Interwoven: The Seamstress and the Lovable Stray

Chapter 3

**

Ummph!

The crushing heaviness of something falling on her legs brought Abby to her senses, though not fully. She groaned in pain, thrashing awkwardly against the weight, but her eyes would not focus on the muddled figures around her. The sensation lasted for just a moment, though, and then something began to pull at her cloak, disentangling it from the underbrush. After a forceful rip, the garment fell slack against her. Still, the remaining sounds and images – small explosions, that orange blur again, and a deep, menacing snarl – were too much for Abby to take in. Dazed, she shut her eyes once more.

A cold, wet nudge to the face brought her back to reality the next time. She gave a garbled yell and yanked her head away from whatever was prodding her, but when she swung her arm out to bat at the thing, it connected with a familiar tangle of fur. Snuffles. It was Snuffles.

Abby rolled over to her side, wincing in pain as she pushed herself to a sitting position and tried to stand. Her legs buckled under her and she cried out in frustration, striking the hard ground with her hand. The adrenaline of the moment was fast fading, giving her body an unpleasant reminder of the harsh cold. She also had the feeling that her robes were letting in more air than they were supposed to, and her shredded cloak did not help matters, either. Now, her legs were being bloody uncooperative.

In a moment, Snuffles was at her side. Abby stared blankly into his pale eyes before she understood his intentions. He lowered his body, and she grabbed hold of his fur. When he rose, she was able to get to her knees. He stood perfectly still as she struggled to her feet. In turns pulling on the ragged edge of her cloak and pushing her from behind, the dog began to guide her home.

**

With a groan, Abby stumbled through the door of her cottage and fell to the hearthrug, struggling for air. Her head throbbed terribly and a cut on her arm held a vicious sting, but she did not have the strength to move. She let her body sink into the softness, oblivious to anything else around her, and did not stir until she heard the sound of the door shutting. Slowly, Abby moved her head and saw that Snuffles had followed her into the cottage. He stood off to the side, whimpering and shivering from the cold. Lifting a weary hand, she gestured for him to come to the fire. As he padded over and lay down beside her, she reached up and patted his head.

“Good boy…good boy…” she mumbled, before falling back onto the rug and drifting into an exhausted sleep.

**

Though the headache did not allow her to sleep for long, Abby was grateful for the brief rest when her eyes opened again. If nothing else, she could once more feel her limbs. Intent on finding her wand, she edged her aching body away from Snuffles and off the rug, then stood up gingerly, not yet trusting her legs in full. With slow, shuffling steps she moved across the room to the kitchen table. Her head throbbed, but she could not cast a Pain-Relief Spell without her wand…

Where in Merlin’s name did that thing go?

Her mind whirred, scanning for possibilities, but then Abby covered her mouth with her hand and gasped. Oh, no…she had taken it to Hogwarts, of course, and had used it to light her way home. The first fall had knocked it out of her hand, and in her frantic state, she had not thought to search for it before she and Snuffles fled. He had propelled her home in the dark. The thought became too much to bear, and with a choking sob, Abby sunk her head into her arms. The fire-shooting creature was probably using it for kindling right now.

After a tear-filled minute, Abby paused to wipe the wetness off her face. With no handkerchief within reach, she used her sleeve, which soon became a sodden mess. She gave a short laugh at the sight.

Not exactly the picture of high fashion now, am I?

Abby took in a deep gulp of air, trying to calm her breathing. She looked over at Snuffles, who had somehow managed to doze, unperturbed, through all her wailing. Despite her misery, she laughed again as he let out an especially loud snore. An odd creature, that dog. Perhaps this was all in a day’s duty for him – a day’s messy duty, certainly. Abby’s eyes backtracked along the trail Snuffles had left from the front door, taking in muddy paw prints, bits of dead grass and leaves, and a stick of some sort… Her heart stopped for a moment, and the smile dropped from her face as she peered more closely. No, it was not a stick. It was her wand.

