Chapter Three: Too Close to the Fire

A/N: I am incredibly lucky to have an amazing team of friends helping me with this story. Bambu345 and Sshg316 are brilliant betas who clean and polish my prose and story. Kribu generously shares both her knowledge and photos of Tallinn, including several of the images below. And now, Camillo1978 has added her skills as a Britpicker to mask my blatantly American use of language. Any remaining errors are entirely my own fault.

Rising before the sun, Hermione moved quickly and silently through the dark House. Years of practice made it possible for her to manoeuvre undetected to the rear entrance, from where she made her way through narrow, cobble-stoned back streets to the apothecary and on to Muggle Tallinn, following the same path she took every weekday morning. Stopping at her flat long enough to change and grab her hand-weights, she Apparated to the far end of Pirita Drive, where it met the river, and began to run along the tree-lined walkway that followed the road, measuring her distance by counting the lampposts as she passed them.

Ever since that horrible night in Malfoy Manor, Hermione had felt the need to be able to defend herself, not just with a wand, but with her own body. As soon as her schedule had permitted, she had taken up karate, joining two different dojos and practicing on her own whenever she found a spare hour. Realistically, she knew that no degree of skill or martial prowess would have saved her from the torture, but she would have made it cost those Death Eaters a bit of pain first. Besides, realism had little to do with it; the classes made her feel safer, more in control, and since she'd started them, her nightmares had been less frequent.

Martial arts techniques alone, however, were not enough. She felt the need for both strength and stamina. Running gave her those.

It also gave her something else, something that came in very handy in maintaining her disguise at the Guild. Within a few months of beginning her exercise regime, she had stopped menstruating. The long months camping out with Harry and Ron had left her almost lean enough to pass for a boy without using a Glamour. Strenuous exercise and eating parsimoniously kept her natural curves from coming back, while the extra strength helped to maintain the illusion of masculinity.

The first greying hints of predawn were beginning to lighten the sky when the road left the sea to take her through Kadrioru Park and into the city. She continued running until she reached her flat, where she showered and changed back into her Journeyman's garb before heading back to the House.

"I'm not late, am I, House Mistress?" Hermione was usually very careful to get back to the House before anyone was up and about, but she'd been thinking about her research into the Guild's history while she showered and had lingered longer than usual.

"Not at all. I was just about to sound the wake-up."

The House Mistress, along with her daughters, knew all about Hermione's early morning workouts. The life of an apprentice was stifling for a teen-aged male, and in the absence of parental influences, it was the House Mistress' responsibility to make sure the boys didn't get into any worse than the usual sort of trouble in their free hours. Hermione had learnt this the first time she was caught sneaking back into the House in the early morning.

"Come with me."

That evening when she went to bed, there was a key on her pillow with a note reading, "Back door".

Heading up to her room, Hermione let out a sigh of relief. If the House Mistress had noticed that she was freshly showered and dressed for work, not for exercise, there would have been a lot of awkward questions. It was going to be a difficult enough day as it was without starting things off with an interrogation.

If the day before intake was one of mad preparations, Intake Week itself was one of military-like precision. Those twelve days every year, six each during the Spring and Autumn Intakes, were the only times anyone other than sworn members penetrated the interiors of the Houses. As a Journeyman, Hermione was now one of the people responsible for making sure that they learnt no secrets they could take with them. For the next six days, she would be taking turns with the other Journeymen, shepherding the new kids around the House and answering their questions. The trick, she'd been told, was to make them think she was just there to help them adjust to Guild life.

Before breakfast, the entire House collected in the gather room, where the furniture had been pushed against the walls, leaving space for them to line up in their ranks. Having only recently attained Journeyman status, Hermione stood in the second row, most of her view of the proceedings blocked by her taller, more senior colleagues.

One after another the Potion Master called the names of the new applicants and welcomed them to the House.

"Tasgall McIslay."

Hermione smiled as the little Scottish boy stepped forward. He reminded her of Colin Creevey at that age, all wide-eyed eagerness and wonderment.

