Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter NOR any of his friends NEITHER any of his enemies. It's hard to admit, but when I'm done with them all, I have to return them to Joanne K. Rowling in an original wrapping and unharmed.
I make no money, I mean no harm.

Patchwork
Old Home

The end of October announced itself in the form of Constantinus Greeneye. In Snape's opinion, it was quite fitting: after the festivities of Halloween, the winter would drag to the nightmare of Christmas and through the hangover of January to the butterflies of spring, something so distracting for students that attempting to teach them would become downright painful. He had shared his opinion with Tisha over breakfast, and she had appeared to understand, but now as she was chatting with Greeneye in front of a complicated Transfiguration diagram, she seemed genuinely happy.

Snape glared at his future colleague. Greeneye was a remarkably handsome man - tall, lean, blond, blue-eyed. That, mused Snape, must have been a genetical fault. Surely everyone else in the family actually had green eyes? Greeneye, probably having sensed the intent eyes on himself, looked at Snape at that moment. The pleasant smile wavered a little, then the new professor greeted Snape with a curt nod before turning back to Tisha. Greeneye, as Snape recalled, was nicknamed Gorgeous in his final years at Hogwarts. Falling head over heels for him was something the witches of all houses could agree on without hesitation.

"Good morning, good morning. Constantinus, so nice of you to join us today. If you could all sit down so we could start." Minerva dropped a load of parchments on the front desk, looked around the room and lit several more candles. Chairs scraped on the floor as everyone hurried to sit down and Tisha took her place next to Snape.

"There's a certain way to survive all this, you know," she offered before the shuffling of feet and chairs died out.

"Let's start with a piece of good news. The staff room will be available by the end of this week. That means we will have a... Professor Trelawney!" The Seer had somehow overturned the desk she had been sitting at and - in a vain attempt to catch it before it hit the ground with a loud thud - she slipped from her chair.

"Is there?" Snape hissed at Tisha under the cover of assembled faculty sniggering.

"Eggnog," she hissed back. As soon-to-be Professor Greeneye received his welcome, however, she smiled so brilliantly not even Snape's deepest scowl managed to overcome it.

After the meeting, Snape noticed with a hint of satisfaction, the Headmistress sat down with Greeneye to go over the curriculum together. That would give him something to mull over until Friday, and then let's dunk him in teaching students in a post-Halloween state. The thought cheered Snape up to a degree. He decided to accompany Tisha, who had already slipped out of the classroom, but she was out of sight before he got through the door. He shot a dark look at Vector and Sprout for good measure, silently blaming them for getting in his way, and sourly set out to the dungeons.

At the first floor he turned into a corridor from which he heard a distressed scream and the unmistakable cackling of Peeves. The poltergeist had in the previous week chased two first-years on a staircase that was moving, and then harrassed them until one of them twisted an ankle, fell on the bum, and suffered terrible humiliation. Most of the staff decided to intervene in order to protect the younger students. Those who didn't decide to intervene were tasked to do so anyway.

Currently Peeves was zooming above a group of small students, wringing what looked like a drenched towel over their heads. One particularly pretty girl was already crying. Peeves used the towel to wipe up the sweat forming on the back of his neck and under his armpits and Snape decided the girl had every right to cry about having poltergeist's sweat rained upon her. He took his wand from his pocket and drew nearer.

"Stop it - stop it, you... you ugly smelly monster!" cried a tiny boy who had just rounded the corner from the opposite side. He ran towards the group and wrinkled up his nose. He didn't back down, however, and when Peeves showered him from his towel he simply shrugged and started singing.

Snape stopped mid-step.

"I'm singing in the rain... just singing in the rain... what a glorious feeling..."

Snape stared. He wasn't the only one, everyone stared. Even Peeves dropped the towel and turned upside down so as to get a better look. The boy sang with enthusiasm, and though struggling to stay in tune, he seemed to enjoy himself. Then he started tapdancing. The girl who had been crying let out a gasp of admiration. A group of nymphae in a landscape next to Snape sighed and ran across the portraits in the corridor to a sunlit meadow picture hung right next to the spectacle. A troll depicted in another picture, who had spent last two decades snoring, woke up and started clapping.

