The Rules of Science

~

"The viscosity of a liquid refers to its resistance to flow."

-From Chemistry Concepts and Problems

~

The next morning is much more rushed than the previous one, though not much smoother. I am ever so thankful that the school uniform includes knee-high socks.

At least I get out on the right side of the bed. I shower quickly, eat the breakfast again left on my bed, and sit patiently on my bed, bag and wand ready this time, for someone to lead me to class. It is my favorite person again: Snape.

"I see you're on time today," he sneers.

I see you're knickers are still in a knot, I think crossly, saying nothing.

We leave to Judith's cheery, "Have a good day at school, Madeline."

I think there is some sarcasm in this remark.

We are both quiet this morning as Snape escorts me to class. I bump into no one in the halls and Snape continues to snap at students in the hall. I don't know why they don't tell the Professor to bugger off. I want to tell him it's too damn early to yell.

He drops me off in front of my Arithmancy class. "Good day, Miss Philips."

How nice. He's trying to make an Effort today; I'd wonder why, but it's too early to think about ulterior motives.

I march into Arithmancy half hoping my reputation precedes me, half hoping it doesn't.

Luckily the professor notices me almost as soon as I come in, shakes my hand, and introduces herself.

"I'm Professor Vector. Nice to have a new student. I'm afraid you'll have to sit near the back, the class isn't that large, but...."

She leads me to my seat at the back and leaves me there. I suppose it's rather nice of her to care and all, but why would it matter if I sat near the front? It's not as though I have problems seeing.

To give my hands something to do, I pull out parchment and quill from my bag, listening to all the quiet conversations around me resume after the initial silence upon my entrance. Some are talking about Quidditch practice, some are talking about the homework assigned last night, and some are talking about what they plan to do after classes.

I give a silent sigh and wish I had someone to talk to.

"Hey you, Madeline."

I turn my head slowly to the right. That voice sounds familiarly unpleasant....

"Ye-es?" I reply cautiously.

"Make it through Ancient Runes?"

Ah, the Girl from Ancient Runes.

"Yes, actually. Thanks."

"Well, there's no one to help you in here."

She is beginning to get on my nerves. "You just have a naturally sunny disposition, don't you?"

She is feeling clever and answers my question with another question.

"Why are you here Madeline Philips? What are you doing here, starting mid-term?"

I fail to see the correlation to my question. I decide ignoring her would be the best course to take. I turn my head forward, pretending I can stare at a fixed point on the wall. I can hear That Bitch from Ancient Runes chuckling at my discomfort. My hands grip the sides of my desk and I wish class would start.

"Everyone, today we are beginning the Greek Method. I hope you all read chapter four of th' book, as I suggested." Vector's voice is soft but firm, and has a lilting quality to it. I might try to guess if this lilt is Irish in quality, but she has arrested my attention on the words "read chapter four."

I am so screwed.

Vector's telling us to get out our books to look at an example. I pull mine out and begin to open it before I realize the futility of this exercise. With a humorless face, I close my book quietly, but stare ahead as though I am paying attention. The professor moves through the problem, marking with a piece of chalk (I do not know if Vector is actually holding it) repeating aloud all the steps, most likely for my benefit. I copy them down with my bewitched quill to the best of my ability. I fear there is going to be little understanding on my part as long as I can't see the actual problem.

Vector gives us some problems to work on until the end of class, and then assigns us more to do as homework. I suffer in silence, not willing to let tears of frustration threaten my appearance of composure. I can only work part way through the first problem. I wish I had paid more attention in my mother's lessons on Greek. And all this time I thought she taught it to me from mere nostalgia from the days spent in Crete with my father before and after their marriage when he hadn't known she was a witch. A book closes sharply to my left and I hear That Bitch from Ancient Runes say in a whisper, presumably to a nearby classmate, though loud enough for me to hear, "Finished! Those were easier than Vector was letting on."

My grip tightens on my quill.

Time passes, and I hear books snap shut around me and the scratching of quills go quiet. I have moved on to problem number two, but again I can only get so far. The bell rings, and Vector raises her voice for the first time over the noise of school paraphernalia being put away, "Put the problems on my desk as you leave."

Everyone files out quickly around me as I stoically, purposefully, and methodically put away my things. It's only the first day, I tell myself, it's only the first day. I stand up and sling my bag over my shoulder and walk, calmly I imagine, up to the front and hand my parchment to Professor Vector.

