Giving Notice

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

Silence.

If I were a less sensible person, I may have thought of it as 'dead silence'.

In truth, it almost is. Aside from a shuffle of paper here, a sip of tea taken there, the staffroom is quiet - unnaturally so. Not a single person speaks.

Who would dare to speak, when Minerva just stepped into the room? Even Severus holds his tongue.

Not that we had spoken much more before. The babble of disbelief and horror that rose from our throats when we found out is gone, replaced by a horrid, self-questioning disquiet.

How did we miss this?

What pushed him over the edge?

Was it something I did?

"... And the Herbology O.W.Ls and N.E.W.Ts? Are they progressing on schedule?"

"Yes, Minerva. The results for all years, especially the seventh years and ...the fifth years, will be ready on time. There's just the end-of-term classes to go now."

"Very good, Rosemary. Now, I only need to collect the results from Sybill... if I can disrupt her terribly busy schedule of inhaling that wretched incense of hers..."

A flash of annoyance passes through me. I provide the herbs for all of Sybill's incense sticks. Granted, I wouldn't choose those fragrances for the world - they may be 'conducive to the Inner Eye' but they're a disaster on the human ability to concentrate - but they're far from hallucinogenic, and Minerva well knows it. As scatterbrained and, well, annoying as I find Sybill, she'd never intentionally harm a student, and nor would I allow it. She asked me only for things that were safe, if slightly soporific.

Of course, there's always been a bit of a war between those two... Heaven help Sybill if she says anything more about her predictions regarding poor Harry in Minerva's hearing.

Not that it would make her particularly popular with anyone right now. Especially not the - oh Merlin, what's she telling the students?

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Good morning class!"

"Good morning, Professor Sprout," comes back the automatic chant. But you can see the underlying thought - "What's GOOD about it?" I wish I could tell them. Frankly, I can't see much good in it myself.

"This morning we'll be working with Gillyweed -" I can see Miss Granger flinch as if she's been struck before she regains her composure, while the rest of the class glances at each other uneasily, and young Ronald Weasley has a knowing smile of memory playing about his lips. When will that boy realise? Minerva had best do something before we lose more Gryffindors than just Harry Potter...

"-Can anyone tell me the properties of Gillyweed?" Usually Neville Longbottom or Hermione Granger are the only two who have done enough preparation beforehand to be able to answer my questions, but this time Neville's attention is carefully focussed on Hermione, whose hand stays down before reluctantly creeping up to take its expected place. Poor child. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

Eyes fixed on the benchtop, she states flatly, "Gillyweed is native to the Mediterranean Sea. It causes those who consume it to temporarily grow gills, so that they may be able to breathe underwater for a limited length of time." She's only given me part of the answer - but she doesn't care. Why on earth would she care about Gillyweed right now? I don't care, and I'm the one asking the question. Why am I asking any of them this? Why am I making them work in this hot greenhouse instead of sitting them down outside in the sun under a shady tree and let them cope, as they need to? What good is the curriculum to them right now?

"It makes you grow webs on your hands and feet, too, along with the gills - so you can swim better, I guess." Well, now. That has to be the first time Ronald has ever volunteered information in my class. Pity this has become a familiar scene - everyone staring at him, while he stares back. "What? I'm right, aren't I? You can ask Harry yourselves, if you don't believe me."

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

"Thank you - Five points each, Miss Granger, Mister Weasley." If I have to grab Minerva by the ear, I will, I swear, if that's what it takes to get her to DO something about that poor boy. "Now, the Gillyweed has arrived fresh from the Mediterranean last week. I have enough Gillyweed for everyone, so everyone take a container - careful, don't spill, that's Mediterranean seawater - and we can begin." Once everyone has their trays full of briny water and Gillyweed, I spend the rest of the lesson standing in front of the desk where the trays were stacked, blocking the tray that's left over from view. Damn me for efficiently ordering my batches of plants months in advance.

It's ridiculous in any case. Why try to block their view? They all know there's one left.

~*~*~*~*~*~

I feel a horrible, guilty sense of relief when I watch the fifth-year Gryffindors leave. It's hard enough dealing with my own sadness; worse to deal with those of my students and my House - but those who lived with him, slept in a dorm with him, ate meals with him, laughed and cried with him - it's so hard to look in their faces and see their eyes. And it seems impossible that I be expected to try and stick to the curriculum rather than reach out and embrace them all.

It seemed impossible this time last year, too. Ridiculous. Cruel. But the Headmaster decreed that it would be best if at least one thing in the children's lives continued as unchanged as we could possibly make it.

I can see the sense in it, yet so much within me shouts out against it, against - everything about this.

All the teachers are. I see them express it in their own ways.

