Edited 9/11/22
Five
The Out of Order Lavatory
The best thing that had happened during the war, in Harry's opinion, was that the Dark Lord Voldemort had killed him. Or half-killed him. Or something like that.
Harry left the first years in the anteroom to the entrance hall, in the care of the wizened Professor Hopkirk, and dismissed his rowboats back through the Black Lake to their boathouse. As he picked his way up the grounds towards the Thestral-drawn carriages, he rubbed at his scar, remembering.
His almost-murder had occurred when he and Professor Dumbledore had been hunting Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes, specifically when they had been trying to find out what had happened to Salazar Slytherin's stolen locket.
They had traced the thing down a series of Mundungus Fletcher's black market auction houses and fences all the way to the end. After weeks, Harry had finally managed to set up a meeting with the fence near Wistman's Wood. He'd gone alone. He'd brought a sack full of gold from his Gringotts vault and a large bushy mustache for a disguise. It had mattered little what he looked like, though, when Lord Voldemort had met him amidst the twisted trees surrounded by an army of adders. Harry scratched his chin. Looking back, perhaps Voldemort had been the final fence.
Regardless, during the ensuing duel, the Dark Lord had gained the upper hand and Harry had found himself at the incorrect end of a Killing Curse again. But he hadn't died; not really. He'd been knocked unconscious for a time and had woken up a prisoner in the bowels of Malfoy Manor waiting to be publicly executed as a display of the Dark Lord's power, but otherwise, he'd been unharmed.
Professor Dumbledore thought it might have something to do with Lily Potter's final sacrifice, or perhaps a complicating issue with the Horcruxes, but he couldn't be certain. He had, however, recommended that Harry not test those limits again. Mostly because of the after-effects.
After Harry had been 'killed,' he'd lost his connection to the Dark Lord Voldemort. He could not hear any dark thoughts or dream any evil dreams or feel any vicious feelings. He wasn't crippled by pain when they met, and Harry's ability to understand snakes and speak Parseltongue had evaporated as though it had never been.
It had been a tremendous burden lifted from him, not having to fight through excruciating pain as they gathered Horcruxes and fought the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters.
Now, though, it was a significant inconvenience.
There would soon be a Basilisk roaming Hogwarts Castle and Harry had no way into the Chamber of Secrets to kill it. Furthermore, he would no longer be able to hear the snake slither through the plumbing system on its way to do murder. The only person who could hear and understand the creature was its would-be master—Mary Margaret Riddle.
Harry spied the black carriages huddled on the castle drive, the Thestrals waiting for him to release them back into the forest. He would have a talk with them first, though. He figured he should establish some expectations with them for the next year.
Bloody hell—the next year. Would he make it that far? He still had some time, as Riddle was only in her sixth year, but what would he do once she graduated and left Hogwarts? He would have to abandon his new post. Again he found himself hoping that Arabella was wrong about Professor Dumbledore.
Harry approached the nearest carriage, lighting his wand to get at the harness connections, and paused. A tremendous lumpy shape was crouched at the carriage ahead of him. Black Hogwarts robes were stretched tight across the figure's wide back and looked about ready to split from the effort of containing such an enormous frame. Harry stood straight. The boy—for it was a boy— was crouched so that only his rat's nest of wiry black hair was visible beside the carriage.
Hagrid.
Harry's heart thumped so loudly in his ears that he thought the Thestral at his side might be able to hear it. Cautiously, he took a step forward, trying not to startle the young half-giant.
"I got summat fer yeh here..." whispered the young Hagrid to the Thestral. Harry couldn't properly see, but the boy was digging around in what looked to be a rough burlap sack that was slightly wet with something dark. "Bit o' discarded goat, or mutton, I reckon..."
Hagrid pulled a meaty shank from his sack and held it between one huge thumb and forefinger. The hoof was still attached below the ankle. The Thestral didn't mind, however, and immediately bent its head to pull at the meat.
"Hold on now," said Hagrid, "save some for yer brothers." He let the horse have a few more bites, then tugged the shank from its mouth.
"Er, I dunno if they're all brothers," said Harry quietly. "Some of them might be mares, I reckon."
"O'course, o'course..." muttered Hagrid. Then he jumped, stumbling towards the Thestral, which writhed neatly around him and flashed Harry a cloudy white glare. Hagrid fell onto his side, clutching his sack of dismembered goat parts, and cried, "Gallopin' Gorgons, yeh gave me a fright!"
