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V., in which the Headmaster receives a bit of bad news, Draco hunts a first- year, and Sirius Black is visited by an unexpected house-guest.
An owl, tawny and light, fluttered at the window, its golden talons tapping impatiently at the diamond-shaped panes of glass. Its eyes gleamed like drops of amber in the light from the clear sun as well as the dancing candles within the room, and its long wings rustled loudly as it tread the light breeze. A letter was tied to its foot with twine, and it began its tap-tap, rustle, flap again with more ardor.
"Yes, yes, I see you," came the soft, whispering reprimand from the Headmaster as he set his tea cup delicately into its saucer. Gathering his robes closer to his frail body, he made his way around the many piles of dusty books and the like, at last touching the window's ancient latch. The window sprung open, and the owl launched itself into the room.
Roosting on the high back of a chair, the bird stuck out its foot impatiently toward the old man. He untied the envelope, placing a slice of cake onto a plate and setting it upon the desk before the owl, which promptly began to tear the dessert to crumbling bits with its sharp beak.
It was a letter written in a scribbling, lopsided scrawl, the name Cornelius D. Fudge signed hastily along the bottom of the page in bleeding black ink. The Headmaster read the letter, the amused gleam in his eye fading as he did, and his expression fell to a heavy frown by the time he had finished.
He read it through again, and said, "Oh, dear."
Lunch was a somber affair for Harry.
Soups and salads littered the tables in their gilded bowls; forks and spoons winked and glittered in the light from above. Water in crystal glasses quivered and sang, the light bouncing around inside as a dove might flit to and fro in the confines of such an elaborately decorated cage.
Behind him, a Hufflepuff girl gushed stories and inane details of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and his roguish wink and grin; beside him, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil took turns oozing a list of reasons why Professor Black was the best thing to ever have happened to the school. That tiny Ravenclaw boy discussed theories of Animagus trickery with his classmates and friends, his head bobbing with enthusiasm as each new idea spilled forth.
But Harry merely stared down into his soup bowl, dipping the round of his spoon through the broth. He made several feeble attempts to actually consume a bit of potato or to spear a tender piece of meat; but his godfather's words from their conversation after class rang through his head, and he dropped his hand to the table once more, the spoon unused still.
Sirius had referred to his new position at Hogwarts as a "pleasant surprise," grinning in that charming way which had enthralled Harry's peers, giving full credit to the Headmaster for keeping it a secret from Harry. It was a late notice, for the professor Dumbledore had originally asked was summoned by the Ministry and had apologized profusely. When Sirius had agreed, the wizened old wizard had spoken with him about the charm of keeping it from the boy, and Sirius had obliged him in that.
Harry was quickly learning this year that adults were much less reliable than he had ever expected, and he wished that he did not have that knowledge. His entire childhood had turned out to be naught but a lie when Hagrid had arrived on his eleventh birthday, and secrets just as great had been uncovered nearly every year after. With all his life falling in around his ears at this point in is young life, the last thing he needed was another trusted adult trying to give him a fairy-tale view of the crumbling world which continued to spin around him.
Draco contemplated the situation from afar. Leaned casually against a sunlit wall, he watched a small cluster of first-year Ravenclaw boys in the courtyard beyond, unabashedly staring at one in particular.
The object of his attentions was easily the smallest of the group, a tiny boy of pale complexion whose placid expression regarded the others with a mere subtle smile and perhaps an indulgent laugh. His hair was ruffled slightly by an oven-breath breeze, his robes fitting perfectly as one born into a wealthy family. Draco himself had been one of few students during his first year whose robes had fit him adequately; even among the most prestigious families, parents were reluctant to purchase new robes at the start of every term.
This was the boy who had piqued Draco's interest at King's Cross at the beginning of the school year, that gilded youth with gold and copper spun through his long fringe of hair. His eyes, still wide and brown and shining brightly in the sunlight, had lost the fearful stare which had first tickled Draco's fancy at the train station.
A professor came through the courtyard, harried and hassled, shooing students from their perches in and around the walls. The cluster of first- years dispersed, save for Draco's, who was left scuffling through his papers in a frantic effort to collect them. He was soon left very much alone.
