" The portrait remarked to himself. The other three portraits scowled at him, before he conceded. "Alright, alright. No need to fuss, Junia." He turned to Harry again. "What's your name, boy?"
"Harry Potter." He answered.
"Harry Potter, eh?" the portrait murmured. "Well, you're capable enough, I guess, not remarkably, but nothing to sneeze at. A Parseltongue as well, I see." A smile slithered onto the old man's face as Harry's mouth gazed open in shock. "Determined, well, that's alright, a desire to do well, a desire to help others, a desire to save the world." The wizard rolled his eyes. "I can see it now. Well, I've seen what I've seen. What have you to say, Junia?" He challenged the portrait next to him.
She was a young witch, with brunette hair that curled where it hit her shoulders, and her eyes were not unkind. She smiled reassuringly at Harry.
"Well, he's a lovable little dear, one can tell that just by looking at him," she said, half fondly and half teasingly. Harry blushed.
"Oh, get on with it Junia," the first wizard growled, "Honestly, you're getting to be like a biddy old hen." He crossed his arms with a 'humph!'
"He's got a great big heart, for one, Salazar," she shot back, "Bigger than yours, I'd imagine. Not much artistic talent, but great modesty, and bravery, and love." In the next portrait, the first wizard rolled his eyes. She elbowed him, and he yelped.
"He works hard, not prone to shortcuts at all. Well, I've seen what I've seen. Jonathan?" She turned to the silent portrait beside her.
No response.
"Jonathan?" She asked again slightly louder.
Still nothing.
"Jonathan Dovecote!" the witch roared, "WAKE UP!"
The man in the portrait on her right stirred, dropped his glasses, and looked about dazedly.
"Another student, have we?" He asked, stupidly. He noticed Harry. "Sorry, Harry." He said, smiling good-naturedly. "Let's see then." He put his glasses back on and scrutinized the untidy-haired boy before him.
"A heart of gold!" He cried joyously. "Or almost. You have a tendency to disregard the rules when you feel they're superfluous and in your way-"
"Enough with the big words, Jonathan." The first wizard growled.
"Now, now Salazar," the last witch, on the far right said, "Let the boy speak. It does the heart good to hear him using his knowledge instead of letting it rot away into nothingness." She glared at him severely over her glasses, and he scowled insolently. "Go on Jonathan, dear," She said comfortingly. Jonathan nodded gratefully, and went on.
"Well. There's a tendency to break rules, but also a fierce love and loyalty to those you love, bravery in the extreme, but tempered with kindness. Always there to lend a helping hand-"Jonathan wiped away a tear. "This is beginning to sound like a Hallmark card." The man began to sob uncontrollably. Junia patted his head sympathetically and handed him a handkerchief.
"He always cries at Hallmark cards," She whispered to a speechless Harry. After a moment, Jonathan had recovered enough to say, "Well, I've seen what I've seen," and hand the torch - figuratively, of course - to the last witch. "It's your turn, Rowena." He gently reminded her.
"Yes, of course, Jonathan." She smiled dotingly. Salazar, in his corner, let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like 'old hag'. Glares from the other three silenced him. Harry was beginning to understand how their miniature caste system worked.
"Hmm." Rowena looked at Harry through her crescent-shaped spectacles resting precariously on the tip of her nose.
"Well, well, what have we here?" she whispered to herself, "Not half clever, I see, but your mind's in other places. I don't think I can do much for you." She smiled. "I've seen what I've seen. Now, I'd put you with Dovecote myself, seeing as how he idolizes you, but you're not staying here permanently, are you?"
"No." Harry found his voice again.
"Well. Send the next one in dear, and have a nice day."
Harry dazedly said good bye or something like it and went back outside. It was not long before everyone was through, and talking about their experiences. Only Draco remained silent.
"Did you ever?" Hermione asked incredulously after recounting how Rowena and Jonathan had had a terrible argument over her, ending in both sulking like scolded children. "The school Founders, acting the way they do! I daresay centuries as portraits have driven them quite mad!"
"No, they're not mad," Miriam said, "They just have a sense of humour."
"But I wonder," Ron asked, puzzled, "What two of the Hogwarts founders were doing here in America?"
"CANADA." Miriam and Angela corrected him loudly and simultaneously. He cowered.
"But anyway," Angela recovered quickly, "When Salazar Slytherin left Hogwarts, he eventually persuaded Rowena Ravenclaw to come with them. They met up with Jonathan Dovecote - a Brit himself - and Junia Felixa - a Latin, actually, - and voila! You have MBSS!"
Behind her, several uniformed students walked down the hall.
"I thought Term didn't start till September first?" Hermione inquired.
"Some students stay here year round," Angela informed her, "The most famous of the 'borders', as we call them, is probably Moril." She turned and waved, "Hey, Moril!" She yelled.
