The Sun Never Sets

Who: Viola Fawcett and OPEN (could be YOU!)
What: Random encounters, could be plotty if you like.
When: Thursday afternoon, 19 September, outside!
Where: By the Quidditch pitch, where Viola is watching a flying lesson
Warnings: None, because we are ladies and gentlemen.

Viola had come out to observe the first-years and their flying lessons. Most of the students had come to Hogwarts prepared for their first attempt at broom flight; many also hoped for enough success to try for Quidditch as soon as they were permitted. But for students from Muggle families, where flight was still a fantasy save, perhaps, for the wealthy who might have tried a balloon or some such, flying lessons were a novelty, either amazing or terrifying or some combination thereof.

The flying instructor was demonstrating taking off and landing again for the students. Viola wasn't close enough to hear what was being said, nor the questions that the students were asking, but she was close enough to get the gist of the conversation. Still, most of her attention was taken by getting into the seats so she could settle and observe from a distance without, she hoped, distracting the students from their lesson. So distracted was she that she hardly noticed that she was not alone.

Who: Aloysius Parkinson and OPEN (could be YOU)
What: An unfortunate discovery! I.e., more postcard shenanigans
When: Thursday evening, at about 10:30 pm, after curfew
Where: Second storey corridor
Warnings: NAUGHTY PICTURES! Naughty language! Who knows?

Normally after curfew, Lou kept to his rooms unless he had some reason to be out, like checking on the prefects: a duty which, as a recent hire, he found himself subject to altogether too often for his taste. Tonight was one such, and Lou was out and about to see whether the prefects on watch this evening were doing their jobs. Also, it wasn't as if they could be everywhere at once, so Lou was doing as much checking on other students as he was on the prefects.

His rounds had brought him to the second storey corridor, where there was an unwarranted amount of noise for a place that was supposed to be still as the grave. A Lumos from his wand caught the rear of two fleeing students, dark-haired and dark-robed. Whoever they were--and Lou hoped fervently that they weren't his House's students (when had he stopped thinking of them as housemates? clearly he'd made that transition already--they weren't fast enough to avoid Lou's Immobulus.

Lou stalked down the corridor to where the students were standing, almost falling over, in fact, and grabbed one of them by the ear while he released them from the charm. He had the second one by his ear before the lad could flee as well. "Pucey! Graves!" Shaking the two of them in a professorial way--as best he could recall, the way it had been done to him when he had been their age--he pronounced the dreaded words, "Ten points from Slytherin. EACH!" His disappointment rang loud and long in the corridor, and the two boys quailed from it.

And on the floor, in the moonlight coming in a nearby window--

--no, it couldn't be--

--well, bugger.

"What, pray tell, are those?" Lou indicated the naughty postcards on the floor of the corridor, which he'd seen flutter out of someone's robes. "And whose? Don't think we're done with the points-taking."

Which last Lou added for the benefit of whoever it was that was stomping down the corridor in the direction of the ruckus.

Dear Headmistress McQuillen,

This is to advise you of events being arranged by the Etiquette and Comportment class and the Social Events Club. We will be hosting a dinner on 5 October, and a dinner-dance on 26 October, assuming that arrangements with the Music class and the orchestra can be made.

In addition, Professor Skeffington and I are considering methods by which students might demonstrate their extra mastery of the subjects of etiquette and comportment outside the Social Events Club, that is, in ones and twos. If there is any particular way in which a student might be of assistance to the administration, please advise, as we should be happy to refer our best students in any capacity that would reflect well on the school.

Please contact me if you have any questions, as Professor Skeffington and I would be honoured to be of service.

Yours sincerely
Aloysius Parkinson

[A duplicating charm copy is also given to Professor Skeffington]

Who: Timandra Starkey & Esme McQuillen
Where: A hallway near the Magical Theory classroom
When: During the afternoon of Monday, 16th September
What: Some theoretical magical enquiries

The third week of classes finally left Esme with enough time to actually get out of her office and visit various other areas of the castle. Following the disaster of the first day before classes and the news article concerning it, she had been holed up in her tower, engaged in all manner of correspondence with all manner of people; after the Prophet's mention of Jonathan yesterday, she'd been inclined to remain there for the foreseeable future, or at least until the memory of the words had faded.

