Chapter 11
On Sunday morning, Severus Snape was sitting at his desk, failing to write. He had parchment spread before him, ink bottle securely resting in a depression made for it at the top of the writing surface, and a freshly-sharpened quill in hand. He had no shortage of topics he needed to write about. If he wasn't in the mood for class outlines, he could list items he still needed to replenish in the stores of the potions laboratory. He had made some progress on two different research efforts, and he knew he needed to turn his hastily-scribbled notes into formal papers while his work was still fresh in his mind. He needed to write, he was equipped for writing, and he was sitting in the proper place at which writing should be performed. He had been there for nearly an hour. He hadn't made a single mark on his parchment. He gently laid down his quill, and flipped the hinged top of his ink bottle closed. It was useless to try to concentrate on anything but the events of the previous morning, and he could commit none of those to parchment.
He could still almost feel the pressure that had coerced his limbs into involuntary movement as he hung mid-air in the Weasleys' warehouse. Over and over, he saw the almost infantile movements with which Harry Potter had called forth such overwhelming magical power. There was a tremendous appeal to that kind of power, Snape thought, but at this stage of his development, Harry lacked the maturity that would give his power personality and character. At this stage, Potter was like a very pretty child - all unrealized potential. And in the same way as Snape felt contempt for any teacher who would seduce an immature student, he realized that Potter was not yet ready to be put to use. The boy needed much more development before his potential could be realized. Unfortunately, some difficult challenges would arise long before Mister Potter had a chance to mature. The boy would have to rely on his adult allies then. Snape could only hope that when Harry's power did develop, he would remember those allies, and be merciful.
He looked up from his desk just as Harry appeared in the doorway. In any other circumstance, the coincidence of looking up at the very moment of a guest's arrival would be so trivial as to go unnoticed. With Potter, however, nothing could be dismissed, no matter how trivial it may seem. Had Harry somehow sent a silent signal ahead of himself? He had certainly made remarkably little noise approaching the potions class along the dungeon corridor. Harry smiled when he saw Severus looking his way, and Snape tried to read as much from that expression as possible. The boy did not seem to be smirking, nor sneering, nor did his expression seem to be evidence of Harry laughing at anyone else. He was smiling. A simple show of cheerfulness. Which, given the amount of alcohol he had ingested yesterday, was remarkable in and of itself. "Mister Potter. You have decided to rejoin the rest of the... wider world?"
To Severus' astonishment, the boy actually seemed to get the reference to Remus' toast of the previous day. His smile grew wider, but his only reply was, "Yes, Sir. I have another book report, if you would care to hear it."
Snape ignored the offer for the moment. "And you are feeling well?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You don't have a hangover?"
"No," Harry said wistfully, almost as though he missed the searing headache and debilitating nausea that frequently followed consumption of too much alcohol.
"How?" The single word was delivered with all of the authority the potions professor could muster. Mere months ago, it would have sent this boy into a frenzy of effort; a scramble to find an answer. Now, Harry simply stood there thoughtfully, trying to decide how best to explain himself.
"Sir... do you understand anaerobic glycolysis?"
Snape scowled thunderously. "What?"
Harry had the grace to look a little abashed. "It's a muggle term. It refers to biological processing of sugars without oxygen."
Severus' glare became even more threatening. "What are you on about, boy?"
"I'm simply trying to explain how I felt this morning. Anaerobic glycolysis is a term I read when I was still in muggle school. The article I read it in had a simple sort of explanation about what it meant, and why it's important. I don't understand how the process works, but that doesn't matter... that was really the author's whole point. Few people except experts who study those things actually understand how anaerobic glycolysis works... but everyone does it every time they eat food. You couldn't survive unless your body knew - somehow - how to digest what you eat. But you don't have any clue about it in your mind. It's just your body, working the way it should."
"Yes...?" Snape drawled menacingly, clearly running out of patience.
"This morning I woke up, really far too early to be awake. The sun hadn't risen yet, but I could feel that there was something inside of me... poisons... that would make me sick if I slept on and left them alone. So I decided to eliminate them. And I did. Or... my body did. All I did was sort of... uh... wish they were gone. And then I went back to sleep. And I woke up really refreshed."
"You wished away the poisonous by-products of alcohol abuse?" Snape asked disbelievingly. "Without a spell... I am guessing you did this without your wand... and without understanding what it was you were trying to affect, or how to get rid of them?"
"Yes, Sir," Harry replied seriously, without sarcasm or irony at all. "And it worked as automatically as digesting my food. I don't understand it, but it worked perfectly nonetheless."
"It is too bad that you did not develop a teachable spell from your experience. That would be a very valuable charm to know."
Harry shrugged. "I wish I could. But it was..."
"Automatic, yes. I understood that part of your explanation, at least."
"I'm sorry, Sir," Harry replied with apparent sincerity. "But I would like to discuss some of the things I have learned."
Snape was intrigued by this new attitude of Potter's. 'Discuss,' not simply 'report and be done with it.' It was yet another positive sign that this boy might yet become a capable leader, or at least a tolerable human being. If there were only time to nurture him properly... But there wasn't, so the boy would have to be pushed as well as led. "What did you want to speak of?"
"I could talk about 'Your Personal Hair Story,' but I'd rather talk about a book that isn't quite finished yet." He waited for Snape to raise an eyebrow to indicate interest before he continued. "I'd like to report on 'The Theory of Magic... by Harry James Potter.'" He stood there smiling with pride, and Snape was impressed once more with the sheer audacity of the boy.
"You told me only a few days ago that you had no concept of magical theory."
"That was before I saw some things first hand. May I tell you the main concepts on which my book is to be based?"
"Please," Snape drawled with exaggerated politeness. "Do go on."
Harry drew himself up and took a deep breath while concentrating on his opening statement. He looked as though he were about to make a speech to a huge crowd. "First of all, magic is not separate from the physical world. It is like a membrane, stretchy and elastic, that goes both beneath and through everything. That is, it underlies all of the physical phenomena that we can see, and it is included within things and events as well. Most of the time, in most of the world... the universe, I'd guess, but... pardon me." Harry blushed and cleared his throat, embarrassed at having drifted off into contemplation in the midst of his report. "In most of the world... uh... most of the time, magic is steady. It doesn't do much. Until it is disturbed by a wizard or witch. When a wizard casts a spell, the fabric of the magic stretches and causes its effects to manifest. There are natural distortions of magic. And those naturally occurring distortions may have led to the birth of the first magic-using people. They certainly led to the rise of magical creatures."
"And how did you come to that... unusual... conclusion?"
"By observing house elves," Harry responded brightly. "Once I was back in Gryffindor Tower, I could see how Remus had called them, and I ordered some food and something to drink. Well, you know that house elves are very individual. They're people, they have different personalities, different... well, they're different from one another. And when they did different magical things, like apparating or levitating trays, the magic around them was different every time. But there was one particular twist... sort of a magical signature... that - for every elf - was the same."
