Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 11: In the Headmaster's Office

For someone her age, Harry thought, Professor McGonagall was awfully spry. The Transfiguration professor flew down the stairs with great celerity, so quickly that Ron and Harry had to trot along at a jog just to keep up. So speedy, in fact, that when they encountered Peeves the Poltergeist, pulling up the rugs in the corridor for a laugh, Professor McGonagall didn't so much as pause to scold him. The faraway sound of excited chatter came and went as they passed the Great Hall at a fast clip, barely getting a whiff of the night's dinner. It wasn't until five staircases and seven corridors later, when Harry rounded a corner and came face to face with a familiar gargoyle, that at last he came to a screeching halt behind Professor McGonagall. Her complexion was oddly pale and her hand trembled, sweeping at several greying strands swinging awkwardly across her spectacles and the bridge of her long, thin nose. Ron appeared seconds later, clutching at his chest and gasping, long limbs flailing. He looked about ready to collapse under the weight of his satchel.

Professor McGonagall stretched her neck to peer round Harry's shoulder. Finally, she leaned against the wall and panted, "Tonsil Tickler."

She directed this at the gargoyle in the alcove, which immediately sprang aside. The wall behind parted, revealing a stone spiral staircase that rotated slowly upwards and she herded them onto the first step. Harry couldn't help but notice her glance nervously over her shoulder as the wall closed between them. In moments, they arrived at the very top of the stairs, facing the double oak doors that Harry knew to be the entrance to Dumbledore's office. He shrugged at Ron, took a deep breath and knocked.

The door slowly cracked open and a rosy strip of firelight sliced across the landing. The boys took a few timid steps forward into a beautiful, circular room. It was exactly as Harry remembered it, lined with bookshelves from its limestone floors to the domed ceiling. Portraits of past headmasters and -mistresses inspected them curiously over teacups or scrolls behind their gilt frames.

"Whoa..." Ron, who had never before seen the Headmaster's office, glanced about reverently in unaffected admiration. "This is wicked."

"Thank you, Ronald," said Dumbledore, twinkling at them from across the room. His quill-patterned magenta robes skirted the Persian rug between the white oak desk and the hearth. "Hello, Harry. Thank you both for coming on such short notice."

Harry gasped, glancing at his watch and had just opened his mouth, when the Headmaster raised his hand. "Harry, you have been excused this evening from the care of your Magical Creature, as well as from the Gryffindor Quidditch practice. As for you, Ronald," continued the Headmaster, his eyes twinkling, "I hope I have not... curtailed any plans you may have had for this evening?"

"Erm... no, sir," said Ron, who was quickly turning a shade or two darker than his hair.

Harry bit back a grin as Ron suddenly displayed a deep fascination for a peeling first edition of Divination for Dimwits. Amid the whirring, buzzing objects scattered among the shelves, the gold-orange flutter of a grand wingspan across the room caught Harry's eye. Dumbledore's phoenix, settling elegantly onto its golden perch by the door, blinked its dark eyes in greeting.

"Cool."

"'Lo, Fawkes," said Harry.

Ron made his acquaintance with the bird as Harry turned to the Headmaster. "Professor McGonagall said you wanted to see us, sir."

"Yes... and no," said the Headmaster. "Though I did send for you, there is someone here who has long been impatient to see you."

From behind Dumbledore's robes and the enormous carved oak desk trundled a bear-sized black dog that was nearly a head taller than Harry when it sat up. It wagged its tail, cheerfully raising its paws.

"Sirius!" cried the boys.

At once, the dog's muzzle shrank, its neck lengthened, and the thick, ebony mane gradually vanished until standing before them was a tall, lean man with dark hair, bright blue eyes and a faint shadow of stubble across his angular features.

"Sirius, you're okay!" blurted Harry.

"Harry. Ron." Sirius Black's face cracked into a broad grin as he hugged his godson. "I'm so glad to see you. And you, too, Ron," he said with a wink. He gave the unruly hair on Harry's head a playful ruffle.