She found this morning that she instead wished to screw her courage to the sticking place, and with rather enough problems on her plate for the moment, she set out to do something about one of them. Not everything could be managed from an office, even one belonging to the Headmistress of Hogwarts.

She'd been tempted to keep her raven familiar with her for company, after an attempt at a spell in a magical journal had left his feathers and temper ruffled with her; but he preferred to keep to the airy towers and courtyard, and disliked being enticed deeper into the castle, even for the promised reward of hand-fed bits of carrion. She didn't expect to need him directly, regardless, and so left him cawing at the window and snapping down tidbits of raw liver. If the need for a familiar did arise, she could return to coax him into doing her bidding with more determination.

"Professor...oh, Professor Starkey!" It was terribly convenient, happening so easily upon the very professor she'd been seeking out. Here in the corridor, however, was not the appropriate location for the discussion Esme had in mind. "I wonder," she requested after only the briefest of wary hesitations, remarking who was around and might be eavesdropping, "if I might have a moment of your time. Is there somewhere we could speak?"

Who: Professors and One School Gov.
What: Evening Supper!
When: Sunday 15th September, Supper
Where: Dinning Hall
Warnings: Old Ladies are Evil.

( <i>Always behave as if nothing had happened, no matter what has happened.</i><b> Arnold Bennett </b> )

Who: Galatea Merrythought and Viola Fawcett
What: A leisurely breakfast with the Daily Prophet. And its gossip column.
When: Sunday 15th September, breakfast
Where: Breakfast in the Great Hall
Warnings: What are you suggesting? These are forthright ladies, but they are also well-bred and -raised, thank you very much.

As Galatea swept into breakfast this morning - a gaggle of second-years squeaking away from her sensibly-shod strides - she was feeling quite... content. Things were going quite well, she thought, and even smiled benevolently at those second-years as they went their various ways. Her classes were proceeding well, with very few students expressing any dissatisfaction (to her, at least) at the alterations she was making to the (frankly outdated) curriculum. And the first meeting of the duelling club had gone quite well, she thought.

It had been worth sticking around in this inclement and strange place after all.

Ascending to the high table, Galatea gave stately nods - and the occasional small smile - to that smattering of her colleagues who were present at this hour at breakfast. It was her favourite meal, and had been for many years, not least because the strict hierarchies of seating, serving and conversation with which the British seemed delighted to weigh down their occasions were refreshingly absent from breakfast. Accordingly, Galatea helped herself to kedgeree, cold ham and toast, before seating herself at a place where the waiting teacup obligingly filled itself with tea.

"Good morning," she noted to her neighbour, as she reached for the nearest newspaper - the weekend Prophet, it appeared.

Who: Oscar Higgs-Quigley and Aloysius Parkinson
What: Expedition to Hogsmeade! For shopping and other manly pursuits.
When: Monday 16 September, late afternoon
Where: En route to the town and in town
Warnings: Gentlemen occasionally use rough language when ladies are not present, and Oscar is given to the occasional indelicate expression. Also, talk of naughty postcards.

Oscar Higgs-Quigley probably wouldn't have been Lou's first choice of companion for the walk down to Hogsmeade to order the materials needed for the Etiquette and Comportment class's dinner invitations, but he needed to go into Hogsmeade for reasons of his own. Beggars, and Lou was one, could not entirely be choosers, so he'd accepted Higgs-Quigley's offer of company and the suggestion of dinner in the town.

Lou had shed his academic robes in favour of a more gentlemanly wardrobe--the first chance he'd had to wear actual clothes since his arrival at Hogwarts--and he had his walking stick with him, less because he needed it and more because the handle transfigured into a flask that would be convenient if the evening took on more of a chill than the weather forecast had called for.

The stationer's had agreed to remain open a bit later than usual for Lou to complete his errands, and he reckoned that Higgs-Quigley had made the sam sort of arrangement. Lou had gathered it was the normal procedure. He hadn't mentioned to Lou what he meant to purchase, nor for what purpose, but given Higgs-Quigley's subject, it could be anything.

When Higgs-Quigley joined him at the gate of the castle, Lou greeted him with a friendly wave. "Good afternoon, Professor. How are you? I hope you're ready for a pleasant afternoon constitutional."

Daily Prophet, Sunday, 15th September, 1904

( To-day's gossip! )

Who: Basil Penderel and Viola Fawcett
What: A meeting about the possibility of a Muggleborn support group
When: 11 o'clock on 12 September, as agreed
Where: The library.
Warnings: None, one should hope.

