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Searching for a Book - Blackguard Offices
Author: Nephele Mockridge
Date: 12-19-12 10:58
Nephele tugged her cloak more securely around herself as she walked to the address Kirley had given her. She could have used the Floo, but she didn't particularly want Slughorn knowing where she was going. Not that he would object, more that he would probably begin to wax poetic about the various members of the Blackguard. Or worse, he'd start asking more questions about just who had been her unfortunate test subject with the potion. She had, regretfully, wound up publishing it as a potion for emergency medical treatment, when using a spell was too dangerous and a patient's clothing was in the way. It had been the only way to appease the Potions Master.
Now she was working on another potion, this one a bit more dangerous. The original potion had been banned in Great Britain years earlier because it was considered far too dangerous. It's purpose had been for treating those deemed criminally insane by stealing their voice and quieting their mind. Unfortunately, it had caused patients to actually become little more than animated bodies, able to move but unable to think at all. But she'd been studying the ingredients, and believed there could be a use for parts of it, particularly in cases where someone had suffered a traumatic event. It could be a temporary solution, granting far more peace than the normal calming draughts or even Draught of Peace. But first, she had to find an un-amended copy of the original potion. And if anyone had one, it would be Peregrinus Hartcrofte. She'd already checked with Cassandra, and had opted not to put her friend into the risky position of searching for the dangerous item just yet.
She opened the door quickly, not wanting to draw attention to herself by standing in the street and knocking, and stepped inside, lowering the hood of her cloak.
Winnifred Weatherby looked up, studying the blonde who had come through the door. "Can I help you, MIss?"
"Mockridge. Nephele Mockridge. I was hoping to see Mr. Hartcrofte, if he's available."
"Allow me to check, Ms. Mockridge. Please, have a seat and I will let you know if he's available."
Nephele nodded and sat herself in a chair in the entry way. She wondered if she should've dragged Kirley away to come with her, but quickly decided she'd made the right decision. He was caught up trying to figure out just how Rita Skeeter was getting the classified information she was, though at least for the moment it wasn't coming from the Minister's office. But that very fact suggested there was some larger method at work and he was struggling to figure out the possibilities. He'd even asked her to brew a large batch of Veritaserum for him, simply because he didn't want to risk the Ministry's stores being contaminated, or alerting anyone other than the Minister that they were searching for the leak.
An Unwanted Letter
Author: Araxie Loren
Date: 12-19-12 15:58
My classes had finished at eleven forty-five and I'd gone to lunch and then headed back to the common room to start working on homework that was due tomorrow.
I'd found a table beneath one of the arched windows and when my thoughts wandered I looked out at the mountains. I'd sent off a letter to Nichole earlier this morning, to see if she was going to be coming to visit with my aunt and uncle at the upcoming Homecoming and Exhibition Quidditch Match in October, I hope she could come because I wanted to hang out with her and introduce her to some of the friends that I'd made here.
I'd just finished my History of Magic homework and pulled out my Charms text to start working on that assignment. When I opened my book a letter slipped out and landed in my lap. Picking it up I sighed, it was the letter that had come with my mail on Monday morning. I'd stuffed it in my charms book before leaving the Great Hall after breakfast.
The return address was Azkaban and the writing was my father's. It wasn't the first letter he'd sent to me since I'd started at Hogwarts, and it was probably filled with accolades about how proud he was of me and how pleased he was to hear that I'd been sorted into Ravenclaw and various other things, and very little of what I actually wanted to hear from him.
I sighed and stared at the envelope, willing it to vanish, willing it to simply fold in on itself and become nothing so I would not have to open it. So I would not have to read it. So I would not have to attempt to formulate a response and send it to him. I'd not replied to any of the letters that he'd sent me, but I'm assuming he'd gotten some information from my Aunt and Uncle, they at least would talk to him.
I pushed the envelope off to the side, and attempted to focus on my Charms assignment and time and time again my gaze was drawn back to that envelope, back to the letter that would be added to the stack of other letters from him that I did not want. I had shut him out of my life, I had moved on, and yet he still tried to worm his way back into my life.
"Fine..."
I muttered to myself, as I opened the envelope and pulled the folded parchment from it's grasp. Unfolding the letter, I began to read my father's neat handwriting. The beginnings of it were indeed filled with what I'd expected accolades and praise for being sorted into Ravenclaw and proud of me for doing so well in my classes.