She takes it from my hands. "Hmmm," a noise coming from between pursed lips. She does not sound pleased.

I walk swiftly to my left for the door, wanting to avoid any further censure. I run straight into a solid body and stumble backwards ungracefully.

"You must think about where you are going." Of course Snape knows better than to tell me to watch where I am going. "I have come to escort you to Advanced Transfiguration. Come along. Good day Professor Vector."

Professor Vector murmurs intelligibly, and I'm afraid she is still brooding over my half-assed attempt at today's assignment. I am thankful when Snape grabs me by the arm and takes me out of the classroom.

I am marched down the always crowded hallway. A few students brush past me today. Perhaps it is because Snape is not yelling at anyone. We go down two flights of stairs, one of them moving, before arriving at Transfiguration.

"Door," Snape murmurs, but I still bang my knuckles on the frame.

That's some damn solid stone.

"Ah, Professor Snape. And this must be Madeline Philip," a strong, clear voice, a dignified voice, greets us as we enter the quiet room.

"Yes, ma'am," I say nervously and hold out a hand.

"I am Professor McGonagall. I'm curious to see how you will do. We are working on partial transfigurations with animals. I hope you have studied some of this?"

"Yes," I reply faintly. My mother and I had studied partial transfigurations, but as to practical applications, I had done only a little.

"I'm sure she can manage," Snape intervenes. I can't believe something resembling a compliment just came out of his mouth. On the other hand, this may be cruel irony rearing its ugly head. "I must get to my own class. Good day, Minerva."

"Yes. Good day, Severus." I cannot hear Snape as he walks away. Professor McGonagall speaks to me again, "There is an empty seat three rows back. I'll take you to it."

"Thank you." I find the very presence of my Transfiguration teacher intimidating. She takes me to my seat and leaves me there.

Once she is back at the front of the class she starts the day's lesson. She has no need to tell the class to be quiet, she is one of those teachers with the Power. I believe I have shrunk in my seat a few inches.

She continues the lesson by reviewing the basics of partial transfiguration, reminding the students of the common mistakes in the first attempt at partial transfiguration where they turned part of a worm into a centipede. "Today," she announces, "We will move onto something harder--transfiguring a sparrow's body into a wren's body."

I can hardly keep myself from groaning. I haven't been here for the past few days. I don't know anything about birds. I have taken no notes on their similarities and differences. Is a wren bigger than a sparrow? Smaller? Are their colors similar? What about their bone structure? The only thing keeping me from banging my head on the desk is the fear of drawing more unwanted attention to myself.

The sparrows are passed around, apparently drugged, "So they won't suffer undue panic at our attempts to change their bodies," McGonagall said. They waltz unsteadily across our desks, making tiny tapping noises with their feet. I reach out tentatively with my finger to feel for my bird. It runs chest first into my index finger and bounces off like a rubber ball. The tapping goes on for a few more seconds and then there is a noise like fwump--the sound of a very cushioned fall. I reach out with my wand and poke blindly before hitting upon the soft form of my sparrow. It hardly twitches at the nudges I give. I think they have given mine too much Dulling Draught.

At least I won't have to worry about watching it to make sure it doesn't saunter drunkenly downwards off my desk.

McGonagall, feeling benevolence, or more likely pity, for the daunting task before us, tells us we can use any notes we have taken on the bone structure of the wren, and use diagrams to help us with the transfiguration. I have to choke back a laugh.

After a storm of rustling papers, the class settles down and sets about partially transforming their stoned birds. I stare blankly ahead, wondering what to do. I will not ask for help. Everyone seems to think I can manage, so why shouldn't I?

But first, I need to have some idea of what I am working with. I poke my sparrow again, this time with my finger, and move my fingers over it, trying to determine some sort of shape. It is very round and about the size of my palm, with a short, thick beak and tail. Next, I set about trying to remember what a wren looks like. The name sounds familiar enough, so surely I'd seen one before.

I close my eyes, and set my mind traveling back to times when my mother had pointed out the local fauna, which wasn't much in London, to me as a child. Surely she had pointed out something as common as a wren.

"Look Maddy," my mother says, "look. A bird's built herself a little nest outside our kitchen window." She hoists me up onto the counter and lets me sit on the edge of the sink, twisting so I can see the nest the bird built. "Let's watch and see if the mother bird comes back soon."

