For Dorrito’s Every Flavour Mood Beans.

*****

Cheerful

Sometimes he studies a strand of hair, certain he could see through it if the light hit just so. She’s transparent all over, eyes and skin, and he thinks she must be descended from faeries, though he’s never seen one himself. The soft hum near his ear is not quite tuneful and she nips his nose, smiling. “Silly Neville,” she says, in reference to nothing at all. When she takes his hand, his feet feel lighter.

Later in the greenhouse he sings to himself, verses of no shape or melody, gliding past the Flutterby Bush with steps made of air.

For Dorrito’s Every Flavour Mood Beans.

*****

Busy

“Lumos.”

The word falls, crisp as always, adding warmth to the room. Her eyes grew weary an hour ago, but she’s not fool enough to expect sleep. The movement of her hands is just enough to still her mind. It wouldn’t do to ponder Harry Potter’s recent paleness, the Granger child’s troubled eyes, young Longbottom’s new rebellion. Children have no place at war, and the urge to whisk them off to some distant haven has become more compelling than Minerva is prepared to admit.

A pile of first-year essays begs for attention and she reaches for them, adjusting her spectacles.