Summon the Lambs to Slaughter

Chapter Three

A very disheveled and stiff Rebecca made her way to the Headmaster´s office the following morning, weaving her way clumsily through the throng of other bleary-eyed pupils as they headed to their first class of the day. Some of them eyed her with wary interest as she passed, taking in her rumpled robes and flyaway hair. She gave no sign that she saw their inquisitive looks, but she saw every one of them. She always did. She had been seeing them since the formation of first coherent thought; she was trained to spot them in the same way a blind child was taught to discern objects by touch alone. She couldn´t unsee them, no matter how hard she tried, and she had tried, but in the end it cost too much of her already scarce energy, and she had simply let the looks filter into her mind like smoke through a screen.

She felt a stab of resentment. Why did they always have to stare like that? She knew what she looked like. She had been living with this body and looking at it in the mirror for the past fifteen miserable years. She certainly didn´t need their ogling to remind her that there was something wrong with her. She felt the wrongness of her flesh in every movement of every muscle or misfired twitch of sinew. She saw it in each odd jut of bone or sunken pocket of flesh. She knew what they were thinking because she felt the same. She hated the alien strangeness of her body, the prison of skin and bones she inhabited. She would have fled from herself if she could.

She flashed them a flat, expressionless gaze, hiding her venomous contempt behind layers of frigid, detached calm. She stuffed the bitterness deep inside; she would never let them see how she truly felt, never lose her carefully crafted composure. If she did, then even people she had a modicum of affinity for, like Fred and George, would turn away, and she didn´t want that. She wanted to be left alone by them, not alone.

She stopped in front of the huge stone gargoyle, swiping a hand across her eyes and smoothing her rumpled robes. She looked a mess, and she knew it. She had slept in her robes without showering. She simply could not bring herself to undress in front of the other girls. She hadn´t wanted them to see her naked. The very thought of their curious eyes on her most intimate parts made her flesh crawl and her stomach tighten. So she waited until the lights winked out and the room went blind, but by then she was too tired from the day´s exertions to make the effort, and she fell asleep in an untidy sprawl atop her coverlet. Now she would have to go before the Headmaster in this unkempt condition. A guilty flush crept up her neck, but there was nothing to be done for it now.

"Bertie Botts!" she said, and the huge statue swung outward to reveal a spiraling stone staircase whose steps floated dreamily toward dizzying heights.

She rolled her chair onto the first step with a hiss of appreciation, the enchanted wheels hovering an inch above the hard surface. The steps slid noiselessly upward, and she locked the brakes, praying there would be no sudden jolt to snap her forward or send her careening into the unforgiving walls. Worse yet, she saw the Levitating Charm failing and sending her toppling down into the abyss, pulverizing every fragile bone into powder.

Stop it! she chided herself. You´ve got enough to deal with without imagining even more horrors for yourself.

The steps halted in front of a massive mahogany door bearing a breathtaking carving of the Hogwarts crest. It was coated in a deep cherry varnish, and it gleamed with the evidence of countless polishings and waxings. She reached out her hand and touched the smooth surface, marveling at its exquisite craftsmanship and texture. It spoke of antiquity and grandeur, of tradition and pride. It was alive, the very antithesis of D.A.I.M.S, with its modern, utilitarian walls, the steel, quiet elevators, and the pungent, sanitary reek of disinfectant that screamed out sickness and infirmity better than any of the twisted, pain-wracked visages that dwelled within its walls. D.A.I.M.S. was a soulless institution, its viscera as cold, as flaccid as a corpse, but Hogwarts was vibrant; Hogwarts lived and breathed as it had for ten centuries. Hogwarts was hope.

She shook herself a little as she knocked softly on the door. It was not like her to have such flights of fancy. Normally, she was as analytical and pragmatic as the school in which she had been taught, but since coming here she found herself thinking outside her usual parameters, dreaming of what could be rather than focusing on what was. That was dangerous. It could lead to lofty expectations and disappointment, and she had had quite enough of both.

"Come in," came the muffled voice on the other side of the door.

She pushed the door open, careful not to scratch the wood with her wheels as she passed, and found herself in the most interesting of offices. Dozens of portraits lined the walls, all of them home to wizened old men in pointy hats in varying degrees of repose. Some smiled beatifically from behind a huge oak desk, quills poised over inkwells. Others snored peacefully as they lounged in an overstuffed red chair. She smiled faintly as she looked at them.

Aside from the pictures, the room was cluttered with wondrous things. The Sorting Hat rested atop a bookshelf crammed full of magnificent leather-bound volumes. A Sneakoscope sat on the corner of the Headmaster´s desk, which was piled high with scrolls and blank parchment. Across from the desk was a bird, a phoenix, in fact. She had never seen one before, and she moved in for a closer look.

He was a brilliant red, and he gazed benignly at her as she peered at him. He smelled musty, but not unpleasantly so. It was a warm smell, a singularly avian smell, and she took a deep breath. The bird gave a bemused squawk and began to preen, sidling down his perch.

"Beautiful, isn´t he?" said the Headmaster from behind her.

