Sunday, 24 August

After the Knight Bus once again deposited her at Hogsmeade Station, Phoenix hastened toward the tall black iron gates that guarded Hogwarts’ grounds, having chosen to walk to the castle rather than endure another awkward ride with Filch. At least, that had been her plan. She had with her a massive magical trunk that housed all of her essential belongings, and the prospect of levitating it the entire distance to the castle was a daunting one for a woman of her limited magical skills. With an audible sigh, she raised the ash wand that Meritus Brownlee had given her, and fought to raise the trunk into the air and keep it there.

Within ten minutes, she had stopped in the dusty lane that led to the castle, stomped her foot in frustration, and let out an angry growl. The trunk would not obey. At the first swish of her wand, it lurched into the air, made a sluggish three-foot hop, and thumped into the dirt. When she had it airborne, it moved in haphazard twists and dips with each flick of her wand and wanted to cross the lane in a path that would eventually lead out over the lake. She finally kicked the recalcitrant object with the toe of her boot, sending it careening in the opposite direction.

I can heal with my hands, raise fire with a word, but I can’t levitate a god damn trunk!

For a moment she stared up the lane in the direction of the castle. Trees lined the road, but any one of the higher windows could possibly hold a watcher with a clear line of sight to where she stood. One thing that had been impressed upon her, both by her old employer, and her late husband, was that she should never practise wandless magic in the presence of others. She saw no alternative but to raise the wand and set about further battle with the trunk.

As the castle finally drew near, she stopped and took in her surroundings. Leaves hung, limp and dusty, on the trees and brush that covered the hillsides along the road, all parched from the debilitating heat. Even the water plants in the lake looked as tired and dispirited as she felt. Although coming to Hogwarts represented a defiant decision to face Voldemort, it also meant once again abandoning her home and her everyday life, to live trapped in this magical fortress. She supposed running from hideaway to hideaway was not a much better choice

A figure stood in one window, watching her. Phoenix looked down, set her trunk in motion, and reminded herself she had better set a damn good first impression.

At the entrance to the castle the same figure stood, waiting for her. She turned out to be a middle-aged woman with grey hair worn back in a bun and wearing a dark green velvet robe.

“Miss Phoenix?”

“Yes.” She looked up and tried to smile.

“I’m Professor McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress here at Hogwarts.”

“How do you do?” She put out a hand, and Professor McGonagall shook it in a brisk, polite manner.

“Is it Phoenix, or Miss Phoenix?” she asked as she opened the massive doors to the castle and admitted Phoenix to its cool interior.

“Whatever makes you most comfortable. I expect the teachers will call me Miss Phoenix, while the students will just call me Phoenix.”

“Leave your trunk here. Someone will bring it up for you.”

She led Phoenix up a flight of stairs and through double doors into a cavernous hall.

“This is the Great Hall. Meals and celebrations are held here. You can come here for your meals. Just sit anywhere, and a plate will appear. You will find a list of mealtimes in your room.”

Professor McGonagall guided her out of the Hall and into the corridors. “Have you always had just one name?”

“No.” Phoenix would not elaborate. McGonagall raised her eyebrows, but did not follow up with further questions.

As they passed through the silent corridors, McGonagall pointed out the classrooms and the offices of various teachers. Soon Phoenix’s head swam.

“I’m never going to find my way around here,” she said.

“I left a map in your room, as well as a timetable for your appointments this week.”

She stopped before a door on what Phoenix guessed was the second or third floor of the castle, in the west wing, or maybe the north. After a few minutes of walking, she was so turned around and confused, they could have been in Hogsmeade.

McGonagall wished her luck and suggested that Phoenix take a tour around the castle to get her bearings.

“If I don’t appear at dinner, please send out a search party,” Phoenix said.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Only six students have permanently disappeared over the centuries.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“I never joke. Good day, Miss Phoenix,” McGonagall said as she turned to leave.

*****

On the following morning, Phoenix woke to a little alarm that chimed from a magical pocket watch, one of the few things she had been able to salvage from Brownlee’s shop. Her first appointment was not until after lunch, so she spent the morning digging clothing out of her trunk. In July, when she had first heard the rumours of Lord Voldemort’s return, she had wasted no time in closing up her house, putting most of her belongings in storage, and going into hiding. She had been living out of her trunk ever since. Aside from the peace of mind it would bring, staying at Hogwarts would be a relief because she’d had to carry the trunk into and out of every Muggle hotel she visited. Even her poor levitating skills were preferable to that.