Sirius's own hair was shorter than it had been in June when Dumbledore sent him away to re-establish a network of supporters against Voldemort. Looking at his godfather now, the fears that had been plaguing Harry's mind melted away. Although his voice seemed a bit more gravelly than since the beginning of the summer, the ruddy-cheeked Sirius before them now looked considerably more cheerful, healthy and well-fed--a far cry from the grizzled shadow of a man who had spent twelve despairing years behind Azkaban bars, falsely convicted of conspiracy and murder.

"We were so worried," said Harry. "You didn't write all summer and when we saw the paper, I thought something had--"

Sirius nodded apologetically, and his eyes took on that haunted quality that had never truly left him since his escape from Azkaban.

"I'm sorry, Harry. Circumstances forced me to lie low for a while. Arabella Figg has been kind enough to offer Remus and myself shelter until it's safer to move." Sirius glanced at Dumbledore. "Mrs Figg should also be along shortly, too, by the way."

Mrs Figg? Harry gave Ron a startled look, then turned back to Sirius.

"Did you say--"

"Harry, isn't that the name of the old lady you--"

"Let me see if I can't round us up some tea," said Dumbledore, slipping out a small door beside the hearth. Almost instantaneously he returned, followed--quite literally--by a floating plate of chocolate bourbon creams, a large pot and five cups and saucers.

Harry was still staring at Sirius. "Did you just...?" His brows knitted together. "I thought I heard you say Mrs Figg."

Sirius nodded. "Arabella Figg. One of the finest Aurors of our time. Retired now, of course--but only in the 'Alastor Moody' sense."

"Wha--?" Ron blinked up inquisitively.

"I mean surveillance work," said Sirius. "She's been spending the past fifteen years posing as a Muggle, a neighbour of the Dursleys, Harry, to keep an eye on you."

Harry stared, dumbstruck, at his godfather's crooked grin. The image that immediately sprang to Harry's mind was of an old woman in a dark sitting room draped with knitted afghans and cats. Plenty of cats. She lived two streets away from Privet Drive in a small, musty house that smelled like cabbages. Spending the day with Mrs Figg, listening to her incessant natter about her cats was only marginally more tolerable than having a day out with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, which typically involved dodging attempts at physical abuse by his portly cousin Dudley. Of Mrs Figg herself, Harry recalled frumpy printed dresses, an over-powdered face, curly purple-grey hair, her green octagonal reading glasses and ...

"Good evening, Albus. Sirius." And ...that faintly creaky voice. "Hello, Harry."

"Ah, welcome, Arabella," said Dumbledore.

Harry swung round to see that same face appear next to Fawkes's perch. Only, it wasn't exactly the same. His jaw dropped. Gone were the gaudy glasses, replaced by sleek rectangular frames rimmed in pewter. In the light of Dumbledore's office, her lined face appeared less grooved, less severe, and her silvery hair less purple. Instead of the frumpy printed dress, she clutched around herself a cloak of a deep, majestic green. And glinting through the folds of her robes was a flash of scaly body armour. Harry blinked at her in confusion, trying to reconcile this formidable witch with the dotty old bat on whose threadbare sofa he'd spent hours politely leafing through feline photo collections.

"You... I... I always thought you were a friend of Aunt Petunia's," he said dumbly.

"In a very loose manner of speaking, I suppose. Let's just say it was rather fortuitous that I managed to make her acquaintance." Mrs Figg's silvery brows lifted in a small sardonic movement. "Not exactly hospitality's poster child, is she, your aunt?"

From somewhere across the room, Harry heard Dumbledore cough pointedly. But a slow, wicked smile spread across Harry's face. He'd never guessed old Mrs Figg of the Weird Cabbage Smell was a witch. And if it was a shock to him, imagine Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's reaction to this news! Harry was grinning irrepressibly now.

"But, wait a minute. So you were sent to watch over me while I was living with the Dursleys?"