"So from watching some house elves, you have postulated the entire structure of the laws which regulate an entire world of magical creatures?"
"I observed centaurs as well," Harry said with a shrug. In response to Snape's skeptical look, he said, "The Tower has windows, you know. And a simple telescopy spell... well, it wasn't really very simple, because I needed to be able to see in the dark, through trees, but..."
Snape held up a hand to call for a break. "Peace - for a moment, at least. I suppose you are going to tell me that you observed centaurs, and some other magical creatures, from your tower window, and that each species exhibited something of this... species uniformity... in their magical signature. Is that, essentially, your hypothesis?"
Harry hung his head, once again flushing in embarrassment. "I guess you know all about that," he said, chastened.
"Not at all. In fact, I would be tempted to dismiss your entire description as utter rubbish and the ravings of a drunken lunatic, save for the fact that I have heard one other person describe magic in almost exactly this same way. That person was Albus Dumbledore. Which leads me to remind you." Here, Snape gave Harry a particularly penetrating look. "The Headmaster might be quite interested in what you are saying here today."
"He won't be listening," Harry replied instantly. "He doesn't want to know."
"What on Earth," Snape thundered, his eyes wide and his mouth curled into a fierce snarl, "gives you the arrogant presumption to believe that you can know the mind of the Headmaster, young man?"
"I saw it," Harry replied, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Last night. Kind of late. I followed the magic directly to Professor Dumbledore, and... I saw it. He won't be listening to us today. And I know why. In fact, I know why he has done a lot of things... in regard to me, anyway." Harry looked as though he were about to cry. His face held a curious mixture of anger, hurt, and something else... resignation, perhaps? Snape studied the boy's face as it telegraphed his churning emotions. When Harry finally made his concluding statement, he had overcome his impulse to weep. His chin was thrust forward and his mouth was set. "Dumbledore wants me to win."
Snape's laughter was bitter. "To defeat his greatest enemy? Yes, I would say that he wants you to win."
Harry's defiant expression didn't change in the face of Snape's mocking laugh. "No, that's not it. How can I... Professor, I finally understood, just last night, really understood what you meant when you said that Voldemort was a weak enemy. Before last night, I thought I understood some of what you tried to explain to me... I understood it intellectually, logically, at least. But last night, I saw what you meant. Dumbledore has a kind of magic that's different from just casting spells. In front of the students he uses his wand and casts regular spells because he's a teacher, and he wants his students to be able to learn from him, so he does things they can understand. But he... himself... he has a magic within him that directly touches the fabric - the membrane - of magic that runs through the entire world. He is 'in touch' with magic more literally than I could have ever imagined. Because he uses magic directly, viscerally, the way..." Harry swallowed heavily. "The way I have been learning to do. Voldemort thinks he has that kind of magic. He thinks he's Dumbledore's equal in that respect. And when I feel the connection between us through..." Harry ran his fingers lightly over his forehead. "When I feel him through my scar, I can feel his frustration. Not just anger or hate or destructiveness - that's all his own, separate kind of sickness, and it poisons his entire life. But he's frustrated because... because he's not like Dumbledore. Or me. And last night, as I saw the magic that was in everything around me, I followed it all the way back to Dumbledore himself. And I saw..." Harry stopped and closed his eyes hard, then forced himself to open them again and continue. He was sweating, although the dungeon was very cool, almost cold. "I saw a lot of things."
"And you seem insistent upon telling me about them, so please - continue at your whim. I don't imagine I would be able to do anything to stop you, even if I were determined to do so."
Harry looked hurt and sad. He began to speak several times, only to stop before he had made a sound. Finally, he faced Snape's glare directly and very quietly said, "I am very sorry about what I did yesterday morning. I can offer no excuses, but I can give you a reason. The alcohol allowed me to feel uninhibited. And since I wanted my friends - of which you are a great and valued one - to play and have fun with me, I did... what I did... thinking I was doing it - with - you. I realize now that I was doing those things - to - you, instead. I was wrong, and I apologize." He met Snape's eyes for a long moment, waiting for any word from the man. None was forthcoming. "I hope you will accept my apology. Not to forgive me. But to acknowledge that I realize that what I did was wrong, and that I am very, very sorry for it."
Snape thought a long while before saying anything. During that time, Harry did not quail, did not turn away, did not try to escape. He stood, letting Snape study him. He waited for his answer with surprising equanimity for a boy of his age. After quite some time, Snape slowly nodded. "I am impressed. Your apology was very well composed. I do not forgive you. But I will acknowledge what you have said, and hope that your expressed feelings hold true in the future. And, I am pleased, if somewhat surprised, to be considered one of your great and valued friends. Apology accepted, Mister Potter. Now, if you will tell me what it is that you believe Albus Dumbledore expects you to achieve on his behalf?"
Harry didn't quite know what to do. He really wanted to tell Professor Snape how much he appreciated the help and guidance the professor had so freely given. Instead, he returned to his former point. "It's not so much what I'll do, as what I will be able to relieve the Headmaster of having to continue doing. Magic like he has... and I have, I guess, though I have a long way to go to get his kind of control..." Harry seemed lost in thought for a moment, then shook himself out of his reverie to continue. "Anyway, that kind of magic - that being in touch with the basic, essential fabric of magic - it never lets you quit. Dumbledore can't... ever... stop being what he is, no matter how tired he might get, or how much he wants to relax or take a vacation." Harry knew his explanation was floundering, and he searched for an example that could make his ramblings more concrete. "You, Sir, if you wanted to, you could put your wand down and never cast another spell as long as you lived. It would be an inconvenience, and I don't imagine that you would want to do something like that, but... you could. Dumbledore can't. He can't not do magic any more than either of us could decide not to breathe." Harry's face brightened and he started speaking faster, very excited by his newfound comparison. "It's just like that. Just like breathing. If you held your breath, it would start to hurt. Maybe you could learn to discipline yourself enough to ignore that. But if you held your breath long enough, you'd pass out. And then you'd start breathing again, automatically, as soon as you lost consciousness. It's like that with the Headmaster. He can't stop being what he is. But, if I defeat Voldemort... and maybe, go a little farther... get involved with politics or something like that... then I could be what he is. And then, he'd have a way to stop being him. Quit being the leader of the forces of good, or whatever you want to call it. It's all bound up with his magic. He can't help it. And he can't stop. And I think he really, really wants to. So if I win..." Harry trailed off with a shrug.
