Harry Potter 1. Of Spies and Speculations

**Chapter 1: Of Spies and Speculations**

From the point of view of Severus Snape

***

The post owls' entrance into the great hall barely caused me to pause in eating my breakfast until a square package landed in the middle of my scrambled eggs.  Considering the black paper and odd stains on the parcel, I began to suspect that I would not be finishing my breakfast that morning.  And the presence of Mortin's severed head in the package only confirmed my suspicions.  

The minute I found out about Voldemort's rebirth, I had known what I had to do.   I had assumed the necessary if rather inelegant job of gathering information from our spies among the Death Eaters.  It was annoying that I was unable to perform the spying myself as I had done during the Dark Lord's first reign, but inevitable because some of my conversations with Quirrell and hence Voldemort had betrayed my true loyalties. I rather resented having to rely on others' ears.  

McGonagall's squeak of horror brought me back to the present.  I silently thanked whatever powers that be, that as it was still summer, there were no students in the hall.

"Severus, who is that?" She enquired in a slightly weak tone.  

"That _was Eleanor Mortin." Dumbledore broke off his conversation with Sprout in response to my breaking my habitual silence during breakfast.  Upon seeing the parcel on my platter he silently inclined his head in a request for more information._

"Mortin was my best and only information source on the goings on in the upper levels of Voldemort's supporters.  Considering that she is now dead and delivered to me in this quite dramatic fashion, I believe it is safe to assume that Voldemort somehow discovered her spying activities."

All the other Professors continued to look enquiringly at me after finishing this pronouncement.  Having no further knowledge I wished to impart, I glared at them.  Finally, irritated with the silence, I continued.

"Perhaps there are some people I could contact to obtain additional information."  This suggestion was quickly seized upon by all present.   That is why less than an hour later, I found myself walking to Hogsmeade, with an empty stomach in the bright late August sun, so I could apparate to the darkest corner of Britain.

****

Upon arriving in Knockturn Alley, I was again impressed with how an innocent line of storefronts managed to look so sinister.  Perhaps the slightly grisly items displayed in the windows contributed to the effect.  As it was unwise to stand gawking in this area, I began to stride quickly down a narrow street to my destination.  

Reaching the shop of Palson: Purveyor of Products for Potent Potions was something of a relief.  The smell of dried herbs and display of premium thick bottom cauldrons made me feel more at home.  I attempted to look comfortably menacing as I examined the not entirely legal products, while waiting to attract Palson's attention.  

After a very brief period, my wait was ended as a hand grabbed my arm.

"Professor, welcome to my shop.  I hope you are finding everything you want. Do you need any help?"

I was instantly annoyed with the man's rush of irrelevant words.  I only deigned to reply after taking a long moment to allow him to squirm and hastily remove his hand from my person.  I hate it when people touch me.  

"I am looking to place an extensive order," I lied.  "Which I have no intention of discussing in public.  Perhaps we should conduct further business in your office."

"My office. Wonderful.  I have a choice selection of products exclusively displayed to my more discerning customers."  Palson chattered on as he again grabbed my arm and ushered me into a small cluttered windowless room in the back of his store.  The minute the door closed the torrent of words dribbled out as he sat himself behind a rickety desk and motioned me to even more unstable looking chair in the corner.  When he reached a complete silence I asked, "Have you had any recent information from Eleanor Mortin?"

He looked momentarily troubled before replying, "I saw her yesterday.  Yes yesterday.  She was awfully excited.  Uncharacteristically excited.  Had heard something very important.  About Azkaban and dementors.  Or maybe it was something else entirely.  Wouldn't tell me what though.  No wouldn't tell me.  Said there was no time and she had to go to an important meeting.  Yep important.  Said our Lord would tell her more and she didn't want to say anything until she knew enough to make sense of it.  Yes make sense.  Said I was to send you an owl to tell you to meet her this evening at the Hogs Head. But I guess now I don't have to because you are here.  Yes here."

Manfully fighting back the urge to strangle the stupid little man I enquired, "Have you heard anything more from or about her?" 