"You didn't think we'd have left you alone with those Muggles without adequate precautions, did you?" She rested a hand on his shoulder. "And it wasn't just me, poppet. In case You-Know-Who returned, or his followers decided to stir up trouble, we had some of the finest Unspeakables on rotation. We couldn't be too careful."

Harry frowned. "But I thought you lived alone."

"Well, they came and went. And you saw them, all right. Agents Mansfield, Bartleby and Fenchurch, mostly. Though I think you knew them as Mitsy, Boots and Felix." Mrs Figg chuckled raspily as Harry gasped.

"We were glad to see that you've proven able to hold your own against that brute of a cousin... and that you've made some good friends here, too." The witch's blue eyes glittered in amusement as they moved from Harry to Ron, who lifted a hand in greeting. He mumbled a cheery hello through a mouthful of bourbon biscuit.

"Oh. Erm... Mrs Figg, this is my friend Ron Weasley," he said hastily. There were so many questions swimming in his head, Harry couldn't decide which to ask first. But Dumbledore motioned for them to sit down.

They waited until Mrs Figg selected the seat closest to the fire before taking their places in the other claw-footed club chairs arranged around the thick pile rug.

Dumbledore smiled, nodding at Mrs Figg. "Sirius was just about to begin the debriefing when the boys arrived," he said, passing her a teacup. "But perhaps you can enlighten us, Arabella. What have you discovered?"

The witch paused, glancing uncertainly at Harry and Ron.

"Oh, it's quite all right, Arabella. There is no need for secrecy with these young men--they are... resourceful enough, no doubt, to discover matters for themselves anyway. I am sure Harry and Ron can be trusted to exercise their discretion regarding the matters we are about to discuss." Dumbledore looked meaningfully at the boys and paused as Ron raised his eyebrows at Harry. "And that it will go no further than their friend Hermione Granger, who, I assure you, is most trustworthy." He winked at Ron, who smiled back gratefully.

Mrs Figg appeared to consider this, then nodded. "Very well." She adjusted the pewter frames on her nose and launched into what sounded like a field report.

"We have no substantial leads yet on the whereabouts of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, apart from a few people who claim to have seen his accomplice Peter Pettigrew at various locations throughout the country, all in the past three weeks. However, for one reason or another, the reliability of this testimony has been called into question, leaving us only with scant circumstantial evidence."

It was rude, of course, for Harry to stare at Mrs Figg, but he couldn't help it. He was rather unaccustomed to the brisk, business-like tone of her voice and the swift flick of her wand that caused a weighty stack of forensic documentation to materialise with a pop! at her feet. But if the witch was aware of anything apart from Dumbledore's grave expression, she didn't let on. She extracted several bulging files from an enormous dragonhide briefcase.

"Remus Lupin, Sirius and I have contacted what is left of the Order to ensure that everyone is briefed and ready to Apparate to the prearranged rendezvous point when the time comes... although," Mrs Figg's eyes darkened, "our number has diminished somewhat due to... recent events.

"The only person unaccounted for in the old guard is Doris Crockford. All Remus could ascertain from Mundungus Fletcher was that she left home to have dinner with an old friend of hers in Little Hangleton. According to Fletcher, he called round to her cottage to see if he could rouse up some interest in one of his... shall we say, investment opportunities--I believe you know Fletcher, Albus." She crooked a thin, disapproving brow behind her glasses, and glanced once again at her files. "He said that afternoon he saw her Disapparate with a few bottles of gooseberry jam and a package tucked under her arm. But she never returned. That was sometime in July. We interviewed most of her neighbours, including Fletcher and his wife, and by all accounts it's not like her to be away from their neighbourhood this long without appointing someone to tend to her pumpkin patch, especially this close to the harvest. There is speculation that she may have fallen into the hands of... You-Know-Who."

"You may say 'Voldemort'," interrupted the Headmaster.

Mrs Figg flinched. As did Ron. Neither was as accustomed to speaking the Dark Lord's name as Harry and Sirius.

