Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 10: Muggle Studies

"Lavender!" shouted Ron.

The girl wrenched herself away from Mr. Filch and stepped back, angry tears in her eyes as she clutched something to her chest--the mangled body of a blue spotted owl.

"A-ha!" Argus Filch swung round to glare at them, his weathered face twisting into a nasty scowl. "I knew it! More of you little brats wand'rin' off school grounds. And you, Potter!" He issued a malevolent cackle. Lavender winced as the caretaker tightened his grip on her wrist. "I'd be packin' my bags 'bout now, 'f I was you. This'll be the last--"

"Argus, they are with me." The boys swivelled round to Professor White, armed once again and standing firmly behind them with her hands on her hips. A brick red colour burned along the edges of her face. She had recovered enough composure to crook an imperious brow and fix him with an even stare. Her voice, now as steely as her eyes, echoed through the trees. "Kindly release Miss Brown. And you will explain yourself. Now. Before I take your behaviour up with the Headmaster."

Only when Filch released his hold on Lavender's arm did they see the string of dead birds--all owls--strapped to the front of his grimy, blood-stained robes. Harry and Ron exchanged puzzled glances. The poacher in the Forbidden Forest was Filch? It seemed somehow too enterprising a task for the grubby groundskeeper.

The same thought must have occurred to Professor White, who narrowed her eyes. She crossed her arms and levelled her wand just below Filch's torso. "You can begin by telling us what in Merlin's name you are doing with those creatures."

The caretaker opened his mouth, then quickly shut it again. A low hiss came from the ground. At his feet, they recognised Filch's mangy tabby. Mrs. Norris bared her teeth at Professor White as Filch threw the cat a sideways glance. But he screwed up his eyes and seemed to shrink under the professor's scrutiny. It didn't look good. Particularly not when beside him, Lavender, cradling the little owl, began to sob inconsolably. Filch made no response.

"As you wish, Argus," Professor White said impatiently. Her lips pursed into a small, thin line. "You can explain it to the Headmaster. Come with me, all of you." From her robes, she produced a small handkerchief which she proffered to Lavender, and she circled an arm around the girl's shoulders. "Here you go, my dear. Let's go. We'll pick up the others and head back to the castle." She glowered icily at Filch. "That includes you, Argus."

Ron and Harry watched the caretaker, half-expecting him to retort with some snide comment. But he only hung his head like a scolded mutt and shuffled after them.

As they neared the glade, the air grew thick with low wails and moans. Students' voices came in short mournful bursts, punctuated by sobs. Fast on Professor White's heels, Harry and Ron crossed the wards and were aghast to find the entire Gryffindor class in tears.

On the grass, the students lay scattered, immobilised and helpless. Lavender and the boys were close enough to overhear Seamus's mournful monologue about his family outside Dublin, in the thick of Death Eater skirmishes up and down the Meath countryside; Neville's tearful account of parents he never knew, lying unconscious in the psych ward at St. Mungo's; and Hermione weeping and mumbling unintelligibly about flunking O.W.L.s and something about ... always being a third wheel? Or was that 'bird wheel'? Harry frowned, as Ron wrinkled his nose and shrugged.

"Oh, great Merlin." Professor White let out an exasperated sigh. Raising her wand, she aimed it directly at a smooth-looking grey stone on the grass. "Stupefy!"

The stone trembled for a moment, rustling against the weeds, then sprang into the air, revealing the stalk of a hairy... mushroom? No, wait. Harry squinted through his glasses. It was, in fact, the hairy body of a small demon with a smooth, bulbous head. The Pogrebin froze, its spindly arms locked at its sides, then fell on its head with a soft thud.

"I shouldn't have left the box unlocked," muttered Professor White, shaking her head at herself.

Within minutes, the hatbox was once again snapped over the stupefied Pogrebin, more handkerchiefs distributed, and Filch, Mrs. Norris and the sniffling Gryffindors frogmarched back through the Forest and up the green slopes to the castle. In the Entrance Hall, Professor White ordered a red-eyed Hermione to escort the weepers up to Madam Pomfrey for some Pepper Up Potion. Giving the class one last apologetic twist of her lips, she prodded Mr. Filch up the stairs toward the Headmaster's office.

