Interwoven: The Seamstress and the Lovable Stray

Chapter 2

**

Looking out her shop window into the bright November sunlight, Abby asked herself again if she had left out fresh water that morning. Yes…yes, she had. She had remembered to set it out right before leaving, after she had cast the No-Chill Charm on the garden. A silly dog, that Snuffles. By all appearances he was active and robust, yet most days he preferred to simply loll about the garden. Perhaps he liked the warmth, or he understood that he was safe there from the poking and prodding of the not-so-very-delightful Boorman children.

In the beginnings of her friendship with the dog, Abby began to leave her gate ajar each morning, thinking he might stop by. Then, she began to leave a dish of water out, which she soon noticed was empty by the evening. Now, after a few weeks, Snuffles greeted her happily at the end of each workday. She liked to think he enjoyed her company, but he could just as well be after the scraps and bones she had taken to bringing home from the grocer.

They spent many evening hours together in the back garden, where Abby would read and write letters while Snuffles padded about. Yet whenever she would retire to the cottage for the night, he would not follow. For whatever reason, he would not sleep in the cottage. Or in the garden, for that matter – she had checked. After she would have been inside for twenty or thirty minutes, Snuffles would ease out the back gate, nudging it quietly shut. She had wondered at the peculiar sight, but finally tossed any worry aside. He had other strange habits, to be certain. As crafty as he might think himself to be, she knew he was the one nicking her newspapers. But she had never kept a dog before – perhaps these were universal canine traits.

Or perhaps his previous owners were a bit odd. At least he seems housebroken.

Nearby sounds interrupted her musings, causing Abby to turn her head away from the window. The tentative voice of Chanella Parker, the shop’s latest hire, was coming from the back of the showroom, where she was dealing with a customer.

“Um, Mr. Bagman…um, sir…” she stammered, “I don’t believe we can let these out any more than we already have.”

Abby turned her head away and smiled. The day was soon approaching when Ludo Bagman would have to either choose a proper exercise programme or lay the yellow and black robes from his Quidditch days aside for good. She entertained the thought of simply making him a new set as an early Christmas gift. After all, Ludo had been very useful in helping Gladrags procure advertising at the Quidditch World Cup – tremendous exposure, really.

“We’ll just have to try a little harder then, won’t we!” Bagman called out loudly. “I wore these robes with the Wimbourne Wasps. Won the League four times, I – er, we – did, and not just any team can say that!” He chuckled with self-satisfaction.

Chanella caught her employer’s eye and silently pled for assistance. Abby couldn’t help but smile to herself as she walked over, thinking again of Item #5 in Madam Bussell’s Rules of Customer Care pamphlet – “Each customer must be allowed to realize in his or her own time that your advice will always be the best.” Just that morning, she had had to forsake all hope of convincing that reporter woman – Anita? Lita? – that chartreuse was not her best colour.

“Hello, Mr. Bagman! Everything all right?”

Bagman turned at the sound of her voice. “Oi! Miss Loomis! My robes seem to have…um…shrunk up in the wash. This young lady wasn’t sure she could fix them up for me.”

Nodding calmly, Abby gestured to the garment in his arms. “May I have the robes? Chanella is really quite talented, Mr. Bagman. I’ll send her to the back to see what she can do.”

He handed her the robes with the air of one imparting a priceless treasure, and Abby gravely passed them on to Chanella, whispering “Engorgement Charm – double strength!” Her assistant scurried off, clearly relieved to be removed from the situation.

“Now Mr. Bagman, what would you say to Gladrags making you a new set of yellow and black robes? You’ve been so obliging lately with our publicity.”

Bagman’s blue eyes widened and he shook his head emphatically, looking rather aghast at even the thought of replacing such a cherished article of clothing. “Miss Loomis, I – yes, um, the Wasps – won the league four times in those robes! I don’t think I could part with them…unless, of course, the Museum of Quidditch would want to buy them off me. Hmm, now there’s a thought… I was a Beater, you know. For the Wimbourne Wasps.”

Abby nodded her head in wide-eyed appreciation.

Between him and Gilderoy Lockhart, I’m not sure who’s more attached to his blooming robes.

“Quite understandable, sir. What would you say to a dress pair, instead?”

Bagman laughed nervously. “Now, Miss Loomis – I can’t be throwing all my Galleons at new robes, can I?” he said with a wink.

Yes, Ludo, I do get what you’re after.

“Oh, Mr. Bagman, dear no. Sales have been up considerably since the Quidditch World Cup. Accept them as a token of our thanks.”

Noticeably perking up at the mention of something gratis, he glanced over to the dress robes area and began to eye some particularly garish fabrics.

“Well, I’ve always fancied myself in purple. Purple, with moons. Or stars. Or moons. Or stars…whichever is luckier.” No longer looking at Abby, he began to head towards the dress robes as though magnetically drawn. She followed dutifully behind.

Not a problem, Ludo…just as long as you tell me a little something I’ve been curious to know.

