A/N: This chapter contains some sexual content.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Tactile Sight and Career Counseling

'I do hope I'm not interrupting anything.'

The familiar sound of Professor McGonagall's voice caused Ron, Hermione, Harry and Ginny to disentangle from their group embrace.

McGonagall was wearing her old tartan dressing gown and carrying a guttering lantern in her left hand.

Ron flushed to the roots of his hair.

'Er...' he said stupidly. Harry bit his lip.

'I know,' said Professor McGonagall imperiously, 'there is a very good explanation for what the four of you are doing out of bed after hours.'

'It's my fault, Professor,' said Hermione at once. 'I...I was just trying to...figure out something for a homework assignment--'

McGonagall held up her hand.

'As much as I'm sure your friends appreciate you trying to take responsibility, Miss Granger,' she said, 'I've told you: I know why you are out of bed. I was just on my way to Gryffindor Tower to fetch Mr. Weasley when I bumped into Mr. Malfoy, who was trying to sneak back downstairs to the Slytherin dormitory.'

Harry and the others froze; he could only imagine what Ferret Boy had told the Headmistress.

'He was quite upset,' said McGonagall. 'He immediately told me he'd just seen the four of you. He said something about an interrogation.'

'We just wanted to ask him a few questions,' said Harry at once. 'We didn't hurt him or anything, I swear.'

McGonagall looked at him through narrowed eyes. 'Whatever questions you asked left him very agitated.'

'We just wanted to know--' Ron began.

'Who the spy is, yes,' said McGonagall. 'I've spoken with Remus Lupin all about this, and while I appreciate your concerted efforts to locate the person or persons who might be undermining our efforts, that does not give you the right to be out of bed past curfew without an Auror guard.'

The four of them started to protest at once, and McGonagall once again held up a hand. They all went quiet.

'As I said,' she continued, 'I was looking specifically for Mr. Weasley. Professor Firenze wants to see you.'

Ron blinked. 'Now?'

'Yes, now,' said McGonagall. 'I realize it's late, but time is of the essence. Two students are missing, and Professor Firenze believes you might be able to help us find them.'

Ron swallowed and looked down at his feet. 'No offense, Professor, but even with all my meditating I didn't see their disappearances coming. What makes Firenze--I mean, Professor Firenze so sure I can help?'

'He doesn't know you can,' said McGonagall bluntly. 'But he believes it's worth trying.'

'What does he want me to do?'

'That is for you and Professor Firenze to discuss,' said McGonagall. 'You're to report to him right away; you'll be excused from your morning lessons tomorrow. The rest of you will come with me; I'm escorting you back to your room, Miss Granger, and to Gryffindor Tower.'

'Professor, wait,' said Ron. 'What about...what about Fred and George? Their store?'

'Taken care of, Mr. Weasley,' said McGonagall. 'Aurors did a complete sweep of the premises and found no explosive devices. Two have been assigned to make daily sweeps each morning before the shop opens.'

Ron let out a sigh of relief.

'Thanks,' he said weakly. 'And Fred and George--'

'Are fine,' said McGonagall. 'As are Mr. Jordan and Ms. Spinnet. Now, we really must get you to Professor Firenze.'

Ron entered the Divination classroom warily. He was exhausted and wanted only to go to sleep, but a fresh wave of unease hit him when he thought about Anthony and Pansy.

'Mr. Weasley.'

Ron turned to see Firenze walking toward him. The centaur, too, looked exhausted.

'Thank you for coming,' he said. 'I realize it's very late and you are probably very fatigued.'

'It's okay,' said Ron. 'Er, I'm not sure what I can do to help. I didn't see--'

'I know,' said Firenze. 'I hope you are not feeling guilty for not seeing the abductions of the two students, Mr. Goldstein and Miss Parkinson.'

'A Seer can't see everything,' said Ron, wishing he could believe it.

'No,' said Firenze, 'but that doesn't mean you cannot be of some assistance now. I hadn't meant to start on this part of your training for another few weeks, but under the circumstances...'

His voice trailed off, and he turned and headed into the glade. Ron followed, and sat down on one of the large logs; Firenze had already lit a fire. Ron fought the urge to yawn, but then he noticed that the fire was not the usual incense-laden flames; rather, the only smells that came from the fire were that of burning wood and smoke.

Firenze leaned over a wooden table and picked something up from it; he turned back to Ron and held it up.

It was a navy blue t-shirt.

'This, according to Miss Padma Patil, belongs to Mr. Goldstein,' said Firenze. 'It is apparently a favorite garment of his. He was wearing it on the day he disappeared.'

Ron gaped at the shirt, and then at Firenze.

'How did you get it?' he asked, feeling a sinking in the pit of his stomach.

'It was in Miss Patil's possession,' said Firenze. 'She spoke with the Headmistress, who passed the shirt, and other information, along to me.

'It seems Miss Patil was to meet Mr. Goldstein in Diagon Alley on the day he disappeared. Something came up at home, she said, and she was late. When she arrived at their chosen meeting place--an ice cream parlor--she said he was late. She waited for nearly a half hour, and then gave up and returned home. An hour after that, Mr. Goldstein's shirt was sent to her in a package, via owl. There was no note.'

Firenze held the shirt out to Ron. 'Take it,' he said. Ron didn't move; he was horrified at the idea of touching it.

'Take it,' Firenze repeated, his voice harder.

Ron took the shirt in his hand, and he shuddered as an image of Anthony, smiling and laughing, burst into his mind.

He can't be smiling and laughing now.

'What am I to do with this?' he asked.

'Smell it,' said Firenze.

Ron wrinkled his nose. 'Smell it?'

Firenze nodded. 'Try to memorize the scents, the odors on the garment.'

Ron grimaced; he really didn't fancy inhaling some bloke's t-shirt, but he did as he was told, and put the shirt near his nose.

'What do you smell?' Firenze asked.

'Grass,' said Ron. 'After a rainstorm.'

'Anything else?'

Ron gave the shirt another sniff. He wrinkled his nose again.

'Smoke?' he said, and sniffed again to be sure.

'Miss Patil mentioned that Mr. Goldstein occasionally smoked cigarettes.'

'Really?' said Ron, surprised, but then, why should he be? It wasn't as if Ron knew Anthony all that well.

'Do you detect anything else?' Firenze asked.

Ron sniffed the shirt yet again. 'Something faint,' he said. 'Mint, I think. And...something feminine. Like...' He paused and sniffed it again. 'Jasmine?'