Dumbledore sat back in his chair, folding his hands across the waves of his long, white beard. "I think it is now time," he said sternly, "for us to start calling a spade a spade."

Harry was fairly certain Ron would have no trouble saying the word "spade." It was the word "Voldemort" he couldn't pronounce without visceral shuddering. And Harry didn't blame him. There was no one who could truthfully say they were comfortable speaking the Dark Lord's name; the words "comfort" and "Voldemort" seemed incongruous in the same sentence. Nevertheless, Ron, and even Mrs Figg, nodded a little sheepishly.

The silence was broken by a faint scraping sound. On the other side of the fireplace, Sirius dragged his fingers thoughtfully across the stubble on his cheeks.

"What puzzles me," he said, "is what anyone would want with Mrs Crockford. All the missing persons and single-homicides that have been reported since June have either been wizards or witches with ties to the Ministry, or revenge killings for Death Eaters who have tried to leave the fold. But old Doris?" He shook his head. "'Doesn't fit the pattern. Remus's folks knew her from quite a long way back when she used to keep house for their neighbours. Nice woman, quite cheerful... bit on the bossy side, but hardly the sort you'd expect to be kidnapped or involved in some kind of Dark intrigue." He turned to Mrs Figg, his forehead creased into a thoughtful frown. "Fletcher said she was going to visit a friend?"

"Yes..." Mrs Figg rustled through several lengthy statements, finally extracting a single piece of parchment. She tilted her reading glasses forward. "Someone named Brown, an ex-colleague of hers, according to Fletcher."

"Brown..." Dumbledore's snowy brows met in the wrinkle above his nose. "Has this person been located?"

Sirius shook his head. "Not yet. Remus is currently looking into it, sir."

Mrs Figg closed her file and looked up at Dumbledore. "Any... word from Fudge?"

"Ah." The Headmaster reached for the sugar, shaking his head dolefully. "No, unfortunately not."

She sighed. "I was afraid of that."

"Whilst there are those at the Ministry who have themselves recognised the truth of the matter--like Arthur Weasley," said Dumbledore, with a little nod at Ron, "you will all surely have noticed that despite the alarming increase in reports of violence in the Muggle and magical communities alike, the Ministry still refuses to acknowledge openly that these attacks are the work of Voldemort and his followers."

Sirius let out a vehement exclamation and clenched his fists in an effort to keep them from crashing down on the table. Finally, he raked a hand through his black hair in frustration. "How on earth can Fudge, even now, not see the signs? Dark Marks up and down the country! How many more people have to drop dead before he wakes up? If Voldemort comes back at the height of his powers, without the backing of Ministry resources... there may not be anything that we can do--"

"No." The Headmaster sighed quietly. "There is a way."

Four pairs of eyes shot up curiously at the Headmaster.

"What--"

"How--?"

Dumbledore raised a reassuring hand. "It requires... further reflection and some degree of preparation," he said softly. The Headmaster had a faraway expression in his eyes. He nodded, as if concurring with his own inner voices. He looked resigned and, Harry thought, just a little bit sad. The gravity and finality of his tone forced them all to rein in the questions that hung tensely in the air.

After a brief pause, Mrs Figg ventured to speak. "Very well." She set down her teacup gently. "In the meantime, we will regroup with the others to see if anyone else in the network has discovered anything regarding... Voldemort's or Crockford's whereabouts." With another tap of her wand, the briefcase and files vanished with a soft pop! Rising slowly, she turned to the Headmaster. "Albus, if you don't mind..."

"Of course," said Dumbledore, rising from his chair, Sirius and the two boys following suit.

"Thank you." She nodded at the boys and Sirius. "I'm sorry to leave you just now, but Remus is assisting me with a little reconnaissance this evening in Little Hangleton. Sirius, we'll see you at the rendezvous."

Sirius forced a crooked grin. "I'll bring the firewood, if you bring the marshmallows."