"Sorry," said Harry, grinning. A violent bubble of joy had burst inside him at the boy's familiar exclamation. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." He extended a hand. "Harry Potter, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."
"Keeper o'..." Hagrid frowned. "Ogg's gone." Harry watched the giant's youthful face—clean, red-cheeked, free of whiskers and beard—crease with sadness. "He's gone." Then a look of resignation made his broad features go flat. He reached for Harry's hand and pulled himself into a sitting position. Even then, his head was nearly level with Harry's face. "Hagrid," he said. "Rubeus Hagrid."
"I'm sorry about Ogg," said Harry. "I didn't know him, but I'm sorry nonetheless." He fought back the urge to pat the boy on his overlarge shoulder. "I've just taken the post this week, you see."
"'s all right," said Hagrid. "He was—" His voice cracked. "He'd lived a long time, he did."
Harry doused his wand light, leaving them streaked in the pumpkin orange glow of the castle windows, as Hagrid's eyes filled with tears. He turned away as Hagrid hurriedly dabbed at his face. Old Ogg must have been kind to the boy. The young giant's fascination with terrifying creatures was evident, and generally the only place to find such creatures was out on the castle grounds and within the forest. After a moment, he faced Hagrid and offered his hand again, waiting for him to stand.
"Would you like to help me get the Thestrals back to the forest, Mr. Hagrid?" asked Harry. "You can help me get their harnesses off and put their carriages away."
"No, I—I should be gettin' ter the feast," muttered Hagrid, glancing up the castle steps. "Professor Dumbledore will have me in detention if I don' show again."
"Is she very strict?" asked Harry softly.
"She's all right, I s'pose." Hagrid dropped his gaze and shuffled his too-large feet in the gravel. Harry saw that his shoes were worn and the stitching had started to fray at the welt. He flicked his wand and repaired them.
The boy's eyes went wide and he stumbled over his thanks.
"It's nothing," said Harry. "That should hold you for a good while." Now he patted the boy on the shoulder. "Well, go on. Get off, then."
Smiling sheepishly, Hagrid nodded and took off up the castle steps, climbing three at a time. Harry watched after him. The boy's clothing was shabby and worn; his robes were far too tight on his giant frame. It didn't look like he'd gone to have them let out for quite some time. Perhaps he'd had no one to take him to Diagon Alley. If Harry's memory was correct, by this time Hagrid's father had already died, leaving him an orphan.
A wave of fierce anger surged from the base of his spine, forcing his back straight. Had this Professor Dumbledore not looked out for the boy? Was he alone with no one at all to care for him? Even Harry'd had the Dursleys to keep a roof over his head and his clothes laundered. Even if they were castoffs and he'd had to do the laundering himself.
"No," he muttered. "No. I'm being too hasty again." Scowling, he urged his Thestrals on.
By the time he'd gotten the horses lectured on the importance of being prepared for their jobs and released them back into the Forbidden Forest, the Sorting was already underway in the Great Hall.
Professor Hopkirk had gathered all of the first years up in between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables and was reading their names from a long scroll. The Sorting Hat was currently seated on the head of a chubby boy called, 'Burns, Robert.'
Harry sidled in through the door behind the staff table and looked for a place to sit. Hagrid had always sat somewhere near the end of the table, owing to his gargantuan size, but Professor Binns was seated there now, poring over a huge dusty volume. Harry stood on his toes, peering over the assembled professors, and spied Headmaster Dippet at the center of the table. He froze.
The headmaster's head was bent, and he was locked in conversation with a woman who was plainly Professor Dumbledore. She even wore the familiar half-moon spectacles low on her familiar long nose.
A wide-brimmed black witch's hat sat jauntily atop her head, but Harry could see her auburn hair was cut by a few stripes of silver underneath it. Aside from that, she looked no older than Arabella did. In fact, she looked very similar to the barmaid. Her face was long and slim; her skin fair, but rosy. Her eyes were a sharp, twinkling, sky blue.
Aurelia Dumbledore had her long fingers steepled on the tabletop and was intently watching the Sorting Hat, but her lips quirked every so often as she responded to a question from Headmaster Dippet. The man was looking more and more unsettled with each of her answers, but Professor Dumbledore kept the barest hint of a smile on her face as they conversed. Harry's heart went tight as he watched them.