However, after the first couple of paragraphs things turned to exactly what I expected still, him trying once more to gain a place in my life when I had no desire for him to be a part of it.
Why don't you write me? Why do I have to get updates from your Aunt and Uncle? Don't you miss me?
The questions went on and on, and I'd already given him the answers to them, I'd already spoken plainly the very last time I'd gone to see him before I'd come to Hogwarts. I was still trying to come to grips with the fact that this man had torn apart my family and left me without a parent, left me without a mother and his actions had also left me without a father.
I don't know if any of my classmates knew of who my father was, and if any did they didn't say anything and I wasn't going to bring it up. Talking about him allowed him a place in my life, and he had not earned that privilege.
I finished the letter and refolded it and stuffed it back in the envelope and put the envelope back into my messenger bag. I'd put it in my trunk later when I went back to my room - I wouldn't be replying to it.
Sighing, I no longer had the focus for schoolwork, so I put my books away and pulled out my sketchbook instead and started working on my most recent piece, a sketch of Rowena Ravenclaw using the statue here in the Common Room as a reference.
The Wolf in the Dungeon
Author: Adina Blackwood
Date: 12-19-12 16:31
The last few months had been an emotional roller coaster starting with Dumbledore's death and the uncertainties that had sprung up with it. Everyone feared something like the segregation that had swept Britain with the previous Minister of Magic now that Dumbledore was dead. Several parents, including my own had considered pulling me out of Hogwarts but had been persuaded to allow me to remain so long as my marks remained high and I was not too horribly distracted by other things - including my boyfriend Arthur.
At the moment, I had my nose buried in my Transfiguration textbook and was attempting to make some sense of the theory that was being taught this year. I missed Professor Black's lessons, and I'd resorted to looking through the texts from last year to try and make some sense out of what had been today's lessons. There had even been first years who had complained about Professor Flint's dedication to theory that was above the heads of most of his students.
Studying it too long made my head hurt, and I honestly couldn't get my Transfiguration homework done in one sitting, it took me a couple of sessions during the day to get it done or I was fairly certain that my head was going to explode or I was going to die of boredom. Putting my transfiguration homework away, I turned my attention to my DADA assignment that was due tomorrow, and I was nearly done with it.
I'd just finished writing the last word on my essay when I heard a couple of voices behind me.
"Are you sure that's her?"
"Positive! My roommate saw her the other day coming back to the castle from the edge of the grounds near the Forbidden Forest."
"She's not a werewolf Bruno." The other boy said. "She's probably an Animagus or something."
I turned and raised a brow at the boys.
"I can hear you, you know."
Both of them blinked an hadn't realize that they'd been heard.
I looked at the boy that said that I wasn't a werewolf. "You are indeed correct, I'm not a werewolf. I'm an animagus, and my form of choice is a grey and silver wolf."
They were among the first outside a somewhat large group of people that I'd told and I wondered by dinner how many people would know that there was a wolf in girl's clothing in the Slytherin Dungeons?
Questioned
Author: Ethan Somerset
Date: 12-20-12 04:37
A bit of noonday sun broke through the clouds and brought a brief respite to the overcast sky that had lingered during the morning hours. Ethan walked swiftly through the gates of Hogwarts and on into the village of Hogsmede to pick up an order he had made at Brews & Stews Café. He normally ate lunch in the Great Hall but for a change felt hungry for one of the restaurant's signature soups.
An unfortunate run-in with a very persistent reporter had him wishing he hadn't changed his routine.
Rita Skeeter lurked near the edge of Hogwarts and quickly sighted her prey. She wasted not a single moment in following him deeper and deeper into the village, speedwalking effortlessly in a pair of very high, coral red pumps that matched the chic business robes she wore.
"Don't be so coy, Ethan! I only wish to get your statement on a matter or two," she said to him, when he found his path blocked by a pair of elderly, slow-moving witches.
Despite the noise her heels had made on the cobblestones, Ethan hadn't realized that someone had followed him from the castle gates, much less Rita Skeeter, the reporter who had somehow outed Adriana Fairchild as Albus Dumbledore murderer.
She looked perfectly put together. Her light blonde hair was expertly coifed, and her makeup was done flawlessly. Her long fingernails were the color of old blood. Ethan took notice of them because she held up a notepad and a frilly, cerulean quill.