Forgetting her aches, Abby crossed swiftly to the door and snatched up the willow shaft, eyes wide. She stared at the wand in disbelief, turning it over and over in her hands, running her fingers down the length of it. As she did, she noticed several markings marring the wood. She held the wand up to the firelight for closer inspection. Teeth marks. Snuffles must have brought it back. She stared in amazement at the slumbering form of the black dog.

Dumbledore was right…he is the loyal sort.

So as not to wake her rescuer, Abby whispered as she pointed the wand at her head and incanted, “Ibuprofus!” In seconds, the pain began to ebb. She cast the spell again at her arm, viewing the state of her robes for the first time since arriving home. They were covered in forest debris, and the lower portions were scorched and torn. Holes were burned clear though in several areas. Abby closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath. Fortunately, the robes had been heavy and quite full in the skirt. Had they been any closer to her body, she would have surely been burned.

She looked back at Snuffles again. He was in a dead slumber, but he let out a low whine now and again that sounded terribly sad. Abby filled a dish with cold water and walked back to the fireplace, setting it a few feet away from him. She stood there for a moment, then, crouching down, she stroked lightly behind his ears. Examining his coat, she saw several large, singed patches. The big brute had most likely saved her life. She also could not help but notice, while cursing herself for the shallow thought, that his filthy, matted fur was dirtying her rug in a most appalling fashion.

She winced as she rose to her feet, both from a lingering ache where her hip had met the hard earth, and from the sight of her own disheveled hair. Mingled with the light-brown strands were bits of dirt and a random twig or two. Wild thoughts of what her customers might say if she were to arrive at Gladrags in such a state flashed through her mind, causing her to smile – Miss Abigail Loomis was nothing if not always impeccably groomed. They would probably think she had succumbed to the old head injury and had taken up with a band of wood sprites.

But as much as she wanted to wash her own hair, Abby realized the practicality of seeing to Snuffles first. Getting that bear of a dog clean could be a dirty business. Leaving him by the fire, she went into to her bedroom and on to the bathroom. Stacked high in a basket on the counter were dozens of small bottles, through which she began to rummage. Manufacturers of wizarding personal care products often sent her samples of their latest potions, and surely there was something in here she could use. Her hand latched onto an amethyst-hued, cork-topped bottle, which she held up to her eyes.

“Gilderoy Lockhart’s Scrubbly Bubbly, in Essence of Raspberry”? No, I don’t think Snuffles would take too kindly to that…

At last locating a suitable, relatively unscented soap, Abby ran several inches of water in the tub. She warmed the water with her wand, watching the suds rise high, and placed several towels that had been treated with Stain-Away Solution nearby. As her untidy hair kept falling in her face, she gathered it back and secured it into a twist with a tap of her wand. She then rolled up the sleeves of her robe as best she could and went back to the front room, mulling over how she was going to coerce this rather large animal into her rather small bathroom to take a bath.

The sound of running water must have stirred him, because Snuffles raised his head blearily when she entered the room. Realizing that his sleepiness might act in her favor, Abby moved swiftly. She looped her arms under his front legs, gently urging him onto his feet, then with soft, hushing sounds, set him on the path to her room.

Staring at the foam-filled tub, Snuffles seemed to sense that something was afoot. His ears twitched, and he looked about with apprehensive eyes. Abby followed him in, bravely deciding to cut off his escape route by shutting the door behind her. Before he could fully comprehend what was taking place, she lifted up the dog’s front legs and slid them over the porcelain edge of the tub, which, luckily, lay low to the ground. With a distinctly unladylike grunt, she seized him around the middle and somehow managed to propel the rest of his furry mass into the water.

Snuffles was most certainly lucid now. Covered up to his chin in bubbles, he opened his pale eyes wide. He crouched, ready to leap out of the tub, but Abby blocked his path.

“Oh…no, no, no, my good friend. This is the least I can do for you, after tonight. Now, if you’ll just…”

Splash!

A wave of dirty, soapy water rose to the tub’s edge and cascaded over, soaking Abby’s legs and feet. Snuffles had attempted to turn around while in the tub and jump from the other end. Abby looked in dismay at the splattered walls and puddled floor, and her nostrils flared in growing anger.