She started and turned around. Caught up in the beautiful oddity of her surroundings, she had quite forgotten that she was not alone. "Oh, yes, Headmaster," she said sheepishly.

"No need to be embarrassed, Miss Stanhope. I still find it all amazing myself, and I´ve been here a very long time. Come, we have much to discuss." He motioned her closer to the desk, the same desk, she noted, depicted in all the portraits. It must have been here as long as the school itself. She suspected that nothing in the castle had changed since the last stone had been mortared into place. "I hope you don´t mind, but I thought to ask your Head of House and Madam Pomfrey to join us. Lemon drop?" He offered her a bowl filled with the sweet candies.

"No thank you, sir."

"Tea, then?" offered McGonagall, gesturing to a silver tea tray beside the chair in which she sat. She already had a steaming cup raised to her lips.

"No, ma´am."

She was too nervous to drink tea, or anything above the temperature of an ice cube. She was sure she´d jostle her cup and send the Headmaster and the venerable professor to the infirmary with severe scalding. Better to play it safe. In truth, she was more than a little uncomfortable with the presence of Madam Pomfrey. Medical personnel of any sort made her uneasy; they usually brought with them suffering of one sort or another. She desperately hoped the Headmaster didn´t want to give this Madam Pomfrey to give her an exam right here in his office. She didn´t think she could bear the humiliation of being put on display before the people that held her academic future in their hands.

"Well now, according to your transcripts, you´re quite a capable student," he said, riffling through a series of parchments.

"Thank you."

"You seem particularly adept at Charms and Arithmancy."

"Well, I find Charms quite useful, sir. Couldn´t get by without them."

"Quite so. Alas, it also says here that you are not so skilled in Potions, though you can complete the work if given sufficient time and some special equipment."

"Yes, sir."

"What sort of equipment did you have in mind?" Dumbledore leaned forward, palms flat against his desk.

"Well, there´s the enchanted knife to help with fine cutting, larger beakers, and a special control release beaker to ensure that just the right amount of a volatile ingredient is added and not a drop more."

"Sounds quite sensible and relatively easy to get. These things are available at any well-stocked apothecary, yes?"

She shrugged. "I suppose. D.A.I.M.S usually ordered all necessary supplies."

"Indeed. We have a brilliant Potions Master teaching here at Hogwarts. I´m sure he can help you to improve your Potions. He will gladly assist you in procuring these items and familiarize you with his expectations."

There was a choking cough from McGonagall, and Dumbledore turned inquisitive eyes in her direction.

"Forgive me, Headmaster. Bit of tea in my throat," she said, daubing at her mouth with a linen napkin."

Rebecca got the distinct impression that this was not entirely true. Yes, there was a fine spray of tea on the Professor´s robe, but there was an unaccountable dim alarm in her eyes, a sort of horrified incredulity. A look passed between the two professors. Not a word, that look said. Before she could puzzle over it in her mind, the Headmaster was addressing her again.

"Now, Miss Stanhope, not to be an insensitive lout, but I must ask you, are there any other ways in which your... malady might impede your progress in the classroom?"

She blinked. That was certainly the most diplomatic way she´d ever heard that question posed. "Well, sir, I´m afraid I can´t write with regular quills. My hands just don´t have the required dexterity," she mumbled. Even after all the times she had endured this particular torturous ritual, she still felt a deep, abiding shame at conceding her shortcomings.

"Ah, I see," said the Headmaster. "Well, what do you prefer to use then?"

"A Dicta-Quill, sir. One for each professor."

"Remarkable. But I´m not certain how that will work for the upcoming N.E.W.T.S. You are taking them this year?"

She nodded.

"A Soundproofing Charm," suggested McGonagall, setting her empty cup and saucer down on the table. "To make sure it is done precisely, the professor can set it just before the start of the exam."

The Headmaster pondered this for a moment, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Yes, that will do," he said with a slight nod. "Excellent."

"I have a few questions, sir," Madam Pomfrey said from her seat. It was the first time she had spoken.

"Do you mind, Miss Stanhope?" asked Dumbledore.

She did mind, but she saw no reasonable escape from it. "No, sir."

"What is the exact nature of your ailment?" asked Madam Pomfrey, taking out a quill and picking up a nearby piece of parchment.

Rebecca bristled. She did not have an ailment. An ailment could be cured with patience and time. Nothing would cure her. Doctors in both worlds had tried, poking, prodding, scanning, and slicing her until she screamed and begged for the sweet mercy of anesthesia. She bore the scars of their useless good intentions all over her body. In one of her crueler moments, her mother had told her she looked like a scored rib roast. That remark had earned her a slap in the mouth from her father, something for which Rebecca had been savagely grateful. She suffered no ailment; she was cursed.

"I have Cerebral Palsy, a condition that affects the bones, muscles, and neuromuscular coordination. It is a congenital condition. It cannot improve, but it can degenerate. It does not negatively affect my cognitive capabilities," she said, reciting from memory the myriad of evaluations doctors of every imaginable stripe had written about her.

"Umhm. Are there any side effects or secondary disorders of which I should be aware?"