Filius - well, Filius has always been an incredibly sensitive little man. As if the fates decreed that his tiny stature must be balanced with a large heart in exchange. He's taken this terribly hard. As a human, I can look back and see a fellow creature in pain, but at the time I could only see a young man who seemed angry at everything for no reason, a student who I hated to discipline, but had to for his own good. And I did, several times. Filius took points from young Harry only once, and kept him after class for a few gentle words, and yet he wrings his hands, constantly wondering if there was something he said and should not have, or should have said and did not.

Sybill has disappeared up into her tower, much as usual. I'm not sure if she quite understands how to cope with this. Predictions of doom and gloom are her forte, but real death is another thing entirely. In fact, I've never thought she knew much about social interaction in general. She certainly knows how to put her foot in it, regardless of the subject.

Hagrid - oh, Hagrid. He has been here longer than any of us, save Albus and Minerva - and even Minerva was a student when he entered his first year here. We all know him, have seen him working cheerfully on the grounds for many, many years. He is almost as much a part of Hogwarts as Albus Dumbledore is. Which makes it doubly heartbreaking that he should be so hurt now. That big bear of a man is like a mother cat desperately searching for her lost kittens, knowing the search is futile.

Severus takes it out on the students, as he always has done since he was a student himself, and most likely always will. I've never seen him quite like this though - never quite this anger, quite this vicious, quite this... helpless. Lost. Of course he hates it. I think he's managed to give about twelve of my Hufflepuffs detentions in the past week for the most trivial of things.

And of course there's Minerva. The teaching staff are all dancing around her the same way the students are dancing around Ronald Weasley. Minerva...

But I have a detention to supervise. Filch may have agreed to come back after much persuasion from Albus - bless that man's heart - but even he can't supervise all the students who are on detention tonight. Good thing that Greenhouse Two is in need of some work...

~*~*~*~*~*~

As it turns out, I've been assigned second-years Dennis Creevey and Natalie MacDonald - of course the Gryffindors get the brunt of Severus' ire - and fifth-year Ernie Macmillan, one of my own.

Ernie's always been a little bit of a problem for me, I must say. Not a problem exactly, but... how best to put this... he has a tendency to try and take control of any group he's in and make his opinions known. He became the leader of the Hufflepuffs in his year almost by default - none of the others were going to stand up against him, particularly the Muggle-borns who didn't know as much about our world as he did. The main problem this presents is that he is not what one would consider a good leader for other children to follow - he judges too easily and too harshly, and as the one with the 'sway', he holds too much power in well-meaning but entirely reckless hands. I thought he'd grow out of it, but I'm honestly not sure what to do with him. Justin Finch-Fletchley still regards his word as law, and many of the others in my house simply don't have the energy to argue with him - they'd rather spend their time on something a little more productive.

Of course, once Cedric had started tutoring him in the middle of his third year, he'd calmed down, improved a great deal. The leader had found someone who showed him how to lead, someone who let him follow once in a while. Of course, Ernie being Ernie, he took this to the same extreme as he did in leadership, seeming to regard Cedric as a mentor, big brother and column of support all in one.

Fate can be very cruel.

Then again, so can Ernie - my plants were not meant to be pruned so viciously! And young Miss MacDonald is having to duck his shears or risk losing a sizeable chunk of her hair. With a sigh, I bring him over to the other side of the greenhouse and have him get to work filling up pots with loosely packed soil, ready to receive their new inhabitants. He can't do much damage with the careful movements and bare hands that this activity requires.

The younger ones seem distinctly relieved that Ernie is now far away from them, and maybe I can get in a quiet word with him for a moment. Because if I know him, he'll want to say something. And whatever it is he wants to say, he won't wait very long, so probably around...

"Professor Sprout?"

...now. "Yes, Ernie?"

Pause. "Did you take Divination at school?"

Well now. That wasn't what I expected. "Yes Ernie, I did. I took it for my O.W.Ls, though I dropped it after that in order to concentrate on Herbology and Charms. Why?"

"Oh. It's just - I don't take it. I was thinking that maybe I should have. Then maybe-"

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe I could have warned Cedric about whatever was going to happen. Maybe I could have told him how Potter got his name in the Goblet - he was curious about that for a little while, then he seemed to decide that he hadn't. I don't get it. Maybe I could have stopped it. My great-great-grandfather was a Seer, so it might've been in me too."

"Perhaps. But there are a lot of people in the Wizarding World who have the Sight, and none of them sent any letters to the headmaster last year warning him, did they? The Sight isn't a guarantee that you'll be able to stop all the bad things from happening. No magical talent is."

"Hmm. Potter defeated the Dark Lord when he was a baby. Why couldn't he do it when Cedric was in danger? I asked him that, you know."

Oh dear.

"Did you?"

"Yup. I asked him if he hid behind Cedric this time, instead of his mum."

