Double, Double
by Anna

Part Two of Three

Joséphine was restless. And, if she'd admit to herself, lonely.

Not unhappy, mind you. Not that. Lots of good things about this job, even beyond the generous salary and the benefits package – numbers so amazing and unhoped-for that she half-suspected the old Headmaster of plucking them from mid-air. But also, lovely quarters just below the owl-tower – smell of rosemary and tomato vines from the gardens below, the feathery rustle and twitter of a hundred birds shifting in their sleep, sun through swathes of mosquito netting like the pale-yellow memory of Haiti. The warmest room in the castle, Dumbledore had said with a twinkle. And Lord, the man could twinkle.

The teaching wasn't hard, either. Pliable students – maybe she wouldn't call them ‘eager to learn' as much as ‘lightly stunned', but that wasn't their fault. She couldn't agree with her predecessor's pedagogical style, from what she'd gathered of it, but neither could she deny that he'd made her job very, very easy.

All she had to do, basically, was show up and not be him.

And the rest of the faculty? Friendly enough, she supposed, with the notable exception of McGonagall the Dragon Lady. But also – how to say this gently?—ah, yes.

Old.

Don't knock it, her sister Euralie had said, the last time they'd spoken. You can't put a price on tranquility.

That was true enough – and coming from Euralie, who looked more tired and haggard every time Joséphine saw her, it couldn't be dismissed. Compared to war-torn, ravaged Haiti, Hogwarts was a paradise. But although a certain amount of bucolic bliss had seemed just the ticket when she first arrived, she'd had more than a year of it now. And enough was enough.

For instance. She'd have sold her soul for one good sweaty dusk-till-dawn round of Hide-the-Bishop.

It didn't help that she was the only member of the faculty under the age of thirty – or, come to think of it, fifty. That made her far closer in age to the students than to any of her colleagues. And from the looks she got from certain of her seventh-years, that hadn't gone unnoticed. Probably that was the real reason McGonagall had her on such a goddamn short leash. not that it was necessary. Tempting as it might be to slip into that junior-faculty, camp-counselor, big-sister, think-of-me-as-a-friend thing, that way lay madness and Joséphine knew it.

Not to mention that she really, really wanted to keep this job.

That left Hogsmeade, assuming she didn't want to spend her weekends Apparating into London nightclubs, which she didn't. Your-place-or-mine? got sort of tricky, once you factored in Unplottability, McGonagall's ridiculous statements on the subject of curfew, and mysterious wrinkling of the time-space continuum. And Hogsmeade's eligible bachelors, frankly, hadn't inspired her to make their acquaintance.

Until she'd seen the Weasley twins. It was ironic that they ran a sweet-shop, as Joséphine could only think of one word for them: yum.

**

There was something to be said for the frank approach. But Joséphine liked to have an angle, which was why Thomasina Sprog's illicit consumption of the Verita-Pop during her fourth-year Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff double period was so fortuitous. Besides which, she'd found it amusing.

Is there a reason that you're eating sweets in my class, Miss Sprog?

A moment of red-faced, puff-cheeked silence … then, with the force of an erupting volcano: Yes, Miss! Skipped lunch, Miss!

Ah, Joséphine had said gravely, quelling errant snickers with one uplifted hand. And why did you do that, I wonder?

It was an innocent question, but Thomasina looked stricken by it. Fascinated, Joséphine watched her clamp her lips together with the fingers of one hand, drum her heels on the floor against the relentless tide of words building up in her throat, then give up: Snogging Anthony Sullivan, Miss! Under the Hufflepuff Quidditch stands!

The class erupted.

Anthony Sullivan blushed, looking rather more pleased with himself than not. Joséphine waited for the laughter to die down, then delivered her zinger.

Was it worth it?

Christ, was it ever, Thomasina bellowed, and at that, Joséphine took pity on her.

I, she'd said, will take the sweet, Miss Sprog. Mr. Sullivan, kindly use some of that considerable prowess of yours and escort Miss Sprog to the infirmary. Class, I want order, NOW.

All in all, she'd thought it nicely managed. They'd all had a good laugh, Thomasina would never eat sweets in class again – particularly if they came from the Weasley shop. And Anthony, who was thin and soft-spoken and bespectacled, and who didn't play Quidditch, had gained not only a girlfriend, but a much higher place in the Ravenclaw pecking order.

Most fortunately of all, Joséphine now had a small, sticky calling card to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. She pondered waiting until the weekend, then decided that on the whole, she'd rather not.

And see? she asked herself. Didn't that go well?

She was whistling on her way down to the kitchens. McGonagall glared at her.

**

The house-elves had thoughtfully packed the cream puffs she requested in a white bakery box and tied it with festive red-and-white candy-striped ribbon. Joséphine thanked them, tucked the box under one arm, and set out through the wide front doors that led to the Hogsmeade path. The Gryffindor Quidditch team was practicing their formation drills in the distance. Two of them caught sight of her and sent their broomsticks into free-fall, levilling out to flank her when they were three or four feet off the ground. Joséphine, who preferred not to fly when she could at all help it, opened her eyes and managed a wan smile.

“Nice flying, gentlemen.”

They beamed at her. “Thanks, Professor. Nice dress.”

And here I thought I was being subtle, Joséphine thought. Good thing I didn't wear the other one. “Uh-huh,” she said, adjusting a spaghetti strap. “Thanks.”

“Are you going to the village?”

“Do you have a date?”

“What's his name?”

“What's in the box?”

“In order of your inquiry,” Joséphine said, “none of your business, none of your business, none of your business … oh, and yes: wouldn't you like to know.”

“Aw, Professor.”

“Come on.”

“You can tell us.”

She was saved by an aggrieved-looking Christabel Muggs, the Gryffindor team captain, blowing her whistle from fifty feet above them and pointing an inexorable finger toward the Quidditch field. The wayward Beaters groaned, but tipped up their sticks and followed the pointing finger.

“Bye, Professor.”

“Have fun.”

“Tell us all about it on Wednesday!”

Joséphine smoothed down the skirt of her red jersey sheath, adjusted her straps again, and sighed as she opened the front gate and prepared to Apparate.

For all the trouble she'd gone to, the Weasleys had better be worth the aggravation.

**

They met her at the door in identical black robes and mischievous looks. As they hadn't been dressed alike at the store earlier, Joséphine guessed that they were playing with her.

Well, she liked games.

One of them reached for the bakery box. Before Joséphine surrendered it, she produced the wand she'd been palming and tapped the back of his hand. A hot-pink spark shot out. He yelped.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Don't worry,” Joséphine assured him. “It'll wear off. It's just so I know you're Fred.”

He was staring at the indelible lipstick-kiss that had materialized on the back of his hand. It looked determined to outlast the rubbing he was giving it. “What makes you think I'm Fred?”

“You're the one who asked for the pastries,” Joséphine reminded him. George – at least she thought he was George – laughed.

“That's positively Mum-worthy,” he said. “Not just a pretty face after all, are you, Professor?”

Joséphine smirked at him.

“Little do you know,” she said, and brushed past him into the sitting room. “So. What's for dinner?”

**

Double, Double, Part One
Part Three still to come