**********

The lengthy passages between the dungeons and Gryffindor Tower were too crowded for Harry and Ron to conduct a discreet discussion on Sirius's whereabouts. Instead, by the time they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, they'd exhausted all their theories about what Filch could have been doing with six or seven bloody owl carcasses hanging from his hunting robes. Harry and his friends disliked Filch as much as the next Hogwarts student, and with every detention Filch supervised, he made it clear that the contempt was mutual. With the exception of an incredulous school myth that Filch had taken a shine to some American student in the seventies', the caretaker always seemed to relish bringing misery to the Hogwarts student body. But what he could have been doing with dead students' owls was still a mystery.

"Maybe he's doing it out of spite, being a Squibb and all." Ron sat on his bed, frowning into his bookbag. "Dammit, why is it so dark in here? It's still only lunchtime."

"You know, I'm not sure Filch is the poacher," mused Harry. "It doesn't make much sense, does it? Not like he'd make much money from a couple of owls here and there, is it?" Harry tossed his satchel onto his bed, where it bounced and promptly rolled onto the floor with a weary thunk. He sighed, crawling across the covers, and dangled an arm downward. "Even if he hasn't got the talent to be a full-fledged wizard, why would he take his frustrations out on--Aaaahhh!"

His hand gripped something squishy... and also very much alive. It flinched, flapped against his arm and let out a small wail. Harry let go and sprang back.

A quivering Ron whimpered from the other side of the room. Harry's eyes moved from Ron's pale, bug-eyed expression to the hardcover volume of Warren Whiplash's Encyclopaedia of Wizard Weaponry raised above his head. Harry arched his eyebrows questioningly.

"What?" Ron shrugged. "Like you've never heard Dumbledore say knowledge is the best weapon?"

Harry snorted appreciatively, but, next moment a sudden scraping from the other side of the bed had him groping for his wand. He pointed the tip at the edge of the covers and mimicked the deliberate slowness of every naff Muggle TV detective he'd ever seen, "All right. It's no use. We've got you surrounded. If you move forward calmly and quietly, we won't hurt you. Come out with your arms up." He glanced back at Ron uncertainly. "Erm... if it has arms?"

The reply was a loud squeak.

"Oh, no, Harry Potter, sir! I is not come to hurt Harry Potter!"

A pair of bat-like ears, large, luminous eyes and a pencil-shaped nose came into view as a house-elf's green head cleared the coverlet.

"Dobby!" Harry exhaled and dropped his wand arm. "What are you doing up here? I mean, er... not to offend you, or anything," he added hastily, noting the sudden deflation of the elf's ears, "it's just... well, you kind of took us by surprise."

Dropping the book, Ron stepped forward eagerly. "Hey, you don't happen to have any of those cream puffs from the kitchens, do you?"

Harry elbowed Ron before turning back to Dobby, who was obviously still getting the hang of wearing clothes. The house-elf's slightly officious pose was offset largely by the mismatched pairs of bumblebee and paisley socks stretched over his long, flat feet. And, twisted round his little green frame, hung what looked like a bright tangerine balaclava, his spindly arms and legs sticking out of its threadbare sockets.

"Dobby is come to bring Harry Potter to the kitchens, sir."

"Oh." Harry blinked. "Well, that's... very generous of you, Dobby, but we're just heading to lunch... but maybe la--"

"No! No!" The house elf began jumping up and down excitedly. "Harry Potter is misunderstanding Dobby, sir! Dobby has come to tell you... Dobby is under orders to take Harry Potter to meet--Oh, bad Dobby! Bad! Bad!" Alarmed, Harry made a grab for the house-elf's arm to stop him from smacking his head against the bedpost. With large eyes dazed, he struggled to regain focus. "Dobby... must not ruin the surprise for Harry Potter."

"Surprise?" repeated Ron.

"Meet? Meet who?"

"The new Master Chef of Hogwarts, sir," squeaked Dobby. "The Master Chef has asked Dobby to fetch you, sir."

"What, you mean right now?" Harry flashed a reluctant look at Ron. "We can't be going to the kitchens, it's the middle of the day. There's enough trouble if anyone sees us sneaking into them at night, as it is. Why would the Master Chef want to see me?"

"Come on, Harry, it's a secret," said Ron in a mocking sing-song voice. "Where's your sense of adventure?" He laughed, managing to dodge Harry's half-hearted jab.

"Come, sir! Harry Potter must follow!"

