Happy Lunar New Year! This is rather late but I've had a hard time the past few weeks. I can't name everyone this time but thank you for the lovely reviews last chapter, especially if you're a regular reviewer—it means so much to see familiar names.

If you have questions, please PM me/login so I can answer you directly :) Also, regarding a schedule, I can't promise anything unfortunately. Except I try to update random Sundays, as much as possible.

I really loved the song recommendations from Taylor Swift anon (I'm a bit of a Swiftie myself). Do you guys have song reccs? Feel free to leave them in your reviews, will def have a listen. The updated AboS playlist, as always, is here (remove spaces): tinyurl . cc / ABoS

Chapter 28: The Ghost

Dinner at the Great Hall was always a rowdy affair on the eve of any Quidditch match. Bets were placed, neutrals picked sides, and trash talk was rife. This evening, there was an electric anticipation in the air for the upcoming Slytherin-Hufflepuff event—almost certain to be a breathtaking spectacle.

While Slytherin's traditional Quidditch rival would always be Gryffindor, there was an exceptional malevolence in their regard for matches with Hufflepuff. After all, no house at Hogwarts was more honorable than the Badgers, whose team prided itself on beautiful possession-based games. This lot, newly captained by Beater Kirkpatrick Vance, was always a joy to watch for that very reason.

Conversely, no house was less respectable than the Slytherins—a team that cared very little for style. They did whatever it took to win… tactics be damned. And that was always worth watching.

Like Rose, Poppy had never followed Quidditch too closely. But even she knew that history did not favour the Badgers. Since inception, Slytherin had beaten Hufflepuff in over three-quarters of all matches played, which was a chilling statistic. The overall hype was further amplified by the perceived emotional stakes. To the greater student population, this was looking to be a fight to the death between Malfoy and Hedge… a clash of the titans for the heart of a girl. Sensitive male egos to be bolstered or skewered by Quaffle, Bludger and Snitch.

A love triangle for the ages, played out for all to see.

No wonder Hogwarts was all fired up. The building anticipation was akin to watching a sequence in a horror flick… where an unsuspecting side character was about to be led to the villain's slaughterhouse.

Though surely said love triangle was a figment of the collective imagination. It was beyond doubt, to Poppy at least, that Hedge didn't even register the tiniest of blips on Rose or Scorpius' radars.

Case in point, Poppy thought at present, sipping mutely at her tea as Malfoy closed in on the Gryffindor table with ground-eating strides. Across from her, Rose had glanced up from dinner, blinking in surprise when he slipped none-too-discreetly into the seat beside her.

Malfoy, of course, was the kind of forceful presence that was impossible to ignore. His unexpected appearance at the Gryffindor table drew furtive nudges and hushed squeaks from surrounding students. But Malfoy merely ignored them, instead removing the silver-green scarf he was wearing and draping it carefully over Rose's neck. His deft fingers arranging the scarf and knotting it neatly over her front.

It was then that Poppy glimpsed, for the first time, what it must be like to be subject to one of Malfoy's private smiles. It was a rare and wondrous thing, what a smile could do to a face like his. Then, with an affectionate tug at a lock of Rose's hair, he was back swiftly on his feet, retreating to the Slytherin table across the Great Hall. Rose watched him go with a twinkle in her eye, her own fingers curling into the fabric of his scarf.

Not a word said between them… and yet it had been an undeniably intimate exchange. The other Gryffindors stared at Rose wrapped in Slytherin colours, expressions ranging from starstruck awe to mock outrage.

Among the Hufflepuffs, Hedge was clutching his own black and yellow scarf in despair.

"So… Team Slytherin it is," Poppy remarked, as Rose's cheeks turned fetchingly pink. "I'll have you know you're fraternising with our greatest rivals, Rosie. Quite the betrayal."

Rose's eyes crinkled, her smile now hidden behind Malfoy's scarf. "Love your enemies, right?" she said solemnly, making Poppy snort with laughter. "And hey, I'm not just cheering for Scorpius. Al's on the team too. Wanna watch the game with me tomorrow?" She wiggled her eyebrows. "We can hijack the Slytherin section. Sneak in a few Butterbeers."

"I'll pass," Poppy said wryly. She was far from admitting it, but she had better things to do than watch Potter and his team cheat their way to a victory. "You go ahead. Doesn't Hugo attend these things?"