"I have nothing to say to you," Ethan stated, well-aware that Rita had a penchant for twisting words and turning straightforward stories into sensational soap operas. He turned back around and sidestepped the old witches who had gone forward only a few paces.
Rita immediately fell into step beside him. "You needn't fret, Ethan. I'm not writing an exposé about you. I just want to know how Albus Dumbledore's death made you feel. Were you heartbroken? Did you feel like you had lost the one person who had trusted you with a second chance? Do you feel like you are at risk of going rogue, like Adriana Fairchild, now that Dumbledore isn't around to make sure you stay on the right path?"
"What?" Ethan asked. "No."
"No, you weren't upset about Dumbledore's terrible and unexpected murder by your own colleague?"
"Yes, of course I was," Ethan irritably replied. "Yes, I will always remember him as the person who gave me a second chance. But no, he didn't have anything to do with me keeping to the straight and narrow. All he did was give me his support and for that I will be forever grateful."
"How touching," Rita said, scribbling onto her notepad. "Did you ever work with Adriana Fairchild when you were the Dark Lord's servant?"
"No," Ethan replied. "I only knew her at Hogwarts."
He finally reached the café and entered, hoping that Rita wouldn't follow him inside and continue her pestering. She didn't, but she was waiting for him when he emerged a few minutes later with his lunch. She fell into step beside him and continued her line of questioning.
"Do you fear that your ties to Project 25 will force you back into old habits? Murder, mayhem, and the like?"
Ethan didn't answer because he was afraid he would turn back into the person he had been all those years ago. He didn't want to slip back into the darkness. He didn't want Voldemort controlling him again. If the rumors were true, then the Dark Lord somehow had influence over Adriana. Did that mean he could reclaim his power over the former members of Project 25 too?
"Do you think it's wise for the Hogwarts Board of Governors to keep you on as professor when you could just snap at any moment and do somebody harm or worse?" Rita asked, her face the picture of angelic innocence.
Ethan had enough. "None of that is going to happen," he said through gritted teeth. "What happened to Dumbledore was a tragedy. I will always remember him for what he did for me, and I'm sorry he died the way did. I'm also sorry for whatever is going on with Adriana. I hope she will turn herself in and make amends for what she's done. It's not too late. It's never too late."
"Too late for Dumbledore, though, isn't it?" Rita asked.
Ethan pressed on and did his best to dodge the other questions the aggravating reporter asked him regarding his past and what she considered his uncertain, if not dubious future. Ethan looked back only one time once inside the Hogwarts gates and found himself blinded by a photographer's flashbulb.
Before the spots cleared from his vision, Ethan clearly heard Rita say, "Let's go, Bozo! We have everything we need."
A moment of apprehension passed over Ethan, but he did not give it further contemplation, having only limited time to eat his lunch before the start of his last class of the day.
Rare Beauty - Blackguard Offices
Author: Peregrinus Hartcrofte
Date: 12-20-12 13:21
After receiving word, Winnifred escorted Nephele to a small office, lit by a smattering of candles floating in the air, reminding Nephele of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The room was positively spartan - a large, bare desk; an old but comfortable-looking chair behind it; two significantly less-comfortable-looking chairs opposite; one small filing cabinet; and two large blackboards. One of these blackboards displayed the evidence from the murder he was currently investigating - "Pass opp Jabberwock, min sønn," the map found on the victim's back, as well as the cryptic poem, copied in Pip's neat handwriting. Pip himself stood at the other blackboard, where he was puzzling over writing that Nephele could not see from the doorway, as Pip's lanky frame somehow managed to block her view.
Nephele raised an eyebrow. "I take it this is tied to that cryptic case that the Ministry is desperately trying to keep Skeeter from finding out about?" she asked in a semi-amused drawl. She'd moved her cloak to her arms and laid it over the desk, her simple, Muggle-inspired robes neat and efficient for working on potions, nothing to dangle or interfere with her cauldron.
"Allo, Miss Mockridge, always a pleasure to see you again. Yes, you're quite right. I'm trying to deduce the meaning of this riddle: 'Less one-fourth of royal ten' ... I'm afraid I'm at a complete loss there. What could 'royal ten' mean? Fingers? Toes? I can't think of a thing that would fit. 'When holy palmers kiss' fortunately makes more sense. It's a reference to Romeo and Juliet, and it means Sunday - when hands come together in prayer." As if to illustrate his thoughts, Pip brought his hands together in prayer as he spoke.
