Suspicion

Chapter 2

Friday dragged. Jones’ Special Projects class had a very bad case of spring fever. They weren't interested in her lecture and, after spending half of the class trying to capture their attention, neither was she. She assigned their homework and let them go early. They all knew they had to keep up with the reading and homework or she would be merciless with their grades.

In the cool darkness of her dungeon classroom, she half awoke to find herself leaning on her podium, staring at nothing in particular. Obviously, she needed to get out. What she wanted was a cigarette and a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get either of those desires fulfilled. It was too early to get anything from the kitchens and she would have to go outside to smoke which would target her as the slacker teacher who had let the students out early.

Digging into the mess of papers in her satchel, she grubbed out a mostly non-scribbled piece of paper and made a shopping list for her trip. Cigarettes. Pens. She was running out of them and she didn’t have the patience to learn how to use a quill properly. Took too long. Too messy. Something to read. Gregorov’s liquor. Hmmm. Maybe something for her, too. Dinner. Something that wasn’t boiled or pickled. The rest of the day was starting to sound better.

She shuffled through several file folders until she found the one that corresponded to the class she had just dismissed and stuffed today’s homework into it. She had been keeping up with her grading so the stacks in each folder weren't too frightening. Considering her lack of proficiency in German, she really needed to quit giving so many essay assignments. It was amazing she could get any of them graded at all. Paul was getting tired of her questions as to whether that could possibly be a word or not. What was it with the verbs where half of them went one place and the other half went to the end of the sentence? Weird language. She tapped her foot irritably as she waited for the bells to toll. Come on!

When the first peal sounded, she ran out of her room and dashed up the staircases to the main hall. Students spilled out of doors and flowed down staircases and up staircases until the main hall was an impasse of blood red robes. Elbowing her way through the crowd, she fought her way against the current to the administrative end of the castle. At the end of a dark corridor, a door stood open, light feebly illuminating the path to her destination, the Bursar's Office. The room was tiny. A lone, wizened woman sat behind a cluttered desk, her head bowed over a ledger. Piles of books were ranged around the desk, leaning precariously against it. Behind her was a wall of pigeonholes and on two sides, there were boxes and crates piled high against the walls, the fourth wall was taken up with a long bench.

Jones swung her satchel onto the bench and left it there. She straightened her coat and found herself smoothing her hair. She felt like she was a kid in the principal’s office. The old woman ignored her. Running her finger along the columns in her ledger, the crone hummed to herself and occasionally made a notation with a tattered quill. The clock on the wall ticked loudly as Jones waited.

Jones was not good at waiting. Not good at keeping quiet, either. She soon found herself fidgeting and tapping her fingers on her leather coat sleeves. That escalated into toe tapping and throat clearing. Nothing. The other woman ignored the noises.

"Excuse me. Hello?" Jones knew she was supposed to wait until the bursar acknowledged her, but she couldn’t stand it a moment longer. It was spring! The days had finally grown long enough so that there was some light in the afternoons. She was desperate to get out of the castle grounds for a while.

With a sour expression, the bursar dramatically shut her ledger. She steepled her fingers and glowered at the intruder. "Good afternoon, Professor Jones. I assume you need to exchange funds, as usual?"

Jones nodded and began to dig money out of her pockets. She plopped a handful of the gold coins onto the desk, stepped back and tried to look patient. She failed, but her obvious agitation did speed the exchange process. The bursar sighed dramatically and began to compute the exchange rate on an abacus. Jones felt an inward groan. A calculator! Get a calculator! The little nagging voice in her head reminded her that technology wouldn't work in the face of all this magic. All of those wonderful laborsaving devices just sat there as if they were supposed to be objets d’art or paper weights. Shifting her weight from one foot to another, she wondered if she would ever be able to wear something other than the waterproof boots that everyone wore. It was spring; maybe the snow would finally melt. Yeah. Right. Just in time for it to start snowing again.

Eventually, the final exchange was calculated to the bursar’s satisfaction. Smiling, she reminded Jones about the percentage that the school kept and smiled even broader as Jones winced. Since it was the only place that she could get the local money, it wasn’t like there was a choice. The bursar awkwardly handed a stack of bills and a mound of change to Jones who shoved it into her coat pocket.

As Jones bolted for the door, the bursar spoke, "Do remember to leave the Durmstrang coat here this time. The villagers associate it with unpleasantness. We would prefer it if you wore something else."

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever," Jones mumbled as she pulled the door shut behind her and began wading back through the students. It was a struggle, but she pushed her way through the crowd to make it to the main door and down the stairs.

