Chapter Text
Granny Beetle was not June’s real grandmother.
The old witch had come into June’s life last summer, when the Scrimgeour siblings had evacuated to the coast on a train organized by the Ministry of Magic. The evacuation hadn’t been mandatory, but the Ministry had highly encouraged all London wizarding parents to send their children away; after all, even magic had its limitations. There wasn’t much that could be done against bombs that their Muggle neighbors weren’t already doing.
And so June and her siblings and Marie, her sister’s white cat, had boarded a train with dozens of other wizarding children, none of whom knew what awaited them at their destination, none of whom even knew if they’d ever see their parents again.
June was the middle of three children, and the only one with their mother’s brown hair and eyes—both her older sister, Sylvia, and her younger brother, Peter, had their father’s blue eyes and freckles. But June was her father’s daughter through and through—curious and analytical, asking questions from the moment she could speak. Although she had her mother’s tendency to worry.
Sylvia was the one most like their mother—it was why she had been sorted into Hufflepuff. But she had less of their mother’s neuroticism, and her nurturing instincts extended to people outside of her immediate family. This meant that in the absence of their parents, she had taken on the maternal role, insisting that June and Peter eat, singing tenderly–she was in the magical choir at Hogwarts and thus quite a good singer–and generally being her usual bossy self. Secretly, June had appreciated this; without Sylvia there to take charge, she wasn’t sure what she’d have done. Probably succumbed to nerves, she expected.
June’s sense of foreboding grew as the train pulled into the station at the end of the day.
“What kind of family d’you expect we’ll end up with?” she’d asked. She was so close to Sylvia she kept stepping on the back of her sister’s shoes.
“I don’t know,” Sylvia answered. She pulled her luggage behind her, her other arm wrapped around Marie. “I hope it isn’t anyone too strict.”
This statement did nothing to reassure June, who had hoped that her sister would have more confidence in their future. Instead, she found herself worrying more than ever–who would take the place of their parents while they were here? What if they wound up with someone awful?
Soon enough the Scrimgeours were lined up in a row at Village Hall with the other evacuees, June trying not to listen as strangers debated which child they wanted to bring into their home, and whether they could afford to take in more than one. Peter squeezed her hand so tight she began to lose feeling in her fingers, but she didn’t fuss or ask him to let go, especially once it became apparent that many of the hosts had no qualms about separating siblings.
Sylvia put her arms around the younger two Scrimgeours protectively, as if by the force of her will alone she could prevent anyone from breaking up the family. June bowed her head, her eyes shut tight, as this horrible realization washed over her. As awful as it had been to board the train without her parents, she’d at least had her siblings with her.
Now she was facing the very real possibility she’d be completely separated from her entire family.
Please , she’d thought desperately, please, don’t let us be separated. Please.
Her prayers were answered by a squat old witch in floral robes who had taken one look at the way the three children clung to one another and announced she’d take them all. She’d introduced herself as Granny Beetle—that was what everyone in the surrounding village called her—and loaded them and their luggage into an empty pig trough, which flew them out of the village to a remote, picturesque cottage nestled among the craggy cliffs high above the sea.
Despite the circumstances, the cottage was such a delight that it was almost like being on holiday. Instead of London’s smog, the air was fresh and so salty you could almost taste it, and Granny Beetle’s cottage was surrounded by more open land than June had ever seen in her life.
And it wasn’t only the Scrimgeour children who found refuge with Granny Beetle: The cottage also acted as the temporary home for displaced magical animals evacuated under the Ministry’s hastily assembled Fantastic Association for the Relocation of Magizoological Species, or F.A.R.M.S. for short.
The kitchen was perpetually warm to keep the salamanders comfortable, and in the garden there were brightly colored feathered snakes, a herd of winged pigs, and two fire-breathing deer with golden antlers.
And then there was Nugget.
Born a scant two weeks before the Scrimgeour children’s arrival, Nugget was the last of a litter of golden-furred nifflings. Her litter-mates had been collected by goblins, but she had been left behind, too runty to help in the mines.
June had taken to the little niffler immediately. One was rarely seen without the other, whether June was romping through the grassy fields beyond Granny’s cottage or hiding in the drawing room with one of Granny Beetle’s fascinating old books.
This, of course, was June’s favorite pastime, for she had been a voracious reader from the time she learned her letters. While Sylvia practiced piano in the sitting room and Peter raced the flying pigs in the garden, June would lay stretched across the drawing-room floor, pouring over books.
