Secret Keeper - Chapter 8

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"And how are you managing, Mr Pettigrew?"

Looking up from the fat rat that lay snoozing lazily on his desk, Peter found Professor McGonagall standing over him, arms folded, thin eyebrows raised. All around him, the other students had already finished transfiguring their rats into soft woolen balaclavas and were swapping the most brightly coloured ones about. "Is there some sort of problem?" she asked.

One of the classes Peter had missed had been Transfiguration when he'd stolen away the previous week. A quick visit to the hospital wing upon his return, combined with his pallor, had been enough to fortify a story of having skipped breakfast to study in the library where he'd fallen asleep in the back. While the story had been sufficient enough for Professor Twisp and Professor Binns (the latter of which hadn't even noticed his absence), Peter was quite certain that, despite not having commented on it, Professor McGonagall knew he was lying.

"No problems, Professor." Peter said, quietly. To prove it, he tapped the rat sharply with his wand. It barely had time to wake up before it turned into a paisley patterned balaclava. "I was just thinking up the proper pattern."

Lips twitching in a slight, acknowledging smile, the Professor nodded once before she turned and walked away, towards the other side of the room where one frantic student had accidentally left the legs on her balaclava, and it was scurrying frantically about underneath the desks while several students shrieked and lifted their legs off of the floor. This close to NEWTS, and to Christmas, perfectly capable students tended to lose their heads in even rudimentary situations.

Contrary to what most people thought, while Peter had never been an exemplary student, he had always been a passable one. When class ended several minutes later, Peter stuffed the balaclava into a pocket and hurried out before others had even risen from their seats. He hurried through the halls, heavy bag thumping against his legs as he ran, until he reached the portrait that hid the entrance to Gryffindor tower. The woman in the portrait, a plump lady wearing a rich pink dress, looked up from straightening the boughs of mistletoe she had hung on the inside of her frame. "Password?" she asked smoothly.

"Amicitia." Peter panted, and he climbed quickly through the hole revealed when the painting swung open for him.

Although he only had a few minutes left before he had to hurry to Herbology, Peter climbed the tower to the empty seventh year dormitory and dropped to his knees beside his bed. He removed the balaclava from inside his robes, placed it on the floor, and, with a prod from his wand, restored it to the rat it had been. It huddled on the cold stone floor, blinking for a moment, and although it's long whiskers might have been slightly paisley coloured, it looked none the worse for the wear for it's brief foray into the world of fashion. It looked up at him with it's small oil-drop eyes and a gaze that was somehow reproachful.

"I'm sorry." Peter whispered to it. "I had to do it. She would have failed me otherwise."

Wether the rat forgave him or not was impossible to say. Apparently having decided no other unorthodox changes to it's person were in the future, it set about grooming it's face meticulously. "You're happy like you are, aren't you?" Peter murmured. "You're just a rat. That's it. And that's all anyone expects from you. You didn't expect to be changed into something else than you are . . . why should you?"

There was a sudden thump of footsteps on the stairs, and Peter found himself jumping. He realised, face flushing, how foolish he sounded. He had known a quiet fifth year Gryffindor girl with a constantly dreamy expression when he was in his third year, who was constantly leaving her books about the common room. He had peeked inside one on one occasion, and had shut it just as quickly, blushing; the people inside the book had spoke like he just had. "Melodramatic", Sirius would have said, probably fluttering his eyelashes and rolling his eyes at the same time.

The rat fled as several boys spilled into the room, and Peter stood up hastily, noticing James and Sirius amidst them. James was grinning, as usual, although Peter noticed these days it had a slightly goofty, off-footed quality to it. Ever since Lily Evans had finally gone out with him. He made a beeline for Peter now, Sirius all but capering at his heels with glee. "Pettigrew!" James crowed, slapping an arm around his shoulders. "Where were you? Our man Sirius here just convinced Peeves it would be a fine idea to stuff the Slytherin's plates with very carefully selected Every Flavour Beans at lunch. Peeves always did have excellent taste."

One of the other seventh years, a tall, freckled young man by the name of Donovan Healy grinned as he pulled out fresh parchment from the trunk at the foot of his bed. "And how old are you again, Black?"

Sirius grinned rougishly, thrusting out his chest to buff his nails on it. "Old enough to know better and young enough to do it again, Healy."

James, however, was no longer listening. His smile faltered slightly and he gave Peter a shake. "You okay there, Peter? You're looking a little green around the gills."

Shaking his head furiously, Peter forced a grin on his face. He knew it was too much to ask that Peeves wouldn't tell the Slytherins who had put him up for it, and Lucius Malfoy wasn't someone he wanted to cross, even over something as childish as this. "Yeah . . . Yeah, I'm fine, James. I just haven't been sleeping well."

And that, at least, was not a lie.

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Earlier

"Divination." the woman said in her odd, musing, surprisingly baritone voice. She stood beside the ornate, claw-foot desk, one hand resting on it's surface, her other hand perched on her boney hips. Her head was tilted back, perhaps staring at the raging winter sky through the skylight, and she lowered it slowly to look around the class, giving a small jump as though surprised to find them there. "Divination." A quick rat-tat-tat of her fingers rapping on the desk's surface.

Sitting near the front of the class, Lily exchanged a look with Remus and Ingrid. Or at least, she tried to. While Ingrid seemed torn between looking amused and attentive, Remus was sitting forward in his chair with his arms folded across his books, eyes fixed unwaveringly on their new teacher.

