(4) The Girl Who Hated Severus Snape

Madam Rosemerta was quick to approach the back door of the Three Broomsticks tavern when she heard what sounded like paws scratching the oak panels. She was still in her dressing gown that early Saturday morning, her hands tidying up her loose hair as her green eyes shown with a sparkle of anticipation.

"Have you changed back?" she asked with her cheek to the bolted door. "You know I'm allergic to short-haired dogs."

She heard a tired sort of chuckle. "You'll take me as I am," said the familiar voice.

Rosemerta drew back the dead-bolt and gave the door a quick tap with her wand.

"Right, then. I'm decent. Come in."

She pulled the door open, letting in a chilly draft and the dark-clad figure of a man with long tangled hair and the general look of one who is leading a rough life.

"I'll just whip you up some breakfast before the kitchen help arrives," said Rosemerta. "We've an hour before-- oh hmm!" Her laugh ended on a sigh as Sirius embraced her. He gave her an impassioned kiss that did not surprise her so much as alerting her to the possibilities she had been daydreaming about for the past month.

Sirius went over to the stove to warm his hands. "Did that Minsky girl come round yet?" he asked. "I saw her grandfather the other day, here in Hogsmeade when I was chasing a stray cat."

"You refer to Igor Spassky," said Rosemerta, still feeling the glow of the kiss. "He's become a regular here. Most afternoons he comes by. It's been almost three weeks since he brought Alice with him. I've fresh eggs and bacon. Would that suit you? Toast and hot coffee to round it out."

Sirius smiled at her a little crookedly. "You'll forgive me for being so impetuous. And acting so instinctively. That's how dogs are, you know. And it's been so long since..." He threw himself down in a chair at the prep table. "Tell me, will Fudge be having his meeting with Dumbledore here? Has he responded to your invitation?"

Rosemerta paused to get her thoughts in order. She went to the shelf by the stove and selected a frying pan. "He told me he'd be meeting with Minerva McGonagall, and that Hagrid would join them, for what reason I don't recall."

Sirius sat up, his face brightening. "The animagus angle, possibly. Hagrid suspected us Marauders of shape-changing. Fudge will want to look into that idea. Somehow I've got to make him or McGonagall realize it was Peter who killed all those muggles, and that I'm bloody well innocent. But how to swing it? And I'm positive now that Peter's at Hogwarts, living a rat's life."

Rosemerta cracked an egg, staring at him doubtfully. "I could bring up the idea about Peter Pettigrew hiding out at the school, but of course everyone thinks you killed him. They would wonder why I'd think such a thing, that Peter's alive and keeping to his rat form."

"I know," Sirius said dejectedly, running a hand through his hair.

"There's talk that you're out to kill Harry Potter," Rosemerta remarked in an amused tone. "Professor Trelawney swears she saw a Grim in Potter's tea cup. I just can't see her being much help to us. Oh, she thinks the raven is the servant of a Ministry official assigned to locate you, and that Alice was sent to Hogwarts to assist him. Ha. What a dunce that Trelawney is, so easy to manipulate. And maybe that's the problem. She's too easily fooled."

Sirius shook his head, exasperated.
Then with a sour grin he leaned back in his chair and let out a long hiss of satisfaction. "I may not be able to clear my name for awhile yet, or get my hands on Wormtail, but by God I'll have Snivellus Snape in the ground before long."

He studied Rosemerta's reaction to that. She hurried her cooking, laying out strips of bacon and putting bread slices in the toaster. It was all so homey, this muggle way of doing things. Sirius supposed it was therapeutic for her to eschew magic and do things in the squib fashion. Then she was waving a spatula and giving him a worried smile.

"I think, Sirius, that you have a loyal co-conspirator in Alice Minsky. She hates Severus as much as you do, if that's possible."

"Can you blame her? Snape killed her father."

"Gunther Minsky was a Death Eater who tried to usurp Snape's authority. Wasn't it a fair duel?"

"There's nothing fair about Snape!" said Sirius hotly.

He rubbed his face, letting his breath out forcefully. "Forgive me."

He dropped his hands, looking around at the cluttered kitchen. How sorely he missed living a civilized human life. Regrets welled up in him, but he pushed them away and said, "Look, Snape knew it was Peter who had gone over to Voldemort. How could he not know? He didn't lift a finger to aid me when I was charged with those murders."