After a few minutes she had a mound of clothing to consider for her interviews. It would not be an easy decision. At 5’1” tall, and ever youthful, Phoenix had to dress carefully. The wrong clothing made her look like a child, or worse, a child playing dress-up. She had a woman’s figure, with ample cleavage, but the sight of it was usually blocked from above by the view of the part in her hair. To make matters worse, she loved whimsical clothing, flowing skirts and sleeves, funky hats, period pieces, and costumes.

Phoenix set her small collection of witch’s robes to one side, and surveyed them with a muttered, “Welcome to Hogwarts; welcome to the nineteenth century.”

Next to the robes, she laid her long dresses. She picked up one flowing garment of white lawn, with a peach-coloured satin ribbon to wind around her waist and flutter down the back, and a matching beribboned hat. Sometimes she would wear the ensemble to a park, or the seaside, and spend the day sketching at her portable easel, like some nineteenth century lady idling away her days on a great estate. Her sketching was passable at best, but it was a great way to draw the attention of interesting people. Phoenix never shied away from the centre of attention, and the more interesting the person paying attention to her, the better.

With another sigh she put the dress aside. It was not the time to play dress-up. She glanced at the timetable. Most of the names held no meaning for her, but her first appointment for the day was with Professor McGonagall. She thought of the prim, middle-aged witch’s own dark robes, and reluctantly drew a similar dark blue robe from the pile and set it aside.

After debating for another twenty minutes, she tossed her most outrageous garments back into the trunk, and left out a variety of robes, simple gowns and Muggle clothing. She would have to select her wardrobe when she knew more about the teachers themselves.

*****

Professor McGonagall gave her a comprehensive test on the theory and rules of transfiguration. Phoenix stared at it for a short while, and then stood and brought her papers to the desk where McGonagall sat working on class schedules for the term.

“I’m sorry to waste your time,” she said. “I know very little of this. I told Professor Dumbledore I would not be a good candidate for Transfiguration.”

McGonagall raised her chin so that she could look down at the paper through her spectacles. After two seconds of perusing the mostly blank page—Phoenix had written her name at the top—she pursed her lips and set it aside.

“Yes, he told me, but he wanted me to test you anyway. He was concerned about possible gaps in your education. You can transfigure, can’t you?”

“Yes, but not very well. It’s something that I have trouble with.”

“Well, let’s see what you can do.”

Behind her desk stood an array of cages, large and small, from which emitted a symphony of tweets, grunts, and chirps. On the desk lay a large tray laden with small boxes, around which skittered an assortment of insects.

“Are these my victims?” Phoenix asked.

McGonagall frowned. “We try not to think of them that way, Miss Phoenix. They are not harmed in any way.”

Phoenix was not sure what to say. She had never resigned herself to the task of putting a creature through the trauma of being changed into an inanimate object and back again.

Professor McGonagall stood and carried the tray to the nearest student desk. “We’ll begin at the very beginning, and move through each required transfiguration. If I find that you are doing well, we can skip ahead.” She took one of the boxes and opened it, letting a big black beetle crawl out onto the desk. “Would you please turn this beetle into a button?”

Phoenix had her wand ready and knew what to do. First visualising a big black button, she pointed her wand at the beetle, and then pulled it toward her. She felt a slight resistance at the tip of her wand, as if she had dipped it into a pot of glue. The beetle swelled and stretched until the resistance broke, and it settled into the shape of a perfect button.

Phoenix felt pleased with herself, but when she looked up, Professor McGonagall wore a thoughtful frown. “Return it, please,” she said. “And then do it again.”

She performed the same steps, undoing the transformation, and then turning the beetle into a button again.

“Who taught you?” Professor McGonagall’s voice was light, but Phoenix detected an undertone that gave her butterflies in her stomach.

“I’m mostly self-taught,” Phoenix replied, “but I had a few pointers from friends now and then.”

“Ah. That explains it.” McGonagall went to the stack of cages and brought out a white rat.

“Explains what?”

“Your technique. I want to see a few more things, and then we’ll talk about it. Can you turn this rat into a maraca?”

Phoenix looked at the poor animal with pity. She was not fond of rodents, but she disliked what she was about to do. She stroked the rat’s back for a second, and the animal relaxed, closing its eyes. Then she performed the transfiguration, flawlessly she thought, although this time her wand met more resistance.

McGonagall gave her four more animals to transfigure, each larger than the last, as well as a handful of inanimate objects. As each grew larger and more complicated, her wand met more resistance. When she tried to transfigure a turtle into a jewellery box, it felt as if she had dipped her wand into fresh taffy. She concentrated as hard as she could until she was forced to give up.