After a few minutes the mother bird returns, she is small, as big as my hand spread out, brown and round. My mother and I sit as still as possible, and the bird does not heed us. Instead she looks for a place to put the bit of hair or fur she carries in her beak to insulate the eggs nestled there. She finds the right place, and after a few minutes of adjusting, she flies off again.

"That was a wren, Maddy. See those little brown speckled eggs? They are going to hatch, and we're going to have a whole family of birds."

I nod my head, but I am still curious. "Does a wren's feather have magical properties like a phoenix feather does?"

We had noticed my magical tendencies a year prior, and my mother had slowly been indoctrinating me about many wizarding things, mostly when my father was not around. This past week she had showed me her wand and explained about the unicorn hair inside, the wood it was made of, and how each wand was different for each wizard or witch, and could be made out of things besides unicorn's hair. Like dragon heartstrings. Or phoenix feathers. The concept of phoenixes, which were reborn again and again, had fascinated me.

My mother's head snaps fearfully to look over her shoulder and I follow her gaze with my own steady one.

My father. He stands in the doorway, his face dark, chewing on the inside of his lip. "Charlotte," he says curtly to my mother, and spinning around he disappears down the hall, with only the slamming of the parlor door to mark his distemper.

My mother looks at me with eyes I cannot read, releases her supportive hold of me on the counter's edge, and follows my father out. I stay where I am for a while, quietly staring at the empty doorway. Finally, I slip off the counter and head to my room, which, at this time, is still downstairs with my parents. Later, it would become the entertainment center for my father's friends and co-workers.

I do not bother to listen at the door of the parlor to my parent's discussion. I had heard it enough in the past year, in and out of my immediate hearing. It's about me, and the discord I have caused in my father's perfect and harmonious life.

I open my eyes quickly, and the sounds of magical learning fill my ears. I must admit I grab at my sparrow rather viciously, still thinking of my father, and gripping my wand with my other hand, trying to picture the wren in my mind.

I hold the picture of the plump, brown wren in my mind, while also trying to hold my idea of the bird's skeletal structure based on bast biology courses. I set the bird down, knowing that holding something you're transfiguring can be dangerous. I wave my wand, thankful that I am at least positive on that part of the assignment thanks to my mother, and say the magic words.

I wait a moment. Did it work? I reach out and touch the bird to see if I can tell any difference in the body shape by feel. I can't.

So what am I supposed to do now? Ask my neighbor, "Hey, does this look like a half-wren to you? I imagine myself shoving a cataleptic bird in the imaginary neighbors face and their look of disgust and contempt. Hm, don't think that would go over well....

My thoughts end abruptly as McGonagall announces a student has very nearly gotten the partial transfiguration of sparrow to wren under control.

"Not bad Mr. Patton. You successfully changed the body structure, but you failed to change the feathers and markings of the sparrow to that of the wren. You must concentrate more on the detail. Make sure you have a very clear picture before you go ahead with the partial transfiguration. Well, everyone, don't stand around! Go about your work. We still have a quarter of an hour."

I turn from looking in the direction of the professor's voice back to where my bird lies, hopefully still incapacitated, on my desk. I'm too nervous to ask a student how my progress is, much less Professor McGonagall's help. I sigh very audibly.

Someone must have heard me and looked over at me because a short scream follows my moan. I twitch slightly and sit very still, wondering what it was all about. I find out shortly.

"Really! Miss Maddox, what is it?" I hear Professor McGonagall marching towards us on the stone. Around me, I hear classmates gasp and make quiet exclamations around me: "Merlin!" "Oh my..." "Good lord!" "What did she do to it?" I can feel the pressure of eyes on me.

I wish they were all blind.

"What is the matter Miss--!" The professor cuts off abruptly and makes a strange noise like a strangled gasp.

Around me the class murmurs a blur of words, and I unconsciously hold my breath until I start seeing bright colors where darkness has become the norm.

"Miss Phillips," Professor McGonagall finally says faintly.

My hands are shaking so I grip my robes under the desk. "Yes?" I reply just as faintly.

"Your bird...."

My knuckles go white from clutching my robes so tightly. What have I done?

She clears her throat, and appears to regain some composure. Very softly, she says, "Miss Phillips, I'm afraid your bird is quite...deformed."