“Now, that certainly was not called for! This could be much worse, you know. I could have you smelling of raspberries right about now,” she said, her voice rising in irritation. Keeping one eye on the dog, she glanced at her wand, which rested near the sink. “I might just throw a quick Shampoo Spell on your coat and be done with it – ”

The teeth marks on the wand caught her eye, and as she recalled the circumstances of their making, her face softened. Snuffles seemed to sense that her guard was down. He seized the opportunity and lowered his haunches, ready to spring from the tub, but Abby was quicker. She lunged forward, throwing her arms around his neck and forcing him back into the water. She might have succeeded in keeping him there, had her elbow not connected sharply with the tub’s edge.

“Aaaarrggghh!!!”

Abby screwed her eyes shut and clung to her elbow with her other hand, trying to force the pain out of it. It hurt abominably, but now that she knew what Snuffles was capable of, she dared not leave him unattended. She backed towards the sink with slow, cautious steps, keeping a wary eye cracked. The dog was looking at her with an expression that almost seemed sympathetic, but she knew he was not to be trusted. Not for a moment.

Her suspicions were soon confirmed. Snuffles pulled back to spring again, and Abby darted forward to stop him. Unfortunately, the slippery bathroom floor had also decided to thwart her. Her feet flew, leaving her to land most ungracefully on her posterior. Snuffles, his front paws perched on top of the tub, peered down at her uneasily. His eyes widened as he saw Abby’s wand and her glowering face, both quite near and directed unerringly at him.

Abby moved a sopping strand of hair from her face with slow deliberation. The room was quiet, but for her heavy breath and the steady drip of water from Snuffles’ paws. Her voice was low and measured, but filled with an unmistakable fury. She held her extended wand hand very, very steady.

“Stay…still…now…or by Hogwarts, I’ll turn you into a kitten – a girl kitten – and I’ll have no compunction about leaving you that way.”

To his credit, Snuffles meekly acquiesced, and after several spells and a few cautious forays with a long-handled scrub brush, the task was complete. After casting yet another Pain-Relief Spell (on her elbow, this time) Abby directed the dog to lie down on a quilt that she had placed in front of the fire, and then she set off to tidy up herself and the bathroom as best she could. When she returned, clean and dressed in fresh robes, she started in surprise. Snuffles was curled up on the quilt, just as he was when she had left him, but placed neatly before him was a pair of tattered house slippers.

Abby threw back her head and laughed, running her fingers though her hair. She had relinquished the hope of ever finding those slippers again. He must have done some rummaging while she was gone.

Apparently, he’s making some effort at becoming properly domesticated!

“Trying to make amends, are you?” she chuckled, reaching down to scratch his ears. “You’re partially forgiven. That was quite the experience, wasn’t it? Nothing I’d care to repeat anytime soon, though. Take care not to dirty yourself up again, or you’ll be looking for a new home.”

Snuffles wagged his tail as Abby sat next to him, stroking his head. “Mangy cur,” she murmured with affection. The two were quiet for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Abby took the chance to look over the dog’s coat again. Clean, it was greatly improved, but the singed portions were still rough and snarled. She was not sure if she dared another beautification project at this juncture, but Snuffles seemed docile enough. Rising from the ground, she walked over to her worktable, sifting through piles of swatches, moving aside bolts of fabric, and lifting up stacks of failed product ventures (“Heroic Hankies”, meant for unexpected moments of female weepiness. Sadly, they never caught on with the young men of Hogwarts…).

Where is that ruddy thing? I saw it here just the other day…

Finally, under the last stack, she located a large, wide-toothed wooden comb she sometimes used to card wool. From her workbasket, she gathered her largest pair of shears. Snuffles eyed the objects in her hands with hesitation, perhaps still intimidated by her earlier threat, but he remained motionless as Abby sat down again.

“Shhh…” she said soothingly, “Help me with this, and I’ll bring you a steak tomorrow. The biggest steak Mr. Cleaves has in the shop…”

Snuffles emitted a few yelps when Abby encountered some nasty tangles, but did not bolt away as she worked her way methodically though his coat, pulling through the knots and trimming off the burnt patches. Grateful again for her wand, she whisked the scattered fur off the quilt and into the dustbin with magical ease. When finished, she sat back on her heels to inspect her work.