Rosemerta almost said, 'Can you blame him?' But she thought better of that. It hardly mattered to her now. The kiss was still fresh in her mind and all her erogenous zones were afire.

She slipped eggs and bacon onto a plate. When she set it on the table, she asked, uncharacteristically shy, "Can you come back tonight, after the tavern closes?"

The gleam in his eyes was answer enough.

Snape adjusted his woolen neckscarf and buttoned the collar of his black overcoat as a fresh fall of snow came obliquely on the wind, later that same morning.

He had been following Trelawney, keeping a discreet distance behind her. The main street of Hogsmeade displayed its usual weekend traffic, the horse-drawn carts and thestral carriages, the magic folk from the nearby muggle towns, a smattering of school personnel, a few students who were apparently uninterested in the upcoming Quidditch matches; so it wasn't difficult for Snape to keep an eye on the Divination teacher as she hurried along the boardwalk as quickly as the slippery ice allowed.

He stood in the recessed doorway of Honeydukes and watched her enter the Three Broomsticks. For a moment he seemed indecisive. He waited for a group of people to pass by, people bundled warmly, their breath making little spouts of fog. Then he went around behind the building.

Snape was alone among the trash bins. He took out his wand and made a peculiar gesture with it. In the next instant he was chastising himself for a fool.

The audible holographic spell he had cast on the upper floor of the Three Broomsticks the year before was in need of renewal. The physical spell component he had placed in the corner guest room that allowed for the spell's activation was either missing or had weakened over time. It had served him well when he was investigating a suspected Death Eater from the Ministry, an investigation requested of him by Dumbledore, who had provided him with the component (a tiny statuette of a gryffin). But now, when good fortune had brought Trelawney to the one place where Snape could spy on her from a safe distance, the spell was all but worthless.

There was the faintest image in the air, inches from his narrowed eyes; an image of Trelawney sitting on the edge of a bed, taking off her gloves and speaking to a house elf. Snape caught a single word, barely heard above the moaning of the wind:

"Scabbers."

The term was not completely unfamiliar to him, but he couldn't place it. Further attempts at the spell were futile. He considered what little he knew about the situation: an ensorcelled Snitch that was negligent of late; Trelawney acting as though she were afraid of Alice Minsky, or in awe of her for some unknown reason; Alice herself obstinately reticent when questioned  about her transfer.

Could it be that she had learned the details of her father's death? From whom? Who else knew of the facts surrounding the duel except himself? It had been fought in a secluded place shielded by concealment spells. Some birds in the trees had witnessed it, along with the dog that had frightened the birds away when it growled and snapped the moment Gunther Minsky died. No, there was just the duellists, and no one else.

There had to be some other explanation for why Alice despised her potions master, Snape concluded.

The Ravenclaw sections of the elevated bleachers rose in unison, roaring in a frenzy of euphoria as their team's seeker bumped Potter aside and grabbed at the fleeing Snitch.

Premature! A desperate swerve to avoid a pennant pole by both seekers caused the Snitch to free itself and flit erratically off over the tops of the bleacher towers.

The Ravenclaw students dropped back on their benches with a collective groan. But the Gryffindor fans shouted with glee across at them, waving the red and gold scarves to encourage Potter. He was soaring up at a steep angle, higher than anyone could remember seeing a seeker fly, so high that the Snitch he was trailing was just a pinpoint of light.

Giselle and her team mates sat among the Hufflepuff crowd and watched every strategic move the contesting teams made. Deidre was pointing out how well Ravenclaw's two chasers flew in tight orbits around the quaffle-carrying third, risking a hit by the bludgers to protect him. "And see how he holds the quaffle," she said breathlessly, "snug in the crook of his arm and firmly against his ribs. THAT'S the way to do it!"

Giselle was impressed by the aggressiveness of the Ravenclaw seeker, a stand-in named Baxter. He was doing so wonderfully well in blocking Potter, which he accomplished again just now as the Snitch whipped around a goal post and Baxter swiped Potter off balance; doing so well indeed that she thrilled at the thought of playing against him in the Pre-Christmas tournament. It was to begin next weekend. But today it was time to consider Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin team's back-up seeker. He was scheduled to play in place of Bruno.

Draco was the type that dogged his opponent, rather than taking the initiative. Giselle had an easy time with him in the season's opening game, faking to one side to misdirect him, then doing a semi-circular loop the other way. Bruno had then been sent in to replace Draco. To no avail. Giselle caught the Snitch just twenty minutes into the game; five minutes after it had so very nearly clobbered Snape, and not once, but immediately again, like a mongoose attacking a cobra.