"No, I haven't heard.  Not anything.  I wasn't called to the meeting last night.  I'm not important enough.  No not important.  But I think Kip went.  Aye, he went."

Well at least now I had a lead for more information, which was honestly all I could logically hope for.  Palson was really only half a Death Eater.  Before his slightly inexplicable change of heart, he had supplied the Dark Lord with dark potions and Veritiserum.   Although he bore the mark as I did, he had never participated in the more 'hands on' portions of Death Eater activities.  As he is regarded as something of an idiot, no Death Eater ever tells him more than strictly necessary.  While this severely limits his usefulness as a spy, it also means that no one really pays any attention to his actions.  It is a generally accepted pattern that only intelligent followers turn.

"If that is all of your limited knowledge, I will require from you several hairs and a bottle of Polyjuice starter."  This communication sparked a deluge of barely comprehensible protest, warnings, and accusations, but after a rather trying twenty minutes he had agreed to provide the requested items.  He promised to lock himself in his office until my return or until four hours had elapsed.  Whichever was sooner.  This actually meant I had about two hours to find Kip and bribe him to tell me about the meeting last night.

***

It somehow felt more comfortable to walk around Knockturn alley in Palson's body. It felt as if he belonged here. I remember feeling this way in my own body as a young man.  However, after an hour of wandering around searching for any sign of Kip the novelty had long since worn off.  

Kip is best though of as a part of Diagon Alley.  As he acknowledges neither mother nor father, it is almost possible to believe him bred from the very cobbles. As a young child he begged until he learned to pick pockets.  Which profession he diligently practiced until he extended his skills to picking locks and petty thievery.  Although he has a wand and practices  magic when he cannot avoid it, he generally thinks of magic as inelegant and armature in his line of work.  After all magic folk prepare for magical attacks and often forget to ward against their muggle equivalents.  

In all honesty, I think his reason for joining Voldemort can be almost completely stated as 'why not.'  Stealing things from the ministry and planting misleading or incriminating evidence was fun and exciting work.  In addition, Voldemort paid him well for his services.  His reason for acting as a spy was probably the same.   As long as he was well paid, he was more than willing to sit the fence and benefit form either victory.  

I had almost decided to give up and go back when turning abruptly I caught a glimpse behind me.   I had a quick glance of rather ordinary sandy brown hair and muddy brown eyes before they disappeared into the crowded.  The scamp had probably been following me the whole time.  Oh well, two can play that game.

I started off in the direction I had last seen Kip and catching sight of him began followed the rapidly fading figure.  I caught up with him in a dark alleyway three blocks later.

"Stop following me Snape.  I have nothing to say to you."  He began looking skittishly around to catch any observer.  I was only slightly surprised he knew immediately that it was I.  Kip is nothing if not a keen observer.  A very handy trait, when he is not employing it to help Voldemort.

"I would be interested in purchasing information on the Death Eater meeting last night," I began.

"How inconvenient for you, I am not interested in selling."

"Perhaps you could tell me how and why Mortin was killed."

"I could, but you see the how and why Mortin died is exactly why I am not selling.  You see our dear Elly only made one rather stupid mistake.  She was listening around and heard something that was actually rather interesting.  It could have helped you quite a bit really.  However, the silly fool was either fanatically loyal to you Dumbledore or bloody terrified for she became slightly overexcited.  She attempted to slip away earlier than the earliest opportunity and that was all it took.  Voldemort is not one to randomly torture his own followers, but a hint of treason is all he needs.  She broke distressingly quickly.  I thought she was made of sterner stuff.  Such a terrible pity I was wrong.  Not all is lost because I learned something.  Having loyalty to anything beyond yourself is suicide.  I have come to the conclusion that until you can better guarantee my safety it is not in my best interest to sell you anything."

Experience has taught me that it is pointless to argue with Kip when he decides something is not in his best interests.  Saying it is too much trouble or too dangerous are prompts for you to offer more money, but Kip does nothing that he does not consider to benefit himself.

"What precautions do you require in order to provide information?"

"I have not entirely made up my mind.  Come back when you have an offer that doesn't require me to make my reports to anyone in particular or send them in writing.  In addition, I expect a substantial raise."   Wonderful, I thought, he has decided to set out unattainable conditions so he doesn't have to point blank refuse.

