She hadn't meant to go bathing when she headed out that morning. She woke up sore like she had every morning for a week now. Her body protested violently to the lack of sleep. And the repercussions of her last running in with Theophilus still ached. The idea of crawling into warm, safe nest and hibernate until the trees were coming into leaf was almost irresistible.

What was she doing in Hogsmeade? A dull, quaint little place and not at all to her liking. She had already made enemies - which always went a lot faster than making friends, at least for Morgan. Almost visible streams of hatred could be picked up from her landlady, Mrs Gates, all because of a look or two from her husband, who she wouldn't touch with a stick. Had her mood been brighter, Morgan would have laughed at the irony of the situation, because she was the last person in the world to steal anyone's husband.

There was a lot of planning and organizing to do before she could exhale. It felt like she had been waiting to exhale for three months. In a manner of speaking she had - she had been walking on thin ice, constantly on the look-out and not been able to relax for that entire time. Finally the situation grew intolerable and she had to flee London ahead of schedule. The streams started to be discernible like lazily pulsating veins under the skin of a snake. Caressing and lulling her to sleep against her will, caressing her with mermaid's arms, luring her down into the deepest of the pits on the bottom. There could be no tidal waves, no sea breeze, no salty taste in her mouth. She knew it well and missed all those things.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The following morning Albus Dumbledore was at his desk where he was doing some rather odd things to a remember-all. When the door flung open he looked up to meet the black gaze of his Potions Master.

"Severus, how good of you to come see me so promptly!- "

"I'm in a hurry, Headmaster, so please cut to the chase." If he had regarded it dignified he would have tapped his foot against the floor. As things now stood Snape had to settle for an impatient shake of his watch wrist.

"As you wish, Severus. I was wondering whether you are familiar with the writer Morgan Harcourt?"

"No, I'm not, Albus. What is the point of this?"

"As it happens, this writer has moved into Hogsmeade very recently and has written to me, asking permission to use our library and other facilities for research purposes-"

"Yes?!"

"-And since we've met once, at some social event, and I've read most - well to cut to the chase as you asked me - I happily accepted and have just now sent a dinner invitation for tonight so that we can all get better acquainted. I felt it would be prudent to inform you now, since you were unable to attend yesterday's staff meeting."

Snape practically ground his teeth. "That blasted Longbottom!" Dumbledore made sure to hide his smile. He loved Severus dearly but couldn't help find his temper tantrums slightly melodramatic at times. The professor was obviously anxious to get back to the dungeons.

"Yes, yes, was that all? I still have lots of work to do due to that explosion yesterday." Snape headed for the door before Dumbledore could answer.

"So if you see an unfamiliar face in the corridors-"

"-I'll make sure not to blast him to pieces! Good day now, Headmaster!"

Albus Dumbledore sat back in his chair with a mischievous grin after the door closed behind his dear friend and colleague.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter III - Building Castles in the Air Morgan's prehistory.

Imagination and fantasy were childish attributes and considered unfitting for a seven-year-old girl of her breeding. Why was never properly explained to her. From the start Morgan was always more interested in alternative truths than in the actual truth. That earned her a lot of tongue-lashings from her parents, her gran and the governess. The Harcourts were an old, respected, pure-blood family living on both sides of the canal, in Britain and France. They were social butterflies, more gifted in the areas of diplomacy and politics, than in academics. There were quite a few Harcourts in high places around Europe, as have been the case for centuries. Being a Harcourt meant that you primarily existed in the capacity of family member, secondarily as an individual. Old blood, old money, old traditions.

The children - Morgan (Morgan was originally not the sanctioned name of the girl, but as soon as she grew old enough to read about King Arthur herself - having been informed that her namesake was a queen in that tale - she stubbornly refused to listen to the name Morgana any more.) and her two years older brother Theophilus - were destined for great things. Theo had to accomplish them himself while Morgan, being a member of the "weaker sex", was supposed to marry a man of power, prestige, position.