“This is about as far as I’ve been able to go,” she said to McGonagall.

“Well, it’s much farther than I expected you to get, I’ll say that much.” She brought out the beetle box again, holding it in her hands while she talked. “The technique you use is called the Greek Pull, because it feels like you are pulling the target out of shape. The Ancient Greeks used it, but many other ancient cultures used it, as well, until the Romans came up with what we use now.

McGonagall set the beetle box in front of her once again.

“Let’s have a go at the correct method and see how quickly you adapt to it. With the Roman Snap, you force the shape onto the target with a quick snap of your wand. It should happen very quickly, so the new shape needs to be clear and ready in your mind.” She let the beetle out of the box. “It’s much less traumatic for living subjects, because they are transfigured before they even know anything is happening. You should not be worrying about their discomfort. Now, take up your wand, concentrate on the button, and snap the image down the wand and onto the beetle.”

Phoenix did as she was told, and produced a perfect black button with antennae and six little legs. It scurried across the desktop and dropped off the edge into McGonagall’s waiting hand. “Not bad for a first try.”

“It’s harder,” Phoenix said.

“Yes, at first it is, but in the end it frees you to do much more.”

She spent the next half hour transfiguring with varying degrees of success. When she prepared to leave, McGonagall filled her hands with small items from the tray.

“If you stay at Hogwarts, you might as well get a head start at relearning. If you manage to master all of these before Monday, come to me and I’ll give you something else.”

Phoenix went off to the infirmary, thinking that even though McGonagall was kind, she had not given her a single smile the whole time she was with her.

*****

Stepping into Hogwarts’ hospital wing was like stepping backwards half a century. Rows of iron bedsteads, painted white, stretched the length of the long room. Here and there, fabric screens partitioned off a ‘private’ bed. It was the type of big, noisy ward that hospitals had not kept since the fifties.

Madam Pomfrey turned out to be another middle-aged witch, with an old-fashioned starched white apron over a blue gown. She could have been Clara Barton with a wand. Phoenix liked her immediately, though, and they sat down in her office with a pot of tea to have a chat about Phoenix’s background in Muggle medicine.

“I have a medical degree,” she told the nurse. “I truthfully can say I’ve seen everything from battle wounds to plague.”

“What about magical maladies?”

“Magical maladies?”

“Potions mishaps, accidents from charms or transfiguration, and children being what they are, there are always curses, hexes and jinxes to contend with.” She gave her an appraisal, taking in what Phoenix knew must qualify as a ‘dumb look.’ “If a child came in sprouting peacock plumes, would you know what to do?”

“Not a clue,” she admitted. She debated about whether to mention her healing abilities. Breaking the silence did not come easily, and in the end, caution won out. “I have quite a bit of experience with medicinal potions, and also practical nursing.”

Madam Pomfrey raised her eyebrows. “Just how old are you, Miss Phoenix?”

Phoenix was always prepared for this question. “Much older than I look.”

“I see.” Madam Pomfrey looked doubtful. “Is your experience with using or making potions?”

“Making.”

“Then perhaps you would be better off with Professor Snape, our potions master.”

Phoenix’s ears perked up at this. “He’s a master? Do you mean as a professor, or as a licensed potion-maker?”

“Both.”

“I wasn’t aware you had a master at this school.”

“Although…” Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips and hesitated as if she were not sure she should talk out of school. “Well, we’ll just see how your interview goes. Would you be interested in an apprenticeship if one were offered to you?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“But you know nothing about Professor Snape? His background or reputation?”

“No. Should I?”

“Well…I think he would be a very hard master, that’s all.”

Madam Pomfrey busied herself with pouring more tea. Phoenix recognised this as an evasionary tactic, and pressed further. “Is he any good? Would he be able to teach me anything?”

“He’s brilliant, and the students who survive his classes to take their potions NEWT’s always receive top scores.”

Phoenix waded through the subtext of this comment, and asked, “What percentage survive?”

“A far smaller one than there should be. Now,” she said, changing her tone and the subject, “from what I understand, magical medicine is every bit as complicated as Muggle medicine, but completely different. While some of it could be learned hands-on, licensing requires formal, classroom training, which I simply am not prepared to give you here.”

“Oh,” was all Phoenix could say. Her shoulders slumped.

“I will keep you in mind if I need an extra hand.”

“I’d be happy to help out whenever you need me.”

“Now…would you mind telling me about Muggle medicine? I am completely unfamiliar with it.”

