Chapter 13

Friday morning, and like the rest of the students the Gryffindors got out of their beds, if not with eagerness then at least with less reluctance than usual, for it was the last school day of the week, and the following Saturday was the first Hogsmeade weekend of the term. Harry, Ron and Hermione looked forward to the Saturday with considerable anticipation. Harry was excited because they would all be meeting at the Hog's Head to recruit students to the Defence Against the Dark Arts club, and he'd be teaching the subject he loved most. Hermione took personal pleasure in the project partially because it was her idea in the first place, and also because of the wonderfully nasty surprise she'd dreamed up for anyone who might think of betraying their group.

Ron had a completely different reason for his excitement. He was taller and older-looking than his fifth-year peers, and he wondered whether he might be able to pass himself off as a seventeen-year-old - an adult under wizarding law, and thus be able to lift a pint for the first time in a public house. It was fortunate that the meeting was set at the Hog's Head where he was not known, and perhaps he could pull it off. Most mornings, getting dressed and ready for class was easy for him - a quick shower, only barely drying his hair (which he would not bother to comb), and then throwing on some clothes, his only concession to neatness a quick sniff to make sure the shirt he picked up from the floor was not too gamy. But this morning, he closely inspected his face in the mirror. Perhaps he would find some hair on his lip, or the beginnings of a beard - anything to help him tomorrow at the Hog's Head. But no - it was no good. His 'moustache' was, if anything, lighter in colour than the bright red on top of his head - it was almost blond, and practically invisible. Damn.

Making their way out of the common room, the Gryffindors gathered at their table in the common room. Hermione was looking forward to telling Imogen about the interesting curse she'd created to help protect their fledgling club from traitors. But as the breakfast went on, there was no sign of Imogen. Now that she thought of it, Hermione could not recall seeing Imogen that morning - very odd. As she wondered what might be the reason, her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden silence in the Great Hall. Professor Dumbledore had stood up, and there was no need for him to call for silence. In a trice the hall was completely quiet.

"Only a short interruption," the headmaster assured them. "You'll be back to your breakfast in a moment. Some of you may have noticed that Professor McGonagall is not present this morning." In fact none of the students had noticed - as usual they'd been too busy stuffing their faces. "Professor McGonagall is on leave today, and thus unavailable to teach Transfiguration. However, any of you with Transfiguration on your timetables today are to proceed to class as usual, for a substitute teacher has been found. I ask that you go easy on the substitute, for aside from the fact he is superannuated and infirm, he is unused to classrooms, not having taught in many a year." Dumbledore resumed his seat, and the students resumed their breakfast.

"I'd hate to be the substitute after an introduction like that," observed Ron. "Why would Dumbledore talk about him that way?"

"Probably because the substitute was chosen by Umbridge," said Hermione. "After all, she has a lot of power in the school nowadays."

"If he's some ministry hack, maybe we should have some fun with him," observed George, his twin nodding his head in enthusiastic agreement.

Umbridge turned to Dumbledore at the head table, demanding to know why she was not consulted when the substitute was chosen.

"I will remember to do so next time Professor McGonagall takes a day off," said Dumbledore. "But that might not be for awhile. It's been twenty-seven years since the last time she missed a day. But I assure you the fellow I chose is well-qualified - at least on paper." Professor Flitwick began to snicker, and Umbridge, knowing she was being mocked, refrained from asking more questions about the substitute.

Imogen had risen from her bed two hours before her housemates, and so no one observed her arrive at the main doors dressed in the same muggle clothing in which she'd arrived at Hogwarts a month earlier. McGonagall arrived at the same time as Imogen, and was also dressed in a muggle outfit.

McGonagall had spent quite some time the night before deciding what to wear. She had seen the ridiculous outfits Dumbledore wore when mingling with muggles, and some of the other professors were even worse. But McGonagall prided herself on her understanding of the muggle world, and had a better range of their clothing to pick from than did most witches. Unlike Snape and some of the other staff, she had no prejudices at all against the muggle-born students, and she thoroughly enjoyed the rare occasions when she was able to mix with muggles, dressed like them and acting like one of them, moving through their community unnoticed.

Imogen was not fully awake yet, and was staring into the Great Hall past the open doors, her mind unfocused as McGonagall approached. Surprised, Imogen suddenly turned around.

"I haven't been to London for the purpose of mixing with muggles in a few years," said McGonagall. "I must admit I am really looking forward to this."

Imogen made polite affirmative noises, taking note of the professor's leopard-skin dress, which was partially concealed - evidently the Professor believed that a muggle corset was supposed to be worn outside one's clothing. Imogen thought the outfit might work better if the purple vest concealed everything, but it was much too small. The boots were perhaps the best part of the outfit, but that was not saying much, for they would have been better suited for a dominatrix.

