Chapter Five

"To say that the staff aren't happy is an understatement!" Minerva stopped pacing and rubbed her aching temples. "Half of them have demanded that she be summarily dismissed on the grounds of being an interfering Ministerial busybody, some of the others want a pay rise as an incentive to resist the temptation to hex her, and all of them want another staffroom secretly arranged so as to be able to avoid her during their breaks."

"I need something more damning than nosiness to terminate her contract, and although they deserve an increased salary for their tolerance, I cannot accede to that, either."

In the throes of anger, she failed to detect the cold edge to Dumbledore's voice, or the fact that his eyes had not left the piece of parchment held tightly in his fingers. Had her mind not been revolving around the recent staff meeting and the angry and bitter teachers protesting about each and every one of Umbridge's transgressions, she may have seen his eyes burning and his face set into grim lines.

"Did you know that some of the staff are running a sweepstake on exactly what will happen to Umbridge at the end of the year?" She sighed in exasperation and slipped into a chair. "If the students find out about it, we'll never be able to discipline them again!"

Exhausted and empty, she dropped her head into her hands and stared blankly at the intricate patterns on the rug beneath her feet. After a few moments of silence, a certain dread crept over her. Those things she had seen and heard, but not processed, clamoured for attention, and she risked a peek at the Headmaster. She swallowed hard and gripped the chair arms. "Albus?" she queried tremulously.

He forced his eyes from the words scrawled on the letter and focused on the witch sitting pensively in front of him. "Yes, Minerva?"

"What in heaven's name is wrong?"

"The Ministry have passed Educational Decree Number Twenty-Three." He lifted the letter and then, in an unaccustomed display of anger, he slammed it down onto the table, his splayed fingers trembling over the thick parchment. "It proposes a new role within the Ministry of Magic in which it will have the power to assess the level and standard of education offered and maintained by this school. As of today, the professors will be inspected to determine their suitability in their chosen role; anyone falling short of the Ministry's targets for educational excellence will be placed on probation with the view that they will be discharged if there is no significant improvement." He released the piece of paper and flexed his fingers. "I'm sure that you recall a prior Educational Decree obliging the Ministry to find replacement teachers, should the school fail to do so."

She barely managed a nod; the sheer weight of knowledge was pressing painfully on the top of her skull, pushing out all other thoughts and threatening to crush the fragile hold on her composure.

"The newly formed role is rather aptly dubbed the Hogwarts High Inquisitor and will be filled by none other than Dolores Jane Umbridge."

"What shall we do?" she managed to croak out past a dry throat and quivering lips.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"You will inform the staff to continue as they normally would. I have every confidence that they will provide Professor Umbridge with nothing less than examples of exemplary teaching. They are moving faster and more rigorously than I would have anticipated."

"What of Potter?"

"I'm afraid that it falls to you, Minerva, to protect him as best you can and to impress upon him the danger of the situation."

She nodded and straightened in the chair; her duty was clear, and it gave her purpose and strength.

"What will you do?"

"With regards to the Hogwarts High Inquisitor," he responded brightly, "there is very little I can do. No," he added more firmly, "I shall turn my attentions to securing our allies, as it seems that we are, so they say, on our own."

"Speaking of securing allies, have you made any progress in finding Ophelia Black?"

He stared at her blankly for a moment and then sighed softly. "We only have her history while the Muggle world only has her name, and it is proving problematic to bring the two into alignment. Alastor's friend has assured him that it should hopefully only be a matter of searching through the Muggle electoral register."

"Sounds simple enough, so long as she has a home, is in a fit state to vote, or is, in fact, still alive." She bit her lip, shocked and appalled at her bitter observation, and rubbed her fingers over her aching and furrowed brow. "I'm sorry, Albus."

"These are trying times, Minerva, but one should never lose hope."

"Since you mentioned finding her, I've found myself thinking about her quite frequently." She settled back on the chair and absentmindedly traced patterns on the velour chair arm with her forefinger. "I remember the day she was Sorted; so odd that I should, but I can see her sitting on the stool, holding the Sorting Hat so it wouldn't slip past her ears and staring resolutely at the Slytherin table." Her whimsical smile faltered, and a hint of fearful desperation clouded her pale features. "It's so hard sometimes to remember them like that, and then when you do, it hurts." When she looked up at him, he was chilled by the hopelessness and despair in her eyes and the solitary tear clinging to her lashes.

He thought to bolster her with strong words of comfort, but the faces of former students that had died flashed before him: the ones who had died standing against him, and those who had died by his side. He sighed and passed a weary hand over his eyes as if to blot out the world, if only for a moment. Perhaps it was enough for Minerva to know that someone else felt the same pain and faced the same battles, because when he lifted his eyes she was sitting primly, as if she had never felt the weight of the war bear down upon her and, for a moment, stumbled.

"I'll inform the staff of your decisions regarding their demands and your advice with regards to Professor Umbridge's new position." She stood and smoothed out the wrinkles in her deep green velvet skirts and flashed him a sympathetic smile. "I'm sure that Professor Sprout wouldn't mind clearing out Greenhouse Number Eight; with some comfy chairs, it'll probably make a fairly decent staffroom. So long as Professor Vector remembers to take her Allergease Potion and Severus promises not to blast the violets apart, it should be quite pleasant."

