Chapter Fourteen: Part Two
he Hogwarts Library’s Best-Kept Secret
Libraries are among the world's most perilous places. Lurking amongst the stacks, tucked behind every tome, there are countless dangers which every Prankster must be prepared to meet. Arming oneself with defensive charms is not enough when venturing into the Realm of the Printed Word. Too many unwary scholars have fallen prey -- sometimes literally -- to the hazards of the myriad protective charms, bewitchments and enchantments laid upon innocent-looking volumes by writers who hoard their knowledge as jealousy as goblins guard their gold.
Yet any brave soul may learn to negotiate even the most convoluted Library with just a bit of patience and common sense.* Every book has its own quirks, but there are a few general guidelines that will prevent any number of mishaps: Know that unnatural odours will offend most herbals, and understand that bright sunlight is often painful for astronomy books. Do not disdain the coy manner of many Charms manuals; a few minutes of playful flirtation will prevent hours of sulking. Speak quietly in the presence of potent grimoires, for these books may pass your secrets on to others. Many books about magical creatures require regular feeding, and we hardly need to tell you to never, ever, ever skip to the end of a divination text. Take the time to learn the names of books bound in human skin; though they are little more than hide and parchment now, they retain their dignity and deserve to be treated with respect.
* We are fully aware that these traits are not always present in great abundance in the Hearts and Minds of diligent Pranksters. But, if you value your life, heed the warning of Mr. Padfoot, who in his eagerness to peruse the pages of Tongue-Tying Tricks for Tedious Tea Parties forwent the customary ritual of greeting the tome with seven rhyming lines from an Elizabethan morality play. None will soon forget the three days that followed, wherein Mr. Padfoot was unable to speak due to the Curious Oozing Cankers that formed on his tongue.
It is true, however, that a Prankster may spend his entire life reading and never learn all the manners and customs of books. A frustrated mischief-maker may admit defeat and seek aid in his scholarly studies. In desperate situations, he may even turn to the librarian.
This is a dire mistake. Librarians do not exist to help scholars locate and use books; librarians exist to protect books from the unspeakable indignities of being handled, opened, perused and read. Like black-robed jailors in prisons of wood, the Madam Pinces of the world live only to keep the books of their ward fettered and shackled.
Nay, do not turn to the librarian, even if you are at your wit's end. There is, in the magnificent Hogwarts Library, another option. Few are the scholars who share this knowledge we are about to impart to you, for it is one of the school’s Most Precious Secrets. For reasons that will soon become clear, we will not provide more details in even this Sacred Book. Some things, we have learned, are best discovered for yourself.
But if you do as we say, the rewards will be great, and the secrets of the Hogwarts library will be laid bare before your very eyes.
First, establish yourself as a serious library visitor. It is not enough to merely study at the tables with your mates; you must show that the books themselves are very dear to you. Wander the stacks, caress the covers, scan the titles, breathe the very essence of the library air.
Second, cultivate the habit of entering the Restricted Section after hours, not for thrill or dare, but for knowledge. Once or twice is not enough; you must prove yourself willing to risk life, limb and detention to acquire Forbidden Knowledge.
Third, carry a pocketful of liquorice or dried rose petals with you during every library excursion.
Fourth, wait and watch.*
There is nothing more that we can tell you. The rest is up to you.
* It helps, too, to have a comely, bookish lad like Mr. Moony with you during these midnight visits. Don't ask why. Just trust us. Have we yet led you astray?
Remus paused with his hand on the spine of Zombie Rites and Rights.
Raising his wand, he looked around, heart beating rapidly. He could hear James and Sirius whispering furiously at the end of the aisle, and Peter's soft footsteps and steady breathing on the other side of the shelf. Moonlight streamed through the tall library windows, washing the shelves, the floor, and his own skin in cool, silvery light. A brisk wind brushed the leaves of the climbing ivy on the windows.
Somewhere nearby, somebody was singing.
For a moment Remus was certain he was imagining it. Then Peter's footsteps stopped. There was a rustle of robes as Peter drew his wand.
"Remus?" Peter's whisper was hoarse and strained. "D'you hear that?"
Remus swallowed. "Yeah."
A woman was singing a gentle lullaby with no words that he could understand. He listened silently for a few moments. The song seemed to flow through the library, brushing over the books and shelves and cold stone floor like a cool mist. Remus shivered and rubbed his arms nervously.
He was used to hearing strange noises in the library. His ears had rung for days after James accidentally dropped Songs of the Syrens last term, during their very first bumbling, ill-fated, late-night visit to the Restricted Section. But this was different. This voice did not sound like magic leaking from a book somebody had forgotten to close in the Magical Music section. It sounded very human.
Remus walked to the end of the row to where James and Sirius were arguing quietly over an open book between them. An illuminated illustration cast a pale green light on their faces.
"Quiet!" Remus commanded in a sharp whisper. They looked up at him in surprise; Peter appeared a moment later, looking around anxiously. "Listen." Remus held up a hand to forestall their questions.
James' eyes widened. "What is--"
Without answering, Remus took a few steps away, straining to hear the singing more clearly. With his friends on his heels, he navigated the twists and turns of the Restricted Section toward the dark alcove of shelves that housed the books about Poisonous and Perilous Plants.
The voice grew louder as they neared. Below the melodic song, Remus could hear Sirius' quick breaths, James shuffling footsteps, Peter's nervous swallows, and his own thudding heart. He stopped and held his breath beside one tall shelf; the singing woman was just on the other side.
Cautiously, Remus poked his head around the corner. Behind him, James inhaled sharply.
The ghost of a young woman was floating between the stacks, her head tilted to one side as she sang softly, one arm extended as though to caress the spines of the books. Curious, Remus stepped out from behind the shelf. First term, most the ghosts in the castle had made a point of introducing themselves to the first years, but he had never seen this woman before.