Passing through the decorative archways, Draco slunk over the still-damp grass of the courtyard, watching as the small boy pushed papers haphazardly into an expensive-looking leather packet. The boy did not look up on Draco's approach; he did, however, seem to notice the seventh-year's arrival.
Draco paused just before him, holding his fingers to the papers on the bench. "Either you haven't heard me come up," he said softly, raising a pale eyebrow with amusement shining through his glassy eyes, "or you've chosen to ignore me completely."
The boy's dark eyes trailed slowly up the length of Draco's long arm, eyebrows raised with the fearful expression bleeding back into his features.
"Either way, dear child, we need to talk." Smiling winningly, Draco trailed a hand down the boy's yet-rounded and youthful cheek, causing the child to blush pink through his face. Draco smiled genuinely at this, and he clasped the boy's shoulder as he leaned close, introducing himself with much charm and charisma.
Professor McGonagall, while sorting through papers from her third-year Hufflepuffs, peered over her spectacles at the man seated before her, her mouth set in a grim, tight line.
"Oh, Albus, I just cannot imagine such a thing happening," she said for what must have been the third time, shaking her head. She set aside the paper she had been grading, her quill rolling away from her on the desk.
They had been speaking for quite some time; Professor McGonagall had been spending her free hour grading papers when the older gentleman had joined her, inviting himself to sit down in one of her plush armchairs. He had conjured himself a pot of tea and two teacups, offering one to the woman professor, before briskly telling her about a letter he had received that morning.
Presently, Albus nodded serenely, stirring his tea absently. "Yes, yes, Professor, I know fully well that it is difficult to understand. However, I also realize that it must be accepted as truth, and I will look for what is best to be done about it. It is - "
But he stopped, as the woman professor was staring pointedly at the doorway behind the Headmaster's seat, and Albus turned to see who was there.
"Oh," he said brightly, setting down his spoon. "Harry. How pleasant to see you." His eyes twinkled merrily.
"Hullo, Headmaster." Harry stood awkwardly at the doorway, books hanging loosely at his side. The robes on his back seemed strange and loose and ill- fit, his wrists drowning in the loose fabrics of his sleeves.
"Do come in," Professor McGonagall said in a clipped tone, rising to her feet. But Albus bade her stay seated, and she returned to her chair shortly.
"Why have you come, Harry?" asked the Headmaster, and he placed his teacup on the desk. "Though it is likely not my business to ask."
"Mr. Potter," agreed the woman, gesturing to the empty chair beside that in which Dumbledore sat, "do join us. To what do I owe this visit? Have you complaints against any of our favorite blond Slytherins already this term?" She meant it as a joke, but her smile did not quite reach her eyes.
"Ah, no, Professor." Harry took a seat beside Dumbledore, his books stacked neatly on his lap. "Actually, I came to ask . . . that is, you said that I should ask you about changing this Muggle Studies course for something else, and . . ." He trailed off, his eyes falling to some undetermined spot on the front of the professor's desk.
"Muggle Studies," said the Headmaster brightly. "Muggle Studies, you say? I remember that class. One of the best I'd ever taken." He again took up his teacup, stirring the now tepid liquid thoughtfully. "Why, I believe you'd quite enjoy a Muggle Studies course, Harry." He raised his eyebrows, eyes twinkling knowingly. "You might learn several things you never realized you had not yet learned in a course like Muggle Studies."
Professor McGonagall regarded the wizened old wizard sternly as he absorbed himself in his tea, sighing softly to herself before looking to Harry with a small smile.
"Now, Mr. Potter, if you truly wish to drop the class, I will be happy to help you in that endeavor. You have, I trust, considered all I have told you, and now what Professor Dumbledore has mentioned." She straightened her papers slightly, remembering that they were there on her desk. "Which course were you planning to replace Muggle Studies with?"
Harry hesitated, glancing first at the Headmaster and then down at the schedule opened on his lap. "Actually . . . on second thought . . ." Professor McGonagall raised a thin eyebrow, leaning forward in anticipation. Harry looked up at her, shrinking back slightly. "May I keep the course, Professor?"
"Of course," replied McGonagall, surprised. She covered it well.