"Ah, right… I'll ask him."

Poppy observed Rose for a few minutes as her friend chewed avidly on her custard pie, before curiosity finally got the better of her.

"He's kissed you, then," she said casually.

Rose choked on her mouthful.

Poppy grinned.

She spent the next few minutes making sure Rose wasn't dying, but even as her friend gasped for breath, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, Poppy couldn't help but feel thrilled for Rose. This was a girl who had been so sure, once upon a time, that she would have to settle for marrying a Sasquatch.

"I take it that the talk at the library went well?" she murmured, as Rose regained her composure. "Because I've never seen Malfoy smile at anyone like that. Hell, I've never seen you smile at anyone like that. Except maybe Buckbeak."

Rose rested her cheek in her hand, the colour on her cheeks deepening. There was an endearing bashfulness in the way she was trying not to smile. Poppy could always tell when Rose was happy. And right now, her friend looked almost as though she'd just tracked a Centaur. Or found a way to communicate with a Horklump. Or something.

So—very happy indeed.

"I don't know if you can count what happened at the library as talk," Rose finally admitted, as Poppy's grin widened. "I—feel like I've lost my marbles a bit, to be honest."

"Because you're thinking about him as much as you think about Grindylows?"

"Well. Yeah." Rose and Poppy looked at each other before they both burst out laughing. Rose took a deep breath then, clutching gently into Malfoy's scarf. Her next words were so quiet, they might have been directed at herself. "…What if I mess this up?"

"You can't possibly. I just saw the way he looked at you." Poppy's lips quirked at the hope that flickered past Rose's face. "He definitely didn't look at you like that at the beginning."

Amusement lit up in Rose's cornflower blue eyes. "No. Back then he always looked like he wanted to kill me."

"Well, now he just looks like he wants to kiss you."

"Poppy."

"What? It's true." Poppy surveyed her friend thoughtfully, choosing her next words with care. "I'm happy for you, Rosie… but I must admit I didn't think it'd be him. Of all people."

Rose tapped her wand on the rim of Poppy's empty tea cup to refill it. "I thought he was awful at first, remember? Well—that was why I picked him in the first place." At Poppy's nod, Rose's voice softened. "I did wonder, you know. Whether there was a way for us to put up a front to the media without actually being around each other too much. But I'm glad I got to know him. Because he's—not what I expected at all."

Poppy had to smile at that. How ironic that someone who seemed as kind and harmless as Wilkins could frighten Rose… and yet the ill-tempered, volatile Malfoy was capable of winning her trust.

Men, she thought wryly. An eternal mystery of a species.

"Who else knows, then?" she asked in a lowered tone. "Surely your cousins—? Hugo, at the very least."

"Oh, no." Rose twiddled her thumbs and squirmed in her seat, shooting Poppy a sheepish look. "Um, we haven't… I don't think we're going to…" She trailed off, worrying her bottom lip. "Maybe no one will notice?"

"So you're trying to hide it?"

"You know how it is, Poppy. The less they know, the less complicated it all is."

The way Rose was behaving reminded Poppy of a time in their fourth year, when Rose had tried to hide a wild Ferret in their dorm, hoping to keep it as a pet. Not the best of ideas, as Ingrid the Ferret had gotten into a scathing territorial fight with Arnold The Third and alarmed the entire dormitory. McGonagall had gotten wind of the mishap, and confiscated the animal. Rose had been heartbroken for weeks.

Poppy sighed inwardly at the memory. Rose's tendency to hide the obvious was going to haunt her, one of these days. "It's your choice, Rosie. But you'll have to tell them sooner or later. If Malfoy is serious about you, they will find out eventually. He's not exactly subtle, is he?"

"Who says he's serious about me?" Rose joked, before Poppy's narrowed eyes wiped the humour off her face. "Ah—Poppy. I'm kidding. I mean, it's too early to know something like that. I don't even know what I'm doing." She cleared her throat awkwardly, poking despondently at her half-eaten pie. "…I just want to take it one day at a time. That's alright, isn't it?"

"I suppose it's all fine if he's as good a kisser as they say he is," Poppy quipped. She'd merely meant to lighten the mood, but to her surprise… Rose had blinked up at her, her startled expression giving way to a little smile.

"Yes," she confessed softly. "He is."

