Harry Potter and the Song of Time

Harry Potter and the Song of Time
by Crazy Ivan

Chapter Four: At The Castle


They alighted from the train at St Andrews Station in a howling gale. From inside the train, they had seen a gorgeous early autumn day, with the sun shining brightly down the Eden Valley and over the golf courses. The gale force wind, however, slightly lessened the attraction of the afternoon and focussed the attention towards ensuring that nobody's hat/pet/boyfriend was blown away.

"A friend is picking us up," Sirius bellowed over the wind. They struggled down the platform, aided by a set of rather rickety trolleys marked in a hasty scrawl, "Property Of British Magical Rail. Not To Be Removed From St Andrews Station. Or Else We Will Send Large Hairy Thugs Round To Your House To Pull Off Your Toenails." Sirius started waving excitedly to an extremely rotund witch who was standing rather bravely in a long black academic gown which was making a rather good attempt to win its freedom. She held on to her rather crumpled pointed hat which was tied beneath her chin with a wide golden sparkly ribbon, and embraced Sirius, as far as one can embrace someone when one's own stomach gets in the way. She jabbered away, inaudible to all but Sirius, who performed an admirable charade indicating that they should all get in a shocking pink 1957 Chevrolet. As they approached the car, the witch waved a long, swishy black wand with a white tip at the back, and the cavernous boot opened with a pop. Harry, who was first in the line and grasping tenuously on to his hat, peered inside, fascinated by the contents. The boot inside had been expanded to at least the size of the entire car, and inside was a large shopping trolley happily brimming with food, from milk to a large three-tiered cake, from several types of bread to caviar. The witch, with a swish of her wand, charmed Harry's trunk into the boot and sent it far underneath the back seat. She proceeded to do the same with everyone else's luggage, mothering everyone except Sirius and Narcissa into the back seat. She slammed the boot closed with a loud thud and hopped into the left-hand seat, behind the steering wheel.

"Is this a real '57 Chevy?" Ron asked excitedly.
"No, it's actually a small furry wombat named Constance who enjoys knitting, travel and can say the Greek alphabet backwards," Draco said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"My, yall did bring a couple with you, Sirius dahling," the witch said.
"Ron, Draco, Harry, Hermione, this is my dear friend Siriol Washington. She's from New York, and so's Big Bertha here."
"Explains a lot," Draco muttered, batting away a large stuffed animal wearing a "My Sister-In-Law's Former Flatmate Went To Hogsmeade And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt So I Turned Her Into A Window Ornament" t-shirt which was stuck to the window with small plastic suction cups and currently trying to invade his personal space.
"Big Bertha?" Hermione sounded confused.
"The car, honey," Siriol said, grinning widely. "You would not believe the forms I had to fill out to bring her to Eng-a-land. It is so Muggle here."

She tapped the radio with her wand and shifted the car into gear as "No Particular Place To Go" blasted into the air. Humming along, Siriol maneuvered Big Bertha out of the station and onto the main road, which was barely wide enough for the car. As it was, Ron hurriedly raised his window as he received a mouthful of roadside gorse bush. With pedestrians and other motorists swerving out of their way, Siriol and Big Bertha purred through the "Royal Burgh Of St Andrews" which, a sign said, welcomed you, continuing up the road and turning left at a rather nice-looking restaurant. She took the next right and the car purred along the tree-lined seafront street which Harry noticed was named "The Scores".

They pulled in and got out in front of a large, imposing building of several floors and obvious antiquity. Turrets, balconies and battlements sprouted in unusual places (like, for instance, the front doorway), and several chimneys pointed out rather like cannon. The windows and flowered windowboxes appeared to be stuck on apparently at random and at oblique angles, and one even poked through a large box hedge growing at either side of the front door. From the gabled top of the house emerged a tall white tower rather reminiscent of a Muslim minaret, with the British Union flag flapping excitedly in the gale-force wind.