Snape had heard enough vague generalizations from adolescents to be able to ignore most boys' rantings about their elders. But this one, while still somewhat short-sighted, innocent and absolute in its expressed values, seemed frighteningly plausible. Harry as Dumbledore's replacement? It would make sense... except for Albus' own brutal description of his plans to use Potter... and Longbottom, if it came to that. Could Dumbledore be suffering from a kind of split personality? Hardly. As woolly as the old man liked to present himself, Snape had never known anyone as sane as was Albus. Or was he? Snape thought about the ridiculous hunt for the Malfoys, and several other recent lapses in judgement from the Headmaster - not the least of which was hiring Aaron Sepal, despite knowing the man was an active Death Eater. Not to mention losing Pomona Sprout in the first place. There was much to ponder in this situation. "Mister Potter," Snape said in a crisp, businesslike tone. "I will consider this report more fully at my leisure. I may make the writing of the actual book an assignment some time in the future. For now, however, could you please tell me what you have learned about the role of hair in communicating one's status in wizard society?"
--- --- ---
Monday was, as Professor Sprout had promised, a light, easy day, over by lunch time. Harry had asked whether the professor had found a new job yet, and she had smiled in a way that seemed to say she could not believe her own good fortune. She brushed off the question with a vague, 'several people have expressed interest,' and Harry knew better than to push her for any more information. When she left the campus at the end of their half-day's work together, Harry watched her walk away once more and thought that he saw a lightness in her step that had been missing the previous week. He hoped she would do well. He had grown to like Professor Sprout in these past couple of weeks, and her decision to leave Hogwarts was a constant reminder of the deep divisions that separated those people he had thought to be close allies.
Harry enjoyed the lazy afternoon that followed lunch, and the long summer evening after that. He stayed in his room, reading, gazing out the window and daydreaming. He thought he had better be sure to enjoy this relaxing day while he had the chance, since he had no idea what the new professor would be requiring of him tomorrow and thereafter.
On Tuesday morning, Harry met Professor Sprout as she was arriving for work. She was cheerful, with a definite bounce to her step, and a broad smile for him as she found him waiting for her. "Early today, Mister Potter?"
"Wouldn't miss a minute of it, Professor," Harry grinned back at her. "I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate the..."
"Tut!" Professor Sprout interrupted, shaking a warning finger at him. "I'll have none of that just now. It will be hard enough to leave these grounds as nearly empty as they are without you reminding me of how much I will miss the students as the years go by. Quickly now. Let's make sure everything is right where it should be. I won't be found slacking when it's time to turn my Department over to someone else. Go on, you check the tools, I'll inspect these rows of pots."
And so they began their last day of work together.
Within their first hour, visitors arrived. Albus Dumbledore led Aaron Sepal into the greenhouse. As the door opened, Dumbledore's voice could be heard wheezingly going on about the problems of staffing Hogwarts' many teaching posts. "... not like Defense Against the Dark Arts, of course. That one has required a new teacher for every term since... Ah. Here we are. Professor Sprout. You remember Mister Sepal."
Harry was shocked at the extremity of the chill conveyed by Professor Sprout's, "Yes."
Sepal's, "Professor," was absolutely neutral. Harry could understand that the new employee would not want to be seen as a troublemaker, and so would hold back from replying to Professor Sprout's greeting in kind, but it was still very clear to him that both parties had already decided they did not care for each other in the least. Dumbledore indicated Harry himself next.
"This is our summer help in Herbology. A student entering sixth year next term who has taken on the challenge of being sole assistant to... well, to you, now, Mister Sepal. Until next term begins, of course. Then, I daresay, you'll have no help at all. Which will leave you with quite a lot to do and too few hands with which to do it. But perhaps I should allow Professor Sprout to explain that... and... ah... all about the Department that she has run so competently. Professor, would you be so kind as to..."
But Aaron was not paying any more attention to Dumbledore's rambling narrative. He was looking at Harry as though the boy should be familiar, like a neighbor who had moved away, or an acquaintance he had not spoken with in a long while. "If you are going to be my summer help, I guess I should know what to call you. 'Hey, you' gets very old after a while, don't you agree?"
Harry was about to introduce... or, more properly, re-introduce... himself when Professor Sprout interrupted before he could speak. "I beg your pardon, Mister Sepal, but are you saying you don't remember Harry Potter?"
The surprise on Sepal's face seemed genuine. With an apparently delighted smile, he held out his hand toward Harry. "I certainly didn't expect this! Harry Potter. It's very good to meet you, son. I'm honored." Baffled, Harry took the proffered hand and shook it wordlessly.
Professor Sprout was not about to let the mystery drop, however. "Mister Sepal, how can you not recall your last meeting with Harry Potter? It was mere days ago, on your last visit to Hogwarts."
"Pardon me, Professor," Sepal replied with exaggerated dignity. "I must have missed the opportunity to be introduced. I am very pleased to meet my summer help - and to meet the Boy Who Lived - and especially happy to learn that they are one and the same. I make it a point to be familiar with my staff, no matter where I am working or what projects we may be working on. And I would certainly remember being introduced to Harry Potter, thank you." For a moment, as Sepal looked down his nose at Professor Sprout, he reminded Harry very strongly of Snape. Harry wondered wether that particular superior look was something that Death Eaters were required to learn.
Professor Sprout looked as though she were about to snap back at Sepal, but instead turned to face the Headmaster. Red-faced and clearly furious she loudly demanded, "Albus Dumbledore, did you obliviate him?"
Harry noticed several curious things at once. Dumbledore looked at Professor Sprout as though she were a child who had said a naughty word. The Herbology Professor put her hand into the apron pocket in which she carried her wand. Aaron Sepal's eyes went blank, and he appeared to be concentrating very intently. Though the new Herbologist was standing absolutely motionless, there was an impression of speed about the man that made Harry wonder if Sepal were casting some sort of spell. Using the technique he had worked on over the past three days, Harry squinted slightly and allowed his eyes to go out of focus. He concentrated on his memories of the magical membrane that he should be able to perceive at will. There were too many distractions for him to perform the feat completely. Relaxation and quiet were the best conditions in which to to it. But he could see something, and it did not seem as though Sepal were doing any magic at all. With a shrug, Harry returned his focus to the material things around him, and found Dumbledore looking back at him thoughtfully.
Almost immediately thereafter, Aaron Sepal's eyes regained focus as well. Suspiciously, he turned them back toward the Headmaster. "You did, didn't you?" he asked quietly. "There are... Merlin's Ghost! There are nearly four hours that I can't account for. What happened then, Headmaster Dumbledore? What did I do... what did you do to me during all of that time?"
"Nothing that you should be worried about," Dumbledore said with a vague wave of one hand. "You were, after all, under the supervision of the school's mediwitch the entire time. The obliviation was done to block the memory of the pain you were in. And, since it was done under medical supervision, and for anaesthetic purposes, you should be able to recover all of your memories by utilizing the techniques in which you have been trained."
"Mediwitch," Sepal spat. "How was I injured?"