For centuries it had been the family tradition to educate the daughters at home. Why that tradition was instigated in the first place was unclear but the Harcourts now congratulated themselves on an ingenious way to ensure that the young women never got into contact with dangerous ideas or dangerous people. However their idea of dangerous people differed a great deal from most. As they were a pureblood family, able to trace back the lines to ancient times, they took ancestry very seriously and never associated with muggles or muggleborns.

Forcing Morgan to study at home while Theo went to Bauxbatons School of Witchcraft and Wizardry did nothing for her sisterly love. Even as a young girl she resented having to sit in a stuffy room in the west wing with mademoiselle Levant and always being confined to the same environment and the same close set of people, all of whom were either relatives or servants. Both the environment and the company were insufficient to stimulate her rapid development that seemed to go unnoticed by everyone in the household. She was intelligent but judged to be too imaginative by the conservative mademoiselle Levant.

Yet she was not responsible for the serious lies. She had been lied to her whole life and been forced to pretend she was too stupid to notice. Morgan was the cuckoo in the nest and she was aware of it - how could she not be? Mirrors didn't lie - at least hers didn't. The Harcourts were an old, pureblood family with prominent family traits just like the Malfoys, the Snapes, the Ellingtons and the Harmans. Brown or auburn hair, fair skin and green eyes were the physical attributes inherited down in the Harcourt clan the last century or so.

The mirror above Morgan's vanity showed a mismatched face with owl-like amber eyes, dark complexion and a disgraceful amount of freckles on her nose and cheekbones. She felt out of place next to the twenty-something classical beauties - her mother, aunts and cousins - that seemed to have gotten the best part of the Harcourt gene pool. When she was eleven she discovered the reason behind her dissimilarity (and it wasn't adoption as she had always thought) and also the reason why everyone had kept it a secret from her for all those years.

She and her brother had had one of their stormy arguments, always the result of spending too much time in each others company, and he had gotten so angry, so furious that he had grabbed her by the arm and dragged her across the mansion and into a storage room on the forth floor. He had knowledge that could hurt her, confuse her and he was done keeping it from her. Desperately sobbing in his vice-like grip, she had tried to comprehend what he was telling her and what she saw. The reason why ...

The unendurable tension got the better of her and she let out a piercing scream, unconscious of how Theo paled and sank to the floor. A frightened maid came hurrying to investigate the commotion and found the young master and miss on the floor, him seemingly lifeless and her glaring at the wall with eyes of coloured glass.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As Snape had been intercepted by a talkative Lupin on his way back to his office, he found that he was being practically led towards the Great Hall and dinner. It was no doubt a cunning plan laid out by the Headmaster to get him to attend. Why the old man felt the need to plot in order to get him to socialize he'd never know. The antagonism between himself and Lupin had subsided over the years and they were now enjoying a mutual respect and a comfortable working relationship.

The students were humming and buzzing and milling around like the occupants of a giant bee hive. The excitement of reuniting after the summer had caved in but even a bored teenager is a loud teenager. After a few moments everyone sat down at their respective tables and dinner was served. Just then the doors once again opened up to allow a straggler through.

"Here comes our guest of honour!" said Dumbledore and when Snape followed his gaze towards the entrance, he could once again feel his throat constrict painfully.

"What are you talking about, old man?" he hissed under his breath at Dumbledore who chuckled good-humouredly. "That - is a woman!"

"Your perceptiveness simply blows me away," said McGonagall dryly.

Walking straight up to the Head Table was the lady of the bloody lake. What was she doing at Hogwarts? Realization suddenly dawned on him. Dumbledore had once again demonstrated his fondness of mind games and had - for whatever reason - deliberately made him believe Morgan Harcourt to be a man. That, however, was most certainly not the case.

Naturally suspicious of coincidences, Snape didn't like them meeting twice in such a sort time. Everything smelt strongly of Dumbledore's interference. It was simply preposterous to welcome a perfect stranger into the school among the impressionable children. For all they knew she might be a bad influence on them. Besides, having her in the castle could prove very awkward for him if she chose to bring up the events of yesterday. He would never hear the end of it from McGonagall or Black.