She was dressed in a long, elegant gown; her hair was coming loose from an elaborate mess of pins and curls. She was reaching toward just one book, a small leather volume that quivered and whimpered faintly between two larger bindings. Her long, pale fingers did not pass through the book, but it seemed to feel her touch anyway, gradually stilling and falling quiet as she sang. Remus did not recognise the language of her song, though it seemed familiar, but her voice was clear and the melody was soothing, so he simply listened for a while. He was aware of his friends behind him, but they too were silent.
The little book gave one last contented shiver, like a puppy falling asleep. The woman's song faded, and she lowered her hand slowly.
Then she turned abruptly and fixed Remus with a pale, unblinking stare.
"I've been watching you," she said.
The boys all gasped, startled. Peter ducked behind the shelf, and James instinctively grabbed the nearest book for defence.
Before Remus could answer, she continued, "You come here often, in the night. More than most, even those much older than you. Tell me -- what do you seek, when you wander these shelves in the moonlight?"
She turned toward them fully, her expression cool and unreadable. She had the high cheekbones and fine features of a pure-blooded witch, and her posture, even floating in midair, was perfectly erect. In one hand, she gripped a bouquet of ghostly dead roses; the thorns and shrivelled petals glowed brighter than the rest of the apparition. Remus tried very hard not to stare at the tear where the fabric of her gown was rent, nor the ghostly blood that stained her bodice, spreading outward from her heart in an almost perfect rosette.
He glanced at his friends. Peter was peeking around the corner, and James was clutching Sentient Plants of Papua New Guinea to his chest as if it were a shield. Sirius stared at the ghost unabashedly. None of them opened their mouths to answer.
Remus took a deep breath. "Nothing, really," he said. His voice squeaked horribly. He swallowed and tried again, "Nothing in particular." It was mostly true. James and Sirius were determined to find a book about the secret passageways of Hogwarts, but since nobody knew if any such book actually existed, they weren't particularly looking for it.
"You are very diligent for those who seek nothing," the ghost said. Her voice was unusually deep for a young woman's, rich and strong and entirely too alive. She floated toward them slightly. Remus could feel James forcing himself not to step back.
"We like books," Remus said lamely. He cringed at the nervous waver in his voice.
A flicked of amusement crossed her face. "Do you like books," she wondered, tilting her head thoughtfully, "or do you covet knowledge? Do you walk among these shelves to brush your fingers along the roughened spines, to smell the leather, to hear the whisper of pages turned?" She gestured with her dead roses toward the shelves in shadow all around them. "Or do you seek only to devour that which the pages carry and claim it for your own? Tales of glory, tools of conquest, the methods and means to bend others to your will, to harness the power of the seasons, capture the strength of stone and wind?"
Remus could not see how his friends reacted, but he found himself nodding, unable to look away from her cold silver eyes. She smiled thinly.
"Ah. I see." She turned to scan the books. After several moments, Remus began to wonder if she'd forgotten about them, but he didn't dare step away. Then she turned towards them again and raised a single, sculpted eyebrow. "I have something for you."
A book burst from the shelf just over her shoulder and flew toward them. Remus caught it with a surprised grunt.
"If it is glory and riches you seek," the ghost said, still smiling oddly, "you would do well to heed these words."
Remus looked down at the plain leather cover of the large tome in his hands. Sirius and James peered over his shoulder curiously.
"Compleat Magical Properties of Vegetables. Unabridged." James looked up at the ghost, confused. "Vegetables?"
Her smile vanished. "Be gone," she said imperiously, waving the bouquet of roses. "The books are restless tonight, and your presence disturbs them."
At once, Remus could feel that it was true; the air was filled with an uneasy shuffling, scruffling, shivering, and shifting of pages.
When they hesitated, the ghost repeated sternly, "Be gone! Go!"
They hurried away. Then Remus stopped, turned, and darted back to the Plant Alcove. He heard James hiss, "Are you mad?", but he stepped into the alcove again and swallowed hard.
"Excuse me," he said.
The ghost looked down at him coldly.
"I don't…um…what's your name?" Remus asked.
For a moment, she only stared. Remus felt his face grow hot.
Then she smiled, not the thin, strange smile of before, but a genuine smile, and her entire face transformed. The cold lines faded and she was quite lovely, glowing amongst the restless, muttering books. "I am Grisabella," she said. "And these are my books." She swept her arms, lovingly encompassing the shelves around her. She looked at him expectantly.
"I'm Remus," he said. Then, awkwardly, "Nice to meet you."
"Pay special attention to Chapter Seven," Grisabella said with a wink, looking pointedly at the book in his arms. "A man with a carrot is well-armed indeed."
Remus laughed before he could help it. "Thanks," he said, grinning at her. He turned to leave, then glanced back. "See you later."
A careless wave of the dead bouquet sent him on his way.
Note of Caution:
Not all books are trustworthy. Just because they're literary does not always mean that they should be taken literally.
"Gentlemen," James said, slamming a large leather tome down onto the ancient oak of the library table, "we have been remiss in our preparations for this upcoming most anticipated of week-ends."
"Watch out, lads," Remus said, "he's pontificating."
"It has come to my attention," James continued, "that it is a hallowed and time-honoured tradition for young men of our standing to escort young ladies of similar eminence around the village for mutual pleasure and satisfaction."
"What is he waffling about?" Peter asked in a theatrical whisper.
"Our very first Hogsmeade weekend," Sirius suggested, "which shall go down in Marauder history as being the brilliantest of all Hogsmeade weekends ever."
Remus glanced at Sirius and opened his mouth, but Sirius held up a hand to stop him. "It is so a word," he said pre-emptively, narrowing his eyes as though to challenge Remus to say otherwise.