"Excellent, Harry, excellent. Well done." The Headmaster smiled triumphantly, and he rose to his feet. "Professor, I shall see you at a later point in time." He waved a hand, flashing a short smile, and winked at Harry as he passed out of the office.
"Now, Mr. Potter, if that is all," said the professor left in the room, "please, feel free to go on to your next class. I understand that you have already missed the first lesson of your Muggle Studies, but that does not exclude you from attending your other courses in the day. Good day, Mr. Potter."
When Neville Longbottom returned to the Gryffindor common room after his Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, he discovered that he had once again misplaced his toad. That morning, he was sure, he had left Trevor on the cushion of the amphibian's favorite chair in a corner of the room, a bowl of water on the floor beside the chair. Neville knew that Trevor often enjoyed a small bath in the morning, but he had slept late this morning and had not had the time.
Now, the common room was quite empty of one mottle brown-and-green toad with a torn web between the second and third toe on his left hind foot, and Neville had begun to worry slightly. Though Trevor had been known to disappear from sight at times, he was often to be found in the same three or four places every time.
The round-faced boy had checked these places, two times since his lesson had ended, but there was still no sign of Trevor. He slumped dejectedly against the cushion of Trevor's favorite chair, sighing to himself as he struggled to think of another place his pet could be hiding.
"Neville?"
The boy turned 'round slowly.
It was Ginny Weasley, her second-hand robes clean and pressed, fitting her more tightly this year than in the past. Her carrot-colored hair was brushed off of her freckled face with a plain black band, and her nose crinkled as she smiled at Neville.
"I've found your toad," she said brightly, offering her hands toward him. There, cupped in her small palms, was Trevor, his eyes staring blankly as he croaked once.
"Trevor!" he cried. Scooping the toad from her hands, he nuzzled the thing's dry head with his cheek before looking up at Ginny. "Thanks. I've been looking all over for him."
"I know it," she replied sweetly. "Dennis Creevey has been asking us all if we'd seen him - but none of us had. ''Til I came and nearly squashed him under my books, that is. He'd gone and hid in the girls' dormitory!"
"But Parvati Patil said - " Neville flushed pink and stopped. "What I mean is, again?"
Ginny giggled, tucking a small strand of hair behind one ear. "Are you going to supper, then, now that you've recovered your toad?"
"Yeah, I just have to take him upstairs. . . ." He stooped to gather the bowl from the floor. Someone, sometime in the day, had kicked into it in walking by, and there was water spilled on the floor around it. "Oh, damn them. That's what's startled him to begin with, is people not looking where they're sitting and nearly kill him, knocking down his water and trying to squash him flat with their textbooks." He smiled at his own joke.
Ginny clucked her tongue, amused, and said, "That's easily cleaned, Mr. Longbottom. But your language! Tsk. How ungentlemanly of you to speak in such a manner around a lady."
"My apologies, your majesty."
"Forgiven." She helped him back to his feet; the hems of his robes were damp from his leaning them into the puddle of Trevor's water, but she did not notice. "That is, if you walk me down to supper now."
Neville Longbottom turned pink down to the very roots of his hair, but gladly followed her to the Great Hall, while Trevor remained, forgotten, in the common room.
The apartment of rooms given to Sirius Black by the Headmaster was much more large and lavish than the new professor had imagined they would be. As a student at Hogwarts, he had envisioned each professor as having one very small, very cramped, very Spartan room with perhaps a bathroom attached at one end. His picture included little furniture and certainly no paintings or rugs to cover the bare walls and cold floors, a small and plain bed, with a small window somewhere near the low, drippy ceiling.
But his reality was much different. The apartment was situated on the third floor, very near to his classroom and office. A pair of heavy double doors with a simple lock opened to a high-ceilinged front room, which had hooks lining one wall for possible visitors' cloaks. This small room opened to a larger sitting room, which had several large windows around which someone had thoughtfully placed several low, plush armchairs. The adjacent wall was covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, all of which were simply dripping with books of all sorts.
From the sitting room, one could go either right, which lead to a small kitchenette with stove, icebox, and cupboards stocked with foods of all sorts, or left, which lead to the bedchambers.