'Yes,' said Firenze. 'I believe Mr. Goldstein gifted Miss Patil with that shirt, and it has since taken on a bit of her scent. You'd do best not to focus on that last scent.'

'Okay,' said Ron, and he pushed the scent of jasmine from his mind.

'Good,' said Firenze. 'I want you to commit those smells to your memory right now. Close your eyes, and lower the shirt.'

Ron obeyed.

'Can you remember the scents?'

'Yeah,' said Ron.

'Can you imagine what Mr. Goldstein looked like in this shirt?'

'Yeah.'

'Good,' said Firenze. 'I want you to meditate now. You will sit in the usual position, and hold the shirt in both hands across your lap. Concentrate on the scents of the shirt first, and let them open your mind.'

Ron opened his eyes long enough to sit cross-legged on the floor. He swallowed and draped Anthony's t-shirt across his lap, clutching the ends of it in both hands.

'Close your eyes,' said Firenze again. 'Begin when you're ready.'

Ron took a deep breath. He smelled wet grass, smoke, mint. He rolled the scents over in his mind. Grass, smoke, mint. Grass, smoke, mint...

From somewhere distant, he heard Firenze's voice, low and gentle.

'Feel the material of the shirt in your hands,' he said.

Ron clenched and unclenched his fists around the ends of the shirt, running his fingers over the cotton, which was thin and a bit frayed around the neck, and stretched out at the waist.

'Imagine Mr. Goldstein wearing the shirt,' said Firenze. His voice was even softer, even further away now...

Another image of Anthony appeared in his mind. He was sitting at an outdoor table at Fortescue's ice cream shoppe; his left knee was jostling up and down, as though he were anxious about something, and yet the look on his face was relaxed as he watched people passing by. He glanced at his watch, and frowned, but didn't appear to be too concerned. Instead, he got up, and headed for the men's room. He passed through the swinging door, and there was a flash of light and an anguished cry...

Ron gasped and collapsed onto his side, letting go of the shirt.

'What is it?' Firenze asked urgently. 'What did you see?'

Ron was breathing hard; his hands were tingling, and he realized he was sweating. He hadn't felt this worn out by a vision since he first started training.

'I saw Anthony,' Ron said, trying to catch his breath. 'He was at Fortescue's--that's the ice cream shoppe. I think he was waiting for Padma. He got up to use the loo and...he went through the swinging door and there was a flash...I think he cried out...that's all I saw.'

Firenze let out a breath and nodded. 'It appears you witnessed where Mr. Goldstein was taken.'

'From the men's room,' Ron said.

'Are you quite all right, Ronald?'

'No,' said Ron, struggling to sit up. 'Why...why am I so worn from that? I hardly saw anything and I feel like sh--I mean, I feel terrible.'

'You are unaccustomed to the strain of tactile sight,' said Firenze.

'Of what?' said Ron.

'Tactile Sight,' said Firenze. 'Literally, touch-sight. It is a higher branch of meditation, in which the Seer uses an object to channel his energies toward a specific goal. In this case, to locate Mr. Goldstein. By placing your hands on something he owns and has touched--something apparently quite special to him--and by focusing on the way that item smells and feels, you are focusing your entire mental and physical energies on locating him. The mental focus of this kind of meditation is far more draining than the sort you've been using up to now.'

'I get it,' said Ron, wiping sweat from his brow.

'Tactile Seeing is also far more useful,' said Firenze. 'It allows you to unclutter your brain and use your gifts in a very specific way.'

'Why am I only learning this now?' Ron asked, a bit put out. If this was indeed a more useful way to apply his skills, why hadn't he learned it sooner?

'Because it is only now that I believe you are strong enough to handle the physical and mental demands of such an exercise,' said Firenze. 'Indeed, I would not have introduced this training to you at all had you shown less overall skill in Seeing. Tactile seeing is a very special brand of Second Sight; not all Seers--even talented ones--are able to use it. You, however, have just shown me that you have the potential to tap into this skill. If you can learn to make full use of Tactile Sight, you will be among the most powerful Seers alive.'

Ron gulped. For some reason, the idea of being one of the most powerful Seers alive didn't appeal to him in the least.

Don't be daft. If you can focus your skills, you can help find Anthony. And Pansy, too. And maybe this is a way to get around Voldemort's attempts to divert you.

It's a hell of a lot of responsibility. And I feel like shit! It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't feel like I just got run over by a lorry.

'Ronald?' said Firenze, eyeing him with concern.

'Sorry,' said Ron. 'I was just thinking.'

'You do not appear to be enthused about learning that you might be more powerful than I originally envisioned.'

'I just...wish it didn't leave me feeling so used up,' Ron admitted.

'That will get better in time,' said Firenze. 'When you meditate in the general sense, you no longer feel drained, do you?'

'No,' said Ron, 'not generally.'

'So shall it be with Tactile Sight,' said Firenze. 'It is time for you to learn this skill.'

Ron nodded, and suddenly something occurred to him.

'Er, you're not going to make me quit Quidditch and...and other stuff again, are you?' he asked nervously.

'No,' said Firenze, smiling knowingly. 'It appears that in your case, such diversions might indeed be best left undisturbed, as they allow you to escape your everyday mental pressures.'

When Ron fell into bed, it was past two o'clock in the morning. He had made two more attempts at Tactile Sight, using Anthony's shirt and a music box that belonged to Pansy. Draco had managed to get Millicent to fetch the box, on Professor McGonagall's orders, after she had marched him back to the Slytherin dungeon. The music box was a grotesque, frilly, light pink thing that featured a tiny, spinning ballerina on the inside. It was one of Pansy's most prized possessions.

Ron had written down all he had seen in the impromptu training session, starting with Anthony waiting for Padma at Fortescue's, to him entering the men's room. The second attempt with Tactile Sight and Anthony's shirt had been more disturbing; Ron had seen Anthony's limp, unconscious form draped over the massive shoulders of a black-robed Death Eater. The vision was brief and vague; all Ron saw was the Death Eater enter a dark, dungeon-like room and dump Anthony like a heavy sack of grain onto the stone floor; Anthony gave a low moan but didn't stir. The vision had left Ron utterly exhausted and it had taken him several minutes to recover. Firenze offered to let him rest for the night, but Ron demurred. One more go, he insisted, and this time he'd try to find something useful about Pansy.

