[Peter Alva Tannenbaum]

The staircase in front of him moved. Peter Alva raised an eyebrow. Really? The castle was pulling that trick on him as if he was one of the first years? Very funny. He scanned the newel post for runes. The school stairs all worked based on the same runic enchantments. Casting a quick spell, he halted the stair movement and made his way down. There was a little gap between the last stair and it's connection point in the stairwell, but Peter Alva easily leapt over it. His mouth quirked into a smug little smile. 

He could already foretell that Dumbledore would be none too pleased about it. The former Gryffindor was, rather uncharacteristically for his house, an absolute killjoy. In all honesty, he missed working for Headmaster Dippet. He considered Armando a friend and he missed their Tuesday afternoons of having tea together. Frisian blend with sugar candy. It had been such a quaint little ritual.

In all truth, he felt a little out of the loop. Several of his friends had retired from teaching and the new staff were strange people. The guy teaching Arithmancy seemed forever distracted, the potions master was a buffoon and he really didn't care for the harpy teaching DADA this year. The only one of the newer folks he considered tolerable was Montgomery, which was why he had agreed to help him with a personal matter.

He slipped into the library and made his way into the restricted section. What he needed was any and all information on maledictions he could possibly get his hands on. Thankfully, the school library was well stocked. He checked out all 12 books he found with the librarian, Rose. She gave him a mildly questioning look.

"Do I want to know about this?" she asked.

"I don't think so," he responded. "New research project."

[Harold Prendergast]

Harold thought a lot about his recent conversations with Dumbledore - the mysterious conversation in London, and now this latest one: a request for an investigation into a fellow professor? He'd never known Dumbledore to be especially paranoid but perhaps recent events had rather swayed him. And so he'd accepted the task on nothing more than faith to determine "whether Tannenbaum was conflicted in his loyalties" or not. Ominous phrasing indeed, and well, quite unlike Dumbledore actually. That conversation in the Ministry had been a turning point for the pair of them, it seemed.

The best place to start would undoubtedly be Tannenbaum's office. Opportunities were surprisingly rare - the class schedule often had them both teaching at similar times, but there was a window of opportunity. Harold would have to be quick though - lurking in the stairwell to the sixth floor, waiting for Tannenbaum to leave, to give him a crucial window of knowing how much time there would be to get in, look through the office and get out again. It had been so useful in Ministry work to know when a subject would return with such precision.

He hadn't really expected much of the office; Tannenbaum himself was pretty cold as a personality, and the two of them hadn't exactly hit it off. Harold wondered idly if Dumbledore had suspicion of Tannenbaum as he seemed much more like Dippet. It was tidy enough, though, there were several glasses about the place with dregs of a cloudy grey-yellow liquid. It smelled vaguely citrusy, and oddly sour. Harold wondered if this was some potion - there were quite a few glasses of it about, and Tannenbaum had looked more cold and uncomfortable lately.

It was, well, of quite little interest to Harold beyond some passing fascination with human kindness, but he noted a rather assorted pile of books off to one side, with a few scraps of parchment dotted around. Nothing... incriminating, but one was rather suggestive. It had a few squiggles of notes, and a single rune inscribed several times, in various weights of line, different angles, different slants, but all clearly the same rune. It gave Harold a shiver just looking at it - but it was vaguely familiar.

It occurred to him that if Tannenbaum didn't recognise it - and needed several of the books for research - it might be somewhat obscure, but Harold had one idea about where it might come from, and he smiled to himself when he saw that the book he wanted to consult wasn't on Tannenbaum's list. Whatever it was he was researching, it was somewhat suspicious, but it was far too mild to bother Dumbledore with it thus far.

Nothing else caught Harold's eye as an immediate source of information and searching the desk drawers didn't seem like it would be that useful: whatever was nefarious, was being done out in the relative open, as the books and parchments attested. But it was immaterial, his pocket watch chirped a reminder and he took his leave of Tannenbaum's office.

The next stop was a trip to the library - he had been avoiding it after his previous interactions with Rose, but this took priority. He caught sight of her in the distance in a striking blue dress, and he thought it looked good on her, swishing in her wake, but it was a passing fancy as he headed for the Runes aisle of the Restricted Section.