She sloshed her way through the snow and mud to the Dark Arts’ staff quarters, a converted stables set a distance away from the castle. The muddy path ended at the massive wood door that stood ajar. She sniffed as she entered. The smell was getting bad. Eight professors’ worth of dark spells, Paul’s potions, and winter funk was an assault on the nose. She noticed that Kessler had opened the door on his end, but the door next to Rabe’s office was closed. She pushed the main door as wide-open as it would go and jammed someone’s boot under it. As she entered the hallway, the odor got worse. It smelled like something had died. Had it been that bad earlier?

Her offices and quarters were between Siegfried Kessler and Rolf Haken's rooms. The smell was better down there. She spoke her phrase and entered. Her desk was piled high in papers and she had to scrape a space large enough to accommodate her satchel. Taking off her coat, she flung it over the desk chair and went back into her quarters. The living area was furnished in what she thought of as early poverty. Two battered armchairs were arranged around a small table. There was a sideboard against what she thought of as the Haken wall and a coat rack was on the Kessler side. When she was up late at night, she could sit in a chair and listen to Kessler snore. Haken talked in his sleep, but what little she could hear rarely made any sense. He seemed to have a lot of nightmares or some kind of dream where he called out a lot. Her bedroom contained a bed, a dresser and an armoire. A tiny bathroom was crammed into one side. From what Haken said, it hadn’t been that long ago that there had only been two communal bathrooms where there were now storage rooms off the building’s hall. She shuddered to think what those must have looked like.

She rummaged through her armoire, taking in what little clothing she owned. Most of it had been left in her Seattle apartment when she had made her escape from the Department of Magical Affairs Investigations unit, sarcastically dubbed the "witch hunt". She had left clothing behind in favor of as many of her books and tools of her trade that she could carry. Travel light, travel fast she tried to sound cheery as she recited one of the endless clichés that she had been taught. Well, it wasn’t like she was going anywhere chic. Arraying herself in a sweater and slacks, she eyed herself in the armoire’s mirror. Eh. What did she expect? She was in her late 40’s, short, chunky and wasn’t exactly a beauty queen. It would do.

She grabbed a jacket and returned to her office where she began to unload her school coat’s pockets. She was amazed at the amount of junk she stored in it. The entire lining was a sequence of pockets and there were things in most of them. When she heard voices in the hallway, she realized that she was wasting time. By then, she had a pile of oddments that she had scrounged from the coat. Shoving the flotsam aside, she grabbed the money, her list, her precious cigarettes and matches and made to leave.

The voices from the hall rounded into Kessler's quarters. Jones halted by the door. Who was with him? She felt a small pang of guilt as she waited to eavesdrop, quickly squashing it. She was sure he would do the same to her. She felt a familiar queasiness as the other voice was identified as one of Kessler’s female students. The voices’ quality changed from light to something more passionate. "Hope you give her an 'A' for her attentions," Jones thought as she slammed her office door shut, hoping to startle the two.

Leaving the building, she headed over to the gatehouse and asked to use the permanent Portkey to the village. The guard stared at her until she bribed him. With a bored air, the man led her into a room, reminded her that curfew would be at 2300 and then left her alone. There was a dull mirror on the wall and she took one last look before touching the huge metal key on a stool. Someone had taken the term literally when selecting the object to enchant.

In an instant, she found herself in another room, this one dark and rather musty. She took her wand out of her sleeve and tapped the door, "Alohomora!" The door made a clicking noise and swung open. She stepped through and shut the door behind her, pausing to listen to the lock snapped shut. Jones followed the narrow corridor to a set of curtains. She took a deep breath and walked through them into the bathroom of the village pub. You never knew what you’d find when you stepped through. She had tried listening at the curtains, but sound didn’t come through them. You just had to take your chances. Luckily, today the toilet was unoccupied.

The tavern had the usual crowd of sneering barflies clustered around the small tables or lounging in the booths along the walls. They watched her with sullen expressions as she walked through the room to the door. The place went silent. Even without the coat, they knew where she was from. The castle might be hidden, but all of the staff came to get supplies, pick up "regular" mail or just get away for awhile. Their money was welcome; they weren’t.

She swallowed hard, reminding herself that many in there had probably lost family, been cursed, or had some unpleasant interaction with a Durmstrang employee or student. A few years ago, after a particularly boozy end-of-term party, several of the graduating students had descended on the village and caused a lot of mayhem. Buildings had burst into flames, wells had overflowed with what looked like blood, and people had been tossed about or levitated and dropped. Although a lot of Obliviate spells had been cast, the school had paid a great deal of money to appease the town.