The boy was good at the dancing, much better than at singing. Peeves zoomed towards the nearest armour to use it as a drum, earning a cry of approval from his former victims. The noise level quickly escalated and Snape simply left. These children didn't need his intervention.

He caught a glimpse of Neville as he reached the stairs again, but before he could open his mouth to address him, the Gryffindor skipped the last four steps, grabbed the banister to keep himself upright, and disappeared in the direction of the main door. All the better, he could use a few hours of calming solitude.

"Professor? Professor Snape?" Patricia Pitty hurried to catch up with him as he crossed the Entrance Hall. She had a Gryffindor scarf already wrapped around the neck, a certain sign that she was heading out to watch the Quidditch match. What could she possibly want from him now?

"Miss Pitty." He expected his being annoyed showed but the student didn't seem to notice.

"I was wondering if you would sign me a slip for a book from the Restricted area." She paused to look at him. "The Sorcery Stoppered by Hamilton Horrified." It was Snape's turn to pause as he considered the request. He knew the book - as thin as it was, it deserved to be kept away from children. Miss Pitty, on the other hand, was quite level-headed and advanced in her studies.

"What do you need the book for?" he queried cautiously.

"I wanted to learn more about antidotes for blended poisons and it seems to be the only book the library has that discusses antidotes without Mandrake." She sounded genuinely frustrated.

"That is an interesting field, albeit rather narrow. What made you think of it?" They hadn't covered antidotes yet and the textbook merely listed known antidotes without going into specifics of developing one.

"The weather was not good for Mandrakes this summer. There may be a shortage early in the spring." Snape nodded.

"Very well. However, The Sorcery Stoppered is not really helpful in that regard. The book you need is Gratuitousness of Goats."

"I know, but the school library doesn't have it and Flourish and Blotts are sold out. My Great-Aunt Laura had it until Uncle Livius transfigured it into a fur coat and forgot to transfigure it back before the moths got it, and most of the pages looked like Emmental by then..." She cleared her throat. "Anyway, the library doesn't have it."

"Indeed," Snape said darkly. "However, I do have a copy. Stop by my office on Monday." Without waiting for a reply, he turned to the stairs, his cloak billowing. The dungeons were mercifully vacant. Sweet solitude, he could already feel its calming effects, and therefore approached his quarters in a slightly better mood. But it was not to be - another nuisance was already waiting for him before his door. Snape forewent a greeting. Unfortunately, that didn't discourage Granger, who closed a sickeningly pink book titled "Poetry" in Ancient Runes and followed him to his living room. Once there, she perched in Neville's armchair and set to unload her bag, opening books on pages she had marked and finally tapping one with her wand, revealing the worn fine leather cover. The pink book, Snape noticed, was truly poetry in Ancient Runes and Granger shoved it in her bag.

He proceeded to pour himself a glass of Firewhiskey, which made Granger look scandalised. She shook her head violently after he offered her the bottle.

"A little bit early for that, sir."

"I didn't know you were a proper English gentleman." She scowled. It made her look rather like McGonagall. Perhaps scowling was a way for old Scotswomen to reproduce?

"I think I came up with something," she said and to Snape's suprise she reached for a book he didn't recognise. She flipped it open before he could read the title and the pages rustled contentedly. Granger smoothed them down.

"Here. Repetitive cursing by the same wizard may cause a relapse in the wound, stirring the residual or dormant curse. This is because the residual magic responds to the magical imprint of its first author. Similarly, if the victim relives the same highened emotions... not important now," she mumbled and grabbed another book. "And here: magic of a certain individual, human or non-human, is always specific. It has however been confirmed for wizards, that magic of two persons who are emotionally close grows similar, and magic of a wizard with strong feelings, especially irreprocal feelings, becomes almost identical with the magic of the object of their desire. This is well documented in Patronus changing due to unrequited love... the rest is not important right now." She closed the book and looked up.

"Would you mind explaining how this is relevant to the problem at hand?" Snape raised the glass to his lips and with all his willpower managed not to down its contents at once.

"Well, basically, when the wave of fear happens, the residual magic in your knee starts acting up. That must be, according to all information I have been able to find, because the magic of the fear wave has the same imprint as the curse stuck in your knee." He set down the glass with a loud thud and some of the whiskey splashed on the table. One of the books shrieked in terror.