"And how exactly do you propose we do that?"

An ironic smirk crossed his face as he answered.  "That is not exactly my problem now is it."

As I walked back to the potions shop, I tried to compose a report to Dumbledore in my head.  Well sir, one of my spies is an idiot, one refuses to provide any information, and the other has inconveniently lost her head.  If it wasn't so pathetic, it might actually be humorous.  What a spymaster I am.  A full days work and all I have to show for it is that the information Mortin died for might have something to do with Azkaban or demonetors.


	2. Of Correspondence and Conspiracies

Chapter 2: Of Correspondence and Conspiracies  
  
From the point of view of Hermione Granger  
  
***  
  
The Headmaster had said we should think of Cedric when we are forced to choose between what is easy and what is right. Although the words had little impression on me when they were first spoken, they sprung immediately to mind when my parents asked about my last weeks of term. I knew the easy thing would be to tell either the complete truth or a complete lie, but somehow neither seemed right. Telling them an outright lie seemed deeply wrong. They are, after all, my parents and have some right to know what is going on in my life. In addition, it felt unfair to keep them ignorant of a situation that might potentially endanger all of us. Malfoy had said that the mudbloods would be the first to go. Also I could not completely shake my early lessons that honesty is the best policy.   
  
But I know that knowledge can do nothing to change my parents' vulnerability. Telling them everything would worry and possibly endanger them to no purpose. They could not protect me or alter the situation in any way. They are utterly helpless against a wizard.   
  
And sometimes, when I am honest with myself, I consider that if they knew they would forbid my return to Hogwarts. I am unwilling to abandon the wizarding world.  
  
So I settled for the middle ground. I told them a slightly edited version of the story that minimized both the danger and my friends' involvement. I felt rather guilty about it but I concluded that it was an inevitable feeling regardless of what story I told.   
  
In addition to the guilt, it was a strain to hide my worry and pretend everything was normal. I quickly came to the conclusion that the trick of being a great liar was not having a great imagination, but having a good memory and acting skills. It is a difficult thing to convince the two people you have known all your life that nothing exceptional is happening when in fact you know a very dark and dangerous time is fast approaching.   
  
I escaped to my room to rest and conserve emotional energy at frequent intervals by claiming the need to complete summer homework assignments. While it lasted, I found the normality of studying and writing to be very comforting. Unfortunately, the homework assigned was barely enough to fill a week.   
By the end of the second week my fingers had begun to itch with an urge to write and my eyes to water for lack of words to read. So I embarked on a secondary project for the summer: correspondence.  
  
In our last conversation, I had told Viktor that, considering recent events, I would be unable to visit him. As consolation I promised to write often. However, upon arriving home, I discovered I had nothing to write about. I could tell him about the trip on the Hogwarts Express, my discussions with my parents, or the homework I had just completed, but the minute it was written on parchment it sounded trite, whiny, and incredibly boring. I decided to take a bath to organize my thoughts and upon turning on the faucet I was struck by inspiration. I could write letters about life as a Muggle. Not only would they be interesting; they would be educational.   
  
With this thought in mind I quickly churned out a roll of parchment about dental floss, complete with footnotes and a small sample. Feeling galvanized by my first feat of letter writing I sent a copy to Ron for good measure. After all, I hadn't written him either and it would never do to neglect a friend.   
  
I received replies from both wizards within the week. Viktor thanked me for my letter and promised to write me about aspects of the wizarding world I might not have yet encountered. His also included a very well written essay on the Loquacious curse, a nasty spell which makes it impossible for the target to stop talking. Ron's reply was a comical plea about how he had enough homework already without having his letter writing turn into more. This sent us both off on tangents and teasing that provided us with ample writing material to keep owls flying for the whole summer.   
  
As the weeks past I began to notice a peculiar pattern. While I enjoyed the well thought out and often lengthy letters from Viktor, it was the rapidly scrawled lines from Ron I reread. It saddened me that Ron and I could maintain a lively barrage of letters about nothing, but Viktor and I had so little to write to one another. Perhaps this was simply because I knew Ron better.  
  