And speaking of Snape... Giselle looked down from over the parapet and saw the potions master far below, striding along the easement way between the Hufflepuff and Slytherin bleacher towers, his black cape billowing in the rising wind. The thought crossed her mind that a strong wind would favor the seekers and beaters, while making havoc with quaffle throws.

Beaters... She looked back at Felix and Alice sitting side by side in their player uniforms, broomsticks upright between their knees. They were watching the zigzagging race that had Potter and Baxter carooming off each other as they gained on the Snitch, a good hundred meters above the pitch.

Alice's expression was one of tense excitement. But Felix sat there chewing on something and observing the wild tussle over the Snitch as though it were two birds vying for the same dragonfly. He didn't so much as blink when the magnified voice of Aunt Minerva echoed out across the stadium, "Potter with the Snitch! Gryffindor wins, one-eighty to thirty. Congratulations Gryffindor."

Deidre stood amidst the thunderous applause.

"We're up!" she shouted. And rising as one, the Hufflepuff team started its winding way down the oaken stairwell to the pitch and into the pavilion tent for a last minute pep talk.

(3) The Girl Who Hated Severus Snape

The raven fluttered to the ground behind Greenhouse number 2.

It ruffled its wing feathers as though agitated. Then it simply popped out of existence. But not entirely. In its place stood a house elf, an old and decidedly grumpy-looking one.

"Kreacher must do his master's bidding," he said to himself. He appeared not to be convinced of that. So he punched his forehead and stamped a foot.

"Kreacher must do his master's bidding," he repeated. This time he grunted an affirmative.

In a rather awkward imitation of stealthy tip-toeing, he went around a corner of the greenhouse. A muffled pop would've been heard had there been anyone around to hear it. But Professor Sprout and her fourth period class had not yet shown up.

The only thing that Giselle disliked about Divination was the oh so long climb up the spiral stairs and that frightful ladder. But once inside the circular classroom all was forgiven.

She loved the damask table cloth and the slender crystal flower vase in the center. She loved the close proximity to the owlery, as it was so pleasant watching owls sailing past the windows.

Today she was surprised to see a crow, or perhaps a raven, perch on the outer sill of the window nearest her. It pecked on the pane, a sprig of some sort in its bill. She looked around. Everyone seemed not to notice, except Alice. The transfer was sitting next to Cedric Diggory, having made one sharp glance at the bird and giving a nod that might have been one of disapproval. Alice was not smiling; but then, she usually wasn't.

The black bird flew away.

Giselle envied the third-year girl who was quite obviously the teacher's pet. This was Lavender Brown, a Gryffindor. Giselle would have liked to have that special relationship with a teacher where one-on-one instruction was the rule rather than the exception. But Auntie frowned on even the slightest degree of favoritism. She had made it quite clear to Giselle that just because she was the niece of the Deputy Headmistress she should not expect to be favored over the other students, nor make any attempt to coax favors from the faculty. Wasn't Harry Potter treated just like everyone else?

Giselle gave a soft little snort at that idea. She had heard plenty of rumors about Harry getting away with all sorts of rule-breaking, he and his bosom buddies. You just don't look at The Boy Who Lived like you look at everyone else, no! Not with that lightning scar on his forehead, you don't.

"What are you so wound-up about?" asked Bea. She had been spraying the flower with the small atomizer full of water which she carried with her wherever she went, so she could come to the relief of any plant that seemed a mite thirsty, or dusty.

"Nothing," said Giselle. It was time to get settled. Professor Trelawney had come out of her spooky trance and was slowly, dramatically, rising from her Victorian armchair at the front of the class.

The subject that day was 'Scrying,' the art of foretelling events through the use of ordinary objects. In her lecture Trelawney gestured often at a long table on which there were several steaming tea pots and a number of cups. The students would be attempting to make some precognitive sense out of soggy tea leaves. But first they must drain their cups, "And to help that along, we've trays of very scrumptious crumpets, but quite dry, you see, so that you will be obliged to slurp your tea with alacrity, lest you suffer a fit of choking."

Giselle wasn't listening. She had spotted Felix, at the table to her left, looking heartbroken at Alice. No mystery there. He was devastated at sight of Alice sitting so cozily next to one of the handsomest boys in the school.