With a quick glance around the empty street, Siriol waved her wand at the shopping trolley, her large golfing umbrella, a set of golf clubs, a pair of wellington boots, an enormous tartan umbrella and a tent-like wax jacket, sending them all wobbling merrily towards the front door. Motioning the others to follow, she walked inside, exhorting them to mind one of the paving stones, since it hadn't been fed recently and was likely to be peckish.

As they entered, trunks floating along in front, Harry was struck by the eccentricity of the house. A winding, rickety staircase led up and to the right, while a grand marble affair in the next hallway led expansively to the second floor. To the left, a long unlit passageway was lined with small tables covered with assorted items of Siriol's personal belongings, while the walls were festooned with pictures, some tasteful, some not, and some tasteless enough to make even a Northern Pictish Hag wince. Siriol, dropping the umbrella into a stand reminiscent of a flatulent giraffe, smiled and clasped her hands around her middle.

"Welcome to The Castle," she said, smiling. "Sirius told me that yall would be coming up here to stay, and fortunately enough last year's tenants have graduated. There are a few house rules, but those can wait until yall have settled into your rooms. Now, who's Ron?"
Ron nodded at Siriol. "Me."
"Hello, Ron. Your room is the Blue Room, first door to the right on the first floor, up this staircase. And who's Draco?"
"That would be me," Draco said, cocking his head to one side, trying to decide what to make of this woman.
"Oh, the boy with the acid tongue. Alastor Moody has told me so much about you. Isn't Al a dear?"
Draco said something that sounded rather like "mumblewumble", so Siriol continued. "You are in The Ship, which is two doors along from Ron's, on the other side of the bathroom. The door is a little bit stiff, so you might have to shoulder into it." Siriol made an appropriate imitation with her own shoulder, narrowly missing a tall pile of parcels set on a table to her right. "That leaves Harry as the only boy," she deduced, smiling at him. "You're in the Tower, which is the room to the left at the top of the staircase which leads off this one," and she pointed to the rather old, worn-looking one which gave the impression that it might decide to fall down one of these days.

"And you must be Hermione," Siriol said, looking at the only girl in the group. "You're downstairs and to the left, in Lilac. Don't worry, honey, it's not the basement -- oh, what's the word for that over here?"
"Cellar," Narcissa added helpfully.
"Thank you, pumpkin. Yes, it's not the cellar. Both of the downstairs rooms have their own balcony overlooking the sea, and the windows are just lovely in the morning."
Hermione looked around for the stairs which would lead to her room, and Siriol tutted at herself forgetfully.
"Oh, I'm sorry honey, the stairs downstairs are through there." She indicated a huge oak door studded with iron. "The door's a bit heavy but it does keep the draughts out."
"I see," Hermione said quietly.
"And Sirius and Narcissa, you're both on the top floor, in the Penthouse Suite, as I like to call it. Now, you must all be pooped from your journey. I do so dislike travelling by train, it's very cramped, wouldn't you say?"
Nobody else really thought so, although they all nodded and made agreeing noises.
"Well, off you go. If you get lost, just yell and somebody will be along in a few minutes. Oh, and boys upstairs, don't worry if you hear some bumps or clanking. It'll either be the plumbing or the poltergeist. I'm sure you'll meet him eventually. His name is...well, it's unpronounceable in English, so just call him Ek."

She bustled off with Sirius and Narcissa up the grand marble staircase, leaving the four others in the hallway. With a shrug to the others, Harry, wand out and ready, maneuvered his trunk up the rickety stairway, trying very hard to avoid the pot plants, bookshelves, tables, chests of drawers, ornamental protuberances and sleeping cats which attempted to block his way. He smiled at Draco and Ron as they turned off on the first floor, walked across the landing and through a door marked "To The Tower". The stairway became even narrower here, and Harry eventually resorted to turning his trunk on end to get it up the stairs.

