Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.
Twenty-Eight
A Fox, Three Hens and a Toad
The chirping of crickets abruptly replaced the blaring car horns as Delphinia Daltry Apparated into the fragrant copse of trees in the village square. Air perfumed with a hint of apples was a welcome change from acrid exhaust fumes, but her ears practically rang from the profound silence. Quietude and peace, that’s why people moved into the countryside. Time for that when she was dead and buried, to Delphinia’s way of thinking. Bucolic was just another synonym for boring, make no mistake.
Of a certain indeterminate age when all her female friends had retired from the work force, she preferred to keep to her longtime position running the Quaff & Quibble concession stand in the Ministry of Magic’s courtyard. If that meant she couldn’t congregate with the “hens” as often as the others, what did it matter? Her arrival was always a heralded event as she brought the choicest commodity of all: news from the outside world. Overheard first-hand, uncensored, un-reinterpreted, and more often than not, unsubstantiated.
But that’s the way the others preferred it. Free to place their own spin on the facts, they often amused themselves with concocting scandalous scenarios which could be made to fit the few bits of data. It didn’t matter that they were mostly proven wrong when the true story was reported in the Prophet; none of them professed to any Seer blood. But in the rare instances their conjectures bore fruit, they could always boast that they had suspected it all along.
Applying a city dweller’s cynicism to the narrow lane that passed for the High Street in the hamlet of Quimby, she set out in search of Starling Lane. Her low boots rang against the cobblestones but another middle-aged woman attired in the quaint fashions of her youth was hardly noteworthy. If anything, Muggles eyed the brightly colored knitting peeking out of her carpetbag before politely averting their gaze.
Putting her trust in the Locator spell she had cast from the shadows, she soon found the street and proceeded to the mailbox labeled O’Dell. The white-washed cottage practically groaned under the weight of rose trellises that covered it on three sides.
“How utterly twee!” Delphinia muttered under her breath. “Whatever were you thinking, Opal?”
Their usual meeting place in Dottie’s spacious townhouse was out of the question these days, though. And ever since Mattie had been quoted in the Prophet, it was likely newshounds were watching her doorstep as well. Whatever had Dottie been thinking to stir up such a hornet’s nest? she considered rhetorically for the hundredth time.
“Look who’s here, girls!” Opal’s voice rang out gaily as she answered the bell. “We haven’t seen Finia in ages!”
They urged her to a comfy spot on the chintz sofa; more roses she noted in passing. In short order, she was sipping chamomile tea along with the others.
“What’s that you’re working on?” Mattie inquired as she glanced as the flashing knitting needles that worked magically along with the others on the far side of the room.
With a smirk, Dottie snorted, “Looks a bit like a jumper without a proper head opening! Has it been that long since you cast a proper knitting charm, dear?”
Delphinia didn’t let the good-natured ribbing faze her. If anyone had cause to be ashamed of her knitting it was Dottie “ nothing but amorphous lumps she claimed were doilies even though they couldn’t be flattened by the heaviest of geranium pots.
“It’s a tea cozy,” she volunteered. “The metallic threads are charmed to hold in the heat.”
“How clever!” Opal gushed. “I remember the stylish scarf and mittens you made in the fall with the same colorful mix.”
“Has it really been that long?” Finia remarked. “The weeks do fly by when you fall into a routine.”
“Do tell us you have news!” Opal urged as she passed a plate of almond tea cakes to her guests.
“Always,” Finia returned with a note of satisfaction. “Shall I start with the births “ or the pregnancies?”
Such favorite subjects kept their tongues just as busy as the knitting needles for the next hour.
“But I saved the best for last,” Finia added breathlessly. With the glorious May sunset beyond the jalousie windows, they had moved on to delicate glasses of clover honey wine. Into the hushed silence, she pronounced, “The Golden Trio actually convened for the first time in ages. At a table near the back where it was easiest to eavesdrop.”
“Golden Trio?” Dottie echoed with narrowed eyes. “Is that some new nickname?”
At times like these it was hard to believe Dottie herself had worked at the Ministry for years, Finia considered inwardly. Access to the entire building; and somehow, she never picked up on the latest slang. Too busy keeping her squat nose in the air to mess with the hoi-polloi, no doubt. Aloud, she offered, “Harry Potter himself and his two favorite mates from school.”
“The busybody with the bushy hair?” Dottie pressed eagerly. “Granger, isn’t it?”
Before Finia could do more than nod, Mattie interjected, “It’s Weasley now. She has a young daughter and everything.” Mattie’s niece worked in the social announcements section of Witch Weekly and often provided them with tidbits to supplement Finia’s.