"Sir," Granger added when he gave no response. And half a minute of silence later, more timidly, "Professor?"

"Very well. I can see where you are going with that. It is, unfortunately, a dead end." Granger flared up, but held her protests as he continued. "You think the shadow, the wave of fear, and the curse in my knee came from the same wizard."

"It could have been a witch," Granger muttered angrily.

"Do not repeat that in front of Professor Malfoy. It was her brother who cursed me. I think of it as his parting gift."

"Oh."

"Quite." Suddenly enjoying himself, Snape sat more comfortably in the armchair. "He was nowhere near the school on the night those children created the shadow."

"Can't you think of anyone who would - could - have a similar magic imprint?" Granger asked, although it was evident she persisted simply to examine all posibilities, no matter how unlikely ones.

"His wife is dead, his son alienated from him and his sister does not appear to feel very strongly about him. Also, she is a Squib. Other than that..." He shrugged. Granger positively sagged.

"I've gone through everything I could lay my hands on..." she said unhappilly and trailed a finger down the leather book's spine. "There doesn't seem to be anything useful there. Have you remembered the book that mentions the defensive mechanism we've encountered? It's our only clue left."

Snape had to admit he hadn't, but decided to go through his personal library with Granger's help. That should effectively rob him of the rest of the morning and beat his mood down until Monday morning arrived to kill it completely.

Patty walked out of the castle in a sort of haze and stopped just out of the door. It had been cloudy since Wednesday, with occassional showers, but shortly after breakfast the wind began to pick up and now the sky was clear. Not an ideal Quidditch weather, but not the worst either. She drew her scarf more tightly around her neck.

In distance, two figures were nearing the main gate. Patty raised her hand above her eyes, which given the weather made close to no difference, and she was almost sure they were Neville Longbottom and Professor Malfoy. They opened the gate and left the grounds.

She shook her head, then cast another glance towards the Quidditch pitch. There was a general buzz of the crowd in the stands, but still low. It was too early for the teams to come out.

On an impulse, Patty turned back inside and ran up the stairs. She had to stop before the portrait of Fat Lady for half a minute to catch her breath before she could say the password, and was still red in the face when she addressed the only other Gryffindor still in the Common Room.

"Ginny? Can I ask you something?"

The redhead put down the Charms textbook she had been reading and shrugged, "Sure."

"Has Snape taken away a lot of points in your class?"

"He took away thirty points from Colin Creevey just this week, for - how was it - an extraordinary display of lack of brains? Colin melted a cauldron," she explained when Patty just stared.

"Wow. In a N.E.W.T. class?" Patty dropped to her knees next to the coach and raised both hands to cover her mouth.

"If you would believe that."

"I'd rather not. Anyway, that was well deserved, wasn't it? I was more after the good ol' docking points at every possible and impossible opportunity." At this, Ginny tapped her nose thoughtfully.

"No. Not this year."

"Oh." Patty leant on the coach next to Ginny and stared out of the window.

"He did call Harper a waste of his teaching, and Harper is a Slytherin."

"Harper is also an idiot."

"True that." They giggled. "It's also true Harper wouldn't have qualified for Advanced Potions in the olden days."

"How do you mean that?" Patty perked up.

"Oh - you wouldn't remember. Back when Snape was the longstanding Potions Master, you had to get an Outstanding O.W.L.s score to be allowed in. I knew it because... well, Slughorn accepted also Exceeds Exceptations, that's how Harper got in the class."

"Huh." Patty sagged against the coach, lost in thought. So she had qualified according to Snape's old standards, but Romilda hadn't.

"Do you think he's a fake?" Ginny asked after a while.

"What?"

"Or what are you after?" Ginny leant forward to look at Patty's face. The younger girl seemed still flushed.

"I don't know. I knew something was off, it's been... nevermind. Thanks, Ginny." And Patty headed back to the portrait, down the stairs and towards the Quidditch pitch, leaving Ginny bemused.

Neville walked Tisha well away from the strongest Muggle-repellent spells around Hogwarts, then returned to watch the game. She could go on on her own anyway; the spells that reached her now were urging her further on, and she complied.