"As you will eventually recall," Dumbledore said calmly, "you suggested that young Mister Potter was drunk. In fact, he had been working so hard for so many hours that he was actually quite exhausted. Understandably, he took exception to your accusation. The two of you duelled. Though I must say it was not much of a duel. You never laid a curse on him. And he took you down as though you were a tender novice. You were nearly killed, Mister Sepal. You were suffering greatly. The records you will want to check are all in our medical office. Madame Pomfrey will assist you in recovering the salient documentation."
"And during this four hour period of which my memories have been obliviated? Did we do anything? Did we talk? Or was it all emergency surgery?" Sepal was doing his best to appear angry, but Harry could see how nervous the man was. He was worried and frightened, and using his outrage to try to mask that. With Dumbledore's next comment, the mask slipped away, leaving Sepal staring in shock.
"Mostly," Dumbledore murmured dreamily, "We talked about your employment in the service of Lord Voldemort."
It took him a while, but Aaron Sepal rallied, gained control of his voice, and snarled, "That's a lie!"
Albus looked tired and sad as he said, "No, Aaron, it is not. After all, it is not your training as an herbologist that will help you recover your... temporarily... missing memories, but your training as a Death Eater. And don't worry about having revealed any confidences. You could not tell me anything I did not already know. Old Tom Riddle and I have been going at this for far too long for a pup such as yourself to give me any real revelations about the so-called Dark Lord. In fact, it was while we were talking about your service to his organization that I formally offered you the position of Herbology Professor. You got the job while discussing your life as a Death Eater."
"That makes no sense!" Sepal protested. "You wouldn't... you couldn't hire a known Death Eater to teach at this school!"
"And yet, I know about your service in that very organization. I know about your loyalties, and your politics. And surprise - you still have the job."
Sepal stood staring silently in shock. Professor Sprout would not remain silent any longer. "Congratulations, Albus, you have finally lost your mind. I had thought that today - when he actually showed up here and you could see, right in front of your face, what you were doing - you would reverse your ridiculous decision and fire him before he started. Instead, you admit to knowing everything - and you still welcome him to the school, to the staff, and to the student body. You are mad at the very least, Albus, and I fear you may be worse than that. Good luck to your students next term. And goodbye to you." She stalked out of the door, the Headmaster gazing wistfully after her.
Sepal, meanwhile, had been concentrating again. as Pomona Sprout walked out of view, he returned from his mental exercise and confronted the Headmaster once again. "I may be able to remember more in future," he said disgustedly. "But for now, I think I am going to have to take your word about what happened between my assistant and myself. Clearly, you cannot expect me to work with such a dangerous individual, in close quarters, where he will have countless opportunities to do me further harm every day."
"And yet, Aaron," Dumbledore replied with equanimity, "I do expect you to do that very thing."
"No," Sepal stated flatly. "You need me, Headmaster. You know I'm the best choice for the job. And your former Professor just stalked out of here calling you insane. If you think about it logically for a moment, you will realize that it is not unreasonable to refuse to work with someone who would start a duel over a comment, even if it were particularly insulting, which I refuse to believe it could possibly have been."
Before Dumbledore could reply, Harry said, "I am staying in Gryffindor Tower. That is all I ever asked for. Remus and Professor Snape can provide security, as they have been doing."
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Revolt, eh? Well, Professor, I must say that you will have a difficult time of it, with no one to show you around."
Harry heard the term 'Professor,' and his heart sank. He had held on to the belief that Dumbledore would somehow change his mind and send this Death Eater away from the school - or even kill him outright. Instead, the Headmaster had addressed the man by the title that confirmed Sepal as a member of the staff.
Sepal put on his superior air once more. "I am an Herbologist, Headmaster. I can find my way around a greenhouse."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at that, but made no comment. He turned to Harry. "As for you, my boy..."
Harry met Dumbledore's eyes evenly. "He's right, Sir. He works for Voldemort. I hate what he stands for. If we were left alone together, I would kill him."
"Ah. Well. We can't have that," Dumbledore said with resignation. "Very well. Harry, you are relieved of your duties as Herbology assistant for the rest of the summer. Please try not to kill any of the staff. I believe Professor Snape has some material he wished you to study before next term. Ask him about it, please. You are excused."
With a curt nod to the Headmaster, and no acknowledgement of Sepal at all, Harry turned and strode to the greenhouse exit. As he left the building, he heard Dumbledore begin to explain something to Sepal. 'Now, Aaron, what we will be doing...' Harry let the door shut behind him and began the long climb to the castle. He wondered if he really would have killed the Death Eater now working in the Herbology Department. It was a consideration he would have to take seriously from now on. If any of his plans were to bear fruit, he would very likely have to kill more than one person.
--- --- ---
Carrying his broom on his shoulder, walking toward the Club course for Public Day, Draco should have been happy. Since he walked with his mother at his side and his pockets methodically stripped of any money at all, he was less so. Narcissa strode along the French streets in a plain black dress and minimal makeup. She kept her eyes fixed on where she was walking, but Draco could tell she was quite aware of every stare that followed her, and every comment that was made about her. But as much as those things may have stoked her ego, this walk was not about Narcissa's vanity. Draco's mother accompanied him to make sure he did not escape to England again.
After his last escapade, when Snape casually betrayed his whereabouts to his mother, Draco had been confined to the house. He had hated it. There was nothing to do alone at home. His mother had suggested that he read. She seemed to enjoy making the suggestion, as though she knew that being confined to his room with books would drive him insane. First of all, he hadn't travelled all the way to France to spend his time locked up in a box pretending there wasn't a whole new country to be explored right outside his door. And second of all, he had already been feeling the lack of acceptable society even before the fateful journey which had resulted in this intolerable confinement to his quarters. He hungered for a battle of wits, longed for sophisticated conversation, yearned for news regarding that class of people he could actually care about. After a few days in his tiny French home, he was beset with claustrophobia. He wanted out! Even walking around the streets would be preferable to leaning back against a stack of pillows with a book on his belly. Read. Ugh. But Public Day offered a chance for Draco to get out and do something. It would also give Narcissa a chance to size up the Public Day participants - especially the girl Draco had, allegedly, spent some time in conversation with: Artemis Themyscria. And even though Narcissa couldn't keep her eye on the boy all day long - the course was too long and rambling for that - she could make sure he checked in with her from time to time to prevent him from doing something stupid like leaving the country again. The pair arrived at the course, Draco kicked off and waved goodbye, flying some lazy circles to get warmed up, and Narcissa walked to the grandstands to join the other spectators.