Except that touching Pansy's ugly music box had revealed very little. It showed her pacing about in front of a rather dodgy looking store, repeatedly checking her watch. The store looked familiar, but Ron couldn't place it, and yet he knew that store could not be in Diagon Alley. The only street in wizarding London that looked that sketchy was Knockturn Alley, which begged the question of what Pansy was doing there in the first place, or why she and Draco would meet there, if neither of them were working for the dark powers. Honest wizards and witches avoided Knockturn Alley like the plague. And yet there was Pansy, pacing about, waiting for Draco, ignoring the furtive, sinister glances of the darkly clad wizards and witches who skulked up and down the street.

The last thing Ron saw was Pansy enter the shop, throwing up her hands in apparent frustration as she did so. Again, the vision had only lasted a mere minute, but it had left Ron entirely drained.

As he fell asleep, visions of Pansy and Anthony invading his mind, Ron said a silent murmur of thanks to Firenze for, at the very least, letting him miss the morning lessons.

Ron awoke at just before lunchtime, feeling refreshed. His dreams had all been surprisingly pleasant. Perhaps it was that Ron was so exhausted that his mind couldn't work up the energy to produce nasty dreams; perhaps it was the relief at knowing that Fred and George's shop had been secured, and that Ron had managed to once again thwart Voldemort's intended plans. In any case, he made a mental note to file away the dream of him and Hermione shagging up against the Restricted Section shelves in the library. Maybe he could suggest that one to her...

Are you mad? She'd never go for it. She'd think it was disrespectful of the books.

Oh, yeah. Well, it's a nice fantasy, anyway.

Ron showered and dressed quickly, glancing only once at the t-shirt and the music box on his dresser, given to him by Firenze. Ron debated meditating with them before his afternoon lesson, but decided against it. Firenze had given him strict orders not to overdo on the Tactile Sight training. Ron did, however, decide to meditate, in the general way, before lunch; he learned nothing useful from the visions he did see, which were numerous and seemed to concern only Muggles.

He went to the Great Hall feeling famished; as he sat down he saw Harry, Hermione and Ginny enter the room. Hermione hurried and sat down next to him.

'Are you okay?' she asked at once.

'Fine,' said Ron, and for once he meant it.

'What did Firenze want?' Ginny asked.

'I'll tell you after lunch,' said Ron, in a low voice. 'Can't talk about it now.'

They ate their meal in relative silence, for which Ron was grateful, even if the overall mood of the Hall was somber, owing to the disappearance of two students. After the meal, Ron and the others retreated to his room. Ron told them of the new aspect of his training, and about what he'd seen already regarding both Anthony and Pansy.

'If she was in Knockturn Alley,' said Harry, referring to Pansy, 'it can't be for any good reason. Maybe this whole disappearance thing is a feint.'

'You mean she faked her abduction?' said Hermione.

'Why not?' said Harry. 'If she's the spy, she could be trying to throw us off the scent.'

Hermione considered. 'That's possible. I'm still having a very hard time imagining her working for the Death Eaters, though, especially in some kind of covert fashion. She just doesn't seem clever enough.'

'That could be a feint, too,' Ron suggested. 'Pretending to be stupider than she is so she gets away with stuff. I'll know more when I try to meditate again later.'

Hermione, meanwhile, talked of an early morning meeting she'd had with Professor Hopkirk.

'We're going to start working on the potion this week,' she said. 'The Spiketails need a bit more time for their tails to fully mature before we can collect diamond dust.'

'I'll try to get more out of Malfoy,' said Ginny. 'See if he suspects Pansy might be faking us out.'

'I'll take Nott,' said Harry. 'Oh yeah, and clingfoil? It's plastic wrap.'

'Hang on,' said Ron. 'Plastic wrap? Are you serious?'

'I was just going to say that,' said Hermione, shaking her head. 'I was so tired last night when we talked about it that it didn't even register. Which is of course absurd, my mum always used clingfoil for leftovers.' She stopped abruptly, and pursed her lips, looking down at her hands. For a moment nobody said anything; Hermione took a deep breath and looked up; she was clearly trying not to think too hard about her parents, and wherever they were now hiding.

'Are you sure Aberforth heard Nott correctly?' she asked.

'Dunno,' said Harry. 'I mean--'

'What would Nott want with plastic wrap?' Ron finished.

'Could it be a code of some sort?' said Ginny.

'If it's a code it's the strangest one I've ever heard of,' said Hermione. 'I'll see if I can find anything about it in the library. Maybe some wizard somewhere came up with a deadly use for plastic wrap.'

The suggestion was, of course, absurd, and they all laughed the moment Hermione made it, but it was telling to Ron that deep down, they all believed it could be possible. In times like this, anything was possible.

Ron was as good as his word; he meditated after dinner using both Anthony's shirt and Pansy's music box. Nobody else but Harry, Ginny, Hermione and the few teachers--McGonagall, Snape and Firenze--knew what Ron was up to. As far as the school was concerned, the Ministry was conducting a search for the missing students, and the rumor floated about that Firenze was 'consulting the planets and the stars' for assistance in locating Anthony and Pansy.

Ron's meditations exhausted him; it didn't help that Transfiguration had focused on more and more complex Glamour Charms, which always left Ron feeling sore and out of sorts. Jumping right into such complex work was hardly the sort of way Ron had wanted to start the term, but he worked hard in the lesson all the same. The closer the end of the year loomed, the more Ron realized the time for deciding upon a career, and taking the practical steps necessary to get the job he wanted, was close at hand.

It was frightening, actually, to realize that what had seemed like such a distant future--him securing a job, a career, living on his own--was only months away. Career Counseling sessions for the seventh years would begin this week; Ron knew he wanted to apply to the Auror training program, but he dreaded to even think about what the application process entailed.

In the meantime, he had work to do. He took Anthony's shirt and cast a small magical fire; he repeated the steps Firenze had showed him, and quickly fell into a kind of trance.

He was back in the dark, dungeon-like room. Anthony lay there, still as a corpse, but small moans issued from him, and after what seemed like an eternity, he rolled over painfully onto his back. Blood, dirt and tears streaked his face; his nose was bent at an odd angle; it was broken. Ron heard a wince, and realized he had made it. It was impossible to know how long Anthony had been inside that dark, dank room, when suddenly the door swung open with a heavy clang.

Two hooded, robed figures entered the room.

'C'est lui?' said a familiar voice. (1)

Helene Rosier...