Mrs Figg pursed her lips and Harry wasn't sure whether she was trying to refrain from scolding him or smiling. Instead, she approached the fireplace. "Albus, would you mind if I troubled you for...?"

But Dumbledore had already plucked a small golden bowl from the mantelpiece filled with a silvery-green substance that Harry recognised as Floo powder. "Of course." The slight upturn in Dumbledore's beard flattened quickly into a thin line. "Be careful, Arabella. And please, tell Remus not to take any unnecessary risks."

"I will." She smiled back and took a deep breath. Her eyes glowed with just a trace of nervous excitement. In that moment she looked years younger than the tired old woman Harry had known. Flinging a pinch of the powder into the hearth, she said in a voice loud and clear, "The Hanged Man pub." And with a small step, Mrs Figg--spectacles, body armour and all--vanished into the flames.

The four of them were silent for a moment after Mrs Figg's departure, eyes on the floor, each lost in his own thoughts. Sirius rubbed the back of his neck pensively, looking apprehensive--most likely for Professor Lupin, Harry thought. Although Professor Lupin was a werewolf, he would transform only at the full moon and even then, being unable to control the wolf's actions, would only be more of a liability to himself and others. If he and Mrs Figg stumbled upon a trap or were discovered by Death Eaters... Harry didn't want to think about it. He thought of his scar, how the pain the other night was like a spear ripping through his head.

Ron's face contorted with worry and his tentative voice broke the silence. "Excuse me, sir," he said to the Headmaster. "Do you... do you think that... even here at Hogwarts... Vol-Voldemort could... I mean, he couldn't... could he?"

Again, Dumbledore's sad smile. "My dear Ronald," he sighed, "I am afraid that there are many ways in which Voldemort may try to infiltrate even this school--and just as many things here which he can use to his advantage."

This confirmed all of Ron's and Harry's worst fears. Ron's face took on a pained expression. "Isn't... isn't there anything we can do?"

"I'm afraid not until we have a better idea of where Voldemort is or what his plans are. For the moment, all we can do is carry on as we have been."

Harry's heart sank. "That's it?"

Sirius stretched out a calming hand, resting it on his shoulder. "Harry, every precaution has been taken to prevent Voldemort from coming to this school. And outside these walls, everyone on our side, I'm sure even covert operations at the Ministry, is doing their best to track Voldemort down before it's too late."

But for once, Sirius's attempt to assuage Harry's fears failed. "So, what you're saying is, that really is it," he said flatly. "There really is nothing we can do."

His mind drifted to a scene in his not so distant memory, of a dark churchyard, his own body paralysed and powerless amongst the tombstones, those inhuman red serpentine eyes... and all the time that high-pitched cackling laugh and the pain ripping through his scar, consuming his body. Harry started to feel a coldness despite the fire beside him, as if eating away at the warmth of hope. He shivered.

Dumbledore's voice came to them so softly it was almost a whisper. "There is... one thing you can do."

Three heads turned to the Headmaster expectantly.

"Have faith."

Harry frowned.

"Yes, faith, Harry," he said. "Faith in what you believe in, who you are, what you choose to become."

Harry thought of the parents he never knew, murdered at the hands of Voldemort, those kind gentle faces smiling and waving at him, only in photos. The bespectacled James Potter and his unruly black hair, and Harry's mother Lily with her green eyes and tousled red curls. He came from them. But... he wondered if Mrs Figg and the Unspeakables knew how like Voldemort he was in other ways. That he resembled Tom Riddle, that he could talk to snakes. Not only was he a Parselmouth, but he was the only other wizard to share his wand's core with Voldemort. The Sorting Hat in his first year had even wanted to put him in Voldemort's old house, Slytherin. Are you really so different after all? hissed a taunting voice in his head. Harry lowered his eyes, his face darkening until Dumbledore's voice beckoned his thoughts from the shadows.

"We cannot control the actions of others, Harry. But never underestimate that we can control our own and, in doing so, shape our own destiny." Dumbledore sat forward and faced him. "We all of us have doubts about ourselves, about who we are, about who we are becoming. Those doubts make us human. They also, unfortunately, make us vulnerable.

