Disclaimer: Some of the characters and past events described in this story are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

12: Let's Floo

July 1994

After a few days of relaxation, Viola packed her things. She was leaving home, probably for good. It took one small trunk to transport all her garments (robes took up much space) that had grown in number since her mother earned sufficiently but were still not nearly as much as most witches her age owned. A second trunk swallowed some books (Viola always dreamed of a huge collection, but her about thirty volumes were a rather poor start), photos, and other personal items. It was not much. She would neither take any furniture nor towels, bedding, cooking utensils, or any of these things with her. As Åge's apprentice, she was invited (and perhaps even expected) to live with his family in the castle. Viola could not suppress a smile at the thought. It was a dream come true. Seldom had she looked forward to anything so much.

Her mother was in the kitchen, preparing a festive family dinner to see her off properly. Since Viola was going to be merely a Floo travel away from her, she found the idea a bit strange. Her mother was not usually the sentimental kind of woman. Perhaps it was her way of ensuring equal treatment of her two daughters. Agnetha's good-bye feast had been her wedding, and since it was uncertain if and when Viola would step in front of the altar, the little dinner with her grandparents, her sister and her husband, her aunt, and her mother was presumably a way to demonstrate that her mother wished her as much luck in her future as she wished Agnetha.

It had been Viola's task to prepare the dessert, her speciality, but she had done so already in the morning, so that she had plenty of time to check her packing once more. Eventually, she pronounced her work done, and went down to help her mother.

All in all, the evening was jolly. Aunt Camilla had a way of entertaining a whole company of people all by herself, and so the time flew by quickly. Søren made a sceptical comment or two about Viola's plans, but she ignored him. In fact, she believed he and Agnetha looked less happy than they had in the past. It was two years since they had married, and Agnetha was still not carrying a child. To Viola that did not seem unusual – after all, her sister was only nineteen, not everyone wanted to become a mother at such a young age – but she had a feeling that the Blåblods had different priorities.

It was a little past eight when there came sounds from the small entrance hall, indicating the arrival of Viola's 'mover'. They finally were connected to the Floo network again. The girl jumped up to greet Åge, only to find that he had not come alone. Reg was with him. 'Miss Søgaard,' he greeted her and gave a hint of a bow with a mischievous smile on his face.

Viola's mother came into the entrance hall and bid the newcomers to greet the other guests as well; which they did. She had met Viola's new superior already at the signing of the contract, after which she had been led through the castle so that she knew where her daughter would spend the next years of her life. After getting to know Mr. Mørkskov and seeing the housings he dwelled in and offered to Viola, Mrs. Søgaard's doubts towards her daughter's choice had diminished noticeably.

When Viola showed the two wizards her trunks, Åge looked surprised. 'Well,' he commented, 'that I really could have managed on my own.'

Reg chuckled. 'I told you Miss Søgaard is a humble young lady and you won't need my help with her baggage.' He looked up at the young lady in question and shrugged, his face still lit with an impish light. 'He wouldn't listen…'

Viola smiled and blushed a little at the idea of two adult wizards spending their time pondering over her worthless belongings.

With a wink, Reg charmed invisible wings on one of the trunks (by means of Wingardium Leviosa, that is, of course) and walked back down the stairs toward the Floo with it flying ahead. With a polite nod for her mother, he disappeared in green flames.

Viola said good-bye to her relatives; then she looked at Åge for direction. 'After you,' he motioned for her to go ahead. With a light tremble in her hand, Viola took some Floo powder. With a decisive exclamation of 'Mørkskov borg!' (since she had not done a lot of Floo travelling yet, she was a little too concerned with speaking clearly), she threw it into the fire and stepped into the green light.

Strong hands caught her when she stumbled out of the fireplace in the study and gently led her aside, so that she was not standing in the way for the next arrival. Her heart was pounding fiercer than usual in excitement. Yet, she was not as excited as she supposed she would have been had she chosen to go elsewhere. Viola was not facing the complete unknown. She knew the castle, knew some of its inhabitants. It made her feel safe in this new chapter of her life.

The dark haired potions master stepped through the Floo a moment later, her second trunk in tow. 'Shall we show you to your room, then?' he proposed.

