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"Dobby?" Professor McGonagall said without looking up. "Yes, that's what he told me, too. Because you were a great threat, he wanted Mr. Potter expelled. Because that foolish woman was so dangerous, he tried to murder Mr. Potter. If he told me he had to shove Potter off the Gryffindor Tower because our onions had sprouted, I doubt I'd even be surprised."
"Who is shoving Potter off the tower?" Professor Sprout asked, walking into the greenhouse.
McGonagall glanced up and conjured two chairs, one for her and one for Snape, who followed behind. The Flesh-Eating Grass was flowering—or rather, sprouting teeth—and had been particularly irritable lately. The tree stump usually used as a seat was currently buried under a tall stack of parchment, all Transfiguration essays.
"No one," McGonagall said. "We were discussing the Malfoys' house-elf."
"Ah," Professor Sprout said with understanding. "That one is a bit… excitable. Really, I don't think students should bring their personal elves into the school at all. Has that Malfoy elf been giving you much trouble, Minerva?"
Snape said darkly, "I trust you haven't forgotten, Pomona, that Lucius Malfoy was not the only one pushing for private house-elves at Hogwarts. As I recall, someone else made a tremendous fuss, wrote hundreds of letters, all to send an elf to school just so his godson could have a moment in the spotlight…"
"Severus," Professor McGonagall warned.
"I only met the Black family's elf once," Professor Sprout said breezily. "Now, come here, Severus. Here. This is the aconite I mentioned. I believe it might qualify as a subspecies of Wolfsbane. Look at those lovely, hairy leaves."
Snape stalked over, glowering. He bent down, examining the herb Professor Sprout indicated until his hooked nose almost brushed the leaf. Anthony took this as a sign that aconite didn't bite.
"Still trying to improve the Wolfsbane Potion?" Professor McGonagall asked.
"Since I brew it monthly," Snape said, "and happen to have a werewolf available for live testing, I see no reason not to."
"Don't make it sound so dreadful, Severus!" Professor Sprout chided.
"I am merely stating facts," Snape said smoothly. "Werewolf. Live. Testing."
Anthony set his teacup down. "Are you talking about Mr. Lupin?" He only knew one werewolf.
Professor Sprout nodded as Snape said, "No. I'm talking about Greyback."
"Who's that?"
Having to explain his own sarcasm seemed to irritate Snape profoundly.
"A rather famous werewolf," he said, stressing the word, "as you might have guessed. The Ministry is hunting him, but no one knows I keep him in a can of peas, feeding him half a spoonful of Wolfsbane and two toads a day."
"How charitable," Anthony said. "How is Mr. Lupin lately?"
"Quite well," Professor McGonagall said. "I hear he's still working at Florean Fortescue's. Fortescue is pleased to have a somewhat famous shop assistant and doesn't mind Remus taking sick days. At least any reporters digging for gossip have to buy an ice cream first, though they've mostly forgotten about Remus by now. They only try to arrange an interview when they're truly desperate for news."
"That's lovely!" Professor Sprout said brightly. "Fortescue is a good sort. I'm sure they get on well."
"Remus deserves a rest," Professor McGonagall said, shaking her head slightly. "Him and Sirius both." She bent her head, circled an error on an essay, and began scribbling corrections in the margin.
Snape snorted. "Save me two inches of root, Pomona. And an ounce of the dried flowers. I think I can do something with them."
"Of course," Professor Sprout said. "That reminds me, I must reply to those apothecary orders today. Oh, and the seed list from Bulbo… So much to do…"
"So, tea?" Anthony lifted the teapot.
Professor Sprout sighed, a hint of reproach in her voice. "Naturally."
She wove around a snarling, yellow-flowered plant and took the conjured chair. She accepted the teapot and poured herself a cup. Snape, insisting he was far too busy for idle chatter and pointless indulgence, declined Professor Sprout's offer. He swept out of the greenhouse, his absurdly long black cloak nearly snagging on a thorny bush.
"Severus is always busy," Professor Sprout observed, unfazed. "By the way, Minerva, did you receive Miss Bell's Herbology essay? Because I got her Transfiguration one."
Professor McGonagall's eyebrows lifted slightly. "No. The Gryffindor third-years have Transfiguration tomorrow. I look forward to seeing what she submits."
