We were headed into the nicest time of spring term: student revisions. Everyone with any sense would soon have their heads stuck in their class notes; the only staff member who had any difficulty at all was Pince, dealing with the influx of students trying to cram in months of library work they'd put off all term.
My electricity was back, thankfully. Sprout's seedlings were now young plants and there was enough sunlight to keep them going, so she'd shut down her Gro-lites. Good thing: I had a sneaky habit of formatting several versions of the exam for each class and mixing up the question order to stymie the more lazy forms of cheating, and I couldn't do it effectively without the computer. (I'm sure the little buggers still found ways to cheat, but I hadn't discovered them yet. As far as I knew, there were no charms that granted Telepathy.) I'd missed emailing Lucy and Paula, as well -- although I was going to have to seriously consider dropping my mobile service soon. It was just too bloody expensive.
Hogwarts had gone over to the Albion, you see -- though we were still on half-pay status -- but I had no way to transfer funds to my Muggle account: there was no central bank for deposits, and the Death Eaters still had a firm grip on Gringotts. The Albion was great for popping into Hogsmeade for necessaries like tooth paste, but not much else, for now. I replenished my things with Wizarding toiletries; I didn't feel right asking Lucy to buy me things as I couldn't know when I might be able to pay her back.
I was very grumpy the day I ran out of my perfume, though I didn't fuss about it (funny, how something silly and inessential can affect you). Someone noticed, however, and a few days later a beautiful little bottle appeared on my vanity-top. It contained an oil to dab at my pulse points: marjoram and thyme, and the faintest trace of rose, in deference to my dislike of heavy floral fragrances.
And you thought the man didn't have an ounce of romanticism or sentiment in his body. (Neither had I. Not that he would have gone out of his way to make it, mind you, but as he had the essences he'd recovered from the Hall sitting about....) I applied rather more of it than one would, that first day, just to make certain he knew I appreciated it. (Potions Masters do not lower themselves to creating beauty products, and outright thanks would have occasioned much embarrassment. Hypothetically, however, if they did, they appreciated its application: although no comment was made, I got rather more snuggles than usual that evening, of a very proprietary and possessive nature.)
Sirius Black was still away, which I thought very odd. There weren't any notices of sightings in the Prophet, though -- now the Weekly Prophet, because of impending paper shortages -- and I assumed he was all right.
So life continued much as it had, with all of us trying to concentrate on education despite shortages and the distinct feeling that the Sword of Damocles was about to descend on our necks.
I hadn't expected it. He'd been snappish and exhausted all week, though I couldn't tell why: he'd stayed at Hogwarts and done no running about at all, although he'd been sequestered in his office when not teaching. (That wasn't unusual, though -- he didn't give his students, or himself, the break that most of us did going into the revision period.)
He was uncharacteristically talkative afterward.
"Sorry," he mumbled into my hair.
"What the bloody hell for?" I mumbled back into his neck.
"I don't --"
He paused to yawn.
"--don't usually inflict that particular mood on you in the morning."
No, he was usually quite lazy and tender in the morning before he'd really wakened and protected himself with all those blasted layers of clothing. (I'd been wrong about the tenderness, in my speculations last summer).
I wasn't aware that I'd voiced any objection to the tenor of that morning's activity, and told him as much.
He snorted, and lapsed into silence: I thought he'd dropped back off, in fact -- there was still a good hour before we had to rise. I was half-asleep again myself when I heard him say, "I never thought I would have this, you know."
"'Course not," I said muzzily. "When you think you might be killed every other day, for the past fifteen years...."
"It wasn't just that," he retorted, "it's...."
He trailed off, and eventually barked out a disgusted laugh.
"Do you know what a coward you've shackled yourself to?"
"Bullshite," I said indistinctly, drifting even further off.
"It's the whole thing," he said softly. "I never expected to have a wife, a lover... I certainly didn't anticipate your particular soul."
He may have gone on after that: probably even kissed me.
I don't know, as I'd fallen asleep.
Poor man. I was always ruining his few attempts at Grand Declarations.
In hindsight, if I hadn't been so fuddled with sleep and satiation I probably would have characterised his ardour that morning as desperation.
The students were almost as grumpy as I, although they had far more reason: as soon as things began to green up at Hogwarts, the Quiddich players were anxious to get on their brooms and scrum, and many of the rest longed to be outdoors for... well, other opportunities of a more recreational, possibly biological, nature. I couldn't blame them, either, as they were simply suffering from cabin-fever: while Minerva had allowed some limited trips to Hogsmeade, there wasn't much point for most of the students, as they'd exhausted their pocket money and very little or none was forthcoming from home.
It was a relief when I'd finished with the Upper Forms and my Seconds filed in, in rather better moods. Simply to be so close to the end of the school year was still enough excitement for them, and they were still so far away from NEWTs and OWLs that they didn't feel the pressures the older ones did.
The booming started about fifteen minutes into the period, the sound wafting across the lake from the direction of Hogsmeade. The rain had let up a few minutes before so I'd cracked open a window to air out the stuffy room, and I wandered over to listen as Alicia Turley stumbled through an essay on the British Monarchy.
It was definitely coming from Hogsmeade, and it was irregular, but starting to come in faster bursts. I couldn't see across the lake, of course -- that was dicey at any time, and more so now that the deciduous trees were leafing out -- but I did see something that gave me pause. Forms, human in shape, certainly, but on a vastly oversized scale -- most larger than Hagrid, even -- lumbering down toward the Gates. (Lumbering is relative -- if it were Hagrid, that speed would be a dead run.)
It had to be the Giants, and I was more than a little surprised; I hadn't known they were on the premises. And if they were headed for the Gates at a run....
I schooled my features to hide my alarm, and drew the window shut.
"Continue," I said to Turley who, like the rest of the students, had been distracted by my inattention. She started again -- skipping a particularly difficult paragraph, I noted, but I didn't call her on it, and we continued; no point in alarming them before I had any instructions or warnings from Minerva.
But in another ten minutes, the explosions had moved closer, alarmingly so -- perhaps even as close as the Gates. The students had begun to start at every sound, and the window-glass had begun to rattle. It was pointless to continue.
"Let's go out in the corridor, shall we?" I said, trying to remain calm. "Leave your books and things for now."
And just as I was herding the last of them outside the room, safe from any shattering windows, Minerva's voice echoed through the halls.
"All students are to report to the Great Hall with the exception of Firsts and Seconds, who are to report to Professor Hunter at the Muggle Studies classroom. Immediately."
She took a deep breath, clearly audible, and then admitted, "We are, I'm afraid, under attack."
Proceed to Book 3 Chapter Sixteen
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