Where's Albus when you need him?! I'm not suited for this confessional business, I'm a Herbologist! "I... see. Ernie, that was-"

"A rotten thing to say. I know." Scrubbing at his face with a dirty hand, and I'm sure Poppy will have my hide if he gets an infection in his eyes, but a bit of good clean soil never hurt anyone. Nor did a bit of good clean guilt, if you ask me.

"I didn't actually think he did hide - I just wanted to hurt his feelings, because he lived and Cedric didn't, and I thought that was so unfair, and he should hurt as much as WE did, you know?"

"He was already hurting, Ernie. He saw Cedric die, and believe me, there's nothing worse than seeing someone die and not be able to do anything about it. I know - I watched my cousin die when You-Know-Who was first taking over back before you were born. There's hardly a teacher on the staff who didn't lose someone, and a lot of the students lost family and friends of the family as well."

"Oh." Awkwardly he rubs at his forehead. "You know, for a long time I was angry that Cedric was dead but he still got to be alive. But now, I'm angry with him for being dead. And I don't know why I'm angry, because I said what I said and everything." He looks miserable. "I mean, it was months ago, but you don't think that, you know... because of what I said...?"

And how do I answer that? "Ernie, I think everyone in the school, teachers and students alike, are going through the past year and asking themselves the same question. You're not alone in this."

He nods, and goes back to filling the pots. At least that has a beginning, a middle, a conclusion. An answer.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Faces dance in my head as I find myself marching towards the staff room. Ronald Weasley's abnormal *normality* in all the tumult, his refuge in lack of acceptance. Hermione Granger's thin face, haunted eyes. Neville Longbottom's concerned, watchful gaze. Ernie's lost expression of a leader who loses his way. And guilt, guilt, everywhere, choking the school, choking all of us.

Even the Headmaster who now talks to Minerva, discussing things that matter not at all anymore.

How can Mister Weasley be expected to move on if his own Head of House is locked up and distant from those who need her?

"Minerva?"

She doesn't bother looking up from her work, parchment stacked high around her. "What is it, Rosemary? I'm rather busy."

"No, you're not. You're creating a workload for yourself so that you don't have to think about it."

She stops writing. Her knuckles whiten on her quill. "I beg your pardon?" she asks in one of the iciest tones I've ever heard from her. From across the room I can see Severus staring at me as though I've grown another head, and Filius is backing off. Albus merely steps aside. I think he well knows what I'm going to do.

"I'm quite sure you heard what I said, Minerva - or shall I add deafness to your list of failures as well as blindness?"

"Rosemary!" Oh, for the love of - Filius, put your wand away. Despite what you may think, that won't be needed here.

"How dare-"

"How dare I, Minerva? No, how dare you. How dare you close up and ignore your House when they look to you for guidance? How dare you turn your face away when you see Mister Weasley so lost? How dare you not be there for them? It's the least you could do, when you clearly weren't there for-"

"SHUT UP! You don't know anything about it!"

"I know plenty about it! There isn't a bloody day that I don't wish I could congratulate Cedric once more on doing Hufflepuff proud - just as there isn't a day now that I don't wish I could hug Harry Potter like the mother he wanted to have! Minerva, I LOST ONE OF MY BOYS TOO!"

And the great Gryffindor lioness slowly collapses under the weight of her walls. I lied, of course - Minerva does care about Mister Weasley, is terrified for him. She cares so much for her pride of young cubs, yet she cannot show it to save her life. Albus jumps forward to grab her shoulders as she crumbles, firmly and silently directing her to a seat in front of the fire, where she can cry.

And cry she does - wailing, choking sobs that seem as though they may tear her apart, so strong are they. Filius pats her hand gently as I fetch a cup of tea. "Minerva, we've all lost children at some stage. It never gets any easier. But still -"

"n- no... you - don't - understand..." she chokes out.

"We understand, Minerva. We all feel we should have known. Perhaps we should have. Perhaps there was no way to know. But that doesn't stop the way we feel." Filius is in tears just seeing her cry - I'm rather moist around my eyes, myself. Wipe them carefully with my handkerchief. Won't do for Minerva to find salt in her tea, after all.

A hand takes the saucer before I can pick it up, and I look into Severus' face. He says nothing, but nods once, simply. A silent 'well done'.

That ridiculous man. He knows Minerva too well, knows Filius too well. He would have tried this himself if I had not done it, and gotten himself hexed six ways to Doomsday for his efforts, and he'd have known that, too. And the Sorting Hat placed him in Slytherin. He should have been a Hufflepuff.

Not that I'd ever tell him so. He'd be mortally offended. No idea why.

"In my many years as a teacher and as headmaster, I've seen several children fall before their time - but never before a suicide." This is the first time I've ever seen Albus look his age. In a way, it's strangely comforting, that even Albus is trapped at our level - guilty, afraid, confused, grieving.

And now there's naught to do but sit with Minerva, and let her cry, and remember all our children that we've lost.