However, even frequent letters did not make the summer relaxing. It felt like the quiet before the storm. The fact that the storm never hit actually made the suspense worse. The Daily Prophet never reported anything about You-Know-Who or Death Eaters. The disappearances of relatively unimportant people were ascribed to Sirius Black. The only vaguely exciting thing that happened was receiving a letter from Dumbledore warning me not to open any packages from unknown senders and to inform him immediately it I received one. However since I received nothing out of the ordinary, this only heightened the tension. Even the train ride to Hogwarts was executed without the heretofore considered to be necessary confrontation with Draco Malfoy.  
  
***  
  
The first thing I noticed upon entering the school was a woman attempting to stand officiously near the door. She should have looked ordinary. There was nothing exceptional about her shoulder length straight brown hair, her hazel eyes, or her dark gray robes, but somehow she looked out of place. Perhaps it was because she was standing so awkwardly that she obviously felt out of place herself.   
  
"Oh no," Ron exclaimed with resigned amusement. "There's our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."   
  
As if she had heard Ron's words, the unnamed woman fastened bespectacled eyes on us. She twitched her shoulders in an unsuccessful attempt to relax herself and hurried over to engage us in conversation.  
  
"Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weasley." She sounded as if she was reading off a list. "Hello my dear children. I am Commissar Garret. I am so glad you have returned safely." Speaking seemed to calm her. With every blustery word her voice became more even and her posture straightened.   
  
"I know you are all properly grateful that the Ministry has worked tirelessly to ensure that Sirius Black does not hurt you in any way. All this y-y-y-you-know-who nonsense. I am certain you sweet children are wise enough to know the truth and sufficiently careful to avoid harm." Ron, Harry and I looked at each other with growing horror. Perhaps her newfound confidence was not such a good thing.   
  
"The Minister of Magic himself has sent me to make sure that nothing happens at Hogwarts to compromise any of you precious children's security. After all, we at the Ministry know that children are our future." By this point in the speech all three of us were desperate for a way to end the conversation. Our deliverance came from an unexpected source.   
  
"So Mr. Potter has decided that the latest meeting of his fan club is more important than the rest of our dinners." The dark voice of Professor Snape easily cut the thread of the woman's conversation and I realized with a start that, between the three trapped listeners and the other students who were taking advantage of the opportunity to eves drop, we had managed to completely block the hallway. "We must all wait on our resident celebrity."   
  
The minute Commissar Garret's speech ended she seemed to shrink into her previous discomfited self. She stared after the Professor as he strode purposefully away. Ron, Harry and I took advantage of her distraction to slip away to our seats at the Gryffindor table.   
  
"Blimey! Was that woman reading off a cue card?" Although I had to giggle in response, I felt that I could not completely let Ron get away with being so disrespectful to a possible new Professor.  
  
"Now Ron, you should be grateful for her concern and dedication to ..." I searched for the appropriate euphemism.  
  
"Making ridicules speeches?" Harry finished for me. Yes, I was glad to be back at Hogwarts.   
  
Letting the boys continue their banter, I looked up to the High Table and saw to my great relief that there was another new face. There could not be a greater difference between the two new women. The second stranger practically radiated an aura of tranquility. She had an open, motherly face framed with lively red curls, but her most distinguishing feature was her gray eyes that shone like twin moons. I was greatly relieved when Professor Dumbledore introduced her as Ignia Antiope, the new DADA professor, after the opening feast.  
  
***  
  
I had always thought it was easier to adjust to small changes than large ones, but it only took one week back at Hogwarts to convince myself I was wrong. It was hard to put my finger on it, but Hogwarts was different. The students were subdued. Laughter was a millisecond slower and softer. Homework was done a tad more thoroughly and quietly. And Slytherins were subtly more isolated and regarded with a bit of suspicion. If the changes had been large, I could have adjusted quickly. But the slight changes gnawed at me. I felt that I was always out of phase with everyone else.  
  