"I sometimes have severe muscle spasms in the legs. They can be controlled with a mild dose of muscle relaxant, though I prefer to avoid taking it whenever possible."

"Why is that?" interjected Dumbledore.

Rebecca gave a wan smile. "A painless existence can be very addictive, Headmaster."

No one spoke for a moment. Then Madam Pomfrey said, "One last thing, dear. Is it contagious?"

The change in Rebecca´s demeanor was so swift that it was frightening. The cautious, open expression she wore disappeared, replaced by a cold, vicious blankness. Her lips thinned, and her eyes darkened. She had gone very rigid.

"No! It most certainly is not contagious," she snarled. She turned to Dumbledore. "Headmaster, I do not wish to discuss this any further. Not until Hogwarts´...medical personnel has an opportunity to better inform herself about my condition."

Dumbledore raised a placatory hand. "There is no need to become insulting, Miss Stanhope. I assure you, Madam Pomfrey is a most excellent Mediwitch. We here at Hogwarts simply have no experience with this sort of thing. Given time, we shall surely be able to provide you with an outstanding learning and social experience."

She took a deep breath. "Forgive me, Headmaster, I lost myself for a moment. It will not happen again." To Madam Pomfrey, she said nothing.

She was really not a bit sorry about what she had said, but she had learned through the years that diplomacy was often the most prudent course of action. Despite the misgivings she harbored about McGonagall, who still seemed to be hypnotized by her ungainly legs, and Madam Pomfrey, who seemed to possess the medical knowledge of a young mountain troll, she felt an innate respect for the Headmaster. He, at least, could pretend to understand, could successfully hide his morbid curiosity.

"Is there anything else we should know, Miss Stanhope?" he asked, and she saw his eyes flicker momentarily to the tangled mess of her hair.

"Er, well, it´s a bit embarrassing-." She broke off, her cheeks furnace-hot. She could not meet the Headmaster´s kind eyes. She fixed them on a point behind the wizard´s head. "There are things I cannot do for myself - bathing, tying laces...other things." She wasn´t about to elaborate on "other things."

Thankfully, Dumbledore did not press her. "How was this handled at D.A.I.M.S.?"

"A house elf. His name was Dinks. I wanted to bring him here with me, but they wouldn´t let me. They said he was school property." She spat the last word as though it were something bitter.

Dinks had been her friend. He bathed and groomed her, and sometimes he would come to her in the night and tell her stories of far-off places. She often fell asleep to the sound of his whispered, fluting voice and dreamed of the places and things of which he told her. He always remembered her birthday, and on Christmas Day he brought her a gift-usually a pair of socks. He made her laugh when she felt like crying, and it was he who stayed to comfort her when the agonizing spasms were at their worst. He was not property.

"Were you fond of Dinks?" asked Dumbledore.

"Yes," she said, nodding vigorously, "yes, I am."

"Very well, then. I shall write to D.A.I.M.S. at once and see if they are willing to send Dinks to Hogwarts. If not, perhaps we can arrange a business transaction." He gave a sardonic smile. "In the meantime, I believe I have an elf who would be more than happy to help you. She lost her entire family recently, and I believe it would do her good to care for someone. When you return to your room after supper, she will be waiting for you." He smiled at her from behind his half-moon spectacles.

His smile was infectious. She felt her face breaking into a genuine grin. "Thank you, sir."

"If there is nothing else, you may go to your next class, which I believe is Care of the Magical Creatures. Hagrid will be delighted to see you. Off you go now."

"Yes, sir." She gave a polite nod to him and McGonagall. She did not acknowledge Madam Pomfrey. She let herself out.

When the door closed behind her, Dumbledore sat thoughtfully behind his desk. "Very curious, indeed," he said at last.

"What is it?" asked McGonagall.

"She is a very complex young lady, Minerva," he answered, looking at the door with a pensive expression.

McGonagall nodded. She knew exactly what Albus meant. The girl had a tempestuous temperament at best. It made her slightly uneasy. When she had unleashed her tongue on Madam Pomfrey, McGonagall had seen the same mysterious vitality she had witnessed on the train after her spat with Malfoy. Clearly, she thrived on conflict.

"Is she dangerous, do you think?" McGonagall asked.

Dumbledore reached out and twirled the shaft of a quill between his fingers. "I don´t think so. Just confused, defensive, and more than a little bitter."

"And rude," sniffed Madam Pomfrey. "How dare she insult my experience and qualifications!"

"Don´t take it to heart, Poppy," soothed Dumbledore. "To be perfectly truthful, none of does know much about her condition, yourself included. And I suspect doctors and Mediwizards have given her more than enough cause for mistrust and doubt. According to her file, she´s seen more than forty without the least bit of improvement. I´m sure she meant no insult."

"Still," continued Pomfrey, "she´s quite the dour little thing. Doesn´t seem the Gryffindor type."

"Yes, Albus, why did you place her in Gryffindor? I noticed she was never officially Sorted," said McGonagall.