While she didn't seem to take any notice of the students whatsoever, there weren't many pairs of eyes that didn't follow her all the way up to the Head Table. Many eyebrows were raised at the absence of witch's robes . in fact most would have concluded that they were dealing with a muggle if this wasn't Hogwarts. Covered in black from head to toe - in a knee-length, sleeveless dress, long lace gloves, matching stockings and ankle-high leather boots - she managed to fascinate, intimidate and excite at the same time.

The old man played the perfect gentleman and drew out the chair next to his for her. Snape couldn't hold back an ugly sneer at the sight. So the two of them knew each other well enough for the chit to ask the headmaster a favour? Harcourt, was it? He knew of a family by that name but she looked nothing like them and they had too much pure blood pride to become ill- reputable writers.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. Still the same unnatural pallor but he couldn't spot any of the bruises and bite marks that had almost made him take pity on her before.

Dumbledore had seated her directly beside himself and apparently they found plenty to talk about, though Snape could only catch parts of sentences as he was forced to occupy a seat much further down due to his tardiness. As they all sat together at the table it was impossible for him to read lips, a skill that otherwise often came in handy in his duties as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix. There really was no reason for this violent curiosity, a personality defect he usually proud himself about not having (one of very few in fact). Snape found that she was rather silent, at least for a woman - or perhaps it only seemed so because her voice was a rich alto and her manners were devoid of any girlish skittishness.

Snape was hindered from leaving the table before the meal was over, as was his usual habit, by Professor Flitwick who felt the sudden need to discuss the behaviour of a Slytherin boy that had been causing problems in class. Consequently he found himself immediately behind Professor McGonagall and Ms Harcourt when finally leaving the Great Hall. Professors Flitwick and McGonagall then went into the staff room leaving ms Harcourt alone with him in the corridor. He watched her stride a couple of steps ahead of him. Her movements were rather stiff and all things considered, Snape thought he knew the reason why.

His train of thought was interrupted when the object herself paused briefly, thus allowing him to catch up with her. "Fancy meeting you here, Professor." Her smile was as ambiguous as a Janus face.

"Our meeting here is by no doing of mine, I assure you," he hissed through clenched teeth. "I have no interest in prolonging the acquaintance with suicidal harebrains."

"I confess I like you, Professor. You're not above being rude to strangers. I like that in a man."

"I speak my mind, nothing else," Snape retorted, blatantly angry for being taunted.

"Then your thoughts must be very ugly."

Snape froze in mid-step then pounced on her, wanting nothing more than to shake some sense into her. He could virtually feel his fingers itching.

"No one touches me in anger," she warned, sidestepping him with a practiced skill he would not have expected from her.

"Someone has evidently," he said, scathingly. "Your attempts to cover yourself up the other day were insufficient to say the least."

Her smile became dangerous. "But you haven't seen the person who caused those marks ... he's an even uglier sight."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I know for a fact that you are not hard of hearing, Professor. As for discussing my predicament with you . I really can't see that happening, can you?"

"I will warn you not to play with fire," he said softly, carefully stressing every word.

Her eyes looked a little sad then. "I can assure you that I don't need to be told that."

"Don't think you can play the slippery eel with me[1] and get away with it- "

"-I'll make a few things clear, shall I?" She jabbed him hard in the chest with a long gloved finger: "You've heard my name - it ain't fake - I very recently moved into Hogsmeade to finish a book - the whole incident yesterday was not staged to incriminate you and I'm not here to make you look like a fool. Will that be all? Can you please let me go now? I promised to meet Madame Pince in the library."

Only then did he realize that he in effect had her cornered, at the same time how suspect it would look if anyone of the faculty or student body had spotted them standing within arm's reach and staring at each other.

He dropped her like a hot coal.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

----------------------- [1] An inexact quote from Monty Python's sketch about the dead parrot.