The first few days of lessons were uneventful. Every class began with a lecture about how we would be taking our O.W.L.s at the end of the year so we should study extra hard. Professor Snape made the point most dramatically by claiming that if we didn't know everything expected the potions O.W.L. might be fatal. This speech was probably responsible for Neville spectacularly blowing up his cauldron in a record time of fifty-seven seconds.  
  
I tried not to be relieved that Professor Grubbly-Plank was substituting for Hagrid, who was undoubtedly on Hogwarts business.  
  
By Thursday afternoon I was desperate for something, anything out of the ordinary to happen. I felt as if one truly odd occurrence would release some of the tension. The first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson provided just this.  
  
***  
  
Professor Antiope began with a question.  
  
"Good afternoon, class. I was hoping to ask you for some advice." I was not terribly impressed. Wasn't she supposed to know more about her subject matter than a room full of fifth years?  
  
"This afternoon the second year students provided me with an impressive demonstration of some dueling hexes. Unfortunately my hat was used as a target and I fear it is no longer wearable. I was wondering if any of you had some advice on how to return to its original state." The hat in question was sitting on her desk. It was bright pink, wobbling around the desk while attempting to dance and at random but frequent intervals it would shoot out bright sparks and attempt to sing. I raised my hand up in the air. I like easy questions and I learned the answer this one as a first year! At the professor's indication that I should speak, I replied, "Cast Finite Incantatum, Professor."   
  
She smiled calmly in response. "What a wonderful idea Miss..."  
  
"Hermione Granger," I supplied.  
  
"Would you please demonstrate?"  
  
I walked confidently up to the front of the room and cast the spell. To my surprise and disgust the only effect was to change the hat form pink to a flashing neon rainbow pattern. How irritating. I very rarely miscast spells. However my second attempt only served to strengthen hat's singing voice. My efforts to correct the problem seemed to be making it worse.   
  
Professor Antiope smiled sympathetically at me. "Well, my dear, you seem to be having the same problems I was." I returned to my seat, my face burning with shame. However I began to feel better when the other students who attempted to uncurse the hat had no better luck. All told it was a frustrating ten minutes until Harry took his turn and succeeded in returning the hat to black.   
  
"Wonderful job, Mr. Potter. May I ask how you managed to remove the curses my hat?"  
  
Harry looked slightly bewildered. "I didn't. You said you wanted the hat returned to its original state so I cast a spell to dye it black."  
  
The new DADA professor looked unruffled by this statement. "So you did not remove any of the curses or hexes?"  
  
"No, Professor."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Harry wrinkled his brow. "Because when other people tried it didn't work."  
  
"Five points to Gryffindor. Mr. Potter has just demonstrated one of the most important principles of defensive magic: Be creative. If you do not know the specific spell to accomplish a task, use one that will achieve a similar result." She stood several moments to allow the supposed impact of this speech to sink in before she abruptly changed topics.  
  
"When multiple spells are cast on an object, they do not remain separate but mesh and meld. This had to duel effect of giving them interesting new properties and making them harder to remove." We all pulled out papers and began to take notes. The rest of the class went smoothly as she explained the interactive properties of some of the most common curses and hexes.   
  
My opinion of the new professor rose as the class continued. It was possibly the least dramatic Defense Against the Dark Arts class I had ever attended, but I left the room feeling that I had learned the most. I walked back to Gryffindor common room in an intellectual haze, musing on the myriad of possibilities presented by spell interactions. I was therefore slightly startled when Professor McGonagall walked up and informed Harry, Ron, and I that the Headmaster wished to see us in his office.   
  
***  
  
Authors note: Thank you to Rugi for listening to me babble about story ideas for countless hours and to Amberdulen for untangling my convoluted prose. This story would not be possible without you. 


	3. Of Meetings and Madness

Of Meetings and Madness 

From the point of view of Severus Snape

***

Albus's summons was as always inconvenient.  After a long day of attempting to force knowledge into hardheaded halfwits with no appreciation of the beauty of my art, I had just settled down to continuing my research in the Deadening Draught.  With the exception of a great deal of frustration, this research was the only outcome of two weeks seeking additional information about Mortin's death.  A second attempt to locate Kip had only resulted I me loosing the contents of my pockets. But on my last visit to Palson's establishment, he had managed to sputter out that Voldemort had commissioned him to make ten liters of the concoction.  Considering that the standard dose size was about a tablespoon, this was enough to dose an army.  