“Just as Ron’s sister is now a Potter,” Opal observed with alacrity. “Although they brought all their magical powers to bear to avoid any news coverage of the wedding.”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Mattie gushed. “Harry Potter is expecting his first child! Oh, I just knew it.”
“Now don’t go jumping to conclusions,” Finia warned as she savored being the crux of the conversation.
“Not that it’s such a shocking development,” Opal announced. “An engagement of such scandalous length had to come to an end somehow.”
“Another ploy to refocus the world on him?” Dottie opined with pursed lips. “That Potter boy really should make up his mind. Does he want privacy or not?”
Finia jumped in before the rest of them got too far afield. “It was nothing of the kind! You lot are just determined to let your imaginations run wild; don’t you think you should hear their curious words first?”
“Oooh, a mystery,” Mattie crooned as she asked for a refill.
To her left, Dottie’s eyes squinted suspiciously.
With a showman’s skill, Finia outlined how Harry and Ron had arrived first and ordered Butterbeers all around. They were toasting each other repeatedly when Hermione arrived in a rush, waving a small sheet of parchment in triumph.
“I got it! Penny dug up a dictionary and pieced it together like a jigsaw!” she exclaimed as she scooted onto the seat next to her husband.
Finia sneaked a quick peek over Harry’s shoulder as she deposited another icy bottle before Hermione.
“What did it say?” Mattie breathed excitedly.
“I’m not rightly sure, the writing didn’t look familiar,” Finia considered with a small frown.
“So it was childish scribblings? A picture puzzle?” Dottie posed impatiently. “Really, Finia, spinning out the suspense makes for an entertaining evening, but you really should be more exact!”
“I only got a brief glance,” Finia shot back, her feathers ruffled.
“Whole governments have crumbled for less!” Dottie asserted. “Don’t tell me I’m going to have to Floo home for my Pensieve.”
“I thought you left all that behind when you resigned your Ministry post,” Finia grumbled lowly.
In contrast, Opal sympathized, “How you must miss not being in the thick of things now that you’re retired.”
With the sharp wit that made her such an enjoyable companion, Mattie volunteered, “Conducting interrogations from your parlor now, Dottie? We’d love to be included in the spectator section.”
As she joined in with the cackles surrounding her, Dolores Umbridge considered how she could maintain the innocent demeanor that would draw Finia out. “A Pensieve can be right handy,” she simpered sweetly. “You know how absent-minded we can all be at times.”
Opal nodded morosely. “Like going to the market and leaving my list on the kitchen counter.”
“Forgetting birthdays,” Finia commiserated.
“All you need is a Pensieve,” Dottie supplied. “Why I was able to recreate a complicated knitting pattern I only glanced at when someone left it behind on the train platform.”
“Might’ve been simpler to buy the book,” Mattie put forth matter-of-factly.
“Not in this case,” Dottie drew out her fabrication with an expert’s finesse. “These were from a Muggle magazine -- and quite a complicated version of the popcorn stitch, at that. I’m still working out the spell that replicates it.”
“You won’t forget to share, will you?” Opal urged with wide-eyed anticipation.
“Of course not, Opal darling,” Dottie oozed. “But I believe Finia had the floor before we got off track.” With an encouraging smile, she addressed herself to Finia, “Now take a deep breath, dear. Clear your mind; and as you let the air out of your lungs, it should all come into focus.”
“Oh yes!” Finia exclaimed with mounting excitement. “It’s more symbols than letters, rather like that inscription at the base of the golden statue in the Atrium.”
Ancient Greek? Dottie wondered. That didn’t make any sense. “Did the parchment appear old and ragged as if it had been buried in the ground?”
“No,” Finia responded with eyes still closed in concentration. “It’s not Greek, either. Some of the letters seem more like symbols from a Potions book.”
Opal had been the whiz at Potions; said it was just like whipping up a sponge cake without the use of magic. All heads turned in her direction.
“A recipe of some sort? But in a different language,” she guessed.
Finia’s eyes lit up. “Yes, they referred to Dobby liking recipes. Who’s Dobby?”
Ruddy, interfering house-elf, Dolores thought to herself but kept silent. “What else did they say?” she prompted. “The answer may work itself out yet.”
Finia nodded eagerly as she narrated what she’d witnessed.
“Dobby will be thrilled!” Harry laughed. “He was so excited with the crate of caviar, but then crestfallen when he couldn’t read any of the enclosed recipes.”