Usually Nugget took advantage of her mistress’s lack of attention to flit about collecting the shiny knick knacks that cluttered the shelves, but today the niffler was curled on June’s shoulder, basking in the warm light that filtered in through the open window. June had one hand pressed against the pages of a book so old it was falling apart at the seams. The leather had flaked from the spine so that the title was no longer legible, which was the only reason she hadn’t read it before now, because it was about her favorite topic in the whole world:
Insects.
June loved insects. Although she loved all animals, she had a special place in her heart for all manner of arthropods–even spiders, to the dismay of Sylvia, who was terrified of them. She never tired of reading about insects; they were simply fascinating creatures, and however much she thought she knew about them, there were always new facts to uncover.
She would have continued to pass the book over if she hadn’t been returning a glittering quartz bookend over the objections of Nugget, who had pilfered it. The books had fallen over in the absence of the bookend, and as she’d righted them she’d caught sight of the title embossed across the front.
‘An Introduction to Magientomology’
The title page provided a definition June was already familiar with, but which she of course carefully read with a fond familiarity.
Magientomology
Ma·gi·en·to·mol·o·gy
/ˈmajiˌen(t)əˈmäləjē
noun
the branch of magizoology concerned with the study of insects.
June propped her chin in her hands as she flipped through the chapters until she’d found the chapter on different species of magical ants and began reading.
Myrmecoleons are a type of large ant found in Near East regions. These ants are most famed for the hoards they collect and their viciousness when it comes to thieves. Magimyrmecologists theorize that Myrmecoleons originated when ancient wizards bred nifflers with ants.
Opposite this was a full page ink-wash illustration depicting a group of wizards in turbans fighting off the most enormous ants June had ever seen. The ants snapped their mandibles ferociously at the wizards, whose wands emitted tiny red sparks - the only hint of color in the otherwise monochrome illustration.
“I was in Professor MacMillan’s class, y’know,” said a voice somewhere above June’s head.
June slammed the book shut, breathing hard and glaring up at the speaker. “Blimey, Eliza!” she complained, furious at having been startled.
The ghost of a teen girl floated overhead. She was wearing a long nightdress, but silvery pockmarks covered her face and hands in imitation of the Dragon Pox that had killed her.
As June’s heart rate returned to normal, she considered the statement the ghost had made, puzzling over the apparent non sequitur. “Who is Professor MacMillan?”
Eliza gestured toward the book.
June looked down at the cover again, noting the authors for the first time:
Myrmosina MacMillan and Lasius Thorn.
“That was our textbook,” Eliza explained, “In Magientomology. It’s always so funny when them profs give out books they scribbled themselves, init?”
Once, June had found Eliza and Granny Beetle’s West Country accents impossible to understand. Now she didn’t even need to translate before answering. “Sylvia never mentioned Magientomology.” June’s tone was accusing; her older sister was well aware of her passion for insects.
“That’s ‘cause Hogwarts don’t be offering Magientomology no more.” Eliza drifted nearer, and June had to scoot backward across the floor to avoid being floated through. “MacMillan and Thorn went missin’, so they stopped offering it. Me classmates and I had to swap over to the Beasts class.”
“Missing!” June flipped the book open to the inside cover, but there was no author blurb to be read.
Before she could ask any more questions, the patter of bare feet came from the hallway, growing nearer and nearer. June had only just turned to look when the door swung open, and Peter burst into the room, rosy cheeked and out of breath, waving an envelope aloft.
“O June!” he cried jubilantly. “The post arrived!”
June leaped to her feet, flapping her arms so vigorously she almost dislodged Nugget. The niffler squeaked in protest, digging little claws into the girl’s shoulder until she ceased flapping.
“Is that–” June began as Peter thrust the envelope at her. There was no need to finish her question; there, written in emerald green ink, was her name. She slid a finger beneath the envelope flap, tearing it open, and pulled out a thick sheet of parchment.
The letter was written in the same emerald green ink that had been used to address the envelope, and was in the same tiny, neat hand. Eagerly, June read the long awaited message:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Armando Dippet
(Chanc. Order of the Walnut, Grand Sorc., Order of Merlin: Second Class)
Dear Ms. Scrimgeour,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Galatea Merrythought,
Deputy Headmistress
Like most magical children, June had waited impatiently for the day she would receive her school acceptance letter; impatiently, and with no small amount of anxiety. Although her parents were both Hogwarts alumni and Sylvia was currently enrolled, the thought of waiting and hoping only for a letter that never arrived had haunted her.