"I can't wait!" Peter said, sliding his Potions homework off the table into his knapsack. "First I'm going to go to Honeydukes, and then to Zonkos, and then to the post office, and then--"
James shook his head. "Peter," he said in his most patient voice, "you are, as usual, completely missing the point."
Peter blinked at him.
"Enlighten us, oh long-winded one," Remus encouraged.
"Or shut yer gob," Sirius suggested blithely. "Whichever seems easier."
James thwacked him unceremoniously upside the head before shoving the book across the table in Remus' general direction.
Remus glanced at the title, his expression becoming suddenly grave. "De Amore Magicus... Oh no."
"What?" Sirius asked. He leaned over Remus to flip open the cover.
"Our first weekend in Hogsmeade is a momentous occasion," James explained, "and one that should be dully commemorated."
"Have you actually read any of this?" Remus interrupted.
James looked momentarily taken aback. "Erm...well, no."
Remus shook his head. "'Love is an inborn suffering proceeding from the sight and immoderate thought upon the beauty of the other sex,'" he read.
"What the hell does that mean?" Sirius asked.
Peter huffed, crossing his arms. "That's what I've been trying to ask--"
"Look! Illustrations!" Remus snorted as he flipped through a few more pages.
"GENTLEMEN!" cried James, interrupting their banter. "Do you want to hear my plan or not?"
"Only if it's in plain English," Peter said. "Not all of us had the misfortune of growing up speaking Latin round the breakfast table, you know."
"We," James said, drawing himself up to his full height of five feet three and a half inches (he was excessively fond of the half, having not yet hit any kind of growth spurt), "are taking girls to Hogsmeade."
Remus started laughing again, obviously not listening, as he leaned back in his chair and turned through a few more pages of the book. Sirius and Peter just stared at James blankly.
"Look, all the older boys are taking dates," James explained, sliding into the seat across from Remus. "It's the thing to do. Nobody who's anybody goes alone. And we are most definitely not nobody. Anybody." He frowned and waved a hand dismissively. "Whatever."
"Ooo..." Remus interjected. "This one's priceless. Listen: Nothing forbids one witch being loved by two wizards, nor one wizard by two witches. When was this written -- the dark ages?" He flipped to the front of the book and then raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh."
"You want us to take dates to Hogsmeade?" Sirius asked.
James nodded.
"In three days?" Peter squeaked.
He nodded again.
Sirius put his hands behind his head and leaned back on two legs of his chair, looking thoughtful.
"How?" asked Peter, looking vaguely worried.
"Ah," said James, a smug look settling familiarly once again onto his features. "That's where the book comes in."
Remus looked up incredulously. "This book?"
"Yup."
"James," Remus said, placing the book back on the table, "I'm not sure this book was useful even when it was written -- in the bloody middle ages!"
"Don't be daft," James said, snatching the book away from Remus. "Of course it will be useful. This stuff is timeless! It's all about chivalry and honour and courtly hooey -- birds love that junk."
Remus looked sceptical, but said nothing.
"I'm with Remus," Sirius said, letting all four legs of his chair thunk back to earth. "What do we need some ruddy book for anyway? I can snag any bird I like solely on my boundless charm, razor sharp wit, and devastating good looks."
Remus snorted loudly at that. "Maybe," he said, "but would you know what to do once you caught her?"
Sirius casually flipped him a one-fingered salute before proceeding. "James, if you got rid of your glasses and shaved your head, you're not entirely grotesque. I'm sure there's some girl out there desperate enough to take you on."
"I thought I might ask Evans," James said airily, running a hand through his hair. "She'd be good for a laugh."
"And Remus ought to at least be able to score a pity date. Maybe that Hufflepuff girl -- the one with all the spots."
"Ta, Sirius," Remus replied with a roll of his eyes.
"And Peter..." Sirius regarded Peter thoughtfully for a moment, his eyes narrowed, one finger tapping his chin. "Yes, well," he said with an air of defeat. "Might ought to pass that book on down, James."
Peter looked stricken.
"So," James said, feeling that the conversation was drifting away from its origins, "here's what we do: we'll all pick one of the suggestions from the book and try it out on our girl of choice tonight. That way, we'll know which ones work the best for future reference."
He spun the book around, riffled through the pages, and threw it open at random, his eyes running down the page until he encountered a section heading.
"'Since love is often acquired by fluency in speech," James read aloud, "a witch of courtly standing is oft enamoured of recitations of fine poetry or prose'."
"That's for Remus," Sirius said with a malicious grin.
Remus looked vaguely horrified. "Me? Why me?"
"You like books. I reckon you even know a poem."
Remus scowled. "I know 'The Raven' and 'The Jabberwocky,' neither of which seems terribly appropriate."
James scanned the pages. "I dunno, it doesn't say what kind of poetry it has to be. Maybe if you just say it all lovey-dovey it'll work. Look here...." He pushed the book to the centre of the table and indicated a large print. It appeared to be a woodcut, and the boys watched, fascinated as the little figures moved in pantomime.
A young woman with frilly petticoats and a tall pointed hat ("That must be the princess," Peter observed) dawdled about on the page until a young man dressed in hose and a tunic wandered into view. He began, ostensibly reciting something to her, making very grand and dramatic gestures. The lady swooned. The woodcut thespian continued to deliver his speech, becoming more and more animated in his movements, and the lady drew closer and closer to him, fawning over and petting him whenever she could. Until, of course, he flung wide his arms in a final dramatic gesture and smacked her hard across the face.
The boys stared.
"Is that what's supposed to happen?" Remus asked uncertainly.
"Yes," James replied firmly, pulling the book back in case the illustrations should do anything else embarrassing. That sort of thing wouldn't help his case, after all.