A sandy haired boy with a pale face separated from the group and came over.
"Tanamoril Dastarddanger," he introduced himself, "Don't call me Tanamoril. Moril will do." He shook hands with all the graces of a modest courtier till he came to Harry.
"You're Harry Potter, aren't you?" He asked curiously. Harry nodded. "And that must be your scar. oh. scars. cuts. wounds. blood.. gaaah.." And with his right hand pressed to his suddenly paper-white forehead, he swooned and fell backwards into the waiting arms of Angela and Miriam. This action was met with surprise and concern from the exchange students and irritation from Angela and Miriam.
"Oh honestly." They muttered, magicking up a stretcher, "That's the fourth time this week." The exchange students followed nervously, as the twins led them to what was quite obviously a hospital wing.
It was neat, warm, and homey; the beds were covered in soft, cushy blue covers. The golden-haired girl in the bed nearest the open window stirred and sighed softly before returning to sleep.
"Madame!" Angela called, "It's Moril again!"
"No!" A distinctly French voice came from somewhere else in the hospital wing. "Honestly, that boy should be taking better care of himself!"
A grandmotherly woman with braided silver hair and a decidedly no- nonsense attitude appeared before them, bustling about and settling Moril into the bed next to the girl. She tsked, much like Hermione.
"Miss Grey," she asked Miriam, "It's six o'clock. Sidra Alistaire will be in here any minute - could you get her potion from the cupboard?" Miriam nodded and went in search of this potion. Madame rushed off, leaving the exchange students mystified.
"Why'd he faint like that?" Ron asked Angela. She laughed.
"Oh, it's a habit of his. Right annoying, but it's a part of him, and, well. Moril is Moril. He does things his own way, and I personally think the fainting spells are just a ploy for attention. If I'm right, he's much like your Draco Malfoy." A teasing smile played about her lips. "One. Two. Three." she counted silently. As if on cue, Moril's voice rose behind her.
"Draco Malfoy? Are you mad? I do things with a bit of style, thank you." A pause. "Why, Draco!" He exclaimed chummishly, "What a pleasant surprise!"
"Tanamoril," Draco countered. "What a pleasant - not quite surprise, but then you always were quite predictable."
"How's life been treating you? More importantly, how's Lucius been treating you?"
A nasty smile appeared on Draco's face.
"Just fine, Tanamoril."
Then Madame returned, bearing smelling salts and cutting off this quite entertaining exchange of insults.
"Naomi!"
"Moril!"
"Moril?"
"Nina!"
The collective eyes of the throng passed from Nurse to student to student, baffled further when a silver-haired girl, smaller than the rest, came in behind the crowd of confused British students and demurely pushed her way to the front.
"Naomi?"
"Sidra.."
"Nina! Moril!"
"Sidra!"
"Enough!" Hermione shouted. She shoved her way to where four people stood, sat, and lay. "You-"she pointed to the small, dark-eyed girl, "are Sidra. Right?" Sidra nodded, and Hermione moved on. "You are Moril. Right?" The sandy-haired Moril nodded as well. "Now," she said, turning on the Madame, "You are either Naomi or Nina."
"I'm Naomi, Naomi Plantagenet," the old woman told her, "But most everyone calls me Madame."
"Then why do they call you Naomi?"
"They are my most regular visitors to the hospital wing. We're on first name basis, after four years of fainting, collapsing, and taking ill."
"This is beginning to look like a tangled logic puzzle." Ron muttered before cowering under Hermione's wrathful gaze.
"Now, you are the last, and by the process of elimination, you must be Nina." Hermione said to the golden-haired girl by the window.
"No, I'm a rutabaga," the girl said, a faint smile on her face. "Of course I'm Nina. I'm in here because I was dancing, forgot to eat, collapsed, and am getting better. Sometime next week I will be dancing, forget to eat, and will collapse, then be shipped off to the hospital wing to get better." She sighed. "It's a never-ending story."
"I think we're finally getting this sorted out," Hermione sighed. "Moril faints, Nina collapses, so Sidra must 'take ill'". Hermione glowered at Sidra, daring her to disagree.
"You're absolutely right," Sidra said softly, "I've always been like this. It's like I was born without an immune system - but my family had to keep me. I'm the first daughter on my father's side in over a century."
"Now that we've got that straightened out," Hermione said triumphantly, "Let's go out and eat and. meet the other. several. hundred. students.." She sank to her feet with a moan. "This will take forever!" She said hopelessly.
"Well," Ron said to Harry, "At least the girls are pretty, eh, Harry?"
"I never noticed." Harry replied softly, gazing warmly at Hermione.
She blushed.
[A/N: AWWWW!! Big hugs for Harry, King of Cuteness! And Hermy, his Queen!]