"Come on..." tempted Ron, his eyebrows doing a little jig, "you know you love those chocolate creams."

Dobby's long green fingers held out the Invisibility Cloak as his other hand beckoned Harry toward the door. Dobby's perky face was brimming with such eagerness, it was difficult to find an excuse to say no. Relenting with a sigh, Harry allowed the elf to press the Cloak's silvery folds into his hand. He suspected that Ron's insistence was only to distract him from worrying more about Sirius. Harry grinned at Ron. And even if it didn't work, it never did a wizard any harm to replenish his supply of cream puffs.

Once under cover of the Cloak, Harry and Ron cracked open the door, checking for any passersby. Seeing it deserted, they turned back to find Dobby's blinking eyes around waist height.

"Dobby will meet Harry Potter inside the kitchens, sir."

"Wait," began Harry, "which part of the kit--"

But before he could finish, the room resounded with a loud snap! And Dobby vanished, bright orange balaclava and all.

"Hmm. Nifty," said Ron. "You know, Hermione said there's plenty that these chappies can do that we probably don't know about."

Harry gave a resigned sigh, peering round the door again. "You ready?"

He was starting to feel impatient and just a little bit guilty. He wanted more time to gather his thoughts about how best to contact Sirius without giving him away... Well, maybe after Muggle Studies, when the day started to wind down. Tugging Ron behind him, they slipped down the spiral stairs and out through the portrait hole just as Lavender, still sniffling (though less volubly) and clinging to Parvati's shoulder, sobbed her way into the common room.

It was challenging enough getting from the top of Gryffindor Tower down to the hidden entrance to the kitchens at night without running into a teacher or a prefect. But during the day, with the corridors jammed with students streaming this way and that, it was a veritable obstacle course. Treading on feet was a rather tricky business. The boys struggled to avoid brushing shoulders with other students, while concentrating on not letting the Cloak slip off accidentally to reveal a telltale sole or hem. But they managed to slip down several flights of stairs and cross four mezzanines without incident until they were standing almost directly beneath the Great Hall, in a room filled with loud, colourful paintings and tapestries, all depicting food.

Harry had just located the painting of an enormous silver fruit bowl when, outside in the corridor, they heard the squeal of trainers coming to an abrupt halt. A familiar, threatening voice poured like acid across the flagstones.

"Well, well," called Professor Snape silkily, "Mr. Mulroney. Mr. Meeks. Five points from Hufflepuff--each--for being out of bounds and... better make that a detention as well for you, Mulroney, for pilfering from the kitchens. What is that you are carrying?"

There was a brief, embarrassed silence before the sixth year replied. "It's... cheese, sir."

"That is abominable behaviour! Stealing needlessly from the kitchens when you should be at lunch with the rest of your House. You will hand that Gouda over to me. Now."

Ron and Harry froze as the cowering figures of Eamon Mulroney and Jeremiah Meeks shrunk backwards, past the open doorway, with Snape towering over them in his most vampirish gait. An unintelligible but vulgar-sounding comment in Dutch echoed through the corridor. Followed by a loud, wet raspberry. Harry clapped a hand over his mouth, while beside him, Ron's shoulders quaked with silent laughter. It couldn't have been either of the Hufflepuffs, whose terrified faces suddenly didn't look as if they knew whether to grimace or guffaw.

"WHAT did you say?" Snape's tone made it clear that he knew very well what had been said. Harry didn't have to see the Potions Master's face to visualise the glittering of his black eyes and the thin lips twisted in that familiar snarl.

"Us?... n-n-nothing, sir," protested Meeks. But his ruddy cheeks were twitching convulsively.

Mulroney clutched the cheese wheel tighter to his chest, heaving with suppressed laughter. "It was... erm, the cheese."

"The what?" They saw Snape's arm lurch into view. "Hand it over. I will take that."

Ron was clutching his sides and elbowing Harry. As Snape's greasy head vanished beyond the door frame, Harry's hand shot out to tickle the huge green pear on the painting by his hip, and he and Ron had just a fraction of a second to spare before they fell forward through the secret door, giggling senseless.

"Oh--" said Ron, still gripping his stomach, "I'd give anything to know how to say 'You greasy, big-nosed git!' in Dutch."