This filled Giselle's head with memories of last August, on her annual outing to Diagon Alley. Bea and Cassandra were left to browse the racks at Madam Malkin's while Giselle window-shopped, munching a bag of crisps. She came upon Felix moping along with a paper-wrapped broomstick. This prized possession should have cheered him up, but when she asked him why he was so down, the answer was only too clear.

"Me mum and dad think I might have what's called 'Lycanthropathic Propensity.' They want me to see a Healer, at the Paradise Potion shop. What a bother! And I've been fine, really, since I stopped crawling at age ten. Haven't crawled since. Haven't barked since then, either."

"Do you mean--" Giselle wanted to be sympathetic but she was burning with curiosity. "Do you mean you might have a tendency toward, um... growing a lot of hair all over you?"

"Oh just say it. They think I could have the werewolf curse, inherited from my Uncle Rover. But I did get a clean bill of health when I was examined at the Ministry of Magic. It's a big fuss my parents are having over nothing. Well, here's the potion shop," he said, sighing.

Giselle followed him inside. There were a few potion ingredients she needed, and a size D cauldron. She collected the items while Felix went behind a curtain in the back.

When she was handing over two galleons and five sickles to the old witch behind the counter she heard a man say, "Sniff this. A mixture of wolfsbane and catnip."

Just as she stepped out the door there came a high-pitched howl that gave her such a start she dropped her cauldron.

"Here you are," said the class monitor, Aaron Piff, setting two cups of tea and a saucer of crumpets on Giselle's and Bea's table, leaning over as he did so, as if bowing to them. He was such a considerate boy.

"Sorry," said Bea, "I didn't mean to spray you."

"Quite all right," said Aaron.

Giselle came out of her reverie as though she had been startled awake. Rather mechanically she ate a crumpet and sipped her tea. Then drank it down in a gulp. Yes, the crumpets were very dry indeed. In no time her cup was empty except for the mess of tea leaves. She couldn't make heads or tails out of it.

It was while she was consulting her textbook on how best to hold the cup that she heard a gasping sort of screech from Trelawney.

The eccentric professor stood at Harry's table. Her face was bone white.

"The Grim!" she exclaimed.

Giselle and Bea exchanged wondering looks.

But Alice merely looked interested.

Three weeks passed that were uneventful for Giselle, as concerned the inexplicable. It was now late November. The winter was coming in mildly, with periodic flurries of snow that the sunny days quickly melted. Quidditch proceeded without any misbehavior from the Snitch. Hufflepuff was undefeated so far, and now, as the Friday night banquet was ending and the Great Hall beginning to quiet down, Giselle looked forward to Deidre's team pep-talk in the Common Room. Tomorrow was their re-match with Slytherin.

"Will you be attending the game, Severus?" asked Dumbledore at the faculty table as the last of the desserts appeared.

Snape set down his fork. He looked over at the Headmaster, a clear view now that McGonagall had left the table. "That is my intention," he said distractedly.

"Something on your mind?"

"Are you aware that Potter was roaming the school late last night?"

Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "No, but I'm not surprised. Was there any mischief?"

"He had what appeared to be a blank sheet of parchment," Snape said, "which I suspect is a map. It is composed of dark magic, I'm quite certain. I confiscated it, but Lupin came along and insisted it was his purview to examine it. He hasn't mentioned this to you?"

Dumbledore savored his forkful of peach cobbler. After a reflective moment he said, "Remus can be excused for the oversight. The full moon is tomorrow night. The potion you supply for him is working its way through his system, and we know the effect it has on the exercise of logic. I'll speak to him in the morning."

Snape tossed aside his cloth napkin. As he stood and was turning to the faculty lounge door he felt eyes boring into the back of his head. Slowly he turned back around.

Alice lowered her eyes. Cedric, with a puzzled smile, linked his arm in hers. Snape watched them leave the Hall.

"I am beginning to have doubts about that girl," he said to no one in particular.

(2) The Girl Who Hated Severus Snape

The bell announcing second period was still echoing through the corridors when Snape saw Professor McGonagall coming down the ornate marble stairway. He paused by the entrance to the dungeon.

"Minerva, a moment, if you will."

She seemed harried, her brows knit in that look of sterness that so unnerved the first-years.

"A moment I can spare," she replied, meeting him by the marble statue of Shin Ling the Eunuch, the first wizard to have successfully apparated without losing anymore body parts.