“Short and clean – quite becoming on you, my friend.”

The dog laid his head down on the quilt, his eyelids flickering with fatigue. Abby gazed at him in slight bewilderment, expecting him to make a beeline for the door. Yet he made no attempt to move, let alone leave the cottage.

So, a run-in with a deadly fire-blasting creature is all it takes to get him to stay overnight…

Abby reached forward and patted his head once more, before rising to her feet. Her own eyelids were becoming terribly heavy, and the next workday was already closer than she cared to think.

“Good night, then, and…thank you, Snuffles.”

With one hand over her yawning mouth, she walked back to her bedroom. A loud canine snore reached her ears as she turned to close the door behind her, and she saw, with weary amusement, that the dog was already asleep.

**

Abby lifted her head off the pillow the next morning to the realization that she was going to be very, very late for work. She threw back the quilt and leapt to her wardrobe.

Fortunately, the first pair of robes she came across was clean and mended. (Missing buttons and loose hems were often the last thing she wanted to be bothered with at the end of the day.) Simple, though stylishly cut, and dyed a deep green, the robes suited her eyes nicely. If only her mirror would be a little more obliging.

This particular mirror, Gertie, had always out of sorts with the others at Gladrags; a bit of a tomboy, she had never been a good fit. Abby’s solution at the time had been to take Gertie home one evening in frustration. It was a decision she now often regretted, especially on mornings such as this.

“Prettying yourself up again, are you?” the mirror taunted. “Just who are you trying to impress, Abigail?”

Abby ignored the jibe, cracking open the bedroom door to see if Snuffles was still in the cottage. He raised his head drowsily at the sound and looked at her, then placed his head down on his front paws. Smiling, Abby left the door open and turned back to the task at hand.

Gertie was a bit miffed at being dismissed. “Think you’ve got something to prove to them? All this fluff with your hair and your robes…”

The mirror waggled evasively from side to side as Abby combed her part and pulled the hair back into a sleek chignon at the base of her neck. No matter – she could have done it with her eyes closed. It was all part of the familiar, sometimes tiresome routine.

Gertie carried on, becoming increasingly shirty. “Trying to catch a man by painting yourself up like you do? Hasn’t worked yet, now, has it?”

With a sigh, Abby opened her compact and began making up her face by rote. At times that band of wood sprites sounded quite appealing. She cut Gertie off before the next harangue began.

“Bugger off, will you? It befits – ” she said, assuming a tone of false loftiness while applying tint to her lips, “ – a woman of my profession. I have a social responsibility to the ladies of Hogsmeade.”

Abby glanced to her right. Snuffles was watching the exchange from his bed near the fire. “Snuffles, be very grateful you’re a dog. There’ll be none of this silliness for you.”

She turned back to the mirror. “As for you – I’m going to ask Rosmerta if I may relocate you to The Three Broomsticks. To the men’s loo. Consider yourself warned.”

Abby snapped the compact shut and rushed into the main room, sweeping her cloak, bag, and other possessions into her arms. She held her breath as her eyes swept the room once more for anything she might have forgotten, and then exhaled with a quick nod.

“All right, then – let’s be off. I’ll follow you out the back.”

Muttering hexes and pestilence upon the Department of Magical Transportation, Abby snatched an apple from a bowl on the kitchen table and hurried herself and the dog out the door.

**

Five days. It had been five days. Five days since the unknown flame-thing had chased her into the forest, and five days since she had last seen her dog.

A group of giggling girls, moving as a cluster through the crowded showroom, bumped into Abby and caused her to loose her train of thought. After giving them a forgiving smile, she lowered her head and twisted her mouth wryly.

It’s a good thing I’m the shop manager – I won’t have to sack myself for inattentiveness.

She was rather grateful for the commotion of the Hogsmeade weekend, the first of the school year. It kept her mind off other matters and was actually a bit of fun. She prided herself on speaking passable French to several of the visiting students of Beauxbatons Academy. The students from Durmstrang seemed more reticent, but many of them warmed up to her interest in their stay at Hogwarts.