Turning left as he squeezed onto the second floor landing, he twisted the doorknob into "The Tower Room" without really noticing it.
"Och!" a deep, muffled voice came from beneath his hand, causing him to withdraw it sharply. "Gerrof, ye wee Southern git!"
"Sorry," Harry said, staring at the wooden doorknob which had nipped his finger. "I didn't notice you there."
"He didnae notice me there," the doorknob mimicked. "Didnae notice me, I'll nae say! How could ye nae notice a talkin' doorknob?"
"I was a little preoccupied with my trunk," Harry said, wondering if anything else was going to jump out and try to snack on him.

"Oh, Hamish, leave the poor boy alone," another, more muffled voice came. "He's obviously just moved in, and you know how bad Siriol is about telling people things they need to know." The owner of the voice was gradually revealed to be a tall poltergeist, who floated through the wall opposite Harry's room. "You must be Harry Potter with that scar," the ghost said. "I am Lupanaliolirttanfoasdthoealghzu-mankkyuvamarquiyek. You may, if you like, call me Ek."
"That would probably be easier," Harry said, scratching his head. "Er, Hamish, was it?"
"Tha's right," the doorknob said gruffly.
"Could I please get into my room now?"
"Well, since ye asked nicely, I suppose so."

The door swung open to reveal a palatially-decorated suite of rooms. Harry nudged his trunk to one side of the door (next to an antique writing desk) and stepped further into what looked like a sitting-room. The walls were covered in a deep burgundy wallpaper, with a golden border showing leaping Leos, shooting Sagittarii, swimming Pisces, scuttling Cancers, and all the other signs of the Zodiac. The curvy sofa and armchairs were set around a low coffee-table in front of a crackling fire, and a long, wide desk stood in front of a leather office chair on the other side of the room. One entire wall was taken up with one large bookshelf, half already used for such tomes as A Magical History Of Scotland by Mhairi Hamilton, Haggis: Fowl or Foul by the Scottish Culinary Institute, and The Magician's Guide to St Andrews and its Environs, from the St Andrews Magical Institute Welcome Office. A table underneath a painting of the Cuillins mountain range on Skye held an old gramophone and special compartments under its surface contained a wide selection of vinyl records. Harry walked over, selected an old Edith Piaf LP and set it to play. The rich, deep sound of the French songstress' voice filled the room, making Harry smile deeply for the second time in as many days.

He walked over and opened a vast wardrobe which led into a closet larger than the dormitory he'd shared at Hogwarts. Closing that door, he looked into his private bathroom, with a bath only slightly smaller than that on the Flying Scotsman, with a man-sized towel rail covered with fluffy burgundy towels. The sink was huge too, with a wall cabinet the size of Harry's old bookshelf at the Dursleys'.

He walked through the door at the other end of the bathroom into his bedroom, goggling at the rich variety of reds presented to him -- from the regal burgundy on the wallpaper, bedspread and curtains, to the passionate crimson of the two armchairs, to the vermillion paint on the bedside table. The accents in this room were also gold, but more sparingly than in the sitting-room. Harry opened the curtains to reveal St Andrews Bay glittering in the blustery autumn sunshine. Several yachts and other sailing vessels scudded across the bay with the wind, and the cast-iron table and chairs on the balcony outside the window would have looked very inviting had they not had leaves flying past at suicidal speeds.

The second door led back into the enormous wardrobe, and Harry walked through the third door in his bedroom to find himself back in the sitting-room, and began to unpack his trunk.

He spent a very pleasant half-hour listening to Edith Piaf and arranging the things he'd brought to make the room look more 'his'. He'd only brought a few robes, which he hung in the closet next to his only Muggle suit. The books he'd decided to take with him from Hogwarts he arranged alphabetically on the bookshelf, not even filling one of the ten empty shelves.

He was brought back to reality by a tapping on the door. "Come in," he called, turning quickly and striding towards the door so that his robes swirled behind him. Hermione entered, backing nervously away from Hamish the doorknob as she did so.
"Hamish, it's okay, Hermione can come in here whenever she likes," Harry said in some irritation.
"Well, why didnae ye say so?" the irritated doorknob replied.
"Thank you, Hamish," Harry said, closing the door firmly but making sure he pushed the door itself closed.
"Wow..." was all Hermione could say as she took in the grandeur of Harry's room. "It's very..."
"Red?" Harry asked, smiling and putting an arm around Hermione's shoulders.
"Red would work. Vermilion, crimson, scarlet, fuchsia, realgar, minium--"
"Yes, thank you, Hermione," Harry said amusedly, kissing her cheek. "Come look at the wardrobe...and the bedroom," he continued, leaving the last word dangling freely in the air.