'Oui,' said another familiar voice, that of Rodolphus Lestrange.

'Il est un désordre. Nous ne pouvons pas vraiment le présenter au seigneur foncé dans cet état,' said Helene Rosier irritably. (2)

Lestrange snorted derisively. 'C'est Macnair, il outrepasse toujours ses limites, dégrossissage les prisonniers en dépit des instructions claires--' (3)

'Assez,' said Helene Rosier sharply, holding up a hand. 'Nous traiterons Macnair plus tard. Maintenant nous devons guérir celui-ci et se prepare pour donner notre seigneur le sien...services.' (4)

Anthony moaned again and opened his eyes, both of which were blackened and almost swollen shut; all that could be seen of his irises were dark slits. His body stiffened and he mumbled something, but then gave a groan of pain; his jaw was broken.

'Macnair,' Lestrange grumbled, and he pointed his wand at Anthony, who tried to squirm hopelessly away. There was a flash of light...

Ron opened his eyes; he was on his back, on the floor, clutching the t-shirt in his hands. As before, he was breathless and sweating.

It took him five minutes to recover from the vision, which was longer and more detailed than any he'd had so far. With no small amount of frustration he realized that he didn't understand a word of the conversation between Rosier and Lestrange, although he was sure he heard Macnair's name mentioned. Was he, then, the Death Eater who had carried Anthony into the dungeon? Ron couldn't remember any other Death Eater who was quite so large and burly as Macnair, and given Macnair's chilling enthusiasm for committing murder, Ron wouldn't be surprised if Macnair was the one who had worked Anthony over so badly.

Ron winced as he sat up; he knew the best thing to do with this memory was to put it in his Pensieve, which he'd stored over the holidays in the locked file drawer on his desk. Hermione could help him translate the conversation he'd heard, and perhaps now that Ron was using more focused, concentrated Seeing, the Pensieve would be an even bigger help to him than it had already been.

He took out his journal--he was now on his third--and quickly scrawled out the details of the vision, wishing he'd been able to see some clue as to where Anthony was. He also realized he had no way of knowing whether he was seeing future events or not. The visions he'd had of Anthony being taken were clearly in the past--two days past. But this vision could be occurring in 'real time', or it might have already happened, or perhaps it was going to happen soon. Ron simply couldn't tell.

After writing down the vision, he performed the Memory Extraction Charm and let the silver strand float into the Pensieve, where it rippled the liquid inside.

Ron then picked up Pansy's music box, and prepared to meditate again.

At just past eleven o'clock, they were back in his room again. Harry and Ginny were using the Invisibility Cloak again, owing to the return of all the Aurors, who were now patrolling the castle thickly, and in shifts. Hermione had been by earlier in the evening, to look at Ron's vision of Anthony in the Pensieve, and had rather handily translated the French spoken by Rodolphus Lestrange and Helene Rosier, but Ron was disgruntled to learn that it told them nothing about where Anthony was being held.

The only other thing Ron had learned in the interim was that Pansy, after going into the dodgy looking shop in Knockturn Alley, had gone to the fireplace and scooped out some Floo Powder from a jar; she threw it into the flames, and was about to shout out a location, when there was a blinding flash of white light and Ron saw no more.

Hermione opened her school bag as she, Ron and Ginny sat on Ron's bed, and Harry sat in Ron's desk chair.

'Well,' she said, 'I can honestly say that my time in the library this evening was the weirdest I've ever spent; Madam Pince must have thought I was out of my mind, trying to find references to the use of plastic wrap in dark magic.' She dumped a pile of books onto Ron's bed.

'Did you find anything?' Ron asked.

'There was one thing, actually. In the 1970s there was an insane wizard called Mobius Mayberry who murdered his entire family by smothering them with plastic wrap in their sleep,' said Hermione. 'Apparently he charmed the plastic wrap to cover the faces of his victims in some sort of airtight seal so they all suffocated.'

Harry screwed up his face in distaste. 'Yuck,' he said. Ron nodded his agreement; he knew there were worse ways to die, but having been nearly strangled to death himself by Dolohov in the battle at the Riddle House, Ron had a special horror for death by suffocation. The panic one felt due to a lack of air...he shuddered.

'Anything else?' Ginny asked.

'Nothing,' said Hermione.

'So...assuming Aberforth did in fact hear what Nott said correctly,' said Harry, looking dubious, 'Nott appears interested in getting a hold of some cellophane.' He paused. 'Does this sound completely absurd to anyone else?'

Ron and Ginny raised their hands.

Hermione's hand stayed down.

'You don't think this is absurd?' said Harry.

'Well,' said Hermione, 'it is strange, but I don't think we can rule anything out at this point, can we?'

'What if it was a code?' said Ron. 'What would "clingfoil" be a code for?'

'That's the next thing I'm looking into,' said Hermione.

There was general agreement, before the subject turned to Anthony and Padma.

'I still can't figure out where Anthony is,' said Ron glumly. 'I only know he got roughed up by Macnair and Helene Rosier and Rodolphus Lestrange were going to try and heal him. Hermione translated what they said.'

'Why would they heal him?' said Harry.

'To make him stronger so he could better give them blood,' said Hermione, shuddering. 'At least, that's what it looked like to me, based on their conversation.'

Ron clenched his fists. 'The worst part is, I don't know if this stuff is going on right now or it's already happened, or if it's in the future. And I can't meditate too often because it's so draining. I don't even know if...if Anthony's still alive.'

Nobody said a word for a moment, but then Hermione spoke.

'He must be,' she said, with a fair bit of conviction. 'If Voldemort is really weakening and needs blood, he wouldn't just...use up Anthony's right away. He'd want to keep Anthony alive so...so he could have a steady supply.'

It was Ron's turn to shudder.

Ginny quickly changed the subject. 'I talked to Malfoy today,' she said. 'He's positive Pansy isn't faking us out. When Malfoy was in with the Death Eaters, Pansy wouldn't join up because her parents didn't want her to get involved. That's the thing: Pansy's parents have a lot of money but they're not powerful like the Blacks were, or the Lestranges or the Malfoys. They've never been overt supporters of Voldemort, they just went along to get along. Malfoy said his father told him that Pansy's family, on both sides, never joined the Death Eaters. They didn't want to be a part of all that; they supported the Death Eater cause with money but left the dirty work to others. That's why Draco and Pansy were betrothed.'