Hogsmeade was protected by much gentler spells. It was enough for Tisha to know the village was there to overcome them. She made a quick stop at the Apothecary, then walked more slowly, glancing at the shops on either side, until she spotted the small sign of a green fireplace, squashed into a corner of a shopping window by multicoloured leaflets of exotic holiday destinations. The sign looked rather battered. Tisha pushed the door open and heard a bell above it sang a short joyful melody.

"Just a... just a minute... ow..." There was a muffled thud, then a tall, thin witch emerged from the back room. She wore plain brown robes, her hair was pulled into a hairnet, the only spot of colour on her was a radiantly orange shawl she had draped leisurily around her shoulders. She smiled politely at Tisha, who had walked up to the counter.

"How may I help you, ma'am?"

"I'd like to use your Floo," Tisha announced. The witch's fake smile fell somewhat. She must have been hoping Tisha would order a luxurious expedition to South Africa or something similar, but no, the promising customer had already dropped the eight Sickles required for a Floo service onto the coin plate.

"Help yourself." The witch pointed to a small fireplace, nearly invisible behind the stack of long-distance brooms, equipped (as Tisha could read on the advertisement above them) with a self-navigating charm and a safety child seat. The Floo powder was in a brown jar on the mantelpiece. Tisha threw a fistful in the fire, nodded good-bye to the sales assistant, and stepped forward into the green flames.

"Jeff and Myra's Magic Haven," she spoke loudly, as clear as possible, and closed her eyes.

When it became apparent that Tisha was not a magically gifted child, her father decided she would have to stay at home and help family in any way suitable to a young, well educated girl from a noble family. His wife didn't quite agree a life of knitting and looking pretty would satisfy their daughter, and spun on the educated. Little Laetitia studied, at her mother's insistence, music and art, history, languages, and geography. She was a bright, eager student and often read books she wasn't supposed to read: her brother's schoolbooks and old dusty tomes from her father's library, until he had to lock away the most dangerous ones.

But it didn't satisfy her mother, who with a great amount of foreseeing wanted Tisha to gain some practical skills. The magical theory, while interesting at the moment, would soon slip out of memory without any kind of practice. The Squib child needed Muggle knowledge.

One day, shortly after her daughter turned thirteen, she suggested to her husband that the girl learn basics of business. An opening had just appeared in a nearby village, a couple with a prospering enterprise was looking for an assistant for administration. Might be underage, didn't require practical magic. As Tisha soon discovered, her mother left out several crucial points from the description: her employers, Myra and Jerry, were Muggleborns running a local pub, and the position was mostly keeping company to Myra's mother, who had recently widowed and went through a complete breakdown. She was quite old and fragile and her daughter took her in to look after her.

It turned out to be a genius plan. The elderly woman, Rebecca, adored her young companion. She was always ready to talk about her life and the Muggle world, and Tisha listened eagerly. Sometimes she read to her and then they would talk about the story. Rebecca dozed off after a while and then Tisha would go downstairs to help Jerry, and as they went over the books, Jerry talked and talked about his childhood and his two brothers, who were both Muggles. It was a whole new world for Tisha, the first sign that she could live a full, content life without magic.

Tisha stumbled forwards into a familiar room; the smells of roasted chicken, cooked cabbage, and bitter lager instantly brought a smile to her lips. She looked around. The pub hadn't changed much since her last visit years ago. Dried skins of various small animals hung from the ceiling as a proof of the pub owner's hunting skill, while sketches of animals and flowers decorated walls. A long low table stood under a row of small windows. The furniture was fitted for goblins, who time to time visited, and the back room was supposed to hide them from the eyes of Muggle patrons.

There was a door leading to a long hall that connected kitchen with the bar. The hall was dark, illuminated only by what little light came from the front room. Tisha quietly walked to the front.

The walls here were also decorated by sketches and drawings, but instead of skins, garlic and various herbs hung above the tables. Only one table was occupied, by a couple who appeared to be Muggle. An old man was busy behind the bar, putting away various snacks from a container on the floor. Unseen by his guests, he waved a wand over an almost empty jar with almonds, which refilled. He tasted one piece, grimaced and tapped the label to mark the almonds as a "mix of exotic brands".

"Jerry!" He straightened up with some difficulty. He was an old man with thin white hair and kind brown eyes. He smiled quite widely when he recognised Tisha and hurried around the counter to hug her.