“Kingsley sure was mighty chuffed,” Hermione gloated as they toasted each other once again.
“Although you could’ve warned me, mate.” Ron gave Harry a reproachful look which dissolved almost instantly into a wide grin. “Didn’t quite know what to make of it when I found a summons from the Head Auror on my desk this morning.”
“What, Ronald? Afraid you were being assigned a detention?” Hermione issued with an effervescent laugh. “Guilty conscience?”
“I can’t imagine he was too pleased about being woken up by a silver giraffe galloping across the steppes “ even if it was just his bed linens.” Harry volunteered then begged their pardon when he was overcome with a huge yawn.
“What time did Remus wake you this morning?” Hermione inquired sympathetically.
“Before daybreak,” Harry attested with a grimace. “I’m not certain I could have focused on the clock if my life depended on it.”
“That’s what you get for leaving him a note saying we solved it,” Ron mused. “His mind churns even in his sleep.”
“I’m certain he wanted to confer with Harry before going down to breakfast with his children,” Hermione corrected. “You did tell him that it was his reference to Spanish that proved…”
“Of course,” Harry affirmed. “But he still insisted that we claim most of the credit.”
“But surely he came to the same conclusion himself!” Hermione reproved.
“But he wasn’t able to connect the Toad to the werewolf,” Ron chuckled with triumph. “Viktor really came through for us.”
“Credit Hermione for that!” Harry beamed as the clinking of bottles was heard once again.
“Couldn’t have done it without Remus’ insight,” Hermione insisted with modesty coloring her cheeks. “He’s the linguistics expert…”
Finia continued rattling off the nauseating way they kept congratulating one another, but Dolores was focused on those two words: the Toad. With a grim set to her fleshy lips, her memory took her back to those thankless days she had spent patrolling the halls of Hogwarts. Oh, she’d heard the insults “ and worse! “ mumbled in her wake; although she never let on that they had pierced her armor. That would just be allowing the enemy to get a toehold and she’d be damned if she’d succumb to their pettiness.
The Scottish foothills must breed such infantile behavior as the school faculty hadn’t been much better. Not that the other teachers had been so indiscreet to give voice to such rubbish, but she could tell what they were thinking in the depths of their stingy little hearts. Why Minerva McGonagall fairly fried her spectacles with lightning bolts every time she turned in Dolores’ direction. Such a willful and intractable woman. Even the unflappable Severus Snape had been rendered even more pallid by the loathing he kept bottled up in her presence.
And now the Hapless Trio, as she preferred to think of them, was back at it again. Thinking they had the world at their feet thanks to that cur, Remus Lupin. Why if he’d been on staff when she’d reviewed the Hogwarts curriculum, she wouldn’t have hesitated to snap a flea color ‘round his worthless neck. How she would have relished booting his mangy carcass down the front slope and into one of Hagrid’s stockades where he belonged. Half-breeds mingling together for all to see! Albus wouldn’t have been able to prevent her, either, not with the Ministry’s Educational Decrees to back her up.
But now that she was retired, that disreputable mongrel couldn’t help stirring up more trouble, always sniffing about where he didn’t belong. Dumbledore’s pet werewolf or not, Lupin was not above the law. After all, Dumbledore was dead as dust while she, Dolores Umbridge, was not without her connections. So they thought they’d had the last laugh, did they?
Noticing that the conversation had wound down around her, Dolores deliberately wiped all emotion from her face. Too late, though, as Opal asked, “Is something the matter, Dottie? You looked out of sorts for a moment there.”
“No, nothing, dear,” Dolores replied with a meek smile. “Just remembering that I left the last of supper on my counter without a preservative charm over it.”
Amid the knowing chuckles, Finia commiserated, “Like we haven’t all done the same at least two or three times this month!”
“Why don’t I open that bottle of pomegranate brandy I brought for a treat?” Mattie suggested.
But before she could get to her feet, Dottie volunteered, “Oh, let me. I’ve lost the train of the conversation as it is. You can catch me up when I return from the kitchen.”
In the background, she could hear them resume gossiping about the dreadfully entertaining interview the WWN had broadcast on Saturday. Fairly kept them glued to their seats with that rough maniac’s voice blaring forth. They couldn’t even agree on that, Dolores noted sourly. Mattie sensibly insisted that the voice had been altered to protect its anonymity, while Finia ruminated on whether the author was really a werewolf or whether that was just a ploy to increase book sales. Opal was waxing about the hardships that he must have endured due to his lousy lot in life.