I feel all the blood leave my face from horror and embarrassment over what I have done. I open my mouth to try and say something, an apology maybe, but nothing comes out.

Professor McGonagall quietly undoes the spell and takes my poor bird away from me. I am not to be trusted with small animals. I have totally and one hundred percent screwed up my partial transfiguration attempt.

Around me comments swirl as people reluctantly follow the professors order to return to work.

"Did you see the way it's head was twisted?"

"What about its feet? One was bigger than the other."

"Its eyes were the nastiest--all bulging and pale."

"What is the new girl's problem?"

"What the hell did she do to make it turn out so, so wrong?"

"Looked like something from the pits of the Forbidden Forest."

"Look at her, she looks as off as that bird did."

At that last comment I bury my head in my arms and spend the rest of the class period biting my lip so I won't cry from humiliation. I don't emerge until the bell rings and everyone has left the room except someone talking about books for extra reading with the professor. Then I grab my bag, and stand up as quickly as possible to avoid a confrontation with Professor McGonagall. I stumble up the row gracelessly, orient myself to where I think the door is, and walk towards it only to run into wall. I follow it northward, find the doorway and exit.

Out in the hall by myself, the student body swarms around me, and I panic for half a second before scolding myself on being ridiculous, and, keeping my hand on the wall, trace my way slowly as far away from the transfiguration classroom as possible. Don't care where I'm going. Just far, far away from the bad place. Maybe I'll get lost, I think hopefully.

I keep walking, slow and shuffling, along the wall, past the crowd of classmates, whose roar gets further and further away as I go. I step up on unfamiliar staircases and let them turn whatever way they will before I disembark. I walk until my stomach nudges out some of my humiliation to vie for attention. Then I remember it's lunch time now, and I'm missing it.

I don't care, I think rebelliously. I'm not that hungry anyway! My stomach growls in protest. Okay, that's a lie, I admit to my stomach. Can't face those people. Can't face them talking about me, around me, behind me. Can't face the stares I can't return, the eyes I can't see.

I'm only depressing myself further thinking about my blindness, and I decide that if I'm going to have a proper mope, I might as well find a comfortable corner or alcove to do it in, rather than make my feet sore.

It's a good ten minutes before I find my corner by--surprise, surprise--bumping into it and hitting my nose. "Ow," I grumble before throwing down my bag and squeezing myself as far back into the corner as possible. I lean my head into the corner and close my eyes out of habit, and try to sort through my feelings of frustration, anger, sadness, hurt, humiliation, and just plain worry.

My mother would have been worried and disappointed.

That's nothing new.

And my father would have laughed bitterly and said that I had failed just as fantastically at being abnormal as I had at being normal.

But who cares about him?

Why couldn't I do things right? Would I have to depend on Silas to help me with all my homework.

I depend on no one.

Snape would be unhappy with me and probably tell Dumbledore I was unfit to be a student at Hogwarts. It's not like I had ever been on the list in the first place.

But how do I know what Snape will think? Will he even care?

The deformed bird. I can see it in my head. Something grotesque and twisted. Something out of a nightmare. The image keeps appearing in the blackness behind my eyelids, and it makes me want to cry to think I had done something so horrible to an innocent creature, even if it was not intentional. My heart shivers.

I sit in the dark corner with my dark thoughts, until I inadvertently nod off to sleep.

A patronizing voice wakes me with the word, "Crying?"

A scowl forms slowly on my face. "I am not," I snap my eyes open on this word, although it makes no difference, "crying Professor Snape. It is not one of my habits."

Self depreciation is, a voice in my head whispers, and I put it aside.

"Then what, pray, are you doing in a dark corner, far away from any room you belong in?"

"Napping." I reply truthfully.

"Then you're rested enough to come quickly with me to your Advanced Potions lesson, which starts in ten minutes. I trust you'll do better in my class than in your last one."

I pause, halfway standing, and cringe. I will ignore his taunt. I will not rise to it. He will not get the better of me.

Thankfully, he says nothing more, but takes my arm and leads me quickly, as promised, to my potions lesson.

I am screwing up my last remnant of courage and pride as we race through crowded halls of students. We fly down staircase after staircase, heading straight for the dungeons where Snape's class is located.