As soon as Draco was out of sight of his mother, he flew to the far side of the Clubhouse, opposite the grandstands, and walked in as casually as if he had enjoyed a lifelong membership. A single question at the desk gained him directions to a floo that could be used for private conversation. He picked up the tin of floo powder and wondered, which will it be? Unexpectedly, he found that the call he most wanted to make was to the Weasley twins. The mystery of what they were up to was still most intriguing. But he had nothing else to offer them, not even a good estimation of when he would be returning to English soil, so that would be a useless call to make. So it would have to be a friend. Crabbe or Goyle? Goyle was lazy, but showed occasional flashes of cleverness. Crabbe was merely stone-thick; strong, but stupid. Goyle it was, then. He sprinkled a pinch of powder onto the tiny flames and enunciated, "Gregory Goyle, England." A chaos of possible choices flashed past the hearth opening, then Goyle's living room showed clearly. "Oi! Greg! You there?" Draco keened in what he imagined was a middle-class tough-guy accent. He had found that calling though this particular floo with any sort of properly modulated polite greeting was a sure way to get Gregory's father to break the connection. Greg himself appeared almost instantly.
"Draco, you world-travelling git. Where the hell have you been, man? And did you get him yet?"
Draco stared at his friend's beefy face, unable to make any sense of his question. "Get who?"
"Well, duh... Potter," Greg sneered. "I failed. Vince hasn't even tried yet, so that leaves you. Heh. I'll bet you're as good as the Duke of Dorchester already, aren't you, you dog."
Draco sighed. Maybe Greg wasn't as clever as Draco had remembered him being. "Why would 'getting' Potter make me Duke of Dorchester?" he asked patiently.
"Because the Big Man wants him, doesn't he?" Greg snapped back. "Haven't you even been to see... uh... the Big Man... yet?"
"No, I haven't. I have had some slight difficulty in my life of late. It's not like I've been on bloody vacation. There are some serious repercussions to my father's case... I don't have time to explain all of that. What are you talking about?"
A few minutes later, when the conversation had become too stupid to endure, Draco had hissed, "Got to go. Trouble," and had broken the connection. Greg had smirked conspiratorially and had winked to show his understanding. ('Winked!' Draco lamented. Does the boy have no sense of style whatsoever?) But more important than his stylistically-retarded friend was what Draco had heard during their few minutes of conversation. That had been quite disturbing. Things seemed to be spiralling out of control in the home country. Vince had been offered a reward for recruiting Harry Potter into Voldemort's service. Meaning to cheat his friend out of that reward, Greg had attacked Potter at Hogwarts, and Potter had defeated four boys - easily and decisively - even though the attackers had been mounted on brooms. Draco tried to put these things together with what he already knew. Did Snape and Potter plotting together mean that Snape was going to bring Potter to Voldemort? Then what was with the werewolf and the Weasels? They wouldn't be involved with anything involving the Dark Lord, and they certainly seemed to be involved in whatever Snape was doing, so that explanation didn't make any sense at all.
One thing seemed logical - with ominous implications for his own situation: if Voldemort was looking for boys who were no older than Vince or Harry Potter, he would be looking for Draco himself soon. Maybe he was already looking. Maybe Draco appeared to be a coward who had run away rather than join the cause. That thought gave Draco pause. He hadn't ever had to think about what he would actually do when Voldemort called. While Lucius was still free, there had been no choice - Draco would join the Organization when his father took him to be introduced. Once Lucius was jailed, Narcissa seemed to have different ideas about her son's future, which left him equally out of the decision making process. She had skipped off to the Continent without alerting anyone in the Organization, and had certainly left no forwarding address. But how could Draco return to England - ever - if he were perceived to be a traitor? The Death Eaters were notoriously unforgiving of those they believed had betrayed them. Not responding to Voldemort's summons now could have fatal repercussions when he finally managed to return to his home country.
But in the few moments between breaking the connection with Goyle and returning to check in with his mother, Draco had a chance to consider what decision he might make if it had not already been made for him. If he were to be given a choice... what would it be? His future had been decided for him for so long, that he had never bothered to find out any of the details that would be necessary for making an informed decision. And now, there was a totally new factor to consider. He had stumbled on to it by accident when he had visited Diagon Alley, and considered himself fortunate to have done so, because somehow, he believed that whatever Snape was planning was important. Whatever it was, he felt it was going to change the balance between Government and Opposition forces, break the stalemate that had held for so long between Voldemort and Dumbledore. So far as Draco could see, he had one opportunity to figure out what was really going on, and that was to learn what Harry Potter and Severus Snape were doing with the Weasleys. Snape had said that Potter would be coming to the Malfoys' new home for 'speech lessons' - whatever that meant. But Potter had not showed, nor had Snape made an appearance since. More than ever, Draco was determined to get back to England. He walked calmly out of the Clubhouse door, kicked off and streaked into the line of trees that blocked the grandstand's view of a portion of the course. He turned and flew back to the main arena, landing lightly in front of the seats and walking up to join his mother. "Having a good time?" he asked innocently.
"There's always world-class excitement at the Xenophon Course," she replied dryly. "Now go play. You're still grounded when we get back home."
Draco flew a few lazy loops that were easy to fly but looked impressive from the ground. Then he sped off to search for a real challenge, though one would be hard to find with the course inactive as it always was on Public Day. His mother had sounded stern enough, but at least she was talking to him again. It would require a small enough effort to go from there to regaining some freedom. And freedom would be essential. He had to get back to England again.
--- --- ---
Wednesday morning, Harry awoke at his regular time, even though he no longer had to report for work. Remus was still, nominally at least, charged with looking after him, so rather than hide in his room all day, Harry decided to get up, bathe, dress and go down to the hall for breakfast, exactly as though this were another normal day.
The first sign that the day was going to be significantly other than normal came at breakfast. Remus joined him, and the two of them ate, alone except for one another, sitting at what would normally be the Gryffindor table in cavernous expanse of the Great Hall. As Harry was buttering a muffin, an owl swooped through one of the hall's high windows and dropped a Daily Prophet on the table before wheeling and flying away without pausing for so much as a moment's rest. Harry scowled at the roll of newsprint, annoyed at seeing the sensationalistic rag he had come to dislike so much. Yet he was intrigued by the mystery of who might have sent it. He did not have a current subscription to the newspaper, and in the past two weeks he had not read a single issue. In that time, he had managed to forget much of the tension that accompanied the arrival of the Prophet every day during school term. During the weeks (which had seemed like years) during which the Prophet had featured Harry as a subject in the speculative, rambling stories by Rita Skeeter, he had dreaded the paper's delivery, since someone would invariably find the 'Potter' article and make some comment about it, usually accompanied by laughter or the low rumbling of hushed discussion. Now that today's issue had been dropped within inches of his hand, he did not really feel it would be worth making the effort to reach out and collect the thing. With a disgusted snort, he turned away from it and resumed buttering his muffin.
"Do you mind if I have a look at your paper, Harry?" Remus asked pointedly, not understanding Harry's apparent disgust.
'He wouldn't understand,' Harry reflected. 'Remus wasn't around Hogwarts for the worst of the Prophet's libelous tripe about me, and he probably never saw any of the "Insane Potter" stories.' With a shrug, and a wave of his butter knife in the paper's general direction, he said, "Go ahead."