He settled with a mug of tea - this might take a while. The book he wanted was in, and it was exactly what he'd hoped for: the rune had had a vaguely Futhark feel to it, and that had given him the thought to check one of the elder reference syllabaries rather than the newer ones, as somehow the elder works had resonated with him in his youth. After a period of searching - and a full mug of tea - there it was: clearly that rune, indicating death. Death, or perhaps the ending and beginning of a cycle. It was hard to tell specifically, given that the parchment had drawn it a dozen different ways, but the intent was clear enough.

The hairs down the back of his neck twitched. He got the feeling he was being watched, and sure enough, the enigmatic Tannenbaum was headed through the library. Harold was sure he'd left no traces of his investigation, but he felt that an altercation wouldn't be entirely prudent, and so made a swift exit, remembering to deposit his syllabary on the right shelf as he left. Better to not arouse suspicion just yet.

It was only after he was a floor away in another corner of the castle that it occurred to him, that he'd left his mug behind.

[Rose Pemberton]

Today was a good day. It wasn't often that Rose had plans outside the castle, but today she did. It was a fancy enough occasion to wear the blue chiffon dress she'd bought for her mother's sixtieth  birthday, finally giving her another occasion to wear it. She'd combined it with a single strand for white pearls and her favourite pumps. Hopefully, that meant she would blend in.

In truth, Rose was still a little bit nervous. Ever since seeing Verity and Bradford in London her friendship with the witch had somewhat rekindled and they enjoyed their occasional catch ups despite their difference in social circumstance. It was nice. They got to laugh together and talk about the latest gossip. She'd missed having a female friend to confide in. In retrospect, she realised she'd made a mistake in cutting ties all those years back. But things were better now, she was being on the mend.

Rose was filing away a bunch of returned books when she came across a mug. She hadn't cleared one of those away since, well, she didn't really like to think about it. Since Harold had stopped coming to the library. The thought sat heavy and uncomfortably on her mind.

Harold Prendergast was still an extremely sore topic to Rose. She'd been so charmed by him, but the man was nothing if not infuriating. Whenever he was near, she just turned into this frightful creature of balled up anger. She couldn't even say if it was anger at him. Anger at the world for sure. The universe. Fate. Yes, fate was actively mocking her each time it sent the handsome arithmancer across her path as if to taunt her with all the things she wanted but would never have.

How strange that a cup provoked such a wealth of emotion. Looking at the object, it probably wasn't even his. Harold had preferred a green jadeite mug. She hadn't seen it in forever, but she could still picture it clearly. This contraption on the other hand said 'centequines' on it, for whatever that meant. Even more strangely it featured a doodle of a centaur charging at a stack of pint glasses. Bit of a crude job with the animation, but it did make her giggle.

Rose cleaned the mug and carried it back to her desk, where the placed it next to a little potted succulent plant. Whomever it belonged to would probably come and collect it the next couple of days. It seemed like a somewhat personal keepsake. Maybe one of the older students? She certainly knew of a few who had indulged in a little bit more than just butter beer at Hogsmeade.

-

Oddly enough, nobody came to collect the mug the next day or in fact the day after. Maybe, the owner hadn't noticed that it had gone missing yet. No matter. She would hold onto it for as long as needed. It seemed that it had brought her good luck. Just as soon as she'd captured it a certain jadeite mug had made a reappearance in the library.

She didn't like to admit to it, but seeing it again made her happy. Not that she'd uttered as much as a word to the cup's owner, but a tiny slice of normality had been restored. Prendergast was reading again and wasn't that nice.

[Peter Alva Tannenbaum]

Peter Alva sucked in some air through his front teeth. This was odd. Why were so many books on Ancient Runes checked out? It wasn't exam time yet and he hadn't authorised any students to read materials from the restricted section. Who would have signed for it? He was sure Minnie would have sent any interested students his way and Horace probably would have done the same. Not out of respect, but to save himself the hassle. It was curious.

The librarian flitted past him, looking good in a pair of trousers and a mint green cardigan. The more casual vibe suited her, making her seem younger and more dynamic.

"Dearie," he addressed her. "Would ye mind sparing me a couple of minutes? I was wondering who's checked out all me books."