Hermione walked through the cavernous wardrobe into the bedroom and flew to the window. "What a gorgeous view, Harry," she said, drinking it in as if it were ambrosia. "I thought mine was wonderful, but this...this just takes the biscuit."
Hardly noticing the more-than-king-size bed, she walked back through the bathroom into the sitting room and headed for the bookshelves. "Mine's rather purple," she said absently, blowing the dust off A Scottish Ministry Of Magic: Why It's A Bad Thing by M. Thatcher and leafing through the pages.
"Ooh, nice," Harry said, flipping Edith Piaf over onto the other side. Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien started to play and Harry, gently but firmly placing the book Hermione had now picked up (The Not Particularly Rough Guide To Scotland by Timide LeSouris) on a table and starting to dance. The slow, rhythmical beat amplified their movements as they stepped around the sofa and into the centre of the room. They danced together through that song and others, until another knock and a pained yelp drew their attention to the door.

"What the hell?" Ron was yelling from the other side of the door. "Harry? Are you there? Your bloody doorknob just bit me!"
Harry pulled the door open to find Ron holding his hand and glaring at Hamish the doorknob.
"Ye Southerners dinnae taste as good as real Scots," Hamish observed.
"Sorry about the doorknob, Ron," Harry said. "He's obviously not a very well-bred knob."
"I'll give ye well-bred," Hamish muttered as Harry slammed the door crossly.
"Not bad..." Ron said as he appraised Harry's rooms. "You've got the bloody suite, Harry!" he said as he walked into the bedroom. "Nice view, too."
"What's yours like?" Hermione asked absently.
"Oh, hi, Hermione," Ron said, only then noticing her sitting in a chair with her nose in Pictish Incantations, Spells and Hexes. "It's very blue. I'd even say it was almost entirely blue, apart from a few silver touches here and there."
"Uh-huh," she said non-committantly, having turned to Scots: Warrior Chieftains or Big Pansies?.

"Oh," said Ron, suddenly remembering he'd been sent up to Harry with a message. "Siriol says that we're all to meet in the downstairs drawing room at one."
Harry flicked a look at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, which was showing five to one. "Right then, off we go," he said, nudging Hermione. "Earth to Hermione, the library is closed for the moment, please come back later."
"Sorry," she said, placing all the books back on the shelf and following them out of the Tower, down both flights of stairs and into the front hall. A signpost which would not have looked out of place at a rural crossroads pointed them down the unlit corridor towards Drawing Room, 25' . With a shrug, Harry led off, narrowly escaping an attack by a disturbed and playful kitten which was hiding in a disused walking boot. They poked their heads into several doors, including one on the right which turned out to be the kitchen, attended by several house-elves currently cooking up a storm, eventually discovering that the drawing room was the third door on the left.

The cosy room was eclectic in its furnishings to say the least. A bright pink, wavy 1960s sofa was occupied by Sirius and Narcissa, who were both reading the Daily Prophet's Scottish Edition. Draco was perching on the arm of a navy blue, rather cubical armchair, doing the crossword from the Saturday Prophet's magazine, and Siriol was reading a battered copy of The Duchess of Malfi on a red and white striped chaise longue. Harry chose a lime green pouffe in front of the fire, Hermione a bright yellow transparent inflatable chair next to Sirius and Narcissa, and Ron sat down in an ornate tartan-covered chair with carved armrests and headrest, picked up The Fife and Grampian Magical News and began to read the headlines. Harry smiled and thought how incomplete Hermione looked without a book in her hands.