Her family had, of course, reassured her that her acceptance was a given, but she had only half believed them; it was a relief to have the letter in hand as solid, material proof. Soon she would be a student at the best magical school in all of Britain – maybe even the whole world. She’d be a proper witch with her own wand and everything.
“Granny Beetle needs to send an owl back,” June said, reading the letter a second time. She started for the door, but Peter got there first.
“I’ll tell her!” he shouted, bounding out into the narrow hallway without even waiting for her to answer.
“Oh, no, you don’t! It’s my letter, not yours, Peter!”
She barrelled after him, so intent on reaching Granny Beetle before Peter that she didn’t notice when Nugget leaped off her shoulder and slid across the polished wood floor.
She caught up with him at the end of the hall and shoved her way past.
He stumbled into the wall with a yelp, but he was back on his feet in a moment. “Don’t push me!” he exclaimed indignantly, jostling her as they careened into the kitchen on top of one another.
June’s stomach rumbled as the smell of fried fish greeted her. She ignored it, fixing her gaze instead on the astonished visage of Granny Beetle, a squat witch barely taller than June. Granny had tried to tame her white hair with a bun, but loose strands stood up in all directions. Her wand peeked out of the pocket of her flour-covered floral apron and she held a dishrag in one hand.
“What’s all this racket, then?” she asked, tucking the rag into the apron with her wand.
“June pushed me!” Peter repeated while June yelled over him, “I got my Hogwarts letter!!”
Granny Beetle folded both arms across her chest and looked from one child to the other. “Take it steady now. June, you first.”
June held her letter aloft, her face beaming with pride despite the accusations her brother had leveled at her. “My Hogwarts letter came. Look!”
“Aye, yer sister’s done arrived in the post today, too,” Granny said before turning to Peter. “Now, Pete, what be it you got to say?”
Peter scuffed his feet against the floor. “June pushed me. When we were coming to the kitchen—”
“That’s because you were trying to tell my news before me!” June interrupted, imitating Granny Beetle by crossing her arms.
“It’s not proper to shove.” Granny Beetle’s mouth crinkled into a smile, taking the sting out of her admonishment. “Juney, you’m gonna help Silvy with the washing. Pete, you and me’ll sort out supper. Come on now, my lovers.”
She ushered them into the kitchen, wordlessly overriding their attempts at dragging their feet.
“But we haven’t sent our reply to Hogwarts yet!” June objected in a desperate bid to avoid chores. “It said in the letter we have to send a reply by July 31st.”
Granny flicked her wand toward a row of baskets hanging from the ceiling, causing one to float gently down until it landed with a thump on the kitchen table. “It won’t take two weeks for an owl to fly to Hogwarts even with this horrible war.”
“But the bombs…” June twisted her hands as Granny Beetle nearly shoved her out the door into the back garden, where she could see Sylvia’s blonde head bent over a washtub.
“If Hogwarts could send an owl to you, you’ll be able to send one back, mind. Post owls be smart birds, Juney. Don’t you fret.”
Supper was a loud, excited affair. Sylvia had received a prefect’s badge with her letter, and she was so pleased by this she’d pinned it to her robes. Her promotion had set Eliza off on another round of reminiscing.
“I was set to be Head Girl, you know,” she said wistfully, floating above the empty chair beside Sylvia. “But then I died and that Gryffindor nitwit Matilda Ross got the job.”
June was less interested in Sylvia’s promotion, or her opinions on who ought and ought not to be selected for the prefect position from other houses, or Eliza’s mortal rivalries; she was still thinking about her earlier discussion with the ghost.
“I wish they still offered Magientomology at Hogwarts,” June said, listlessly prodding her fried fish. She had known about the former Magientomology classes for less than a day, but she felt their loss keenly.
“They used to,” Granny Beetle said. She tasted her fish experimentally, then sprinkled more malt vinegar over it before continuing, “But that was afore my time. Eliza might be able to tell you more about it.”
“She already told me.” June glanced at the ghost. Eliza was now telling Sylvia about the time the Gryffindor prefects had tried to lock her and the other Slytherin prefect in the Astronomy Tower. Sylvia was gripping the tail of her blonde braid with one hand, eyes wide with shock at such a flagrant disregard for law and order.
“It’s a pity they stopped giving it.” Granny Beetle shook her head, still shaking the vinegar bottle, seeming quite unaware she was drowning her dinner. “I reckon there weren’t enough professors gutsy enough to try after Professor Thorn passed away.”