Viola smiled in agreement. During her stay one year ago, she had gotten a better idea of the castle's layout. She knew that the study was situated on the first floor, next to the entrance hall that naturally spanned ground floor and first floor and to one of the two library towers. On the opposite side of the entrance hall, beyond the second library tower, were the Potions Master's chambers.

However, the three of them turned left, away from the entrance hall. They passed the painting of a Chinese Fireball that hung right next to the door of the study and walked further along the corridor. It was a rather narrow passage, but fortunately, there were several windows on the right side facing the inner courtyard, so that Viola did not feel trapped between the massive walls. To their left, they passed another door and a painting of a young woman patting a kneazle. The strawberry blond lady curtsied to Åge, who nodded absent-mindedly, his eyes already looking at the next portrait that hung behind a turn to the right next to a third door. Here, he halted and even sketched a bow to the portrait's inhabitant.

The gentleman in the heavy, golden frame had a long, white beard that was parted in the middle, a long, crooked nose, and Åge's dark eyes. In fact, Åge's nose was quite pronounced as well, though not as much as that of 'Egil the Disciplined', as which the label beneath the frame introduced him. The man that had passed away more than five and a half centuries ago, as the label also revealed, was dressed in rich fur and looked at the trio in front of him expectantly.

'Forefather,' Åge addressed him, 'this is my new apprentice, Miss Viola Søgaard.'

'A maiden? Highly unusual, highly unusual, though intriguing…' Egil commented.

'Viola,' Åge continued, 'this is one of my most accomplished forefathers and in fact the builder of this castle. He has kindly agreed to stand guard in front of one of the two entrances that lead to my storerooms and potions lab. I expect you'll see a lot of each other from now on.'

Uncertain of the conduct that was expected of her, Viola coppied the kneazle-owner's curtsy. 'Pleased to meet you, sir.'

The elderly man looked benevolently out of his frame down on her, apparently pleased, and lifted his thick fur hat in return greeting. Viola noticed a big, golden signet ring on his hand. Åge wore it these days.

'I think we'll leave the tour through our working area till tomorrow. It's late, you will want to unpack and make yourself at home,' Åge reasoned and bid them go further down the corridor. They passed the portrait of a snoring, corpulent elderly witch, next to which another door led to a room to the left. Åge opened it quietly to not disturb the painting's occupant and lit his wand to illuminate it properly. 'This will be your bathroom. You'll have it mostly to yourself, unless Reg stays overnight.' The room's windows faced out to one of the nettle fields. Inside, there was a bathtub that was large enough for two people and everything else one required in a bathroom.

They moved on to the nearby end of the corridor where the last door finally led to Viola's room. And what a room it was! Viola was always astounded by the scale of the rooms in the castle, but she had not expected to be assigned such huge quarters! The fireplace was situated directly to their left, next to the door. In front of it were placed four beautiful, old-fashioned, velvet armchairs around a circular table. A long bookshelf divided the room. Behind it stood a large four-poster bed that immediately called for Viola to bury herself in the cushions. Also in the sleeping area, opposite of the door in the far corner of the room in a niche, was a spacious wardrobe. All in all, this 'room' resembled a small apartment. Viola strode through her quarters with big steps, turning about and taking everything in, decorating the place after her own taste in her imagination.

After a moment, she pulled herself out of her reverie and thanked Åge profusely.

'Make yourself at home,' the Potions Master encouraged her. 'You are of course free to change whatever you want in the furnishings. Reg and I have a few things to discuss in my study. Perhaps you would like to join us there for a welcoming drink later?'

.~*~.

Charlie flicked his wand and made a number of rolled up socks fly on top of his full travel sack. Six weeks off duty! It had taken him a good bit of work to convince Reg to let him go for such a long period of time after he'd already had had a whole month off in a row last summer – after all, summer was the time when everyone wanted to go on holiday and they were notoriously understaffed. In the end, he assumed rather immodestly, he had only been able to convince Reg, because he had really impressed him with his good performance on the job.

The redhead looked very much forward to six weeks in his old home. He wouldn't spend the whole time at his parents' house, no – it was the Quidditch World Cup, and he had tickets to several of the games! Charlie was going to spend the time with some old friends of his from school camping.