Snape wastes no time upon entering the classroom. Still dragging me on his arm, he snaps, "Quiet everyone! We cannot waste time if I am going to get you slightly less intellectually challenged seventh years ready for your N.E.W.T. exams."

I really wish he wouldn't be such a charismatic chap whenever I am at his side, I'm afraid it might rub off on me. He leads me to a front seat and leaves me there, hardly breaking stride, to continue somewhere in front of me to lecture us briefly on the brewing of today's potion.

God, I say in my head, I know I don't talk to You often, but could You make this a potion I've at least heard of?

"If you have done your reading and haven't been sleeping through class for the past few days--" He pauses, and I'm sure he's staring pointedly at a student, "--you will know that today's potion isn't a particularly hard one for an advanced student." His tone of voice implied his doubt of our academic prowess. "Today we are making a pain numbing potion, the Lethargian Brew to be exact."

I breathe a sigh of relief as I recognized the name. The Lethargian Brew, a numbing potion of moderate potency.

"After I take a sample, I will send it on to Madam Pomfrey. If any you fail it will make things even worse next time you visit infirmary, which will no doubt will be very soon for some of you." Another pause and I'm sure he is giving the class another good sneer. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get to work!"

I hear rustling around me as everyone scurries to do Snape's bidding. I remain in my seat, uncertain of what to do. Should I go grab my cauldron? Where is it? Where is the storage room with all the potions ingredients?

"Do you need help, Miss Philips?" Snape's voice says over my head, and quite frankly I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or serious.

"Um, actually, yes. Where's my cauldron and the store room so I can get the ingredients I need."

"So you know the ingredients to this potion, do you?"

"Yes. Sir."

"Your cauldron is in the back of the room. It's the only one left so it should be easy to run into." I did not like Snape's sarcasm as much as Judith's. "I will have one of the students bring back extra ingredients from the store room. Cleckley! Go fetch some extra ingredients for Miss Philips here."

There is no answer, but I assume the student is fetching it as Snape says nothing more, and I feel a slight breeze as he whips past me to go breathe down the necks of my classmates.

Unwillingly I stand up from my seat and start to feel my way down the aisle. I bump my way into several cauldrons, and nearly trip over some feet only to steady myself on the edge of a hot cauldron. "Ouch!" I draw my hand back quickly; there are titters all around. My cheeks go red again.

"Get your cauldron and get back to your seat Miss Philips." Snape's voice holds a warning.

I scowl.

"I'm watching you, Miss Philips."

I grit my teeth to keep from scowling again and keep moving back towards the cauldrons. I reach the stone back wall and head right in search of my cauldron. As I am walking, one hand on the wall, the other out in front in hopes I would not fulfill Professor Snape's prediction and run into it, I run into somebody instead.

"Sorry," I mutter. Can't they watch where they're going? I think.

"Excuse me," says a refined voice. Then, whispering quietly so that I hardly catch it, still in the same formal tone, "I would go left if I were you." A robe brushes past my legs and the mystery person passes on.

I nod and start retracing my steps. One good thing about Snape's strictness is that he keeps the class from watching me. I hear him pacing up and down menacingly and making smart remarks at various students.

I bump into the cauldron backwards and nearly fall in butt first. I quickly regain my balance, however, and look around to see if anyone has noticed only to remember I can't. I push it right, and try to recall how many steps I took to the right, and how many I would need to subtract from going left....

I lose my train of thought as the cauldron makes a very audible shhh as it passes over the stone floor. I pause and wince in embarrassment. But how else am I going to get it to my desk?

Shhhh. Sh. Shhhhh. Shh. Sh. Shhhhhh.

I consider leaping headfirst into the cauldron and ending the misery formerly known as my life.

Shh. Shhhhhhh. Sh. Sh. Sh.

I almost want to laugh to break the tension surrounding my obnoxious movement.

Shhhhhhhhh. Sh. Shh--

"Oh for Merlin's sake...." Snape cuts me off mid-shh. His voice is quiet, but it carries and it is clear he is annoyed. "Accio cauldron," he snaps and the cauldron leaves my grasp and presumably travels to the proper place. I am grabbed roughly by the arm and led back to my seat.

What a caring chap he is.

"Your ingredients are on your table."

I nod. I find that I draw enough attention to myself without opening my mouth.