"Sure thing," she replied. "What titles is it you're after."

As she spoke, he thought he detected a northern twang to her voice. So she wasn't from the South like the rest of faculty. How odd that he'd never noticed it before. 

Peter Alva rattled down the list of titles missing, finishing with one particular book Professor Weinstein from Beauxbatons had just recently published. He was keen to look into it, especially since Weinstein was an expert when it came to runic fields and homogenous magic distributions.

"Could I trouble you to issue a recall on the Waltman and Weinstein book? I really do need it for some urgent research and whichever student has it can probably wait." He didn't really like asking, but Sid had been so anxious of late. Their project wasn't going well. It really would help if they could make some progress. Sid been to vet with Bonnie twice, but of course an animal doctor was hardly qualified to help a maledictus.

Rose said something, but Peter Alva was in his head thinking about Bonnie. Maybe, if he did a sub-dermal rune he could hold some of the decay that had occurred in her arcanogram.

"... with Professor Prendergast. I'm sorry, you'd have to talk to him about it."

Though he had only caught the last few words of what was said, the meaning was clear enough. No recall because the Arithmancy guy had checked out his books.

"That's just pearls before swine," he grumbled disagreeably. "That English toff doesn't even know which way round to hold a carving knife."

The librarian let out a muffled giggle.

"I know it's not the same as the Weinstein, Professor Tannenbaum, but you could try reading Heseltine instead and I am sure Professor Prendergast didn't check that one out." She gave a conspiring wink, opened her desk drawer and handed the book over for him to take.

He could tell that it had to be from her personal stock. The book was still brand new.

"But you haven't finished it yourself," Peter Alva said, trying to kindly turn down the favour.

"True, but I don't have pressing research. Just, make it up to me sometime. How about that?"

"That's really kind." He found himself taking the book and gave Rose a rare genuine smile.

[Harold Prendergast]

The morning found Harold without much in the way of classes - there was something odd about Thursday mornings that just meant he had no classes. But Thursday mornings were a lot like Sunday afternoons, around four in the afternoon, with a vaguely pensive feeling, a foreboding anticipation of later in the day when things do actually get moving again.

In this particular case, the fourth year Slytherins. At least one of them was bound to do something... well... quite unsettling. It was always that class and one agent provocateur in particular. But at least Harold was mildly distracted by the notion that he could spend a good couple of hours in the library looking for more information on that rune.

He had placed it vaguely within a syllabary but runes were always more complicated than simply words in a dictionary, much as some English words were straightforward, such as 'milk' and 'sugar' while some were a little more complicated, perhaps such as 'tea', and some were utterly impenetrable, such as the word that might describe whatever Harold's thoughts were on the subject of Miss Pemberton. He still hadn't spoken to her in too long - studiously avoiding any reason to talk to her.

But still, there was the matter of the runes and that rather took precedence over whatever piffling trifles might otherwise be going on. Understanding whatever Tannenbaum was doing was critical at this juncture. It was something with runes, and the death rune wasn't much help on its own. If only he could get a bead on how it connected to other things - and what elementary magicks were bound to it...

He settled himself in again with a cup of tea, this time with a notepad and pencil, and several of the syllabaries. For things like this, parchment felt quite too much, this was a time for precision and deftness and the usual vagaries of parchment and ink and qulls seemed, well, quite fanciful. It helped that his peers and students would usually think of parchment as the go-to, so should it come to it, there was a reasonable chance an interloper would not realise where any notes were.

He took his time going through the pages, making notes of what connected to what - in much the same way a writer might make notes of letter combinations that flowed, words and phrases that went nicely - in a shorthand that shouldn't likely be interpreted by any in the castle. Except, he thought ruefully, perhaps Miss Pemberton. It occurred to him that her life had been awkward and it was entirely possible she should have taken some time in an assistant's capacity, that shorthand of a form, perhaps Pitman's, would be familiar to her. No matter, it would be unlikely that if it should be discovered, that it should be her to do so.

The time passed rather amiably, as it happened, a good morning's research into things connected with death - a frightfully lurid chapter even for wizards - but it had a few avenues for him. Many of the options connected with curses, but it wasn't clear to Harold if Tannenbaum was trying to prevent a curse or amplify one. Further research needed.

