9th January, 1889 — The Grounds
Care of Magical Creatures was over, the OWL class spilling back up along the path and the lawns to the Great Hall for lunch. Classes were bad enough - there was no escape, and as Divination had proven yesterday, even a teacher's eye couldn't quell the chaos - but the walking to and from had become exponentially worse in the last few days, because for a few snatched moments here and there Jemima was a free target.
She had gathered up her things as quickly as possible and lurched forwards, walking fast, her head down but glancing nervously from side to side as she went. Care of Magical Creatures, indeed: now she knew what it was to be prey.
She could see Miss Borgin up ahead, and Mr. Vance was not far off on the left, and those were two people she would much rather avoid, so Jemima swiftly swerved right, colliding unceremoniously with one of the fourth years from class. Mr. Montgomery, as it happened.
Jemima's schoolbag slipped off her shoulder and fell out open on the grass, quills and books and inkbottles dropping here and there. If she had not remembered what she had written about Mr. Montgomery before, the fallen bag was deja vu enough: his mother's letter.
Goodness. Uh - sorry, Jemima mouthed, meaning to say it out loud - sorry for bumping into him, sorry for... the rest of it - but finding instead that no sound came out, her throat too dry.
She had gathered up her things as quickly as possible and lurched forwards, walking fast, her head down but glancing nervously from side to side as she went. Care of Magical Creatures, indeed: now she knew what it was to be prey.
She could see Miss Borgin up ahead, and Mr. Vance was not far off on the left, and those were two people she would much rather avoid, so Jemima swiftly swerved right, colliding unceremoniously with one of the fourth years from class. Mr. Montgomery, as it happened.
Jemima's schoolbag slipped off her shoulder and fell out open on the grass, quills and books and inkbottles dropping here and there. If she had not remembered what she had written about Mr. Montgomery before, the fallen bag was deja vu enough: his mother's letter.
Goodness. Uh - sorry, Jemima mouthed, meaning to say it out loud - sorry for bumping into him, sorry for... the rest of it - but finding instead that no sound came out, her throat too dry.