Their snickers and merry hiccoughs echoed through the cavernous room, glittering with brass pots and pans heaped to the ceiling. Around them, shining gilt plates, cutlery and tureens were stacked in tall, luminous towers from the door to the giant brick oven at the far end.

Recovering his composure at last, Ron glanced round greedily at the silver-dome-covered serving plates. "D'you reckon they've got any of those cream puffs stashed away here, then?"

The words had barely left his mouth when the whirring and tapping began. A small zephyr stirred around the boys. The air around them came to life with the bustle of house-elves wearing Hogwarts embossed tea towels, their ears flapping as they moved. As the breeze settled, about four house-elves skidded to a halt in front of them. Each held an open tray heaped with cream puffs, in the favours of the day: custard, chocolate, banana and hazelnut.

"Mmm... mish ish goot," mumbled Ron through a sampling of custard. The house elves beamed at Ron and took low, deferential bows. They set the plates down on the nearest table and processed backwards, still bowing copiously, to their stations. Ron set about cramming cakes into his pockets as Harry scanned the room for Dobby.

He wasn't hard to find. From behind one of the saucepan towers, Dobby trotted up to him, all but his eyes and ears lost behind a large, weighty-looking sack.

"The Master Chef has asked Dobby to give you this, sir," squeaked Dobby, muffled by the folds of burlap.

Taking the bag from Dobby, Harry peered in through the top. A puzzled frown wrinkled his forehead.

"The Master Chef wanted me to have... parsnips?" Beside Harry, Ron made a face, wiping sugar glaze off his hands with a tea towel.

But Dobby wasn't listening. He glanced repeatedly over his shoulder at the side door to the kitchens. "Chef Rojah is not meaning rudeness to Harry Potter, sir. He is wishing to explain, but the Master Chef has been called to attend to the Ministry inspectors."

As if on cue, a flurry of officious voices grew louder, approaching from the far corridor. Harry caught only a glimpse of a parade of sour-faced witches and wizards wearing the standard-issue Agriculture Ministry green. At the head of the procession, beckoning them all forward with long, wiry arms, was a tall, stooped old man, wisps of thinning grey hair escaping from a white chef's cap.

"Harry Potter must go," said Dobby, suddenly prodding them both toward the door.

"Wait, I don't get it, the parsnips, what am I supposed to--"

But the door had already clicked behind them.

**********

It was nothing short of a miracle that Harry and Ron managed to navigate the corridors and heave the burlap sack back to Gryffindor Tower. In the dormitory, Harry, with a stab of disappointment, set it aside in a dark corner behind his bedcurtains. Parsnips! The entire day so far had felt positively pointless. He hadn't had any fresh insight into methods of getting news of Sirius. He was tired. He was hungry. And although lunch had ended rather late, they had missed all of it and the crushed custard creams plastered to the insides of Ron's robes looked much less appetizing than they had earlier. Thankfully, the house-elves had already set up the tea service in the common room.

"'S a shame, Lavender finding out about her owl that way." Ron reached hungrily across the coffee table for the sugar lumps and nicked a biscuit from the plate in the centre. "'Doesn't seem to have much luck with pets, does she?"

"Erm... right." Harry pushed away his crumbs and blinked up distractedly from some basic Auror training manuals: Astral Projection for Amateurs and Unfogging the Fugitive. "Didn't she lose a pet rabbit once?"

"Eaten by a fox, I think," said Seamus, sweeping toward them from the fireplace to pick at their plate of biscuits. "Then there was the chinchilla at the end o' third year, an' the stray Puffskein the winter after that--drowned in the Prefects' Bath, don' ask me how. Now her post owl..."

With a sympathetic shake of his head, he returned to Dean and the stack of cards Fred and George had left in the common room. Exploding Snape Cards, a Weasley variation on Exploding Snap, were the latest gag in Gryffindor House. These, too, exploded. But rather than snap!, these bellowed: "FIVE POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR!", burst into bright green flame, and left a thin film of grease on your hair. Like the rest of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, they were always good for a laugh.

But Lavender wasn't laughing. The poor girl sat glumly in a corner--though Harry noted she didn't refuse Seamus's attempts to persuade her to take extra Pepper Up Potion in her cocoa.

The large unfolded Arithmancy chart in the chair opposite Harry and Ron crackled and folded forward to reveal Hermione's head. Her brows furrowed in consternation. "You know, I wonder what Filch could have been doing with all those dead owls." Her eyes drifted to a Daily Prophet, discarded on the ottoman by the fire. "You don't think Filch..."