'Excuse me?' said Harry. 'Did you say Draco and Pansy were betrothed?'

'That's how it's done in these old-fashioned pureblood families; you have to keep the bloodline from being tainted,' said Ginny sarcastically. 'Anyway, Lucius wanted Draco to have a wife who wouldn't get in the way of the Death Eater stuff; she'd be the silent little wife and look the other way and cover up for Draco if the authorities tried to investigate him. But she wouldn't get her hands dirty being a Death Eater.'

'Clearly, the wedding is off,' said Harry dryly.

'They have a weird relationship, to say the least,' said Ginny. 'But Draco's really bad off now she's gone. I think, in his own twisted way, he misses her.'

'Emphasis on "twisted",' said Harry.

'What about Nott?' Ron asked, not wanting to think about Draco and Pansy's 'weird' relationship.

'Nothing,' said Harry. 'I followed the Slytherins to Quidditch practice and they gave Malfoy a bit of a hard time but other than that, nothing. I probably won't get another chance to go after him for at least a few days, what with Quidditch practice and the D.A. meeting this week, and my wandless magic training.'

'He'll probably keep a low profile now school's started up again, anyway,' said Ron. 'He might have had something to do with Anthony and Pansy's disappearances, you realize.'

'Yeah, I've thought of that,' said Harry. 'You haven't seen anything in your regular meditations?'

'No,' said Ron, frowning. 'Nothing helpful there at all. It's like I had that crazy dream with all that stuff in it--half of which I still can't remember--and then, nothing. The only thing that's giving me anything concrete is this Tactile Sight stuff, and that's so tiring I can't do it more than a few times a day, at least for the moment. But what I have seen, Nott's not in there.'

'What about Hopkirk?' Harry asked, turning to Hermione. 'Anything new there?'

'We start experimenting with the potion on Friday,' said Hermione. 'That reminds me. You'll need to come with me; she needs samples of your blood.'

'I can hardly wait,' said Ron.

The week passed quickly. Harry fell quickly back into his busy routine: Quidditch practice on Tuesday and Thursday evenings; wandless magic practice on Wednesdays, followed by D.A. meetings; and of course, lessons.

The teachers clearly did not feel like easing the seventh years into the winter term. Professor Snape's first lesson of the term involved a timed drill, as he called it. The first day of Potions class the students found their tables covered haphazardly with various ingredients.

'You have thirty minutes to brew a Confusing Concoction,' Snape drawled, holding up a small hourglass. 'From memory.'

At this, the class gasped, and Harry cringed. From memory? The only person who didn't look positively appalled by this was Hermione.

'How are we supposed to memorize potions recipes?' Harry hissed at her.

'Harry, this is what's going to be on our N.E.W.Ts!' Hermione hissed back. 'Honestly, didn't you know? We'll have to brew at least four potions, in a prescribed amount of time, from memory.'

'I'm sure whatever you are telling Potter is scintillating, as usual, Miss Granger,' said Snape. 'But if you do not stop your relentless chatter I will take points from you. Surely as Head Girl, you don't want that.'

'No, sir,' said Hermione, looking very contrite.

Snape smirked at her, and then looked round at the other students.

'As you have brewed this particular potion before, it should be no problem for you. You may start now.' He turned the hourglass.

Harry and Ron exchanged desperate looks and looked down at their table; not only were the ingredients numerous, it appeared Snape had deliberately mixed them all together.

'Great,' Ron muttered. 'Let's just separate them out first.'

They did this; it took a good five minutes. Harry tried desperately to remember the order of ingredients.

Base of water and leech juice. Followed by...sliced caterpillar--three thin slices. Then the handful of minced scurvy-grass...

It'll be a miracle if I get this done in a half hour.

At exactly thirty minutes, Snape called time. Harry gazed glumly at his potion. It was a murky, lumpy sort of purple, nothing like the clear, deep blue potion Hermione had produced, which was, no doubt, perfect. Ron's was bluer than Harry's but just as lumpy.

'Guess we'll have to study for N.E.W.Ts harder than we thought,' Ron muttered, as they left the class. In addition to the brutal 'timed drill', they'd started the unit on Wolfsbane Potion, which was easily the most complicated, difficult and delicate potion Harry had yet worked on. He wondered that Snape continued to brew it for Remus Lupin; the effort it required was rather extensive.

McGonagall was no less relentless than Snape; she, too, began timed drills for spells.

'To pass your N.E.W.Ts you will need to be able to demonstrate a comprehensive competency in every unit of transfiguration you have studied in your seven years at Hogwarts,' she said.

Harry groaned. That meant going back and practicing earlier spells, many of which he almost never used. This term was looking to be far more brutal than he could have imagined.

Care of Magical Creatures and History of Magic were the only two lessons that offered them any relief; Harry still felt his stomach clench to see that Hagrid had still not returned, and nobody would, or could, give word of his whereabouts or doings. But the lesson itself, at least, proved relaxing enough. For dragons, the Pygmy Spiketails were almost cuddly. And History of Magic allowed Harry plenty of time to catch up on sleep. Hermione had given up on trying to prod him and Ron awake.

On top of this, Professor McGonagall announced that career counseling for the seventh years would take place on Saturday and Sunday; lists would go up in the houses informing the students of what time they would be meeting with their Heads of House. Harry noticed that McGonagall had arranged all the Gryffindors' times so as not to conflict with Quidditch practice. She was as anxious as Harry for the upcoming match with Ravenclaw; a win would tie them with Slytherin for the Cup; a loss would knock Gryffindor out of contention completely. Harry didn't fancy losing the Cup to Slytherin in his last year of school.

Hermione spent her free time either in the library, with Professor Hopkirk in discussions over her potion, or with Ron. Harry didn't begrudge Hermione taking up Ron's time, at least for now. She was still touchy about her parents' situation, and Ron was really the only person who could calm her down about that. Ron, meanwhile, was clearly relying on Hermione to keep him going as he struggled his way through this new Tactile Sight training he was engaged in. The training exhausted him, but by Thursday, Ron told Harry he felt like he was close to something, at least where Anthony was concerned. He had been able to pin down that Anthony was being held in a kind of warehouse, and he'd even discovered an address: 36 Rue de Fonsac. Unfortunately, Ron said, that address could be in France, or Belgium, or any other country where French was spoken as an official language. But even that bit of information he passed on to the Order.