Bagman now had his hands on a brilliant purple satin, which he draped over his shoulder in a grand display. Abby seized the opportunity. His attention was fully absorbed in the fabric, creating the perfect moment to strike (she had found that people gave away more information when preoccupied).

“Do tell, Mr. Bagman, how are you getting on with the Triwizard Tournament? That must be quite an undertaking for you.”

Bagman looked up briefly and beamed. “Famously! The thing almost runs itself.”

Abby took a tape measure from her belt and set about measuring. In a voice of idle conversation, she continued. “Talk around town is that young Harry Potter’s been made a fourth champion.”

He broke his gaze with the fabric then and cleared his throat sheepishly. “Yes, well, that was a bit of a hiccough, wasn’t it?”

“I remember his father as being quite the sportsman in his Hogwarts days. You’ve really no idea how Harry’s name was entered?” she asked easily as she measured his arm length.

“Nary a clue. But it should make for a smashing good show!”

“Yes, of course…hmm…and you don’t think he’s bit young for it all?”

Bagman looked out the window, his shiny brow furrowed in deep, deep thought. “Well, Harry’s still a skinny little chap. Sharp, though. If he’s brave enough to give it a go, I’ll back him! They say the boy can fly like nothing else – I’m sure he has a good chance at winning the ruddy thing. You don’t, er, wager, do you, Miss Loomis?”

“Oh no, Mr. Bagman! Tracking the odds and all – it’s a bit too much for me to sort out,” she chuckled, measuring across his shoulders.

That, and the fact that a nasty rumor going around The Three Broomsticks says you have trouble paying up.

She wand-waved the tape around Mr. Bagman’s girth, then, pausing to jot down his measurements, lost herself to her thoughts once more.

Abby had seen James Potter a handful of times in childhood, never enough to make up a proper acquaintance. His grandfather, Matthias Potter, had been the Healer in her grandmother’s village, and had even delivered Abby’s mother. James did send a casual “hello” her way from time to time in the corridors of Hogwarts, but he never introduced her to his friends. Though an outsider, she still had reason to feel a definite connection to his group.

Abby never really knew where her ability to spot an Invisibility Cloak originated – perhaps it was a simple as knowing what to look for. Invisibility Cloaks were exceedingly rare, and from what her mother had told her, Weavers did seem to have an awful lot of trouble having children to carry on the gift. She doubted if any other students besides her, James, and his lot had ever even been so closely exposed to a cloak, and those boys had certainly never seen one made.

It had been a heady sensation to be party to mischief known only to her and the perpetrators. Of course, that feeling was always accompanied by the nagging idea that the aptitude was most likely a confirmation of her future life as a Weaver. Abby had been surprised, and then quite delighted, the first time she had spotted a glistening and oddly familiar pattern of air moving across school grounds. Wherever the air went, chaos, confusion, and Dungbombs soon followed. With a bit of time and surreptitious observation, she soon discovered the identities of those behind the mayhem – James Potter and three other Gryffindors.

Abby had been born in the dusk of her mother’s childbearing years, and she had grown up playing amongst the large wooden looms in her family’s home. The looms resided in the underground level of the dwelling, where the spacious room was enchanted to continually show a beautiful spring morning from its imaginary windows. She played at camping there, sleeping beneath the stretched, silvery cloth as if it were a tent. From time to time, when Mum and Grandmother were not looking, Abby would thrown a silky Demiguise pelt over her shoulders and pretended to be a Muggle actress. The glimmering threads were intrinsically tied to her mind, her home, and her life.

It was only in the spring of the previous school year, just months ago, that she had seen that cloak again for the first time since coming to Hogsmeade. Abby had been inside Honeydukes that day, pressed against to counter to avoid the crush of hungry students. The town was always crowded on Hogsmeade weekends, and the queue was inching along at a Flobberworm’s pace.

She had just been stretching her neck, staring aimlessly at the foot traffic outside, when a long-forgotten scene met her eyes: refractions of light, a distinct movement of air, the mostly undetectable shimmer of invisible cloth. Stunned, she fumbled to keep her box of sugar quills from dropping to the floor. She had often wondered where a certain possession had ended up after the Potters were killed. For all the impact the sight held after eighteen years of absence, James Potter himself might have been strutting through Honeydukes. In an instant, Abby knew her grandmother’s cloak was in use once more.

She paid for the box of mini-quills as quickly as she could wrench the coins from her purse. The tiny sweets were intended for the children who waited patiently while their mothers were served in Gladrags, and they often made the difference between leaving the shop on time and staying behind to straighten the merchandise for two extra hours. The shop’s “child pacification supplies” were dangerously low, and Abby did not dare return empty-handed to a mob of unhappy youngsters.