"You see, Voldemort's power, while potent enough in a form as concentrated as a curse, is greater and more far-reaching than that. His power includes that which we give him."

"Which we give him?" echoed Ron in surprise.

"Yes," replied the Headmaster. "It is all a question of control and responsibility. All wizards, all men and women in fact, choose how they behave. Any wizard who accepts responsibility for all his actions, past and present, is in a far better position to control his own destiny. If he does not, it is because he envisages that his present condition is the result of someone else's decisions, rather than his own making. If a man believes that, he allows himself to be no more than a leaf cast into a current of water tumbling towards an unknown end. That man has effectively given up control over his own actions, which makes it possible for Voldemort to usurp that control."

Harry's and Ron's brows furrowed. Sirius bent toward them, his elbows on his knees.

"Dumbledore's right," he said. "Think of all the dark witches and wizards who were captured in the war against Grindelwald. Many of them began life as ordinary wizards like you and me. But before the International Wizards' Council, they testified that they committed those crimes under the orders of their superiors, and that they had no choice. I heard plenty of Death Eaters like that in Azkaban. They cried out to the gaolers, still trying to justify their killings, insisting they were simply following someone else's orders. But the truth is, at every moment, they had the choice to do what they believed to be right. Yet by giving up their moral responsibility and submitting to Grindelwald's authority--by allowing Grindelwald to take responsibility for their decision-making, their crimes--they chose to become his pawns."

"I think I understand," said Harry. "Only we control our own actions. But if we're willing to put the blame on someone else, then we lose that control--which Voldemort can then take for himself. But..." Harry frowned silently for a moment, "what about the Imperious Curse?"

"Ah, the very worst of the Unforgivable Curses," said Dumbledore. "You understand that the Imperious victim is forced to do the bidding of the one who casts it. But even then, there is no absence of choice. True, the victim feels pain if he should try to rebel against the effects of the curse, but he can always choose to do what he knows to be right. It is not a choice easily made, but--"

"--that's how you defeat the Imperious Curse," finished Harry. "Professor Moody--uh, well, Crouch-as-Professor Moody--taught us that last year."

"Well, that sounds... easy, I guess," said Ron. "Have faith, then."

"But understand, Ronald," said Dumbledore, lifting a finger in caution, "having faith is easier said than done. There are all too many ways in which a man can lose faith. And most of these triggers lie within man himself."

In the silence that followed, they could only hear the crackling of the fire... and the growl of Harry's stomach.

The Headmaster rose, ending the meeting. "Gentlemen, thank you for coming. And now I trust you will be wanting your dinner? I myself will join the others now in the Hall for dessert," Dumbledore said. This time it was obvious that the twinkle in his eye originated from a sweet tooth. "I am told that the house-elves have prepared an excellent clafoutis and some baklava that I am keen to sample... But if you would like to join Harry and Ronald, Sirius, I have made this office available for you to dine this evening. I'm sure you have much catching up to do." The white fringes of his beard around his mouth twitched upwards in amusement.

With a tiny flick of his wand, the desk cleared to reveal a self-replenishing tray of sandwiches, a jug of pumpkin juice and a little plate of bone-shaped gingersnaps, which elicited a laugh from Sirius. Dumbledore winked at the three of them and slipped out towards the spiral staircase.

Harry, Ron and Sirius passed an agreeable, but all too brief, dinner before Sirius regretfully announced that he had to leave.

"Already?" Harry's face fell. "But... you've only just got here." Last year he could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Sirius, and even then for only a few hours. There didn't ever seem to be enough time to get to know his godfather, to unload all of the questions that had been piling up in his mind in a great glutinous heap, questions about Sirius and Harry's own parents.

"Harry, I want to stay more than anything," said Sirius, "but I'm still technically on assignment. Remus and Mrs Figg will be waiting." There was an apology etched across his drawn, chiselled features.