"Have you come to this House of your own free will, with no motive other than to learn what we can teach you and to join in our communion?"

"That I have."

"Do you come unfettered by other obligations, free to take the oath that will bind your loyalties to this House, this Guild and the sacred traditions of our Profession?"

"Aye, I do."

"Journeyman Gage."

A muted reaction rippled across the room.

Hermione squeezed between the two Journeymen in front of her to stand in front of Dunford.

"Will you take this applicant as postulant, to guide in the ways of our House, our Guild and our Profession?"

"I will," she replied.

Dunford turned to Tasgall. "Journeyman Gage is your Alder. You will look to him for guidance in all things and serve him as he requires. He will be responsible for your training, it is on his word alone that you succeed or fail, and you will owe him your fealty for so long as you both live and serve the Ancient and Noble Order of Alchemists and Brewers. Do you accept this service?"

"Aye, I do."

A shiver ran down Hermione's spine. Postulants were usually assigned to more senior Journeymen; it had not occurred to her that she would be made Alder so early in her career. Up until that moment, there had been no one who would suffer adversely if her deception was revealed. Now there was another career tied to hers, giving her obligations she might not be able to fulfil. Not that her own Alder had ever done much for her. He'd left the House to open his own Apothecary a scant few months after she was assigned to him, and she'd only seen him since then when he'd shown up to play his role in her ascensions. Not that she minded. Crivens was a nice enough man, and she didn't begrudge him his tenth share of the tithe she paid the House.

As a newly assigned Alder, Hermione's week was spent with Tasgall, making sure that he was never allowed to so much as visit the loo on his own and monitoring every space he entered, every word he overheard, and every conversation he held. Of course, she had to do this without frightening him with a false impression of an overly regimented life-style.

While the rest of the House went into breakfast, Dunford pulled Hermione and the other new Alder, a Canadian called Davvy Grieg, aside. "Watch how the others manage their postulants, and let me know if you have any trouble. Whatever you do, don't panic. The worst that can happen is that a postulant needs to be given a light Obliviation. Grieg, you'll have observed this process before, correct?"

Davvy nodded.

Dunford turned to Hermione. "It's early for you, but I think you can handle it. Prove me right." With that, he went into the refectory, leaving Hermione no more confident in her task than she'd been before his little pep talk.

"Nothing like being thrown straight into the deep end, eh?"

She smiled wryly at Davvy. "Headfirst with my hands tied behind my back."

"You'll be fine, keener like you."

He'd called her that before, Canadian for 'swot' she gathered, but this time there was a bit of an edge. Not that she'd let it bother her. If he resented her for being made Alder so quickly, that was his problem.

Being Tasgall's Alder was time-consuming and more than a little stressful, but it did mean that Hermione was exempt from overseeing level exams. These were given during Intake Weeks to avoid any actual brewing in front of the postulants that might reveal proprietary techniques and recipes. Starting after breakfast on Monday morning, the apprentices admitted in the last intake reported to the upper lab for the first stage test. For five days, Hermione supervised Tasgall and others in preparing the ingredients needed for the tests, while nervous apprentices marched up the steep stone stairs as their names were called, remaining in the upper lab for as many stages as they could pass before trudging wearily back down.

By the time she left Tasgall in the kitchen under the House Mistress' supervision to help prepare the evening tea, Hermione's fingers were sore from being twisted together behind her back, the tendons in her neck hurt from tensing her shoulders, and she had a headache of monumental proportions. She barely managed a half-smile as she entered the gather room along with the other Journeymen to wait till dinner was served. Lined up on a side table was an array of full potion vials.

J.J. laughed at her expression. "Step right up! We've got pink for pain," he said waving a particularly lurid vial in her direction, "blue for bruises, and oddly enough, purple for tension. Pick your poison."

"One of each, please," she answered, collapsing into an armchair. "How did you know?"