Rushing from Honeydukes, Abby scanned the street with frantic eyes until she marked once more the soft gleam of the cloak. The figure under it moved closely with a tall, orange-haired boy in the direction of the post office. Abby breathed a sigh of relief. She had heard from Poppy Pomfrey a few years back that Harry Potter kept company with the youngest of the Weasley boys. The tall boy certainly looked to be an offspring of Arthur and Molly, and if he truly was, then Abby knew the cloak was in hands of its proper owner.

The boys – one visible, one not –now ducked into the post office. Abby lingered across the street, making idle chit-chat with Gerald Cleaves, the grocer, and training one eye on the post office door. After a few minutes, the strange duo left the building and headed for Zonko’s Joke Shop. Abby bid a cheery goodbye to Mr. Cleaves and strolled down the street, grateful again for the easily detectable hair of the Weasley clan. Young Ron had little hope of ever being inconspicuous in a crowd.

Zonko’s would likely keep them entertained for some time, she thought, as the boys grew closer to the violently green and orange-striped building. Counting on a young lad’s fascination with Dungbombs as an unchanging, unshakeable truth, Abby turned on her heels and rushed back to Gladrags. She entered the shop as calmly as possible, despite her heavy breath and flustered appearance, and thrust the package into an assistant’s hands. She then hurried out the door once more, barely keeping her steps to a steady walk. Peering into the window of Zonko’s, though careful not to touch the glass (it turned one’s skin blue), she saw Ron and the cloaked figure snickering over the frog spawn soap. The iridescent motions of the cloak shook back and forth, which gladdened Abby’s heart. If it really was Harry Potter underneath, he certainly deserved a laugh.

Ron paid for the large pile of tricks they had accumulated and then made for the exit. Abby quickly turned her back to the door and began rifling through her purse. Waiting a long minute, she peered over her shoulder. The flaming head of hair was now heading to The Three Broomsticks – no, past The Three Broomsticks – and up the hill to the Shrieking Shack. Grateful again for the Weasley genetics, she followed.

At Hogwarts, she had had to discern who was using the cloak by other means. For pranks carried out in public, she learned to mark who was missing from James’ group while Filibuster’s Fireworks exploded underneath the Slytherin table. Footsteps had also been an easy identifier, once she knew what to listen for. James Potter had a firm, steady step. Peter Pettigrew, in his haste to keep up with his longer-limbed companions, often shuffled his feet. A boisterous gait meant Sirius Black. When she saw the cloak but heard no steps at all, she knew Remus Lupin was beneath. Only last year, when the story of a werewolf teaching at Hogwarts trickled down to the village, did she understand the reason for his imperceptible tread.

Passing the pub, Abby came to rest against a lamppost with a good view of the Shack. It was quite an interesting sight. Away from the crowds of Zonko’s and Honeydukes, Ron seemed to speak freely to Harry. To anyone else but Abby, his monologue with the early spring air might give cause for eyebrows to rise.

Something on the lamppost was mussing up her hair, and Abby turned her head in irritation. Glancing behind, she saw a familiar (though not welcome) object, one that had papered the town since summer. One of those blasted notices about Sirius Black. Well, she did not care to think about that right now. In blatant disregard of wizarding littering statutes, Abby ripped the parchment down, wadded it into a ball, and threw it on the ground.

A noise brought her attention back to the Shrieking Shack. Three other boys – two hulking, one smaller – were climbing the hill and would soon approach Ron. She squinted her eyes to better see what was taking place as all four boys met. Judging by the rapidly increasingly colour of Ron’s face, a storm was brewing. But then, suddenly, the cloak slipped away from Ron. Harry was leaving his friend to deal with the other boys?

No. He was gathering up some muck from the path, raising it in the air, and – oh! Abby caught her breath as the sludge flew, striking the smaller, blond-haired boy in the back of the head. She started to giggle uncontrollably, now recognizing him as Draco Malfoy. He had come to Gladrags on the last Hogsmeade weekend, bringing a great number of snide remarks with him…oh, this was too rich. All three had now caught a heaping handful of the nastiness, directly in the face. Draco’s henchmen were floundering about, grasping clumsily at the unseen menace.

Suddenly, one of the larger boys stepped on the iridescent air, and the “suspended” head of a black-haired, bespectacled boy appeared. Abby gasped. That had to be James Potter’s son. And he was certainly going to catch some trouble for this deed. Draco and his friends were already running away, screaming madly. Abby had to pull back against the lamppost as they rushed by, and then, moments later, a cloaked Harry followed…

But Ludo Bagman was speaking now, and so Abby refocused her attention on her customer. The fabric had been selected (Excellent choice, Ludo – I’ve been wanting to get rid of that stuff for some time now!) and the measuring completed, so he was now casting thinly veiled hints for more complimentary merchandise. She could hardly pretend not to understand him much longer.

“Very well, then, Mr. Bagman,” Abby said merrily. “I’ll let you get on with the rest of your day now! I’ll owl the robes to you by week’s end.” With a touch of resignation, Bagman gathered his Wasps robes (which Chanella had already brought back, having had great success with the Engorgement Charm) and left.