“If only he wasn’t so arrogant!” Finia decried. “I hate men who think the whole world hangs on their every word.”
That seemed to be the only thing on which they concurred as the conversation shifted to the many foibles of men in general. A favorite subject that always ended with Opal stating unequivocally that her Wilbur had not been anything like all those other men while the rest of them just rolled their eyes.
Dolores took her time in the kitchen, consuming a half-glass of the brandy to make certain that it was not defective in any manner before returning to the sitting room. It had served to calm her nerves as it hardened her resolve that much more, but the others hardly noticed. They were too engrossed in a drawn out conjecture about the amphibious chatelaine and the self-effacing werewolf.
It was all Dolores could do to keep from choking on her brandy as she drained her glass. With a well-practiced swish of her wand, she directed the bottle to settle itself on the low table before the tittering hens.
In retrospect, Remus concluded that he should have expected it. Sera was just as outspoken as Tonks “ and for the first time in her life, had a rather privileged existence. But as he sat in his office organizing his class notes on that surprisingly cool May afternoon, it came as a complete surprise.
Despite the cheery fire burning in the inner office, very little warmth penetrated to his desk in the next room. He’d tried closing the door to the empty corridor, but the cold of the derelict castle leached its way past the wood regardless. Tomorrow, it would warm up with the bodies of the students returning from their long weekend and he’d welcome the quiet oasis the closed door offered. But today, it was too much like a monastic cell, he decided, as he blindly directed his wand to open the door once more.
“Did you see us approaching in a Foe Glass, perhaps?” Sera’s eyes smiled at him from the open doorway. Next to her, the ambassador’s raised fist showed he had been about to knock.
Recovering quickly, Remus offered, “Please come inside.” He clasped the ambassador’s hand solicitously as he made his way around the desk. “It’s an honor, your Excellency.”
Michel Thierry’s aristocratic features were softened by a warm smile. “Please, we are all friends here. You must call me, Michel.”
“Remus, then,” he echoed. “Bonjour.”
“As much as I’d like to respond in kind, Sera would feel left out,” Michel replied lightly.
Remus followed the familiar formula. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Michel had a free weekend and Scotland beckoned,” Sera returned in a sprightly manner. “That and Serenity has been sending the most amusing owls about the antics of your children.”
“They can be a right handful,” Remus allowed with a hint of embarrassment. “Serenity’s facility with French just means that they can plot with her in private. I didn’t recruit her to be a baby-sitter; please don’t think that.”
“Of course not,” Michel assured him. “No doubt my daughter was a willing participant. This glorious castle must present all sorts of possibilities.” In a low voice, he confided, “I was a bit of a miscreant myself. My wife, of course, was a model student.”
“Hardly,” Sera scoffed. “Luckily, Serenity has no trouble applying herself to her studies.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Michel offered as he cupped his wife’s elbow. “The Headmistress…”
“Don’t let me keep you from a previous appointment,” Remus conceded. “Minerva sets a glorious tea; the best in over-blown British propriety.”
“I’ll join you in a moment, darling,” Sera demurred. “I wanted a private word with Remus.”
“I expected as much. A bientôt, Professor.” Turning briskly on his heel, Michel took the nearest staircase two steps at a time.
Sensing Sera’s hesitancy once they were alone, Remus urged, “Something about Serenity?”
“Not really, but a personal matter nonetheless,” Sera admitted softly.
“Say no more,” Remus returned as he gestured towards the confines of the inner office. “A chair by the fire, perhaps?”
By the soft light of the single mullioned window, the cordovan leather armchairs glowed in the firelight. Sera ran an appraising fingertip along the waxed surface of the nearest sideboard.
“Such traditional trappings for an academic,” she began as if dreading to broach the subject at hand. “I envisioned something different from Serenity’s description.”
Remus smiled indulgently. “That’s because Zen prefers to work in here,” he explained, pushing open the far door that revealed the private dining room.
A tiny intake of breath indicated that the mother was equally captivated by the buttery yellow wainscoting and the semi-circular window seat. With the extra windows, the feeble sunlight was coaxed to a warm glow on the polished oak of the small dining table.
“We often work through afternoon tea at this very table,” Remus expounded. “The rounded turret is easy for my children to distinguish; its glow often acting like a beacon if they’re outside.”
Retreating once again into the cozy sitting area, Remus offered, “It’s not usually this quiet at the weekend; but today, a large section of the students are away. Hadn’t Serenity made plans as well?”