However, there would also be visits to the motherly kitchen for some proper home cooked meals. Hell, he was looking forward to that. No matter how much he enjoyed the freedom of the dragon keeper's life, it definitely lacked homely comforts. It was about time that the new settlement was finished. About half of the dragon keepers, mostly those with families, had already moved into new homes, but Charlie was amongst those who still lived in the old quarters.

The new settlement looked promising; a place you could feel at home in. It was already planned well – with a little park and playground, a pub, shops and so forth. Yet the people started to make it their own. They gave it a special flair. Gardens were decorated with flowers and used for growing vegetables and keeping chickens. Marion, the wife of Gerd, was an artist and had designed a moving statue of a Romanian Longhorn for the small town square. The inn was named 'The Roaring Fire' and offered live music every Saturday.

When Charlie stepped out of his wooden hut, he saw Reg just coming out of his office. He waved to him and shouted, 'Your last chance: we've still got a spare ticket for England against Transylvania on Tuesday.'

Reg answered with his – by now – usual joyless smirk and shake of the head. They'd been over it several times. No matter what Charlie said, he could not talk his boss into coming to the world cup. Reg feigned a lack of interest in Quidditch, but Charlie didn't buy it. He'd rarely seen a better flyer. And where else did you learn to fly so well if not on the Quidditch pitch?

Still, try as he might, he bit on granite. 'Have a great time and don't forget the weekend of the 6th,' Reg bid him good-bye.

Yes, Charlie had dropped hints again and again that he wanted to learn how to gain control over a dragon the way Reg had done it when they'd first met. For a long time, the man had entirely ignored him. Yet eventually Reg had given in – demanding absolute secrecy from Charlie – and promised to make him privy to the knowledge on the first weekend in August. Charlie couldn't remember ever being so excited. This was a once in a lifetime chance!

.~*~.

'Nooooo!' Charlie and his friends shouted at the same time together with half the viewers in the stadium. It couldn't be! What was Frisby doing there? This was the fourth time that the Transylvanian chasers tricked him! Shouldn't he have learned by now not to fall for their feints? It was embarrassing! Ten to one hundred and forty – if Parkin didn't catch that snitch soon, they'd have no chance of saving this game.

.~*~.

The day before the big day. The Quiddtich World Cup Final! His dad was off to fetch Harry Potter, and the twins had somehow managed to convince him to take them along, filling his ear with talks of wanting to see a Muggle household. Yeah right. Sometimes good old Dad really was too soft.

Charlie was sitting in the kitchen and chatting with Bill when the kitchen fire flared up and turned green, announcing the return of the explorers. Fred stepped out of the harmless flames first, a mischievous grin plastered all over his face. A moment later, a heavy trunk crashed onto the kitchen floor with George in tow. The twins locked eyes, and Fred rubbed his hands in glee.

'What did you do?' Charlie asked while helping Fred to move the trunk with the initials 'HP' on its lid to the side, though he guessed he'd hear about it soon enough.

'Err, it's too early to say.' George walked over to the kitchen table and, pouring himself a glass of pumpkin juice, dropped into one of the chairs. As soon as Ron came through, he took a seat, too, to get away from the fireplace.

However, he wouldn't have needed to rush like that, for they waited several minutes for the fire to flare up once again. A moment later, a boy of Ron's age but somewhat shorter and skinnier collided with the kitchen floor.

Holding a hand out to help him up, Fred asked excitedly, 'Did he eat it?'*

The boy straightened up and brushed the soot from his clothes. 'Yeah,' he replied with a questioning note in his voice. 'What was it?'* he enquired while he took off his glasses to wipe them on his too big t-shirt.

Fred's grin grew even wider, prouder. 'Ton-Tongue Toffee', he replied. 'George and I invented them, we've been looking for someone to test them on all summer…'*

They all started to laugh. After spending a day with luminous green hairs and eyebrows, Charlie had known better than to eat any sweets at the Burrow, no matter if they were offered by the twins directly or merely innocently lying around.

He noticed that the newcomer's eyes – freshly bespectacled – now wandered over to him and Bill. 'How're you doing, Harry?'* he greeted him and held out his hand.

The boy took it shyly, not giving an answer but merely staring at the signs of Charlie's daily work with the dragons. He shook Bill's hand with the same awe in his face.