“He died?” June gasped. “I thought she went missing?”
“Arr, no, he died in a blaze. ‘Tis common knowledge. But as for Professor MacMillan, she vanished without a trace. Yet folks do know what became of Professor Thorn. No mystery about that, I tell you.”
“But,” June said, frowning as she attempted to reconcile Granny Beetle’s version of events with Eliza’s, “Eliza said two professors went missing.”
Sylvia fell silent, her attention drawn away from her new honors and Eliza’s teenage exploits. Even Peter was listening. His fork hung motionless in the air, supper forgotten. Fried fish skin slid off the tines to fall in a heap into his mushy peas.
“Thorn’s body weren’t never found,” Eliza argued mulishly. “He were only reckoned dead like. ’Twouldn’t 'a been the first time, now would it?”
Peter turned round eyes on Eliza. “But couldn’t you just ask if he was a ghost?”
Eliza floated out of her chair to hover above the dining room, swelling with indignation. “What tosh! Ghosts don’t know who’s snuffed it.”
“They know if’n a family member’s died,” Granny Beetle said.
There was a sudden chill, as if winter had descended upon the diners. Goosebumps rose on June’s bare arms and she noticed frost forming on the windows.
“Well, I weren’t no Thorn, were I?” Eliza retorted. “There were whispers o’ dodgy goings-on, but I never saw no reason to reckon any of it were true. The worst I ever heard o’ was that numpty Driscoll, and that were his own mess, not the profs’.”
And with that, she turned her back on the living witches, her arms folded and her nose in the air.
Eliza’s chilly attitude and the unnatural cold that resulted did nothing to freeze June’s curiosity. She rubbed her arms vigorously for warmth as she whispered, “What kind of dodgy stuff?”
Granny Beetle shrugged. “Ermm, can’t say for sure. There be talk going round, y’know. But I do know that there be folk who was right chuffed when the department got closed down.”
Sylvia leaned forward, her prefect badge glinting in the candlelight. “But why? What could have been so bad?”
Granny Beetle shook her head. “I don’t rightly know. But I do mind a-hearing that there were some... experiments... that went wrong. Horribly wrong.”
“What a load of rubbish,” Eliza said, still refusing to look at any of them. “Experiments? Under the Headmistresses’ nose? How d’you think they’d manage that, eh? It weren’t no fault of the profs Driscoll mucked things up.”
Granny Beetle narrowed her eyes at Eliza’s translucent back. “Well, I be only passing on what I’ve been told. And they wouldn’t have let you in on any of them experiments, I reckon. Ye never even took yer O.W.L.s, did ye?”
“Professor MacMillan would never have put her students in danger with experiments,” Eliza insisted stoutly. “And no more would Thorn.”
“Professor MacMillan was Professor Thorn’s wife,” Granny Beetle explained to the Scrimgeour children. “Many folk say the fire and Thorn’s disappearance were related.”
“He were a Reader during Professor MacMillan's time,” Eliza supplied, “One of them wizards what left the American Confederation to study at Belinos Hospital, but he never went back. He took over after his wife disappeared, but then he disappeared, too. I had him me first year in Magientomology.”
“He studied at Belinos?” June repeated. Belinos was quite a prestigious magical hospital over in Edinburgh, but for the life of her she couldn’t understand how he’d landed at Hogwarts. “What was he doing teaching Magientomology, then?”
“Oh, he studied magitoxicology and healing magientomology,” Eliza answered. “Lots of foreign wizards studied healing at Belinos in those days. He kept to hisself after MacMillan vanished, he did. But he were a proper good teacher if ya didn’t blab too much during his lessons. And he sure as hell weren’t messing with no Dark Arts, no sirree.”
To June’s disappointment, Eliza refused to answer further questions on this topic, instead loudly returning her attention to Sylvia’s promotion to prefect, and even Granny Beetle wouldn’t continue the conversation, telling her to eat her supper before curfew arrived.
But June couldn’t stop wondering what was really behind the two disappearances. Dark Arts experiments at Hogwarts seemed implausible on the surface, but why else would a husband and wife disappear without a trace? If there wasn’t some dreadful secret underlying the mystery, then why would Hogwarts have shut down the whole department? But no matter how much she worried over the question, she couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer.