Sera issued him a small smile as she accepted the armchair he indicated. “She’s at a seaside amusement park with Cecily’s family and a small group of other girls from her House. We met them for dinner last night and it was clear they were making the most of their last hurrah.”
Remus nodded genially. “Minerva’s Almost-Summer Weekend has proven to be a very popular innovation. Students return with a clear head to attack their final challenges.”
Sera gazed out at the somnolent shores of the Black Lake just visible at the far edge of the sloping lawn. “Didn’t any of them remain behind?”
“Those facing their O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. examinations in scarcely a month’s time see this weekend as an early warning bell, which I suppose it is. The Headmistress will proudly confirm that test scores have improved since many employ these bonus days to begin their serious revising. Today, the fickle Scottish weather has them trapped in their common rooms or the library, though.”
Granted, grousing about the weather often seemed like a national pastime, but Remus sincerely doubted that was the point of Sera’s visit. Hoping to ease the nagging worry beginning to tug at him, he offered her a small glass of sherry.
“How quintessentially British,” she returned, indicating her surroundings.
He chuckled in response. “Only the surface trappings, I’m afraid. I developed a new appreciation for sherry during my stay in Spain last summer. It’s only in our country that it’s associated with stuffy Victorian matrons.”
“And just how am I supposed to take that, Professor?” she teased.
“I’m not that kind of wolf.”
“Nor am I that sort of bird.”
In his heyday Sirius would likely have categorized Sera as a vixen, Remus decided, but wisely kept silent.
After sharing a convivial laugh, Sera seemed to finally make up her mind. “I’ve consented to give Witch Weekly the interview they’ve been clamoring for,” she began. “Only it won’t be the usual fluff about the ambassador’s young wife. I intend to relay the tale of how I came to be bitten.”
Remus nearly choked on his wine. “Is that wise? What’s to keep them from sensationalizing your words?”
“The contract that Michel insisted his solicitor prepare. Sensing a scoop, the magazine was only too happy to lock itself in.”
“So your husband’s in favor of this?”
“He supports my decision. What’s the point of being in the public eye if you don’t try to change things for the better?”
“Are you going to mention the internment camps?”
“Absolutely! That’s at the forefront of people’s minds right now.”
“Please don’t think I don’t admire “ and support”your decision as well,” Remus offered diplomatically.
“But?”
With a weary sigh, he admitted to his misgivings, “Just promise me, you’ll keep my name out of it. Hogwarts is not ready to weather such a scandal.” He didn’t mention how closely they’d avoided it years ago when Pettigrew’s inconvenient appearance had led him to re-scramble his priorities.
“But surely everyone here already knows?”
“Only because Minerva treats it was a totally routine matter -- and points to the diversity already present on the faculty with Hagrid, Flitwick and Filch.” Thank Merlin, Minerva had insisted on having a back-up plan when she took over as Headmistress, he thought to himself.
“You fear the outside world pressing in,” Sera handily summarized.
“Precisely, outside influences might demand that the Headmistress approach things differently.”
Sera leaned over and squeezed his hand in assurance. “Don’t worry; Bridget said much the same thing. That her nephew had enough on his plate without being tossed into ‘the rabid milieu of career gossipmongers.’ Her words exactly.”
“Bridget always knew how to milk a phrase,” Remus chuckled.
“I’m certain she thinks me totally rash, but I assure you Michel stands behind me one hundred percent. He’s made a career of questioning conventional attitudes; what’s one more?”
“Then you’re ready to weather the scandal?”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “The foreign office lives for scandal. Surely, you remember the incident with Jamie Arbuckle last year?”
It took Remus a moment to recall the incident. “That elderly chap whose brother was accused of having a gender change? Why would anyone care after all these years?”
With a mischievous lilt, she supplied, “I suppose because he often brought Melinda as his companion to Embassy functions.”
Remus couldn’t stop himself from laughing outright. “Was her attire so outrageous everyone assumed she was a cross-dresser?”
“No, she was often photographed as being the epitome of fashion. That’s what galled them the most: that homely little Melvin had transformed himself into a swan.”
“You have to realize it won’t be quite so ludicrous in your situation, Sera,” Remus cautioned softly.
“Michel is convinced that no other career diplomat will want to have his private prejudices exposed for the world’s dissection.”
Remus doubted that such enforced enlightenment had worked with Scrimgeour, but kept silent. Sera might be right about the liberal attitudes in diplomatic circles. After all, it was easier to disguise stuffy customs within the staid halls of the British bureaucracy than among the differing cultural attitudes of the world at large.