Mr. Weasley apparated with a pop. Yes, and there was that face that Charlie had seen coming. After raising three boys, his father really should know better, although Fred and George admittedly played in a league of their own. 'That wasn't funny, Fred!' Weasley senior exploded – a rare occurrence. 'What on earth did you give that Muggle boy?'*

Ah, and there Fred made the fatal mistake on his part: if you want to hush things up before the matron of the house hears about them, you really shouldn't put on that grin that clearly says that you planned it all while you're denying just that.

'I didn't give him anything! I just dropped it… it was his fault he went and ate it, I never told him to.' Tsk, really not a good strategy.

'You dropped it on purpose!' Mr Weasley roared. Charlie leaned back a bit to protect his ears. 'You knew he'd eat it, you knew he was on a diet-'

'How big did his tongue get?' George asked eagerly. Charlie shared a pained look with Bill. Those two really had to learn a lot. Although… It did require a special talent to rile their father up like that. Neither of them had ever managed that. Or attempted it.

'It was four foot long before his parents would let me shrink it!' Wow, impressive!

For all his shouting, Mr Weasley's usually so placable demeanour undermined his authority in this instant. Everyone fell into laughter again. 'It isn't funny!' Mr Weasley insisted desperately amongst the roar of the voices around the table. 'That sort of behaviour seriously undermines wizard-Muggle relations! I spend half my life campaigning against the mistreatment of Muggles, and my own sons–'*

'We didn't give it to him because he was a Muggle!'* said Fred indignantly, the first sensible thing he'd come up with so far.

George immediately spoiled the effect. 'No, we gave it to him because he's a great bullying git.' He turned to the boy still standing near the fireplace. 'Isn't he, Harry?'*

That Harry Potter spoke up for them did not safe the twins. Now Mr Weasley resorted to the ultimate weapon: 'Wait until I tell your mother!'* he threatened. And to Charlie's dismay, she immediately appeared. Now the whole performance really lost its appeal. Quietly, giving a sign to Bill, he crept off his chair and stole out of the kitchen.

.~*~.

One would think that with all that duelling training at the dragon reservation Charlie was up to the task of meeting and defeating a rabid band of Death Eater in cooperation with a whole troupe of Ministry Wizards. One would also think that it would go quickly and without any casualties. Yet at the end of that long night, the Death Eaters had escaped, Bill had scored a deep gash in his arm, and the Dark Mark was looming over the woods near the campsite of the Quidditch World Cup. What was happening?

Charlie yawned as the stood in line for the portkey. While he could easily have Apparated back home, his father had told them to stick together after last night's events. And Charlie was perfectly fine with not having to be the one to calm his mother who certainly sat at home and worried.

In light of all the commotion at home, Charlie had half a mind to get back to Romania a week early. Reg would certainly appreciate both the extra hand in the reservation as well as his first hand news. Yet when Mr Weasley declared that he would go to work on his holiday, Charlie knew that he was needed at the Burrow. On top, he'd also received an owl from Reg a week into his own holidays asking him to take over the arrangements for a special event at Hogwarts that would require the loaning of three dragons. It was the first time that Reg passed such an important task on to him.

In the first year of her apprenticeship, Viola turned eighteen and accomplished to secure herself a number of regular responsibilities as Åge's assistant, such as brewing Pepper-up potion, preparing burn-salve, and restocking the potion stores in the multiple reservations. Three times four hours the week she spent with Åge, either harvesting and processing ingredients or working on potions. The rest of the time was hers to spend freely on her multiple tasks. At the beginning, this reduction of guidance and rules made Viola uneasy. Suddenly she had to determine what was right. Yet Åge's approval soon laid her doubts to rest, and the young witch started enjoying her master's trust and the freedom it gave her.

Viola set up weekly meetings with her quartet. Now that all of them had left school, nothing could keep them from rehearsing regularly. They met by turns in each member's homes, the moated castle included. One of its guest rooms held a grand piano, so it quickly became their music room. In fact, the room was right beneath Viola's quarters and could be easily accessed via a small spiralling staircase. Viola could enter the narrow corridor that held the staircase through a door next to her bed. Through it, she also reached the owlery of which she was allowed to make free use, as well as the dining room. All in all, her living arrangements were perfect. Still, she sometimes wished for more liveliness in the old halls.