"Have a seat, Mr. Potter!" came a whisper from below him. "Come! Sit here."
Just in front of him, at the table, Professor Merrythought had turned in her chair to indicate an empty seat between her and the round-faced Professor Beery.
"Oh right," muttered Harry, flushing. "Sorry, Professor."
The old woman winked at him. "None of that now—I remember my first Hogwarts feast. I was properly confounded."
Harry tore his gaze away from Professor Dumbledore and the headmaster and slid into the proffered seat. "You didn't attend Hogwarts, Professor?"
"Lord, no," said Professor Merrythought, resting a wrinkled hand on his arm. "Beauxbatons for me. But that was a long time ago." She smiled. "My mother was Greek, you know. And we spent far too much time abroad for me to attend Hogwarts. Though after forty-odd years here, I think I've more than made up for it."
"Oh," said Harry, surprised. He fiddled with his empty plate and goblet. "I've met some students from Beauxbatons…" He paused. "They, er—they didn't think much of Hogwarts."
"The weather is certainly more pleasant in the south of France than Scotland," said Professor Merrythought, "and I do miss the sea, but there is no higher pedigree than this rotten old castle." The sudden grin that tore across her face made her look several decades younger. "There are some fantastic beasts roaming the Grecian countryside, however, and I fully expect to see them again when I've moved on."
Harry could not help but smile back at her. "I hope you do."
From below them, Professor Hopkirk cried, "Fudge, Cornelius!" and Harry's attention was jerked from the kindly Defense professor and off towards the Sorting Hat on its stool.
"Fudge!" cried Professor Hopkirk again, before collapsing in a fit of dry, heaving coughs. He went stumbling into the Ravenclaw table.
The blonde boy who had been arguing with Augusta Portlock on the platform stumped forward from his place in line. He looked even more surly than he had in the rowboat, or when Harry had left him in the antechamber to his friend's incessant pestering.
Harry suppressed a snort. So this little fellow was the future Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. He wondered if something had happened at Hogwarts to turn the boy into such a contemptuous old bungler in fifty years' time.
Cornelius scowled at the Sorting Hat, but lifted it up without hesitation and jammed it onto his head before dropping himself onto the stool. The hat nearly swallowed the boy up; there was only a thin strip of his pale neck visible beneath the brim.
After a moment, the Hat shouted, "Slytherin!"
Harry choked as the Slytherin House table gave a smattering of applause.
Cornelius Fudge tugged the Sorting Hat off his head and hurried over without looking back. From somewhere in the back of the first year assembly, there was a shriek—undoubtedly Augusta taking offense to where the Hat had put her friend.
Cornelius wiggled into the mass of Slytherins, nestling himself near Walburga Black and Mary Riddle. Harry sat up a little straighter, watching.
"You've met our resident prodigy, then?" said Professor Merrythought, noticing Harry's focus on the Slytherin table. "Miss Riddle might be the most brilliant witch to attend Hogwarts since Professor Dumbledore herself. Dead even on their O.W.L.s., you know. Each one of them Outstanding."
"Remarkable," said Harry, though he didn't really find it remarkable. If Tom Riddle had been the brightest student in Hogwarts' history, it stood to reason that Mary Riddle would be the same. If Tom Riddle had been a murderous, narcissistic sociopath, then Mary Riddle would be one as well. He gripped his empty golden goblet until his knuckles went white. "They helped me gather the first years up by the train platform."
"They?" asked Professor Merrythought.
"Riddle and that girl, Walburga Black," said Harry, nodding towards the Slytherin table.
"Ah, Miss Black," said Professor Merrythought, rubbing her chin. "Yes, a pleasant young lady. Rather quiet, though. Not at all like her uncles or her father." She laughed. "They were quite outspoken. Brilliant, too."
"I'm sure she's plenty clever," said Harry, bristling. He didn't know why he wanted to defend Sirius's mother—her portrait had never been very nice to him—but he did. "She's a prefect, after all."
"Is she?" said Professor Merrythought. "How curious. I hadn't known."
There was no malice in the woman's statement. It seemed that the shadow of Mary Margaret Riddle's brilliance was long, and the professor genuinely had no familiarity with quiet Walburga Black. The thought set Harry's teeth on edge. He'd known, of course, that Tom Riddle had every professor—save for Professor Dumbledore—charmed, but to witness it was unsettling. How did they not see through it?
Down at the Slytherin table, Mary Riddle had looked up from where Cornelius Fudge had fit himself between her and Walburga. She met Harry's gaze with her own, flashing that same winsome smile, then promptly turned away.
After the Sorting, where Augusta had joined the Gryffindor table—along with several other familiar names: Longbottom, Prewett, Weasley, and Crouch—the feast commenced at Headmaster Dippet's behest.
Professor Beery offered Harry some advice on tending the gardens: which vegetables flourished during which seasons, which house-elves were the best at trimming and pruning, which fertilizers to use for the most bountiful harvest—and in which dungheaps he might find their ingredients.
Professor Merrythought shared more stories from her youth in the Mediterranean and her escapades in curse-breaking down in the tombs of old Roman and Greek wizards.
Harry asked after Professor Dumbledore's mannerisms as casually as he could but received little insight from the two old professors. Aside from the token mention of her cleverness, they explained that they did not spend much time with the Head of Gryffindor House. Apart from the Headmaster, no one did. She was a pleasant witch, but kept mostly to herself, and had recently taken to disappearing from the school at the oddest of times.
"Armando favors her too much," said Professor Beery. "Grants her anything she likes—but I ask for one— one— little Venomous Tentacula and it's 'Oh, that's much too dangerous for children, Beery. Whyever would they need to learn about carnivorous plants, Beery?'"
So by the middle of the meal, Harry's focus had turned once more to the Slytherin table and Mary Margaret Riddle. He did it as surreptitiously as he could manage, in-between bites of stuffed goose while making idle chatter with Professor Merrythought on the quality of the cooking.
The way the girl had arranged her meal was most curious to him.
It took a few glances, but Harry saw that Riddle had portioned her plate into quarters and had neatly scooped servings of several types of food into place. She'd put some mashed potatoes at the top-left, and some carrots beside those; then below there was a slice of roast beef and beside that one single Yorkshire pudding. Her goblet did not have pumpkin juice. She was drinking milk.
It was like she'd calculated the exact right amounts of each type of food for her meal. Odder still, was that after Riddle had gone through and arranged her plate, she then took her fork and started to blur the divides between each portion, just enough so that if Harry hadn't been watching he would not have realized that she had so deliberately arranged them in the first place.
When dessert came, Harry watched her take a single slice of treacle tart and top it with one scoop of clotted cream. Then, with a motion so quick that he was glad that he'd not looked away to comment on Professor Beery's offer of elderberry wine, Riddle stuck her spoon into the cream and dragged it along the tart and the plate, making it look as though she hadn't measured it all out.
Harry just couldn't make sense of it, but he knew it was evil.
It had to be.
"You should try the éclair, Mr. Potter," said Professor Merrythought. "I do wish they'd had these when I was a girl."
"Oh, er, sure," said Harry, allowing the elderly professor to split the pastry with her fork and slide half onto his dessert plate. "Thank you."
"You could do with a little fattening," said Professor Merrythought seriously. "Much too thin, especially with that forest and the lake to manage." She patted his arm. "I'll be needing a few Grindylows for lessons in November—I don't want them dragging you into the deeps and gobbling you up, now." She leaned forward to shoot a disgruntled look at Professor Kettleburn, a way down the table. "Silvanus is so stingy with his creatures, but I imagine the wild sort will be better for the students to practice with anyhow."
Headmaster Dippet dismissed the students with a warning against entering the Forbidden Forest and advised them to take particular care when speaking with strange wizards on their Hogsmeade visits. He didn't want to send their parents any sorrowful letters.
Harry sat at the table as the professors rose around him, heading off to their quarters for the evening. He stared at his clean, empty plate, debating whether or not he should approach Professor Dumbledore to explain himself.
Had Headmaster Dippet mentioned to her that Harry Potter had taken the post of groundskeeper upon her supposed recommendation? What would she have said to him? He wasn't certain that he could remember everything Arabella had said and had not committed every portion of their story to memory yet.
Professor Dippet gave him a bare nod as he passed down from the table, but made no comment and swept between the House tables and out into the entrance hall.
"That's something, at least," muttered Harry.