Despite her disappointment, the rest of the interview with Madam Pomfrey was pleasant, and by the time they walked to dinner together, she was calling her Poppy and had an open invitation to tea and chat.

*****

The next morning, Phoenix met Professor Sprout in Greenhouse number one. Sprout was a short little bundle of energy, with an earthy, no-nonsense approach to herbology that Phoenix liked. In some ways she was like Professor McGonagall, but not as stern.

“How much have you handled magical plants?” Sprout asked right off as she led her past rows of plants, all in neat pots with metal markers stuck in them. Some were tall and menacing, while others were small and disgusting. None of them seemed ordinary.

“Not at all,” Phoenix admitted. “At least, in the living state. I’ve handled all kinds of herbs and plants in potion- and medicine-making.”

“Well, that’s a start,” she said, but she was frowning. “Have you done any gardening?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve worked in kitchen gardens, flower and herb gardens, and some small farms. I ran a cotton plantation once.”

Glancing upwards, she noticed a viny plant with ragged, dark green leaves the size of elephant ears. It trailed up a column and across twenty square feet of the glass roof, making a large patch of shade. Tendrils snaked out in every direction and two of them were wrapped around the trunk of what looked like a palm tree with electric-blue fronds. The palm bent toward the vine, and shivered.

“Is that vine trying to strangle that palm tree?” she asked, unsure if she should be terrified or amused.

Professor Sprout let out a small growl and reached behind a row of pots, bringing up a rake. She battered the trunk of the vine, shouting, “Elephantiasis, leave Aspadora Electra alone! Let her go!”

The Elephantiasis gave Aspadora Electra one last shake before releasing it, and the palm sprang back and swayed until it stood upright.

“Bad plant,” Sprout said, giving it another whack. “Sorry about that. I’ve been terribly shorthanded this summer. If he doesn’t get his regular pruning, he becomes an awful bully.”

Phoenix chuckled to herself in a bemused sort of way. This could be fun. A bit scary, but fun.

“Now, first we’ll go through a little test to see how well you can identify the plants. Then I’ll give you a written test, so I can see how much you know about the theory. And last but not least, I’ll try you out handling some, just to see how you do at using the steps. You have prepared for that, haven’t you?” She peered up at Phoenix from beneath her big ugly hat, with an expression that said that Phoenix had better not be wasting her time.

“I think someone has been misrepresenting my background and experience,” she said, her cheeks burning. Phoenix felt a familiar mixture of awkwardness and dread. In conversations with witches and wizards there always lurked the possibility of having to explain why she knew so little, and how is it that they did not teach her these things at Hogwarts? And, if she did not go to Hogwarts, where was she educated? Woven throughout all of these doubts was the nagging worry that she might not actually be a witch, but merely some kind of Muggle freak that could do a little magic.

In the end, though, aside from having Professor Sprout yank Phoenix’s hand away from a werewolf anemone, which could have taken off a few fingers, her herbology interview went better than Phoenix could have hoped.

*****

Professor Sinistra, who taught astronomy, was the first teacher to show open dislike for Phoenix. She was tall, with a voluptuous figure under a clinging black gown, full ruby-red lips, and long straight hair the colour of coal. Above her shapely body rested a face that could stop a clock. Phoenix noticed she was overdue for waxing her moustache. Furthermore, she was one of those people who had mastered the art of using impeccable manners with such cold disdain that one left her presence feeling unworthy to clean her toilets.

She reminded Phoenix a lot of Voldemort.

Phoenix had embraced the study of astronomy during a time when no fashionable French household could be without a telescope. Unfortunately, it became apparent within moments that wizards and witches knew things about the cosmos that Muggles did not. To make matters worse, she only knew the French names for most of the stars and constellations, and had no way to prove to Sinistra that she knew what she was talking about. She left feeling humiliated, and thinking she was glad that there was no hope of a job with her.

*****

By Tuesday evening, Phoenix was getting used to the castle, if not its residents. She asked Professor Sprout about the mangy cat that patrolled the corridors, and found out her name was Mrs. Norris and that she belonged to the caretaker, Mr. Filch. Her luminous yellow eyes were disturbingly similar to her master’s, and they were fixed on Phoenix more often than she liked. Each morning, the cat waited on the stairs near her rooms and then padded noiselessly down the corridors, always ten to fifteen feet behind Phoenix as she made her way about the castle. Sprout had suggested that, since Phoenix was the only non-teacher in the castle, Mrs. Norris had no one else to spy on. Every attempt she made to befriend the creature was met with a steadfast, haughty gaze. It gave Phoenix the creeps.