She had, for example, hoped to see more of Reg. As it was, he came by perhaps once a month for dinner, sometimes staying overnight. Hearing that he had a room of his own in the castle (the door to it was right next to the painting of the young lady patting the kneazle) had initially raised Viola's hopes of seeing him on a regular basis, but a glimpse into the room itself had soon confirmed the obvious: it looked as un-lived-in as it was. Yet they upheld the exchange of letters that they had begun during Viola's last year at school. In addition, Viola now also fought a 'quill fight', as they'd dubbed it, with Adelaida, her Hungarian friend who still had to sit her final year at Beauxbatons.

Yet quill fights only brought so much excitement. What Viola longed for was going out with friends; someone in her close proximity that she could visit and chat with at will. There was, however, no wizarding settlement near the castle to make new contacts in.

During one of his visits in November, she told Reg about her discontentment. The two of them sat in the library; Babette and Åge had already withdrawn for the night. Viola tried to gain an hour or two alone with Reg as often as the opportunity arose, cherishing his insights.

The dragon keeper crossed his legs leisurely and smiled, a drink in his right hand. 'Hm, well, I can hardly conjure up some friends for you, but I'm sure I could find some distraction…' He had this playful, teasing air about him that Viola had quickly grown fond of.

'Such as…?' she prompted him to go on, leaning over the armrest of her armchair in a manner of conspiring with her companion.

Reg calmly sipped his drink. 'Wait and see… Sunday evening?'

Viola straightened and folded her arms. 'Fine. But you'll have to tell me a little more or else I won't know what to wear.'

A smug smile tugged at Reg's lips. 'I'll get you something.'

.~*~.

A week later found Viola clinging to Reg's proffered arm in a set of muggle clothes that she did not quite know what to think of. Either they were the wrong size or muggle fashion was truly bizarre. In fact, what Reg had picked for her would have been frowned upon as too conservative by most muggle girls of her age and was a little too large (for what does a wizard know of female muggle clothes?), but for a young witch who was used to wearing wide robes, they were uncomfortably tight. However, when they entered the noisy pub in the heart of København to which Reg had taken her, Viola spotted several women who were dressed alike.

The room was crowded, and the air was filled with a strange scent that bit unpleasantly in Viola's airways. She soon found the source of it: many of the patrons blew grey-blue smoke that they drew from slim, smouldering sticks into the room. Next to the bar, a small group of musicians played a kind of music that sounded unfamiliar to Viola's ears.

Reg steered her to a tiny corner table where they sat down. A small menu advertised a large number of diverse alcoholic drinks of which Viola knew none and a miniscule number of dishes. A quarter of an hour later, two bowls of lamb stew steamed on their table, next to a pint of Irish ale and a glass of 'ginger ale' that Reg swore was despite its name non-alcoholic. By then, Viola had grown accustomed to the polluted air and started enjoying the symbiosis of violin, drums and flute that wound its way through smoke and chatter to her ears.

They talked little that night. It appeared to Viola as if Reg had simply taken her along on a foray into the Muggle world that he had planned to undertake anyway in order to provide her with the distraction she desired. There was no forced attentiveness; the evening was casual, and Reg seemed at ease with their surroundings.

At some point, spirits in the pub reached a high point, and two couples started dancing in the small space between musicians, bar, and the tables. Upon seeing people dancing so closely together, Viola suddenly grew much more aware of her male company. His gaze was directed toward the neighbouring table, where a group of men played cards, so that Viola could throw some furtive glances his way. She liked looking at him. She could not help it; she caught herself at it whenever he was around. And she felt so secure in his presence, so appreciated for who she was.

Her heart thumping fiercely, Viola sidled closer to Reg on the corner bench and gingerly placed her head against his shoulder. When there was no apparent reaction, she slowly relaxed her body against his side. Warmth flowed from his body into hers. She held his firm arm tightly in her fingers. When another song had ended and another tune began, they slipped down and closed around Reg's hand.

Gently, his thumb caressed her skin.

.~*~.

Another Christmas Eve. It was Viola's first at the castle. Her family had of course expected her to spend the holidays with them, but Reg had mentioned in his last letter that he was going to be at the castle during Christmas Eve and parts of Christmas Day …

Viola decorated the Christmas tree in the dining room together with Babette and Ella. They mixed red and gold Christmas bulbs with sweets-filled paper hearts that they had crafted the previous day and added silver garlands. The castle had already been decorated with everlasting candles, mistletoes and a larger Christmas tree in both the entrance hall and the great hall in which the annual Christmas feast of the Broderskab had taken place two days before.