The main bedroom was quite large, the largest of the rooms in the apartment, and in it was a four-poster much more large and grand than those in the Gryffindor dormitories. The bed was hung with thick, black velvet curtains and draped in pale blue gauze for decoration, and next to it was a small table, the wood of which matched that of the bed's massive frame. There were more bookshelves here, and a full-length mirror. The frame of this mirror was made of the same dark, expensive-looking wood as the bed, and it was carved with many tiny runes.
Windows banked one wall, and these were also draped in the same black velvet and blue gauze, though upon his arrival these curtains had been drawn back to reveal a view of a private courtyard. A small balcony lay outside these windows, and over the balcony's decorative wrought-iron railing grew long fingers of a vine Sirius did not immediately recognize.
The bathrooms were through another door in the bedroom, and these were easily the largest bathrooms Sirius had ever seen. The bathtub alone was as big as the bed itself, and there were large, warm towels lying on a low bench beside it. There were more curtains in this room, but no windows - Sirius had yet to realize the purpose of these. In the ceiling was carved an elaborate scene, detailed and glorious, depicting a pair of fauns playing in the low-hanging branches of a willow tree on a lake. Sirius would yet lie for many long hours admiring the craft of his bathroom ceiling in the months to come.
But for now, he was content to remain in the warm and happy sitting room of his compartments, enjoying the pages of one of his newly acquired books while sipping a small glass of brandy. As he lounged, fully absorbed in his present text, there was a knock at the heavy doors of the apartment, and he scowled to have to leave the cozy confines of the armchair.
The knock, however, was quite persistent, and eventually he pulled himself to his feet and, leaving the book on the chair, crossed the thick rug underfoot. He pulled the door open easily, though it would have been difficult for a lesser man to have done, and was shocked to find Remus Lupin standing in the corridor outside.
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* Short chapter, yes, I know and apologize. I have been trying to keep adding more, but with the other projects I'm working on (namely college application essays, various contests, and Rhysenn's Alliance Fiction Challenge), it's difficult to stay on task.
Reviews are much appreciated!
V., in which the Headmaster receives a bit of bad news, Draco hunts a first- year, and Sirius Black is visited by an unexpected house-guest.
An owl, tawny and light, fluttered at the window, its golden talons tapping impatiently at the diamond-shaped panes of glass. Its eyes gleamed like drops of amber in the light from the clear sun as well as the dancing candles within the room, and its long wings rustled loudly as it tread the light breeze. A letter was tied to its foot with twine, and it began its tap-tap, rustle, flap again with more ardor.
"Yes, yes, I see you," came the soft, whispering reprimand from the Headmaster as he set his tea cup delicately into its saucer. Gathering his robes closer to his frail body, he made his way around the many piles of dusty books and the like, at last touching the window's ancient latch. The window sprung open, and the owl launched itself into the room.
Roosting on the high back of a chair, the bird stuck out its foot impatiently toward the old man. He untied the envelope, placing a slice of cake onto a plate and setting it upon the desk before the owl, which promptly began to tear the dessert to crumbling bits with its sharp beak.
It was a letter written in a scribbling, lopsided scrawl, the name Cornelius D. Fudge signed hastily along the bottom of the page in bleeding black ink. The Headmaster read the letter, the amused gleam in his eye fading as he did, and his expression fell to a heavy frown by the time he had finished.
He read it through again, and said, "Oh, dear."
Lunch was a somber affair for Harry.
Soups and salads littered the tables in their gilded bowls; forks and spoons winked and glittered in the light from above. Water in crystal glasses quivered and sang, the light bouncing around inside as a dove might flit to and fro in the confines of such an elaborately decorated cage.
Behind him, a Hufflepuff girl gushed stories and inane details of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and his roguish wink and grin; beside him, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil took turns oozing a list of reasons why Professor Black was the best thing to ever have happened to the school. That tiny Ravenclaw boy discussed theories of Animagus trickery with his classmates and friends, his head bobbing with enthusiasm as each new idea spilled forth.