"Ah, yes," said Dumbledore with a smile, popping another lemon candy into his mouth. "In her case, I felt leaving her Sorting to chance was a bit too risky. She needs stability and someone in whom to confide should problems arise."

"Perhaps, but isn´t it a bit unorthodox? No student has ever been exempted from the Sorting, if my memory serves."

"Your memory is excellent, as always. However, bear in mind that there is no established orthodoxy as far as Miss Stanhope is concerned. If we are to begin accepting more students in similar condition, I think it best we discover precisely what works and what does not, even if that means temporarily bending tradition for our first attempt."

"But why me?"

"I felt she would flourish best under your auspices. You can give her just the right balance of flexibility and discipline. Flitwick and Madam Sprout are remarkable, but I fear they may be a bit too lenient Severus is an excellent teacher and Head of House, but I hardly think he has the patience for someone such as her."

"No, his comments at the table last night left that in little doubt. So why in the name of Merlin are you so adamant that she study Potions under him?"

"He is the only Potions teacher we have, and Potions is a core subject. I am willing to make accommodations with regard to her physical comfort, but I refuse to make concessions in academics. She will have to participate in all required subjects, just like the rest of her peers."

"Agreed, Headmaster, but why didn´t you warn her about Professor Snape´s...reclusive, taciturn nature?"

"None of the other students received advance notice of his personality when they arrived," pointed out Dumbledore. "As a Slytherin, Severus is already subject to enough unwarranted prejudice. No need to add to it by alarming the girl unnecessarily. She will experience Severus for herself soon enough."

"Yes, but sir, you told her he would gladly help her. The only thing he would gladly do is tear her apart," said Minerva, fussing with the collar of her robe.

"I think you sadly underestimate him." -

And I think you severely overestimate him, she thought fiercely, but she kept that sentiment to herself. "It´s your decision, naturally, but I tell you he´s going to destroy that girl." She stood. It was nearly time for her second class of the day. Moody had covered her first, but would not be available any longer than that.

"I´m not so certain of that, Minerva, not so certain at all."

While her erstwhile professors were debating the wisdom of exposing her to the irascible, unforgiving Potions Master of Hogwarts, Rebecca was making her way across the expansive green toward Hagrid´s hut. Her classmates were already there, clustered around Hagrid, whose great shaggy head poked above the cluster of bent heads. Scarlet scarves mingled with bright canary yellow, which meant the Hufflepuffs were also part of the class. Hagrid looked up as she approached.

"Lo," he bellowed happily, waving her over. "´Bout time ya got `ere. Everythin´ go all righ´ wi´ the Headmaster?"

"Yes, sir."

He grunted to himself, "Great man, Dumbledore," then speaking to Rebecca, "C´mon up an´ have a peek at these."

She weaved her way into the throng courtesy of the path the other students made for her, and looked down into the large wooden crate that was the focus of everyone´s attention.

"What are they?" she asked.

"Those," Hagrid said proudly, "are Swedish Borgergups!"

No one had ever heard of such a creature, so Hagrid picked up one of the round, football-sized beasts and let it sit in his cupped hands. It was a breathing ball of brown sugar-colored hair with two squat, stubby legs. A pair of winsome black eyes blinked at them, and a pair of small, pointed canines bookended a saliva-dripping black tongue. Hagrid beamed paternally at it.

"These li´l fellas are used to track gnomes and badgers. Go´ a great sense of smell, they `ave, and their long coats make `em so they can´ feel the cold. They can live fer up to three hundred years and can make great pets."

A tentative hand went up. "Um, Hagrid, do they bite?"

"Occourse they bite. Not people, though. They´re very gen´l."

No one seemed particularly reassured. An uneasy murmur arose from the assembled students, and Rebecca noticed several of them, exchanging knowing, stricken looks. Hagrid seemed not to notice their trepidation. He was too busy passing out the fuzzy creatures and talking to them in a nonsensical singsong.

She leaned over to the boy at her side. "Why is everyone so nervous?"

"Hagrid is a great fellow, but he has a penchant for strange, usually dangerous creatures. Last year, he made us tend to Blast-Ended Skrewts. Bad business, that. Lost most of my eyebrows."

She shuddered. She knew about Blast-Ended Skrewts. The Potions professor at D.A.I.M.S., a profoundly deaf man who screamed everything at the top of his voice, had once tried to harvest some Skrewt carapace for an anti-inflammatory potion. The Skrewt had kept its carapace, but the unfortunate Professor Kravitz had lost most of the skin on his arms as well as his eyebrows. He wisely decided to harvest only dead Skrewt carapaces after that.

Hagrid stopped in front of her with the box. "Here you are now. The las´ one. You´ll be workin´ in pairs, so how about you and Seamus here," he said, gesturing toward the boy to whom she had been speaking.

He handed her the last Borgergup. The chubby, dandelion-like beast panted happily at her, legs paddling at the air. Saliva from his hanging tongue dribbled onto her robe.

"Bit of a messy thing, aren´t you?" she said, and smiled at it.