"... is the poacher?" Harry shrugged. "Dunno. We wondered that, too."

"He did look awfully shifty, though," speculated Ron.

"But people look shifty all the time without actually being guilty. That's one thing you learn when you're a Prefect," said Hermione smugly. "Being confronted with authority does strange things to people, so we can't take everything at face value. Sometimes things just aren't what they seem."

"But Filch always looks shifty."

"Precisely," said Hermione, pulling up her Arithmancy homework with a loud crackle. Ron squinted one eye at Harry and shook his head, still trying to get his head round Hermione's argument.

Harry shrugged and went back to jotting down notes. "Well, it's up to Dumbledore and Professor White now, I suppose."

"And we have a busy afternoon ahead," said Ron, standing. He drained his tea.

Harry's quill paused in mid-sentence. "Where are you going?"

Ron's face took on a certain mock innocence. "Just getting ready for Muggle Studies."

Surprised, Harry smiled at him curiously. "I thought you said this was 'just a Squibb seminar'."

The chart on the opposite chair crinkled forward again, unveiling Hermione's arched brow. "Muggle Studies isn't for another hour and a half. And today's only the first class." She frowned. "What's there to do?"

But Ron had already disappeared up the spiral staircase.

**********

All told, the West Tower was one of the most unremarkable portions of the school, furnished minimally, and more for function than form. The broad stairs spiralling through the top floors boasted none of the lush velvet window dressing and gilt trappings of the trophy room three floors below. Apart from the tarnished silver mirror, only a handful of modest landscapes dotted the otherwise barren fourth floor corridor.

As the Gryffindors made the climb to the top, Hermione paused at a rather mundane still life of a mill and stream--mundane, that is, until a dappled grey mare trotted into the frame and dipped its snout in the water. A stocky, armour-clad knight brought up the rear. Four well-dressed soldiers in plumed hats followed behind curiously on their thoroughbreds. The little knight's rusty joints squealed as he gestured angrily at his horse. The noises stopped, however, as Sir Cadogan gawked at the students trudging past. For a moment, she thought he'd looked right at her. But the next moment, he was waving excitedly at the four horsemen and pointing somewhere in Ron's direction. Her forehead wrinkled in mild amusement as Sir Cadogan sighed, knocked against his horse and tumbled inelegantly into the stream, to the entertainment of his four companions.

Turning back to the hallway, she examined the uninspired décor. No wonder the tower happened to be relatively unexplored by the student populace, except--if you believed the rumours--Fred and George Weasley. And possibly Harry and Ron; they'd certainly had their fair run of nocturnal explorations, mused Hermione. As a prefect, she could easily have deducted from them enough points to squelch Gryffindor's hopes of a shot at the House Cup. Thinking on it now, she fought a grin. She'd already lost count of the number of times she'd glimpsed them slipping through the portrait hole, the soles of their trainers peeking indiscreetly from the hem of the Invisibility Cloak. When it came down to it, she really couldn't blame them. The castle was an architectural marvel: according to Hogwarts: A History, there were enough moving staircases, trapdoors and secret passageways to keep a team of cartographers permanently employed. There were always new places to discover. More often than not, these discoveries happened purely by accident. Hermione distinctly recalled their first year when she, Harry, Ron and a trembling Neville, fleeing from Filch and Mrs. Norris, barricaded themselves in a room on the third floor and nearly walked into the jaws of a giant, homicidal three-headed dog.

That had been in the West Tower.

This year, however, the only apprehension anyone felt upon their approach to the tower was borne of sheer vanity. Outside the Muggle Studies classroom at the end of the hall, Harry looked as neat as he could, despite his failed attempts to tame the rumpled dark fringe flopping over his scar. Seamus and Dean stopped every so often to adjust their robes. And Neville... where was he? Glancing round, Hermione noticed that even Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle were straightening their ties and checking their teeth against reflections in windows as they passed. But her irritation mounted when Hermione noted the change of part in Ron's hair, looking meticulously combed for a change. And he smelled of a light sandalwood musk.

For Merlin's sake, she fumed, they all look positively eager. With difficulty, she bit back the urge to tell them to quit preening themselves. Around her, disapproving frowns from Parvati and even Pansy indicated they had been having similar thoughts. Of the girls, only Millicent Bulstrode seemed intent on straightening her uniform. Hermione even caught the pug-like girl smoothing down her wiry hair.