"Where will you go?" asked Harry.

"I... wish I could tell you. You should really know as little as possible about what I'm doing... for your own safety."

Harry looked at his godfather. He wondered if Sirius would ever lose that hollow, sad expression that veiled his eyes on occasions like this. Harry knew he had been deprived of most of his young adult life, and it seemed unfair that an innocent man should carry those heavy lines in his forehead like a brand. The last thing he wanted to do was to make Sirius feel like he'd been neglecting him. But Sirius was the closest thing he had to real family. Didn't he have a right to worry?

"Well, just owl if you can to say you're safe, okay?" He gave his godfather a wan smile. "A muddy pawprint's enough."

Sirius looked relieved. "I will. And you can always owl me at Mrs Figg's. Use one of the school owls; they're less noticeable. And you can probably even use Muggle post. The Royal Mail takes longer than Hedwig, but they call less attention to themselves in her neighbourhood." His handsome features broke into a grin. "And don't worry, I'll be back. There'll be another de-briefing with Dumbledore, probably at the end of next month. So you can expect to see Snuffles around from time to time."

Harry brightened as if he'd just swallowed an entire flask of Pepper-Up Potion. "Excellent! You can come to the Halloween Feast as our guest--as...er, Snuffles, of course," he corrected himself. It still took an effort to get used to referring to Sirius by his canine cover.

"I look forward to it." Sirius smiled. "Oh, and Dumbledore tells me Moody's replacement's some big-wig from the IWIC, Professor White, right? 'Guess he figured old Mad-Eye'd be a tough act to follow. Remus will certainly be curious. I can't wait to meet him."

Harry choked merrily, his eyes laughing behind his round spectacles. "Her. You mean her."

"Yeah." Ron frowned, scratching his head. "Professor White's name is... Betty, Beth or something--"

"Bethany, I think," supplied Harry.

"Bethany White, you said?" Sirius frowned thoughtfully to himself for a moment before a devilish grin lit up his face. "A female Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher," he mused. "You think Snape might be just a little bit annoyed by that?"

"Are you kidding?" exclaimed Ron gleefully. "He's crushed! When Dumbledore introduced her at the Feast, Snape looked like he'd been told to wear pink for the rest of the year. And he has to share the dungeon with her, as well."

"Yeah, he didn't look at all chuffed," added Harry.

Sirius let out a little hoot of laughter. It was a sight so rare with Sirius that it made Harry grin to see the lines crease around his eyes. "Serves him right," he said, still chuckling, "the greasy son-of-a...a... uh... that old... geezer," he finished weakly, catching the disapproving stares of several of the headmasters and mistresses on the wall.

Ron and Harry let out an appreciative snigger.

"So, tell me, this Professor White... what's she like?"

"We just had our first class today, actually, and she seems all right," began Harry. "Nice, too. And kind of pretty in a way, I guess--"

"She's decent," interrupted Ron, "but nothing compared to the new Muggle Studies professor. Now she's really a... a... goddess."

"What?" Sirius chuckled, then arched a dark brow. "Now, hang on a minute," he said, putting on his best mockingly petulant pout. "There is clearly something amiss here. You mean to tell me that while I'm going out into the big bad world, risking my neck to track down You-Know-Who before he does You-Know-What, you two have got wand-to-wand combat and Muggle poetry readings with two lovely sirens?" Sirius shook his head, resting his hand on his chest with an melodramatic sigh. "So unfair, life is," he declared as the boys laughed.

Sirius grinned, leaning forward confidentially, and clapped a hand on Harry's and Ron's shoulders. "Well, now, just don't do anything I wouldn't do." The roguish gleam in his eye suggested that that still left them quite a bit of lee-way. "Be good."

This last remark drowned in gruff barks as Sirius transformed back into the large, shaggy black dog. Dropping his paws from their shoulders, Padfoot bounded for the door and stopped for a moment to lift a paw in farewell, before leaping down the staircase, barking cheerfully.