But Harry merely stared down into his soup bowl, dipping the round of his spoon through the broth. He made several feeble attempts to actually consume a bit of potato or to spear a tender piece of meat; but his godfather's words from their conversation after class rang through his head, and he dropped his hand to the table once more, the spoon unused still.
Sirius had referred to his new position at Hogwarts as a "pleasant surprise," grinning in that charming way which had enthralled Harry's peers, giving full credit to the Headmaster for keeping it a secret from Harry. It was a late notice, for the professor Dumbledore had originally asked was summoned by the Ministry and had apologized profusely. When Sirius had agreed, the wizened old wizard had spoken with him about the charm of keeping it from the boy, and Sirius had obliged him in that.
Harry was quickly learning this year that adults were much less reliable than he had ever expected, and he wished that he did not have that knowledge. His entire childhood had turned out to be naught but a lie when Hagrid had arrived on his eleventh birthday, and secrets just as great had been uncovered nearly every year after. With all his life falling in around his ears at this point in is young life, the last thing he needed was another trusted adult trying to give him a fairy-tale view of the crumbling world which continued to spin around him.
Draco contemplated the situation from afar. Leaned casually against a sunlit wall, he watched a small cluster of first-year Ravenclaw boys in the courtyard beyond, unabashedly staring at one in particular.
The object of his attentions was easily the smallest of the group, a tiny boy of pale complexion whose placid expression regarded the others with a mere subtle smile and perhaps an indulgent laugh. His hair was ruffled slightly by an oven-breath breeze, his robes fitting perfectly as one born into a wealthy family. Draco himself had been one of few students during his first year whose robes had fit him adequately; even among the most prestigious families, parents were reluctant to purchase new robes at the start of every term.
This was the boy who had piqued Draco's interest at King's Cross at the beginning of the school year, that gilded youth with gold and copper spun through his long fringe of hair. His eyes, still wide and brown and shining brightly in the sunlight, had lost the fearful stare which had first tickled Draco's fancy at the train station.
A professor came through the courtyard, harried and hassled, shooing students from their perches in and around the walls. The cluster of first- years dispersed, save for Draco's, who was left scuffling through his papers in a frantic effort to collect them. He was soon left very much alone.
Passing through the decorative archways, Draco slunk over the still-damp grass of the courtyard, watching as the small boy pushed papers haphazardly into an expensive-looking leather packet. The boy did not look up on Draco's approach; he did, however, seem to notice the seventh-year's arrival.
Draco paused just before him, holding his fingers to the papers on the bench. "Either you haven't heard me come up," he said softly, raising a pale eyebrow with amusement shining through his glassy eyes, "or you've chosen to ignore me completely."
The boy's dark eyes trailed slowly up the length of Draco's long arm, eyebrows raised with the fearful expression bleeding back into his features.
"Either way, dear child, we need to talk." Smiling winningly, Draco trailed a hand down the boy's yet-rounded and youthful cheek, causing the child to blush pink through his face. Draco smiled genuinely at this, and he clasped the boy's shoulder as he leaned close, introducing himself with much charm and charisma.
Professor McGonagall, while sorting through papers from her third-year Hufflepuffs, peered over her spectacles at the man seated before her, her mouth set in a grim, tight line.
"Oh, Albus, I just cannot imagine such a thing happening," she said for what must have been the third time, shaking her head. She set aside the paper she had been grading, her quill rolling away from her on the desk.
They had been speaking for quite some time; Professor McGonagall had been spending her free hour grading papers when the older gentleman had joined her, inviting himself to sit down in one of her plush armchairs. He had conjured himself a pot of tea and two teacups, offering one to the woman professor, before briskly telling her about a letter he had received that morning.
Presently, Albus nodded serenely, stirring his tea absently. "Yes, yes, Professor, I know fully well that it is difficult to understand. However, I also realize that it must be accepted as truth, and I will look for what is best to be done about it. It is - "
But he stopped, as the woman professor was staring pointedly at the doorway behind the Headmaster's seat, and Albus turned to see who was there.
"Oh," he said brightly, setting down his spoon. "Harry. How pleasant to see you." His eyes twinkled merrily.
"Hullo, Headmaster." Harry stood awkwardly at the doorway, books hanging loosely at his side. The robes on his back seemed strange and loose and ill- fit, his wrists drowning in the loose fabrics of his sleeves.