Harry may have expected Remus to settle back to read the news. Instead, the man opened the paper and immediately turned the front page back to face Harry. "I think I can see why someone would send you this," Remus remarked, waiting for Harry to acknowledge the bold headline before him.
Harry looked up, barely interested in what the Prophet might have to say about anything. He read the headline, then stared at the picture beneath.
"DEATH EATERS IN THE CLASSROOM!" was spread across the top of the page, just below the Prophet's normal folio. Beneath the header was a picture of Aaron Sepal, walking onto the Hogwarts grounds along the Hogsmeade path, apparently staring directly into the lens of whatever camera had captured his photograph; and another picture of Albus Dumbledore, escorting Sepal into a Hogwarts greenhouse. That photo was less dramatic, but no one who had ever seen the Headmaster could miss Dumbledore's flowing white hair and beard. The sliver of facial profile that could be seen merely confirmed the reader's first impression. The subject was definitely Dumbledore, and he was showing Aaron Sepal around the Hogwarts campus. Without the accusing headline, the pictures would have been very uninteresting - hardly newsworthy by any standard. With the header, the pictures appeared to be firm evidence of a sinister plot. The photographer who captured the full-face view of Sepal had done his job quite well... if his job was supposed to have been to make the man look threateningly intense and potentially violent. Harry supposed that many people who found themselves faced with the long walk onto Hogwarts' grounds from the nearest apparation point must have shown expressions very much like that one. The look of focused determination was just as likely due to irritation at the inconvenience of being unable to apparate directly onto campus as it was due to anything more sinister. 'And yet, the Prophet has struck again,' Harry thought, grimacing. Suggestion and innuendo were much more their forte than good, solid reporting. But he had to admit that, in this case, their innuendoes were suggesting the correct conclusion. There would be Death Eaters in the classroom, all right. Between this Sepal guy and Snape...
Harry dropped his muffin. "Remus. We have to show this to Snape!"
Remus didn't move, didn't even react to either the dangerous implications of the headline nor Harry's agitation. "What is it we must do... Mister... Potter?"
Harry glared back at the man in irritation, then the phasing of Remus' question registered. "Oh. Pardon Me. Professor. Professor Snape. We must show this to Professor Snape!"
"You have to be conscious of what you are saying, Harry," Remus explained in a patient, kindly tone. "More damage has been done through inadvertent insult than through deliberate invective."
"Yes. Right. Thank you. Please, Remus, teach later. We have to go now!"
Harry and Lupin descended to the dungeons swiftly, newspaper tucked under Remus' arm. By the time they had arrived, however, their news was already old to the potions professor. As Remus displayed the headline, Snape nodded and waved the paper away. "I know. I have, in fact, already been the recipient of an owl from the Ministry. The bird was quite put out at having to deliver its message to me here, but it accomplished its mission - and waited for my reply, which I dutifully sent."
"What did you say? What did they want?" Harry asked, nervous and impatient.
"I would guess that what the Ministry really wanted was what they have desired for years: free and unfettered access to Hogwarts and control of her operations. However, all they had the gumption to actually send in this particular letter was an alert to all Hogwarts staff members regarding the advent of Ministry-sanctioned inspection teams. There are to be representatives from the aurors, of course, and inspectors from the Departments of Public Safety and of Education... I would guess that would be Dolores Umbridge, or whoever her successor might be. The inspectors are to arrive separately, and are to be shown all reasonable courtesy, cooperation and respect, etcetera. They should be arriving shortly."
Harry's face was pale as he asked, "Do they... the Ministry... do they know... that... you..."
Snape's own worry showed only in the relative weakness of his sneer. "My official status is that of 'Youthful Offender;' someone who had minimal contact with the forces of the opposition during the last war, and who had completely reformed before the war's conclusion – another example of the remarkable ability of our Headmaster to manipulate official findings and obtain decrees beneficial to his own interests. My official pardon, however, came with many strings attached. One of which was that I was to have no further contact with any opposition forces." He suddenly grinned with extreme viciousness. "One of the ways that condition was to be assured was by having me employed at Hogwarts, under the direct supervision of Albus Dumbledore. The champion of the loyal forces would hardly allow me to be exposed to the opposition, would he? The answer seemed so obvious to the Ministry that I have remained free from Ministry questioning from the time of my pardon until today. Obviously, any secrets I may wish to keep regarding my activities during that period will never survive an official interrogation, especially with the use of veritaserum."
"That's illegal," Harry protested weakly.
Years of lecturing on the properties and uses of potions forced Snape to reply immediately, almost as though he were addressing a massed double class. "Because of the high likelihood of obtaining misleading, incomplete, or simply wrong answers, the use of veritaserum is banned in casual uses such as job interviews, or for parents disciplining their children. Use of veritaserum as a prank or with malicious intent is a crime, with severe penalties for those convicted. However, in many cases of official investigations conducted by aurors, the use of veritaserum is mandatory." Snape paused dramatically, and Harry's heart sank as he realized what must be coming next. "My case is one of those."
"What did you tell them in your reply?" Harry asked dispiritedly.
"I made sure to reference my long and rich history with the Ministry," Snape replied in a businesslike manner. "That august body has long acknowledged that the potions I brew for their use are the best obtainable in this country, and among the finest to be found anywhere in the world. If they do administer veritaserum to me, it will almost certainly have been brewed by me. And no, that does not give me any special immunity to its effects," he snarled in response to Harry's sudden look of hope. "In my capacity of potions master - for the school as well as for private contracts such as those I enter into with the Ministry - I must search the world for ingredients. Only the finest will do, and only I have the necessary expertise and experience to be able to select those. So, I told them I will be away from the castle, performing that search, until term resumes in September."
"And what will you actually do?" Remus asked gently.
"That," Severus said, and paused, looking from Lupin to Harry and back again. "Depends very much on you, and how much you trust me." Remus nodded sagely, but Harry was baffled.
"What do you mean, Sir?"
"I have made some rather strong predictions," Snape explained carefully, "about what could be achieved in the near future. How many things could be accomplished, how many plans could come to fruition. Remus is aware that in those predictions, he and I are both interchangeable, replaceable parts. One person is absolutely essential. You, Harry, are that person. However, you have nothing to fear from the Ministry's impending invasion of Hogwarts. Since their aim, clearly, is to remove Aaron Sepal from his newly gained position as Herbology Professor, you may actually welcome their arrival. You may find it in your best interest to go back to your room and wait until Sepal is carried off campus in restraints, then resume your interrupted summer employment. But if you feel that our plan is proceeding properly, that your education is being helped by my guidance, you may want to... go shopping for potions ingredients with me... until you have to return for classes next term."
Harry looked to Lupin, who was watching with a studiously neutral expression. "Remus?"