"Ten minus one-fourth? That would be nine and three quarters, which has to mean the platform where the Hogwarts Express runs, right? And isn't Dumbledore's Memorial at the school on a Sunday?" she asked. It was possible she'd spent entirely too much time with Ravenclaws, that or she had uncovered far too many riddles in potions tomes. "Unless, of course, you think that's far too simple an explanation?"
Pip's eyes shot open at the revelation. "Of course! That's brilliant! Oh, I've been so stupid! I was looking at 'less one-fourth of ten' as seven and a half. Yes, yes, yes, that's brilliant! Oh, I've said that already, haven't I? But it is! That must mean that the iron dragon is a train ... they're going to replace it's hiss with fire and roar ... an explosion? But why coincide it with the students' memorial? They'll already be at the school, no need for the train ... think-think-think ..." At this last, he hopped into his old-but-comfortable chair, with his legs crossed, and rubbed his temples.
"How long would it take even the most talented witches and wizards to repair the Express? Or to repair King's Cross, particularly if the Muggle sections are damaged as well?" Nephele asked, shaking her head. "Really, Mr. Hartcrofte, the simplest explanation is usually the best. It may not be about causing casualties, after all, spilling magical children's blood was something even Voldemort hesitated to do most of the time. However, destruction and mayhem reap their own rewards."
"Yes, I see your point. And if we were to have the Ministry shut down the platform, that disruption would be playing right into their hands. Otherwise, why would they send this clue? They want us to shut down the platform. As you say, the culprit is likely trying to minimize losses within the magical community. I think our best course of action is to keep this quiet, and focus our energies on finding and neutralising this bomb before it can go off."
At that precise moment, a small clock above the filing cabinet struck. Twelve gongs: noon. Pip's frantic energy flung him from his chair to the clock. "Noon! Oh, of course! I dismissed that line of the riddle because it seemed too obvious. 'Holy palmers' kiss' isn't just prayer - the hands of the clock meet - " and again he clasped his hands in prayer as he had before " - at noon! Oh, Nephele, I could kiss you! Don't worry, I won't. Unless, of course, you want me to. Sorry, you came to see me - I doubt, sadly, for a kiss - and here I've been blathering on. What can I do for you?"
Nephele barely repressed her laughter. "I was hoping you might have a copy of a book, though probably one you wouldn't want to advertise," she said. "I'm working on a new potion, and no, this one does not remove clothing, though the healers at St. Mungo's may find the other quite useful. To start with, I need to examine the original potion, which has been banned here. Nasty side effects, you see," she said, rambling slightly. "Cassandra Catesby's offered to try to find me an unedited version of the book I need, but they're extremely rare and rather dangerous to bring into the country, so I hoped you might have it already. Mother suggested you once I'd exhausted the Mockridge and Parkinson libraries."
Pip smiled and leaned against his desk, crossing his arms as if appraising her. "Your mother did not steer you wrong. The Hartcrofte Library has a copy of every book ever written. I remember Cassandra from Hogwarts. A few years younger, but our paths crossed from time to time. I certainly wouldn't want to put her in any danger. If the book you're looking for is as dangerous as you say, it will have restricted access - I'll need to accompany you to access it. I'll help you with this, on one condition ..."
He let the moment hang in the air for a moment, pregnant with anticipation, as he arched one eyebrow. "I only trust my friends with access to restricted books, and my friends call me Pip." His smile widened into a boyish grin.
"Very well, Pip, if I must," Nephele said, though there was a flash of amusement in her gaze and a hint of teasing in the slight smile she favored him with. "This is the potion I'm trying to rework," she said, handing him a slip of paper. "Kirley has me paranoid with the issues at the Ministry, he's got me thinking every wall has ears."
Pip was surprised at how much it thrilled him to hear Nephele call him by his nickname. It felt good, but more than that, it felt right. The smile that danced so lightly on her lips, like the one she had when she noticed his boxer shorts dissolving ... Pip would never have denied that Nephele is an attractive woman, but that smile had a beauty all its own.
Hunting in the Hebrides
Author: Blaise Zabini
Date: 12-20-12 18:30
Blaise looked at the two ladies and the cat he was accompanying. There was a slight smirk on his face as he studied Pansy before looking to Phyllida. "That could be really good for my image, or make the playboy rumors worse. Either way, Mother should be happy," he said, referring to their stop in Hogsmeade before continuing onto their destination.
