Chapter Four: The Secrets We Hide

Wake me up inside

Wake me up inside

Call my name and sing me from the dark

Bid my blood to rise

Before I come undone

Save me from the nothing I've become

Evanescence, "Bring Me To Life"

Canada woodland. Stifling. A person can hardly breathe without feeling the forest pressing in on all sides. Not melancholy; not malevolent, either. Just watchful. Though the scenery is mainly coniferous, there are still flashes of slick yellow aspen leaves between the needles, and trees just beginning to change their hues for the festive autumn. It sounds like a relaxing place to be, doesn't it? But a spectator couldn't enjoy the natural beauty of this forest. No natural animals live here, not one (though Keith thinks there may be a few thestrals. Keith of all people would know).

But there is no typical Canadian birdsong, no arctic wolves howling, not even the shrill hum of insects here.

Silence.

There is too much intelligence in the trees. They're old. Far older than the upstart college constructed on their borders. But they have no malice for the invasion – they are content, for the time being, to wait. And perhaps listen.

Surprisingly enough, today there is something to listen to. Words muffled by the sheer intensity of the trees, but still audible. Voices. They ripple through the forest, disturbing the customary silence with their harshness. A distant argument seems to be in full throttle. It sounds somewhat one-sided.

"If you had a seed of intelligence in your head-"

The trees, sown as thickly as blades of grass, whisper to each other briefly and then subside, returning to their usual somber silence. Light breezes whisper through the grass, stirring up dust-motes from a beaten dirt path, winding over roots and rotting stumps, tainted with the musty shadow of decay. Time has traveled here. So have others, and there are fresh footprints to prove it. Several pairs.

"Look, I just wanted to-"

"Owls, Oyster. Owls!"

Muttering and cackling with glee, the breezes travel deeper into the woodland, following the winding path until every flicker of deciduous leaf has vanished and the only thing in sight for miles is watchful pine. The silence is thick enough to be cut. Except – and the voices begin again –

"The Daily Prophet always exaggerates. You're making too much of this."

The masculine voice seems to be seeping from a glinting pane of glass. Shocked, the breezes sneak closer to investigate. It IS a window – it's set in the wall of an old, tattered shack, seemingly abandoned; it looks like a clubhouse built by boys that now have great-great-grandchildren; as if it would crumble into powder at the slightest touch. Yet a youthful and vigorous battle is definitely raging within.

"I can't believe you could be so stupid."

The words are soft and disgusted, yet they fall like heavy stones into the quiet of the forest. Potent loathing is wrapped into those ten syllables. Fearful, the breezes creep up to the window – the glass is broken in three places - and listen. The trees listen too.

Silence falls again.

The breezes peep over the sill.

This shack is not a clubhouse after all. It's a staffroom.

"I mean, I just can't believe it," Janet moaned again, smacking the table with the Daily Prophet as if to punctuate her disgust. "Even for you, Oyster, this is a new level of idiocy."

Oyster was tempted to make a reference to an incident in their sixth year, when Janet had blown up Snape's spare nickel cauldron and lost Ravenclaw two hundred points, but the steely glint in her eyes made him backpedal hurriedly. "I'm sorry."

"You should be!" the blonde snarled, striking the oak surface again with the article. "What did you expect? That sending off thirty owls at two in the afternoon would win you the Muggle lottery?" She slammed the paper down again, unable to articulate her exasperation, and stared wildly around the staffroom. Looking for something sharp, Oyster guessed.

"I'm sorry."

"If brains were bread, you'd have starved to death before you were born." Smack.

"I'm sorry."

"Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se quam quod ridiculos homines facit," Panda said scathingly from her position in Keith's lap.

"'Poverty, bitter though it be, has no sharper pang than this, that it makes men ridiculous,'" Keith translated obligingly. Oyster turned around in his chair so he could glare at them.

"You know, you were the one who told me to-"

"Silence!" the blonde snarled.

Her victim snapped to attention. "Sorry."

"You- you sniveling, pathetic, useless, brainless imbecile!"

"I'm sorry," Oyster replied, wondering where this was going.