“Not meaning to be indelicate,” Remus ventured, “but have you considered how this might impact Serenity? Not everyone is as open-minded as the Headmistress would like. Classmates may not voice unacceptable feelings before the faculty, but constant supervision is impossible.”
“She supports my decision as well.”
Remus sighed. “Oh, if only life were so simple.”
“Then why complicate it?” To his pointed look, Sera added, “The contract includes a premise prohibiting questions deemed too personal.”
“You won’t be able to enforce it; too vague.” Pressing the point, he enumerated, “What do you consider too personal? Questions about your parents? Your early years growing up? Your previous engagement? Your sex life?”
Only the slightest waver in Sera’s gaze indicated that he’d succeeded in unnerving her. “Why I suppose all those things,” she stammered.
Leaning forward for emphasis, he counseled, “I guarantee you the reporter will take a much broader view. After all, their readers are bound to be curious about all those subjects. And believe me, asking about your children will seem like a tame question in comparison to what you may convince them to side-step.”
“I’m not one to back out, Remus.”
He offered her a conspiratorial smile. “I’m not suggesting you do. But if you want to keep them away from issues about Serenity, you’ll need to refocus their attention elsewhere.”
“How can my bombshell about being a werewolf not be enough?”
“Because the minute you say ‘no comment’ to a subject, a reporter becomes convinced you have something to hide.”
“If you’re suggesting that I should be ashamed about the circumstances of Serenity’s birth --”
Interjecting smoothly, he placated, “I’m not one for provincial attitudes. But by denying them that one kernel, you will make an interviewer worth his salt want to dig that much deeper.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“Surely you recall that Harry’s wife, Ginny, is employed by the WWN. She’s been working behind the scenes on the werewolf interviews.”
“The one from Azkaban?”
“And the one pitting Umbridge against the Minister for Magic.”
“Oh.” Sera chewed her lip anxiously in the intervening silence. “Then what do you propose I do? I don’t want to hurt Serenity’s feelings by denying that I have any children. If anything, I’ve tried to keep her out of the public eye…”
“Forgive me for overstepping, but is that why she still bears your maiden name?”
Sera nodded wordlessly. “Michel suggested we leave things as they were on her birth certificate for reasons of security. Serenity understands that. Michel loves her just as much as if she were his natural child.”
“Then that’s the key to redirecting the interviewer’s attention,” he announced with certainty.
“You lost me on that one.”
“Let them focus on your marriage. So when the inevitable question arises about children, all you have to do is assume that it’s in reference to you and Michel.”
With a slight wince, Sera admitted, “I’m not certain I could pull that off.”
“Of course you can! Just hesitate in that same self-conscious manner you did earlier.”
“Is that what you thought I was going to tell you? That I was pregnant?”
“Honestly? No. A woman doesn’t make such an announcement without her husband at her side. Unless you were going to suggest I might’ve had a hand in it.”
The color rose to Sera’s cheeks but she laughed it off. “The problem is that Michel and I aren’t planning on having children.”
“That’s hardly surprising,” Remus attested. “Don’t forget I saw the look of abject fear on your face when Bridget explained the complications in a werewolf pregnancy.”
“It might’ve been different if I didn’t already have a child.”
“Or if you’d been a man, like me.”
“I hadn’t planned on steering the interview in that direction at all,” she considered. “Rather hoped to avoid those subjects entirely “ at least for now.”
“I agree. Best not to overwhelm the public all at once.” At her dubious frown, he elaborated, “It’s not as difficult as it seems. Just leave the werewolf issue until the end of the interview when the reporter has already gone through the list of prepared questions.”
“There’s bound to be follow-up questions after my announcement,” she countered.
“You can depend on that. But the reporter won’t have the luxury of having thought them out carefully. Excitement at the sheer audacity of the revelation will take over. Let the issue of children arise in the early stages so you can stammer something about how you haven’t been blessed in that area.”
“I hate women like that,” she pronounced flatly.
“I don’t doubt it,” he chuckled in response. “But it’s the expected reply and consequently won’t be questioned. Once you’ve put that issue to rest, there won’t be a need to revisit it later.”
She looked at him over the rim of her glass as she considered the wisdom of his advice. “What makes you such an expert at such things? By your own admission, you’ve always preferred to stay in the background.”
Remus took a moment to compose his thoughts. “The objective of an interview is no different from that of an interrogation: to convince your subject to tell you as much as possible. If you can draw him out, he’ll tell you things he never intended, things he may later regret.”
“Are you really that cynical?” Her almond eyes bored into his.