Pansy grinned. "I think we both know I'm very used to giving your mother false hopes. I'm surprised she hasn't Imperiused me into begging you to propose." A slightly dark look crossed her eyes as she looked at the younger witch, who gazed at them with a blank innocence. Pansy knew there was never innocence involved where a Slytherin was concerned - only guile.
"She's more likely to Imperius me into asking," Blaise retorted. "She likes you better." He didn't miss the glance Pansy sent toward Phyllida, and he knew she wouldn't miss the more appraising one he gave.
"Perhaps she knows your relationship is more platonic than anything," Phyllida added, noting the slightly hard edge in Pansy's gaze.
"As if that matters in our circles. If she could get away with it, she'd put us into an arranged marriage in a heartbeat," Blaise muttered.
Pansy gave a knowing smirk. "Well, I might not be her first choice, Blaise."
Blaise rolled his eyes, a derisive sound slipping from his throat. He glanced around. "Ugh, something tells me we might have to make do with a Muggle inn, I don't think there are any of our kind out this way." He knew he was changing the subject, but he had his reasons.
"Is that necessary?" Phyllida asked, her brows crossed. They had landed at a grim town on the coast, populated, mostly, by what appeared to be tired and gruff Muggle fishermen. A stone wall separated the narrow, rocky beach from the asphalt road that cut through the strand. "We should've brought a tent."
"I didn't realize how far into the Muggle world we'd have to go," Blaise said, his nose wrinkling in distaste from the whole idea. "Perhaps there is an abandoned home or something we could take over and discretely add some charms to so we could use magic as needed."
Pansy chuckled. "I don't know how good either of you are at conjuration-level Transfiguration, but I'm not looking forward to sleeping on the ground. I'd prefer a bed, Muggle or not."
Ptolemy hissed, snaking around Phyllida's legs. The young witch hesitated. "I have a bit of Muggle money with me." She couldn't bear to explain how that had come about - it was the remnant of a shopping trip with Nate during the summer at Tolpuddle. "I suppose worthy witches and wizards have done worse than stay in Muggle inns."
"More than likely. And I figured we could just charm a spare bit of parchment to look like cash. Or Confund them," Blaise said with a shrug. He wasn't going to ask about the Muggle money, Phyllida looked uncomfortable enough as it was. But he was curious.
Phyllida dodged the line of Blaise's questioning, hazel gaze. "We might still need to. We don't exactly look like Muggles."
Blaise nodded and glanced at Pansy before he discreetly moved his wand, casting quick disillusionment charms over them. "For the moment, this will keep us unnoticed. If we can find an empty house, I'd feel better than trying to stay in an Inn."
Pansy nodded towards a lopsided shack huddled against the stone wall, on the beach side. "Looks like there's something over there."
"Hopefully we all remember our Transfiguration," Blaise muttered. "We may need it." He shot a proud smile toward Pansy. He'd known she'd spot something that would work, she was great at that.
"I think I remember enough," Phyllida flashed a grin. "Transfiguration was my best subject."
"And you left school all of what, two minutes ago?" Pansy teased. The red-haired witch reddened, but kept her composure.
"Pans," Blaise said quietly, hoping to remind his old friend that Phyllida was a client as well as a fun flirtation. "We should be able to make it something workable, and if not, well, I can summon a house-elf from home."
Pansy shrugged. "We'll manage, I'm sure." She looked over at Phyllida, grinning. "Come on, little girl."
He shook his head. Pansy would never change, and if he were honest with himself, he didn't really want her to. She was one of the few constants in his life, someone he trusted completely, which was rare among their circle, particularly after everything that had happened while they were at Hogwarts. He held his wand, hiding it from prying eyes as they approached the abandoned shack.
"This really might work," he said quietly.
"Why shouldn't it?" Phyllida charmed the padlock open, pulling the chains loose on the rusted door. "It's going to be pretty 'cosy' inside, though."
"And that's a bad thing how?" Blaise teased. "I don't think we could do an undetectable Expansion charm on it, I doubt the foundation could handle it, but it's only a night, maybe two if we don't get the answers we need."
Phyllida caught the mischievous look in his eyes, but shrugged it off, aware that Pansy was watching her intently. "We have nearly no idea where we're going," she said, wryly. "I daresay things will get quite cosy in here."
"Oh, I'm sure they will. But we may find somewhere better closer to where we need to be as well," Blaise said with a shrug of his shoulders. A hint of amusement showed in his eyes as he glanced at the two ladies.