"Not me. The House Mistress left them for us. What? Tell me you didn't think you were the only one who got stressed by all this."

Before Hermione had time to answer, Grieg entered the room and headed straight for the tableful of vials.

"Praise Merlin I'm in Dunford House," he said.

"Why?"

"Oh, that's right. It's your first time. Healing house, healing potions. They don't have these at some of the others."

Hermione jumped on the chance to hear about the other Houses, and the hour sped by in a welter of anecdotes. After tea was finished and Tasgall safely ensconced in the warded dorter where postulants stayed until they became full apprentices, she returned to the gather room with one of the books she'd found in the Guild library, its cover disguised with a simple charm to prevent any awkward questions about how she'd got it. As she settled in for a quiet read, J.J. draped himself across the back of her armchair.

"You know, you'd be much more comfortable reading in your own room."

Without lifting her head from her book, she replied, "By which you mean that you'll be sneaking out and want to be sure my window will be open when you get back."

J.J. had long since moved on from Chatillon's daughter but he still found it convenient to return from his trysts via Hermione's window, making it much less likely that his nocturnal activities would be noticed by the House Mistress. While Hermione had tried using the window as an exit once herself, her fear of heights had driven her back to her room before she made it to the street.

"Of course. Will it?"

"You can go out for an hour but not much more. I need my sleep tonight."

As it happened, she was back in her room in well under an hour. Whoever had written the book she'd chosen was prone to long, irrelevant recitations of widely known historical facts, and she'd learnt nothing useful. Instead of reading, her thoughts drifted back to the day she and J.J. had become friends.

It was her second week in the Guild. Ever since the night he'd hurtled through her window, J.J. had taken to showing her around, playing a sort of older brother, mentoring role. It was Saturday afternoon, their free time, and he'd promised to take her to the best sweet shop in Muggle Tallinn.

Hermione breathed a quiet sigh of relief. J.J. was a nice kid, and she could see them becoming good friends, but he was also the greatest threat to her secret.

...

"So, who was it this time?" Hermione asked as he clambered into her room a few hours later.

"A Muggle girl, no one you'd know."

"Run out of witches, have you?"

"Nah, but they gossip too much. As long as I only see Muggle girls, Cassie won't find out."

"Cassie? Tell me you are joking. That is the one witch you cannot 'goof around' with. Ever."

Cassiopeia Dunford was the very sharp-tongued youngest daughter of their Potion Master.

"You think I don't know that? She'd dismember any guy who just tried to use her and leave the pieces in the town square."

"Then why do you care if she knows who you're seeing? You've never cared before."

"Because I'm not planning to use her. I'm twenty-one now; it's time to start thinking about settling down, and I plan to settle down with Cassie."

"But you're still sneaking out to see Muggle girls."

"Hey, I'm twenty-one. I have needs. Besides, it's my last chance to play the field; Cassie won't let me get away with anything once we're together."

Hermione just shook her head. "If you get together. She sees right through you, you know."

"That's what's so great about her." He looked at Hermione speculatively. "You know, it's about time you started dating. Unless you're planning on being a guy your whole life. Nineteen is a bit late to be starting."

"I should think so, considering you started using my window as your personal entrance when you were sixteen."

"So. What about it?"

"Sorry, J.J., you're not my type."

He threw her pillow at her. "Not me, you idiot. But seriously, how are ever going to date when you're disguised as a boy."

"Don't worry, I've got it covered."

"How?"

"There's someone. I see him on my afternoons off."

"Who?" J.J. asked disbelievingly.

"No one you know. He's not in the Guild."

"So, tell me about him."

Not bloody likely, thought Hermione. There was no way she could explain to J.J. that she had a highly satisfying, friendly, casual sexual relationship with a thirty-something-year-old man. Somehow, it had never occurred to J.J. that she could be disguising her age as well as her sex.

"He's someone I know from back home. A friend of the family." That was not entirely untrue. While Charlie wasn't actually a friend of her family's, she was a friend of his.