Viola made her way through the sea of young people headed toward the library, letting the horde part around her. Under her arm, she carried folders containing her notes from her discussions with the Heads of the four Houses on the subject of Muggleborn progress, both in the domains of the houses and in their subject areas. Viola had managed to take a roundabout pulse of four subject areas by this means, so she had some good points to bring up both with Mr Penderel and with the Headmistress, when she wrote up her formal proposal.

Once she had found her way past the students headed into the stacks for their study period before lunch, she made her way to Mr Penderel's library office. She had spent a fair amount of time in the library as a student, but had rarely had to deal with the librarian in person. Her work had not involved so much advanced calibre research that she had required assistance with the stacks.

Checking her watch, which was on a chain tucked into a pocket in her skirt, Viola saw that she was almost exactly on time. She smoothed her skirts, put on a pleasant smile, and rapped on the door to Mr Penderel's office.

Who: Basil Penderel & Oscar Higgs-Quigley

Where: The staff room

When: Two different hours on the afternoon of Sunday, 8th September

What: The relating of an adventure that occurred on Sunday, 1st September, to Professor Milton Laughton, from two points of view

( The true story of the events of 1st September, 1904 )

Who: Ismeria McQuillen and Blanche Skeffington
Where: Blanche's office
When: Afternoon, Friday, 13th September
What: Tea, cucumber sandwiches and gossip polite conversation


Afternoon tea wasn't really a social trial of any grandeur, but that didn't mean one couldn't make preparations both lengthy and detailed.
It had began when she changed her dress after luncheon, and a full hour had been spent examining herself from all angles in the mirror. And then she had to see about arranging her study in a way both cosy and elegant and sending her maid out to pick fresh flowers. The house elves were diligent and careful cooks, but even so Blanche had written them a very detailed order of what she wanted and how she wanted it arranged.

The occasion in itself was not shocking, but she had invited the Headmistress, Blanche wanted to impress. Or no, not impress, she wanted the other woman to feel at once relaxed and comfortable in her company, touched by every thoughtful arrangement and eager to pursue the acquaintance. Blanche had seen her grandmama do it, on the rare occasions when she exerted her influence over ladies she particularly wanted for something - flower fairs or concerts for the poor. She wasn't sure exactly what she wanted from the Headmistress, but she was quite certain it would be a very good thing to be on friendly terms. Had it been a man, things would have been very different of course, but Professor Mcquillen was a lady and that, well, that changed things. Made her a possible and very valuable ally. For what? For what, Blanche had no idea. But the day she suddenly did have, it would be very unfortunate not to be on good terms with such an influential lady.

And so the set hour came. A small fire was going in the fireplace, the armchairs and a table set up in front of the window. Tea things, and tiny sandwiches and a plate covered in a towel, but actually filled with freshly baked scones, and then a tiered serving platter filled with dainty little sugary things. In fact, Blanche had underscored the word 'elegant' three times in her note and apparently to a house elf that meant 'tiny', which wasn't displeasing but somewhat odd. When there was finally a knock on the door, she was ready and waiting, the picture of a gracious hostess.

"Headmistress, do come inside. I was so pleased you accepted my invitation. Won't you have a seat?"

Who: Oscar Higgs-Quigley and Edmund Ramsay (spectators welcome)
Where: The courtyard
When: Noon, Thursday, 12th September
What: A demonstration of Muggle might!

"Your attention, please! Gather 'round, that's it, make room, everyone. Allow me to introduce to you," Oscar announced from his post atop a stone bench in the courtyard - now the center of a loose circle as students just leaving the castle for their midday break outdoors drifted toward him - "the latest innovation of Muggle technology. Some of you will be familiar with dusty tapestries from detentions spent beating them out--isn't that right, Mr Diggory? Hours spent with a stick, not even the humblest Muggle carpet sweeper available to you. Well, let me present an amazing tool - you can come closer, Carmichael, it won't bite - used by Muggles in place of positively ancient methods of beating with sticks. The motorized vacuum-powered cleaner. Since we have no rugs to hand, I'll ask - ah, Ramsay!" Oscar exclaimed in delight. "We're just having an exhibition. Would you be so kind as to bring over that tapestry?"

