Prisoners of Azkaban, Probationary Diaries August 2009, Prisoners #19-09-1979 and #09-01-1960
oooOooo
August 21, 2009
We've made the frontpage of the Daily Prophet.
What surprises me is how long it took them.
They more than made up for the delay with those new techniques you marvelled at when we stayed with Draco: wizarding photographs that don't move randomly but show a scene chronologically.
In colour.
With sound.
They caught you frozen on the sidewalk, paralysed by your squares and lines.
And me sweating over a pot in the kitchen of the Three Broomsticks.
Predictably, there was not a single order of my cock-a-leekie soup today. You just shrugged and said that you don't mind eating it all week. After eleven years in Azkaban, I don't, either. But how long will I keep my job if no one will eat my soups? And Blaise Zabini has owled his regrets; he cannot vouch for me. His position is precarious due to his part-Veela wife. Lucius may not be Voldemort, and Gabrielle's beauty alone should secure her and her husband's freedom, but Lucius hasn't been in office for a hundred days yet. And they have three young children. The risks they dare take are limited.
However, they did promise to do everything for us that is within their powers.
You say that's something.
But you're—euphoric.
Schrödinger is purring on your lap, and you've been to visit Minerva again today. Tomorrow Padma has promised to take you to Hogwarts, and Milly has already filed the paperwork to vouch for you. I don't think I've seen you count anything yet today! And whatever it was that Agan poured over your hand—it has worked. The cuts are clean now, and for the time being at least, they scab over quickly…which is more than I can say for my own wounds. I have been reduced to wearing Muggle band-aids.
…that you threaten to adorn with little lions. A suggestion that should annoy me and delight me.
But I am weary.
When I walk towards our cottage each evening, I find it hard to concentrate on its green door and satin-green shutters. Somewhere, just a breath, just a blink away, is another door painted Gryffindor-red that promises peace…solace…
Instead, we gulped down a bowl of cock-a-leekie soup, and you Apparated with me to the former western gatehouse of Hogwarts.
My first impression: How can she be so small? But even in human form, she seems no more than a kitten, curled into herself.
I forced myself to enter her mind.
Her eyes are wide open.
Yet shut.
(Like mine were, I expect, most of these eleven years in Azkaban.)
In Minerva's mind I found:
Content dreaming in front of the fireplace. Paws twitching due to dangers past, mice caught, masters escaped from. The joy of juicy meat, thick gravy, chunks of cheese. But also the bone-deep, chilling ache of loneliness. Perhaps, after eleven years, only the very marrow of her bones still recalls that she once was human, that she once fought for the Light.
She needs you.
But so do I.
oooOooo
A/N: Many thanks to Mia Madwyn for looking this over.
Further notes:
# A recipe vid for cock-a-leekie soup is here: http:// video. stv. tv/bc/scotland-recipes-20080530-scottish-recipe-cockaleekie-soup/