An enormous cuckoo clock above the fireplace clanked into action, with a large, moulting yellow bird on the end of an extendible platform squawking once before retreating back inside. Harry looked up as the door opened to admit a witch about the same age as himself, dressed in a pair of jeans and a baggy wool jumper. The most noticeable thing about her, however, was the long, vivid yellow hair which hung down in long braids to her waist.
"Aren't you going to introduce me, Siriol?" she asked.
"Sure, hon. Xanthe Montrose, this is Sirius and Narcissa Black, Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter," Siriol said, folding over a page of the play she was reading and smiling up at her.
"Hermione and I have already met," Xanthe said in a broad Glaswegian accent, smiling at Hermione. "Her room is next door to mine."
"Of course, how silly of me," Siriol said, tutting at her own forgetfulness.
Xanthe plopped down on the huge tangerine orange cushion next to Harry's pouffe and smiled at him. "So, you're the Famous Harry Potter," she said bluntly.
"Last time I checked," Harry replied with a smile, turning to face her and to let the fire warm the other side of his body.
"Huh," she remarked, sounding unimpressed. "Well, don't think that'll count for all that much here in St Andrews."
"I wasn't intending it to," Harry said, somewhat defensively. "I tend not to go around with a retinue of adoring fans, signing autographs and photos of myself."
"Good," she said, fiddling with the end of one of her braids.
"So, where did you go to school?" Harry asked. "I don't remember you from Hogwarts."

"Beauxbatons," Xanthe replied. "Mes parents ont decidé qu'il me fasse apprendre le français, et donc j'suis allée à Beauxbatons."
"Erm, yeah," Harry said, having elected to take Music instead of French at prep school. "Je parle bien la français, moi."
Xanthe threw her head back and laughed. "Excellente, pour sure," she said in franglais.
"When did you arrive?" Harry asked.
"Yesterday," Xanthe replied. "Did you take the Flying Scotsman up from King's Cross?"
"Yeah," Harry said enthusiastically. "It's fantastic!"
"Well, since I only had to come from Glasgow, it seemed a bit silly," Xanthe said. "I just Apparated over."

The door opened again and the tall wizard named after a part of London whose name Harry could never remember walked in, dressed in orange corduroys and a pink double-cuffed dress shirt under a bright red jumper with large silver cufflinks.
"Oh, hello," he said in recognition of the other four Hogwarts students. "Fancy seeing you here!"
"Hello, Kensington," Hermione said warmly. "I didn't know you'd decided to come up to St Andrews."
"Well, I did better on my Astronomology and Arithmancy NEWTs than I'd been predicted, so I got in at the last minute, since someone hadn't made their grades," he said, sitting down on a revolting revolving puce chair from the Fifties.
"What else did you take?" Ron asked.
"Divination," Kensington said, rolling his eyes. "I should have predicted that it was a complete load of bull, if you'll pardon my French."
Hermione visibly warmed to him, her own views on the relative merits (or lack thereof) of a certain subject beginning with D being well known.
"I've been up here for a week," he said, "and I've decided that St Andrews is one of the most wonderful places in Britain. You should just see it when the wind dies down."

Siriol cleared her throat and everyone turned towards her. "Okay, are we sitting comfortably?" Several people chuckled and Siriol continued. "Then I'll begin. Welcome to The Castle. As you know, I'm Siriol Washington and I've owned The Castle for fifteen years or so now. It was originally built for a wealthy Victorian countryman, but has been added onto by a series of subsequent owners. There's a book here that describes the place's history and former residents." She pointed to a thick book entitled My Home is The Castle, and Hermione's eyes lit up excitedly. "For the next nine months -- or more if you like -- it's also your home, but for the sake of everyone's sanity, there are a few house rules that I'd like to establish now to avoid tears, blood and intestines later.