Making a mental note to stop by the grocer’s on her way home, Abby closed up shop later that evening and was just about to lock the front door when an incoming owl interrupted her. The bird was beautiful, sleekly groomed and a mite haughty. Abby paid her as quickly as she could, anxious to see who had sent the missive. She smiled as she recognized the seal of the Ministry’s Paris embassy. It was from her father.

Abby tucked the parchment in her robes and hurried off. She wanted time to read her father’s letter before heading up to Hogwarts later that night for a meeting with Albus Dumbledore.

***

Abby ran the last few steps to her front door, one arm around a bakery box, the other extended to keep the grocery bags from thumping against her legs. She was most pleased with herself. Not only had Mr. Cleaves given her a larger-than-usual amount of scraps and bones, she had managed to grab the last of that day’s baked goods. Rosemary Cleaves, an unabashed devotee of the Tutshill Tornados, had taken to making a series of treats to commemorate the World Cup being held in Britain for the first time in thirty years. Abby was certain Dumbledore would enjoy the Krum-Cake; she had found it quite delicious herself.

Snuffles was sure to be pleased with Mr. Cleaves’ generosity, although the scraps had come with the provision that she bring her new animal by for a visit. Abby was not sure how Snuffles would take to such an outing, but Mr. Cleaves might not hold her to it. He owed her a favour anyway for recently embroidering the shop logo on his grocer’s smocks. Much of Hogsmeade worked in this manner, as a matter of fact. Jasper Zonko had given her a steep discount on a beautiful set of Gobstones last year (her father’s Christmas present, which he had quite enjoyed), in exchange for re-colouring his wife’s robes, which had turned orange from overexposure to the merchandise. Basil Simmerman, the apothecary, gave her various potions ingredients to help with her rosebushes, although she most often used them in her weaving. She, in turn, knit him a jumper each autumn. And Rosmerta, of course, was always ready with a butterbeer in thanks for Abby’s help in assembling her fantastic wardrobe.

Entering the cottage door, Abby removed her cloak and quickly laid the cake aside. She located her writing kit under a pile of pattern pieces on the workbench, wincing as a large wooden bobbin fell precariously near her toes. Grabbing a dish and the bag containing Snuffles’ dinner, she went into the back garden.

The warmth struck her immediately, and she paused for a moment, soaking it in. It was a much more preferable to the winter chill that was setting upon Hogsmeade. Squinting her eyes, Abby peered around in the low torchlight for Snuffles. Yes, there he was, napping near the flowerbeds.

Does that dog do anything but sleep?

Abby tapped the torches with her wand, turning them on “high”, and gave a low whistle. It was a feeble attempt, but it served the purpose – Snuffles lifted his head and ambled over, his tail wagging. He nuzzled the grocery bag, panting hopefully.

“Oh, I can’t think why you’re so excited, boy – there’s nothing in here for you,” Abby said with an impish grin.

Snuffles looked up at her and gave a melancholy whine.

“No, no, this is my dinner. Sorry, old chap, you’ll have to fend for yourself tonight,” she said teasingly, keeping the bag out of his reach.

He grabbed the sleeve of her robe with his (very large, Abby observed) teeth and shook it playfully.

“I can’t imagine what you’re after, Snuffles, there’s nothing in here that would interest you!”

The dog stepped back now, hanging his head dolefully. He then looked up at Abby once more, imploring, and she noticed again the unusually pale colour of his eyes. She stared at the eyes for a moment, taking in their atypical hue and wondering just what kind of a dog he was. She had never seen a breed with those eyes before.

Snuffles now nipped playfully at her feet, and Abby began to laugh.

“I was just having a bit of fun with you, you beast. I won’t make you beg too much for your supper, although I’d make you sing for it if I thought you knew how. Let’s go over there,” she gestured to the stone bench, “and you can eat while I read my letter.”

Settling onto the bench (which was surprisingly comfortable, once a Cushioning Charm was in place), Abby emptied the meat scraps into a dish and held it out to Snuffles. He lit into the food vociferously. She wondered, as she had on a few occasions before, if his previous owners had mistreated him. At times that dog ate as if he had never seen food before. She shook her head, giving a soft tsk!, and pulled the letter from her robes. Post from her father seemed so sporadic of late. She quickly broke open the red wax seal on the parchment and began to peruse the contents.

Hollister Loomis had all but retired from work by the time Abby’s had mother passed away eight years ago, yet memories and loneliness made life in their home much too difficult after her death. When a post as a diplomatic attaché in France had arisen, he had quickly accepted it.

Oddly enough, Abby had never quite known exactly what her father had done was while she was growing up. She knew he worked for the Ministry of Magic, but as no other boring, bureaucratic details were ever mentioned, she did not think to ask. Her favorite recording groups on the WWN or her newest set of robes were far more interesting. Now, at an age where she actually held an interest in her father’s vocation, Abby had the strong feeling that he was not going to offer more details than those few he had already been willing to give.