Every free moment Harry had, he tried to spend it with Ginny. It was hard on them both, not having enough privacy, not having enough time to simply be together. And yet, Harry felt them growing closer, even in the little time they had to spend together. It felt good, all told, to get close to a girl again. Especially this girl, who made him laugh and challenged him and excited him, sometimes all at once. Physically, things were still progressing slowly, but Harry didn't mind so much. He knew Ginny was still a bit hesitant, given the situation with her Empath powers, and he'd rather her be comfortable than try to push something on her when she wasn't ready.

That didn't stop him from wanting her, but he kept himself firmly under control all the same. He wasn't going to mess things up with Ginny if he could help it.

It was Friday, just before the dinner hour, and they were on his bed, kissing heatedly; the room was empty, and his bedcurtains were drawn and charmed with an Imperturbable.

It was a tangle of limbs, and their shirts were off, and her bra, and questing hands caressed heated skin, and he was hard and eager, and then he felt her fingers brush across...

He sucked in a breath and bit his lip; perhaps it was an accident. But when he felt her hand on him, he groaned. He put his hand over hers, with every intention of pulling it away, but then she had both hands on him, one undoing his belt, the other pulling at the button on the waistband of his trousers.

'Ginny, wait...'

She silenced him with a kiss, and he felt her slide the zipper of his trousers down.

'I want to,' she whispered, against his lips.

'Are you sure?' he said, his voice betraying him.

Please...oh god...

She smiled at him and nodded, and her hands moved...

Harry bit his lip as she touched him, tentatively; he felt emotions flowing out of her skin. She was nervous.

'Is this okay?' she asked. 'I'm not very...I haven't done this all that much...maybe you could...'

Her voice trailed off.

'What?' he asked, as her hands stilled. But somehow, he knew; even though she'd been with Dean, she was still inexperienced, nervous.

She bit her lip and looked up at him, blushing. 'Show me.'

Harry swallowed. 'You mean...you want me to...myself?'

'No,' Ginny said quickly. 'I mean...take my hand and...and show me.'

Harry couldn't help but smile; she looked so embarrassed, and yet Harry could sense her desire underneath that. He took her small hand in his, and placed it over him.

Her lips parted, and he let out a breath; her hand was soft and warm on him, and he moved it gently, pressing her fingers around him.

'Like that,' he said, and he let his own hand drop; she continued, and he sighed and felt his head drop back.

Bloody hell...

It had been so long since a girl had touched him like this; his head was spinning; it felt good. Beyond good.

'Is this okay?' she asked again; there was a hitch in her voice.

'Y-yes,' Harry whispered. 'Please...don't stop...'

She didn't. He couldn't quite believe this was happening. He felt Ginny shudder and realized, in the haze of sensation, that she was feeling some of what he was feeling, this intensity and heat.

She gave a soft whimper and leaned over to kiss his mouth; both her hands were on him now, moving intently. It was too much, it felt too good...

Everything crashed around him and Harry felt himself tumbling inside; Ginny made a soft sound in her throat and shuddered again before collapsing next to him.

After a few minutes, Harry found the strength to do a Cleaning Spell, and to speak.

'Wow,' he said, a bit sluggishly.

Ginny giggled softly and snuggled up to him; his arms went around her.

'Are you okay?' she asked.

Harry gave her a look. 'What do you think?'

She smiled. 'Judging by the goofy look on your face, I'd say you're okay.'

Harry grinned. 'That was brilliant. This Empath thing...it's amazing. I mean...I think it is. You're okay, too, right?'

Ginny smiled, her eyes looking a bit dreamy. 'Yes,' she said. 'Very okay.'

They held each other for a little while, without speaking, but just as Harry felt himself grow drowsy, his stomach rumbled. Ginny laughed softly.

'Dinner time,' she said, and she extricated herself from his arms.

'I'm starving,' Harry said, lifting himself up on his elbows and putting on his glasses, which he'd discarded on the bed. 'But I don't feel like going anywhere,' he added, as he watched her pick up her bra from the bed and slide it on.

'Stop staring,' Ginny said, blushing.

'Oh, come on. I can't help it,' said Harry, grinning, and wishing she'd take her bra off again. 'You look amazing.'

Ginny bit her lip and smiled with a mixture of amusement and shyness; in that moment, Harry knew a feather could have knocked him over. She drove him crazy when she did that, when she let her vulnerability peek through. It was a side of her that only he got to see, and he loved her for sharing it with him, for trusting him with it.

She was pulling on her blouse when he grabbed her hand.

'I love you,' he said. He felt a rush of warmth in his skin and his blood as she smiled. It was only the second time he'd said it to her, but clearly, she loved hearing it.

'I love you, too,' she whispered.

Just after dinner, Hermione pulled Harry, Ron and Ginny aside; it was time to go to Hopkirk's office.

As they made their way to her office, Harry reflected on this week's lessons, and the D.A. meeting. Hopkirk was now schooling them in more intense combat; it was as if she was training all her students to be Aurors, Harry thought. His mind wandered to his career counseling session the following day, and he grimaced. He had asked James Marchbanks about the application process; James had grinned and said that the written application wasn't actually all that difficult.

'It's the combat, oral and personality tests that kill you,' he'd said.

All too soon, they reached Hopkirk's door. Hermione knocked primly, and Hopkirk's muffled voice came through.

'Come in.'

The four of them entered. Professor Hopkirk was seated at her desk, reading over a piece of parchment. A table to her left was covered with flasks and beakers, and to the right of it was a large copper cauldron that simmered gently. The real surprise, though, was that Professor Snape was standing behind her, reading over her shoulder.

Neither one of them looked up at first; indeed, they seemed to be quite caught up in what they were doing. Harry and the others stood still and watched them as they spoke.

'I still wonder whether the diamond dust is mature enough,' Hopkirk muttered.

'Wilhelmina assures me that it is,' said Snape, his voice sounding surprisingly reassuring, rather than having its usual sharpness. 'It's the feathers that are the problem. They won't reach maturity for another four weeks.'

'True, but it's better to test with infant feathers at this point,' she said, looking up at Snape and stacking up her parchment. 'He'll have to build up his nervous system to accept this anyway, and using a full-strength potion right away could be dangerous.'

'I agree,' said Snape, stepping back slightly as Hopkirk stood up.

Harry looked from one to the other and guessed what they were talking about. It didn't sound good.

'Ah,' said Hopkirk, smiling her enigmatic smile. 'Sorry, we were just finishing up. You're a bit early.'