"Laeticia, my dear, let me..." He kissed both her cheeks. "My, you've grown up! I was wondering who Flooed in so early," he added quietly. "Myra!" he shouted in the hall. "Myra, come and see who's here!" An elderly witch hobbled from the kitchen, drying her hands with a towel and muttering darkly. Like her husband she had white hair and wrinkled face. She appeared to be disgruntled by the interruption, but lit up upon seeing Tisha.

"Look at her, our little teacher," Myra pinched Tisha's cheek. "Oh, you're so thin, don't they cook at Hogwarts anymore? Here, sit down, I've made soup and bread's just ready."

It was almost eleven when Tisha finally set out to the manor. Myra gave her a loaf of bread and a large piece of cheese to survive the afternoon, because apparently a grown woman could starve to death within hours of her last warm meal, and urged her to stop for dinner on her way back.

The trail led away from the village and through the very edge of the forest. In the distance ahead of her, Tisha could see the Muggle couple from the pub, walking slowly and admiring the scenery. She slowed down. She needed to leave the trail in the forest and didn't want them to see.

As she reached the cover of trees, she recognised the place: two elms standing next to each other behind some thick bushes. The Muggles had just disappeared behind a bend and Tisha walked straight through the bushes.

It warmed her heart that the spell was still there. It must have been; the path was clear, eventhough no-one had used it for years. She now walked hidden from the eyes of Muggles by protective spells, placed and enhanced by generations of Malfoys. More than just that, she was already home, the land beneath her feet being a Malfoy property.

It took her nearly half an hour to cross the woods, another half an hour to reach the western gate. She hurried directly to the kitchen. It was still a mess. Tisha straightened a chair and unloaded her bag.

"Let's see... carpet cleaner, three bottles. A stain remover, two kinds. No, don't fight now, wait till you see the stains." The wizards on the flasks were still frowning at each other, but stopped waving their tiny fists. "A self-brush - not the table, you'll scratch it! - oh, I should have just brought a Muggle one." The brush stopped moving and adopted, if such a thing is possible for a small tool, sheepish expression. Tisha found a plate, rinsed and dried it and put the bread and cheese on the table.

"There, everything I need. Nothing like a snack - who's there?" She whipped around, the brush in a raised hand, but she was alone. She peered cautiously behind cupboard and out of the window, but in the end decided what she had heard was merely wind.

She set the brush to cleaning armchairs in the drawing room, sternly ordering it to stay off polished surfaces, and started cleaning the carpet. The cleaner she had bought was a modernised version, and just as she had expected, it was somewhat less effective. Although the wisps of coloured smoke that raised from the carpet were quite pretty.

"You'd think they make these improvements to impress Muggles," she complained to no-one in particular after inspecting the carpet.

"It's a shame you can't brew. Mother showed me her recipe; it would clean anything." Narcissa was standing in a landscape next to a grandfather's clock. She carefully balanced on a desolate wooden bridge above a wild stream; the painting was askew.

"Hold on," said Tisha and straigthened it. She looked at her hands in disgust. The frame was covered in grease and dust. "What was going on here?"

"How is Draco?" Narcissa asked instead of answering.

"He's rather well. Studies hard. Does well in classes." Making friends you wouldn't approve of, she thought.

"Oh. He's back at Hogwarts, then? Good. I was wondering why he didn't move back yet." Tisha cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"Ah. Yes. He's at Hogwarts." She bent over the carpet again and poured a little more of the cleaner on it.

"He should come and help you," Narcissa offered after a few minutes.

"I'm doing this as a suprise. I think I can set the brush to finish this here." Tisha winced as she stood up and straightened her back. Then she discovered the brush had stopped working already. She picked it up and shook it, but it remained dead. She brought it back to kitchen and fished the instructions from her bag.

"Ha, of course!" she scoffed. Apparently the brush was set up to only work when magical folk were around to supervise it. With only Tisha nearby, it concluded it was unsupervised. "Say, no magic needed - except for a wizard or witch in the vicinity! Bah." She threw the instructions on the table and froze. About half of the cheese and bread she had set up on a plate had been cut off.

The brush in her hand started stirring.