I had never though of Deadening Draught as a particularly useful potion.  It acts as a temporary emotional anesthesia.  For one hour the drinker is separated for their emotions and able to think with perfect logic.  However, when the effect wears off, all the repressed emotions all well up at once.  If the potion had been used to suppress anything particularly nasty, the backlash could easily drive the drinker to insanity.  

Nonetheless, if the Dark Lord was interested in Deadening Draught than so was I. It struck me that if the side effects could be eliminated, it might actually be useful in dealing with Dementors.  Maybe if I added rose water…

I had just managed to relax into my customary half trance of stirring and adding ingredients when Albus's head appeared in the fireplace.

"Severus, I would you come to my office please,"  he said with the air of one who is offering a great favor.  When I stepped out of the fireplace, I immediately noticed the presence of everyone's favorite Gryffindor trio.  For a blissful second I allowed myself to hope that I was summoned because they had finally managed to get themselves in trouble.  But judging from the jovial expression on Albus's face I gathered this hope was probably in vain.  

"Thank you for joining us.  Please have a seat and a sucker,"  Albus began offering me one items with each hand.  Declining both, I waited stonily for the interruption of my afternoon to be explained.  Unfortunately, the Headmaster seemed determined to test my patience.

"I was just beginning to explain the Order of the Phoenix to Harry, Ron and Hermione."  I crossed my arms and leaded back against the doorframe only half listening to Dumbledore's explanation about how during the first rise of Voldemort the Order had been composed of England's most powerful witches and wizards who toiled to tirelessly to defeat the Dark Lord.  I was unsurprised when the history lesson was gradually morphed into a recruitment speech.  By the time the Headmaster finished speaking, the students were practically begging for admission and eagerly agreed to attend the first meeting that evening.

Deciding that the purpose of my summons was to allow me to witness this latest show of favoritism towards Potter and his faithful sidekicks, I attempted to silently follow them out of the office.

"A minute Severus," the headmaster stalled my departure.  "I have a small favor to ask you." Those words always had an ominous sound to them.  Many of the worst experiences in my life, from spying missions to chaperoning dances, had started with Albus asking me for a small favor.

"As you know, Minister Fudge has sent Commissar Garret to advise me and ensure the safety of the students."  I have always found Dumbledore's insistence on euphemisms annoying.  We both knew that the Commissar was really sent to spy on Albus and prevent him from doing anything that could potentially embarrass the Ministry or force Fudge out of his idiotic state of denial.

"I believe it would be unwise to allow her to find out about the Order meeting.  She has displayed an interest in your company so I was wondering if you would volunteer to keep her away form school and distracted this evening."  As the 'request' was made the twinkle in Albus's eye increased ten fold and I was rather trapped.  I pleaded a headache, urgent business, and lack of knowledge of how to entertain a woman to no avail.  I was sent off to collect her from her rooms with the information that our dinner reservation was at seven and the advice that women were always charmed by men who listen. 

***

I have always looked forward to Friday nights.  They were the one evening a week that I could be almost guaranteed peace and quiet to work on my research or catch up on my reading, blissfully certain that I would not have to deal with a classroom full of brats for two more days.  Tonight was a marked exception.  I was sitting at a small table in the Three Broomsticks listening to that insufferable Commissar woman talk about how if we just caught Sirius Black all our troubles would be over.  After all You-know-who is undeniably dead.  The most irritating thing was that she actually appeared to believe it.  Her eyes were shining with conviction and her voice was the clearest I had ever heard it, with the notable exception of whenever she had to say you-know-who.  She seemed to stutter over the euphemism.  I had an almost uncontrollable desire to correct her in the most scathing of terms.

Albus had advised me to just keep her talking and talking appeared to be the woman's only talent.  At the slightest provocation she would wax eloquently if rather boringly on such subjects as why we should all trust the ministry and allow them to take care of everything.  The only problem was my rising temper and the unexplainable coincidence that every time she shifted in her chair she ended up several inches closer to me.    