Who: Evelyn Seymour and ____________
Where: The Potions Classroom
When: After supper, Wednesday, 11th September
What: Troublesome roots

The Potions classroom was located in the dungeons, at the foot of a narrow, winding stair, quite out of the way of the rest of the school. Evelyn would have taken this as an insult - Annie rather suspected it had been meant as such - but Annie could not have wished for better. Her dungeon was roomy, cool in the late summer heat, and quiet, at least now that the students had retreated to the Quidditch Pitch and the Manners Society and whatever else it was that occupied their evenings. It was the quiet that Annie was most looking forward to as she clattered ungracefully down the long staircase in Evelyn's still unfamiliar (and uncomfortable) shoes. She had found to her surprise that she rather enjoyed teaching, with the exception of the horrible fourth year classes, but supervising a room of children holding reactive materials required constant vigilance. And impertinent fourth years and melted cauldrons were nothing compared to the tension of the staff table. Yesterday she had been mired in an interminable conversation about trains; today she had been interrogated about Vienna. After an hour of smiles and increasingly erratic answers (she could only hope that no one near her had any familiarity with the Court Opera), she was more than ready to spend some unguarded time rifling through the exciting drawers of the stock cupboard, without having to worry about acting graceful or ladylike. There was an odd scratching sound as she unlocked the door to the classroom. For a moment, she thought some students must have gotten in. Then the door swung open and she saw the tree.

Trees, rather, although only one of them was really large enough to be deserving of the name. It sprouted out of the drainage basin at the back of the classroom, reaching out its limbs, flailing and waving like a parody of a dance. Around it sprouted the smaller trees, some just finger-shoots, others the width of her arm. The gyrating branches had knocked over several tables containing her students' finished potions; shattered glass coated the floor, and several puddles were steaming alarmingly.

Annie let out a few words that she had promised herself not to use now that she was Evelyn, and then admonished herself. It occurred to her with some surprise that she could find some of the other staff members to help her, that it would not be considered amiss to ask for assistance. But she had never been particularly good at asking for help, and there was no one she particularly trusted. Anyway, some of the branches were waving perilously close to one of the ingredients shelves, and even if materials were easier to come by here, she hated things going to waste. This was nothing she couldn't handle. She pulled out her wand and muttered "Immobilis," but perhaps the tree was impervious, or perhaps it was taking some sort of energy from ominous mixture of potions all over the floor, because nothing happened.

That was fine. Trees were wood, and wood was afraid of fire. "Incendio," she said. A jet of flames shot out - she had forgotten how much more powerful Evelyn's wand was. Part of the tree caught fire, but this seemed to make it angry; it waved an infuriated branch at her, and she ducked hastily. Sparks flew everywhere. She jumped backwards, and nearly collided with someone coming in the door behind her. She was startled, and already on edge - putting her wand to the intruder's throat was merely instinct.

Dear Mr Penderel,

I should like to make an appointment with you to discuss a matter relating to my brief on which you may be able to advise me. Please let me know when it would be convenient for me to speak with you. I am at your disposal, and can come to the library at any time.

Yours sincerely,
Viola Fawcett

Please be advised that I have confiscated some French postcards from two fifth-year students today. My experience is that where two postcards are found, more will follow.

Suggestions for appropriate punishment at detention tomorrow are welcome.

Who: The ladies of Hogwarts
Where: Out on the grounds
When: Noon, Tuesday, 10th September
What: A harmless game of croquet

The leisure hour before lunch seemed ripe to become Esme's favourite time of the day. Sunday dinners were, of course, in a class unto themselves, but for daily weekday activities, Esme found she was quite enjoying the habit of noontime sunshine. She'd rarely emerged during the previous year to join in any gatherings out on the grounds, keen to fulfill her obligations as headmistress by seeming lofty and removed from her staff. This year, after her solitude of the first week, she'd finally been driven out to seek companionship, and was finding that she quite liked the idea of seeming a more benevolent, beloved figure than her predecessor.

It was with this in mind that she'd proposed an idle game of croquet, and several of the ladies had agreed to join her, trading in their wands for mallets from the school's shed of sports equipment.

Esme gently raised her mallet, swung, and heard a solid wooden crack as it connected with her ball. Shading her eyes against the unusually bright sunlight, she blinked as her ball rolled to a halt, rather farther ahead than she'd intended, and quite past the wicket. It seemed she didn't know her own strength; she'd only meant to give the ball a gentle tap toward the rest.