"I thought you wanted to see the match today," Minerva said instead of greeting. Moody looked up from his desk - with both his eyes for once - and smiled.

"I thought the same about you, Headmistress." He motioned her inside. She took a look at the small chair standing in front of his working desk and conjured one of her own to sit in.

"The match ended ten minutes ago," Minerva cocked her head. "It wasn't all that short either."

"Remind me not to assign long essays just before a Quidditch match again." He returned to the parchment he had been reading. "Or at least not some that need so much correcting," he added with a sigh. "Why is it that the students make so many mistakes?"

"You ask the right questions, those that make them think of the answer, rather than to just copy it from a textbook," Minerva answered. She was going through one of the already marked essays. "You can trust me in this, Alastor, if you have the students making their own mistakes, you have much better conditions for actually teaching them something than if they answer correctly because the answer was in their assigned reading. Just coming across the information won't make them learn it. They need to work with the information to discover some of the connections."

"There are books on magical theory as well," Moody commented.

"It's a little trick, if you will. Students need to be rewarded. The sweetness of accomplishing something is the best reward. What they discover themselves will stick to their minds the best."

"You make it sound like teachers aren't doing anything." Having finished with the essay, Moody set it aside and picked another. The very first sentence made him raise his eyebrows in suprise.

"The true mastery of teaching is directing the students so that they want to learn what we need them to learn. We teach them spells that are in the textbooks, but what good are these spells in the real life? How many times have you transfigured mittens into kittens and vice versa after this lesson was taught in Transfiguration? Or a hedgehog into a pincushion? Understanding this process can help you transfigurating something you have into something you need. It is therefore of greatest importance for us to teach students to understand, rather than simply remember."

Moody dropped his quill and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. His magical eye followed someone walking past the office, while the other trained on Minerva.

"I can't shake the impression you came here to teach me," he finally said softly. Minerva smiled in reply.

"You must excuse me, Alastor. Teaching is a habit of mine. I think I've delayed you for long enough, haven't I?" She rose without waiting for his reply and the chair disappeared under a swift movement of her wand.

"You are always welcome here, Minerva. Even to... teach me."

As the door opened behind his back, Snape once again decided to forego a greeting.

"Is it over already?"

"Hello, Severus, Hermione, nice to see you, too." Neville plopped down on the rug in front of the fireplace and smiled. "Yes, the game is over, it was quite painless. Except for the weather. The wind is getting positively icy, Madam Pomfrey should stock up on Pepper-Up."

"I thought you were going to Hogsmeade with Tisha," Hermione noted and closed the book she had been skimming through. "Nothing here." She put it down and picked up another, leafing through the pages rather quickly.

"She went to the manor, wanted to Floo to a wizarding pub nearby. I'm picking her up again at six." He cocked his head as Snape put down a book and started leafing through another. He and Hermione went about as quickly. "Looking for something specific?"

"Yes, a cross-reference. If you..."

"Um, something called Dilligent Defence?" Hermione jumped in. Snape shook his head.

"It wasn't so obvious. If you want to help, Longbottom, you can take these back to the library, top shelf, alphabetically by the name. Do not levitate them, most of them are being difficult when subjected to magic."

"Got it." Neville made sure he knew which pile to take and carried the books into the short hall between Snape's lounge and bedroom, where there were bookshelves lining one of the walls. The top shelf was completely empty. There were short steps leaning against the wall on one side; clearly Snape wasn't comfortable levitating the books himself.

"It's a shame Tisha won't tell Draco, he could Apparate her directly to the premises," Snape mused when Neville returned for another load. "Watch your head."

"What?" Nevilled ducked just in time as a small box zoomed from across the room. Snape took a small crystal ball with a stand out of it and placed it on the table.

"Your head, Longbottom, you might need it in the future. To wear a hat, I suppose."

"You can Apparate with a Muggle? I mean, Squib?" Neville asked, too curious to pick up the obvious bait.

"Same thing, technically," Hermione muttered.

"Of course you can," Snape added as he prodded the crystal ball with his wand.

"Really..."

"You can Apparate with an inanimate object, an animal or a child," Hermione said patronisingly. "Of course you can Apparate with a Muggle, it even says so in the course book."

"There's a course book?"