It was already getting dark when she stepped outside. Stores were turning on their lights and delicious smells wafted from restaurants. Time to hurry before everything closed. Rushing over to a small queue, she nodded at the men she recognized in the line. Everyone here was waiting for cigarettes. She tried to be patient, but it seemed to take forever. When she reached the top of the line, the clerk didn’t want to take her order. It seemed to go like this every other time. With a sigh, she pushed some money over to him and he suddenly became much more willing to sell her a carton.

After that, there was another line for liquor. The prices had changed and everything cost more. Grumbling at the cost, she tried to calculate the exchange rate of galleons to the local currency, realizing that she had yet again not paid attention to what the bursar had given her. Two bottles of vodka and a small bottle of cognac some how equated to more money than she had. She put the bottle of cognac back, paid the slimy, money-grubbing clerk and exited onto a completely dark street.

Two chain-smoked cigarettes later, she was ready to have dinner. The idea of not having to be stuck at the department’s table was enough to change her mood. Giving up on the rest of her shopping, she vowed to find something exotic to eat and began to wander through the few streets of the commercial area. There wasn’t a lot to choose from and her spirits sank at the thought of yet another dinner comprised of boiled or pickled meat, boiled potatoes and cabbage in one form or another. Then the aroma of spices filled the air. It beckoned and tempted. Salivating, she turned from the main street onto a tiny alleyway. A light shone. Pressing her nose against the window, she realized she had found a kebob house.

The little restaurant was no more than six tables and a counter. The kitchen was hidden and noisy. Jones could hear what she thought was Lebanese or maybe Turkish being shouted. The menu was helpfully translated into several languages and English was one of them. She was going to like this place. The food smelled wonderful and it was cheap! The nice young man at the counter was helpful as he smiled and pointed to various entrees. She couldn’t decide and told him to pick something for her. Her happiness was complete when he produced a bottle of Coca Cola and a glass filled with ice cubes. The room was already dark with cigarette smoke and she helped fill it more. If she closed her eyes and ignored the languages being spoken, she could almost pretend she was in Seattle again. What she saw when she opened her eyes almost convinced her she was back home. A computer! She wasn’t just sitting in the best smelling restaurant in probably a thousand miles, she was in an Internet Café! Technology! She almost didn’t know what to do.

When a huge plate of food arrived, she asked about the PC. Yes, it was an Internet Café and a connection could be rented by the half-hour. Yes she could sign up. He almost sounded patronizing, but she didn’t care. Anything that made her feel like she wasn’t stuck in Durmstrang was enough right now. Dawdling her way through her meal, she enjoyed every bite, every sip. When it was her turn on the computer, she was positive it didn’t get much better. She finished the last bite and took her drink over to where the machine glowed. She stared adoringly at the machine. It had been a long time. Two years. She had never been a big fan of the thing but, now that she couldn’t use it, she craved it. Wanted it. Where to begin? She couldn’t remember any URLs. So, she hit the search engines and just wandered around cyberspace. The keyboard was weird, letters in the wrong places, but it was a taste of home. She found her favorite Seattle newspaper and browsed it, checking out what was up at home. She signed up for email and practically stroked the monitor until the nice young man herded her out of the building at 2200.

Her day was complete. She slowly wandered her way back to the tavern where her good mood vanished and was replaced by wariness. Durmstrang discouraged the use of obvious magic in town. Drunken, angry villagers were a known problem; however, tonight the tavern was stuffed with people having a good time. There wasn’t a vacant chair and standing room was at a premium.

The line to the toilet was quite long. For the umpteenth time, she wondered why the Portkey had been set in a room that required you to go through the toilet. It must have either seemed funny or logical at the time. The line slowly advanced. Her bags were getting very heavy and it was getting closer to 2300. They would let her back in, but she would have to pay and she was out of money.

So, sleepy and bored, she watched the Friday night crowd. It was a happy group. Lots of laughing and shouting. She watched the waitress go by carrying a huge tray of beers. It was almost a bumper pool ballet dance as the tray was carefully maneuvered overhead as the waitress was bounced off bodies and chairs.

In a corner, she spotted Werner with three of his men. There were two pitchers on their table and they seemed to be comparing notes. Haken claimed that Werner was a nice guy, but Jones had never seen it. Maybe Wronski was right about personalities and forms. The door to the bathroom opened and Jones was finally able to get into the bathroom and exit through the curtains. It was getting late and she was tired of hauling her bags around. Banging her burdens on either wall, she traveled down the corridor, used the unlocking spell to get into the little room, touched the key on that side and then found herself back on campus. Yawning, she said goodnight to the guards and headed home to her cold quarters.