'Hvor er far?' Ella enquired impatiently. It was the man of the house's privilege to conjure up the fake snow that lent the Christmas ornaments their romantic winter look.

'Åge is still in Sweden, skat,' Viola told her. The wizard visited the second dragon reservation of the Broderskab. 'Look,' she pointed at a spot on the tree and handed the girl a silver bell – one of those who rang on their own every few moments. 'There is still a gap.'

Ella hurried to place the decoration on the tree.

Out of the corner of her eye, Viola saw Babette watching her darkly. She pretended not to notice. In the past six months, she had found herself in several situations in which Åge's wife had suddenly been moody and hard to handle.

The door opened, and Reg strode in. Viola rose with a smile from where she crouched over the many boxes of Christmas ornaments on the floor, but before she could react any further, a small shadow rushed past her into the man's arms. 'Reg! Will you make it snow?' Ella asked, sitting on her big brother's arm.

'Det er far's opgave,' her mother intervened strictly. She went over to Reg and pulled the child out of his arms.

He winked at the girl and shrugged. 'I'm sure he'll be here soon.' He sidled to the dining table, poured himself a cup of tea from the pot that a house elf had served earlier, sat down, and slipped a cookie into his mouth.

Viola had to hide a smirk about his nonchalant attitude in the face of Babette's brittle welcome. She moved closer and sat down on the seat next to him. 'Want to come and cook ris à l'amande with me?' she prompted him.

He lifted an eyebrow. 'Is that such a difficult feat that you need an assistant?'

She held his mocking gaze and crossed her arms imperiously. 'Absolutely. Think of the hacking of all those almonds. Do you really want to leave that up to a weak little girl like me?' she asked innocently.

'I'd never,' Reg retorted in fake indignation, his left hand covering his heart in mock outrage. 'To even imagine that the tender hands of such an excellent violinist would work with dangerous hacking tools…'

'That's settled then,' Viola exclaimed with glee. 'Off we go to the kitchen.' She jumped up and seized Reg by his hand to pull him away. When her skin met his, heat rose to her face. Fortunately she was already turning toward the door. Her fingers tightened around his and her heart beat faster as they strode through the corridor.

The kitchen tower was not far from the dining room. Of course, the house elves were not keen on giving up their rule of said domain, but Viola had forewarned them a week in advance about her plans.

However, not five minutes into their work, the kitchen door opened, and Åge peered in, still clad in his travelling cloak. He greeted Viola briefly and then turned to her companion. 'Reg? I need your help with the niger cinis potion. Do you have time?'

Her kitchen assistant looked apologetically at Viola and shrugged as he put down the bowl of nuts that he had just been about to attack.

'Can I come?' Being robbed so soon of Reg gave Viola an unfamiliar feeling of acute disappointment mixed with something else she could not put a name to. And watching him brew…

'What about the rice pudding? What's Christmas without ris à l'amande?' Reg teased her.

'I'm sure the house elves will be delighted to have the kitchen back,' the young witch countered, even though it exposed her eagerness to remain with Reg. Her eyes sought out Åge's. ' Can I come?'

The potions master sighed. 'Do you remember that I promised not to involve you in certain darker aspects of magic?'

Viola straightened up. She took a deep breath and lowered her eyes. 'I see.'

.~*~.

Several hours later, two witches and two wizards sat in front of a big fire in the Mørkscovs' living room. They had eaten, some of them had sung, presents had been ripped open by an eager child's and an eager wife's hands, and huge, glittering eyes had given evidence of how well the presents had been received. Now Ella was in bed, and the adults were savouring a glass of gløgg (a kind of mulled wine). Both hands of the clock were drawing close to number twelve when the senior couple rose from the sofa and withdrew to their bedroom.

Since said room shared a door with the living room, Viola felt out of place in it, but she wanted to prolong the evening as much as possible. For a while, they sat in silence. Viola wondered what Reg was thinking about when they sat together like this without exchanging a word. Was he just thinking about business, something that had gone wrong that day? Or was he reviewing a memory of a moment long past? He had fifteen years more than Viola to remember… He must have already been pouring over his books in preparation for his EMOi when her mother gave birth to Viola. What had his life been like, back then?