She scanned the letter eagerly. Although preoccupied with work, he was in good spirits and health. He was glad to hear that the robe clasps, commissioned on her behalf from the top Parisian metalwizard, were selling well. He hoped to be able to visit during the Christmas holiday, but was as yet unsure of his work commitments. He would be sending a large parcel her way soon – an accumulation of trinkets and gifts from a recent fine goods trade fair to which his office had been invited. He hoped she might be able to put them to use or pass them on to friends. He ended with his love.

Abby folded the parchment and sighed. It would be fabulous to see her father at Christmastime, but she had a distinct feeling that the visit would not come to pass. Dumbledore was always giving her the impression that the wizarding world was not quite yet safe, and that sacrifices might still be required of those who wished to keep evil out of it.

Opening her writing kit, Abby laid aside a few sheets of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of crimson ink, her favorite colour. She would stop by Gladrags and use Hubert, the company owl, to send off her reply. Nibbling the quill tip (the habit had unfortunately returned in recent years), she sat quietly to gather her thoughts, only to be distracted by a rustling to her right. She glanced over in surprise. Snuffles, with a look of doggish guilt, had been trying to make off with a piece of parchment.

That dog grows more and more strange every day.

“Oi, you big brute! What do you think you’re doing? You might’ve asked, silly thing – I would have given you it. Planning to add it to your collection of newspapers, are you?”

He dropped the parchment and sank to his haunches, giving Abby a peculiar stare.

“Yes,” she continued, “I know you and your wicked ways, Snuffles. At least you had the goodness to wait until I’d read them. Odd playthings you have, though – perhaps I should pick up some enchanted chew toys for you.”

She selected up another piece of parchment and held it out to him.

“Until then, here you are – in the name of friendship.”

The dog stared at her a little longer before taking the offering in his teeth and skulking off to the far corner of the garden, where he remained until she was ready to leave. She glanced at him curiously. Had she hurt his feelings? Sealing her own letter and packing the writing things away, she rose from the bench and crossed over to him. She crouched down, carefully reached out, and scratched gently behind his soft, silky ears.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” she murmured. “A good boy. You’ll probably be gone already, but I won’t be home until late. Don’t wait up.”

Snuffles turned his head and licked her hand once.

“No hard feelings? I’m glad. Goodbye, you.”

Reminding herself to wash her hands before handling the Krum-Cake, Abby went into the cottage to gather her things and begin her solitary walk up to Hogwarts.

**

The walk to the castle was not especially tiring, but it was long enough for the middle of November. Abby had not passed this way since last summer, when Albus Dumbledore had owled to invite up for afternoon tea. It had been so strange to see the school devoid of the bustle and fervor of student life. Her footsteps had echoed off the stone floors as she traced the path back to the headmaster’s office. She had pulled his letter from her lightweight linen robes and then cringed upon seeing the password that he had written at the bottom in his unique script – “Jelly Jarvey”. Someone needed to tell Walter Sooker that some things were simply not meant to be made and eaten in candied form.

Dumbledore had been involved in an exchange with an oddly dressed house-elf when Abby knocked on his office door. She waited a few moments for them to finish their conversation, which, due to Dumbledore’s low tone and the elf’s high, squeaky jabbering, was mostly unintelligible. She passed the time instead by focusing on the exquisite tapestries on the walls. They were of her Grandmother Connelly’s making, she now knew, and she loved to look at them whenever she had the chance. She also stared at the vibrant plumage of Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix, wondering if she could reproduce the hues in a dye.

The headmaster was standing now, his “discussion” apparently over. The elf stopped to bow elaborately, again and again, in front of Abby. She still could not make much sense of his sighs and squeals, but she gave him a small, flustered curtsy in return. This seemed to please the creature to no end as he scampered out of the office, leaving her and Dumbledore alone. Over blueberry scones, he told Abby of another request he had of her – to use her talents to devise a means of surveillance for use on certain members of the wizarding population, among them Lucius Malfoy.

Abby knew of Malfoy, to be certain – his name and picture were often in The Daily Prophet. And of course she had a clear memory of his son, Draco, with foul brown slime dripping down his face. Although absolved by the Ministry from any wrongdoing during the days of Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy’s loyalties and motivations remained suspect to many. After consultation with someone he referred to as “Dobby” and many deliberations of his own, Dumbledore felt certain that Malfoy’s vulnerability rested in his vain nature.

“Our Muggle friends have an ancient saying for this, Abigail,” he had said, “one which I feel quite sure Lucius Malfoy has never heard. ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall…’ An interesting thought, that.”

Abby had left the office with a burdened heart. Her successes to date in her weaving were due largely to persistent plodding, exhaustive research, and a great deal of trial and error. Ingenuity was not necessarily her strong suit, yet if Dumbledore believed her fit for the task, then perhaps she was. The challenge lay in attracting Lucius to Hogsmeade, where he rarely, if ever, visited; no doubt the village was too “provincial” for his tastes.