He had been so absorbed by his findings that he hadn't touched his tea. A full brew in one of his favourite mugs, no less. Quite simply appalling.

But there was that feeling again. He hadn't been consciously tracking Tannenbaum, or put some kind of spell on the man to warn of his presence and yet... he felt that tingle as though he should perhaps make a move. Better to leave a note here on the stack of books and not be here for the moment.

Hastily he scribbled something on a piece of parchment left on the writing desk, rather to the effect of 'back in 5 minutes', as if he were a shop-keep, and when heads were turned, filed his notepaper, then fiddled with his watch so as to be elsewhere (or, rather, elsewhen) for a short while. An excellent opportunity to stretch one's legs with a walk about the grounds for a spell, he should say.

It must have been barely twenty minutes before he ambled his way back to the library, to be elsewhen should the engimatic Tannenbaum have shown up.

Upon returning, it appeared the book pile had been rearranged; he'd left it in a slightly untidy stack and it had been aligned and arranged so all the books were in a neat squared-away pile, though his note was there and no books had been taken.

He still had a little time before his class, and eager to not have to think about the fourth years and especially that one... child... he put a hand around his mug to feel it for warmth. A smile fluttered on his lips as it was still pleasantly warm.

"What the deuce?" Harold spluttered upon trying to drink it. "I... honestly... could have... what the deuce? There were only two spoons of sugar in the cup when I made this!" It tasted as though there were half a dozen in the bottom of the mug, and as much as Harold had a sweet tooth, that was a little too much even for his discerning standards.

[Peter Alva Tannenbaum]

Peter Alva set aside his copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses, placing it on top of a pile of notes, ancient rune journals and academic publications. When he was struggling for ideas, he always liked to turn to classical literature. It was relaxing and let him consider things in a more creative way. There was also comfort in reading Latin, the way the syllables flowed together, elegantly arranged in perfect hexameter.

It made him wonder if the number six played a crucial part in achieving transformation or if it was merely what one might dub artistic coincidence. He noted it down on his page and drew a circle around it. Six wasn't a number people thought about a lot in magic. It was often three or seven, but six was a duplicate of three and therefore not magically insignificant. Flipping from one account of transformation to another he tried to track how consent and permanence of transformation featured in the poems. Not for the first time he found himself wondering if maledictions were inspired by the words of Ovid or if the Roman poet's works were the first to describe the condition. The sheer vindictiveness with which Minerva Pallas had taken her revenge on Arachne was staggering. Who ruined another persona's life over weaving skills?

There was no doubt in Peter Alva's mind that Minerva had been a witch, while poor Arachne had  been a Muggle. Disturbing. Simultaneously he wondered what Bonnie Montgomery or her ancestor has done to deserve her cruel fate. Had she been too good at washing the dishes? It seemed equally trivial.

Looking up he noted the Head of Gryffindor sitting in her usual spot, struggling through some marking. She has a particular face that she pulled when reading poorly researched essays. Judging by her facial expression, this years intake of students weren't the brightest the school had seen. 

"No creature of the earth should ever slight the majesty that dwells in you, without just retribution," he paraphrased at her from the opening verses of book six. His colleague looked up at him with a tired expression.

"You should take a break," Peter Alva offered simply. "How about you share some of my lemonade."

He poured her a glass.

"So I've been continuing my research into transformations and I was wondering if I could ask your opinion on something there, seeing how you're an expert."

He'd seen the head of Gryffindor turn into her cat form on occasion. He might have even let her doze in front of his fireplace once or twice, not minding a silent feline companion. Minerva was nice and he was fond of her as a colleague.

"When an animagus transforms back from animal form, exactly what are steps of the untransfiguration?" It was a subject animagi were strangely quiet on. From what he could work out they just did it, little conscious thought expended. Animagi seemed to be preoccupied with achieving animal form, rather than leaving it. In Peter Alva's mind he wondered if maledictions were mostly like animagus transfigurations, except with a gradual block affecting the returning to human form.

He inclined his head to the side as Minerva answered his question. Then a nod.

"So perhaps affecting how magic is carried through the bloodstream would be linked to ... yes! I think that... definitely."