J.J. hesitated. "I ... wasn't sure you still had a family."

"Of course I have a family. Where do you think I spend all my holidays?"

"I didn't know. Not that I haven't wondered, but you're always so close-mouthed about anything to do with your past."

"I have two parents, both living. No siblings. A bunch of friends."

"Why don't you ever talk about them?"

"Because there's nothing to say. They are incredibly ordinary. Now get out and let me get some sleep."

Not that she could sleep. J.J. had reminded her twice that day of the world she'd left. As she lay in her bed under the flowered yellow blanket, the memories came flooding back.

In the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, a group of Death Eaters escaped into the Forbidden Forest. They hid out there for a few days, then descended on Hogsmeade in the early hours of the morning when the villagers were sleeping off the effects of their celebrations. Surrounding a group of houses, they set them on fire, a constant stream of Incendios countering the Aguamentis of those trapped within, keeping the flames going as their victims burned. It was an act of sheer hatred, directed at no one in particular. By the time Aurors arrived, there were four dead and the Healers thought it unlikely any of the other fourteen would survive their injuries.

"Now the real work begins," Charlie said. "Normally, I'd have you do the body work, but that takes a bit more effort. So you're stuck with the tricky part." He placed the small pot of burn salve Madam Pomfrey had on hand beside her and cast a charm that projected an image of the patient's respiratory system directly above the bath. Nearly all of it was blackened and immobile, with just patches of pink tissue contracting and expanding in time with the harsh wheezing sounds. "Nothing but Wingardium Leviosa. Use it to lift out a bit of the paste and, using the image as a guide, slide it along the nasal passages."

Where sex with Ron had been fraught with layers of tension and emotion, sex with Charlie was fun. There was a lot of, "Tell me how you like it," and "Try this," and "What if we?" Mostly, there was a single-minded focus on the pleasure of the moment. It was exactly what she needed.

After five days of escort duty, Hermione had learnt to be grateful for having been made an Alder. While her task had become easier as the days went on, the other Journeymen had become more and more tense.

By Friday, the apprentices all knew their results and were ready to go out and celebrate. Hermione was grateful that each of them had managed to pass at least one stage. An apprentice who failed to progress in a cycle would be given probationary status, if they failed to progress a second time, their apprenticeship ended. While not every apprentice could achieve Journeyman status, it was always preferable when they recognised their own limitations and took their leave with grace rather than being pushed out.

Journeymen, on the other hand, reached the end of the week in a heightened state of anxiety. Those who had not been given postulants to supervise had taken turns administering the examinations, and the final act of the examination drama was the testing of the Journeymen. On Friday afternoon, the apprentices were released early and given the evening off; tradition dictated that those who had advanced the greatest number of stages bought the first rounds, while the applicants, despite their tender years, were expected to indulge in at least a taste of the local brews. Meanwhile, the Journeymen waited nervously in the gather room and prepared to be grilled. They had long since mastered the most intricate techniques of brewing and potion assessment, now it was their skills in assessing brewers that were being measured. The Potion Master had sat in on the apprentices' exams to observe, not the apprentices, but their examiners. With that done, he interviewed each Journeyman in his office, one after the other, asking each to identify the strengths and weaknesses of every apprentice in the House.

Not having been part of the examination process, Hermione would only have to give her general assessment of the various apprentices, as well as her impression of Tasgall. Nevertheless, the procedure would be the same, and she would still be evaluated on her performance. Hermione had very little idea of what to expect, although she rather suspected that J.J. had indulged in a touch of artistic license when describing the process. If J.J. was to be believed, and Hermione was quite sure that he wasn't, the exam began with the kissing of the hem of the Potion Master's robe, the entire interview was conducted with the Journeyman on his knees with his forehead pressed to the floor, and every poor answer was rewarded with a stinging hex. She'd managed to keep a straight face until he started in on the proper way to exit when the exam was finished (crawling backwards while intoning "Thank you, master").

Davvy had snorted. "As if anyone could ever make me grovel."