"Firstly, please don't redecorate your rooms without asking first. Ek tends to be very possessive about this sort of thing, and finding horses' heads on one's pillow tends to cause offense. Secondly, loud music playing without the use of a Silencing Charm is verboten. Most of the rooms do have the charms already performed, but please just make sure. The kitchen is for everybody's use, so do please keep it tidy. For those of you with consciences, The Castle's house-elves are all paid workers who get paid vacations, sick leave and 401k pension plans."
"ISA plans, you mean," Sirius interjected.
"Yes, sorry, cross-cultural moment. ISA plans," Siriol said. "The fridge is kept well-stocked, but if you do use the last bit of something, it is greatly appreciated if you write it down on the shopping list which hangs from the small Statue of Liberty magnet on the fridge. Hmm...what's next...oh, yes. Apparation inside the house is strictly an ixnay. There are all sorts of charms lying around which could cause serious injury."

"Why would they cause Sirius injury?" Narcissa asked worriedly.
"Sorry, hon, I meant see-ree-us injury," Siriol explained.
"Oh, I see," Narcissa blushed.
"Also frowned upon is trying to charm, hex, enchant or otherwise magically affect the 'special' parts of the house. There are several Diabolical Doorknobs, Charmed Chandeliers and other such interesting features who are not to be adjusted."
Harry gulped as he hurriedly revised his plan for dealing with Hamish the doorknob's personality, which had involved some Muzzling Magic.

"Each room comes with its own cat. I noticed that Hermione has her own. Will he get on with the others?" Siriol asked.
"Yes, he's usually very well behaved unless another creature is a Dark Wizard in Animagus form," Hermione said with a knowing glance at Ron.
"Excellent. I'm sure he (is he a he, honey?) will get on just fine. There is no curfew, but I cannot guarantee that the front doors will let you in after three a.m. They're a little tempramental, being several hundred years old, and need their beauty sleep. If you encounter difficulty, please ring the doorbell and someone might let you in. Finally, I live in the Ivory Minaret at the very top of The Castle. I'm fond of privacy, so if you need me urgently please ask the knocker on the Ivory Minaret door to pass me a message. Does anyone have any questions?"

Everyone looked at one another, but nobody spoke up. "Oh," Siriol said, "I almost forgot. The house-elves can serve breakfast from 8 to 11, lunch from 12 to 3, and supper from 6 to 9. A menu is usually tacked up on the door into the kitchen, and the elves are very glad for any suggestions you might have. You may, of course, fix yourselves snacks and your own meals at any time."

A house elf poked his head around the door, recoiling slightly as he saw so many people. "Luncheon is served on the kitchen table," he said in a small voice.
"Thank you, Noddy," Siriol said, heaving herself out of the chaise longue. "Let's not let lunch get cold, folks." She squeezed down the narrow passageway into the kitchen, followed by the others.

The kitchen was very cosy indeed. A small flock of cats, one suckling a litter of kittens, lay sleepily in front of the large wood-burning Aga stove, some cleaning themselves and others snoozing happily. Around the Aga were hanging an eclectic set of kitchen implements, from chargrilling pans to tongs to potato mashers. A large marble preparation surface was at the end of the kitchen closer to the Aga, surrounded by many mismatched kitchen cabinets and a sink half the size of a bathtub. A large bay window behind the sink contained a dozen terracotta pots with every herb from basil to thyme, chives to mint, oregano to rosemary. At the other end of the kitchen was laid a great round wooden table which looked like it could easily seat twenty people, looking very well-loved and surrounded in a semi-circle by a picture window overlooking the sea, whitecaps and all.

On it was laid out a scrumptious feast: sandwiches of every type imaginable, wraps, quiche, sausage rolls, pork pies, salad, eggs, coleslaw, penne tossed with pesto and roast peppers, and two large platters of meats and cheeses from all over the world. Harry couldn't even name half of them, but he did notice mozzarella di bufala, Port Salut, Gruyere, Boursin, Swiss and even yellow American, the sort that he called plastic cheese. A bread basket fairly bulged with dozens of rolls of different varieties, and everyone sat down around the table, marvelling at the panorama which spread out behind them. The conversation turned to everyone's rooms, Harry warning everyone about Hamish the doorknob with Ron backing him up melodramatically.