"What're you lookin' at?" Millicent spat. She balled her pudgy hands into threatening fists.

Hermione had backed away instinctively against the wall, when a mellifluous voice drifted out into the corridor.

"Do come in."

Hermione scowled, unable to hold back a little tutting noise as Ron strode past her to the front of the classroom. He set his books down and paused to glance at her over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. A stray lock of ginger hair swung onto his forehead, creased in a silent interrogative.

Releasing an exasperated sigh, she dropped gracelessly into a seat with the Gryffindor and Slytherin girls. In the back of the room. The only place, she remarked bitterly, where there were any free desks. All the available spaces in the front were already crammed with flushed, expectant-looking boys. Some nudged their neighbours, but most glanced round, keen and breathless.

Pansy slunk down behind the desk across the aisle, arms crossed moodily as she stared daggers at the back of Draco Malfoy's head. "Testosterone-tortured twits," she muttered darkly. At her side, Valentina Rupp's dark fringe shook with a commiserating nod.

Hermione realised grimly that it was probably the first time she had agreed with Pansy on anything. Sighing again, she glimpsed the classroom, immediately noticing that all the heavy drapes had been drawn, blocking out the late afternoon sun. Heavy-looking red pillar candles between the rows provided the only source of light in the large, octagonal room. A tall canvas screen was propped up against the rear wall in front of the blackboard. And on Professor van der Witte's desk, next to an enormous pile of scrolls, stood a squarish contraption fixed with a single glass lens, trained on the canvas.

There was only one thing missing. Hermione twisted round expectantly, along with the rest of the class. Where was--?

"Good afternoon."

In a rustle of crimson and fuschia brocade, Professor van der Witte materialised from behind a thick burgundy curtain. She was dressed sumptuously--far too sumptuously for teaching a class, thought Hermione (whose sense of wizard and Muggle dress was predictably sensible). The corseted bodice enhanced an enviably narrow waist. Several wisps of her blonde hair escaped from her chignon, trailing loosely over her bare shoulders. Except for the relief of a wide, red silk choker, her low neckline exposed more creamy white skin than Hogwarts had been accustomed to seeing on a professor. Hermione's eyes narrowed critically at the boys, most of whose jaws seemed wholly incapable of resisting gravity. They looked like they had stopped breathing. Professor van der Witte gave them a gracious smile.

"As you know, I am Clarimonde van der Witte," she purred. Her clipped accent was an almost imperceptible mixture of Dutch and French.

Professor van der Witte skirted the aisle, nearing Harry and Ron. "Despite your presence here, I suspect that most of you may not necessarily be convinced of the utility of studying the Muggle World. But, I assure you, there is much to be"--she paused, meeting Ron's eyes--"...savoured there." Ron cleared his throat and turned an even rosier shade than normal. He fidgeted with the knot of his tie. As she paced the length of the room, her soft voice continued, sweet and resonant like distant bells.

"A profound knowledge of the Muggle World serves a multitude of uses. Some of you may yet be familiar with many aspects of the non-magical world. But for those of you who are not, while it would not be feasible to devote attention to every area of study, this course will touch upon the more salient aspects of Muggle culture: the appreciation of science and technology, literature, history, art and music. Should you have any questions, or wish to pursue independently additional subject matter not covered in the syllabus, you may make an appointment to see me during office hours." Bursts of excited murmuring issued from the front rows.

"Now." She leaned back languorously, surveying the room, her tapered fingers against the front of the desk. "As you might expect, we will use, for the most part, materials and instruments from the Muggle world--enchanted, of course." Coral-red lips parted in a smile, revealing straight rows of small white teeth. "Has anyone here any experience with a film projector?"

Hermione's hand flew up at once. Almost hopefully, Professor van der Witte's eyes scanned the boys in the first few rows, all gaping and apparently still tongue-tied. The smile lost some of its lustre. Finally, she gave Hermione a perfunctory little nod. "Yes, Miss...?"

"Hermione Granger, Professor."

"Very well, my dear, would you please come up and assist us with the projector?" She gestured towards a small chair to her left beside the desk.

Hermione crossed the room and fumbled with the power switch and focus dial. Colour and light shot forward and the short presentation began.