At Hogwarts, there was an unspoken rule that some degree of personal popularity was required to become Head Boy or Girl. No professor would ever admit to this, naturally, but one only had to take a look at the long list of Head alumni to understand the common qualities shared by each appointee. Certainly, it mattered greatly that the chosen ones were able to keep the rest of the school in line.

But it always mattered more that they were liked.

Which was why Poppy's appointment as Head Girl was a bit of a head-scratcher.

Compared to previous generations of Head Girls, she had assumed the role in relative anonymity. Most people would agree that she lacked the gravitas to truly galvanise the student crowd. Tristan Shacklebolt, on the other hand, was a natural shoo-in for Head Boy. He possessed a stellar bloodline, was widely admired by both students and professors, and had reputable connections within the Ministry.

Therefore it was no secret that most people were befuddled by McGonagall's choice for Head Girl. Of course, Poppy was an exemplary student, with an unhealthy devotion to her duties. But any respect for her was due to her position, not her person.

For she was, to put it kindly, nobody. She had no bloodline, no history, no connections—

And, as some liked to say, no personality.

This kind of dismissal from her peers could wound any young girl deeply, but Poppy had grown to accept her lot. She was, after all, the child who had been taught her whole life to be seen and not heard. If she hadn't befriended Rose in her first year, she was sure she would have passed through Hogwarts with all the visibility of a ghost.

Poppy had no illusions that her achievements, if they could be counted as that, were of her own doing. If Professor Crossley hadn't pulled the strings on her behalf, then perhaps Emery Nott might have gotten the nod for Head Girl instead. And then…

She would truly be nobody.

The cold this evening felt particularly bitter, a kind of frigidity that clung to your skin and seeped into your bones. Poppy came to a stop in one of the deserted hallways, observing the way her soft breaths turned to puffs of white under the pale glaze of moonlight. Even beneath the weight of her cloak, she was freezing.

Truth be told, she didn't need to be wandering the hallways this late. Any other Prefect could be assigned patrol.

But Poppy needed the excuse.

A few students shuffled past her in the dimly lit corridors, her presence an obvious reminder of the approaching curfew. Poppy watched them go, distracted by the flicker of fire torches against the stone bricks as she lost herself in thought for minutes.

She was supposed to see Professor Crossley tonight. A prospect she looked forward to.

Usually.

Yet her descent into the dungeons that led to Crossley's chambers only compounded the growing hollow in her chest. Something ghoulish had caught her heavy heart within its grip, intent on extinguishing the genuine elation she'd felt for Rose earlier that evening. For some inexplicable reason… Poppy couldn't stop thinking about the way Malfoy looked at Rose.

No one had ever looked at her that way.

Not James.

Not Crossley.

Not once.

Was it such a terrible thing, for her to want to be seen?

For even clever girls with good sense yearned for attention, no matter if they came from the wrong places. When she was younger, James was everything Poppy wished she could be. Where she was prudent, James was feckless. Poppy made herself small in the presence of others; he filled every room he was in, larger than life. He was colourful to the bone, sheer effervescence. And that brilliant smile of his, with all the promise of a good time—

Every girl at school was head over heels for him. Why should Poppy be any different?

In hindsight, the qualities that made James irresistible was every reason to resist him. He was carefree in spirit because so very few things mattered to him, the way they did to her. Nothing seemed to faze him—not girls, grades, or gossip. James didn't even give it a second thought when Poppy confessed her feelings one spring afternoon, the words in her little monologue chosen with gentle affection and care. The sun in her eyes; a petal in his hair. James had listened to her, mildly incredulous. Then, after the briefest of appraisals, he'd merely shrugged and said—

Ah hell, why not.

It was too good to be true. But in that window of a few weeks, Poppy had been happy.

Even though she knew, in her heart of hearts, that they were not a match—not at all. James was far more physical than she was ready for; preferred large parties to private dates; impatient with any minutiae that didn't concern him, even if it meant the world to her. Yet, despite their incompatibility, or perhaps because of it, Poppy savoured every moment, every kiss, every last bit of affection. As desperately as any young girl in the throes of a first love would.

Wasn't it alright as long as she was loved, even just a little bit?

Poppy was a thousand things, but she was not stupid. She had known in her bones that her days with James were numbered. When Albus unexpectedly caught her by the arm one evening, she already had an inkling about what he was going to say. But she wasn't ready to hear it, not yet.