The werewolf shrugged. "You're not doing anything here, anyway. Things are going to get unpleasant as the Ministry tries to move against the new Professor, and... let's face it... you don't want to encounter any more 'Department of Education' types again, do you?"
Harry's mind was made up. "We'll all go," he announced. "What about Hedwig?"
"Uncage the bird," Snape advised. "She can stay in the owlery, and I have no doubt she'll be able to find you whenever necessary."
"What do I need?" Harry called back over his shoulder, already moving toward the door on his way to his room.
"Change of clothes, books you haven't yet read, wand, whatever cash you have lying around. Leave anything that is not essential. No broomstick, no sneakoscope, no pictures."
Harry felt a stab of guilt at leaving his parents' pictures behind. Meaning to ask about them again, he stopped at the classroom door and asked, "Where will we go?"
"I really don't know," Snape said in an uncharacteristically offhand manner. Just as Harry was turning away to leave, he added, "Have you ever heard of a place called Godric's Hollow?"
Harry felt a chill run down his spine. A feeling of dread gripped him, which was very puzzling, because he couldn't recall exactly what they had been talking about. Then he noticed that Lupin had taken one of the chairs, sitting down hard and hanging his head between his legs as though he were battling seasickness.
"I thought so," Snape murmured. "Hurry up, Harry. Get your things, release your owl and be back here as quickly as possible."
Harry turned and ran, still very confused.
--- --- ---
Aaron Sepal had been at his new job for less than an hour when he noticed the first signs of trouble. He had actually been quite impressed at the condition of the collection that had been entrusted to him, and pleased that tools and materials were where they belonged... although there were subtle insults left for him throughout the Department. Such as the way the labels on all of the plants had been cleaned and faced outward for easy reading, as though he would have to be told what a fangwire or a thintwicket were. Still, the insults were easily ignored, and the exemplary organization of the greenhouses - even if that condition was meant to suggest that he couldn't find his way around an unlabled Department - was much better than finding plants mislabeled or in poor condition. The overall health of the entire collection was astounding.
It was while inspecting the last row of potted plants in the second greenhouse that he saw it. He was checking the condition of the heavy-limbed shrub students called the 'octopus tree.' The seed packets, each with eight streamers hanging from a bulbous structure (that young Herbologists invariably called cephalo pods) ranged in color from pale yellow to blazing red, a usually reliable indicator of good health. The thick, twining branches had unbroken bark, the very tips of the new growth were bright green, and the roots, which ran shallow and frequently broke through the soil's surface looked, at first glance, to be very strong. But there was something unusual. Aaron bent close to inspect the largest portion of root protruding from the dirt. There were blisters forming on it, in a sickly yellow color. "Bubbleroot?" Sepal wondered, and uncovered more of the root structure to inspect. In seconds, it was horribly obvious. The entire plant was infected with bubbleroot. But that was ridiculous. Bubbleroot was a tropical disease, and while the octopus tree was a tropical native, the disease had never been able to stand the harsh climate outside of its normal environs. He would have to investigate this. He went to get a sample jar and some tools, but on the way he stopped in his tracks to stare at a bristling starleaf, which he was certain had been bristling earlier that morning. It was obviously not bristling now. In fact, now it seemed to be exhibiting a classic example of a disease that had plagued these plants a decade or more ago in the east of England, stagnation at leaf. Many plants could shrug off the effects of stagnation at leaf, but if a bristling starleaf became affected, the disease could be fatal. He started for the supply cabinet again, intending to bring along an extra sample jar on his return, when he halted abruptly once more. The hawkberry bushes were starting to collapse, the victims of whitherstem.
'This is ridiculous,' he told himself firmly and drew his wand. He cast several magical detection spells on the hawkberries, then turned and repeated the process on the bristling starleaves and the octopus tree. Except for the almost inevitable background magic that was constantly present in a place such as Hogwarts, there was no evidence at all that any of the plants had been cursed.
Had the plants all been infected last night by someone sneaking in and exposing them to genuine infectious agents? If that were the case, he couldn't figure out how it could have been done. The greenhouses had been locked, and Aaron had put up his own, personal warding on each of the doors just to be safe, especially after the way Pomona Sprout had stalked off, angrily challenging the Headmaster's decision to hire him. His wards had all been present and apparently undisturbed this morning.
Aaron began to worry. If these diseases had been released slowly into the environment over the past few weeks by the disgruntled departing Professor, there could be infectious agents loose that would decimate the entire collection. He would have to start anticipating what biological agents had been deployed and how to counter those things before they struck. His real surprise was in how precisely the infections had been planned. The plants had all been healthy when he arrived, and several had become infected this very morning. How had Sprout timed all of this so diabolically well?
Sepal spun on his heel in shock, staring as a yamacki vine fizzled violently and turned to ash before his eyes. Fuserunner! A virus that affected only vines, but was so virulent that it could not possibly have been left behind to affect the yamacki vine at some later time. Fuserunner was essentially uncontainable - if it were in the environment, all vine-like plants would be affected immediately. He looked to the nearby fangwire, waiting for it to sparkle and burn from the fuserunner's effects. Nothing. He cast magical detection spells all around the remains of the yamacki vine. Nothing. But the yamacki lay in ashes now. It had been infected with fuserunner. Where had the fuserunner gone? Under normal circumstances, it would have leapt immediately to the nearest vine - the fangwire was easily within its transmission range. But if there had actually been fuserunner in this greenhouse earlier that morning, the vines... at least the yamacki vine which had been affected... would have gone up in fizzling sparks long ago.
Could someone be apparating contagions into the greenhouse? Sepal had been assured over and over again that apparation within Hogwarts grounds was impossible, but what else made any sense? He cast revealing spells throughout the building, looking for the magical residue of any apparation. Nothing. He began to sweat. This was very, very weird.
Two hours later, Aaron Sepal sat at a workbench with four dozen sample jars in front of him. Hogwarts' entire collection of valuable and exotic plants was being destroyed specimen by specimen, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. The plants weren't cursed, no one was apparating disease-causing organisms into the area, and yet nearly fifty different plant diseases had attacked at almost exactly the same time this morning, devastating the plant population.
The diseases themselves had to be specially engineered mutant strains, because they certainly weren't behaving the way they were supposed to. The fuserunner had destroyed exactly one plant. It had taken the yamacki vine out entirely, burned it to ash, leaving nothing salvageable behind. In any normal situation, such a disaster would call for an immediate quarantine of the area, and the isolation of all vines behind biohazard-resistant barriers. After the yamacki was destroyed, however, no other plants were affected at all. And no matter how many spells he cast searching for the disease's causative agent, Aaron could find no trace of fuserunner anywhere in the greenhouse.
