Books

Books

With a sigh Remus eased the very last volume of Transfiguration Today into its proper place, very carefully squeezing it into place at the very end of the shelf. He leaned back on his heels and surveyed the bookcase, this morning a muddled mess of magazines and booklets with torn or creased pages. Every issue was mended and ordered chronologically, the legacy of six consecutive subscribers. He sighed again, then stood up, brushing the accumulated dust of decades from his robes.

"Professor?" he called out tentatively.

A soft clicking of shoes heralded her entrance. "Finished already, Lupin?" she said, raising her eyebrows only slightly.

"Yes, Professor," said Remus. "I hope everything is in order."

Professor McGonagall surveyed the bookcase through her square, black-framed glasses. She reached out, her hand briefly hovering over the middle shelf and then pulling out an issue randomly. She examined the issue and then returned it to its place with care. "Well done, Mr. Lupin," she said, a trace of a smile on her face.

"Thank you, Professor," said Remus, resisting the urge to add, I live to serve.

Just then McGonagall glanced at her wristwatch and frowned. "Not quite lunchtime. Do sit, Lupin, while I try to find you something else to do."

Remus sat very slowly at one of the desks. "I thought my detention was to put the magazines in order, Professor," he said carefully.

"Your detention, Mr. Lupin," said McGonagall, her glasses gleaming dangerously, "is to do any work I see fit to put you to this Saturday morning. Saturday morning isn't over yet, and therefore, neither is your detention." When she saw his face fall, she added, "Believe me, I do not enjoy this any better than you do."

Heels clicking, she walked to the forefront of the classroom and opened several cupboards, apparently seeking further employment for her student. Remus followed her actions with as much nonchalance as he could muster, noting gladly that every door she opened revealed books, scrolls and other teaching aids in perfect order. Idly he wondered if McGonagall had read every one of the hundreds of issues of Transfiguration Today he'd shelved, and whether she'd ever suffered detention when she was fourteen, however many hundreds of years ago that had been.

At last, the clicking shoes returned. "It seems there's no more work for you to do," said McGonagall with obvious resignation. "You may work on your homework assignments for the next half hour."

"Professor, I finished all my homework last night," said Remus earnestly.

"Would you like to read and summarize next lesson's chapter of Intermediate Transfiguration, Mr. Lupin?" asked McGonagall.

He couldn't quite tell if she was joking or not, and decided to risk honesty. "No, Professor."

"Very well," she said. "I can hardly use your help grading N.E.W.T. level essays. Sit here, quietly, until I dismiss you."

Grading essays must be the most boring work in the world, decided Remus as he watched the Professor reading roll after roll of parchment, a crease between her brows. Every now and then she scribbled something in the margins, evoking an image of her cramped handwriting in the margins of his own essays, bright red against the black of his own loping script. She must be a genius or a lunatic to stand this, he thought. The most boring bloody job in the world, and she's been doing for, what? Forty years? Distractedly, he started tapping the desk with his fingers.

"Mr. Lupin."

He froze. "Yes, Professor?"

"Those tapping noises are a disturbance. Kindly stop them." She was looking at him over the rims of her glasses, not quite a glare, but it was close enough.

"Of course, Professor," he said, and stopped.

Briefly he wondered what the others were doing, and then shoved the thought out of his mind. James and Sirius were probably playing catch on their broomsticks, and Peter was lying on the grass, watching them and drinking cold pumpkin juice, unless it was raining, in which case they couldn't go outdoors. Remus hoped it was raining.

"Mr. Lupin!"

He looked up. Now she was glaring at him. "Professor?" he said feebly.

"Your hand. Is tapping. The desk."

Remus looked down, and then grabbed his right hand with his left one self-consciously.

McGonagall watched him for a few more moments, and then looked back down at her stack of essays.

Had Sirius started his Potions essay, or was he planning on writing it during Monday morning's breakfast, as he usually did? Remus hated it when that happened; he spent an hour or two in the library, doing his homework, and Sirius or James did theirs on the fly, in fifteen minutes. Somehow, when the assignments were returned, their marks were more or less the same. It was so unfair, and--

"LUPIN!"

Remus started.

The Professor was standing, arms crossed on her chest, staring him down.

"I didn't mean to, Professor, I swear!"

"Mr. Lupin, as you can clearly see, the pile of essays on my desk is rather high. Reading them requires concentration. As you are bent and determined to deny me that concentration, your detention is over, effective immediately."

"Oh, thank you, Professor," said Remus, scrambling to get up.

"Not another word, Lupin. Go eat lunch, or whatever else you do at quarter from twelve on a Saturday," said McGonagall, waving a dismissing hand.

"Yes, Professor," said Remus. Grabbing his book-bag, he fled the scene.