Janet cracked the newspaper across his knuckles. "Thirty-three Muggles were at that pool in Denver," she hissed at him. "Eight at the library in Dublin. Twenty in that four-star Britain restaurant. And I don't even want to think about how many people in New Zealand saw an owl for the first time in their lives. God, they don't even have owls there, Oyster!" Her voice was low and dangerous; she was almost nose to nose with Oyster. "Owls are NIGHT CREATURES!"

Keith toted up the numbers. "That's over sixty Muggles," he said, almost in awe. "That's more than the ones who saw that Ireland Quidditch match, when we accidentally removed the Unplottable wards."

Oyster tried to find something defensive to say, something clever and witty and clipped. "I'm sorry."

His peer unrolled the Daily Prophet. A black-and-white picture of Tom looking very harassed filled one corner, just below the condemning headline:

COLLEGE BLOWS COVER

And below it:

MORE MUGGLE OWL SIGHTINGS SINCE YOU-KNOW-WHO'S FIRST DISAPPEARANCE

"Christ," said Oyster, impressed in spite of himself.

"Si foret in terries, rideret Christ," Panda snapped.

"Or cry," commented Keith, taking the Prophet from his friend and scanning it with wonder. "'Seventy-three Muggles were mindwiped yesterday' jeez, Oyster! That's a record, I bet."

"What do you mean, 'or cry'? What did she say?" the redhead demanded suspiciously, but Janet was talking over him again.

"The Ministry ought to take away our lease, that's generally the acceptable punishment." A frown crossed her face. "In fact, I can't imagine why we haven't had word from them yet. All those Obliviate teams sent out for acceptance letters, no less-"

"I'm sorry."

"Wait," Keith said, sitting upright so abruptly that Panda, curled in his lap, almost lost her balance. "Wait. We've had no word from the Ministry yet? About our mistake, I mean."

"Not a whisper."

"Do you think Dumbledore did something?"

Both of the others stared at Keith, who suddenly looked duly embarrassed. "Why on earth would Dumbledore interfere?"

The Care of Dangerous Magical Creatures professor coughed slightly and looked away. "Well, he intervened before, didn't he? At our trial, I mean. And he does kind of owe us."

"For what?" Janet demanded.

Keith was getting more and more uncomfortable, Oyster could tell. "It's nothing." He sensed their curiosity and waved a hand in the air, an angry dismissal. "Look, just forget it, okay, Janet?"

She sighed in frustration and sat down across the table, propping her elbows on it and massaging her temples. The redhead shot a nervous glance over his shoulder at Keith, whose embarrassment seemed to have faded. Now he looked concerned. Feeling Oyster's gaze upon him, he mouthed, "How many aspirin has she had?"

"Four," Janet snarled without looking up. The redhead snapped to attention as she exhaled, a long, annoyed, exasperated sigh. "What a marvelous start to our school year. Thanks to our Head of the House of the Filthy Minded, we've sufficiently ruined our prospects."

"Stop being melodramatic, Janet," Keith snapped back, finally getting fed up with the prolonged argument. "If I recall correctly, you have spurred certain incidents along these lines."

"Not as catastrophic as this!"

"Nearly," the other replied, and rustled the Daily Prophet dismissively.

But Janet Starlight couldn't ignore such an insolent accusation. Her silver eyes flamed in challenge. "Name one incident."

"Fourth year." Oyster's eyes lit up in recognition. "When you tried to blow up Mrs. Norris. Those... whatchacallims... Filibuster's Fireworks on the extension cord... and you tied them to her tail and strung her up in the girls' bathroom with a sign on the fuse saying 'Light M'-"

"Not that," Keith cut in. "It was in Potions. The one with the Dr. Pepper-"

"Ah," Oyster said appreciatively, beginning to get into the spirit of the thing as more memories came flooding back. "When you mixed up the bottles of Runespoor saliva and-"

"You've made your point," Janet said, irritated, fishing out another aspirin. "But I've never done anything to jeopardize our career like this!"

"Ah," Keith began.

"Ehm..." the redhead remarked.