Peter Alva popped up from his seat to head to Sid's office. Why hadn't he thought of that earlier! Of course it was all related to blood magic - quite literally. He should take a look at the composition of Bonnie's blood.

He didn't think to clear up his stack of books and notes, leaving them behind on the side table next to his usual seat. He'd written a couple of pages of notes earlier about how to achieve death by forcing a transformation, but of course that was all wrong. Maledictions weren't about causing death, but creating suffering. There was no indication that maledicti had shorter lifespans overall. He'd been blind, clearly.

[Harold Prendergast]

Harold sighed. He found himself quite regretting asking his fourth years to write an essay on the ethical considerations of applied thaumaturgy in connection to chronometry. He was rather convinced that not a single one of them understood the problem inherent in using a Time Turner, and that they were all too busy daydreaming over 'having that perfect breakfast again' or some such twaddle. The notion did occur that, perhaps, he might have expected more from them than capable, but, well, he had given them plenty of material including what could be told about Eloise Mintumble

He rather suspected one or two of the students with Muggle families allowed their students to watch that perfectly lamentable broadcast, that one with the professor with the ridiculous name. Next they'll be allowing all of the interrogative pronouns as fairy tale characters. Though the notion of trying to consider a 'Professor Why' did briefly amuse him.

He'd managed to stomach the first three or four essays, red ink in hand, and a very strong cup of tea, but it hadn't been enough. No, what this needed was some sympathy from the other professors. The staff room, it would have to be. It wasn't entirely usual for Harold to seek out fellow teachers but there was some succour in the shared suffering, and odds were pretty good that at least one other professor would be in the same boat.

Gathering up his as-yet-unmarked essays, slotting his tea cup into his tea bag, he made his way across the castle. To his relative surprise, the staff room was almost empty - only Professor McGonagal was sat marking, but the look on her face was especially pensive, and Harold knew that she was having as much of a situation as he was. But it was good small talk.

Upon her noticing his arrival, he gestured to her own marking, and ruefully noted, "I have some marking of my own, and, well, not to put too fine a point on it, I am rather a little out of sorts with this batch - do I detect from the look on your face that you have the same?"

The look on her face said everything. But with Minerva, one look often did.

He sat in the corner chair, unpacked his things and began to read. There was a mild hurrumph, a bit of huffing and a sound that resembled that of an unexpectedly airborne scroll in more ways than perhaps it should have. Without saying a word, McGonagal packed up her things and strode off, leaving Harold none the wiser.

He made it through one more essay, before unpacking his tea bag to brew a cup. Very important step, the tea must be left to steep, and he took the opportunity to stretch. In so doing, he noticed the books and notepapers left in Tannenbaum's spot - unlike the other teachers who tended to use the space as and when, Professor Tannenbaum seemed to have a preference for one spot, and every time Harold had seen him, it was in the same chair.

But books weren't usually left there, nor notes. Tannenbaum was usually much tidier than that. And as the room was empty... with whatever paper Minerva had seen to tip her over whatever personal frustration was going on, he could safely take a quick peek before going back to his own work. And, well, he couldn't really start another scroll without being interrupted by the tea, now, could he?

The books were, predictably, about runes - but this time they had a different flavour. The previous one he had seen had been investigations into runes of death, while this... he recognised it.

Death took many forms, but runes in his particular field of study rarely changed. Something about the crossed lines of an hourglass perpetuated through all the forms. The sands of time running loose: there was no mistaking that this was about runes of time.

So, then, less about ending a life and more prolonging one? Neither seemed to fit the pattern of what Dumbledore had asked him to be on the watch for - but the devil takes many forms, and why not this? Countless sorcerers and magicians throughout the years have talked about banishing death, life eternal. Rumour was that even a Philosopher's Stone had been cast and forged. Harold idly wondered if one might strike a time rune in its making.

He left Tannenbaum's papers alone as he heard his kettle making its familiar whistle. Tea time. Time for tea. Time for essays. Time for runes. Runes for time.

Sipping at the freshly made tea, he thought - almost aloud - "What in Merlin's name are you doing?"

It had occurred to him that he could go research the time runes as he had the death runes, but it also occurred to him that without a focus, it was rather like his students' essays: an unethical waste of time.