Albus, however, had refused to let her go.

Langdon, hold on—listen to me. About James—

Can't talk now. I have to be somewhere—

It's not like James is waiting for you. Poppy could feel the Albus' grip tighten on her arm then. He's snogging Harriet Cole as we speak.

Harriet Cole. The name put a strange jolt through her, not just because the girl was far more beautiful than Poppy could ever hope to be. James had spoken of her before, casually mentioning Albus' crush on her. Think she likes me better though, to be honest. Poor Al. Poppy wasn't supposed to know this, but James always said so much. Too much.

Poppy had fumbled for the words, her mind scrambling for a response through the muddle of information.

But James knows you like her, she heard herself say. Her voice fainter than she was used to. Making the whole thing about Albus, when it should have been about her and James. She hated how she sounded so weak. Like she'd seen it all coming but let it happen anyway.

Her words didn't bother Albus. He'd merely shrugged, those startling green eyes void of feeling. As though he was somehow used to this, to James being James.

Yeah, well. That's never stopped my brother before.

It had been so ridiculous, so impossible, that James would be so careless. Not just with her, but with his own brother. Albus glanced up at her then. It was, perhaps, the first time he had ever looked at Poppy in the eye. The richest shade of green meeting a gaze that was barely blue. Poppy didn't like the way he looked right through her. As though he could see her for what she truly was—

And detested her for it.

You should cut your losses, he said then, tone curt. James isn't right for someone like you.

Someone like her. Stiff, boring Poppy Langdon. Such a little hanger-on. Wasn't that Albus' exact complaint to Tarquin and Scorpius, when he thought she was out of earshot? How parasitic she was for gravitating towards the only names she knew; how pathetic it was that she played by every last rule to win her professors over; how convenient that she only thought to talk to Rose when her hopeful attempts to befriend Albus were thoroughly rejected.

It had occurred to Poppy then, how very different the Potter brothers were from each other.

One brother pretended to love her—

And the other didn't pretend at all.

Poppy wasn't stupid, no. She could recognise what the end looked like. But she was, ultimately, a girl who desperately wanted to be seen. As gullible as it was—she wanted to keep James, in any capacity she could. Any way he would have her.

Because the opposite would be utter invisibility.

If he was about to slip right through her fingers, she thought numbly, then what's the harm in holding on to the lie just a little bit longer?

In the spur of the moment, Poppy was determined to choose her own version of the truth.

So she swallowed her feelings and steeled herself, looking up at Albus with all the nerve she could muster.

And said—

I don't believe you.

This troubling memory formed a stubborn echo in her head, as insistent and muted as wind chimes in a frail breeze. It followed her down an ink-black stairwell, through a series of emptied dungeon rooms, towards the familiar set of oak doors guarded by a pair of ill-tempered stone gargoyles.

It was always hard to predict when Professor Crossley would be in a mood. He could be so affectionate one minute, and so impersonal in the next.

The hall was dead silent, but Poppy felt the hair on her neck stand on end, as though she was being watched. Her balled fist hovered over the surface of the door. She glanced over her shoulder.

There was nobody there.

Exhaling softly, Poppy turned back to the door and knocked.

The door creaked open then, a spill of candlelight cutting through the darkness. Professor Crossley was ruminating by the fireplace, the flickering light deepening the age lines of his face. He glanced up at her as she stepped in, his expression souring at once.

"Poppy," he murmured. "Salazar's sake, little one… what did I tell you? I don't like it when you have your hair up. A rather hideous look on you, I've always thought."

Oh. She had forgotten. Trembling slightly, Poppy reached for her nape, her fingers catching in the tightly wound chignon and undoing the pins. Her fair hair fell long and loose over her shoulders, a stark contrast against the black of her school robes. Crossley hummed in approval at the sight, gesturing for her to come closer.

Poppy wove through the ornamental bric-a-brac and dusty books piled high on aged furniture, leaning in to kiss his whiskered cheek. But Crossley harrumphed under his breath, giving her a chiding look as he turned his face away from her. The rejection stung, but Poppy didn't let it show.

She was good at that, if nothing else.

Poppy knew this meant he was displeased with her, and she had a good inkling as to why. She had been trying to distance herself from him of late, out of good sense or self-preservation.

