Prisoners of Azkaban, Probationary Diaries August 2009, Prisoners #19-09-1979 and #09-01-1960

oooOooo

August 24, 2009

This morning I walked to Hogsmeade with Severus. At the Three Broomsticks he turned right to enter the kitchen through the backdoor, while I walked past the pub to the Owl office. On the pub's front door I noticed the remnants of a graffiti. "Prison bait" it said.

I owled off my application to be employed as Minerva McGonagall's assistant to the DMLE. Madam Clif-Wyrt wished me luck.

Outside Madam Agan waited for me. Although it wasn't really cold, perhaps 17°C, she was wrapped in a thick cloak. I approached her. (If she wanted to kill us in broad daylight, she could have done so already.)

"Thank you," I said, showing my hands. The cuts are deep, but clean. She nodded, a strange, swaying gesture—she's very tall. Looking at her closely today, I realised her eyes aren't black, actually. Her pupils are huge, the iris reduced to a circle, that's all. Her eye colour is amber, almost golden. Disconcerting, but beautiful.

"And for sending me to Minerva McGonagall," I added.

Again, Agan silently inclined her head.

"Why are you helping us?" I asked. "You don't know us at all!"

She ignored my question. Instead she inquired: "The Prophet writes today that the Minister's son is alive after all. He is the one that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named loved, is that so?"

Shocked, I exclaimed: "Voldemort loved Draco?!?"

She jerked backwards. "No. Not the Lord Protector. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." She swallowed convulsively. "Harry Potter."

That made me laugh.

And when I stopped laughing—cry.

Agan just stood and watched me.

At last I calmed down. "Yes," I replied. I realised that I miss Draco. How strange. Eleven years or—eleven years ago, Draco and Harry may have been lovers, but Draco and I were less than friends. "Yes," I repeated. "They were lovers."

Agan nodded again. Then she turned wordlessly and glided away. I shivered—had I endangered Draco by answering her question? But it is all over the papers, not exactly a secret anymore…

The afternoon I spent with Minerva.

I talked to her.

Eleven years or—she asked me to call her Minerva before the Final Battle. I remember how self-conscious I felt. I don't think I managed more than once or twice. Now—eleven years or nearly 136 months or 590 weeks or 4,132 days later—it is easy.

I believe Minerva enjoyed hearing my voice. Annie Maddock is affectionate and well-spoken for a house-elf, but her ways of expressing solicitousness are naturally different from a human's.

After feeding Minerva her dinner (leftover Hairst Bree), Annie hovered her upstairs into her bedroom. She told me to let down Minerva's hair and to brush it. Now silver streaked with black, it's still beautiful and silky. I counted the brush strokes. Gentle murmurs. Soothing strokes. One hundred.

Afterwards, I stood with my hands on her shoulders, lost in thought. That's probably why I didn't recognise the sound right away.

I'm sure I heard it, though. Very softly, and only for a moment.

But Minerva purred.

oooOooo

A/N: Many thanks to Ayerf for looking this over.