Snape spoke quietly, lest a student overhear his speech. "I don't harbor the least suspicion that your niece is in any way involved in this little mystery about a crazed Snitch, but the fact that she was engaged in seeking it on the two occasions it has targeted me is, at present, our one avenue of investigation. I trust you have spoken to her and that she understands the gravity of the situation?"

McGonagall smiled thinly. "Gravity is an apt term, Severus. And yes, she is quite aware of the situation. Now you'll pardon my haste, but I must have a word with Pomona--" she meant Professor Sprout-- "before my next class. Oh, and have you heard," she said in a whisper, touching his sleeve, "Sirius Black is thought to have been seen in Godric's Hollow, just the other day, by Matilda Bagshot. You know how the Aurors have been scouring the countryside looking for him ever since his escape from Azkaban."

As expected, Snape's reaction did not mask his intense dislike for the one who had tormented him all through his school days. But beyond his stiffened posture and the hard darkness of his eyes, there was nothing more to note. His grim bearing was heightened, that was all.

"Well, well," was all he said. "I will not delay you further, Professor, except to say that my examination of the Snitch revealed nothing of any evidential value."

Just then Harry and Ron came skidding around the stairway bannister, late for Potions as usual.

"No running!" said Snape in a sudden burst of anger that had McGonagall glancing back at the scene with a knowing expression. Severus would be in a foul mood for his next class.

"Five points from Gryffindor," he announced in his soft, gravelly voice.

Hufflepuffs had their classes with Gryffindors on Mondays. And so it was that Giselle witnessed the frantic arrival of Potter and Weasley just as Snape came striding into the dungeon classroom.

She affected a calm air, taking her Potions textbook from her bag, when really she was a little tense. Auntie's talk of a conspiracy against Professor Snape, and the likelihood of postponing Quidditch until the culprits were found, was depressing and frustrating.

Bea, her team mate and best friend, sat next to her, gushing about how her Matron plant in Herbology was seeding; digging tiny holes with its leaves and placing its seeds very lovingly in the soil, covering them and patting the little mounds with audible sighs. Giselle feigned interest, but really such everyday sorts of things like gardening and recipes that Bea enjoyed like a good little girl seemed almost sacrilegious to Giselle now that her world was threatening to blow up in her face.

"Turn to page eighty-nine, Part Two of Alchemical Distillations," said Professor Snape.

As Giselle turned pages she glanced around the classroom. That know-it-all thing-- was her name Hermione?-- was tapping page 89 and itching to raise her hand, probably. In front of her was Alice.

Now, Alice was the exact opposite of Hermione, Giselle thought. Alice sat there as if she were patiently waiting for a train. She never spoke up unless called upon by the teacher, and it seemed that Snape deliberately ignored her. Well, perhaps he didn't like Durmstrang transfers.

Everyone said that Durmstrang students were a bunch of Grindelwald wanna-be's. Giselle pictured them lurking in shadows like Dracula or something.

But Alice... no, she was not like that, despite her ferocious Quidditch playing. But there was nothing wrong about being excellent at Quidditch. Why, Hooch said it was Miss Minsky that gave the Hufflepuff team a real chance of winning the Cup this year. Imagine! Dumbledore was just a boy the last time Hufflepuff won the Quidditch Cup.

But... Giselle questioned whether Alice was unlike Durmstrang students. Look how she was glaring at Snape. That brief flare-up of... hate? Well, it certainly looked like she was hateful of him, for just that one second anyway.

"In an orderly manner you will acquire the needed ingredients at the supply cubboards," Snape was saying, "specifically for Exercise number two. You will then proceed to the back sinks and fill your size D cauldrons one-quarter full. And we will all appreciate it, Mr Weasley, if you would stop picking your nose."

Alice was in the habit of taking a sandwich with her out onto the grounds during the lunch hour. She went down that delightful path winding between the flower beds, past the stately elms, to where she could look up, nonchalantly, at the roof of the castle library. Today, to her excited surprise, she saw what she had been told to watch for.

A raven.

It stood cocking its head from side to side, no doubt looking for her.

Alice noted the few students who were milling about on the broad porch, chatting and flirting. The trees would hide her from their view somewhat. In any case she had to let the raven see her. She crossed a stretch of grass that was covered in autumn leaves and stood in a patch of shade, waving a hand at the raven.