"Bugger that," Remus announced, crossing his arms over his chest. "There is nothing on Godric's green earth that's going to get me to recite poetry to some giggly, petticoat-wearing--"
"Bock bock BOCK!" Sirius clucked casually, flapping his elbows at his sides
Remus blinked at him. "I beg your pardon?" he said in a highly affronted tone.
"I am implying that you are chicken," Sirius said, examining his fingernails nonchalantly. Remus continued to stare at him. "Chic-ken," Sirius repeated with the air of someone explaining the concept to a foreigner. "Fluffy bird that can't fly, lays eggs, and is notoriously scared of everything. It's a metaphor -- or something." He smiled beatifically. "You. Chicken. Bock."
Remus narrowed his eyes.
"Find one for me," Peter interrupted, leaning over James' shoulder. "I need a good one."
"Here we go," James said after flipping through a few more pages. "This has 'Peter' written all over it:
"'He whom the thought of love vexes eats and sleeps very little. Every lover regularly turns pale in the presence of his beloved, and when a lover suddenly catches sight of his beloved his heart palpitates.'"
James handed the book to Peter, who studied the accompanying illustration with trepidation. In it, the same young man stumbled into the scene, collapsing onto his lady, who immediately began to fan him and press the back of her hand to his forehead in concern. It seemed to be going quite well until the young man became violently ill all over the lady's dress.
"Are you sure that this…" Peter began, but Sirius snatched the book away from him.
"Let's find a good one for you, Old Man," he said, addressing James. James leaned back in his chair, revelling in his good idea as Sirius tore through the yellowed pages.
"Aha! Here we go! 'The easy attainment of love makes it of little value: difficulty of attainment makes it prized. In giving and receiving love's solaces, let modesty be ever present. Being obedient in all things to the commands of ladies, thou shalt ever strive to ally thyself to the service of Love'."
James nodded as Sirius read. Then he began to frown. "Wait a minute," he said, leaning forward. "What the bloody hell is all that supposed to mean?"
Sirius grinned broadly. "Means you have to follow your bird around and do whatever she wants all day long."
"It does not," James retorted, holding out his hand for the book.
"See for yourself," Sirius shrugged and passed him the tome.
On the page, the same illustrated boy was lugging an enormous stack of boxes around while following his lady from shop to shop. Then he ran to get her carriage, laid his cloak in the mud for her to walk on, and helped her into the carriage. As he loaded all the boxes in after her, the lady leaned out the window and kissed him chastely on the forehead. James felt his cheeks beginning to redden as he imagined Lily Evans doing that to him. Unfortunately, as soon as the lady was finished kissing him, the carriage drove away and left the boy standing in the mud.
"Can't you just see it?" Sirius cackled. "He'll be carrying her books and doing her Divination homework in no time!" Remus, too, was grinning wickedly, and Peter was snickering behind his hand.
"I think it's a fine idea," James said haughtily, if a tad uncertain. "Evans will be mine before supper. Now for Sirius."
Sirius shook his head. "I don't need one."
"Course you do," Peter replied amiably. "We've all got one."
"But you lot are all at a natural disadvantage to me," Sirius explained. "I don't need any help thanks."
"'He who is not jealous cannot love,'" James read. "'A man in love is always apprehensive. Real jealousy always increases the feeling of love. Jealousy increases when one suspects his beloved.'" The illustration showed the boy walking with his lady, growling and shouting at every other man who passed -- whether they were looking at the lady or not. One poor bloke made the mistake of tipping his hat, and the boy punched him squarely in the jaw. The lady, as usual, swooned.
"That's perfect," Remus said wryly. "Since you'll have no trouble getting the date, of course, this will ensure that you keep her all to yourself."
"That's rubbish," Sirius replied.
"Of course it is," Remus agreed, "the whole lot of it."
"Yeah," Peter piped up uncertainly. "Load of tripe, the whole book."
"Fine," James said, snapping it shut and reaching for his knapsack. "If you three want to wander around the village together like a bunch of sprogs on an outing with your play group, that's just fine." He slung his bag over his shoulder and turned up his nose at his mates. "I, however, am going to act like a man and get myself a girl."
Turning sharply on his heel, he let his robes swirl about dramatically before marching towards the door. Just as he passed out into the corridor, however, he chanced a glance back at the library table where his fellow Gryffindors were looking uneasy and pensive, and he smiled triumphantly.
~
That night, James dragged himself up the last few steps to the dormitory with great reluctance. His brilliant plan had not gone over as brilliantly as he had planned. Evans had been suspicious when he'd offered to carry her bag, and her suspicion had morphed into outright disbelief followed by sarcasm and mockery when he'd offered to do her Herbology essay. It had not, on the whole, gone well.
Not looking forward to facing the others, he'd stayed away as long as possible, but curfew was looming, and the time to face his executioners had come. Unenthusiastically he shoved open the dormitory door, pasting a blank expression on his face in the vain hope that he could forestall the others' interrogations until morning.
The dormitory, however, was empty except for Remus, sitting on his bed, reading a book. Various crashing noises indicated that Sirius was occupying the loo.
"Alright, Remus?" James asked, heading straight for his bed. He took off his glasses as he shed his robes and shirt and went searching for his pajamas under the bed. Remus did not reply.
"Hullo? Remus?" he called a bit more loudly, pulling on his dad's faded Rolling Stones tee shirt before fumbling for his glasses again. "I know you're not aslee-- what the?"
Glasses replaced firmly on his nose, James suddenly noticed that Remus was on his feet shouting animatedly, but not a sound was coming out of his mouth.
"What happened to you?" James cried, rushing across the room towards his stricken friend, still shouting soundlessly. James tried to read Remus' lips and winced. "There's no need to use that language," he said calmly. "We'll get the bastard that did this to you. Was it Lestrange?"
