Hogwarts' Spy

Dawn eventually came, and as the light of a glorious sun bathed the school grounds, two Aurors walked to the gates. They met with two of their colleagues, discussed a few matters briefly and Disapparated to the Ministry, eager to write a brief report on -in one case, at least- an uneventful night, before they would Disapparate again to the warm comfort of their flats. Life began to stir inside the castle, from the depths of its dungeons to the lonely tops of its towers, and the Great Hall gates soon started to witness the usual procession of students and staff members.

Professor Sprout came in first; the sleeves of her robes were already a bit dusty from the early planting she had done in the green house. She was followed shortly later by Professor Slughorn, who never showed late for any meal; he was conversing with Professor Vector, the Arithmancy teacher. Professor Snape showed up next, menacingly draped in a typical morning grouchiness and as determined as ever to remain silent until he had drowned his second cup of black tea (which usually did not help matters much anyway). Slowly, the seats were filled by students who came in various states of alertness and whose animated chattering entwined with the warm morning light that radiated through the room's tall windows. Professor McGonagall arrived barely seconds before breakfast was served. Her features were almost as drawn as those of Professor Sinistra when she was running an astronomy research project. Professor Dumbledore was already pouring her a cup of tea; he seemed somewhat preoccupied.

A few meters away, at the Gryffindor table, everything was following the usual routine. The Creevey brothers discussed some topic excitedly, other girls giggled over a Potions book, and a red-haired adolescent stabbed some scrambled eggs on his plate while the young witch sitting next to him unfolded the Daily Prophet before her. Next to them on the other side of the table, a young, round-faced wizard with hazelnut eyes and freckles fumbled in his school bag with a distressed restlessness.

"What have you forgotten this time, Neville?" asked Ron, trying not to send the contents of his mouth flying in all directions.

"I don't always forget things," protested the mild-tempered wizard softly. "I think I lost something."

"Now that's something we haven't heard before!" sniggered Ron, to which Harry and Ginny, who were sitting across from him, snorted in reply.

"What have you lost, Neville," intervened Hermione calmly, looking up from her newspapers for an instant. "Something important?"

"Nothing important..." mumbled Neville distractedly. "Just an essay."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Hermione in alarm. "Something that was due today?"

"No... I said it was not important."

"You don't look like it's nothing important," retorted Ginny, leaning over the table to peek into the worsening mess of Neville's bag.

"Try retracing your steps," suggested Hermione, seeing Ginny's point. "Where were you yesterday evening?"

"I know where I've lost it!" he softly exclaimed, dropping his bag on the floor. "We were all studying in the library when I wrote it... I must have left it there. I hope Madam Pince found it and kept it safe..."

"What was it about?" asked Harry. "If it's the DADA assignment, I could give you a hand if you need to rewrite it."

"It was not a... school assignment," stammered the young wizard, his ears reddening ever so slightly. "The DADA assignment was about camouflage charms, and that gave me an idea. What I wrote is about something between spying and observing.... Not really school stuff. But even if it's lost, I'm sure I'll have plenty of inspiration to write a longer one soon..."

"Really, Neville!" chastised Hermione, the only one whose puzzled expression was mixed with reproach. "I barely have time to read; where do you find the time to write non-assigned essays?"

"As I said, it's not important," protested Neville with a strange self-confidence despite the amused look Harry and Ron exchanged beside him. "I didn't ask you to understand..."

Indeed, there were things, for a change, that Neville saw, felt and understood while neither of them did. Even in this moment, as his friends were going back to their breakfast, many things were happening. Harry had surreptitiously become left-handed; his free hand seemed rooted to the table, as close as it could be to Ginny's arm, which seemed to suffer momentarily from the same affliction. Hermione could comment on his scholarly devotion at will; she still did not feel the fiery warmth of Ron's glance on the side of her neck as she turned back to the latest edition of the Daily Prophet.

Life is a bottomless well of inspiration... and human minds and hearts, blank pages waiting to be written on, provided that they know how to be touched and shaken. Writing again was, undeniably, just a matter of time.

~)*(~