The Borgergup might have been one of the more popular creatures during Hagrid´s tenure as Care of Magical Creatures teacher had not the poor beast chosen that moment to be ill. With a wet gurgling, it vomited all over her robes. The thick liquid splashed her collar and slid onto her lap, where it pooled in a warm puddle. The Borgergup looked at her sadly, as if to say, "Oh dear. Sorry about that."

She was too stunned to react. She just held the panting, paddling creature in her dripping hands and blinked incredulously at the steaming gray mess coating her robes. Seamus, luckily unscathed by the eruption, was looking on in grinning revulsion, waving his hand in front of his nose to dispel the appalling stench.

I´m going to be sick, she thought. Her stomach heaved, and her gorge tightened. The taste of bile coated her throat. She desperately fought the urge to be sick. It would only make the already overwhelming stink worse, and the other students would surely laugh at her. She breathed through her mouth and tried not to think about the warm, congealing mess covering her lap.

"Oh," Hagrid said, momentarily nonplussed. "Guess they´re a mite upset by all the travelin´. They eat a lot of cabbage, so it makes their digestion...a bit delicate. Right, then, better get them into a bath."

The students who had been cuddling their Borgergups suddenly held them at arm´s length, lest their own robes fall victim to the foul, stomach-churning discharge. Hagrid looked at her sympathetically.

"Sorry about that. Excitable, Borgergups are. You can use a Disappearing Charm on the mess, but I´m afraid the smell is here to stay. Nothing to do for that but a bath and a right good washing. Might be able to cover it up, though. Maybe I´ve got somethin´ for it in my house. I´ll go an´ have a look. You two go on into class," he said, and headed off in the direction of his hut.

"Here, hold this, please," she said to Seamus, who stood next to her, grimacing at the reek.

Gingerly, he picked up the wriggling fuzzball, careful not to let his hands graze the rapidly drying vomit on her hands. The Borgergup let off a contented blast of vile flatulence.

She pulled out her wand, pointed at herself, and said, "Desaperecium vomit!"

As Hagrid had said, the mess disappeared, but the evil smell remained. It clung to her robes and skin in a nearly visible haze. She longed to sink into a hot bath and scrub it away, but a bath was several hours away, and there was still the unpleasant possibility that their new pet might disgorge himself again. She sighed and slipped her wand back into her robe.

"Big wand you have," said Seamus.

"Easier for me to grip," she explained.

The class erupted in quiet pandemonium. Most had already headed for the enclosed paddock that served as the Creatures classroom when several more of the gastronomically volatile Borgergups became ill, covering the students and the fading fall grass with splashes of the greasy gray substance

"I´m gonna be sick." Seamus had gone an unpleasant green.

"Someone beat you to it," she said, pointing to a large posterior bent over the paddock fence.

"Neville Longbottom, poor sod," said Seamus, and a moment later, he made a beeline for a small boulder adjacent to the enclosure.

Finally, her own will broke, and she rolled frantically in the direction of a clump of raggedy bushes that nested against the far corner of the paddock. Her breakfast came up in a gut-churning spasm. After the fit had passed, she slowly sat up and swiped feebly at her mouth with the back of a shaking hand. Her stomach felt stretched and hot, and she dreaded going rejoin her classmates. Even out here in the fresh air, the foul odor was an undercurrent, blighting the grass and the flowers. She looked in the direction of Hagrid´s hut and saw him lumbering toward the classroom, a bottle tucked beneath one enormous arm, oblivious to the havoc that awaited him.

"What´re you doin´ over here by yourself? Finished washing your Borgergup already?"

She could only shake her head, afraid that if she drew a breath to speak, the waves of nausea would assail her again.

"You all right? Look a bit under the weather."

"Fine," she said, managing an unsteady laugh. "Just needed a bit of fresh air, that´s all."

Hagrid looked at her closely. "Something wrong?"

"No, sir, not with me."

He suddenly sniffed the air. What´s that awful smell?" He absently handed her the bottle he had been carrying. "For the smell," he murmured, and went toward the huddle of confused, dirty students.

She giggled helplessly and looked at the heavy green bottle. Madame Magdaline´s All-Purpose Turpentine, it proclaimed in bold, calligraphic script. Turpentine. She giggled again. The whole situation was absurd. She pulled the cork and took an exploratory sniff. Her nostrils stung from the fumes. He wanted her to splash herself with this? It smelled nearly as awful as the Borgergup vomit. Nearly. She tipped the bottle and splashed it on her robes.

"Blimey! What happened here? Have you been shakin´ the little blighters? Quick, use a Disappearing Charm on this mess. I´ll, uh, I´ll be seeing Madam Sprout about some nice flowers," Hagrid said. He turned around and left the corral again, bound this time for Madam Sprout´s greenhouses. "Share that," he said to Rebecca as he passed, pointing vaguely at the turpentine.

She returned to the others to find the vomit and excrement gone and the students disheveled, pale, and drained. Seamus was still by the boulder, elbow propped upon the hard, smooth surface, nose turned toward the fresh air. The boy he´d called Neville was sitting beside him, coughing weakly. Fred and George´s younger brother, Ron, was in the middle of the paddock, bent double and sputtering. Several of the girls were crying silently while they wrangled with their heaving gorges.