Remus shook his head violently.
"Rosier? Avery?" James narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Snape?"
Remus continued to shake his head as he pulled out a quill. He tore a corner off a roll of parchment and scratched the word "Muldoon" on it before shoving it at James.
James stared at him in disbelief. "Mary Margaret Muldoon hexed you?"
Remus nodded vehemently and then pointed an accusatory finger at James.
"How is it my fault?" James wanted to know. "I didn't tell her to hex--"
"YOU!"
James did not even have enough time to turn around before Sirius leaped on him and tackled him to the ground, catching Remus in the process and pinning James between them.
"Ouch! Get off me you Niffler-brained --"
James' words were muffled as Sirius put an elbow in his mouth.
"-- arse-faced pimple-headed --"
Sirius was briefly cut off as Remus kneed him in the stomach in his attempt to extricate himself from the fray..
"-- yellow-bellied --"
"-- smarmy stinking --"
"-- Dungbog boogie --"
"-- lily-livered son of a Wangdoodle!"
James stopped struggling and looked up at Sirius. "Son of a what?"
"Wangdoodle!" Sirius shouted, poking James in the chest.
James stared at Sirius. "What happened to your face?"
Sirius was sporting an impressively bloomed black eye far too purple to be a result of their current scuffle.
"Nothing," Sirius said defensively, quickly detangling himself from James and Remus and retreating to his bed.
James glanced at Remus who was shaking his head. He said something, but James' lip reading skills failed him. He frowned.
Remus rolled his eyes, grabbed his quill and wrote "Penny Lindell" on the other side of the corner of parchment.
James spun on his heel to stare at Sirius, who was sulking on his bed. "Penny Lindell gave you a black eye?!" he shouted, laughter burbling out around the edges.
Sirius looked murderous. "That's right and it's your fault, you twit. You and your stupid book!"
Comprehension dawned on James as he looked from Sirius' swollen face to Remus' silent one.
"Thought you weren't going to try it," James said, unable to resist. "Thought it was all rubbish."
"Well, it was rubbish, wasn't it?" Sirius replied hotly. "I was doing fine until I started acting all jealous like that bloody book said to, and she popped me one, didn't she?"
"And you?" James asked, turning to Remus.
Remus scowled and pointed to a book lying on his bed: The Poems of Edgar Allan Poe.
"I s'pose she didn't want to hear it," James guessed. Remus flopped face down onto his bed without reply.
"Well, if it's any consolation," James said, plopping down oto the end of his own bed. "I didn't do so well myself."
"You're joking," Sirius said maliciously. "Even Evans wouldn't go out with you?"
James shook his head, choosing to ignore the slight. "I believe her exact words were, 'Why would I want you to do my essays? I don't want to fail'..."
Remus winced sympathetically.
"It's all that stupid book," Sirius announced. He launched himself off of his bed, snatched James' satchel, and began tearing through the contents looking for the offending tome.
"We just missed something," James exclaimed, rushing to look at the book over Sirius' shoulder. "We must have." Sirius flipped over a page and he and James stared, shocked at what they saw.
"Manky little git!" Sirius swore. "He's laughing at us!"
Indeed, the little woodcut bloke in the illustration was currently doubled over with laughter, barely able to stand. His lady wandered into the picture, grinned wickedly, and gave a fake little swoon before she, too, began laughing.
"They..." James sputtered in disbelief. "They were having us on!"
Remus was on his feet in an instant, glaring down at the book over Sirius' shoulder.
"They were taking the piss!" Sirius roared. "Go on, ink boy, yuk it up! We'll see who has the last laugh." He sneered down at the little illustrations, which were now watching him warily.
"James," he said calmly. "Get the fire slugs."
Just then, the dormitory door opened and Peter walked in, humming quietly to himself. He stopped and looked around at the others.
"What are you looking so bloody smug about?" Sirius grumbled.
Peter grinned enthusiastically. "She said yes!" he squeaked happily. "That book's brilliant, James."
"Who said yes?" James demanded. "You don't mean you actually have a date?"
Peter bobbed his head. "Why? Don't you?"
"Erm..." James said noncommittally. "What did you do?"
Peter flopped onto his own bed with a happy little sigh and began taking off his shoes, tossing his socks into the pile in the middle of the room.
"Did exactly what the book said," he explained. "I pretended that I felt faint."
James' jaw dropped in horror. "Peter," he said gravely. "Boys don't faint."
Peter shrugged. "Anyway, Gardenia was the first one to come along, and she helped me to the infirmary and held my hand and put the cool flannel on my head when Madam Pomfry had to tend to someone else, and then I just asked her." He beamed at them. "I didn't have to throw up or anything."
"Out manoeuvred by a Pettigrew," Sirius whispered. "I'll never live down the shame."
Glancing down, James noticed with grim amusement that even the illustrations looked dumbfounded that their dubious advice had actually worked.
he Many Other Uses of Books
Never let it be said that we were remiss, dear Pranksters-to-be, in our exploration of the written word. Books, as you most certainly are by now aware, are worth a great deal more than mere words and parchment and can frequently be put to uses far more ingenious and infamous than mere research.
- Books, strategically placed, have saved more arses (and other Important Bits) from unexpected hexes than any other defensive device known to wizarding kind. Were it not to inevitably earn you the nickname "book bum", we would highly recommend carrying at least one in your back pocket at all times. One can never be too careful with Slytherins on the loose.
- Depending on their size and heft, books are also extremely useful for all sorts of common, everyday tasks: as a step-stool for reaching higher books, as doorstops for keeping out unwanted visitors, as wedges for keeping open self-locking doors.
- As hiding places go, books generally rate well as repositories for battle plans, illicit potion recipes, and embarrassing wizarding photographs of one’s mother.