Ron opened his mouth to ask a question, but Snape lifted a hand as if to silence him.

'I am here to assist Professor Hopkirk,' said Professor Snape coolly. 'I offered her my expertise and she accepted it.'

Great, Harry thought. Lovely. As if we don't get enough of Snape in lessons.

'Enough small talk,' said Hopkirk, her voice suddenly brisk and efficient. 'We need blood samples, as I'm sure Miss Granger mentioned. One pint from each of you. I hope you remembered to eat your fill at dinner.'

'A pint?' said Ron, looking nervous. 'That...sounds like a lot.'

'Don't be nervous, Mr. Weasley,' said Snape, smirking. 'The needle doesn't hurt that badly.'

'Needle?' Ron gasped.

'Who's first?' said Hopkirk.

'I'll go,' said Hermione, giving Ron's hand a sympathetic squeeze.

Ginny and Harry were still trying not to laugh as the four of them sat around the fire in the common room, which was, thankfully, quite empty.

'Shut up!' Ron snarled, when Harry clapped a hand over his mouth to hold back a chuckle.

'Ron, it's no big deal,' said Hermione, patting his hand gently. 'Lots of people pass out when they have blood drawn.' She gave Harry and Ginny a dirty look.

Harry forced his face to look serious. 'She's right,' he said. 'Happens all the time. My cousin Dudley went down like a stone after having blood drawn, and it was for a lot less than a pint.'

'Thanks, Harry,' said Ron sarcastically. 'That makes me feel so much better. Knowing that I share something in common with your idiot cousin.'

'Come on, Ron, it's okay,' said Ginny, placing a hand on his arm, which was bandaged. He winced.

'I didn't see anybody else...faint,' he muttered.

'You stood up too fast, that's why,' said Hermione, in her best lecturing tone. 'I told you not to do that.'

'And thank you, Hermione,' said Ron sarcastically, running a hand through his hair before stopping to rub at a spot on the back of his head. 'You know, I could have cracked my skull open. I still have a lump as it is.'

At this Harry winced in sympathy. It hadn't been pretty, actually, seeing Ron standing one minute, and then dropping to the floor like a sack of wet sand. He'd bumped his head on the stone floor and Hopkirk, after reviving him, had sent him to Madam Pomfrey for a quick patch-up and some Blood Replenishing Draught. Harry himself still felt slightly light-headed from the loss of a pint of blood, and if he were honest, he might have passed out himself, had he not been more careful about getting up.

'It wouldn't have been so bad if bloody Snape hadn't been there,' Ron went on. 'Did you see the look on his face? Greasy git.'

Hermione started to say something--probably to correct Ron for his language or for impugning the teacher, but she stopped, and instead gave Ron a light kiss on the cheek. Harry was impressed; so, clearly, was Ron, who gave her a look.

'What, no correcting me for swearing?' he asked, in a teasing tone.

'You hit your head,' Hermione said, shrugging. 'And Snape was a bit of a git for smiling about that.'

Ron's face lit up into a grin. 'I must have hit my head harder than I thought,' he said. 'Hermione Granger finally admitted Snape is a git.'

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

They sat quietly, the four of them, for a while. Gradually the common room filled, as students returned from the library, and then emptied out again, as students retired for the night.

Ron stood up after a while--very slowly--and announced he and Hermione had patrols, and that afterward, he was going to try Tactile sight again.

'Ron, it's too much,' Hermione protested. 'You can't--'

'Hermione, I just got a pint of blood sucked out of me tonight,' Ron argued. 'That's probably what they're doing to Anthony right now, and if he feels half as bad as I did...I'm close, love. I have to finish this. I'm getting nowhere with Pansy but with Anthony...'

Hermione pursed her lips; her eyes showed nothing but worry, but she nodded, and the two of them bid Harry and Ginny good-night. Harry and Ginny decided to turn in, as well. Ginny whispered to Harry that she would join him shortly.

If there was one benefit to coming back to school, it was that Ginny could sleep next to him again.

Saturday dawned bright and frigid. The snow had frozen overnight and now sparkled in the sunshine; Harry frowned. Visibility would be half-blinding for today's practice.

After a month and a half away, the team was definitely feeling rusty. The cold didn't help matters, of course, but Harry was relentless. He knew Ron would need the distraction, owing to his agitation at not yet successfully locating Anthony. The team spent three solid hours on warm-ups, drills, and strategy, with the Chasers trying out several new formations that Ron and Harry had discussed over the holiday. Hermione had a meeting with Hopkirk that morning, to brew different samples of their potion; her career counseling session was in the late morning.

After the practice, they went inside to shower and change. Harry's career counseling session was an hour after lunch. The shower, the exercise, and the meal were a great help to him as he headed to McGonagall's office, dressed in school robes.

McGonagall was punctual as ever; just as Harry arrived, Parvati Patil was exiting the office. There was a five minute lag time between each appointment; Harry noticed that Parvati looked tired and troubled.

'Hey,' he said. 'What's up?'

Parvati sighed. 'The counseling is...well. I hope you have a better idea of what you want to do with your life than I do, Harry.' She sighed again. 'I just...didn't need to do this today.'

Harry touched her arm sympathetically.

'How's Padma doing?' he asked.

'Horribly,' said Parvati bluntly. 'She keeps blaming herself. If only she'd hadn't been late...you know. I told her, if she'd been on time something could have happened to her, but that only made her feel worse.'

'I'm really sorry, Parvati,' said Harry.

She smiled weakly at him. 'Thanks. McGonagall told me she thinks they're close to finding Anthony but...if they don't...I don't know how Padma's going to handle it.'

Harry bit back the urge to tell her she shouldn't give up hope. It would sound false coming from him, and in any case, even if Ron was getting closer, there was no telling if he'd find Anthony in time to save him.

'You need anything?' Harry asked instead.

'More Quidditch practices,' she said, smirking.

'Sorry, I just thought we needed--'

'I was being serious,' she said. 'You're right. Quidditch is pretty therapeutic. Thanks for working us so hard today. It helped a lot.'

'Any time,' he said, smiling at her.

'Good luck in there,' said Parvati, as Professor McGonagall's door opened.

'I'm ready for you now, Potter,' she said.

''Bye, Parvati,' said Harry. 'Take care.'

'You, too,' said Parvati, and Harry watched her for a moment as she headed down the corridor.

'Potter?'