"Hagrid told me to share this," she said to Seamus when she reached him. She handed him the bottle.

He took it and turned it over in his hands. "Turpentine? What the bloody hell for?"

She shrugged. "I don´t know, but it smells better than Borgergup vomit."

"Anything smells better than that," Seamus retorted, taking the bottle and splashing a liberal amount on his robes before passing it to Neville, who sniffed suspiciously at the liquid.

"Smells like Snape," he muttered.

"What do we do now?" she asked. "Do we still try and wash the Borgergup?"

"I suppose. We need it more than he does, though," said Seamus.

"Are you even sure it´s a he?" Neville had finished splashing himself and passed the bottle to a wax-faced Ron.

"No, and I don´t care. I ought to drown the little blighter," he growled, prodding their Borgergup with his toe. The poor creature, which had been sitting dejectedly beneath the boulder, whimpered and cringed.

"Aw, c´mon, Seamus, don´t be so hard on him. I don´t like cabbage, either," Neville pointed out.

Seamus scooped up the trembling creature and carried it to the rows of wooden tubs lined up against the northernmost section of the thick wooden fence. Each of the tubs was filled with steaming bubble bath, and its citrusy tangerine odor acted as a balm to their tortured noses. They inhaled it gratefully.

"Bit too low for you, isn´t it? observed Seamus, looking from the tub to Rebecca.

"Yes, but I think we´ll be Ok if we can get one of the tubs closest to the corner."

"All right then." He moved to the last tub on the last row.

She maneuvered he chair parallel to the rough, knobbly pine boards and put on the brakes. Her hand groped inside her robes for a moment before producing her wand. She pointed it at her chest, licking her lips nervously. She couldn´t see them, but she knew the eyes of all the students were on her. She remembered their laughter from the Great Hall the night before, how it had scalded her nerves like a draught of Ogden´s Firewater. She would be damned if she would give them the satisfaction again.

"Automus Wingardium Leviosa!"

She felt her legs leaving contact with the seat and suppressed a satisfied grin. There; they wouldn´t be able to laugh at her now. She levitated herself out of the chair and eased to the ground, making sure to prop her back against the side of the chair. Without proper support, she would flop as bonelessly as a fish, helpless and ungainly, arms and legs jerking painfully as she tried to right herself.

"Not bad," said Seamus.

"Thanks. What do you want me to do?""

"You hold him, and I´ll wash. Fair enough?"

She nodded. Seamus handed her the Borgergup, and she dunked it into the hot water, an action not appreciated at all. It began to thrash and howl, legs kicking furiously. She curled her fingers into the snarls of its hair and held on, her shoulders beginning to burn with the effort as it jerked and lunged. It spared her an accusatory glance as it struggled.

"Hurry, Seamus, I don´t think I can hold him for long."

Seamus set upon the little beast with brush and soap, and soon it resembled a hairy snowball. Unsurprisingly, the Borgergup redoubled its efforts to get away, twisting and pulling. Rebecca could only hope it did not suddenly recall its formidable teeth and remove her thumbs. The soap had made it exceedingly slick, and more than once she had to lunge for it as it slipped her grasp and scrabbled over the side of the tub.

She could not help but notice as they worked that Seamus kept casting furtive glances in her direction. The all-too-familiar irritation rose in her chest like the sudden flaring of an infected wound. Could they, just once, try not to be so damn obvious? She clenched her fists around the Borgergup hair, making it whimper.

"Sorry, sweetie," she said, and forced her fingers to relax. To Seamus, she said, "Have I got some vomit on my chin, or should I start charging admission?"

He dropped his eyes, and that was all the answer she needed. She focused her attention on the sodden Borgergup, which now resembled a wet mop. She was seething, her stoic face concealing a burning fury. She hated it, that clandestine stare, the one they never thought she saw. Yet they had all given it to her - McGonagall, the witch on the train, Madam Pomfrey - they had all goggled surreptitiously at her. Now her Creature partner was exhibiting a similar lack of decorum. Only the twins and the Headmaster had treated her with any dignity. If it hadn´t meant that she would have to hold him down again, she would have let the Borgergup go.

Hagrid returned with a few pots of yellow Sugarpuffs, sweet-smelling flowers specially bred by Professor Sprout. He ran into Neville, who was chasing his dripping animal across the enclosure, his soaked robes lathered in suds.

"Everyone having fun?" he bellowed over the sounds of unhappy creatures and frustrated students.

There was a collective groan, which he took as a sign that all was well. He distributed the potted plants among the clusters of sweating, grumbling pupils, and the sickly-sweet stench of the flowers mingled with the cloying scent of turpentine made them all dizzy. He picked up a scroll and quill and looked at the calamitous goings-on in beatific happiness.

After a few minutes of sullen silence, Seamus spoke. "I´m sorry. It´s just...I´m curious."

"I know," she snapped. "You always are."