It flew down and alighted on a low branch. There was a small envelope in its beak. Alice said in a sing-song voice, "Give me, give me, raven blue, all that I request of you." She snapped her fingers. "The message."

The raven dropped the envelope and immediately flew off, cawing as it passed over the oak grove by the greenhouses.

Alice picked up the envelope. Her heart pounded as she slit open the parchment.

'Be watchful of the Grim,' she read. 'Report to me if you see it. The enclosed message is for Professor Trelawney. See she gets it straightaway. It is time for her to enter the Circle.'

"Hello!"

Alice nearly jumped out of her shoes. Stuffing the paper into her skirt pocket she turned, her cheeks flushed, and saw that handsome chap who was always smiling at her in the Common Room and whenever he passed her in the corridors.

Fredrick? No, no... Cedric. That was it. Cedric Somebody. A funny kind of last name she could never remember.

Alice took a teeny bite of her ham on rye. She tried to look casually interested.

"You know, I've been wanting to kis-- I mean, wanting to meet you," Cedric said and almost laughed. "You know, meet you in a sort of-- place that was private. I gather you like a stroll at lunch? Some fresh air?"

Alice shrugged, holding her sandwich just above her shoulder. "I hear you're a good Quidditch player. Why didn't you try out for our team?"

Cedric looked embarrassed. "My grades were slipping. Father insisted I focus on my academics. But if I get my grades up, I'll try out next year. Did you play Quidditch at Durmstrang?"

"Actually, no. I took private Quidditch lessons during summer recess between my third and fourth terms."

"Oh ripping. Who was your master?"

Alice gestured vaguely with her sandwich as she thought how best to answer that. Finally she said, "You know Bruno Spassky, the Slytherin seeker?"

Cedric grinned as boys do when they sense a rival and want to make light of it. "Oh I've seen him around."

"His grandfather was on several World Cup teams. He's been instructing me."

"Oh I see. I wonder... Muggle Studies is showing a muggle film tonight, and I was wondering..." He noticed the smirk Alice gave him at the mention of muggles. "I say, there's the bell. May I walk you to our next period? It's Divination, isn't it?"

Alice looked away, smiling.

"Yes, it is," she said.

(1) The Girl Who Hated Severus Snape.

Fawkes was the one who saw it coming. But it made little impression on him until it banged against the central window of the Headmaster's office.

This had Dumbledore turning in his chair with fingers feeling for his wand. In the next instant he was smiling.

The Snitch again.

He watched it flit away from the cracked pane as though to make another attempt. But the Hufflepuff seeker was there to catch it. Miss McGonagall. She glimpsed him through the window, a rather terrified look on her face, now wheeling around on her Meteor 500 and... gone, in a flash.

"An engrained habit," Snape remarked, taking his hand away from the door through which he had been about to exit. He stood looking questioningly at Dumbledore's ambiguous smile. "I wasn't aware that a Snitch could develope a bias against a person, player or spectator."

"And not just during a game," said Dumbledore, "but during a team practice. What are we to make of this? You were fortunate not to have suffered a concussion in yesterday's contest between Slytherin and Hufflepuff. I confess that I didn't see the Snitch speeding toward the faculty box, either, until it was practically on your nose. You have remarkable reflexes, Severus."

Snape frowned. "You are taking this intrigue lightly, Headmaster. A bewitched Snitch that has now twice acted violently against me is not something one should regard as a prank."

Dumbledore nodded, brows raised, and leaning back in his chair he linked his hands on his lap. "Oh I quite agree. I have been considering who might be responsible for the rogue Snitch. No, not 'rogue.' Better to say 'endowed.' It is on a mission."

"I dare say. And with your permission, I should like to examine the Snitch after dinner. Perhaps I will be able to determine the source and the manner of this... endowment."

Dumbledore rose, his smile now a crafty one, and said, "I was just going to suggest that." He went over to the phoenix perch and laid a gentle finger on a tail feather. "He'll be molting soon."

Snape shrugged. "Won't we all."

"Severus, I've been meaning to ask you. What do you think of our transfer from Durmstrang?" The Headmaster was still peering at Fawkes.

"Much like all the other Hufflepuffs," came the reply in a negligent tone. "Studious. Quiet. Insufferably ordinary."