“Pragmatic,” he corrected. “But what you need to remember is that sometimes it’s the subject who manipulates his questioner -- instead of the other way around.”
“You still think there might be some repercussions with Serenity,” she surmised.
“Only if they associate the article with her. The different surnames will help keep that to a minimum.”
With her next words, she confirmed his suspicion that their visit had not been as randomly selected as she would have others think. “As does the fact that today we’re less likely to attract anyone’s attention.”
“All points in your favor to be sure.”
“I sense another ‘but’ straining to be set free.”
“Perhaps you should ask Harry how much be enjoyed growing up in a fishbowl. His forthrightness can be rather disarming.”
“How can you compare a world on the brink of war with a time of peace?” she cried.
“Because pettiness and hatred lurk in the shadows,” he affirmed with quiet fervor. “Those attitudes may only feel safe coming forth during times of upheaval, but they are never fully vanquished, either.”
Sera gazed regretfully at the bottom of her glass. “As much as I’d like to continue this discussion, Remus, who knows how Michel is faring with the Headmistress?”
Remus smiled in return. “Famously, I’d say. They will be talking up a virtual Gallic storm without feeling as if they’re shutting you out.”
“Minerva speaks French?”
“It was a requirement of young ladies when she attended school,” he explained. “Keeping up with Rabbit and Spook gives her practice, but it will be a treat to engage an adult in conversation.”
“Will she be plying him with sherry?”
Such cheekiness elicited a deep chuckle in response. “Irish whiskey is her preference; although the hot toddies are mostly reserved for cold, rainy days.”
“Which are rather the norm in Scotland, no?”
“Unfortunately. But on the cusp of summer, she will likely have flavored his tea with Limoncello. Enzo claims it’s the only thing that makes the English obsession with tea remotely palatable. The Heads were easily converted to his Tuscan ways.”
“Then surely you’ll join us,” Sera offered as she rose to her feet.
“You really should alert Minerva of your plans for Witch Weekly. Just in case it impacts Serenity,” he took care to advise before opening the door into the deserted corridor.
“You think it might affect the entire school,” she breathed as she ducked under his outstretched arm.
Remus offered her a reassuring smile. “Since it’s your intent to shake the wizarding world, that shouldn’t surprise you.”
She turned to look him directly in the eye. “You think I’m a gullible fool, don’t you?”
“An idealist,” he amended as he indicated the staircase before it changed direction. “It’s the way I try to approach much of life. I just can’t seem to muster it when it comes to werewolf issues.”
“Do you hate yourself that much?” she sympathized.
“I hate the way the world sees me, Sera. But I won’t deride your attempts to change that.”
“Thanks. Especially for the insider advice.”
“Anytime. But before we get too far afield, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Should I be worried?” she quipped.
His laughter rang in the empty stairwell. “Not really. It’s just that Bridget always finds her way into our conversations and then we get side-tracked. Later, I always regret not asking after her.”
“Mending fences?”
“Perhaps. Do you two still keep in touch?”
“Her nephew moves in the same diplomatic circles as my husband so it comes rather naturally.”
As they wound their way upward past long rows of portraits who whispered in their wake, Sera explained how Bridget was currently at loose ends. Now that her grand-nephew, Tin, was away at primary school, Bridget’s nephew had accepted a mission to Sri Lanka. One week into their quixotic new surroundings and Bridget begged to be allowed to return to British soil. Since their flat had already been let out, she refurbished the small rural cottage where she’d lived with her sister, Emily, until the latter’s death. That gave Tin a retreat during the minor holidays that peppered the school year. What Bridget hadn’t counted on was how she would spend the weeks between his visits.
“I’m certain she’d be pleased to hear from you, Remus,” Sera confided. “I wager you didn’t know she’d attended Hogwarts in her youth.”
“Would she have been acquainted with the Headmistress then?”
Sera shook her dark bob as she waited for the next set of stairs to realign. “She insists Dumbledore was still teaching Transfigurations. But she recounted the most amusing tale to Serenity over Christmas.”
“Truth or embellishment?” Remus asked with an arched eyebrow.
Sera laughed. “With Bridget, it’s hard to tell. Perhaps you can be the judge.”
With that she launched into a tale of the newest instructor who had just joined the faculty, a rather bumbling fellow with a shy smile that immediately established him in the hearts of all the adolescent schoolgirls. Bertie, they called him privately, and often watched with wide eyes from behind their books as he did his best to court the stern librarian.