In her heart, she knew she was being unfair, but she couldn´t feel sorry about it. She had spent all her patience on Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey; she had none to spare for Seamus. He was old enough to know that staring was rude, and she was tired of being the silent martyr. If he wanted to ogle her like she was some freakshow exhibit, then he was going to have to suffer the consequences, even it only happened to be the rough side of her tongue.

"If you want to know something about me, ask. Don´t just stare like a vacant-eyed idiot," she said when she had bested her temper.

"Hand me that towel," was the only reply he made.

She handed him the towel, and he wrapped the shivering Borgergup into it. The creature huddled in the towel, surveying his tormentors with mournful eyes. Seamus was careful to avoid looking at her.

"Does it hurt?" he mumbled.

"What?"

"Does it hurt?"

"Sometimes."

"Are you going to die?"

"Not anytime soon."

"Ok," he said, as if this settled some great inner debate, and he lapsed into silence again.

Hagrid, meanwhile, was moving about the enclosure, praising each group´s work with the Borgergup and asking each pair a question. Whatever the answer to the question, he scrawled it down on his parchment and moved on to the next pair. Rebecca did not fail to notice that he spent an inordinately long time that included Ron Weasley and the boy who could only be Harry Potter.

The American Wizarding community had been insulated, yes, but even it could not remain ignorant of the events involving Lord Voldemort and The Boy Who Lived. The downfall of the Dark Lord and his minions had made the front headlines of every wizarding paper in the world. Therefore, it had come as no great surprise when the admission of the famous Harry Potter to Hogwarts had done the same. The boy was deified.

I always knew he would be pampered and extolled beyond all reason, she thought.

The moment she had seen the boy with the round black spectacles, untidy black hair, and pale, pinched face, she had known that he would be pampered, revered, and protected. How could he not be? Such a tragic past. Poor orphan boy with no family to call his own? Then the wizarding world would become his family. They would love him and mother him and take him to their bosoms. No blight could touch the boy who had already suffered so much. The one who had saved them all could commit no sin. She had thought these things from seeing a single moving picture, and now she could see the proof of it with her own eyes. A cold smirk, one more at home on Draco Malfoy, crossed her face.

"Seamus," she said, "listen. I´m sorry, but I just get so tired of being stared at. It makes me angry and defensive. What say we start over?" She held out her hand.

He took it. "All right."

Hagrid appeared with his quill and parchment. "Fine job with the Borgergup! Ten points to Gryffindor. Are you enjoyin´ the class, all righ´, Rebecca?"

"Yes, sir." She smiled. Hagrid´s enthusiasm was infectious.

"Marvelous," he said, and clapped her on the shoulder so hard that she toppled over, striking her thin forearm against the rough stone where Seamus had been sick.

"Oh, good heavens," he cried in alarm, "I´m sorry!"

"It´s quite all right, sir," she assured him, trying to ignore the bright, throbbing pain in her arm. "Do you think you could pick me up and put me in my chair?"

"Wha´? Oh, occourse...occourse."

He reached out a mammoth hand and scooped her up, holding her as easily as if she were made of paper. With a gentle plop, he placed her in her chair, careful not to graze her legs against the fence. He fussed over her clothes, dusting them off and straightening them. He was all round-eyed, solicitous concern, and Rebecca couldn´t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. The poor man was beside himself.

"All right now? How´s your hand?" he asked, giving her robes a last smoothing. "I didn´t hurt you, did I?"

"I´m OK, sir. Really," she said, though her arm was still throbbing. She surreptitiously flexed her fingers inside the folds of her robe in an attempt to quell the rising tide of muscle spasms.

"Maybe you should go see Madam Pomfrey."

"Maybe I will," she said, not intending to at all.

"Good, good. Oh, before I forget, what do you want to call your Borgergup?"

"A miserable, filthy little hairball?" offered Seamus.

"Now Seamus, it´s not so bad. Just got a little excited, that´s all," said Hagrid, quill poised above the parchment.

Rebecca thought for a moment. "How about Mischief? He´s certainly made enough of that today."

"Any objection to that, Seamus?" asked Hagrid. When Seamus offered no objection, he scribbled the name down. "It´s settled, then. Mischief it is. Mind, Rebecca, you have that arm seen to."

"Yes, sir."

He turned his attention to the class, already huddled near the door. "Dismissed."

Rebecca doubted if angry Hippogriffs could have run faster.

The other Houses gave them a wide berth upon their return to the castle. The thick, sulphurous reek of turpentine clung to them like oil, and the more fortunate pupils pinched their noses as they passed. Even the portraits wrinkled their noses in distaste. Draco Malfoy, loitering lazily in the Entrance Hall, coughed and wheezed dramatically, but said nothing. Apparently, he only taunted when the odds were in his favor.

Bringing up the rear, her wheels scraping a fine mist of dust from the ancient stairs as she skimmed over them, Rebecca stifled a groan. The cramps in her arm were definitely worsening. What had begun as a low throb was now a razor-sharp pickaxe slicing into her flesh just below the elbow. She was damned if she´d go to the Hospital Wing, though. After their less-than-friendly meeting this morning in the Headmaster´s office, Madam Pomfrey might decide to repay her for her insolence. The cramps would have to ease on their own.