"My name," the woman said after a silence so long that Lily found herself jumping slightly at the voice, "is Professor Prichard. I will be your teacher and your guide through the . . . the mysteries of the future. Or . . . some such thing." She waved a hand absently, and Lily noticed the wand was still making it's circuit between those long fingers. She wondered if it was some sort of nervous tick.

Prichard crossed the room to stand in front of the nearest desk, which was occupied by a baffled looking Gryffindor who sat up straighter at her approach. "These are troubled times we live in." she said, laying her hand on the student's desk and locked gazes with him, expression somehow managing to be both distant and sympathetic. "Very troubled times. While . . . Divination cannot necessarily help you avoid your troubles . . . it can help you prepare for them, so you can cope with your losses better. Don't you think?"

There was a moment's silence as the class drunk in this bit of information, and the Gryffindor realised the question had been directed at him. "Er . . . yeah. Yeah, that's right, I guess."

Prichard smiled at him, a little absently, and her fingers drummed on the desk's surface again -- rat-tat-tat -- before she moved on. She strolled in a ragged circle about the room, taking exaggeratedly long strides. "I am going to teach you," she said, "a little trick to help you prepare for loss. It's very simple, and I believe all of you should learn it."

Another glance at Remus revealed he was still intently watching the Professor. A faint frown line had appeared between his brows, and Lily watched his throat work once as he swallowed. Ingrid's gaze had dropped to her desk as it usually did when she was trying to avoid being noticed, and Lily felt a pang of sympathy; Ingrid's older brother, who had gone on to take the name of Zonko over his given name of Timothy, had been a notorious troublemaker of such magnitude that, even several years after he had left Hogwarts, many of the teachers still remembered him and treated Ingrid as though she were always hiding something.

While Prichard didn't seem to be paying overmuch attention to any particular student as she returned to the middle of the floor in front of her desk and stood with her hand raised, palm up, in the air, Lily didn't exactly think the woman created the atmosphere of warmth and friendly discovery that Ariadne Fensworthy had cultivated. Several of the students looked uneasy, and the room was full of soft creaks as they shifted position restlessly.

Prichard placed her wand down upon her flat, outstretched hand, and the fingers of her free hand continued to twiddle in it's absence. "This is a very simple trick," she repeated in her deep voice, clearly her throat loudly enough that Lily jumped again at the brutal ragged sound. "You have, perhaps, heard of the Five Point spell, which can point you always towards the north and perhaps lead you to find sanctuary when you are lost. I do not believe this to be a spell, as much as a trick, as I said -- we are merely opening ourselves up to guidance, if you will." She closed her eyes, and Lily realised she felt a shiver of relief when that watery gaze was covered. "One needs only to concentrate and to open your . . . open your heart. And ask for enlightenment."

And, grasping the wand between her thumb and forefinger, she spun it on the surface of her hand.

The wand did not waver, did not tip off, and spun about rapidly, as smoothly as if she had sat it upon the floor. "As I said," Prichard said as the wand continued to spin and her baffled students watched, "it is important to prepare oneself for loss. Your wand can show you where next to prepare for it, and where next to mourn. And being prepared is always wise."

Before Lily could digest these words, could pull some meaning out of them, the wand suddenly ceased it's rotations as though it had been grasped by an unseen hand.

She realised, after a moment of holding her breath along with the rest of the class, that it's point was centered on a perfectly healthy looking potted plant on the edge of the Professor's desk.

Someone let out a laugh meant to be scornful in the back of the room, and Lily sighed, shaking her head wearily. It was odd to say, from a witch in a world for whom normal was relative, but she had never had much tolerance for fakery or nonsense. She had taken Divination thus far, to be true, more out of respect for Professor Fensworthy than any real stock of faith in the subject; her assignments were always completed on time, well-researched and completely factual, but she did not believe to have ever had any instance of clairvoyance herself. A lifetime of seeing fakers and frauds plying their "psychic abilities" from seedy shops on the streets of London had closed her mind to it. Professor Fensworthy had had faith in the topic, but hers had been a quiet affirmation, not something she felt the need

Professor Prichard swept across the room an picked the plant up, eyeing it critically. With a sigh, she finally dropped it with a loud crash in the rubbish bin beside her desk. "It is always best to be . . . merciful in such matters, my children. When you have been marked, it is best to accept your fate." She smiled a little as she said this last, and Lily noticed the wand was back to being spun about. The habit was beginning to annoy her.

Remus shifted slightly in his seat, and Lily saw he was finally looking a bit disbelieving. She still didn't know him that well, but she knew that while he didn't have it in him to talk down a teacher, he was at least becoming as dissatisfied with the class as she was. Ingrid, too, was looking both more relaxed and also slightly amused. Looking around, Lily saw the same looks on most of the other students' faces.

The only exception was Narcissa Black, who looked at least as bored as she always did, long-alabaster fingers tapping incessantly on her desk as she stared out the window.

If her class doubted her, Professor Prichard seemed to take no notice. She picked up the thick text they had been reading with Professor Fensworthy and flipped through the chapters, brows furrowing. After a moment, however, her expression turned almost blissful. "Will everyone," she said, "open their textbooks to page four-hundred-fifty-two?"

There was a dull rustle as the class followed suit, and Lily paged through her own book.

She saw, with no surprise whatsoever, that the Professor had turned them to the chapter on death omens.