- When the knowledge within them fails you, books are also handy as both defensive and offensive weapons.
- Grimoires make excellent construction materials for virtually indestructible forts. Their sturdy bindings and contrary nature will keep all invaders at bay for hours.
- Books are camouflage; when one is seen reading a textbook, one is rarely suspected of eavesdropping, plotting, spell-casting, or hiding a dirty magazine.
- Books make excellent pets. Leave them alone for the weekend and they neither die nor shed all over the common-room sofa.
- A large, unwieldy dictionary acts as a perfect weight with which to hone one’s muscles in the Quidditch off-season.
- Finally, the phrase ‘going to the library’ is a glorious euphemism for other activities and a wonderfully innocuous codeword.
The most significant thing Sirius Black learned in his seventh year was that Remus Lupin could snog like a champion.
A bloody champion.
Quick tongue and slow drag of lips, teasing smile and hitching breath, heat and colour and whispers -- "Sirius…"
Sirius’ style, by his own reckoning, was far more click of teeth and bump of noses and fumbling hands that Remus would pin because, "Calm the fuck down, Padfoot. I’m not going anywhere."
That, mused Sirius, was an absolute lie. Remus was forever disappearing -- to the Great Hall for meals, to classrooms for lessons, to Hogsmeade for sodding lemon drops, to the dorm to bloody sleep. And this -- Sirius peered around a potted sneezewort on the library’s lower level -- was the greatest travesty of all: while darkened corners of the castle went unoccupied, went begging for couples to snog in their shadows, Remus J. Lupin was in the library, sprawled in his favourite chair, reading.
Sirius sighed. Moony’s priorities were severely misplaced.
Rounding the sneezewort with a fair attempt at grace, Sirius grabbed a copy of Know Your Erumpent from the end of a shelf and cracked the spine. Arraying the book as a shield, Sirius peered around its well-thumbed edges, and manoeuvred closer to stare at his prey.
Remus was actually smiling, Sirius noted, as if reading were the greatest bloody use of time known to wizards and their ilk. Sirius watched as Remus licked his finger, slowly turning a page and smoothing the parchment with his hand. Books, mused Sirius, should not be enjoying caresses when he was stranded, snogless amid the Erumpents on a Thursday afternoon. The proper order of things had taken a holiday and no one had asked his permission, which was not bloody on.
Frustrated, Sirius stole over to Muggle Drama, switching Erumpents for A Midsummer’s Night Dream. He glanced at the page as he opened his book -- I am such a tender ass -- and peered through the shelves to examine his quarry more closely.
Remus seemed awfully intent upon his studies -- book on his lap, the tip of a quill between his lips, parchment curled over the arm of his chair. Sirius racked his brain for homework that was pressing. Charms by next Monday and several inches of Arithmancy by Tuesday but nothing, nothing that could require the use of a book bound in burgundy leather with gold-edged pages, nothing that ought to make Remus lick his quill like that.
Sirius ground his teeth. Stealth could only do so much. Clearly the time had come to act.
With affected indifference, he edged around the shelves and leaned against the bookcases. " … how came these things to pass," he murmured. "Why, Moony. What a surprise."
"Sirius," said Remus dryly. "Sudden interest in the classics?"
"No," Sirius scorned, then remembered himself. "I mean, yes. Terribly fascinating man that Wobblearrow." He threw himself down in a spare chair. "Books in general -- so bloody fascinating. Wonderful things."
"I think so," said Remus, ducking his head. "Need something?"
Do I bloody ever. "Not especially. Just--" Sirius racked his brains for excuses to get Moony to stop sucking on his bloody quill and start sucking on parts of him. "Neck," he mumbled, distracted.
"Neck?" asked Remus. "What?"
Sirius flushed. "Itchy," he muttered, and made a great show of scratching. "Have you -- have you been here long?"
"A while."
"Maybe you should stretch your legs."
"I’m fine."
"If you needed other books I could watch your chair."
"Just need this one."
"Can I help? I’m good at …"
Remus smiled. "It’s a little extra reading, nothing you’d be interested in."
Sirius hmmpfed. "I see." He lifted his play and pretended to read as if the antics of an enchanted donkey were the most pressing matter in his life.
There was a pause. "I do have a--" Remus paused. "No, you wouldn’t want to risk it."
"Risk?" Sirius perked up, peering over the top of his book. "What wouldn’t I -- of course I’d want to risk it. Risk? What?"
Remus chewed on his lip. "There’s a book I’d -- a book that might be helpful with this," -- he waved a hand -- "but it’s in the Restricted Section. Ye Wizarding Families of Ye Most Pure and Potente Bloode. The one that spits bubotuber pus at anyone who’s--" He shrugged. "Well, it wouldn’t like me."
Sirius shifted to sit on the edge of his chair. "I could get it. I could get it and even tell you what it says so that you don’t get all boily."
"You wouldn’t mind? You don’t have permission to --"
"Pfft." Sirius stood and threw the Shakespeare onto his now vacated chair. "Permission’s for first year’s and spineless fartparcels." Chest swelling with purpose, he turned on his heel and left.
There were many methods of gaining access to the Restricted Section. Sirius’ favourite (for athletic show if nothing else) was to simply leap over the ineffectual ropes designed to keep students out. Were a Ravenclaw near when such hurdling took place, however, a Marauder was likely to feel the sharp side of Madam Pince’s tongue while backed up against a shelf full of potions books that were intent on dissolving his sleeve.
A more subtle plan seemed prudent, and Sirius shifted from bookcase to bookcase until close to the section, humming daring-do music under his breath. Nearing the ropes, he aimed a spell at the gaggle of Ravenclaws studying nearby and climbed over the ropes while they frantically tried to work out why they were speaking in birdsong. Lest he had been seen, he spent five more minutes weaving between shelves, crawling along the floor, and doubling back on himself until he reached the bookcases devoted to ‘Wizarding Families’ --
-- where Remus was waiting, examining his fingernails and tapping his foot against the floor. "About time," he said, as Sirius rounded the corner.