In a bit of unplanned self-indulgence, Abby had allowed herself to visit Hufflepuff Turret before leaving the castle. Both the portrait hole guardian and “Helga”, in shows of Hufflepuff trust, let her by without question. She only stayed a moment, before the sorrow could renew its clutch on her heart. The Ministry claimed to have apprehended the Death Eaters who attacked the McKinnon farm that summer eighteen years ago, yet that knowledge never seemed to help much.

**

Reaching her destination, Abby pushed aside the entrance doors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and slipped quietly inside. Judging by the din coming from the Great Hall, she need not have bothered. The students were still at dinner. Against her better judgment, Abby crept up to the doorway. She just wanted to look inside, to take a little peek. The Great Hall had not seemed the same when she had seen it last summer, all empty and silent. It was meant to be full of laughter, noise, and the occasional explosion. She also hoped to get a glimpse of Alastor Moody, whom she had only seen a handful of times since her father had left for France. Their last meeting had been over two years ago.

A group of exiting youngsters – first-years, by all appearances – foiled her plan. They stared for a moment at the smartly dressed witch standing alone in the entrance hall, before passing by her. She gave a faint wave and a sigh to their backs as they left in the direction of the Ravenclaw common room. Compared to all the odd and unusual things the new students saw each day, she was probably of little concern to them. Still, it was probably best to be discreet. She would have to wait to greet Moody. Perhaps he might come down to The Three Broomsticks some evening, where they (or she, at least – he hated to eat food not of his own preparation) could enjoy dinner together.

Abby set off for Dumbledore’s office, passing through the familiar staircases and passageways. She had to slink into the shadows more than once as red-faced students peered out of deserted classrooms, scanned the corridors, and then slipped behind closed doors again. She stifled a chuckle. Hufflepuffs never had that dilemma. More of the new students might actually want to be in Hufflepuff House, were they privy to its numerous setts, but that would remain a house secret.

She tried to keep her steps quick and quiet as she continued on, passing by the statue of goblin leader Hugor the Hungry. She had not really thought of what she might say if she were to encounter an older student who wondered why the witch from Gladrags was at Hogwarts that night. She could always claim that she had come by to show robe designs to Dumbledore – he could not possibly dream up those marvelous ensembles all on his own, could he?

The thought gave her reason to smile. Dumbledore did create his own costumes, in fact, owling her beautifully drawn sketches every few months. Following his detailed instructions was easy, and kind as he was, he let her keep the sketches for her personal files. As she grew more comfortable in her relationship with the headmaster, she joked that he might consider a second career in gentlewizards’ fashion.

To her surprise, Dumbledore himself was outside the stone gargoyle when she arrived, stooping over to retrieve a brightly coloured package from beneath the statue’s feet. He straightened upon seeing her, his long beard dragging across the floor as he rose.

“Good evening, Miss Loomis! I am pleased to see that you journeyed here safely. Do step into my office. Perhaps we might sample these sweets together – toffees, I believe they are.”

Dumbledore did not need a password to enter his office; the gargoyle jumped aside quite obligingly. Together they rode the spiral staircase up to the large oak door. It was good – comforting, even – to see him again, Abby mused. How strange, though, that even now, well into adulthood, she could not call him “Albus”.

His office was as fascinating as ever, and the fire crackled invitingly. Fawkes dozed in a corner, looking a little worse for the wear. She placed the Krum-Cake on a table near the door. Sinking down into the comfortable chair behind his desk, and gesturing for Abby to be seated as well, Dumbledore emptied the contents of the package onto his desk. A myriad of jewel-toned wrappers scattered across the oak surface. Adjusting his spectacles, he peered closer to read the writing on the package’s flamboyant surface:

“To the most smashing headmaster Hogwarts has ever known – enjoy with our compliments.”

He beamed with pleasure. “Well, how very kind! Shall I try this emerald-coloured one? It looks a bit larger than the rest. And here is a ruby sweet for you, dear, to match your robes.”

Abby accepted her toffee with hesitation. She held it in her hand, scrutinizing it, while Dumbledore eagerly unwrapped his. At the very moment when he would have popped the sweet into his mouth, she found she could contain herself no longer. Hogsmeade weekends had taught her long ago that all students, regardless of house affiliation, were capable of mischief and mayhem in every variety. Beyond that, Moody had loved to leave soap-flavoured sherbert lemons about the house when she was little. His intended lesson of “Never accept food from an unknown giver, lassie!” had been in her best interests, she knew, but she had never found it as amusing as he did.

And to think, I never imagined his paranoia was catching.

“Sir!” she exclaimed. “Sir, considering we don’t know the source of this kindness, that might be…unwise.”

Dumbledore paused. He held the toffee between two of his long fingers, balanced in mid-air. With slight air of dejection, he placed the sweet back on the desk. “A point well made, Abigail. I wish I had thought as much myself. Although I confess, I am still rather curious as to what the effects of partaking might be.”