As far as Hermione could tell, it comprised extracts from celluloid interpretations of magical creatures and persons: three witches cackling round a cauldron on a dark and stormy night; dark wizards (in outlandishly garish robes wielding gilded walking sticks) picking fights with demons and dragons; a eldritch, toothless hag plotting to boil two little children for supper; the ferocious, twisted faces of vampires tearing savagely at the necks of swooning virgins; and the Muggle actor Jack Nicholson (Hermione's mother was a fan) as a werewolf. Professor van der Witte refrained from comment during the presentation, appearing to content herself with gauging the expressions on the students' faces.

"This Muggle presentation serves to illustrate and summarise misconceived stereotypes of the magical world in Muggle popular culture," she said, gesturing vaguely at Hermione to flick the power switch. "As one might expect, due to strict Ministry guidelines, the non-magical world has no access to full accounts of Magical history and its understanding of the true nature of our world is, at best, sketchy and not impartial. But we all know that there are good as well as bad wizards--although distinguishing between the two often gives rise to an interminable semantic discussion of merits. Still, we know, for example, that not all giants are evil and that not all witches are up to no good."

"Pity," sniggered Millicent Bulstrode, earning a sideways glance from Hermione.

Harry raised a timid hand..

"Yes, Mr...?"

"Harry Potter, Professor." There was a short pause before a flicker of recognition lit on her translucent brow. She gave him a broad smile and nodded. "We know, for example, that, er... not all werewolves are bad," continued Harry. Several students bobbed their heads, no doubt remembering their third year classes with Professor Lupin. "But ... well, do you mean to suggest that not all vampires are dangerous?"

"An excellent question, Mr. Potter." Professor van der Witte considered him with a half-lidded, gentian stare. "I see that I have not been misinformed of your quickness--on and off the Quidditch pitch." (Across the aisle, Malfoy gave an aggravated sniff and rolled his eyes.) "Therefore, allow me to throw you a Snitch." Moving effortlessly--almost floating, Hermione thought--she leaned forward, levelly meeting Harry's gaze. "What do you think?"

He blinked, hesitating. "Well...I'm... not sure."

Seeming satisfied, Professor van der Witte drew herself straight. "Quite so." She fixed her eyes on Harry, arched a delicate brow and nodded. "You will find in time that not everything is black and white, and some questions are not easily answered." Her vermilion lips curved teasingly. "Particularly not in the last three minutes of class."

Ron's hand rose in time with the colour on his face. "Professor... you wouldn't happen to have any course schedules with you? Or would you prefer that we..." (Hermione saw him swallow) "stop by your office to pick them up?" He looked hopeful.

Hermione scowled, as the woman beamed at Ron. "Excellent timing, Mr. Weasley. Dear," -she turned back to Hermione, dropping her tone--"would you be so kind as to distribute these to everyone?" Without waiting for an answer, she dropped a weighty mound of parchment scrolls bound with black silk ribbons into Hermione's arms and continued to the rest of class. "Next week we will embark upon a brief study of Muggle composers and their works in the past 600 years. In addition, to commence the literature component of this course, you will be required to choose from the readings in the syllabus being distributed by... what was your name, dear?"

Behind the teetering stack of scrolls, Hermione gritted her teeth.

"Hermione. Granger."

"Yes, yes, of course," she said absently. "In addition to the readings indicated, on a weekly basis, you will be required to read and write an essay on the interpretations and biases expressed in your chosen poem or novel. The first paper, due next week, shall be a free essay of no more than two scrolls: choose your literary work and topic of discussion." The professor raised her eyes to them, beaming, not quite beatifically. "Until next week."

A rustle of quills and rolling parchment to the accompaniment of scraping chairs signalled the students' slow exodus. The boys lingered, however, casting furtive, longing glances at the professor, who was, for her part, gently shooing them from the room.

"She knows my name," Ron exulted breathlessly to a bemused-looking Harry. The boys followed the crowd into the hall, entirely missing one of Hermione's best venomous glares.

Hermione slapped the last of the scrolls into the hands of the gormless Gregory Goyle and stomped from the classroom into the comparatively bright torch-lit corridor. She paged distractedly through her own copy of the literature syllabus (fifteen parchment pages of wine-coloured ink in a delicate hand) and glimpsed a few titles she had already covered at her old Muggle school. But most she knew only by name: everything from Shakespeare and the Brontës to foreign authors with whom she'd only had a passing literary acquaintance.