“That sounds a lot like Irma Pince,” Remus chuckled lowly.
“Haven’t had the pleasure “ yet,” Sera confided. “But in Bertie’s mind, she was the fair Imogene, princess from a distant kingdom comprised entirely of books.”
“No wonder he was unsuccessful,” Remus interjected, knowing the librarian preferred to live alone in a nearby cottage overrun with boisterous corgi dogs.
Bridget had acknowledged that perhaps those flowery words were more in the over-romantic minds of her friends. But it was hard not to sympathize with poor Bertie, stuck all alone in the Scottish highlands with all those terrible allergies he suffered. In the warm spring months, his classroom windows were always shut tight to keep out the pollen. Much too stuffy as summer drew near and students were often drowsy in their seats. The blustery fall days would send him into paroxysms of coughing as the biting wind wormed its way past any chink in the castle walls.
Remarkably, Bertie loved winter. The purity of the snow seemed to clear the atmosphere of toxins and he was often found building whimsical snow sculptures on the lawn beneath the small windows interspersed between the library bookshelves. A feeble attempt to catch Princess Imogene’s attention that only resulted in her chucking all the students congregating around the windows into the hallway. As they tumbled laughing out into the yard to help Bertie with his latest snow maze or to add horns of pussy willow to his fanciful train of reindeer, Irma’s pinched face could be seen staring at them from above. Bertie would smile and wave “cheerio” as her lips would purse into a thin line before turning away.
“A cautionary tale of unrequited love,” Remus summarized.
Sera shrugged playfully. “Bridget admitted he wasn’t a very effective teacher, not unless you were intent on catching a quick nap. But he never scolded anybody for that, just stepped over the splayed legs with a small sigh of acceptance for his lot in life.”
“And Bridget claims that’s a true story?”
“So she told Serenity. Although after all these years, she claimed that the man’s name had slipped from her mind just as much as his pointless lessons.”
It could be a fabrication, Remus considered; although Bridget usually wove from a kernel of truth. “Did she happen to tell Serenity what subject the man taught? Muggle Studies perhaps?”
“What makes you think that?” Sera postulated as they reached the long gallery that connected the east and west parapets of the castle.
“Just a father and son team that taught a number of years ago. The father was already ancient by the time Tonks was in school and the son retired not long after I started to teach myself.”
“I suppose it’s possible, Bridget didn’t really say. I think she was waiting for Serenity to ask, but she never did. You know how children are more prone to the unexpected than not.”
“Did she elaborate on any of the lessons?” he posed.
“Can’t stand a puzzle, can you?” Sera teased.
“I can feel this one is just beyond my grasp “ and that’s too tantalizing for words.”
Sera gave him an indulgent look. “She did mention how he’d drone on about the line of succession so he could have been talking about the Muggle peerage.”
“Or horse-breeding,” Remus scoffed only to send her into gales of laughter.
“With the man’s allergies, he would never have been in charge of Magical Creatures!” she countered.
“Or Herbology,” Remus concurred. “Ancient Runes is a possibility...”
“Pillages and plundering?” Sera posited. “She did say that his monotone could leech excitement out of the goriest battle scenes, as if he were trying to sanitize the stench of blood from the very air.”
Remus doubled over with laughter as the solution hit him square in the face. “Could the man’s first name have been Cuthbert?”
“Sounds just like a milquetoast name that would suit such a gormless chap,” Sera agreed. “Do you know anyone by that name?”
“Binns,” Remus wheezed between his laughter. “Teaches Magical History since time immemorial. Still does.” Inwardly he mused, count one for James who always maintained that a man who had witnessed the events first-hand would have described them with more gusto. Clearly Binns was not as ancient as everyone supposed.
“Should we invite him to take tea with the Headmistress?” she suggested taking a step towards the intersecting corridor.
“Hardly. The man was so boring that, rumor has it, he died in the middle of his lessons and no one was the wiser “ including him. Now that he’s a ghost, he never pesters the school for a rise in salary and is content to limit himself to haunting his own classroom.”
“You’re having me on!” Sera protested.
“If only,” Remus laughed. “Ask Zen if you don’t believe me. What’s so ironic is that now his metabolism “ or its ethereal counterpart “ manages to keep the room icy cold year-round. If the school was situated in a warmer climate, we could use him as the wizarding equivalent of a central air-conditioning unit!”
“All the more reason you should recount the final chapter to Bridget yourself,” Sera concluded just as the imposing gargoyles guarding the Headmistress’ office came into view. “I’ll scribble down her address so you can send her an owl.”