She could always recognise an ending when she saw one.

Professor Crossley treated her the way he did with his favourite female students; like she was a prized possession of some sort, for him to display and admire. It had been easy for Poppy to ignore his subtle advances while she was dating James, but things changed, as they were wont to do, after a heartbreak as violent as her first. For Poppy, Crossley's attentions had become almost necessary. Always the last time, she would tell herself. Until she was once more in need of comfort, a kind word, or a kiss—

This time, she promised herself, would be their last.

She allowed herself a moment, closing her eyes and indulging his presence as he ran his fingers idly through the length of her hair. "Professor," she said softly, as Crossley drew her close. "I don't want to do this anymore."

His rough stubble scratched her cheek; a comforting and terrible thing. "Do what, little one?"

Poppy clasped her hands together, willing herself to hold on to her nerve. There was a brief quake in her voice, but she forced herself to say the words. "I can't be your experiment anymore."

Crossley drew back and stared at her, his fingers now clutching tight into her hair. A threat. "What brought about this change of heart?" he asked, his voice unnaturally calm. "I distinctly remember you saying you'd do anything for me."

Poppy looked up at his hardened face, keeping her tone as neutral as she could. "Professor McGonagall spoke with me the other day," she said. "She wants me to investigate the rumours surrounding the Mergirl. As long as she's paying attention, anyone could find out what we're up to, and—"

"And then you'll lose your Head Girl badge." A mirthless smile curled into Crossley's mouth. "What a disaster that would be. Because that's all you care about, isn't it, Poppy?"

"I—Of course not, sir."

"So you care about me."

"Yes." Poppy's voice had reduced to a whisper. "I do, professor."

"I have a presentation to make at the Potioneer Conference. Do you suggest I turn up empty-handed?"

"No."

"Then do as I ask," he murmured, as his fingers closed tightly over her pale hair. Poppy winced as a sharp pain shot through her scalp. "You said you'd return the favour, little one. It's only fair. Remember who gave you that badge."

Poppy stood there, trembling slightly as Crossley fetched a vial from his drawers and handed it to her. The substance within glittered red in the dim of candlelight. Poppy closed her fingers over the glass.

"I've refined it," Crossley murmured, catching her jaw with one hand and forcing her gaze to his. "See if the Grindylows sniff you out this time, and try harder not to be seen. Since you're so damn worried about that."

"It's the last time," she repeated, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Little one, I've never forced you into anything. You're the one who comes back crying."

He released her, and Poppy stumbled backwards, hands clutching at brick to find purchase. She made for the door, the vial heavy in her pocket. Then, before she could stop herself, she turned to look at Crossley once more. "Did you ever love me?"

Crossley glanced up from dying embers in the fireplace, the stark shadows hiding his expression. For a moment, she felt fourteen again, looking at James and trying not to cry. The question was childish and unbecoming, reserved for the most naïve of girls—but it was too late to take it back now.

He shifted then, and the pity in his smile came to light.

As potent as a dagger to the heart.

"If you do this well," he drawled, "then I'll tell you what you want to hear."

Poppy tried not to flinch at the words.

"Get out, Miss Langdon. Come back when you have something I want to hear."

Poppy escaped the stuffiness of the room, the door closing shut behind her. The stone gargoyles snarled at her, berating her presence. Poppy rubbed the wetness from her eyes, swallowing the lump in her throat. She didn't know what she expected.

Of course he didn't love her.

When would she ever learn?

She wasn't watching where she was going, but what happened next was like colliding into a warm block of air. Beneath her feet, there was a sensation of stepping onto the back of a cloak. Poppy glanced down, befuddled to find nothing there. To her bleary-eyed shock, an invisible drape had peeled away before her, revealing—

Albus.

Who was now blinking back at her like he had never seen her before.

"Langdon," he uttered, his voice strange to her ears.

Poppy gaped at him, taken aback by his sudden appearance. Did she not see him coming, somehow?

How did he just appear out of thin air like a damn ghost?

"Potter," she managed, trying to organise her thoughts and regain her composure. "You shouldn't be here. It's past curfew, and…"

"Your hair." Albus had tilted his head ever so slightly, now studying her with genuine interest.

"My—what?"

"Your hair. I've never seen it like that."

Oh. She must look a complete mess. Poppy ignored his insistent gaze, trying to keep from getting flustered. "What are you doing?"

