known there was a school in this area, to tell you the truth. Especially one as magnificent as this. Why, it should be on the register of historic places and no mistake, Minerva. What do you call it?'
Sacarhina began to answer, but nothing came out. She made a tiny noise, coughed a little, and then covered her mouth daintily with one hand, a look of mild puzzlement on her face.
'Hogwarts, Randolph,' McGonagall answered, smiling carefully. 'Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.'
'You don't say?' Finney replied, glancing at her. 'How wonderfully whimsical.'
'We like to think so.'
'Detective Finney!' Prescott suddenly called, trotting up the steps, his face covered in pancake makeup and tissue paper stuffed into the collar of his shirt. 'I see you've already met the Headmistress. Miss Sacarhina and Mr. Recreant are here to conduct the tour, of course. The Headmistress is just along for, er, color, as it were.'
'And she performs her role quite well, doesn't she?' Finney said, turning back to McGonagall with a grin. James saw that the Headmistress was refraining rather heroically from rolling her eyes.
'You have met Miss Sacarhina and Mr. Recreant, then?' Prescott plowed on, moving between Finney and McGonagall. 'Miss Sacarhina, perhaps you will tell Detective Finney a bit of what it is you do here?'
Sacarhina smiled charmingly and stepped forward, threading her arm through Finney's in an attempt to lead him away from Headmistress McGonagall.
'…' Sacarhina said. She paused, then closed her mouth and tried to look down at it, which produced a rather odd expression. Finney regarded her with a slightly furrowed brow.
'Are you quite all right, Miss?'
'Miss Sacarhina is feeling just a tad under the weather, Detective Finney,' Recreant said, adopting an ingratiating grin that was no match for Sacarhina's practiced smile. 'Do allow me. This is a school of magic, as the Headmistress has already mentioned. It is, in fact, a school for witches and wizards. We--' Recreant's next word seemed to catch in his throat. He stood with his mouth open, staring at Finney and looking rather like an asphyxiating fish. After a long, awkward moment, he closed his mouth. He tried to smile again, showing far too many large, uneven teeth.
Finney's brow was still furrowed. He disengaged from Sacarhina's arm and glanced between both her and Recreant. 'Yes? Spit it out, then, why don't you? Are you both ill?'
Prescott was very nearly hopping from foot to foot. 'Perhaps we should just begin the tour, then, shall we? Of course, I know my way around the castle a bit now. We can begin as soon as… as soon as…' He realized he still had tissues jammed into the collar of his shirt. He grabbed at them and stuffed them into his pants pockets. 'Miss Sacarhina, you had mentioned that there would be someone else? An expert in explaining things to the uninitiated? Perhaps now would be a good time to introduce this person?'
Sacarhina craned her head forward, her eyes bulging very slightly and her mouth open. After a few seconds of strained silence, the Headmistress cleared her throat and gestured toward the open courtyard. 'Here he is now, I suspect. You know how Mr. Hubert tends to be rather late sometimes. Poor man will forget his own head one of these days. Still, he is a genius in his own way, isn't he, Brenda?'
Her mouth still open, Sacarhina turned to follow McGonagall's pointing hand. At the opening of the courtyard, another vehicle was entering. It was ancient, its engine choppy and puttering a pall of blue smoke. Finney frowned a little as it chugged slowly across the courtyard. Sacarhina and Recreant stared at the vehicle with twin expressions of pure bewilderment and disgust. The crowd of students gathered near the steps moved back as the vehicle squeaked to a stop in front of the first Landrover, pointing at it. The engine coughed, sputtered, and then died, slowly.
'That's a Ford Anglia, isn't it?' Finney said. 'I haven't seen one of those in decades! I'm amazed it still runs.'
'Oh, our Mr. Hubert is very good with engines, Randolph,' McGonagall said crisply. 'Why, he's almost a wizard, really.'
The driver's door squeaked open and a figure clambered up out of it. He was very large, so that the car rose perceptibly on its springs as he arose from it. The man squinted at the stairs, smiling a little vacantly. He had long, silvery blonde hair and a matching beard, both of which were offset by a gigantic pair of black, horn-rimmed glasses. The man's hair was pulled back in a natty, almost prim ponytail.
'Mr. Terrence Hubert,' McGonagall said, introducing the man. 'Chancellor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Welcome, sir. Do come and meet our guests.'
Mr. Hubert smiled and then glanced aside as the passenger's door of the Anglia screeched open.
'I hope you don't mind, everybody,' Mr. Hubert said, adjusting his glasses. 'I've brought my wife along with me. Say hello to the folks, dear.'
James gasped as Madame Delacroix climbed awkwardly out of the car. She smiled very slowly and deliberately. 'Hello,' she said in a strangely monotone voice.
Hubert grinned mistily at her. 'She's a dearie, isn't she? Well, shall we begin, then?'
Sacarhina coughed, her eyes widening rather alarmingly as she watched Delacroix join Mr. Hubert in front of the Anglia. She nudged Recreant with her elbow, but he was as mute as she was.
'Chancellor?' Prescott said, looking back and forth between Hubert and McGonagall. 'There's no chancellor! Since when is there a chancellor?'
'I do apologize, sir,' Hubert said, climbing the steps with Delacroix by his side. She grinned a bit wildly. 'I've been away for the past week. Business in Montreal, Canada, of all places. Wonderful little distribution warehouse there. You know, we only use the highest quality magical supplies here, of course. I inspect all our materials by hand before ordering anything. Oh, but I shouldn't say any more, of course. Heh, heh!' Hubert tapped the side of his nose with an index finger, grinning conspiratorially at Prescott.
Prescott's face was tight with suspicion. He stared at Hubert, then at Madame Delacroix. Finally, he held up his hands and closed his eyes. 'All right, who cares? Mr. Hubert, if you are our guide, then guide away.' He threw a glance over his shoulder at the camera crew, gesturing wildly with his eyebrows, and then followed Hubert into the gigantic open doors. 'Chancellor Hubert, can you tell us and our audience what you do here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?'
'Why, of course,' Hubert said, turning as he reached the center of the Entrance Hall. 'We teach magic! We are, in fact, Europe's premiere school of the magical arts.' Hubert seemed to notice the camera for the first time. He grinned a little nervously into it. 'Students, er, come from the farthest reaches of the continent, and even beyond, to learn the ancient arts of the mystical masters of the craft. To acquire, to absorb, to, er, steep, as it were, in the secret arts of divination, illumination, prestidigitation, and, er, etcetera, etcetera.'
Prescott was staring very hard at Hubert, his cheeks reddening. 'I see. Yes, so you admit that you teach actual magic within these walls?'
'Why, certainly, young man. Why ever would I deny it?'
'Then you do not deny,' Prescott said in a pouncing sort of voice, 'that these paintings, which line this very room, are magical, moving paintings?' He gestured grandly toward the walls. The cameraman spun and walked as quickly and smoothly as he could toward a group of paintings by the doorway. The boom microphone operator lowered his apparatus, so as to be sure to capture Hubert's response.
'M-moving paintings?' Hubert said in a distracted voice. 'Oh. O-ho yes. Well, I suspect they could be said to move. Why, that painting there, no matter where you are in the room, the eyes in the painting are always upon you.' Hubert raised his hands mysteriously, warming to the subject. 'They seem, in fact, to follow you everywhere you go!'
The cameraman took his eye away from the viewfinder and frowned back at Prescott. Prescott's face