"Moony?"
"Really, Padfoot. If you walk in here as if you have permission, no one bothers you."
"I don’t understand --"
Remus walked forward, forcing Sirius against a bookcase. "I didn’t need a book," he shrugged.
"I’m um --" Sirius wet his lips, his heart taking up the familiar frantic beat it favoured whenever Remus was close. "Getting that idea."
"I saw you watching, you daft appeth." Remus leaned forward to tug on Sirius’ earlobe with his teeth.
"I --" Sirius blinked, hands settling nervously on Remus’ hips. "What?"
"You’re the most transparent man alive, Padfoot." Remus nosed at the curve of his jaw, pressed a kiss to the skin just below Sirius’ ear. "Best entertainment I’ve had in weeks, mind, watching you fret and plot."
Sirius gaped. "You knew. You sodding bastard, you knew and you’ve been playing with me?"
"Yes." said Remus, ghosting a kiss to Sirius’ temple. "You make it so bloody irresistible."
Sirius thought about being offended, but Remus’ hands were firm against his upper arms, and his mouth was …"So were you planning on doing anything now you caught me, you bugger?"
"Getting to it," Remus smiled, nudging Sirius’ lips with his own. "Patience."
But Sirius had none left and leaned forward, covering Remus’ lips with his own. There -- warm breath and open mouth, curl of tongue and slide of lips, the quill-dust taste of Remus on a Thursday, and a trembling in Sirius’ hands to telegraph I fucking can’t believe my luck. Sirius drew in a shaking breath as the kiss broke on his fractured smile. "Bastard," he murmured. "All I wanted was that."
Remus nuzzled at his cheek with a mischievous smile. "Me too," he whispered, and kissed him again.
hen in Need
Should this guide fall short of your grandest expectations, if you've searched the ups and downs of the shelves for Mad Maragret's Third Treatise on Glowering Glumbumbles and it is nowhere to be found, when you've exhausted even the voracious appetite of the nibbling Catalogue of Cards, simply stop.
Take a deep breath, and sit on a red cushioned chair in any quiet corner of the library. Listen, relax, and wait. Regard the room with patience. Give your thoughts to the quiet of the space.
Some scholars will consider this advice to be hogwash -- so much kerfluffle to brainwash young Followers in their timid footsteps -- but do not listen to them. Such narrow-mindedness has no place in pranktiforous halls of learning.
For the library, dear friends, is more than a mere collection of felled trees covered in India ink and bound by leather. The collected knowledge of centuries is more than the sum of its parts. When a great number of books is assembled in such a space, it takes on a sentience of its own. Look at the shadows shifting between the shelves. Listen for the rustle of parchment. Smell the dust and leather. These walls have ears and eyes, leaves and roots... and they are watching.
That is why, when you sit quietly and allow the books time to come out of their bindings, the one you are searching for -- whether you know it or not -- might just find you.
Remus pulled open the front door of his father’s house and was immediately assaulted by a savoury odour so powerful it threatened to knock him over. Inhaling one last lungful of crisp winter air, he stepped into the house and tried to avoid breathing as he made his way down the hallway. Clangs, bangs and curses floated on the pungent air. After a moment’s hesitation, Remus decided he simply wasn’t brave enough to investigate what was happening in the kitchen. The incident with the miscast Cantonese Chopping Charm two nights ago still had him flinching at the slight of cutlery.
Remus ducked into the library. His father was sitting on the floor, surrounded by scraps of parchment, papers, napkins, menus and pamphlets, all of which were covered with scrawled, illegible writing.
Frowning slightly, John Lupin glanced up from a torn envelope and asked, "What do you think ever possessed me to believe that a modern version of the ‘Wife of Bath’s Tale’ would make a good song?"
Settling onto the worn brown sofa, Remus shrugged. "I have no idea, but if you breathe these fumes much longer, you might start to think it’s a good idea again."
"Billy’s making garlic soup," John told him.
"Is he?" Remus raised an eyebrow. "I thought maybe he was experimenting with biodegradable biochemical weapons again."
"Oh, no," John shook his head, smiling. "He's moved on to vampire fumigation techniques."
"Won't work." Remus shook his head, leaning back against the arm of the sofa. "Vampires don’t mind garlic, at least not the ones I met."
"Oh, before I forget..." John gestured a wooden crate stacked high with books. "Gwen brought this by while you were out. Some things from your old flat that she’s been storing." John slid the box across the floor; it bumped into Remus’ legs.
Slowly, Remus sat forward. He brushed a thin layer of dust from the topmost book, revealing the familiar green cover of his N.E.W.T.-level Charms text. Theory and Practice of Advanced Charmwork. Below was an old Potions textbook, splattered with inky black stains and singed on the edges.
"Why all the culinary adventures, anyway?" he asked his father, taking a few more books from the crate. "Since when does Billy need anything more than whisky and take-away curry to survive?"
Dust from the crate tickled his nose, and Remus suppressed a sneeze. He didn’t recall ever reading quite so many schoolbooks, although they were all familiar to him. Bugwig’s Blunder: Lessons of the Goblin Rebellions. Magical Fungi of the British Isles. Herbs for Meditation and Transcendence. Well. That hadn’t been a schoolbook, strictly speaking, but it had been very educational. He set it aside and reached for more.
"Since he started dating Antigone. He wants to cook her dinner."
"Merlin. Whose idea was that?" Shaking his head, Remus flipped idly through Numerology and Arithmancy, marveling that the charts and equations had, less than ten years ago, made some sort of sense to him.
"Yours," John said.