Privately, Hermione thought of a few who could, but those thoughts didn't belong inside the Guild.

In the event, she found herself sitting comfortably in a leather armchair, sipping tea, and having a perfectly civilised conversation. Dunford's questions were probing, and she had to choose her words carefully, but having survived nearly a year of private tutelage with Severus, it was nothing she couldn't handle.

"There is one more brewer I'd like to discuss, sir." They had completed the roster of the apprentices and applicants, but Hermione wasn't quite finished. "Claude Pyrites."

Dunford frowned. "I hope you don't expect me to share with you my assessment of his work in this House – that information is only for his ears and those of his Master – but if there is something you think I should know before making that assessment, I'm happy to listen."

"It's not about his assessment, not really, though it is related. The thing is, he has such a talent for healing potions, and he's not at all interested in cosmetics. Isn't there some way he could stay here? Switch Houses?"

"Ah. Sadly, there is nothing I can do." He held up a hand to forestall her protest. "I agree that his talents are not ... as suited as they might be to his current House, but there is currently no means of changing Houses."

"'Currently'?" Hermione sat forward in her chair. "If there once was, then perhaps we could find a way ..." The sad expression on the Potion Master's shaking head stopped her. "Sir?"

"The only way that a member of the Guild can change their House allegiance is to enter or leave the House of a newly named Potion Master. The rule was set in the 17th century, when a Potion Master was murdered by one of the Alchemists of his own House. It seemed the two had been competitors since they had apprenticed together, and the Alchemist could not bear to serve his rival. There was some fear that an unpopular appointment would result in an empty House, so the rule was set to work both ways; there will always be dissatisfied apprentices willing to chance a new master, allowing the new Potion Master to make up for his losses."

"Then, in the ... current circumstances," – Hermione knew better than to explicitly mention what those circumstances were; the subject was never openly discussed – "perhaps there should be a new rule. Wouldn't that make sense?"

Once again shaking his head, Dunford replied, "In the ... current circumstances, as you put it, such a rule will not be needed long, will it?"

"No. I suppose not."

With a wry smile, Dunford asked, "Have you chosen your next journey?"

While there was no set rule, most Journeymen spent no more than every second quarter at their own Houses. As much as they owed service to their House, it was the role of a Journeyman to journey.

"Xie," Hermione replied firmly.

"Interesting choice. What is your reasoning?"

"Doesn't every Journeyman want to journey to Xie?"

"Many, not all. And I'll need a better answer before I'll submit a petition," he answered sternly.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione replied. "I believe there may be unexplored medical potential in the work of Xie House. The experiments I've been running, mixing Muggle technologies with traditional potion brewing suggest interesting possibilities, but the Muggle methods mute the effect of magical ingredients. With the power of –"

"Enough!" Potion Master Dunford frowned at Hermione. "You know that I have my doubts about that line of research."

"Yes, sir."

He swept his fingers across his lips and grasped his chin. "You are the most promising brewer to enter this house in twenty years. I tell you that, not to flatter you, but as a warning. The last to show such promise insisted on following his own path against my advice, and was lost to us. You know of whom I speak."

Hermione nodded. In all her years at the Guild, this was the first time that Dunford had in any way referred to Severus Snape.

"I will allow you this attempt under one condition. Give me your word that if it fails, you will give up this foolishness."

"You have my word."

"Then I will submit the petition."

...

Calpurnia Bagshot's notes on the text:

[1] Our Muggle readers may be interested to know more about the devastation of the wizarding population of Europe. The following is a general survey of the matter, taken from the introduction to my recent book, Voldemort Redux: The Second Fall of the Dark Lord, now in its second printing by Obscurus Books:

The 20th century devastated the European wizarding world. Wards and spells that kept Muggle and wizard apart for centuries crumbled under the onslaught of modern warfare. No Disillusionment Charm could stop a bomb or a rampaging squadron of tanks. The innate tendency of magical folk to hide in plain sight, to gather in hidden corners of capital cities, left them vulnerable as war followed war. The greatest destruction came during what the Muggles refer to as the Second World War.