Abby’s robes swished about her ankles as she twisted through the crowd. As her assistants were doing a fabulous job of seeing to the patrons, she allowed herself the luxury of people-watching: there were the sixth and seventh-years, nonchalant with familiarity; the fourth and fifth-years, still eager and inquisitive; and the newest crop of third-years, in the initial throes of excitement at being allowed into Hogsmeade. Her eyes trailed over to the group of girls that had passed her earlier; they now stood near the dress robes, chattering and gesticulating with wild exuberance. A head of thick, vibrantly red hair stood in their midst – the face it belonged to laughed with the rest, but was more subdued. From time to time, the girl would glance at the lustrous fabrics nearby, then back at own robes.

Oh, that can only be Ginny Weasley.

Bill and Charlie had shown her pictures of a newborn Ginny many, many years ago. It was not hard to recall, as the birth of the first Weasley girl had been a much talked-about event in wizarding circles. As a matter of fact, the regulars of The Three Broomsticks had had quite a large pot going as to whether or not Molly and Arthur would end up yet another son. On impulse, Abby decided she wanted to meet the youngest Weasley. She slipped through the crowd with practiced ease and approached the girls.

“Hello, ladies – I’m Abigail Loomis, general manager of Gladrags. May I help you with anything?”

A girl with a long blonde braid giggled furiously at being addressed, looking around her companions for their encouragement.

“Does Kirley McCormack really shop here?” she queried breathlessly.

Abby smiled patiently. It was the fifth time she had been asked that very question today, but the giddy responses were always so entertaining, it was worth her time to answer.

“He does, on occasion, but he usually doesn’t have the time when he’s on tour. Most often, we just send things to him. It’s wonderful exposure for Gladrags, and, he helped us sign a contract with his sister, Meaghan, as a spokeswitch.”

An eruption of squeals ensued. Abby looked around worriedly, in slight fear that the pitch might cause damage to the shop windows. Ginny laughed good-naturedly with the rest, but looked at her friends as if they had gone a bit mad. Abby caught her eye and winked, which seemed to startle Ginny for a moment, until she grinned back.

The dark-haired girl to Ginny’s right carried on with glazed eyes. “Oh, I do fancy him! Those eyes, and that name… When I saw the Weird Sisters perform over holiday, I would have sworn – really! – that he looked right at me. He was wearing this lovely turtleneck, and then he smiled…” She broke off in a dreamy sigh, then snickered. “But he’s nothing to a certain Triwizard Champion, is he, Ginny?”

Ginny’s blush was adorable to Abby, but the girl’s eyes shot heated daggers at her friends. “Stuff it, Ruthie,” she muttered.

The girls seemed to take her annoyance as an affirmation, and they collapsed into giggles again. Abby sensed a discomfort on poor Ginny’s part, and decided to intervene.

Triwizard Champion? Unless she’s terribly smitten with Viktor Krum, that would mean the Diggory boy or…

“Dears, I wonder if I might beg your assistance.” The girls stopped their laughter, their eyes widening. “Could you follow me over here, please?”

Abby walked over to a nearby counter, the girls trailing inquisitively behind. Reaching behind the counter, she pulled out a box overflowing with glittering bottles.

“Sleekeazy’s just sent me an assortment of their latest potions. They do that fairly often, you understand – they like to get our opinions before they put things out on the market. But it’s a busy season for Gladrags right now, and I really don’t have the time to look through all this. Might I ask you young ladies to give them a try? Ruthie, is it? Let me give you this.”

She held out a violet-coloured bottle, and Ruthie examined the label with bated breath.

“Gilderoy Lockhart’s Curli-Cutie Hair Tonic!” She let out a gasp. “Ooooh, I remember Professor Lockhart. He signed every one of my schoolbooks for me, and my class notes, and the issue of Teen Witch that had him on the cover, and my…” Her voice trailed off as she lost herself in faraway thoughts.

Abby extended another bottle to the wavy-haired girl next to Ruthie. “You, too, have lovely hair, and I think this will suit you. It might be a bit messy, though, so why don’t you lend them a hand,” she said, turning to the girl with the long blond braid. “There’s a washroom for customers in the back – Chanella can lead you to it. I’d be ever so grateful for your help.”