Remus stared. "No, it wasn’t. I may not like her, but I would never suggest that Billy cook for her." He paused, a dog-eared copy of Hexed From Here to Hades in one hand. "Shut her up in a cave, maybe, but this? Did I really tell him to cook for her?
"Oh, yes," his father assured him. "Friday last. Don’t you remember?"
Eyeing his father suspiciously over a garish illustration of an Inflation Hex, Remus asked, "Was I drunk?" He had only a vague recollection of the evening at Billy’s pub. Friday had been the second of November, and he didn’t remember much more than sitting by the fire that didn’t seem quite warm enough and trying not to think.
John peered curiously at blotches of ink on an old paper napkin. "Probably," he conceded. "But so was Billy, and he took your advice."
"Well." Remus brushed the dust from a tattered paperback. "The only thing more foolish than dating a woman named Antigone Clytemnestra Smyth-Warwick is taking my advice about what to do with her." He shrugged, and glanced down at the book.
His heart turned over in his chest.
Ridiculous flowery script curled across the cover: violet letters on a crimson background, arching over a raven-haired witch clutched in the impossibly muscular arms of a rakish, bare-chested pirate. The Madness of the Mage King, by Gardenia S. Noble. With unsteady hands, Remus turned to the title page and stopped breathing. See anyone you recognise? I thought the Marquis of Mirzam and Lord Bluebonnet were suspiciously familiar. Enjoy! Love, Lily. There was a tiny sketch of a flower beside the name, drawn in deep blue ink that shimmered as though still wet.
Remus stared blankly at the page. He hadn’t noticed before, that Lily had written the inscription in the same ink she used for her wedding invitations.
"--to us. Remus?"
He looked up, startled, and quickly set the book aside. "Sorry?"
John frowned. "I said, I don’t like her either, but it’s not up to us." He glanced at the crate and the ever-growing stack of books by Remus’ feet, but said nothing more.
Reaching into the box, Remus withdrew another book. Cartography in Cryptic Calais. He set it aside quickly. "I know," he said, swallowing. His throat was uncomfortably dry, tinged with the flavour of garlic. He made his voice deliberately light. "But just look at what happened last time one of you ignored my opinion on your lady friend. If you’d listened to me, once upon a time, we could have all avoided the Harrowing Histrionics of Helen the Hampstead Harpy."
Sitting up a bit straighter, John said stiffly, "I believe she was a harpsichordist. Not a harpy."
"Right." Remus smiled slightly. "My mistake."
He pulled another book from the crate. Thick paper cover, slick of grease, jagged tears, the mingled smells of motor oil and magic. Do-It-Yourself Motorcycle Repair and Maintenance.
This, too, Remus tossed aside quickly. The book slid across the hardwood flood, and Remus watched his father watching it. When John looked up, Remus met his eyes for a moment but didn’t say anything. He felt foolish, though he didn’t know why.
Remus reached into the box yet again. Before his fingers even brushed the cover, he knew what was next. Gwen had simply grabbed the books and stacked them in the box, and Remus remembered exactly how they had been arranged on the shelf in the flat.
He brought the book out of the box but did not look at it. Setting it on his lap, he looked out the window instead. The sun had set, and the light was fading quickly. His father seemed to realise this at the same moment; he flicked his wand casually and lit the candles on the desk and end tables. Remus ran his finger along the rough leather cover, the bent corners, the places where the cloth binding was worn through; he traced the embossed letters, felt the uneven edges of the thick parchment pages. The library glowed with warm, familiar light, and Remus breathed a little easier.
Things had changed, while he’d been away. Shops in Diagon Alley had opened and closed; the village surrounding this old house had grown; there were more wrinkles around his father’s blue eyes, more grey in his hair. New photographs decorated the walls of the house, tacked up alongside the postcards Remus had sent from India. Billy had been using Remus’ room.
Remus felt slightly guilty for banishing him to the creaking old bed in the attic again, guilty for moving things in the kitchen back to where he remembered them, guilty for wishing that England hadn’t gone on changing while he was wandering on the other side of the world.
But this room -- this room never changed. His father’s old Gibson leaned against the bookshelves, beside the Guarneri violin Remus’ mother had found in a dusty old shop in Verona, offered for a handful of lira by a half-blind shopkeeper who hadn't known what he had. Books spilled haphazardly from the lower shelves, and the corner of the faded red rug was turned up where his father always kicked it when crossing from his desk to shut the window.
"What is that?" His father’s voice broke into his thoughts.
Remus answered automatically, "It’s nothing." Then he looked down at the red and gold cover of the book and felt irrationally ashamed. "It’s--"
He didn’t know quite how to explain it. He didn’t know if it even required explanation; his father was watching him with a patient, knowing look. Remus took in a deep breath and placed his hand over the title, palm down, fingers spread. The Prankster’s Guide to Life. Definitely not nothing.
"It’s a book we made," he said finally. "A book we made at Hogwarts."
"A book about what?" John held out his hand hesitantly.
Remus laughed quietly. "A book about -- remember all those owls you used to get? That collection of letters from Professor McGonagall that you kept on the refrigerator for two years?"
"How could I forget?" John asked. "I thought of papering your room with those letters as a special surprise, but I never did get around to it."
"Well, that’s what this is about," Remus said. "How to break rules. And get away with it."
He started to hand the Guide to his father, then stopped. Instead of passing it over, Remus slid off the sofa onto the floor. John shoved a pile of scribbled notes away. Cross-legged, Remus sat beside his father, resting his hand lightly on the closed cover. The leather felt warm and soft, almost alive beneath his trembling fingers.
"It was James’ idea, for the most part. But he wasn’t entirely to blame." Remus paused, smiling slightly. "Well, a lot of it, yes, but not entirely."
He opened the book to the first chapter.