When the rest of her House-mates had filed through the portrait hole into the Common Room, she stopped at the entrance and pulled out her wand. As it was, the doorway was too small to allow her pass. The evidence of her first failed attempt still remained in the form of matching gouge marks on either side of the doorway where the back wheels had gotten stuck. Fred and George had gotten her loose after a great deal of tugging and cursing. Looking at the marks made her feel guilty. This entrance had stood unblemished for a thousand years, and now it had been scarred because of her.

"Augeo foris!" she commanded, and the doorway widened, allowing the fat rear wheels to cross the threshold. As soon as she was inside, she muttered a quick Deflating Charm, and the door returned to normal.

The Common Room was empty; her House-mates had lost no time in heading for the showers. She would just have to wait her turn and hope there was still some hot water left by the time she got there. There was no guarantee she´d be able to shower anyway. One look at the antiquated, gorgeous, and utterly impractical bathroom fixtures had told her she would never be able to bathe herself. The tub was incredibly deep. Even if she could get herself in, she wouldn´t be able to get herself out. Worse yet, there was a real possibility that she could slide beneath the water while trying to reach the eternally filthy spot between her shoulder blades and drown with the promise of blessed air an inch from her face. She hoped the house elf the Headmaster had promised would arrive soon. If she had to go another day without bathing, even the Borgergups would begin to disdain her company.

She rolled into the girls´ dormitory and stopped, a relieved smile on her face. There, perched solemnly on her bed, was a female house elf wearing a starched white cap and a powder-blue dress. Her large brown eyes brightened when she saw Rebecca.

"Is you Rebecca?" she asked, hopping off the bed and coming to the side of the chair.

"Yes. You´re the house elf the Headmaster sent to help me? I wasn´t expecting you until after supper."

The elf nodded vigorously. "I is Winky. Professor Dumbledore says I should help you with whatever you needs doing. Can Winky help you now?"

"Well, actually, yes. I need a bath."

Winky´s nose crinkled. "Merlin, yes! Winky was not going to say so because Winky is a polite elf, but miss definitely needs a good scrub!"

Rebecca burst into surprised laughter. Winky was certainly a frank little creature, a pleasant change from the furtive, shifty-eyed politeness she had encountered so far. She had a feeling that she and Winky were going to get along very well.

"I hope we can be friends, Winky," she said, suddenly feeling very shy.

Winky´s ears perked up, and from the expression of sublime ecstasy on her face, one would have thought every Christmas she would ever have had come at once. "Oh, Winky would like that very much. She has been so lonely since her family is being gone." Her expression fell.

"You had a family?"

For a moment, the little elf looked on the verge of tears. "Yes, but I is not wanting to talk about that," she said, her lips trembling ever so slightly.

"Oh, Winky, I´m sorry. I didn´t mean-,"

"It´s all right, miss. You is not knowing."

Rebecca groped for a change of subject. "Erm, will you be staying with me?"

Winky´s eyes cleared. "Oh, yes. Dumbledore told her to stay here with you." She gestured to a miniature Hogwarts bed tucked discreetly in the corner of the room. "If you is needing her anytime during morning or night, you just says her name, and she will come. If you need her in the corridors, just call. But Headmaster says I is not allowed to help Miss with homework."

Rebecca giggled. A weight she hadn´t know was there had suddenly rolled from her chest. Now the world did not seem quite as daunting. She would have a friend to help her through the rough spots. She suddenly felt like singing.

As soon as a tub became available, Winky swung into action. Before the steam from the last bath had dissipated, she had begun to fill the tub again. The water had scarcely splashed into the tub when she picked Rebecca up and floated her into the bathroom, holding her above her head like a trophy. Less than a minute after that, she had stripped her naked and placed her in the steaming water.

Rebecca nearly purred with pleasure as the elf scrubbed energetically at her arms and back. She could feel the stink and the dead skin sloughing off, and it was heavenly. She would gladly stay in the tub for the rest of the day. The warm water eased her cramping arm muscles, and the feel of the elf´s strong fingers massaging shampoo into her scalp made her limp with contentment. Life was sweet.

"Miss isn´t to feel shy about letting Winky see her. Winky saw plenty of naked people last year at the end-of-term staff party," she said. "No clothes doesn´t bother her."

She thought about pursuing this odd statement, but decided against it. It was none of her business. "Ok."

"Does Miss want to wash, or should I?" Winky asked, holding out the soap in one long-fingered hand.

For a moment, Rebecca wasn´t sure what she was talking about, then understanding dawned on her face and color bloomed on her cheeks. "Oh, I´ll do it."

Seven minutes after that, she was washed, dried, clothed in fresh robes, and headed down to the Great Hall for lunch. By the time she returned to the Gryffindor Common Room later that night, full of sumptuous victuals and chilled pumpkin juice, her thoughts were consumed with the wondrous things she had seen and done, and she smiled drowsily as she considered that this was only the first day of what promised to be a fascinating, eventful year.

Winky tucked her into bed, and she drifted to sleep, unaware that the following day she would meet the man who would change her life and destiny forever.