He opened a drawer in his desk and brushed the remaining sweets inside with his other hand, smiling benignly. “Perhaps I will just set them aside for our next staff meeting. Now tell me, dear – how goes your weaving?”

With that question, Abby’s veneer of womanly maturity slipped, and she fought to keep herself from bouncing up and down in her chair. What she would give to have someone to whom she could speak freely and regularly about the cloak, someone to whom she could actually air her worries and suppositions and complaints aloud.

Years of silence on the subject had made their mark, however. For Merlin’s sake, she was even too fearful to talk about it to her dog. While Rosmerta knew of her calling, Dumbledore had thought it best that Abby not divulge the particulars. His office was the only place where Abby felt truly free to talk about her work, and while she knew Dumbledore thought highly of her, he could hardly want her nattering away in there every day.

“Oh…oh, sir. I’m so close. So close. I’ve woven the twentieth Demiguise layer, and it’s fusing quite nicely with the other nineteen. I’ve been waiting on that for a few weeks now. It will need a few potions and spells, as there are several non-invisible portions yet, but I think I may actually finish the dratted thing – sorry, sir – in the next few months. By then, I’ll hopefully have come across what I need for the finishing.”

“The finishing…most interesting. Do you recall what your mother told you of this step?”

Abby sighed. “She said the finishing of a cloak is unique to each Weaver. She said I would know how and when and why to complete the cloak, as well as to whom it belonged. I believe her words, sir, but frankly – I haven’t a clue as to what I’m supposed to do at that point.”

Dumbledore chuckled softly as Abby carried on in mild frustration.

“She said I would just know. Of course, I asked her how I would know that I knew when I knew, but that only made her laugh. Do – do you – what do you think, sir?”

He leaned back in his chair thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the smooth oak of the desk.

“I have my ideas, child” he replied, after a pause, “but I believe they would be nowhere near as valuable and powerful as what might come from your own mind.”

Abby hung her head, thinking that she should have known better than to ask that last question. Dumbledore had not gained his reputation of eccentricity by conversing openly on ancient magical arts. Despite the things he must know, he was not about to share them with her.

He’s certainly one to let folks sort things out on their own. I’m sure he has his reasons, but it wouldn’t hurt him to give the rest of us a clue once in a while.

Dumbledore continued on. “Abigail, may I inquire how the Privacy Charms on your home are functioning? I trust they have lessoned your, er, neighborly distractions?”

Abby lifted up her eyes, smiling broadly.

“They are wonderful, sir. I can’t thank you enough. I’ve certainly tried to make peace with the Boormans, but…we’re just not meant to be neighbors. It’s such a relief not to have her peek in my kitchen window three times an hour. Well, she still peeks, but she can’t see in now. They don’t even bother to send their children to spy on me in the garden anymore, since they don’t think I’m ever out there. Of course, they did start rumours about the Class A Non-Tradable plants I’m supposedly growing in the cottage, but Rosmerta squelched that talk rather quickly by cutting off Mr. Boorman’s Firewhisky supply.”

Dumbledore laughed so hard at this last disclosure that his spectacles fell off. Abby was pleased at the sight. The headmaster, despite his air of liveliness, had looked much older of late. The laughter took off a few of his many years.

“Rosmerta is a treasure, is she not?” he finally managed, wiping an eye with the back of his hand. “And I am thrilled to be of service to you, Abigail. For all you have given to your craft and our people, a little privacy is certainly well deserved. Though I will not say no to another pair of those socks, mind you. Now tell me, is there anything else new in your life? Are you enjoying the excitement in Hogsmeade?”

“Well, the Tournament has certainly brought in some interesting clientele. Gladrags has been quite busy. Oh, and I think I’ve acquired a pet. Or, he’s acquired me – I’m not which it is.”

Dumbledore clapped enthusiastically at that, startling a bedraggled looking Fawkes from his sleepy state across the room.

“A pet? How delightful. I once tried to keep a Fwooper, I will have you know, but he and Fawkes proved incompatible. What sort of a pet is this, might I ask?”

“A dog,” Abby answered. “A big, black beast of a thing. Despite a few odd habits, he’s quite lovable, appearances aside.”

If she had not known better, Abby might have thought that her remark caught the headmaster off guard. That could not be, though – Albus Dumbledore was not one to be caught unawares. But he did look at her peculiarly, one corner of his mouth rising in amusement.

“Abigail, I am quite happy to hear that,” he said. “I knew such a dog once. Kind and loyal he was…yes, very loyal indeed.” He paused. “If I may change the subject, have you any information regarding our conversation of last summer?”

Oh. Abby had almost forgotten that news in her enthusiasm over the cloak progress. She did have something to share with him, in fact. Pulling a few scraps of scribbled-on parchment from her robes, she smoothed them into a readable state.