In Eastern Europe, a third wave of destruction came with the Soviet invasions of Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia. Few of the wizarding neighborhoods that survived the initial incursion made it through the sovietisation of the grand, ancient capitals. As elegant, period architecture was bulldozed to make way for concrete blocks, the secret places tucked into the interstices of crenellated cornices were crushed, and their owners made homeless. A new leader arose who promised to keep witches and wizards safe from this latest, rising tide of terror. He called himself Voldemort. His base was not, however, in the East where the horrors were greatest, but in Britain, where distance encouraged perspective. Those who opposed him found a leader in a hero of an earlier age, the great Albus Dumbledore who had led the struggle against Grindelwald. Like all great conflicts, there were moments of despair and moments of heroism, but unlike most, this one was ended by a mere babe.

[2] The secrecy that shrouds the dragon reserve is legendary. From the beginning, when Harvey Ridgebit first proposed the creation of the reserve in 1927, he had hoped to make it an exclusive haven for the magnificent creatures, limiting their human contact to only reserve workers. His request was refused by the members of the Special Committee for the Control of Dragons of the International Confederation of Wizards, made up of the heads of the various departments and bureaus responsible for magical creatures throughout the wizarding world. They insisted that free access by committee members was imperative to ensure that the dragons were properly cared for and that management of such a valuable resource not become corrupted. As the International Code of Wizarding Secrecy had, since 1750, made the concealment of magical creatures a strictly national affair, it was only the seeming impossibility of controlling dragons and preventing them from both revealing themselves to Muggles and crossing national boundaries that had permitted them any sort of international dealings, and they were determined to make the most of the opportunity. While they were all scrupulously exacting in their efforts to capture and deliver all dragons within their territories to the reserve, they were far less scrupulous in their use of their inspectorial authority.

As Ridgebit had expected, "inspections" quickly became frequent occurrences, as members of the Committee brought large entourages of cronies and business associates to ogle the animals. As junkets became more elaborate, they began to strain the finances of the reserve, with guests demanding to be wined and dined in a manner befitting their status. Worse, visitors began to encroach on the dragons themselves. No longer content with merely seeing the animals, "inspectors" and their guests began to insist on entering the enclosures for up-close encounters. When the Norwegian representative insisted on being taken for a flight on dragonback, Ridgebit refused, insisting that he would close the reserve and eradicate every dragon from the face of the planet before he would condone such madness.

The matter was taken to the full Committee, but even as they debated ousting Ridgebit and replacing him with a more malleable director, the matter was taken out of their hands with the eruption of a mass outcry following the infamous Ilfracombe Incident. With so many people entering the reserve, its location had become an open secret in the elite circles of magical society. Inevitably, there were a number of incidents when young people (mostly wizards and generally heavily intoxicated) on dares found their way into the reserve and attempted a variety of interactions with the dragons. Needless to say, most of these incidents ended badly. Severe, and very public, punishments were instituted in an effort to discourage such folly, but it was the deaths of two wizards and a witch that turned public opinion in favour of Ridgebit. The three, all students at Durmstrang, had been attempting to "liberate" a Welsh Green by releasing it in Brecon Beacons. They had made it as far as Devon when the enraged dragon escaped from its confinement and attacked its captors, then fled to a nearby beach. The resulting mayhem required the casting of the single largest Memory Charm ever performed, covering the entire Muggle population of the village of Ilfracombe. By the time the uproar died down, the reserve was secured beyond the power of the Committee to interfere.

Today, the only ways in or out of the reserve are through a very small, tightly controlled set of nodes on the Floo network or to fly on dragonback. To further protect against trouble, should the wards somehow fail, no photographs have ever been taken at the reserve. At the request of the Potion Mistress, however, the current director of the reserve indicated to me buildings of a similar style outside the reserve in order to allow you, dear readers, to create a mental image of the sights that the Potion Mistress was privileged to see.