They had only just finished washing up the dishes when an eerie, undulating howl pierced the night like some kind of mechanical, Muggle-made banshee–the air raid siren. Sylvia clapped a hand over her ears. June automatically glanced toward the window, half expecting to see explosions light up the darkening sky.
Granny Beetle extinguished the candles with a wave of her wand before muttering, “Lumos.” A faint blue light emanated from the tip of her wand, barely enough to see by. She gestured toward the back door impatiently. “Quickly, now.”
June could just see Granny’s silhouette tottering into the garden, followed by Sylvia, who still had her hands clapped over her ears. June and Peter hurried after, still jostling one another in their haste.
Outside, the F.A.R.M.S. animals were in a state of panic. The feathered snakes spread their crests in agitation, and the flying pigs swooped and squealed in terror.. Only the deer seemed unaffected. They stood calmly in the middle of the yard, peering at the approaching witches with inscrutable dark eyes.
“This way, you lot. In, in, in.” Granny Beetle gestured with her wand, herding the distraught animals after the children, towards a funny-looking earthen mound near the back fence. Flowers sprouted along the top—yellow corydalis and daisies and clusters of white yarrow—obscuring the fact that the funny-looking mound was, in fact, the roof of their Ministry-issued air raid shelter.
Peter darted down the steps first, disappearing into the yawning darkness. Sylvia, the deer, and the snakes all disappeared after him. The pigs balked at the entrance. Granny scowled before muttering a spell that sent them squealing down the steps.
The shelter was substantially larger inside than it looked on the outside; no self-respecting wizard would use an Anderson shelter in its cramped original state. Four plain wooden beds lined one wall. Thick woolen blankets were folded on top of each. Along the other wall ran a plain wooden bench.
There was even a feeding trough in the back, indistinguishable from the one Granny traveled in except for the slop inside. The winged pigs huddled together by the trough, grunting and snorting and jostling one another for access.
“Be we all here?” Granny asked fretfully, counting children and animals. The pigs were stationary now, too transfixed by their slop to make things difficult, and the deer retained the placid attitude they’d exhibited outside, but the snakes slithered round Granny’s feet in an uncountable mass.
“Immobulus,” she said, and the snakes froze while she tallied them.
“I’m here,” said Eliza, who had just drifted through the walls to join them. She looked just as serene as the deer, perhaps because she was already dead.
“I thought they weren’t supposed to bomb here,” Peter said, clutching June’s arm. That was what the Ministry had said, after all; it was only the cities that were supposed to be in danger of bomb raids. The rural villages were supposed to be safe; that was the only reason parents had sent their children away from home. It was why so many magical animals had been sent away from cities and the port towns deemed likely targets.
And yet, the Ministry had also given away free bomb shelters even to the witches and wizards living in the remote areas they claimed were safe.
“We’ve got a proper shelter,” Granny Beetle said before casting charms to dry and warm the uncomfortable space.
Sylvia tugged off her shoes and hauled herself into the pinkest of the beds, a forlorn expression on her face. She said nothing, but wrapped her arms around her knees.
June scrambled into the bed next to Sylvia’s. “Will we have to wear our masks?”
The gas masks the Ministry issued to civilians were terrifying in appearance, not to mention uncomfortable and hot. June found it difficult to breathe while wearing hers, which seemed to rather defeat the purpose.
Eliza floated around the shelter with an unsettling air of hopefulness. “Ooh, don’t you put them on. I’d like another ghost or two ‘round these parts.”
“I’ve made our shelter untouchable,” Granny said, casting a withering look toward Eliza. “The Muggle gas won’t be gettin’ in ‘ere, my lovers.”
June pulled the itchy wool blanket up to her chin and stared at the tin roof overhead. It was difficult to sleep without the cuddly ant and bee that ordinarily accompanied her to bed. She opened her mouth to ask Granny to conjure them for her, but a deafening boom drowned out her plea.
The pigs abandoned their trough with frantic squealing.
June cowered beneath the blanket, visions of carnage dancing through her head with each thunderous explosion—the blackened shell of the cottage, flames licking the flowers that camouflaged their shelter, Grindelwald’s followers terrorizing the coast under cover of the German bombs.
One of the snakes coiled into bed beside June. She stroked its feathers gently, welcoming the distraction from her thoughts.
Granny pointed her wand at the pigs one by one, casting silencing spells on the terrified animals, and then cast an old charm to muffle sound on the shelter itself, plunging them into an eerie silence. Then she settled into the fourth bed. “Nox,” she said, and the light from her wand went out.