The ghosts still unnerved her, but most of them turned out to be a lot like see-through people. Peeves the Poltergeist, like the cat, fixated on Phoenix as the only source of amusement during the boring summer break. On Tuesday evening, as she made her way to dinner, she heard a clanking sound and the scrape of metal against stone. Looking up, she saw Peeves braced with his back to the wall, his knees raised up to his chest, and his feet pushing on a suit of armour. The suit swayed and then toppled over, landing at her feet. Peeves bounced off the ceiling, shrieking with hysterical glee. When he realised it had missed her, he blew raspberries at her and shouted, “I’ll get you next time!” Sprout had assured her that Peeves had never harmed a student, physically at least. Phoenix had her doubts.

The worst thing Peeves did was to follow after her and repeat all the gossip he had heard about her in the teachers’ lounge. Most of it was benign, but it disturbed her that they had a pool going as to whether she would survive the week. Two to one against had her sick with worry.

*****

Wednesday morning found Phoenix sleepy-eyed, staring into her plate of bacon and eggs. With nothing to do, she had wandered the castle the evening before and discovered the library. After browsing the stacks for nearly an hour, she had returned to her rooms with an armful of books, which she pored over late into the night. She drank an extra cup of tea at breakfast, and gave a sigh of thanks that the day’s interview required knowledge, but no magic.

At the long table that crossed the end of the room, four professors sat eating their own breakfasts. Professor Sinistra sat beside a bookish man with wire-rimmed spectacles and a black cardigan over a white button-down shirt. At the other end of the table sat Sinistra’s male counterpart—a tall slender man with eyes as black as beetles and dark, greasy hair that hung past his collar. Next to him sat a tiny little man with enormous white eyebrows. As she watched them between bites of food, she realised that they, each in their own way, had been subjecting her to the same covert scrutiny. While the others sent furtive glances her way, the tall dark man fixed a glare upon her that was so full of hatred, she wondered if he recognised her from an earlier time in her life. It was impossible, she thought. She had taken time to study the staff list and knew none of the names.

In the afternoon, she met Professor Vox, who taught Ancient Languages. He turned out to be the bookish fellow she had seen at breakfast. Fawn-coloured hair fell into his face over soft brown eyes, and he was tall and slim, and hollow-chested. He was handsome, though, and would have been a heartthrob if he had a bit more spine.

Just the sort of timid, lonely man to bring out Phoenix’s devil streak.

Vox looked up from his desk at the moment she was thinking these mischievous thoughts, which had brought an uneven, half-smile to her lips. As if sensing her naughtiness, he frowned and then blushed.

“I’ve finished the written portion,” she told him. Vox, like several of the others, had given her a written test. Taking into account that the professors for the next three days of interviews were all men, she had chosen summer dresses and feminine skirts for her wardrobe. They were clothes marketed for Muggle teenagers, but teenage girls could be such brazen hussies. Her dress was a soft, girlish pink, with a womanly halter-top. It suited the sweltering weather, she told herself in order to rationalise what may have been an unsuitable choice.

Vox took the papers from her hands. “We can begin the conversational portion now.”

“All right,” she said. “May I start with Gaelic and Greek first? To get them out of the way? They are my weakest.”

“Go ahead,” he said in Gaelic.

“I not speak Gaelic well,” she said, her voice awkward to her ears.

“The pronunciation is most important.”

“Pronunciation?”

“Pronunciation,” he said in English. He returned to Gaelic. “You must be able to read, understand and correctly pronounce the ancient spells, in order to be able to use them. We wouldn’t want any accidents because of an improper vowel. Do you understand?”

When she gave him a slow, doubtful nod, he continued, “It’s not as if you are going to run into many ancient Celts any time soon and have a long talk.” He gave her a shy smile and she decided not to tease him too hard. He was too cute, but he was not her type.

“I want you to repeat these sentences…”

They went through Greek, which was worse than Gaelic, and then to the languages she knew best: Latin, Old English, Mediaeval French, and Mediaeval Italian. After engaging Professor Vox in a little risqué conversation in Mediaeval French about the ‘vessels’ Parisian prostitutes would use to serve wine to their clients, Phoenix went off to dinner.

Once again the ugly, dark man with the greasy hair gave her hostile stares throughout the meal. Her intuition told her that this must be Professor Snape. At dinner on Monday, Professor McGonagall had come to her with a revised timetable. Professor Snape’s appointment had been moved from a two-hour slot on Tuesday to all of Thursday. She wondered what it all meant, wondered at the man’s obvious hostility, and decided she had better get a good night’s sleep.