"Do come in," Professor McGonagall said in a clipped tone, rising to her feet. But Albus bade her stay seated, and she returned to her chair shortly.
"Why have you come, Harry?" asked the Headmaster, and he placed his teacup on the desk. "Though it is likely not my business to ask."
"Mr. Potter," agreed the woman, gesturing to the empty chair beside that in which Dumbledore sat, "do join us. To what do I owe this visit? Have you complaints against any of our favorite blond Slytherins already this term?" She meant it as a joke, but her smile did not quite reach her eyes.
"Ah, no, Professor." Harry took a seat beside Dumbledore, his books stacked neatly on his lap. "Actually, I came to ask . . . that is, you said that I should ask you about changing this Muggle Studies course for something else, and . . ." He trailed off, his eyes falling to some undetermined spot on the front of the professor's desk.
"Muggle Studies," said the Headmaster brightly. "Muggle Studies, you say? I remember that class. One of the best I'd ever taken." He again took up his teacup, stirring the now tepid liquid thoughtfully. "Why, I believe you'd quite enjoy a Muggle Studies course, Harry." He raised his eyebrows, eyes twinkling knowingly. "You might learn several things you never realized you had not yet learned in a course like Muggle Studies."
Professor McGonagall regarded the wizened old wizard sternly as he absorbed himself in his tea, sighing softly to herself before looking to Harry with a small smile.
"Now, Mr. Potter, if you truly wish to drop the class, I will be happy to help you in that endeavor. You have, I trust, considered all I have told you, and now what Professor Dumbledore has mentioned." She straightened her papers slightly, remembering that they were there on her desk. "Which course were you planning to replace Muggle Studies with?"
Harry hesitated, glancing first at the Headmaster and then down at the schedule opened on his lap. "Actually . . . on second thought . . ." Professor McGonagall raised a thin eyebrow, leaning forward in anticipation. Harry looked up at her, shrinking back slightly. "May I keep the course, Professor?"
"Of course," replied McGonagall, surprised. She covered it well.
"Excellent, Harry, excellent. Well done." The Headmaster smiled triumphantly, and he rose to his feet. "Professor, I shall see you at a later point in time." He waved a hand, flashing a short smile, and winked at Harry as he passed out of the office.
"Now, Mr. Potter, if that is all," said the professor left in the room, "please, feel free to go on to your next class. I understand that you have already missed the first lesson of your Muggle Studies, but that does not exclude you from attending your other courses in the day. Good day, Mr. Potter."
When Neville Longbottom returned to the Gryffindor common room after his Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, he discovered that he had once again misplaced his toad. That morning, he was sure, he had left Trevor on the cushion of the amphibian's favorite chair in a corner of the room, a bowl of water on the floor beside the chair. Neville knew that Trevor often enjoyed a small bath in the morning, but he had slept late this morning and had not had the time.
Now, the common room was quite empty of one mottle brown-and-green toad with a torn web between the second and third toe on his left hind foot, and Neville had begun to worry slightly. Though Trevor had been known to disappear from sight at times, he was often to be found in the same three or four places every time.
The round-faced boy had checked these places, two times since his lesson had ended, but there was still no sign of Trevor. He slumped dejectedly against the cushion of Trevor's favorite chair, sighing to himself as he struggled to think of another place his pet could be hiding.
"Neville?"
The boy turned 'round slowly.
It was Ginny Weasley, her second-hand robes clean and pressed, fitting her more tightly this year than in the past. Her carrot-colored hair was brushed off of her freckled face with a plain black band, and her nose crinkled as she smiled at Neville.
"I've found your toad," she said brightly, offering her hands toward him. There, cupped in her small palms, was Trevor, his eyes staring blankly as he croaked once.
"Trevor!" he cried. Scooping the toad from her hands, he nuzzled the thing's dry head with his cheek before looking up at Ginny. "Thanks. I've been looking all over for him."
"I know it," she replied sweetly. "Dennis Creevey has been asking us all if we'd seen him - but none of us had. ''Til I came and nearly squashed him under my books, that is. He'd gone and hid in the girls' dormitory!"
