Petrichor, and a Helpful Guide to Occlumency

Chapter Two

word count: 12,227

A/N: I'm aware luna is not the same age as harry and co canonically, but i like to pretend she is, so there she is. Expect more Terry Boot, more Draco, and more... spice, in upcoming chapters.

expect the next chapter around: 30/9

DECEMBER

It was on a grim Monday evening in the second week of December that Professor McGonagall wended her way about the Great Hall, taking down the names of the students who would be staying over Christmas break. It had struck a chord with you that, though she was now Headmistress and could most certainly have delegated the task, she chose to do it herself. A poignantly—and childishly—nostalgic one, at that. When she reached the eighth year table, scribbling away at a slip of parchment, the Professor had procured a second document from beneath her robes. She tapped the corner with her wand, muttered under her breath, and with a shudder it began to multiply. She tapped again, and set the newly duplicated stack of papers down next to a steaming flagon of black coffee (which was conspicuous in its capacity, because Malf—well, someone, usually drained the thing as soon as it appeared on the table). McGonagall had pointed the expectantly watching eighth years towards the pile with a tartan-clad wrist, and then turned on her heel.

Ron, who was one of your few remaining dinner companions (Hermione had rushed off to the Library, Seamus and Dean to take advantage of a presumably empty dormitory, and Harry to the Hufflepuff table with a murmured excuse (that no one believed) regarding next month's Quidditch match), had sighed and muttered;

"Merlin, wouldn't kill her to explain herself on occasion, would it?" He stretched a long, freckled arm over a silver tureen of potatoes to grab a notice. "Ah," he had then said loftily, sliding the parchment towards you. "You'll be wanting this."

"Thanks," you murmured. The notice had read, in ink of deep, emerald green;

Eighth year students wishing to undertake an Apprenticeship next year must report to the Headmistress' study on Friday the 14th at 7.55 for an 8.00 commencement

The password is 'SPOTTED KNEAZLE'

"See this?" Neville said from across the table.

You nodded. "Coming, then?"

"Course."

You didn't have to ask what Apprenticeship Nev would be going in for. His robes had still been covered in tears from what must have been a particularly acrimonious crop of Venomous Tentacula.

xx

Tuesday dawned a soft blue but had turned frigid by noon. Dinner took place under an exceptionally depressing mass of soot coloured clouds. Malfoy had now been absent from meals several days in a row, and barely traceable anywhere else. He had skulked into Potions halfway through the third-period lesson, exchanged mutterings with Slughorn, and then disappeared once more. It was with a begrudging disappointment that you had watched him go, eyes firmly on the door. Your last Thursday-on-the-Astronomy-Tower was weeks ago. The fucking Sneakoscope was rattling more aggressivly than ever. (Such was the force that you briefly contemplated approaching him, instead. But you were pretty sure the Sneakoscope would have to burst from your chest before you actually did anything of the sort. It just wasn't the way it worked. Which was quite pathetic, you supposed.) 

The common room had been, for some obscure reason that involved a case of charmed Filibusters and limited edition Chocolate Frogs with Dragon Barrel Brandy centres, very rowdy that night, so you'd taken your study to the Library. Calm and alone; you always liked the draconian silence enforced by Madam Pince, and the smell of the worn leather and wax, and books levitating innocuously back to their shelves overhead.