"Siriol, is there a history to my room?" Draco asked.
"You're in The Ship, aren't you? Well, the wooden walls are original hull timbers from H.M.S. Sutherland. Her skipper lived here in his retirement, and refurbished the room. That was in the mid-1800s, if I remember correctly."
"Is there a story behind the bed? Is it an original?"
"Actually, no, there's not. It's based on an old Captain's Bed, with the drawers underneath, but the bed on which it's based was narrower than a single, and under six feet long. The skipper decided that he'd make a few adjustments, since space isn't an issue here. The desk chair, however, is an original that he himself made. I'm very fond of the balcony and windows -- they too were actually taken from the Sutherland when she was decommissioned." Siriol picked up a roll and stuffed it with cheese and Branston sandwich pickle.

"And is there an interesting history behind The Gallery?" Kensington, taking a prawn sandwich, asked.
"The actual room is only a few years old. The furniture is deliberately low-key so as not to draw attention from the artwork hanging on the walls. They're not all originals, but it's my contribution to the house."
"It's very eclectic. Not that that's surprising, but I've noticed some Turners, quite a bit of Mondrian, a bit of van Gogh, and some rather gorgeous landscapes. Oh, and the Picassos," Kensington said, fiddling with his cufflinks.
"The Picassos are actually originals," Siriol said. "I was given them by a very dear friend who actually knew the man."
"How intriguing! And the balcony is just smashing," Kensington said.
"Thank you. I had it specially wrought and then painted to reflect my passion for the Mondrian style," Siriol explained between mouthfuls of haggis sandwich.

"Siriol, did you know that blue is my favorite colour?" Ron asked, munching into a sausage roll.
"A little dog told me," Siriol said, winking at Sirius. "He also said that it would match the orange of your Quidditch things. Although, honey, please don't pin them on the walls. Ek gets terribly upset." She reached for a bacon sandwich and bit off half in one fell swoop.
"Who designed the girls rooms downstairs?" Xanthe asked.
"Mmmph-hmph," Siriol said, motioning for them to give her a second to finish chewing the sandwich. "Pardon me. Well, it was a pair of twins, Kira and Tira, who moved in late in the Fifties. Kira's was Lilac and Tira's was Daffodil, and now Hermione and you have them. They're almost identical, apart from the colours and the placement of the doors." Siriol munched away at a Cornish pasty before turning to Harry.
"And how are you liking the Tower?" she asked him, a crumb wedging itself firmly into the corner of her mouth.
"It's brilliant," Harry enthused. "The colour is just so rich...and the view is simply amazing. The only downside is the doorknob."
"Oh, dear Hamish," said Siriol with a knowing grin. "Somehow I just can't find it in my heart to pull his knob off."
"My knob is very cool," Ron said. "He's very knowledgeable about the house."
"Yes, probably because a prior resident of that room wrote the book that I pointed out to you earlier," Siriol agreed.

"I'm quite fond of my sink," Hermione said. "She's a real sweety, and is full of useful information like how to make your own soap."
"Wouldn't that smell really nasty?" Draco asked.
"Probably," Hermione said, nibbling on a piece of carrot.
"Registration for everyone's courses, by the way," Kensington said, taking a gulp of tea, "is on Monday. It involves a lot of standing around and waiting for people to decide that they're going to be bothered to sort out your details, and I've been reliably informed that one in three people has to be re-registered, because in St Andrews the left hand doesn't know that the right hand exists, let alone what it's doing."
"What are you studying up here, Kensington?" Hermione asked.
"Well, I'm thinking of Astronomology with Arithmancy, since I did quite well on my NEWTs. Perhaps some Psychohistory as well, but definitely nothing to do with the D-word."
"Glad to hear it," Hermione muttered into her cup of coffee. "I'm quite looking forward to getting into the BWL."
"BWL?" Xanthe looked confused.
"British Wizarding Library," Hermione explained. "I've got a research job involving my Master of Wizardry in Arithmancy there."
"Oh, I see," Xanthe said. "I'm looking forward to starting International Wizarding Relations. From the course catalogue, it looks fascinating."