"But Parvati Patil said - " Neville flushed pink and stopped. "What I mean is, again?"
Ginny giggled, tucking a small strand of hair behind one ear. "Are you going to supper, then, now that you've recovered your toad?"
"Yeah, I just have to take him upstairs. . . ." He stooped to gather the bowl from the floor. Someone, sometime in the day, had kicked into it in walking by, and there was water spilled on the floor around it. "Oh, damn them. That's what's startled him to begin with, is people not looking where they're sitting and nearly kill him, knocking down his water and trying to squash him flat with their textbooks." He smiled at his own joke.
Ginny clucked her tongue, amused, and said, "That's easily cleaned, Mr. Longbottom. But your language! Tsk. How ungentlemanly of you to speak in such a manner around a lady."
"My apologies, your majesty."
"Forgiven." She helped him back to his feet; the hems of his robes were damp from his leaning them into the puddle of Trevor's water, but she did not notice. "That is, if you walk me down to supper now."
Neville Longbottom turned pink down to the very roots of his hair, but gladly followed her to the Great Hall, while Trevor remained, forgotten, in the common room.
The apartment of rooms given to Sirius Black by the Headmaster was much more large and lavish than the new professor had imagined they would be. As a student at Hogwarts, he had envisioned each professor as having one very small, very cramped, very Spartan room with perhaps a bathroom attached at one end. His picture included little furniture and certainly no paintings or rugs to cover the bare walls and cold floors, a small and plain bed, with a small window somewhere near the low, drippy ceiling.
But his reality was much different. The apartment was situated on the third floor, very near to his classroom and office. A pair of heavy double doors with a simple lock opened to a high-ceilinged front room, which had hooks lining one wall for possible visitors' cloaks. This small room opened to a larger sitting room, which had several large windows around which someone had thoughtfully placed several low, plush armchairs. The adjacent wall was covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, all of which were simply dripping with books of all sorts.
From the sitting room, one could go either right, which lead to a small kitchenette with stove, icebox, and cupboards stocked with foods of all sorts, or left, which lead to the bedchambers.
The main bedroom was quite large, the largest of the rooms in the apartment, and in it was a four-poster much more large and grand than those in the Gryffindor dormitories. The bed was hung with thick, black velvet curtains and draped in pale blue gauze for decoration, and next to it was a small table, the wood of which matched that of the bed's massive frame. There were more bookshelves here, and a full-length mirror. The frame of this mirror was made of the same dark, expensive-looking wood as the bed, and it was carved with many tiny runes.
Windows banked one wall, and these were also draped in the same black velvet and blue gauze, though upon his arrival these curtains had been drawn back to reveal a view of a private courtyard. A small balcony lay outside these windows, and over the balcony's decorative wrought-iron railing grew long fingers of a vine Sirius did not immediately recognize.
The bathrooms were through another door in the bedroom, and these were easily the largest bathrooms Sirius had ever seen. The bathtub alone was as big as the bed itself, and there were large, warm towels lying on a low bench beside it. There were more curtains in this room, but no windows - Sirius had yet to realize the purpose of these. In the ceiling was carved an elaborate scene, detailed and glorious, depicting a pair of fauns playing in the low-hanging branches of a willow tree on a lake. Sirius would yet lie for many long hours admiring the craft of his bathroom ceiling in the months to come.
But for now, he was content to remain in the warm and happy sitting room of his compartments, enjoying the pages of one of his newly acquired books while sipping a small glass of brandy. As he lounged, fully absorbed in his present text, there was a knock at the heavy doors of the apartment, and he scowled to have to leave the cozy confines of the armchair.
The knock, however, was quite persistent, and eventually he pulled himself to his feet and, leaving the book on the chair, crossed the thick rug underfoot. He pulled the door open easily, though it would have been difficult for a lesser man to have done, and was shocked to find Remus Lupin standing in the corridor outside.
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* Short chapter, yes, I know and apologize. I have been trying to keep adding more, but with the other projects I'm working on (namely college application essays, various contests, and Rhysenn's Alliance Fiction Challenge), it's difficult to stay on task.
Reviews are much appreciated!