“Well, as I mentioned in an earlier owl, I’ve become better acquainted with Draco Malfoy, and I think I managed to sufficiently impress him with Gladrags’ wares. I plan to invite him to a personal showing when our next shipment of expensive baubles arrives.”

Dumbledore nodded approvingly as he leaned back once more, folding his arms across his chest.

“As for a means of watching Lucius Malfoy,” she continued. “I don’t know if this is at all plausible, but I had an idea – a bit of inspiration, really – while working on the cloak’s nineteenth layer. I was researching the uses of the Absorption Potion, and I began to wonder if I could apply them to something other than an Invisibility Cloak.”

She hesitated, not sure if she sounded completely batty, but Dumbledore nodded, urging her on.

“The threads could be treated to absorb words, sir – the conversations of its wearer. Then, once the proper spell was activated, the thread would Transfigure the words to ink, creating a record.”

She shoved the parchment pieces across the desk to Dumbledore, who adjusted his spectacles and began studying her scribbled notes intently.

“I still have loads more research to do,” she went on, “but I think it’s altogether possible. Although, would you have to submit it to the Department of Mysteries for some sort of approval? Or a patent, perhaps? I’m certain they would need to verify it for indictment purposes, if it were to be used at a trial.”

Looking up from the notes, Dumbledore gave her a smile of endorsement, and Abby felt a thrill tingle through her arms. This was new magic – something no Weaver had attempted before. And if Albus Dumbledore thought the idea had merit…

He passed the parchment back to her. “That is a promising idea, indeed, and if it did not pertain to important espionage techniques, I might nominate you for a Good Housewitching Award.”

Does Witch Weekly still give out those things? I’m not sure I’d accept anything from that rag.

Abby snickered into her hand, but quieted herself down when she realized the headmaster was still speaking.

“However, Abigail, I will request that you lay this notion aside at present. I feel strongly that nothing,” he paused for a moment, lightly emphasizing his next words, “nothing should distract from your weaving. It is imperative that this skill not be lost from the wizarding people. Once your first cloak is completed and you feel sure of the process, you may pursue this. For now, I ask that concentrate on your weaving.”

Abby stared at the headmaster with a furrowed brow, but she nodded her head in compliance. Their conversation for the evening was evidently over, but what had he meant by that?

Of course, I’ll concentrate on my weaving. After eighteen years, I’ve got quite good at concentrating on my weaving. Even though at times, I’m bloody tired of concentrating on my weaving.

Dumbledore rose then, crossing around the desk to help Abby on with her winter cloak.

“You had best be leaving before the night grows too late. I think you deserve a bit of refreshment for your journey, though – sugar quill? Do try the Strawberry-Mango Delight.”

**

Blast winter…

The bone-chilling wind caused Abby to catch her breath. It stung at her throat, but the quicker she walked, the sooner she would be home. As on innumerable past occasions, she cursed the Department of Magical Transportation and their arcane licensing requirements. Given her academic history, Muggles would ride broomsticks before she would be allowed to Apparate.

Her stomach growled as well, increasing her discomfort. Carried away in her conversation with Dumbledore, she had forgot about the Krum-Cake. He was probably having a good go at it right now, but she was starving.

Sadly, the light from her wand did little to illuminate the darkness, and Abby stumbled occasionally on the rocks and dips in the road. Her pulse quickened as she saw what looked to be the light of a torch ahead. A large torch, for that matter. Abby sped up. She did not particularly fancy walking alone on a dark path that lay uncomfortably close the Forbidden Forest. If the light ahead came from a villager’s torch, then perhaps she would have some company. It appeared as though the figure was now heading toward her. But wait – the torch appeared to have been extinguished. Now it flared up again.

As the light approached, Abby observed that the flame was low to the ground, and not in the position of a held torch. And, most disconcertingly of all, it was not a person wielding it… Whatever the thing was, it scuttled along the path, covered with some sort of shell and (she noted in growing horror) a large sting, pinchers, many legs, and…

Abby’s mind emptied itself of all sane thought as the dark form approached. Her legs trembled and her heart pounded terribly, but the remainder of her body felt rooted to the ground. Should she run? Stay still? Would the creature ignore her? But then a burst of fire shot forth from the thing’s back end, and Abby realized that to stay in its path would be extremely foolish, to say the least.

Gathering what courage she could muster, Abby threw herself off the road and darted into the bordering woods. The creature followed, but more slowly. Without thinking of the consequences, Abby turned her head to gauge the distance between them. As she did, her cloak caught on some low brush; it ripping halfway off of her, sending her careening to the ground. Her head met a protruding tree root with a sickening thud.

Abby groaned in misery. A painful haze clouded her eyes, and she struggled in vain to lift herself. The last things she took in before her head met the earth again were a lick of smoke, rising from the hem of her cloak, and what sounded, from a distance, like the barking of a dog...

**

A/N: The ancient Muggle saying Dumbledore references is Proverbs 16:18. I confess to sharing Dumbledore’s fondness for anything strawberry-mango flavoured.