Sorina Ridgebit, Harvey's wife, has been the designer for the reserve since its creation. A native of Romania, it was she who first suggested the location, on the sacred mountain Kogaionon, hidden from Muggles by the Romanian magical community since the time of the Roman conquest and the beginning of the persecution of the old ways. Under her guidance, traditional Romanian forms, today most commonly seen only in churches, were used for all the structures. An example of the wave pattern of the common house roof can be seen here:

Strong anti-flammation spells are woven into the wood of the buildings, as well as the fences and gates of the paddocks, which resemble these:

Sorina herself decorated the walls and ceiling of the common house in the painting style seen below, albeit with very different motifs:

[3] While unknown to most Muggles, Zalmoxis is nearly as famous among wizard-kind as Merlin. A Thracian wizard, as a youth he traveled to Greece where he was trained by Pythagoras, the founder of the Arithmantic arts. Upon reaching his majority, he returned to his homeland to serve his people. Never a ruler himself, he advised rulers, settled disputes, and used his magic for the protection and welfare of his people. After years of toiling in vain to resolve their constant intra-tribal disputes, he sealed himself inside a cave on the holy mountain of Kogaionon, warning his people that if they did not mend their ways he would never return. When the Dacian Alliance was formed, three years later, he emerged from the cave and served many years as the chief advisor to the ruling council. Long after he was gone, his legend grew amongst the people, until they came to believe that he had died during his sojourn in the cave and been reborn as a god. For centuries, the Dacians sacrificed their noblest warriors to Zalmoxis, believing that in death they would serve Zalmoxis and bring his blessings to their people.

The cave has a later role in history, as the local wizarding community tells the tale of a visit to the region by a beautiful young witch who lured Muggle men into the cave, from which they never emerged. After she left, the remains of the Muggles were found embedded within the living rock of the cave walls, and Zalmoxis' writings, which had been preserved by his descendants for hundreds of years, were gone. This story coincides with the known travels of Nimue in the region, and it is believed that it was there that she learnt the secret to the spell she used to trap Merlin. Unfortunately for historians, in the Middle Ages, the cave became the residence of Hungarian Horntails, and any physical evidence of her experiments was obliterated.

[4] Solpadeine, a low-strength, over the counter mix of paracetomol (acetaminophen) and codeine phosphate, is manufactured by GlaxoSmithKline, a major pharmaceutical company that traces its origins to the humble Plough Court pharmacy, established in 1715 by Silvanus Bevan. What is not well known is that Bevan's maternal grandfather was, in fact, a Potion Master. When young Silvanus turned out to be a Squib, his parents defied the tradition that would have had them cast him out and instead apprenticed him to a Muggle pharmacist. As his business expanded, through his grandfather he recruited other Squib sons of Guild-trained brewers, a practice that has continued through all the incarnations of the company, as a consequence of which no child of a Guild member has been abandoned in at least two centuries. There are, of course, some who find their careers elsewhere, such as Xiaolong Xie, Squib son of Potion Master Jiaolong Xie, who changed his name to the more Muggle-sounding Xiaoliang and currently heads the Xie research group at Harvard University.

The distinctive packaging of Solpadeine, with its Gryffindor colours and lightning-bolt motif, was designed as a tribute to Harry Potter's role in the first defeat of Voldemort:

[5] Some of the locations mentioned by the Potion Mistress are easily accessible, even to Muggles.

From Pirita Drive, one can see the old city of Tallinn rising above the modern port facilities. During the summer months, when the sun rises early in the far north, the Potion Mistress would have enjoyed this view during her morning runs:

When Pirita Drive turns away from the sea, it passes through Kadrioru Park:

Katariina Kaik, or the Katriina passage, leads from the Muggle town square of Old Tallinn towards the city walls:

Muggle authorities have separated the old city from the new, circumscribing the walls with neat lawns:

In spring, a white lilac blooms just outside the Viru Gate: