Attending to school books belonging to or donated to the school students had brought back at the beginning of the year was a thankless, Sisyphean task of patching them back together after creative students had employed them for tasks generally unsuited for books. They were impromptu quaffles, door stoppers, weapons, used for flower-pressing and concealing love letters.
It made her quite irritable, and the fact that she had to pick up the book in her colleague's office did not make it better. The teacher was quietly working in front of her, leaving her alone, but the constant feeling she should say something and the inability to come up with a topic vexed her.
Why had she agreed to it? It made her seem too eager and was less practical than just having house-elves do the job! And something was obviously leaking air or imitating the sound of the seaside, it was maddening. She ignored it for fifteen minutes, then snapped.
"I say, what is that noise?"
The other witch, behind her desk, raised an eyebrow.
"Noise?"
She put down her quill and listened, frowning, for a long time, and then shook her head, the feather on top of her hat bouncing left and right as she did so. "I can't hear anything, Irma, it's absolutely quiet."
The librarian felt foolish, and eager to make sure that the Professor did not believe she was off her mind.
"It's... it's like a soft hiss," Irma said, sounding rather more certain than she felt.
Professor McGonagall – even now that they were colleagues never Minerva, Irma couldn't bring herself to, looked at her, brows furrowed.
"That is odd, I can't hear anything. Of course, there is one possibility. Wait, let me just – " and she had gotten up, stepped around her desk with determined strides and put her cool hands on Irma's ears. The librarian's stomach jerked and she stiffened at the strange hands touching her skin, forcing herself not to flinch away or fight. It would be rude. After some time of listening and staring into the witches' earnest, warm, and far too close eyes, her expression remained puzzled.
"It's still there!" Irma said, conscious of the fact that the woman must feel her breath on her cheek. What was the last thing she'd eaten? Would the teacher be able to tell? Would she mind? Was it rude to speak, so close to a person's face?
"Then it must be in your ear rather than outside of it," Professor McGonagall stated, the sound of her voice muffled slightly by her hands. To Irma's relief, a mild scent of tea was on her breath. "Has anything happened to your ears lately? Any loud noises?"
"No."
Professor McGonagall removed her fingers. The warmth lingered on her cheek for a long time after that, and the soft hiss was still present, strangely comforting.
"Any encounters with Peeves, maybe? He has been making the rounds with Honking Daffodils."
"No."
"You should see Poppy," the witch said earnestly. "She will be able to tell if there is anything to worry about."
Poppy. Irma was certain she heard that Minerva's voice had sounded softer when she said that name. Not "Madam Pomfrey". Poppy. A nurse. A person who fussed and bustled and touched. Irma bristled.
"Oh, it is probably nothing," she said hurriedly, but the Deputy Headmistress looked at her sternly.
Irma remembered her place and went to see the nurse.
Poppy Pomfrey did bustle, and she did touch, but only her ears.
"There is no injury or illness causing this, as far as I can determine," she said, staring at her critically. "How long have you been aware of this?"
"I have never been as aware of it as I was today, but I can remember hearing similar sounds when I was younger," Irma said, deliberately vague.
"Can you remember when it started? Were you ever exposed to a very loud noise as a child?"
Irma went through her memories in search of loud noises. What was loud? Compared to Hogwarts, everything had been. Her parents in the room next door, engaging in discussions and more private past-times one did not think about. Her siblings and her fighting, playing and rampaging through their room. Stray spells, the sound of a belt on skin, a hand crashing into her ear, a jug smashing on the cobbles. Shrieks in the dark, the wailing of a newborn. What was the loudest? She filed through them one by one, then decided she was not willing to go into any of them. She shook her head.
"Not that I am aware of. As far as I know, it has always been there, just that it was usually not quiet enough," Irma said. "To hear the sound."
"Well, the walls of Professor McGonagall's quarters are protected by a mild silencing charm," Madam Pomfrey said. "It's more quiet in them than elsewhere in the castle, I'd think."
Irma nodded curtly, but there was a strange lightness inside her. Professor McGonagall, she noted. Not Minerva. And a silencing charm. It made perfect sense. What a delightful idea! She thanked Madam Pomfrey and left.