"Grimsay is a tidal island," Pansy said. "It's easily within comfortable Apparition distance."
"Thankfully one of us has some idea where we need to go, and we should be able to spot the magic and the Muggle-Repelling Charms," Blaise said, using his wand to quickly Scorgify a chair that had been left.
"Aside from that, I have no idea," Pansy said. "Little miss might need to help us with any details pertaining to her Papa."
"He wouldn't have told me anything," maintained Phyllida, dropping Ptolemy to the floor. "He never revealed anything to me about this."
"You need to think over everything he's told you since the time this happened though. It may have seemed obscure or unrelated and be very important to clearing him," Blaise said, Scorgifying another chair before turning to the third. It was only fair that both the ladies have a seat before him.
Phyllida sat down, looking overwhelmed. "I need to think about it."
"It won't come immediately," said Pansy, seating herself. The large, grey cat trotted towards her, and pounced on her lap. "You might see some clue when we're there, something that might call your father to mind."
"Aww, Pans, you've made a friend," Blaise teased. "But she is right," he added, looking over to Phyllida. "It's nothing to be rushed, but if you have some little flash, it might be what we need."
The younger woman laughed as Ptolemy batted his head against the dark-haired witch's hand. "Don't mind him, he likes women."
"He's a smart cat, women are infinitely preferable to males in most cases," Blaise said, glancing about the rest of the small building and at the cupboards.
"Are they?" Pansy winked at Phyllida surreptitiously, while Blaise had his back turned. "Well, this female is hungry. What do you say, Zabini - would you be a gentleman and catch our dinner for us? Or might the Muggle fish-and-chip shop across the road be a mite more practical?"
"That might be more practical," Blaise said, getting to his feet. "Three orders of fish and chips and whatever they happen to have to drink? Or does anyone have any preferences? Oh better make it four orders, can't forget Ptolemy."
Homework & Talking With Ollie (Duncan Dippet)
Author: Briar Rose
Date: 12-20-12 18:36
"I'm bored."
Duncan Dippett from the Transfiguration work he's currently scratching his head over. His roommate Ollie Choate is sprawled in a lazy slump on the floor next to Duncan's chair. "Is that why you're on the floor."
"No. This rug is plush and comfortable." Ollie lifts one hand and gives it a vague across the room wave. "Besides, those seventh years said I had to give them the love seat I was using. They claimed sen senroty, something like that."
Seniority."
"That's it. I can never say that word right."
"Have you done your work for tomorrow?"
"Not all of it. I can't understand half of what Flint is babbling about half the time."
"Only half?"
Ollie chortles, "Good one, mate." His snickers die down as he follows up with, "I've got DADA done. History is dull as watching milk curdle. I've got some of it done but will probably wait and do the rest tomorrow."
"You could be finishing it up instead of kipping on the floor."
"I'm too bored to get even more bored doing History. You think it gets any better?"
"I don't know but probably not."
"Way to rally me up from the floor to finish the work. Is it past curfew yet?"
"No, we still have a little while."
"Want to go to the commons and see what nibbles are still available?"
"We could but I have some fairy cakes that came today if you want?"
"Yeah, if you're sharing."
Duncan vacates his seat long enough to go to the first year boys dorm room. Back in the Hufflepuff common room he lifts the bakery box lid and holds it out for Ollie who's now propping up on his elbows. "How did you convince your parents to send you something from Briar's Bakery every few days? Or are you using allowence to owl order?"
"Neither. Briar is my aunt."
"Noooo. Really?"
Duncan nods. "She's my father's sister. Well, half-sister. I don't really understand it because when I ask no one will tell me all the facts. All I know is that my grandmother did not give birth to Dad. The witch who did is also Briar's mum. Or was. I think she's dead. No one talks about what happened to her or Aunt Briar's father either."
"Did any of them come to Hogwarts?"
"Mum and Dad and my grandparents. Aunt Briar didn't. I don't know about her parents."
Ollie starts climbing to his feet. "Put all that away and lets go to the library while it's still open."
"Why?"
"Because I bet we could find out if your aunt's parents did and what happened to them."
"I thought you were bored."
"Not anymore. Come on. Don't you want to see what we can find?"
Duncan does a two shouldered shrug. "I guess so."
A few minutes later the two first years are hurrying to the library to see what they can get done before it closes.