"Two more hours Severus," I thought to myself.  "You have survived torture at the hands of the Dark Lord himself surely you can survive this for two more hours."

***

I managed to get rid of the woman only with assurances we would do dinner again soon.  Unfortunately, I was quite sure that, courtesy of Albus, the words were true.  However, her unexpected reluctance to leave my company meant I was running late for the meeting.  Running late always made me nervous.  I prided myself on always being precisely punctual.  I hurried out to the grounds and levitated a rock to freeze the Whomping Willow.

I tried to fight back the apprehension I felt at entering the passage.  Odd how I can risk my life on spying missions without a second thought but feel a thrill of terror upon entering this comparably safe place.  I suppose the first time you are scared for you life is bound to make an impression.  

I arrived at the shrieking shack several minutes later and turned right to enter into the sitting room. The scene that greeted me was the exact opposite of what I would want in a room.  It had probably one been bright and cheerful, but now the wallpaper was faded and pealing.  The rooms only furniture, two couches and an overstuffed chair, were misshapen and their fabric was dirty and torn.  The effect was a far cry from my preference of cold, clean stone and impeccable order.  Although it was the largest room in the shack this was not saying much.  It could not possibly be much more that 100 square feet.  However, the main cause of my cringing was that it was stuffed full of people.  

Noisy people.  One would think that when we had not even room to move our elbows people would at least have the grace to be quiet, but apparently not.  Madams Pomfrey and Pince were accompanied by Professors Flitwick, Hooch, Sprout and Vector in attempting to sit on one of the couches.  Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and their three oldest children occupied the other couch.  Percy somehow managing to look pompous while squished between Bill and Charlie.  Various members of the Order from the first war and recruited members of the Ministry lined the walls and sat uncomfortably on the floor.  Everyone was speaking loudly on some random topic all their own.

My eyes instinctively sought the Headmaster in an attempt to find some balance in the chaos.  However, I quickly lost hope upon seeing that him with Arabella Fig.  To most of us Dumbledore was something of a father figure or at the very least a crazy but respected uncle.  Arabella Fig provided a refreshing exception to this rule.  Popular rumor stated that they had been bitter rivals when they attended Hogworts together over a century ago, but the passage of time had bled the rancor from their relationship.  The only remaining sign of their past enmity was constant bickering that now served as an affirmation of friendship.  

Their current squabble revolved around who should have the honor of sitting in the room's only padded armchair.  As I watched, Albus claimed that as the older of the two he should have the right to rest his weary bones.  At these words Fig gave a cry of triumph and sat declaring that she was the elder by three day because of her use of a time turner.  

As the Headmaster began to contest this point I heard a cough behind me and turned to find Minerva surveying the scene with disapproval.  The Head of Gryffindor house is even less tolerant of disorder than I am.  Upon ascertaining the only available seats were on the floor she picked up two pieces of wallpaper that had fallen and transfigured them into stools; one for herself and one for her husband.  Upon seeing his wife's entrance Mr. McGonagall desisted in attempting to give the entire room a sugar high by disturbing lollypops and walked jauntily to his wife's side.  I have often though Mr. McGonagall lets his somewhat distant blood relationship to Albus have too great an influence on his character.  

While watching this scene I had apparently missed the entrance of the newest members of the order.  As a returned my eyes to the Headmaster I saw the three Gryffindors seat themselves on the floor next to Albus.

Apparently their arrival was the signal for the meeting to begin.  I listened with what I considered to be great forbearance to Albus's hackneyed but cheerful opening words.  After he finished speaking I stood to offer my scant elaboration on the sarcastic report I had mentally devised two weeks before.  Most of the member of the order listened with the polite but slightly bored attention deserved by a report reveling what everyone with half a brain had probably already guessed, but my recital of Kip's conditions seemed to light a fire in Miss. Grangers eyes.  I realized with a shudder that I had just inadvertently given the know-it-all a puzzle.  As I finished my report, I offered a silent but desperate plea that whatever mischief I had just inspired steered well away form me.  But I have never been particularly luck.


End file.

Harry Potter, Adventure