If Professor Dumbledore had balked and told the headmaster that she had no idea who 'Harry Potter' was and that she had never given a recommendation for someone by that name, he was sure that Dippet would have come to haul him from the castle by his ear.
Clearly, nothing of the sort had transpired. But should he approach the professor now? And what would he say to Arabella when he saw her again? That he had entirely disregarded their plan?
When Harry looked up again, the staff table was empty, and he was sitting alone with his silverware. There was no Professor Merrythought, Professor Beery, or Professor Dumbledore.
Just beyond the open doors of the Great Hall, the students were milling about, separating off into their cohorts. The prefects were lining up with the first years, likely telling them the passwords for their common rooms, before leading them off.
Harry saw a tall boy with flaming red hair—clearly some sort of Weasley—gathering up the first year Gryffindors near the foot of the staircase.
A pudgy girl with dark blondish hair was beside him counting Ravenclaws.
Walburga Black and a boy who looked similar to her were clustered beside the entrance to the dungeons with the smattering of small new Slytherins.
Mary Margaret Riddle was not with them.
It took Harry a moment to find her in the sea of students.
She stood behind the Weasley boy, on the staircase, leaning casually against the marble banister. He followed her gaze, returning again to Walburga and the new first years. As they started off for the dungeons and the Slytherin common room, Riddle turned and began to ascend the staircase to the first floor. She would be heading to the second soon after.
"Bloody hell!" snarled Harry. "Why already? Why couldn't she wait a few days? Bloody hell."
He was up out of his seat and through the exit behind the staff table before he could properly think. He just barely caught the twinkle of blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles as he slammed the door behind him.
No time for that now.
Harry sprinted down the shallow stairwell and emerged outside. Ignoring the fresh September chill, he ran for the base of the Astronomy Tower, crashing through the hedgerows and kicking up dirt.
His blood was thrumming against his eardrums. He hadn't run in a while, but long months of conditioning made sure that his legs and lungs hadn't forgotten what to do. He hadn't taken this passage in a while, either, and it was nineteen forty-three, but this was Hogwarts. There were no secrets here. He knew where to go.
It was dark. His wand was out.
Light.
The ivy-drenched stone wall of the tower reared up in front of him.
"Come on," he said with a grunt, ripping vines aside. He pressed his fingers into the stone, feeling for the right seam. He ripped another woody vine off the wall.
There.
Harry pressed the stone, hardly waiting for the door to the secret passage to open fully. He was inside taking the stairs two at a time. He could not miss her. If she got in...
Two.
Four.
Six.
Hurry up.
Eight.
Ten.
Twelve.
Harry pitched himself into a blank section of stone with all his weight, swinging the loose section of wall forward forcefully; he knocked the portrait of a monk staring into his monastery's well clean off the inside of the second-floor corridor's wall.
"Sorry!" he gasped at the monk's bewildered cry.
He was outside the girls' lavatory in three strides.
No Riddle. Good. Good?
Inside next.
He threw the door to the lavatory open.
It was the same as the second-floor girls' lavatory he knew so well—save for its pristine state and the absence of Moaning Myrtle.
There was a row of clean, freshly painted blue stalls along one wall. Opposite them was a row of spotless white sinks. The mirror above was free of cracks and spots and sparkled under the enchanted white light of the ceiling.
The doors to the stalls were slightly open. That was also a good sign. Harry's gaze locked onto the sink at the end of the row, across from where Myrtle's stall was—would be—wouldn't be—not if he had any say in how things would go this time.
There was nothing odd about the sink to the untrained eye. It was just like the other sinks, except... yes there. On the underside of the hot water tap was a little snake.
Harry turned it on—no water.
He nodded... and wrenched the tap off the sink. The flood started at once, a torrent, as though warm water had been waiting for centuries to erupt from this spout.
As the sink filled, far too quickly to be properly drained, Harry moved to the next sink and wrenched the tap off that one, too, grunting. He repeated this down the line until his hands were red and scraped.
The water was running onto the tiles, now, into the drain at the center of the floor. He tossed the broken taps to the ground, all save the one with the snake etched on it, and turned to leave.
Behind him, the door to Myrtle's stall creaked open.
He half-turned, looking in the mirror.
And Harry's heart dropped into his stomach, then shot up into his throat, nearly choking him.