A similar thing happened with the bubbleroot that had taken the octopus tree. The disease had progressed with preternatural swiftness, weakening the tree's roots so thoroughly that the entire plant had broken at ground level. The blistering that normally affected only the roots of the plant had spread all over it, from the stem to the newly sprouted tips. The plant had died within minutes, even though bubbleroot usually takes weeks to kill a healthy plant, and some plants can recover from the disease and be fully cured of it.
Even stranger, as Aaron examined the samples he had taken from the octopus tree's root, he could find no active bubbleroot alive in the sample at all. It was as though the disease-causing organisms had abandoned their victim the moment it had died. But wherever they had gone, it had not been to any other plants in the collection, because even though there were several that could have been susceptible to the disease, none contracted it.
The same mysterious pattern of strike-and-disappear was repeated in the cases of whitherstem, stagnation at leaf and more than forty others. The plants were dead, apparently victims of advanced cases of disease, and yet, there was not a disease-causing bacteria, virus, fungus or parasitic organism left alive in the entire Herbology Department. He was going to have to call for help.
Unless this was a test. And if it was a test... was it a test to see whether he would call for help when it became necessary? Or was it a test of whether he would be able to deal with his problems on his own? If it had been a test devised by Voldemort, Aaron was certain which it would be. Whiners and quitters were not welcome among the Death Eaters. And it was well known that there was no one on earth closer to Voldemort in sheer power and organizing ability than Albus Dumbledore. So it only made sense that Dumbledore would fashion a test in the same mold as one Voldemort himself would favor. That meant Aaron was going to have to figure out this mystery plague on his own. And there was probably no easy answer waiting for him to discover. He would have to think his way around the problem, find a solution that was creative and surprising, that would impress his new employer.
As Aaron was thinking this, the greenhouse door opened. Sepal turned, expecting to see the accusing face of the Headmaster, but instead there was a young man, most likely a student. The new Professor was irritated. He had no time for 'meet the kids day' just then. "Hello," he called out, intending to shoo the curious child away. But the boy walked quickly toward him, announcing himself as he moved.
"I am Neville Longbottom. Herbology is my major study. I intend to become an Herbologist once I graduate Hogwarts, and I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on your new position."
"Too late," Sepal replied without humor. "But you can be one of the first dozen. However, I do not have time right now. A bit of a problem has arisen..."
Neville looked at the sample jar in on the workbench and immediately interrupted. "Bubbleroot. Are you isolating the tropical plants?"
Sepal's eyebrows drew together as the corners of his mouth turned down. "As it happens, young man, I am not. I..."
But Neville drew his wand and confidently stated. "That's all right. I can do it. Do you prefer positive air pressure or a physical barrier?"
"Nigel!" Sepal snapped. "If you are ever going to learn anything about Herbology, you will have to learn NOT to go dashing off without knowing what you are dealing with. I have not isolated the plants because there is no need. The disease is, itself, dead."
Longbottom turned back to face the teacher with a satisfied smile. "It's Neville, Sir. You killed the bubbleroot in time?"
The embarrassment of the situation made Aaron even more sarcastic than he had intended to be. "Something killed the bubbleroot, Norville. But whatever that something may have been, the only thing I know about it is that it was not me."
His face showing real concern for the fate of the plant, Neville asked, "What happened to the tree, Sir?"
Sepal was nearly out of patience with this youngster's interference. "It D-I-E-D, Norville."
"Neville, Sir," Longbottom corrected absently. "So all you need is a new octopus tree."
Sepal crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his nose at the boy. "Why, yes, Neville. All we need is a new, rare, magical tree that only grows in the tropics, and which would have to sit in quarantine for weeks, even if we were to find one we could afford - presuming it was for sale in the first place."
"I have one," Neville shrugged.
"What?"
"I have an octopus tree. I could bring it here, and when it seeds, we could grow a replacement for me, and Hogwarts could have the one I grew."
Sepal gaped at the boy. "You... grew... an octopus tree. Do you live in Great Britain, boy?"
"Oh, yes," Neville replied easily. "England, actually. Large estate. Belongs to my grandmother. I have quite a collection. As I said, Herbology is my major study. I intend to be an Herbologist. You probably remember such things from your own schooling. You know, there are some classes where you just do the homework, and others where... well, where you grow the octopus tree."
"And you are willing to bring your tree here... and accept a seedling from it in return?"
Neville smiled brightly. "It'll be worth it! And lots of fun. I'll have the experience of harvesting a seed from the original tree, then growing a new one from the very beginning. I think that would be more valuable to me than simply keeping the tree I already have."
"And do you have a plan for getting your tree to school?" Sepal asked, much less sarcastically.
"That would be where I could use your help," Neville admitted. "But since I presume you can apparate..."
"It would be difficult to apparate with a tree," Sepal scoffed, but he was already thinking of several means of transportation that might well work. "I am very impressed with your offer, Neville. I will make arrangements to come and collect your plant within a few days. But, unfortunately, the Hogwarts collection has had several more problems than that." He indicated the sample jars next to the bubbleroot specimen container.
"Hold on a bit," Neville said absently, peering through the glass at some of the samples. "Is this bristling starleaf? And a fireseed?"
"Don't tell me you have both at home," Aaron said, disbelievingly.
"I certainly do," Neville said with pride. "And the fireseeds are putting out pods. I know it's late in the season, but anytime is good when it provides a chance to harvest fireseed pods, don't you agree?"
Sepal was nearly salivating. "Tell me you have a yamacki vine," he almost begged.
"Yamacki vine? Oh. Yes. But it's small. I don't know if you'd be interested." Neville looked disappointed, almost embarrassed at lacking a mature yamacki.
"Yamackis grow fast. I would love to have one. But, what will happen to your own collection if we take all of your plants to Hogwarts?"
"They'll survive, which is more of a chance than they may have in near future at my home," Neville admitted. "My grandmother is out of patience with me taking up all of the room in our yard. She'd take clippers to them all if I didn't find some place that wanted to take them."
Sepal stared at the boy in amazement. "You grew... these kinds of plants... in your yard?"
"Well, with some help," Neville said hurriedly, as though he had been caught bragging, and was trying to apologize for his lapse in good manners. "The fireseeds had to have some time in the oven. And some of the tropicals needed a lot of moisture in the air, which couldn't be provided outside."
The Professor smiled. This boy might have some promise at that, he thought. "You used the oven for your fireseeds?" he prompted.
"Oh... well..." Neville said, blushing. "You should have heard the house elves. It was like I'd committed some kind of crime. Which, I suppose, to them, I had done."
As the boy talked on about his gardening adventures, Sepal reviewed his options for transporting a large quantity of plant material. He soon had a good beginning of a plan. 'And that,' he thought smugly, 'is thinking around the problem. If this greenhouse plague was supposed to be a test, then whoever set it up for me will have to be pleased when the new plants come rolling in to replace the dead ones. And I was going to call for help,' he thought with a shudder. He was glad that he hadn't exposed his weakness by doing so. This was going to work out much better.