"Violets?" The flower triggered a memory, and Sirius' concerned and haggard face coalesced into view.

"Yes. She grows them for Poppy, who insists that the fresher the plant the better the potion. As far as I know, Severus uses them in a variety of potions when he has the time; otherwise, Poppy makes her own decoctions."

"Sirius mentioned that Ophelia was holding a bouquet of violets."

"Wouldn't surprise me; she had a fondness for flowers, especially violets. As I recall, she was always in the greenhouses, helping Pomona tend to the less homicidal plants; even helped her make those special flower arrangements. Pomona used to be rather keen of the language of flowers," she explained, seeing Dumbledore's politely bemused expression, "and she was always making little bouquets for close friends, with their subtle meanings and sentiments. If I recall correctly, violets represent modesty, humility and watchfulness." She tilted her head slightly as she dredged her memory and then nodded firmly. "Yes, that's right. Of course, they work much like those cards that Sybil carries around with her; invert the flowers, and they mean quite the opposite."

Dumbledore stiffened in his chair and recalled the image extracted from Sirius' mind of an outraged and distressed Ophelia, thrusting a tattered, inverted bouquet into Sirius' chest. As dread rolled in his gut and blood thundered through his ears, he pondered the young girl's intentions. With a dry mouth and trembling fingers, the icy realisation crystallised that perhaps Ophelia had been a willing ally of the Dark Lord's, even then.

"Are you alright, Albus? You've gone quite pale."

Sirius inhaled slowly, battling the rising anger. He could hear Kreacher, thumping and stomping upstairs as he cleaned and dusted. Outside, the rain was falling hard, hammering against the ground and window. He had never felt so trapped, so caged, and the fact that he was alone, babysitting a hippogriff and dealing with a recalcitrant and vile elf only fuelled his growing sense of discontent and anger. This whole house was drawing out his memories as effectively as the Dementors had; there was nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape. Even the refuge that spared him while in Azkaban was useless here; his Animagus form just added a heightened sense of smell to increase his misery. The house stank! It reeked of neglect, age, and all the vile twisted ideologies that had been born and nurtured within its walls.

He had watched the others leave the house, moaning about the weather as they slipped free from the house and into the sweet air. He had smiled and wished them luck in their endeavours, even as he seethed and died inside. Lupin going on some secret mission had been the worst knife in his back...the deepest cut. He had embraced him and wished him well and safe return, and Lupin had patted him on the shoulder; Sirius had never felt so useless... so pointless.

He had filled the emptiness with tasks, hoping to work off his doldrums, but it had only emphasised his role as housekeeper. He had thrown Buckbeak his dinner of dead ferrets and ordered Kreacher to replace the straw in the attic. Sirius stormed off to the lounge and stared at the cold, empty fireplace. He glanced up at the clock, and a thought pierced through his increasing sense of worthlessness. The letter that Harry had sent, the one that had spoken of his scar hurting, was still on the mantelpiece, fluttering temptingly in a draft. Sirius had mentioned it to Dumbledore and had been dismayed at the Headmaster's apparent disinterest. Well, it seemed that he could change that. He could help Harry. He felt energised and alive; he could do something. While everyone else was chasing shadows and trying to catch smoke, he could be doing something vital.

He aimed his wand at the hearth and watched as his spell created fire. He grabbed a handful of Floo Powder and scattered it into the flickering flames. There was a small chance that Harry would be there. Kneeling on the threadbare rug, he leant forwards and peered into what lay beyond. The sight of the Gryffindor common room revived his flagging spirits as fond memories sprang to mind. He was mildly disappointed that the room was empty, but he knew that he was relying heavily upon fate, so he resolved himself to be patient. Hour after hour, he repeated his efforts; he had a thrill when a first-year had espied him and had revelled in the adrenaline rush; so long since he had felt alive.

Just when he thought that he had missed his chance and was withdrawing from the fire, he saw Harry and his friends. His heart leapt, and he plunged back into the fire to hear Hermione's surprised squeal. He had studied Harry closely as they talked about the terrible things that were happening both in school and out. He noted that some of the youthfulness had gone, to be replaced with some simmering wrath at the futility and unfairness of it all. He had thought to be inspiring and supportive, but he found that the longer they had talked, the more unsettled and confined he, himself, became. Frustration had flared viciously through him when his suggestion to join them had been doused so emphatically. His joy had withered.

He couldn't contain the bitterness that was rising up like burning bile, and he had said something regrettable to Harry. He should not have compared the boy to his father; times were so different, and James had not had the same terror looming over him. Angry and ashamed, he had made his excuses, cutting Harry short and leaving his godson bewildered and worried. Still kneeling before the now empty fireplace, he had cursed himself for being too brash and immature...for thinking that he could have helped.

The house creaked around him, a slow, mocking sigh; here he was to stay... no escape, no hope. The very room seemed to press in on him; the sheer weight of the house crushed him into the rug. How he hated! How he seethed with rage! Trapped and down at heel, no better than a guard dog. He knew a way to make it stop.

Standing, he made his way to the corner and the drinks cabinet. It was just this once, just to calm him, as there was little point in allowing this state of affairs to grind him down. He poured himself a healthy measure and sat down on the leather chair.