Janet stood up, crimson with anger. "You can say whatever you like about me," she flashed, incensed by their smirks, "but our students are going to think we're absolutely nuts because of you!"

Oyster raised a timid hand. "Professor?"

"Now what?"

The response "We kind of are" died on his lips at the murderous look in her eyes, and he settled for fixing his gaze on the table. For the first time he realized how old it looked. There was a dark ring where one of them had left a coffee cup too long, and there were four long, jagged furrows in the grained surface. Clawlike. A shiver touched his spine, and he was abruptly swamped with contrition. The last thing they needed at Wet Carpets was an investigation. Keith would go ballistic. So would Dumbledore... though he didn't know why. Dammit, what was going on? "I'm sorry. Really, I am."

She shot him a final glare and stepped out into the woodland.

And, as might be expected, silence fell again. Oyster slumped back in his chair and sighed. He could hear Janet tramping away through the forest, her steps loud and disgruntled. Eventually those too faded.

The trees were deadly quiet. Not even Panda said a word.

"You know," the redhead said eventually, turning in his chair to glare at his peer, "you were the one who told me to send the letters."

"You think I was going to tell her that?" Keith demanded.

Oyster started to laugh.

"Now do you believe me, Hermione?"

The witch blinked sleepy brown eyes at the newspaper shoved under her nose. The words "Daily Prophet" blurred and then solidified.

"It's the morning post, Ron."

"Hermione," the redhead said warningly, taking a seat next to her at the Burrow's dining table.

"Don't worry, Ron, I b'lieve you," she yawned, and pushed her bushy hair out of her face. The motion resolved itself in a luxurious, catlike stretch. "What am I believing?" she added as an afterthought.

"Read it!"

Her posture straightened at the sheer disgust in his voice, though she couldn't suppress a sigh. "Can't this wait until after breakfast? My toast just came up," and she gestured to Mr. Weasley's experimental toaster, which (although it did not run on electricity) had the same annoying tendency as its peers to color all bread placed within a most depressing black. Hermione's piece was no exception, and she eyed it, resigned to the inevitable.

Ron dropped the paper in her lap.

COLLEGE BLOWS COVER

Her brown eyes, still fogged with sleep, suddenly cleared with shock.

"'Wet Carpets, a school still on its knees to the Ministry for loans, proved yesterday that maybe it was not yet ready to stand on its own,'" Hermione read aloud, glancing briefly at the condemning headline. "'Muggles all over the world witnessed the delivery of its ill-timed acceptance letters. Many of its new students were shocked: "Since when has safety been traded for speed?" asked Hannah Abbot, a fresh graduate from Hogwarts. Abbot was not the only one to be critical; witches and wizards all over the country were appalled at the sheer size of the blunder'-"

"They're insane! They're bloody insane!" The redhead seemed almost volcanic in his explosion of rage. "They think they can run a school but they can't even send off letters without making a mess!"

"Oh, Ron," Hermione began placidly, casting one last look at the picture of the American minister before she set the paper aside and began to butter her toast. "It's not that bad."

"How can you be so calm about this?" Ron demanded. "You, Hermione, reading about how our entire civilization was endangered by your own college, and not flipping?"

"It's our college now, Ron, and I recall a certain incident in our second year involving a flying car-"

"Seven Muggles saw us then. Seventy-three saw these owls."

Hermione's knife slipped on the charred toast. "Seventy-three?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's a drastic figure, but-"

"But what? You're as prim as they come, and you're just dismissing this?"

Hermione bit the corner off her toast, allowed herself the leisure of chewing slowly, and swallowed only when the tips of Ron's ears started to turn purple. "I am."

He slammed his fist into the table, and Mrs. Weasley's precious marmalade spilled, globules of yellow jelly spattering the Daily Prophet. "Why are you so damn sure of yourself? Why is going to Wet Carpets such a good idea?"

Chew, chew. Swallow. "This toast tastes as though it has been fossilized. Even with butter. It's amazing how your father can ruin the most simple of appliances-"

"Granger, you are the most annoying woman-"

"But I thought that was me."

Both heads swiveled around. Ginny, standing on the threshold of the Burrow's kitchen, gave them a tiny wave and a smirk. Averting her eyes from the bare legs and baggy Save The Whales T-shirt, Hermione found herself half-amused by the casual dressing – though even in baggy clothes, it was apparent that the sixteen-year-old Weasley, in her bloom of life, had filled out more than she had herself. As vexing as that was, Hermione found it more irksome that Ginny had been listening to their conversation. She set her toast down and glared at it. That was the singular problem with the Burrow – there were no secrets.

Ron seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "How long have you been standing there?" he demanded.

"Long enough." She flashed them another pert smile and went to the fridge. "We're out of eggs, aren't we?"

"I believe so," Hermione commented lightly, though her gaze remained stern as it left the toast to follow the young Weasley around the kitchen. "You're certainly up early."

"Not really." Ginny inspected a banana. "It's almost nine."

Ron shot Hermione a worried look. "Is Harry up?"

"Still sleeping, don't worry." She broke the skin at the top and began peeling it. The silence went on for a few moments before she added, almost offhandedly, "If I was him, I'd be pretty upset that you two always seem to be having secret discussions about me. Shutting up the minute someone enters a room isn't promising either. What, are you planning to kill him or something?"

"No!" Hermione said indignantly.

"Almost," Ron snapped in the same breath, glaring at Hermione.

Ginny looked from one to the other, openly curious. She set the banana down and took a seat across from the duo. "Go on, spill."

"Ron," the older witch began in a placating voice, setting a hand on his arm. He glared at her.

"Hermione, genius that she is, has decided that she will drag Harry and me overseas to Canada for education. Most unfortunately, the college she has selected has teachers that can't even sort their elbows from their a-"

"Wet Carpets," Ginny declared in recognition. She grinned at his startled expression. "This isn't news to me, you know. I read about their trial in the Daily Prophet. Dumbledore was there – stands to reason he would have recommended you three, doesn't it? After all, Harry single-handedly defeated Voldemort – oh, stop jumping about, Ronald – and you two are basically his foundation, right? The Daily Prophet said something about recommendations-"

"The Daily Prophet says a hell of a lot more than it should," Hermione snarled, and thrust that morning's issue at Ginny. She glanced at it, wiped a spot of marmalade from the headline, and inhaled sharply.

"My God. How many Muggles-?"

"Seventy-three," Ron cut in, with an angry look at his friend.

Ginny scanned the rest of the article, then shook her head in dismay and set it aside. "I hope Dumbledore knows what he's doing, sending you there."

Ron looked from a very red-faced Hermione to his sister in obvious bewilderment. "Wait. Wait a minute. What does Dumbledore have to do with this? No, no, Ginny, you've got it wrong, it was Hermione's idea-" Both Weasleys glanced at her questioningly.

Brown eyes flashed a warning. Ginny got the message.

"Oh, right. Sorry, my mistake. But obviously he approves of the college, or else he wouldn't have recommended the three of you-"

Hermione shook her head violently. Ron was starting to get irritated as he looked from one girl to the other. "No, I applied for the full scholarship. He didn't recommend me-"

"The full scholarship? Wasn't that given to Hermione?"

"No, we received a letter saying he got it," the older witch declared firmly, staring at the other girl in desperation.

"I thought-"

"How do you know about that?" Ron demanded.

"Did I say I knew about that?"

"Didn't you?"

"You told me!"

"I did?"

"For God's sake, Ron," Hermione snapped, reaching for her orange juice with shaky hands, "try not to act like an imbecile when we get to Canada."

"I don't like this business of you keeping secrets-"

"Ron-" She sounded truly agitated now, and her hands were trembling badly.

"Why can't you tell me?"

"Because I can't!" Her hold on the glass slipped; it plummeted from her fingers and shattered on the floor. Hermione blindly put a hand to her mouth. There was a deadly silence.

Ron stared at her, and then at the shards. Feeling his gaze upon her, the brunette closed her eyes, willing back tears. "Sorry," she muttered, and sniffled. "I'll clear it up."