'Sorry,' said Harry, remembering himself, and where he was. He entered McGonagall's office.

'I know this isn't the best time to be doing this,' said McGonagall, as she gestured for Harry to sit down in the chair opposite her desk. 'Miss Patil is having a difficult time, being there for her sister.'

'Ron's working really hard--' Harry began.

'I know he is,' said McGonagall. 'Too hard, if you ask me. But we're here to talk about you. I've taken the liberty of putting together a packet for you.'

She opened her desk drawer and took out a stack of parchment.

'This packet contains information on the best Auror training schools throughout the United Kingdom,' said McGonagall. 'I assumed you would want to stay in England, of course.'

'Yes,' said Harry.

'Very well,' said McGonagall. 'The brochure at the top lists all the requirements to complete the Auror training program with the Ministry. There are similar requirements for the Auror academies in Scotland, Wales and Northampton. You will, of course, need a minimum grade of "E" on all your N.E.W.Ts to qualify for any of the programs.'

'Right,' said Harry, making another mental note to study more often. Harry opened a second brochure, which was called 'A Day in the Life of an Auror Trainee.'

'Once accepted in whichever program,' McGonagall went on, indicating the brochure, 'you will have six days a week of training in combat, dueling, covert and psychological operations, foreign language, advanced potions, advanced transfiguration, and healing. Every fourth week will be a four day week, to allow for rest and recuperation, as well as monthly progress examinations.'

Harry swallowed. 'That sounds intense.'

'Intense,' said McGonagall, 'is an understatement. Half of all enrolled Auror trainees drop out before they complete their training. Half of those who drop out do so within the first month.'

Harry gulped again, quite audibly.

'A trainee who completes the program also must take a series of examinations,' said McGonagall crisply. 'There what's called the Psychological Battery of Tests, or PBTs. Ten separate tests to determine psychological soundness and judgment; half of these tests are taken in conjunction with the Physical Fitness Tests--PFTs--that mimic combat situations. There are drills in emergency potion making and emergency healing and the like.

'You should note, too, Potter, that the Ministry Auror school now requires each trainee to spend six months at a foreign institution. Madam Bones instituted the program last year, in cooperation with the French, Italian, Spanish and German ministries in the hopes of increasing outreach and inter-agency cooperation. As such, part of your Auror training will include classes in a foreign language.'

'Okay,' said Harry, his heart pounding nervously.

Maybe I should just get a job at Quality Quidditch Supplies.

McGonagall looked at Harry intently. 'Is something wrong, Potter?'

'Er...no,' said Harry. 'I just...well, it's a lot, isn't it? The job requirements.'

'I told you already, you haven't chosen an easy career,' said McGonagall. 'But you know, Potter, there are other things you are qualified to do.'

'Like what?'

'Have you given any thought at all to teaching?'

Harry stared at her. Was she serious? Teaching?

'Are you serious?' he asked.

'Of course I'm serious!' said McGonagall, with a huff. 'Teaching is a noble profession, among the finest--'

'I agree,' said Harry quickly. 'It's just...I never really saw myself as a teacher.'

'I'm surprised,' said McGonagall. 'After leading the D.A. for almost a full year? Bill Weasley tells me you're a natural at teaching, and he's not the only one. And of course, it would be nice to be able to hire a Defense professor who stayed beyond a single year--'

'You think I should be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?' Harry said, amazed. 'But...what about Hopkirk?'

McGonagall pursed her lips. 'She will stay this year and the next, if...all goes well.'

The meaning behind this remained unspoken.

You mean, if I finally beat Voldemort once and for all.

'You would not start teaching right away, of course,' said McGonagall. 'Prospective first-time teachers must do a year's apprenticeship.'

Which would mean working closely with Hopkirk.

Is McGonagall mad? She sounds mad to suggest this. Me, a teacher?

Instead, Harry said, 'I...I'd never thought about it, but...I guess I could mull it over.'

'Good,' said McGonagall, smiling a rare smile. 'And just to give you further information, here are some brochures on teaching.' She pulled a few more brochures from her desk drawer and passed them to him.

'Oh, yes,' said McGonagall, and she handed him a few more brochures. 'I received these from a few scouts. Puddlemere is looking for a Seeker, and Wood just took over as captain for the team. He'd love to have you back as a teammate, I'm sure. Just another option to think about, Potter.'

Harry nodded, feeling a bit overwhelmed, and he took the brochures from McGonagall. The stack of materials was now a good three inches thick.

'Do you have any questions?' she asked.

Harry could do nothing but shake his head. His head was spinning already.

'Very good, then, you can go,' said McGonagall. 'If you do want to apply for the Auror program, you need to make sure your applications are submitted before you take the N.E.W.Ts. Application deadline is the first of May.'

'Thanks,' Harry said weakly. He stood up and started for the door, which McGonagall opened with a wave of her wand; Harry started out when he collided with Ron. The stack of brochures and parchment nearly went flying.

'Ow!' Harry blurted, when Ron stepped on his foot. 'That's my foot!'

'Professor McGonagall!' Ron yelled, ignoring Harry.

'Mr. Weasley, is it beyond your capability to enter a teacher's office quietly?' McGonagall huffed.

Harry, who was shaking out his mashed foot, was about to give Ron a dirty look, but the look in Ron's blue eyes stopped him.

'Please, Professor,' Ron said. 'I...I think I know where Anthony Goldstein is.'

French translations

(Courtesy of WorldLingo; translations may not be exact. Also, 'oui' means 'yes'; I didn't think it needed a footnote)

1. Is it him?

2. He is a mess. We cannot possibly present him to Our Lord in this condition.

3. It's Macnair. He is always exceeding the limits, roughing up the prisoners despite clear instructions--

4. Enough. We will deal with Macnair later. Right now we must cure this one and prepare to give our lord his...services.

A/N: Mwaaa ha ha ha ha! Evil cliffhanger! I know, I'm mean. But I have to find a way to keep you reading, don't I?

A little note: There is, in fact, a company called Clingfoil, Ltd. based in Cheshire, England. Apparently, they sell packing supplies. For the purposes of my story, such a company does not exist. I could not find a way to make it fit into my plot in a satisfactory way, and in any case, I don't fancy the possibility of breaking some obscure British copyright law I don't know about by using the company's name anyway.

Also, 'Wilhelmina' is none other than Professor Grubbly-Plank.

Thanks, as ever, to Buckbeaky, and of course to lina, as well.