"Dear me," Esme said with mild dismay, though she tried to cheerfully laugh it off with her next breath. "I'm afraid I've missed completely."

Who: The staff of Hogwarts .
Where: The Great Hall.
When: Dinner time. Sunday, 8 September.
What: The first visiting dinner guest, Ephram Bodmin, Mayor of Tinworth and sometime Pixie collector.

Many years had passed since Ephram Bodmin last set foot on Hogwarts’ hallowed grounds. While it was a fine thing indeed to be back at the invitation of the Headmistress herself, the journey did little more than serve as a reminder for Mister Bodmin - he had an agenda. Several Apparition posts, a Thestral-drawn coach mired on a country roadside, and other minor mishaps had marred the trip from modest Cornish town to Scottish highland, and he counted it a miracle to have arrived on time at all.

The sun was low and red on the horizon when he was deposited outside the gates a mere three minutes before the appointed time, and escorted the rest of the way on foot by the caretaker. When they finally reached the entrance hall, great wooden doors creaking closed behind them and barring loudly, it was with wind-chilled faces and muddy boots. Bodmin, naturally, did not mind such things a whit, and scraped his soles against a block of stone bearing a monstrously large suit of armor. The Headmistress was fortunate enough to miss this display, and found her guest instead adjusting the tilt of his plum-colored top hat and toying with a fold of parchments tucked into his cloak..

Small talk was made as they set forth into the Great Hall, where table was set and staff nearly all assembled for the occasion. Marvelous, marvelous. He even said it aloud, in a joyous bark tinged with the rustic tones of the West Country - “Marvelous!” What a delightful assortment of people. Bodmin felt a resurgence of the warm honor he’d felt at being invited for an auspicious evening such as this. Yes, they would have much fruitful discussion tonight.

[Folded and spell-waxed shut, addressed to Messrs Laughton, Parkinson, Ramsay, Penderel, Barrow, Blackwell, and Waffling]

I say, has anyone any idea what the papers were on about with this riding business the Headmistress is all wound up about? They didn't print the pictures in the paper, and I don't believe I've seen them. This isn't about those postcards of the Hale Sisters, is it? Although I rather thought it looked as if they didn't mind being astride, in that particular case. In any event, no one has spotted any scandalous pictures among the students, have they? So the whole affair is harmless. Hardly worth getting worked up about.

As befits a school of well-bred students at a boarding school of our stature, no young witches at Hogwarts will be encouraged to, instructed in, or otherwise allowed the riding of brooms in any manner other than that befitting ladies. Whatever the Daily Prophet may have to say We will not have one of the students entrusted to our keeping next to appear on the front page of the newspaper.

Who: Lou and Blanche
What: New colleagues getting to know one another
When: Monday, free period before lunch
Where: Staff drawing room
Warning None! The professors of Etiquette and Comportment ought to know how to behave?

It was really most discouraging, Blanche thought, directing another stern glare at the newspaper. She had entered the teacher's drawing room and the Sunday's edition of the Daily Prophet had been laying there so innocently and with such a provoking headline no less. Hogwarts misplaces students. It had all been sorted out, so really! No one had been lost, wandering the woods, abandoned and in danger. They made it sound quite worse than it was.

And then, those other remarks.

It would be disheartening, if it didn't make her so angry. Insinuating that her presence would contribute to Hogwarts being less in any way! Why, if she was so inferior, the former Headmaster would hardly have hired her! It was not as if the students had suddenly turned into little savages under her tutelage.

Sitting in one of the comfortable armchairs, her lap and the table in front of her full of parchment, Blanche looked the picture of an industrious professor. Her skirt was carefully arranged around her, not a red hair was out of place and except for the agitated drumming of fingers, it was hard to guess she was actually rather annoyed. The papers were all of her lesson notes from last autumn and she was going through them to see if they could make any improvements. Professor Parkinson seemed as if he perhaps might be rather more flexible than his predecessor, and it made Blanche hopeful for the future. She was always in the odd position of finding her own subject enormously important, and yet a little irrelevant. It wasn't like teaching a real subject, but then it was also of great importance to those of simpler backgrounds. Some had come by good manners naturally in the world, and of course Hogwarts did some of their students a service by teaching it.

Leaning back ever so slightly - she was quite alone presently - Blanche glared at the newspaper again.