They chatted for a while, leaving very little of the smorgasbord on the table, eventually decamping to the drawing room and playing a very enjoyable mass game of wizard Scrabble, which was just like the Muggle game apart from the fact that, every so often, the letters changed just as you were about to put down a high-scoring word involving the Q, Z, K and X. Hermione was about to score over a hundred points by blatantly putting "syzygy" (the configuration of the sun, the moon, and Earth lying in a straight line) with the S perpendicular to the end of "zoroastrian", gaining a triple word score and two double letter scores despite using two blanks, when her letters turned into three Is, three Us and an A. She eventually resorted to putting an A down to make "ax" on a triple word score for twenty-seven points.

As it ended up, Siriol had 346 points, Hermione 344, and everyone else under 100. Ron suggested that they change game to something like Trivial Pursuit, but nobody felt like losing to Siriol or Hermione again. Harry decided that he would quite like to write a few letters to Albus Dumbledore so, followed by Hermione who wanted to get back to Scots: Warrior Chieftains or Big Pansies?. They climbed up to The Tower, narrowly avoiding a friendly nibble from Hamish the doorknob. Hermione plopped herself down into an armchair while Harry opened the writing desk, withdrew a sheet of writing paper, a quill and an inkwell. Biting the end of the quill, he dipped it into the inkwell and began to write in his loopy script.

"Dear Albus," the letter began. "I have just arrived in St Andrews and have moved in to The Castle, which is where Hermione, Ron, Draco and I will be living for the next year. The view is absolutely fabulous, and I'm very tempted to take up sailing. It's quite an eccentric house, but I feel rather taken by it already. You really must come visit one weekend -- there are several guest rooms which you could use. Draco and I are looking forward to starting classes on Tuesday, and I promise not to blow up eastern Fife in the first week. Hermione sends much love.

Warmly,

Harry."

Folding the letter, Harry slid it into an envelope, addressed it and called to Hedwig, who had been sitting on her perch in the corner, keeping warm near the fire. Harry opened a window with difficulty and Hedwig disappeared quickly in the wind as Harry struggled to close it again.

"Harry..." Hermione said amusedly, "why do you have a copy of the Kama Sutra on your bookshelves?"
"Do I?" Harry asked innocently, walking over.
"Yes. And don't think to say it's not yours because it was lodged between Quidditch Through The Ages and Marvellous Magids," she said, putting an arm around his waist and drawing him closer to her. "This does look like an interesting read, dearest."
"I should say it does," Harry agreed, opening the book randomly. "Hmm...The Lotus Flower. I didn't know you could do that with human legs." He turned the page. "The Large Dragon Breathes Fire At The Fluttering Butterfly. Oh dear. That looks excruciatingly painful."
"Mmm," Hermione agreed, turning to The Elephant And The Horse. "I don't think I bend that way."
"Perhaps we should take up yoga," Harry suggested, holding his fingers together at arms length and lifting one leg. "Otherwise there's no way we could do that one, what is it? Ah, The Swooping Crane. Hermione, something tells me that we should read Delia's Guide to the Basics before we get onto Cordon Bleu Haute Cuisine."
"Hmm. Do you have that on your shelf as well?"
"'Fraid not, but we could always go into Edinburgh and pick it up," Harry suggested.
"We could," Hermione said, "but we could always have a look in the pantry and throw something together."
"Yes, I always enjoy improvising in the bed--er--kitchen," Harry agreed, running a finger down the centre of Hermione's nose.
"Well, maitre d', why don't you choose something for the menu for this afternoon?" Hermione suggested suggestively, kissing Harry's scar.
"Certainly, my little profiterole," Harry murmured lasciviously into her ear. "Would you like to come to Narnia with me, my darling witch?"
"Narnia?" Hermione asked.
"Yes, a magic land of happiness, adoration and love, reached through a large wardrobe at the top of the house," Harry said, steering Hermione through his wardrobe and into the bedroom.

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