I turn my attention to the ingredients laid out upon my desk, trying to shake off the feeling that people are looking at me. I should have arrach, some dried black willow leaves, calamus roots, imperatoria root, Jamaican dogwood, spleen of a tree frog, and part of the tail of a unicorn. I felt and found each one except the strand of unicorn tail hair. I suppose Snape would not keep that in the main store room.

Now what came first in the Lethargian potion? Ah, the oil from the calamus roots. I crush them in a bowl with a pestle to extract the juice. Then I pour it into my measuring flask, thankful for once that I had inherited my mother's old one with the numbers in raised glass instead of painted on. I stick one finger down in the fluid and do my best to guess which raised number it is lined up with.

I could care less if I screw this up. I am blind and I will not ask for help.

The arrach is minced, the imperatoria root grated, dried black willow leaves crushed finely, and the frog spleen is added whole to stew in the mess for awhile while I divide the bark of the Jamaican dogwood into even cubes. They will be added last, after the unicorn hair.

As though reading my thoughts, Professor Snape's voice cuts into my concentration and announces, "As some of you are at the point where the addition of a unicorn hair is needed, I will distribute them among you. There is one unicorn hair for every four of you. Share it with the person sitting next to you, and the two people behind you."

I'm sharing a table? I think. You learn something new every second.

I finish chopping up cubes, and then stir my potion a little as I wait for Snape to come by with the unicorn hair. I wish I could see if it is the proper color.

"Ah, Miss Philips, I see you have progressed this far with no major mishap. Be careful with that knife," Professor Snape says, and glides past, presumably leaving behind a tail hair.

"Er. Would you like me to cut it into pieces?" A voice next to me says nervously. They are probably terrified that a blind person is wielding a knife.

Any other time I would have demanded I cut it, to ensure utter perfection and precision regarding my potion, but I'm not sure how well I could apportion a single unicorn tail hair without seeing what I was doing. I nod my consent.

A moment later, "Here."

I feel the slight tickle of unicorn hair by my right hand, and take it gently between thumb and forefinger. I can see the page from Precise Potions clearly in my mind: "Take the quartered unicorn hair and dip it slowly into the potion so that the potency of the unicorn hair will not be used up all at once and make it useless later after one treatment."

I follow the directions to the letter, and let it set while I gather the dogwood cubes into my hand.

Now how many cubes did it require? Ten? Yes, ten. I'm pretty sure it's ten.

I drop the cubes one by one, like I'm supposed to, into the simmering cauldron. Ten. I lean back and let some of the tension drop from my shoulders. At least I have accomplished one thing today properly.

BOOM!

Screams. I cringe away from the noise and am splattered heavily with gooey substance. Before I can even form a thought, parts of my body began going numb: the left side of my face my right arm and parts of both legs. I can feel it seeping into my shoes. As the dead feeling sets in, I wonder how much longer I'll be able to stand.

"Everyone calm down! Miss Philips what did you put in that potion to make it explode?" Snape is standing over me, his presence menacing my standing form.

"Nothing," I say a little awkwardly. I have ceased to feel my jaw and cheek. Ah, well, Maddy, I console myself, at least the bruises won't bother you anymore. I begin to list the ingredients I had added, out of habit from past potions-exploding experiences with my mother. "...and ten cubes of Jamaican dogwood." I finish calmly, sure of my innocence. Someone had probably thrown something into my cauldron as a welcome-the-new-blind-girl prank.

"Ten? Ten Miss Philips? Ten cubes of Jamaican dogwood is not the correct amount," Snape says coldly. "Nine is the correct number of Jamaican dogwood cubes." He turns to the class. "It's nothing to worry about, class. You should know that if you have come in contact with the Lethargian Brew externally, all you need to do is go to the back of the classroom and wash it off." He turns back to me. "You Miss Philips had better start cleaning up the mess you've made."

The numbness has set completely into patches on my legs as well as both my feet, and without feeling I cannot stand any longer. I drop abruptly and unceremoniously, and barely land in my seat.

I think the potion has paralyzed my emotions as well because I feel no shame, anger, or frustration as I sit there in my seat, being eaten up by my mistake. I sit limply in my desk while my classmates move around me, muttering quietly. My senses are dulled too; I can't hear them talk about me at all.

The bell rings and the class empties. I sit in the quiet until Snape interrupts my thoughts, "Well Miss Philips, you had better start cleaning."

