(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.