Wordlessly, Albus lifted a purple bag with ZONKO'S emblazoned on the front. Oh, hell. Just the sight of that logo was enough to spike her stress levels.

"God, what is it this time?" Poppy demanded in a lowered tone, glancing back at Crossley's closed door. "I swear, Potter, if you're up to no good—"

"I do solemnly swear that I am, as a matter of fact."

"—I'll have to dock points and inform Professor Crossley—"

"Go on and give me detention, then," Albus said absently, as though he didn't care one way or another. He was still staring at her, like he couldn't get his fill. Trying to puzzle her out somehow. There was suspicion underlining his words now. "What were you doing in Crossley's room?"

God, how much had he seen or heard? But any excuse she had in mind was interrupted by approaching footsteps behind Crossley's door. Without warning, Albus had grabbed her arm, drawing her under a cloak with him. Poppy stumbled against him, ready to protest. But Albus shot her an irritated look, a finger to his lips as he shushed her. She held her breath as Crossley poked his head out of the door, checking both sides of the hallway.

How odd. She and Albus were standing right there, but Crossley didn't notice them at all. A sudden realisation hit her then—this was an Invisibility Cloak. The Invisibility Cloak. Poppy's breath hitched, excitement flaring in her chest. She didn't even notice when Crossley shut the door soundly behind him, engulfing them in the silence of the evening. Without meaning to, her fingers had lifted to graze the feather light fabric.

Almost to herself, she said, "I've never seen one before."

"What, this old thing? I thought James would have…" Albus stopped himself then, his eyes meeting hers in the almost darkness. There was an uncomfortable heat gathering beneath her collar now, a physical reminder of where she was.

And who she was with.

"No, he didn't," she said at last. "Though I did read about it in books. And Rosie would tell me about it when we were younger…" She caught the look on his face, and fell into a silence.

"Funny," Albus mused with a quiet snort. "My brother always borrowed this cloak from me. My dad gave him—"

"The Marauder's Map," Poppy said.

"He showed you that one, then?"

"No, Rose did." The memory made her smile. "She stole it from him back in second year so we could plan a prank on Fred."

Albus raised a slow eyebrow. "You, pranking Freddie? That alone should disqualify you for Head Girl."

Poppy frowned, ready to snipe back at him, but the amusement in Albus' eyes gave her pause. Not that humour was an alien thing with Albus. It was just—uncharacteristic for them. He hadn't taken his eyes off of her, a disconcerting curiosity growing within his gaze. Poppy tucked her loose hair behind her ear, suddenly at a loss for words.

She wasn't used to this. Being this close to Albus in the first place was bizarre. Like they were victim to some sort of upside-down hallucination.

She should leave.

"Dungbombs?" she said instead, gesturing to the purple bag.

"Maybe," Albus said casually. "What were you doing with Crossley?"

"Potter—"

"Tit for tat. I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"No." Poppy crossed her arms, worrying her lower lip. "Look, I won't give you detention or confiscate your Dungbombs—"

"I never said they were Dungbombs."

"—if you just forget tonight ever happened. I had some private business to attend to with Professor Crossley, and…" Poppy swallowed, suddenly too ashamed to meet his eyes. "I'd prefer if we never speak of this again."

"Why were you crying, though?"

Poppy shot him a reproachful look. "I wasn't."

"Were to."

"I wasn't."

Albus was still staring at her, thoughtfulness entering his expression. For the briefest of moments, Poppy was convinced he was going to pick a fight, make some sort of a scene to force the truth… but to her relief, Albus merely pulled the cloak from over their heads, returning them to normalcy.

He was no longer looking at her.

The world had righted itself, then. Poppy breathed an inward sigh of relief.

"Goodnight," she managed at last, her bookbag swinging by her side as she turned to leave.

Albus watched her go, tucking his Invisibility Cloak away. As her footsteps receded, he caught sight of an envelope fluttering to the floor. He opened his mouth to call out to her, then thought better of it. Instead, he stepped forward to pick it up, noting the splotchy green-stamped crest on the back.

IF FOUND, RETURN TO F. FAWLEY
1 PLUCKETT DRIVE

And the front, in a cursive flourish, as though written in some great hurry—

CONFIDENTIAL FOR
Ms. ROSE WEASLEY