Clutching their bottles and nodding excitedly, the girls scampered off, barely noticing that they had left Ginny behind.

“You must be Ginny Weasley,” Abby said gently.

Ginny’s eyes were downcast, her fingers twisting a strand of fiery hair. “How did you know?” she said with dejection, as if she already knew the answer.

“Not all of us are blessed with such hair!”

Ginny looked up and blushed again, showing a small smile.

“But other than that, I used to have a laugh with Bill and Charlie from time to time when they were at Hogwarts. They were certainly excited when you were born.” She tactfully refrained from mentioning that they had also shown pictures of Ginny in her nappies to most of Hogsmeade. “I’ve met Percy but once or twice, although Fred and George pester me fairly often. They’re convinced I have access to all sorts of Class B Restricted Textiles – you know, Flame-Free Robes, Dissolving Cloth, Suction Socks, and the like.”

Ginny giggled, lowering her reserve even more. “Well, I can threaten to tell Mum if they don’t lay off – you’d best be careful, Miss Loomis, or they’ll be asking you to get them an Invisibility Cloak next.”

Although years of practice enabled Abby to keep her face impassive, her breath caught in her throat.

She doesn’t know – it was just a remark. She doesn’t know.

Quickly recovering, Abby handed Ginny an aquamarine-coloured bottle with “Gilderoy Lockhart’s Mist-Ick! Fabric Tint” on its label in ornate silver lettering. Ginny cocked her head and looked at the bottle, puzzled. “Um, Miss Loomis, isn’t Professor Lockhart, well…I don’t know how to say this…isn’t he – ?”

Abby leaned in with a wicked smirk.

“Shh…he is,” she whispered conspiratorially. “But he’s licensed his name and likeness to Sleekeazy’s to help pay the bills at St. Mungo’s. You didn’t hear it here, though.”

Ginny grinned, wrinkling her nose at bottle. “‘Mist-Ick’? What sort of name like that?”

"It certainly smells awful! I’m going to recommend that they re-label it, if they want Gladrags to carry the stuff. But if you’ve studied Scenting Smells, you’ll be just fine. May I give it a try?” she asked, gesturing at Ginny’s sleeve.

With only the slightest hesitation, Ginny held out her arm. Muttering “Black!” under her breath, Abby grasped the hem and pumped a tiny spray of fuchsia mist onto the cloth. The vapors evaporated upon contact, transforming the faded surface to a gleaming black. Ginny gasped in delight.

“Miss Loomis! It changed! Will – will it stay like that?”

“It should! Just cast a Scenting Spell when you’re done with the potion, let the elves give them a good laundering, and the robes will be ready to wear in no time. Here dear, take a few more – just be sure to let me know how they work for you so I can pass on your feedback. I really do appreciate your help.”

The other three girls returned as Ginny was pocketing the bottles, their shiny tresses now bouncing in perfect curlicues on their shoulders (the third girl had loosened her braid and taken part in the fun herself). They squealed their thanks and announced their intention to leave for The Three Broomsticks immediately, desirous to test out their new coiffures. Abby took down all their names and promised to obtain Kirley McCormack’s autograph for them on his next visit. Ginny turned and gave Abby a happy wave goodbye as the other girls swept her out the door in a giggling flurry.

Abby craned her neck out the window as they departed, scanning the busy street, hoping for a glimpse of an Invisibility Cloak, and wondering again where on earth her dog had got himself to.

**

Hogsmeade weekends were always draining, but this Saturday had been even busier than usual, due to the frenzy of the Triwizard Tournament. The First Task was scheduled for the upcoming Tuesday, and the village had teemed that day with Ministry officials and wizarding folk of all sorts.

Gladrags had chosen to extend business hours for the occasion, and by the time the last customer had been gently shooed from the shop, the hour was already quite late. When Abby had found Chanella asleep on the chaise lounge, curled up with a bolt of fabric, she decided to show mercy and send the shop assistants home. But then straightening the disarray of the showroom had taken another hour, and then there had been the business of taking inventory. Now, it was well past one o’clock in the morning, and she was completely knackered.