"It merely takes a greater degree of concentration, since you are moving a larger mass. Naturally, splinching a Muggle would have dire consequences."

"Especially since Draco still doesn't have his licence," Neville muttered.

"Because Muggles lack the magical protection, splinching them even at the shortest distance always results in a great blood loss," Hermione added, ignoring Neville completely.

"Are you... are you two related?" Neville asked. Both Snape and Hermione raised their heads to stare at him, so he picked up an armful of books and hurried out of the room. He straightened the books on the now almost full shelf, checked the order and took another armload from the second shelf.

"I thought you'd be nearly finished and I was right." He dropped the books on the now empty table. A withered red tome rustled in protest. "What's that?"

Snape had busied himself setting up and prodding the crystal ball. Neville craned his neck to look at it. There was a small house inside, several bushes and an obviously fake tree. A banner flew from the top of the roof of the house, stating "Wiltshire". There was quite a strong wind inside the ball and what appeared to be sleet.

"A weather ball. It should also show me a forecast."

"Perhaps the forecast is no change?" Hermione put away the last book from the first shelf and her eyes lit up when she saw the pile Neville had brought. "Excellent, thanks!" She seized the biggest tome and opened it eagerly. "Hm, antidotes..."

"Is that Gratuitousness of Goats?" Snape perked up. "Set it aside, I shall need it later. There won't be much useful on the second shelf."

"Still, we should probably go through everything at this point. Wizard's Worries Wiped-out?"

"Not everything - give it here..." Hermione handed the book over, eyebrows raised, but Snape offered no explanation.

Tisha put the stirring brush in her bag and picked up a large kitchen knife. She crept along the wall, peeking behind and under the cupboard. She checked the window - it was latched closed - and opened the door to the hallway leading to the garden.

"Hello?" The hallway was empty. She closed the door again and stood quietly with her back to the wall. She listened. There was the unhappy rustling of the brush, still stirring inside the bag, and there was the quiet sound of ticking... of a clock. Only there was no clock in the kitchen; the house-elves used to keep a tiny grandfather clock in their rooms behind the fireplace.

Tisha put the knife on the table and shushed the brush. The she dropped to her knees and crawled under the table. There was a small door there. She would crawl through the door when she was really small, no more than four or five years old. The door led to a living room of a sort, from which one - if small enough - could continue to a row of small rooms where the house elves slept. Tisha had no chance of getting through the door now; it was awkwardly small even for the house elves. Some long gone Lord Malfoy had probably thought it funny.

She knocked the door.

The door opened. The face of the elf who looked out of the door was so old and wrinkled that Tisha didn't recognise him at first, but then the elf pursed his lips and huffed.

"Tibby!" The elf blinked at the exclamation and leaned outside the door to have a better look at the visitor. Suddenly his face lit up with a grotesque smile.

"Miss Laetitia! You is back!" he cried and hobbled forward. Tisha reached out and steadied the elderly elf before he could topple over. "Mizzy, Mizzy, come and look! Where is you? Oh, Tibby is so happy, Miss Laetitia. We were alone here when Master left and then other people came but now you is back." He grabbed Tisha's hands and wiped his eyes with her fingers.

Behind him, other elves poured out of the door. Tisha gently pulled back so she could sit straight and they all followed and stood around her in a semicircle. There were several children and a young elf girl, looking like a teenager, with a baby in her arms. They all looked dirty and miserable.

"Mizzy!" shouted Tibby once more. "Where... oh, what does you want?" One of the little girl was tugging at his elbow.

"Granpa, Grandma Mizzy went to the stars last winter." The old elf deflated.

"Oh, she did." And he sat down on the floor and started crying. "I forgets."

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Tisha said softly. "Have you been here with all these children on your own, Tibby?" she asked when Tibby seemed to calm down a little.

"Tibby is sorry, Miss Laetitia." He dabbed at his eyes, this time with a corner of the pillowcase he was wearing. "Mizzy is happy now. But then Master left and no one wanted us." He hiccupped. "But you is now moving back, isn't you?" The fear in his voice was only too obvious and Tisha answered before thinking.

"Yes, Tibby. I'll be coming home for Christmas."

A/N: I tried to figure out which day of the week should the Halloween actually take place. In the end I just picked Thursday, because it was Thursday in the first book.