"No, we'll do it," Ginny cut in, sounding anxious. "You should probably go back to sleep, Hermione. You're right, it is early. For summer, anyway." Nodding wearily, the other got to her feet. "Ron? I can't do magic out of school; would you be so kind?"

"Only if you explain all this business about Dumbledore first," he retorted, obstinate as always, and crossed his arms.

"Who said anything about Dumbledore?" his sister responded airily, sounding almost cocky, though her worried eyes were following Hermione as she left the room. Ron watched the departure too.

"What's wrong with her?" he demanded in an undertone.

"She has a lot to deal with right now."

"Such as?"

"You."

"I changed my mind," Ron growled, drawing his wand out of his bathrobe pocket. "You're still more annoying than Hermione."

"Charmed. Now clean that up before Mum gets down here."

The redhead said four syllables under his breath and the orange juice vanished, taking all trace of broken glass with it. "Is anyone going to explain anything to me?"

"No," Ginny replied cheerfully, "because it's none of your business." Turning away from her brother, she tried to sound lighthearted, though the expressive eyes were darkened with concern for Hermione. And the secrets they were both being forced to carry.

"You okay, sis?"

"I'm fine," she answered, but her voice lacked conviction. "Now, what did I do with that banana?"

Minerva had woken to the sound of talons against glass, an eerie scraping that made her flinch and shiver under her downy quilt. One bleary eye opened. Uncanny sunlight filled her Hogwarts quarters, sunlight obstructed by a winged shape at the window. Chagrined, she managed to open both eyes. What the bloody hell was that?

An owl. Definitely an owl.

She dug bony knuckles into her eyes, shuddering with the effort of containing a yawn. Was it the morning post? How long had she been asleep? Over the summer, the Daily Prophet didn't arrive until about nine! She winced. She was an old woman; she usually got up around seven. To have been caught sleeping so late was almost an embarrassment. Though it would explain why her room was so bright...

Somewhere she found the strength to push the covers back and stand. Curling her bare toes on her bedside Oriental rug, she yawned again and fumbled for her rectangular spectacles. Another stern rap was heard from the window.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." She crossed to the latch, muttering to herself. Delivery owls were getting more cocky all the time. Her bony fingers strained against the pane, pushing it up; the metal fastenings gave a frightful squeal and began to slide. "It won't kill you to wait a few seconds, you know. The entire universe does not revolve around one person..."

I can't believe this. I'm talking to owls like they're students. God, I'm overtired.

"Five Knuts for the Daily Prophet, I believe." Leaving the window open, she turned back to her dresser and opened a drawer, picking out several bronze coins from her collection of gadgets. As a teacher whose duties sometimes involved confiscation, she had assembled quite an intriguing variety of items over the years, among which could be found multiple dead goldfish, a neon-pink Play-Doh Balrog, a Windex bottle filled with Filch's Anti-Explosive Window Wiper (Highly Toxic), and, of course, a collection of loose change. She was so intent on her quest that she failed to notice that more than one bird had entered her room; she discovered this only when she turned and found not one but three owls on her bed. At least, two of them were owls. The third...

It had fiery plumage and intellectual features, reminding Minerva strongly of Fawkes. A phoenix? Accepting its letter, she recognized Dumbledore's handwriting. This was Fawkes, then. Why was the headmaster sending a letter to her when he might have come in person?

She ripped it open and read the curly script in mounting bewilderment.

Dear Minerva,

Business to take care of. I would say more but you've doubtless seen the Daily Prophet already – suffice it to say that I've been at the American Ministry for the past two hours, trying to convince Tom not to withdraw the Wet Carpets lease. He is v. suspicious of us. I wish I could explain everything to him, but after this morning's article, I think it's best if we all keep our mouths shut and just hope for the best. The Ministry doesn't need another mess to clean up.

I've left instructions for all of my messages to go to you. You should receive one from Keith about our arrangement. V. important. Please cross your fingers... Granger has been doing extraordinary work but things seem to be at a very unsteady stage. I won't be easy until term has started.

I'll be back sometime this evening.