Next time, the assistants are going to stay.

Abby looked around the darkened showroom once more. She did love this place, probably more than she cared to admit. For a moment, she was tempted to curl up on the chaise herself and sleep the night away. She should return to the cottage, though. There was always the chance that Snuffles might have returned. He might need some water, or the promised steak, which was still in the icebox. Tossing into the dustbin a handful of badges that had littered the floor (“Potter Stinks” – how rude), she left the shop and locked the door behind her.

The walk home was cold, cold, cold. Abby shivered as she scurried around the last turn.

The Boorman’s house was quiet, thank Merlin. She might actually be able to get some decent rest. Their cousins from Cornwall had recently come for a visit, and the resulting nightly ruckus had seriously interrupted Abby’s sleep. They were probably at The Hog’s Head having a pint or two (or twelve) right now, as Rosmerta no longer welcomed their presence at The Three Broomsticks.

As Abby moved to open the cottage door, an unexpected creak halted her hand. Startled, she looked over her shoulder at the Boormans’ front door, which seemed to be cracking open, inch by inch. She screwed her eyes together, peering into the darkness, but as the exiting figure grew clearer, her face fell. A wounded gasp escaped her lips. Something, not someone, was coming out of the Boormans’ home, and though the night was very dark indeed, she knew she had only seen one dog of that shape and size before.

A flurry of emotions tangled inside her exhausted mind – confusion, disbelief, and …hurt. Abby watched the figure slink off into the darkness before she went inside, only to meet another night of fitful sleep.

**

I’ll bathe a troll before I let that dog near my bathtub again…

Now, almost a week and a half after the incident, Abby was still finding nooks and crannies where Snuffles’ dirt had settled in throughout the bathroom. The tub itself had taken on an unbecoming grayish-brown cast that seemed impervious to any amount of Mrs. Skowers’ All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. Brow furrowed, Abby turned a third bottle of the stuff over and over in her hands, looking for an address to which she might owl an angry complaint. When she discovered that the address was printed in type so small as to discourage a disgruntled customer from writing a letter at all, she threw the bottle in the dustbin with the first two and left to get some air.

Abby had raced home that night in a wet, chilling storm, which had only exacerbated an already foul temper. She had wanted to weave once she was at home, but had found herself devoid of ideas. Despite her best efforts with potions, spells, and thread, large gaps of non-invisibility remained on the cloth’s surface. She had then tried to distract herself with some light housekeeping, but that endeavor was now coming to naught.

To see the Invisibility Cloak so nearly completed, yet still so elusive, weighed on Abby’s nerves in a frustrating manner. The time for the finishing would soon come, and she was still without a clue as to what needed to be done. She desperately wished for a mother to hold her, stroke her hair, and whisper that all would be well. She could begin work on her other project, but she found it difficult to concentrate when so many questions still remained about the cloak.

And then there was the matter of Lucius Malfoy.

Lucius Malfoy and his wife, Narcissa, had visited Gladrags that afternoon. Abby had heard of Lucius often enough, but she was taken aback by the command his sleek, well-groomed presence held. She usually knew, within a minute of meeting a customer, which of a handful of well-practiced fronts she might use. She might be a chatty friend, a knowledgeable fashion authority, or in the case of Draco Malfoy, a gratefully subservient seamstress. She sensed she might have to come up with something altogether different for Draco’s father.

“My son was satisfied with the treatment he received here,” were his first words, after he and Narcissa entered the shop. Abby welcomed them graciously and introduced herself.

Lucius’ eyebrow rose slowly upon hearing her name. “A relation to Hollister Loomis, I presume?” he asked.

She gave a small nod of affirmation, noting that her father was not able to come to Hogsmeade often. Lucius’ eyes flit around the showroom. “I see,” he said, as if to agree that she was barely worth the trouble.