My shoulders slump with an inward sigh. I pull my wand from my robe tiredly and point it out towards the room. "Scourgify!" I say sternly.

"Fifty points--" Snape begins, then stops. I have no clue what he is talking about. "Miss Philips, you will serve detention Friday. You will be making several batches of the potion you just ruined."

I could care less. I nod once to show I heard and stand up slowly, shouldering my bag.

"I will put your cauldron back to avoid more mishaps."

I shrug.

"If you go right out the door and continue, you will find your room."

"Thanks," I mutter intelligibly, and walk out the door.

I stumble down the quiet hall as the movement brings a tingling sensation to my numb legs. At least I made a good, strong potion.

I feel the scratchy fabric of the tapestry and grab it, letting it support me as my legs attempt to give out from underneath me again. I steady myself again, wrench back the curtain, and fall hard on my knees. I whimper, but manage not to scream.

I had expected Judith to greet me with some sarcastic comment or another, but either she is shocked, doesn't want to know, or is not in the room, because silence is the only answer. I throw off my bag, and hear it thump the desk and make it shudder. At least I'll be able to find it later.

I crawl my way around the bed, grazing it with my head, and make it to the doorway of the bathroom, crawl over the tile towards the tub, and collapse next to it. I lay there for awhile simply because there's something soothing about a cool tile floor and no noise.

When the chill finally starts getting to me I sit up, bumping my elbow against the tub painfully. I rub it before leaning over and turning on the facet. I strip down as quickly as possible, making quite a splash when I heave myself over the edge and pretty much fall into the tub.

I sigh, a long release, as the tingling feeling in my legs becomes almost unbearable as the potion comes off. I then realize I should probably be draining the tub instead of stopping it unless I want to take a bath in slightly anesthetic water. I let the tub empty, and then rotated myself so I sat under the stream of water and scrubbed myself with a washcloth that had been conveniently left folded over the edge of the tub.

After the pseudo-bath, and with feeling restored in all my limbs, I change into comfort clothes--a pair of jeans filled with holes, a tank top, and sweatshirt--and collapse on my bed to wallow in my pity. My thoughts are like a drug, and I fall asleep.

"Madeline. Maddy."

Someone is gently shaking my shoulder. My mother hasn't woken me up in years....

"Get up Maddy."

Thoughts seep slowly and groggily towards my brain. The first to arrive is, You're pretending to be dead, remember? Followed by, Your mother is dead, You've had the one of the worst days you can remember, and That's Silas trying to wake you up.

I grunt in a very unladylike manner that would have disgusted my father. Silas is now poking me in the side to get me to rise. I try to force my brain to grasp on to the receding darkness of sleep. Silas keeps poking me, almost tickling. I swat blindly (Haha) at him.

"Not getting up," I grunt incoherently.

"Get up and stop moping. I already know you had a horrible day because Judith told me. Now get up, we have stuff to do." I sit up quickly. "Hm, I wasn't expecting that to work...."

I snap open my eyes and the blackness is the same blackness of sleep, only a lot less comforting. "And what business of Judith's is it?" I say sharply in the direction of the portrait.

"She isn't here," Silas replies patiently. "She left after she told me what happened. She didn't want to be around when you woke up cross."

"That could have been avoided if you hadn't woken me. Or if she had kept her mouth shut, for that matter."
"Then you tell me about your day."

"Why bother when it's been done for me?"

"You'll feel better."

I scowl.

"You really are an exasperating child."

"Did I mention I love being referred to as a child?"

Silas laughs as he sits down on the bed next to me. "All right, all right. I'm sorry. But if you're going to act like a child...."

"Then I'll act like a child," I reply crossly.

He grows serious suddenly. "Come. We have work to do."

I sigh heavily, all my anger evaporating. "What are we doing?" I deadpan.

"Homework first."

"Silas," I moan. "I want to sleep, much less think." I fall back onto my pillows.

Silas says nothing, which surprises me. Instead, he gets off the bed. A minute later he has grasped my ankles firmly and is dragging me towards the edge of the bed. I claw at the comforter with no luck, so instead I wriggle my ankles free from his grasp and jump onto the steady floor.

"All right, all right. Impatient, aren't we?"

"I would find my self to be considerably patient. Now go to your desk and get your homework out."

