Prisoners of Azkaban, Probationary Diaries August 2009, Prisoners #19-09-1979 and #09-01-1960
oooOooo
August 18, 2009
What a strange day today has been. Not the day as such; it was a perfectly normal Tuesday in the Scottish Highlands in August. Heavy rain with bright spots later in the day. But my day, today as I experienced it, has been strange. Very strange.
On my lap a kneazle-kitten with tiger stripes and leopard spots is purring. I've called him Schrödinger.
Not because I understand the problem of Schrödinger's cat, but because I remember my father trying to explain it to me. It is an experiment with a cat in a box. At one point the cat in the box is dead and alive at the same time. Until you open the box.
I am that cat.
I am dead and alive at the same time.
And I am afraid that I will remain in that box forever.
Schrödinger is one of three gifts Millicent Bulstrode gave me today. She came to tea today, just as she had promised.
It was awkward.
We were not friends, before. In fact, in terms of childhood relationships, we must be considered arch-enemies. We even got into a catfight once, complete with name-calling, hair-pulling, pinching, scratching, and hissing.
Strange, how that memory makes me smile today.
When we got to the point where two women who meet for tea or coffee compliment each other on their outfit or physical appearance, I was at a loss. I wasn't good at this game before.
And now…
The years have not been kind to Millicent. She was always a…big girl. Ron used to make fun of her, calling her fat and frumpy, a hag, all kinds of nasty names. Now I can see that she was simply born to be a woman of generous curves. This bony, haggard look does not suit her at all.
She broke the silence first, her tone wry: "You make a great wraith, Granger. Do you think I can blow you away if I try hard enough?"
Upon which I retorted: "I'm sure you'd be a great valet stand. Or perhaps a scratching post?"
We stared at each other.
When we were children, this would have been the moment to draw our wands. Today, we started laughing.
After we finally calmed down, Millicent put a crate on the table and gazed at me with a solemn expression. "I'll always remember how you saved my Tigger. And him just a cat, not even a half-kneazle as your Crookshanks was."
She opened the box.
"I'm a licensed breeder now," she added. "Cats and Kneazles. This one's the runt of my spring litters."
Then she scowled. "He's yours."
That was the first gift.
We sat down, had tea, talked. Millicent narrowly avoided being branded a half-blood. Thanks to her mother's second—pure-blood—husband, blood magic, and Dark adoption rites that leave her eyes dead and empty when she talks about her past.
"Therefore I can vouch for you," she announced. "And I will."
That was the second gift.
Her third gift was a book.
oooOooo
A/N: Many thanks to Mia Madwyn for looking this over.
Further notes:
# I probably understand Schrödinger's cat even less than Hermione, but the description of that thought experiment fit her situation so perfectly I couldn't resist. For more information, please refer to Wikipedia as a starting place for your research.