"It wasn't the outward appearance I was asking about," said Dumbledore. He faced Snape now without a trace of a smile. "We all know the maxim: still waters run deep. It is the degree of light, or darkness, of those watery depths that concern us."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "I have had no reason to suspect Miss Alice Minsky of being anything other than what she appears to be," he said, eyeing Dumbledore suspiciously. "An unusual type coming from Durmstrang, to be sure. But she is precisely the sort of student that her previous school would just as soon get rid of."

Dumbledore seemed surprised by this assessment, but immediately stroked his beard in feigned amusement. "That might explain why the Sorting Hat was so quick to place Miss Minsky in Hufflepuff. But I wonder..."

He gazed over at the shelf of artefacts where the ancient hat crouched, as it were, looking just a little ashamed of itself.

It was not in the nature of Giselle McGonagall, or in the nature of any Hufflepuff for that matter, to show anger. In a most exasperating situation you might see a Hufflepuff twitch an eye, or, in an extreme crisis, grind his teeth. But expressing a noisy fit was out of the question.

Even so, Giselle was at the point of actually raising her voice. She sat on her Meteor 500 coasting over the goal posts and watching Alice Minsky bash a bludger at one of the team's chasers, who was acting as an opponent, with such incredible force and accuracy that it was a miracle how Roscoe managed to keep from being knocked clear off his Firebolt.

Giselle just did calm herself before requesting, "Alice, you might go a wee bit easy on us. Really, you ought to be satisfied that two Slytherin players are still laid up in the hospital wing. We don't want any of us joining them."

Alice called back, "Sorry," and descended to the refreshment booth without the least sign of contrition.

The fifteen-year-old transfer was soon in the company of the other team members: the chasers Roscoe, Cassandra, and Bea; the keeper, Deidre (team captain), and the other beater, Felix, who was forever gawking at Alice as if she were a myth come to life.

Well, thought Giselle, who remained hovering above the pitch, Alice was even better than the Weasley twins according to Madam Hooch. And there was no denying her looks. Pretty in a reserved way, with her lustrous sienna hair and that mildly coquettish manner she had when she wasn't swinging her beater's bat like a psychopath.

Giselle took the 'sleeping' Snitch from her team robe pocket and stared at it. It looked so innocent now. She recalled the opening game of the season, just yesterday and so vivid in her mind. She was going after the Snitch like a diving hawk, the Slytherin seeker, Bruno, howling right next to her, when it swerved directly toward the faculty box. She had no choice but to angle up, and oh, such a collision with Bruno! Luckily he cushioned her impact with the ground; not deliberately, of course. But how strange that the Snitch had gone straight to a teacher as if on the attack. Nothing like that had ever happened before.

And then, not fifteen minutes ago, she goes ripping after the runaway Snitch only to see it slam against the window of Dumbledore's office! Aunt Minerva would be sure to hear about it.

Giselle shivered. Not good, not good at all, to have Auntie calling her onto the carpet and asking if she were in some way at fault... Well how silly! Snitches were absolutely immune to influences, she reminded herself. They were not subject to any known charm or hex. Surely Auntie would not suspect her of unsportsmanlike conduct. Imagine a Hufflepuff being accused of poor sportsmanship! The very idea!

The next day was Monday. Giselle's first period class was Transfiguration. Her table was near one of the tall lancet-arched windows. Her textbook was open and she was watching the shadows of falling leaves drifting over the page.

She and her fellow third-years were supposed to be reading the chapter on crustacean morphisms, while the fourth-years attempted to change clay sculptures into bronze. This explained the frequent shattering noises and the occasional loud thunk, as the items hit the floor from a too energetic wand waving.

"Haven't you been paying attention in your Charms class?" said Professor McGonagall to the fourth-years. "Swish and flick doesn't mean a wild gyration. Your wand should flow with the lilt of the canto. Miss Granger, I see you've finished your reading. Please assist Mr Longbottom in sweeping the floor."

"Yes, ma'am."

Giselle saw that Auntie was coming over to the third-years side of the classroom. Giselle focused on her assignment. 'Morphing a crustacean requires a good drying-out first, which, if neglected, can result in slippery outcomes known to have injured the spellcaster or others in the vicinity.' This had Giselle thinking of the Snitch. And so when Auntie's shadow darkened the page, Giselle looked up with guilt written all over her.

"Stay a wee minute after class, Gee," said Auntie in an unexpectedly fond voice. "And no, you're not in any trouble."

Then she added, as a rather disturbing after-thought, "But someone is. We just don't know who."

Story Art