"Oof! Sorry."

Her foot connected with something solid and she realised that she'd nearly tripped over Ron and Harry, loading books into their satchels. Ron stood suddenly, gingerly rubbing his leg, but his jaw dropped in disbelief at the lengthy reading list in his hand. "She said this is only the literary component, didn't she?"

Hmmph! Hermione felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Serves him right, taking "just a Squibb Seminar" to ogle the prof.

"That's right," she said primly. "Disappointed, are you?"

He stuffed the syllabus into his desperately fraying satchel and assumed a steel expression. "What's up with you?"

She gave a disdainful sniff. "So typical." Hermione glared at Ron, hands on her hips. "Why do men always expect they can have their cake and eat it too? And I suppose all the hard work"--she wagged the syllabus under his nose--"isn't worth the Eye Candy?"

The flush returned to Ron's face as he glowered at her. "Well, what's it to you, then?"

Hermione's red face blanched. "It doesn't mean anything to me," she said hotly. "I just thought you might appreciate someone telling you when you're being a complete idiot."

She swung round abruptly, and began a furious march toward the library.

**********

Half-smiling, Harry watched Ron blink innocently in their friend's wake. After a long

moment, Ron turned to him and frowned.

"Hmmph. I guess the Pepper Up Potion's worn off," he remarked wryly. "What's she on about, d'you reckon?"

Harry, who had had ample opportunity to observe his two friends together over the past four years, had his own suspicions. He gave his glasses a tentative push his along the bridge of his nose and was just contemplating the least impolitic way to broach the topic with Ron when they heard the faint creak of the classroom door behind them.

"Well. Your friend certainly does seem rather... highly-strung, don't you think?" Leaning against the half-open doorway stood Professor van der Witte. "Quite the little virago, I'd say."

Ron blushed. Harry, on the other hand, strained to keep his face from registering his surprise and indignation that a Hogwarts professor could be so--he searched for the word--catty about another student. Well, a Hogwarts professor that wasn't Snape, in any case.

But then she beamed. Radiantly.

"I don't know what's bothering her," sighed Ron, cooling down. "Hermione's not always... well, she's... I... I guess I should really go after her. See what's wrong."

"Oh, that won't be necessary. Take it from a woman who knows. She's probably best left alone for the moment." At Ron's expression, she bubbled forth with a soft, tinkly laugh. "Oh, now, don't look so glum. She'll come round, you'll see. Best to leave it alone." She made a casual wave with an elegant hand and brushed the flats of her fingers against Ron's arm, who immediately turned from glum to plum.

Not once taking her eyes off Ron, she continued in that purring voice. "Mr. Weasley, I understand that your father is Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department at the Ministry. If you are... inclined, there are a number of special research projects that I'm sure will be suitable to your talents. And if you wish, I could be available to assist you with them... outside of class, of course, in the evenings."

Harry raised his eyebrows in alarm, but his friend didn't notice. Ron gulped. His eyes had glazed over and his lips parted slightly. "Um...well, yeah. I'd be... very interested."

Harry gaped at Ron. Unlike Hermione, Ron was simply not the type to do any more classwork than was strictly necessary to pass.

"We can start this evening, if you like," she said, pushing the door back slightly, "I have some very interesting things I could show you--"

"Weasley! Potter. There you are."

A dark green shadow in the corridor quickly approached and became the austere figure of Professor McGonagall. "You will kindly follow me. The Headmaster would like to see you both in his office. Now." The eyes behind the spectacles clearly directed this last word at the younger professor.

Ron and Harry looked from McGonagall's pale, pinched face to Professor van der Witte's dew-and-rose-petal countenance. Now there's a contrast, thought Harry, as Professor McGonagall cast a disapproving eye over the other woman's lavish attire.

"Uh, sure," said Harry, prodding Ron in the back.

"Oh." Ron looked at Professor van der Witte reluctantly. "Well, I guess... I should...go."

"Of course." The young woman's smile seemed strained. "Another time then. See you both in class." She nodded coldly at McGonagall. "Professor." The door closed with a soft click.

"Right," said Professor McGonagall briskly, turning back to them and starting down the spiral stairs. "No idling about. Follow me."