I sigh again, shoulders sagging. Then I promptly straighten myself up and feel my way slowly to my desk, hitting my big toe only slightly on its corner. I bend down and pick up my bag and set it on top before sitting in the chair. I pull out my Arithmancy book with a thump and wait.

Silas pulls up a chair beside me, I hear it creak as he sits down.

"Wait a minute! Where did you get a chair?"

"I made one," he admits. "You should know this Maddy. I thought you were raised by wizards anyway." He tries to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

"Witch," I correct. "My mother was a witch. My father was...not." I shut my mouth. I do not want to discuss either.

"Ah," is all Silas says. "So what about arithmancy?" he prompts me after a moment.

"How," I say, "am I supposed to do my work when I can't even see to read the book? Plus, I came in right in the middle of a lesson about the Greek Method, or something. She talked about having done the reading, and I had no idea of course. I mean, Kauno did some spell on my book so I could feel the shape of the runes. What am I supposed to do?" I say in one big jumble, barely keeping my temper in line by the end.

"Hm. That is a tough one. I know the charm Kauno used, but I don't know if that would work for the English language. Runes are easy to identify by touch if you already know them all, but the tiny print in your arithmancy book would be a different matter. It would be a waste of time to teach you Braille, since you are a good candidate for getting your sight back with the Anticaecus potion, so...I guess I'll just have to read your lessons to you. Do you know what your next lesson will be?"

Reading my assignments to me? I'm not sure how good of an audio learner I am. I tend to fall asleep in my classes. Well, except chemistry, but the smell of chemicals is enough to keep anyone awake. I absorb all this information before answering.

"I don't know. He didn't say."

"All right then. Tonight we'll read about that Greek Method you were talking about, and tomorrow you can ask Vector what you're doing in class on Friday so we can read up on it if we need to tomorrow night."

I make a face. "And how do you propose I find his class?"

"That will be our orientation lesson for tonight. After we finish your homework."

"Damn, I was hoping you'd forget," I deadpan.

Silas takes the book from in front of me, and I hear a quiet, papery noise as he thumbs through the pages to find the chapter on the Greek Method.

"Righto. Here we are. And don't you dare fall asleep on me, or I'll add another bruise to the fine collection on your shins."

I cringe in embarrassment, realizing he can see the black and blue through one of the holes in my jeans, before replying, "Abuse of the handicapped, sir! I'll have you arrested!"

"Not if I run away, and then you can't describe the man who hurt you."

"Amata was right. Is health care the right profession for you?"

"Come now, we're getting sidetracked. Chapter ten," he begins, "The Greek Method."

We spend the next hour doing arithmancy homework, and I do the assigned problems with a lot more confidence than I had in class.

Silas doesn't mention what had happened in transfiguration thankfully, merely suggests that we work on my wand movements, and we practice that for another half hour. After awhile, Silas announces that I shouldn't have any more problems with that spell. I haven't the heart to tell him that I think my problem lies more in the fact that I can't see what I'm transfiguring than the wand pattern. I'll deal with that problem as it occurs.

"And any potions homework?" Silas queries innocently.

"No." I say shortly.

"Don't feel bad. You were doing marvelous until a relapse in memory made you slip up a bit."

"A bit? You didn't have to stumble down the hall with numb legs."

"Numb legs?"

"It was a numbing potion. At least my legs weren't sore for awhile."

"Maybe," Silas begins thoughtfully, "maybe tomorrow evening you can learn your way around Snape's classroom. It would be a good one to begin with, since his class is the one you will most likely be moving around in. I'll just have to get permission first...."
"Well that won't do us any good. When he bites your head off for daring to breathe his same air, neither of us will be able to see where we're going."

Silas chuckles and says, "I'm not a student anymore. I'm sure we can talk adult to adult."

"He's far from acting like an adult, picking on people."

"Don't judge a man until you really know him. I don't really know him. Sure he doesn't have the most magnetic personality, but maybe he only talks civilly to people he knows well, maybe he's insecure, maybe someone killed his kitten as a child."

Maybe he has a stick up his arse, I think but don't vocalize.

"Hmph. You sound like my mother: glazing over the truth. Besides you can afford to be generous because you don't have to deal with him on a regular basis."

Laughing, Silas says, "You're right. Now go put on your robe or something so we can roam the halls and keep you relatively out of trouble."