"Don't be too harsh, Minerva," Anthony said. "At least it proves Miss Bell finished her essays early."
"Or forgot the Herbology one," McGonagall countered. "Speaking of which, Henry, I received Miss Davis's essay at noon. I told her I hoped she was feeling better. She looked rather startled. What exactly is wrong with the girl?"
"Sleep deprivation," Anthony said. "Though I told Professor Lockhart it was tonsillitis."
"What?"
"Tonsillitis," Anthony repeated. "I've always liked how it sounds. Like a spell, isn't it?"
"It's not a spell?" Professor Sprout asked.
"Not to my knowledge. I believe it means the things in your throat swell up, like they're weighted down with sandbags, and everything you swallow gives them a good kicking. Though, I can't be sure there isn't a spell. Professor Lockhart informed me last night that I should have simply asked for his help, as he happens to know the counter-charm for tonsillitis. Logically, if there's a counter-charm, there must be a charm."
"Yes, Gilderoy always knows the counter-charm for everything," Professor Sprout said. "Especially when it's conveniently too late to matter."
Anthony rarely heard her speak so bluntly about a colleague. Amused, he slid the biscuit tin towards her.
"Last weekend," Professor Sprout said, her voice laced with disapproval, "he tried to instruct me on how to apply Mooncalf dung to Fanged Geraniums. If he were still a student, I'd have let him get bitten at least once."
She leaned forward, took a biscuit, and casually stuffed her empty teacup into the pale purple flower-ball of a Flesh-Eating Grass plant, the one currently dangling over Professor McGonagall's head. The flower-ball clenched instantly. A horrible, grinding crunch of ceramic shards filled the air as tea dripped down between the petals.
Professor McGonagall adjusted her hat, calmly moved to another seat, siphoned the spreading ink blot off her parchment with her wand, and resumed marking.
"Sorry," Professor Sprout said. "I'm in the habit of giving them something to gnaw on."
Anthony jolted, quickly checking what the Flesh-Eating Grass near him was doing. They were silently and viciously fighting over the conjured chair meant for Snape.
"You should have seen Dolores's face when she received Gilderoy's 'friendly advice'," Professor McGonagall said calmly, setting another finished essay aside. "It brightened my entire morning."
Professor Sprout chuckled. "Alright. What happened in the afternoon?"
"Mr. Thomas was found privately selling Roger's Snakes and Fanged Frisbees, and Miss Bell was caught red-handed throwing Dungbombs at the caretaker's office door," McGonagall listed. "Also, Colin Creevey got detention for 'snooping on Ministry privacy' for taking photos outside the High Inquisitor's office. On top of that, the High Inquisitor has submitted another application for Rita Skeeter's visit."
"Again?" Professor Sprout asked sympathetically.
"Indeed," McGonagall said. "Though I hear Gilderoy declined her interview request."
"Whether he agrees or not won't stop that quill of hers," Professor Sprout said. "Remember her piece painting the Weird Sisters as dull and debauched? I highly doubt they gave her an interview."
A faint smile touched Professor McGonagall's lips. "The piece that put you in a foul mood for a week? Yes, I remember."
"What is she even coming here for?" Professor Sprout asked. "What does Dolores want?"
"I think she simply cannot bear her authority being challenged," McGonagall said. "If Albus hadn't assured me she'd be here for a year at most, I'd truly wonder if she planned to stay forever." She scrawled a 'P' on an essay whose handwriting resembled a storm-tossed sea and set it aside. "Hogwarts is her personal playground of power: she can give detentions, take points at will, even grade the professors!"
"Frankly, I've stopped reading the inspection reports she sends," Professor Sprout admitted. "And really, I just don't like the thought of Rita Skeeter sniffing around Hogwarts, especially with a nearly-finished menagerie and five Chimeras—six, if you count Silvanus's."
"'Hogwarts Students in Grave Danger! Be Vigilant, Wizarding World!'" Anthony quipped. "Sounds like a reasonably honest headline."
Professor McGonagall set her quill down, thoughtful. "If we persuaded Gilderoy to grant that interview, do you think it would help?"
"Perhaps," Anthony said. "On the bright side, we might become the irresponsible school that hired a boastful, bragging Defence professor. A more honest headline."
Professor Sprout sighed dramatically. "What a terrible school of magic we are."
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