'Is your brother younger or older than you?' she asked into the silence.

Reg's head snapped around, and for a moment his gaze was so sharp that Viola was startled. Then it softened minutely, and he turned back to the flames. 'Two years older.'

'Did I ask the wrong question?'

Reg shook his head. She could not see much of his face, but Viola thought she could see him smile benignly. 'No,' he assured her, 'you merely took me off guard.'

'Because you haven't told anyone but Åge and me about your family?'

A brief pause. 'Yes.'

Viola leant forward, her pulse quickening because she was uncertain whether her prying into Reg's private life was welcome. 'What was your family like?'

The subject of her curiosity sighed and turned toward her. Seizing her hand, he shook his head. 'I'm sorry, but giving you any more details…' He broke off. Brushing over Viola's hair, he rose. 'It's late.' Reg turned to leave the room.

Viola seized his hand. 'Don't go. Not just because I was too nosy. I'm sorry,' she said and hoped not to sound too desperate. Without much force, she pulled him back into his seat. 'Do you read?' she changed the subject abruptly.

After a moment, Reg chuckled.

.~*~.

It was a warm summer's day. In fact, it was oppressively hot. And yet there was no sign of the sun in the sky. On her free day of all the days they could have picked, dark clouds crowded the view out of Viola's window.

Viola sat morosely on her window sill and peered alternately into her book and into the wet void outside. Halt. Was there not somebody? A distant human-shaped figure? She pressed her nose against the glass.

Yes, there was definitely someone sitting on the water's edge of the castle moat. Completely drenched. On the spur of the moment, Viola grabbed her umbrella and hurried along the corridor and out of the huge front doors into the rain.

The water splashed up around her calves as she ran over the meadow. A few dozen paces from the figure, she stopped. The person sat on the floor, its legs drawn close to the body, in ignorance of the floods coming down from above.

'Reg?' Viola approached him cautiously.

No response.

She called out to him again. 'Reg?'

He blinked once. Then, in a monotone voice, he demanded, 'Leave me alone.'

Viola was taken aback by the bluntness of his rejection. She faltered for a moment; then she started another attempt. 'Come inside. There's enough room to be alone, and it's warm and dry.'

The drenched wizard turned his head minutely. The glare with which he stabbed Viola startled her. She took a step back. He had never been impolite to her before. Cheeky perhaps, but never so cold.

The young woman drew herself up to her full height and waited for him to realise his mistake. To explain himself. When he did not even show any signs of noticing her prolonged presence, she turned around and hurried back inside.

For a moment, she stood forlorn in the entrance hall. After a brief hesitation, she turned to the left set of stairs and headed to Åge's study. She knocked, and heard him bid her enter. 'Do you know what's wrong with Reg?' The question dropped from her lips the moment she spotted the potions master sitting at his desk.

The dark haired man who had apparently been pouring over a number of scrolls looked at her with interest. 'What are you talking about?' he asked.

'Reg's sitting outside in the rain, near the old willow stump. I tried to talk him into coming inside, but he sent me away. Rather impolitely, too.'

Åge leaned back in his seat and sighed. With ink stained fingers he rubbed his forehead. 'Don't take it personally. He received some very bad news today. I'll go and take care of him.

'While we're talking, please come to my study tomorrow in the morning. I would like to discuss your tasks in your second year of apprenticeship.'

Notes concerning chapter 12:

On witches' clothes: in the movies, we often see the students of Hogwarts running around in Muggle clothes with their robes only worn casually and open on top. Even purebloods like Malfoy junior run around like that (or worse: in expensive business suits). I don't find that very plausible. I'm sure most wizards wear something underneath their robes, but I would expect some other dress-like garment. I emphasise this especially for women, since after all they hardly wore jeans and t-shirt in 1692 when wizarding world officially disengaged from the muggle world.

*directly taken out of HP4, ch 5

Niger cinis: latin for black ashes. I must once more emphasise that my sole source of Latin is an online dictionary. I have never learned it.

Hvor er far? -Where is dad?

Det er far's opgave. –That's dad's task.