Chapter Twenty
"Dark Organic"

Page One

"What was that about?" whispered Ron as Harry climbed through the portrait hole.

"Fudge," sighed Harry as the portrait swung closed behind him. "He asked a lot of questions and had me explain things. It was quite… odd."

"Oh…" said Ron, a rather disappointed tone in his voice. "Snape didn't say anything about when classes would start again, did he?"

"No," replied Harry, a bit curious about what Ron was on about.

"It's just getting so boring up here," whined Ron. "I'm itching for a pop quiz…" Ron smacked his forehead and exclaimed, "I can't believe I just said that!"

Harry started laughing as they walked over to a table at the far end of the room where Hermione was busy scribbling away, doodling pictures of strange constellations that Harry and Ron had never seen before.

"Hey," said Hermione, not looking up from her imaginary stars.

"Hello again," Harry sat down across from her and began looking around the room. It seemed everyone felt the same way as Ron: bored and ready for school to start back up again. Snape had been keeping them all cooped up in Gryffindor tower for quite some time and it was quite apparent that the natives were growing restless.

Harry scanned the people in the room. Everyone seemed to be present except…

"Where are Fred and George?" he whispered across the table.

"Oy, they're gone again?" fretted Ron. "They've been disappearing a lot lately. I'd love to know what they're up to," he reached for a piece of paper and a quill and began drawing random lines across the blank sheet of parchment. "What really gets me," he continued, "is that they never go gloating around about what they've been up to. They always come back looking utterly exhausted…"

"And occasionally covered from head to foot in mud," added Hermione, cutting into Ron's sentence."

"Then they usually just toddle off to bed," said Ron, picking his sentence right back up. "They're so boring," he paused to look at the untidy lines he'd drawn on the paper. "On top of all that," he said quite sadly, "they never bring back any food like they used to."

He crumpled his paper into a ball and threw it over at the fire. The paper contracted and its corners steadily blackened as the fire licked its way through the parchment's fibers and the untidy lines, eventually reducing it to ashes.

* * *

"This isn't good, Severus, not good at all," muttered Fudge as he, Snape and Fudge's parade of Ministry investigators marched down a dungeon corridor away from the Slytherin dormitories.

"I agree," said Snape icily, his cane making that familiar thump-thump as he walked. "But that's no excuse for what you're suggesting."

"It wouldn't be as bad as you think," insisted Fudge, a rather professionally polite tone to his voice. "The students wouldn't even notice them."

"'Wouldn't even notice them'?" growled Snape. "You honestly think those kids are too daft to notice lurking Ministry hit men and a league of Dementors? That's preposterous."

"Now, Severus," reasoned Fudge. "It's for their own good."

"Don't dare dictate to me what's good and what isn't for my students. I am the Headmaster now and I know Albus Dumbledore would not have tolerated this and neither shall I," spat Snape viciously.

"Get off that high horse of yours," snarled Fudge, immediately losing that professionally pleasant tone as they reached the entry hall. "How truly delusional you are to compare yourself with Albus Dumbledore. Besides, we both know Albus and his half-witted, Muggle -loving, crack-pot ideas were nothing more than piteously tolerated by everyone around him."

Snape raised his hand quickly as if to strike Fudge, his face burning with rage. Immediately a few Ministry agents began to advance on Snape in an effort to protect Fudge. Snape brought his hand down, commanding the large oak front doors to open loudly. The agents froze in their tracks.

"Get out," Snape muttered, his dark eyes staring straight at Fudge's startled face.

Fudge quickly turned and walked out the doors, his alligator boots clicking on the flagstone floor with every step he took and the hoard of Ministry agents filed silently behind their leader.

Just as the last agent crossed over the threshold, Fudge shouted over his shoulder, "Don't get too proud of yourself, Sev, I will come back. Heaven knows, I will come back."

Snape slammed the doors as loudly as he could to get his message of disgust across as clearly as possible without words unbecoming of a Professor.

Snape leaned heavily against the oak door, breathing a sigh of foreboding relief. He stood there for a moment collecting his thoughts and regaining his composure. Fudge's words rang in his ears. Hogwarts needed Albus Dumbledore and Snape knew it.

* * *

Light, steel hued clouds flew towards Hogwarts, bringing brilliant white flurries of snow to the grounds. Winter arrived in high style, announcing its presence with more snow than Hogwarts had seen in quite some time.

The peaceful scene of light snowflakes gliding slowly to the soft white earth didn't quell the stress and anxiety felt within the castle walls. Snape had ordered that classes should resume as normally as possible. Transfiguration was the only class left off the student's schedules.

All of the Professors seemed tired, agitated and horribly on edge. In the Gryffindor fourth years' History of Magic lesson, Professor Binns actually swore when he tried to pick up a piece of chalk, but his fingers simply glided through it. He had forgotten he was dead again.

"Professor!" exclaimed Hermione, shocked by the phrase that left Binns' mouth.

"Oh, er, excuse me," muttered Professor Binns. "Where was I?"

"Opals, sir," said Lavender Brown timidly.

"Yes, opals…" Professor Binns seemed dazed. He wasn't the only one; it seemed all the Professors had lost their trains of thought and the next train wasn't due back at the station for ages.

"Opals," continued Professor Binns, "Are the subject of an easily forgotten myth. The myth itself, while familiar to both Muggles and the wizarding community, is so disturbing, most choose to forget it. Can anyone explain to me the most common attributes of the opal?"

Hermione immediately raised her hand.

"Yes, Ms. Granger?"

"Opals are the birthstone for the month of October and they're known for the way they reflect to many different shades of color."

"Well done, Granger," said Binns. "But can anyone tell me about the myth behind those reflections?"

Ron, turning out of instinct to look at Hermione, fell off his chair.

"Mr. Weasley," said Binns flatly, "You're supposed to raise your hand, not touch the floor. What is it?"

"Sorry," said Ron, brushing off his knees. "Hermione didn't raise her hand."

"I beg your pardon," said Binns seriously while a few of the students started to giggle and Hermione started turning red in the face.

"Hermione always raises her hand," said Ron blankly.

Professor Binns rolled his eyes as Ron mouthed, "I'm sorry" to Hermione.

"Moving on," said Binns, "The legend states that if anyone who was not born in the month of October wears an opal, their soul will be sold to that opal and upon their 'death', their soul will be taken and placed in the stone as a constant reminder to those who would dare wear a cursed opal. It is said that the more colors an opal reflects, the more poor souls have been trapped inside."

The eyes of many of the students grew wider in shock. They'd heard many legends in History of Magic, but none were so gruesome as this. Immediately a few hands shot into the air.

"Yes, Mr. Thomas?"

"Where did the legend start?" asked Dean.

Professor Binns noticed a certain degree of excitement in Dean Thomas' voice… a certain degree of excitement he'd never before seen in his class. He didn't know what to make of it; perhaps Dean was ill and he should call Madam Pomfrey.

"It's not certain where the legend started, perhaps a mead house somewhere. Although, supposedly the first case of a soul being 'sold' to the opal occurred in ancient Egypt when Pharaoh Akhenaten gave his wife, Queen Nefertiti, an opal pendant. Muggle Egyptologists know Pharaoh Akhenaten died of a broken heart but they only, according to this legend, knew half the story. Supposedly, his High Priest - a wizard, of course - informed the Pharaoh that his wife was indeed not dead, but the opal had come to claim its possession. Akhenaten, knowing he was responsible for his wife's fate, died not only of a broken heart, but an unbearably guilty conscience."

A hush fell over the class and then within a few moments of awed silence, five more hands shot into the air.

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