"How am I to wash my hands now, Mr. Potter?" said Mary Margaret Riddle, emerging from the stall. She shook her head and made a sharp clucking sound with her tongue. "And my shoes will be ruined. Dreadful. I don't have the money for new ones, you know." Taking in his bewildered stare, the girl smiled and tucked a strand of her dark hair behind an ear. Too innocently, she continued, "I wouldn't have come in here if I knew it was out of order."
"How—why—" Harry struggled for words. He raised a hand to run it through his hair and dropped the snake tap into the water pooling at his feet.
Riddle's eyes snapped onto it like a kingfisher who'd spied a tasty frog in her pond. Harry crouched to grab it, just as the girl raised her wand. He knew it almost before she swished the thing. She was going to summon it.
"Expelliarmus," said Harry quickly.
Riddle's eyes went wide. She didn't summon the tap. She hissed something else. A dart of purple light swelled at the tip of her wand—her yew and phoenix feather wand.
"Bollocks," whispered Harry.
The golden thread that he'd seen far too many times sprang into existence between them; his wand began to hum against his palm. He tried to wrench it free, but too late; the first little bead of gold appeared on the thread.
Mary Riddle's eyes were slate-gray teacup saucers, but she did not back down.
Harry firmed his will.
The golden beads formed and surged across the thread—away from him. Riddle's past spells began to drip from their joined wands, just echoes, but distinct. There were jinxes... cast somewhere on the Hogwarts Express, then shrinking charms for her trunk... and mending charms for her clothes. Summoning spells. Banishing charms. A stirring spell for a potion bubbling silently under a window with a cracked pane.
Riddle's back was against the lavatory wall.
Her forehead was beaded with fresh sweat; one broke and tracked down her temple and down her cheek to mix with the spray from the faucet.
The golden thread wavered. The golden beads trembled... and began to slow. They came to a stop.
Riddle straightened her back against the wall.
Had she worked it out already?
He felt the golden beads begin to resist.
"No," said Harry softly.
He wrenched his wand free. The golden thread fractured and disappeared. Quickly, he bent to snatch the snake faucet up from the ground. The Slytherin girl remained stiff, breathing heavily through her nostrils.
"What was that?" breathed Riddle. She pushed away from the wall and splashed forward through the pooling faucet water. Her face was blank. "Tell me."
"This lavatory is out of order, Miss Riddle," said Harry, slipping the copper piece into his pocket. "I'd find another." He moved for the door... but paused. Nothing terrible had come from her wand. Nothing he wouldn't have done himself being at school or on holiday. He grimaced. "I'm sorry about your shoes."
Harry passed through the door, conjuring a little wooden sign as he shut it behind him: OUT OF ORDER.
He pulled his glasses off and squeezed at his temples, walking down the corridor to the knocked-over portrait of the monk and his well. He set it back in place and eased the section of the wall open again.
"I hope Ogg had something to drink stashed away in that cabin," Harry muttered as he slipped into the passage. "Or else I might have to visit the Hog's Head." He let a mad little chuckle out as he started to descend the stairway. "She might get the wrong idea."
"I'm sure Mr. Ogg had an old bottle of Ogden's finest hidden away somewhere," said a soft voice from behind him. "Let us see if we can't turn it up."
Harry whirled, stumbling on the steps, his wand swinging up.
"None of that now, Mr. Potter," said Professor Dumbledore, her eyes gleaming blue in the dim light of her raised wand. "I am truly interested in what you have to say for yourself."
She smiled, and Harry noticed immediately that her smile was not familiar. It was not the amused, inquisitive, gentle smile that Albus Dumbledore had worn. It was hungry. And wary; and proud—like a lion's.
Professor Dumbledore approached, taking each step down with surety, never moving her eyes from his. "I wouldn't like to make a mess of this fine passage—and you'll have to tell me how a man who has purportedly never been to Hogwarts knows so very much about its secrets."
Harry stuffed his wand back into his pocket, his frustration nearing its peak, and threw his hands up. "Oh, just bloody kill me if you want. I've had just about enough for today, thank you."
Professor Dumbledore chuckled. "I've said that I wouldn't like to make a mess in here, Mr. Potter." She reached forward and turned him to face the stairs. "Not that I would kill you. I assure you, I am quite deliberate in my speech." Appearing at his shoulder, she winked. "Any sort of murder or injury will have to wait for after."