Yours in all sincerity,

Albus

Minerva set the letter aside, doubly confused. The Daily Prophet article... what Daily Prophet article? She glanced at the five Knuts she still held, and then back at the bed. One of the two owls was holding a rolled-up newspaper.

Setting his due payment in the pouch, she snatched at the paper and unrolled it.

COLLEGE BLOWS COVER

"Oh, no," she whispered. "Oh, Albus."

It seemed that one of the college Heads had sent out their acceptance letters in daylight, causing the owls to be revealed to no less than seventy-three Muggles. Minerva winced. No wonder the headmaster was in such distress. He had been antsy enough after Voldemort's death, worrying about Harry until he was an inch from madness. Minerva had been his only confidante... she knew exactly what his fears were and what danger that Potter boy was really in.

When Oyster had asked for recommendations, Dumbledore had been able to figure out a way to use Wet Carpets for their advantage; only Keith and Hermione knew of his plan, though Ginny (bright girl that she was, Minerva mused) probably suspected. But if they were making mistakes this early...

Miss Granger would have to be even more careful, that was all.

If Albus was right, then it was crucial – crucial – that nobody else discovered what they were up to. Wet Carpets was small, and few people knew about it, so their suspicions would be allayed; but after today...

Minerva reached for the last owl's letter and slit it open.

Dear Albus and Minerva,

Potter, Granger, and Weasley have been accepted. Granger gave her full scholarship to Weasley thanks to her smarts and a stroke of serendipity; Oyster came up with the idea. Without any of my prodding, too. But I believe he and Janet know there's something afoot.

Anyway, it was a close call, but your three are enrolled. Don't worry. Everything's still going fairly smooth, despite what the Daily Prophet says. It's a bad piece of publicity that might hinder us later, but for now, your plan has taken root. Granger's done extraordinary work.

Dumbledore, I said it at the trial and I'll say it again; you're far too worried about this. Your students are in no danger, whether from outside or within. The worst is over.

-Keith

Minerva reread it in disgust. So Keith thought Albus was overreacting, did he? Well, he was entitled; she had thought that too, at first. But she also knew, from experience, that if Dumbledore thought something was wrong - he was generally right. A scowl crossed her face. What was wrong with Keith? Didn't he know that Dumbledore was the sagest wizard alive? Whereas he, a young, cocky Care of Dangerous Magical Creatures Professor, was nothing but a young upstart with no insight whatsoever.

He was in want of a smart bottom, she reflected grimly. Dumbledore's warnings should be heeded at all cost. More importantly, Wet Carpets needed to learn what evil was, and guard against it.

If Dumbledore's theory was correct, they might even have to guard against one of their own students.

Minerva yawned again and glanced back, yearningly, towards her empty bed. It would be so nice to go back to sleep, without having to worry about a college or her students or Dumbledore... Or maybe just send Keith a Howler, that would be fun too. Sighing, she rubbed her angular chin, and then stretched. A few vertebrae made a clicking sound. She pressed her hands to her lower back and bent as far as she could. The release was like a direct infusion of Waking Potion, though not enough to dispel all of her sleepiness. If only they had Starbucks at Hogwarts. Maybe Snape could arrange something. Now, that would be an interesting conversation...

She straightened and went to her mirror. Alert hawk eyes peered back at her, sparkling with ripe anticipation of a challenge. Grinning wickedly, she reached for one of her robes. Too bad term hadn't started; she was suddenly in the perfect mood to go patrolling the hallways, turn on Ice Mode, and give detention to eight different people. Suddenly the Howler/Keith idea was more appealing than ever.

Who says gray hair makes someone decrepit?

I had to go back and rewrite three chapters to make this one work. Ethan, see my dedication and weep. Even if it did take me over a month to update.

I thought I knew where the plot was going, but I guess not.

Oh, yes: Panda's comment, "si foret in terries, rideret Christ" means, roughly, "If he a witness to this, Christ would laugh."

Sigh...

My story seems to be weaving all over the place...

Ah well. I now have a rough idea of where this is going, and while I may have to go back and rewrite everything again, I have every confidence in my muse.

Till the next update.

-T