(Her father’s absence had long provided Abby with a perfect ruse, although it was one she often felt she could live without. She knew the rumours – Hollister Loomis, after eighteen years, was still vaguely ashamed of his daughter and her dismissal from Hogwarts. Odd, how people still clung to that, despite her modest success in managing the Gladrags shop. She might be eighty-seven years old, she once scoffed to Madam Rosmerta, and most of the village would still see her as the young girl who came to Hogsmeade under unfortunate circumstances.)

Abby then inquired if Madam Malfoy would like to view some of the lovely robes on display, or if she would be interested in custom design.

Lucius gave the answer. “Custom,” he intoned, “and I dare hope I will not have to repeat myself on that point.”

The remainder of the visit passed by without incident. Lucius followed without word while Abby led the couple to a back showroom and began laying out trims, fabrics, clasps, and sketches. Narcissa, while certainly aloof, had not been entirely disagreeable, even engaging in a pleasant exchange on the finer points of lace from wizarding Belgium. Still, after they left, Abby felt more than a little unsettled about the task Dumbledore had set before her.

All cleaning attempts over for the evening, Abby exited out the back door of her cottage and crossed through the garden, sitting down at the stone bench. Dumbledore’s charms created a warm, protective bubble in which she could sit and observe the blustering storm. With her was a scone purchased at Madam Puddifoot’s earlier that day. It was no longer warm, obviously, but she was hungry enough not to care. She broke open the scone, but a glimpse of something small and dark interrupted her first bite. She leaned in for closer inspection, and then gave an exasperated groan. Raisins. She hated raisins, thanks to Alastor Moody and his penchant for lessons in food-based paranoia. This day could get any worse. At that thought, Abby heard a slight creak at the back gate, which she had left ajar out of habit. Well, perhaps it could.

A gigantic lump of wet dog poked his head past the cast iron and look around for a few seconds before fixing his eyes on Abby. His tail wagged in happy relief and he began to advance toward her, but her steely, uninviting gaze seemed to stop him.

“Hullo, Snuffles,” she said, her voice tight.

She looked up at the sleet and rain that poured down overhead, ending just before the roof of her cottage, and gave a dry laugh.

“You truly are a ‘fair-weather friend’, aren’t you? What’s the matter – the Boormans stopped feeding you, and so you thought you’d try your chances here tonight?”

Peevishly, Abby snatched a clump of raisins from the scone and threw it toward the dog. In an atypical display of good aim, it bounced off the top of his head. Snuffles first look was of shock; then, with hackles raised, he began to emit a low, rather threatening growl.

“What, that isn’t good enough for you? Well, there was a steak waiting for you – ten days waiting for you, for that matter.”

Abby ignored his snarling and continued to maul her scone. Her emotions were unraveling faster than she could keep them together. She was not scared of Snuffles, even though she knew it was ridiculous to vent her anger at him. He was a dog, for Merlin’s sake – seriously, what did she expect? Passionate allegiance? Deep, unswerving fidelity? It was childish to be mad, but she threw another raisin at him, all the same.

“Really Snuffles, I don’t mind. Just toss me aside like a stale crumpet. Noooo, I don’t mind at all. I don’t give a flaming Quaffle. That “wizard’s best friend” talk is no more than a bunch of bunk, is it?”

Dumbledore’s words were running through her head at this point, serving only to raise her ire further. “Yes, loyal to the core, aren’t you, Snuffles?” she said bitingly, her voice faltering only for a moment. “You know what sort those people are, how they treat me, and yet you – you still – ”

She now despised raisins with every fiber of her being, and she ripped them out of the scone in violent pinches, hurling them in every direction. The nasty things might as well be minions of Voldemort himself. But when she paused to hunt down a deeply embedded cluster, Abby suddenly realized that Snuffles was no longer growling. When she looked up from the mangled scone, she saw that Snuffles was, in fact, no longer there. In his place was a man, a man with dark, sopping hair and livid eyes.

His hair was no longer filthy and tangled, nor was his face as drawn and emaciated as the one she had seen on countless lampposts and covers of the Daily Prophet some time ago. Still, Abby knew his identity at once. Long ago, he had sauntered down the corridors of Hogwarts, unfettered and carefree. Now he glared at her fiercely, drops of water slowly falling from his face.

“I am not a fair-weather friend,” spat Sirius Black.

**