The two walked out the main doors and set off in the direction of Hogsmeade. The morning sun was just coming over the horizon, casting deep shadows and bathing the castle in a rosy light. Yesterday's unseasonable warmth was gone and the morning was cool and windless. The dawn chorus was fully underway in the forest around the castle, the birds' noisy ruckus much more audible than in the castle. Imogen thought for a bit, and then spoke.

"I'm like you, Professor - I'm really looking forward to this, and I've only been away from the muggle world a month. But for muggles, the best part of a trip like this is the shopping."

"But we won't have time for that, surely," admonished the professor.

"Oh but Professor, if you're going to mix in with muggles, you have to act like one, and believe me I would know - I only just came from the muggle world. Here we are, headed from a distant province for a great capital, and in the month I've been away, fashions are sure to have changed - I simply must have something new to wear - I can't get by in this old thing," said Imogen.

"I didn't know muggle fashions changed so quickly," said McGonagall. She would have to ask the Muggle Studies professor about why that was. "But what about me? My clothes are much older than yours - surely I must be very out of date."

"Your clothes are rather more upscale than mine," said Imogen, "and when you have taste and are prepared to spend more, then you get something with a timeless quality to them. But I'd really like you to experience what shopping is like for muggles - please let me show you - we have lots of time!" McGonagall allowed the girl's enthusiasm to persuade her.

Once outside of Hogwarts' grounds, apparation became possible. McGonagall held Imogen tightly, reminding her to hang on. Imogen recalled perfectly how "the books" described the sensation of apparating, and was quite prepared. "Where in London was must we arrive?" asked the professor.

"I don't known the intersection," replied Imogen. "But the store we're going to is called Prada, so just take us there."

McGonagall's apparating skills were second to none, and she landed them on Sloane Street right outside the Prada store. The books had not prepared Imogen for just how nauseating apparation could be, and she struggled not to vomit.

McGonagall did not notice Imogen's discomfort. "I can never get over how friendly these muggles are," she observed, greeting the pedestrians in turn as they walked by, their gaze invariably fixed on the strange woman dressed like a New Orleans whore with Alzheimer's.

"I'm starving," said Imogen, still struggling to control her nausea. "Can we get some breakfast?" Seated in the back of a dark restaurant perhaps the professor would draw less attention.

"Of course - but where?" said McGonagall, baffled. Looking out onto the street, McGonagall was like a modern westerner tossed into the African jungle - surrounded by food, but unable to see it. Imogen led them without much trouble to a restaurant near the tube station that served a typical English breakfast. Once inside, Imogen had the waitress take them to a table in a remote corner - it was almost like being back in potions class. The place wasn't too busy yet, but Imogen knew they were going to be there for a while, it being some time before Prada would open. Opening the menu, Professor McGonagall was now on more familiar ground - she recognized many of the items, and by the time the waitress arrived, she was able to give her order in a reasonably muggle-like way. Imogen ordered too on the assumption that her post-apparation nausea would soon pass.

"Imogen," said Professor McGonagall, "the waitress mentioned a 'breakfast special' - I didn't want it, but she also mentioned the price, and that made me think of something - how are you going to pay for the breakfast and the clothes? They won't take knuts here, I don't think - do you have any muggle coins?

"Oh, yes - that reminds me!" said Imogen excitedly. She opened her large purse and pulled out a few bills - include ten, twenty and a fifty pound notes. The twenty and fifty had been in her purse when she'd found herself at the train station at the start of term. The tenner she'd borrowed from Sean.

She placed the fifty-pound note on the table and raised her wand.

"Duplicato!"

Another fifty-pound note appeared next to the original, and Imogen inspected it closely, comparing it to the original. The copy was too good, for the serial number was the same - a clerk might spot this. Imogen modified her charm to randomize the existing serial number on the additional copies. The copies would have all the same digits, but in a different order. This was not as good as a truly random serial number, but Imogen did not know how to create one, and her solution would be good enough. A few minutes later, she had a very impressive stack of fifty pound notes. Imogen made a number of tens and twenties as well.

McGonagall was baffled by all this. Imogen explained that she was making copies of muggle money.

"But it's only paper!" exclaimed McGonagall. "It can't have any value."

"That's sort of true, professor. It is only paper. But it is valuable just because all the muggles agree it has value. And we're going to need a lot of this paper if we're going to Prada, that's for sure."

"But that would be like everyone agreeing that this fork here is worth a knut, and that the knife is worth a galleon."

"Yes, that's true," admitted Imogen, who, at fifteen, lacked the knowledge necessary to explain to a witch why it is that the muggle world functions rather well with paper bills of exchange. "But I'm glad it's that way - it makes it much easier to make copies."

"But isn't it wrong to make copies of money?" asked McGonagall. The problem could not arise in the wizarding world; one could not transfigure base metals into precious (at least not without the Philosopher's stone). But surely there was something wrong with what Imogen was doing.

"If I were just making copies, sure - that would not be allowed. But the Duplicato charm creates more than mere copies - they are indistinguishable from any other bills. Once we pay for something with them, they will always be accepted - no chance that they'll ever be rejected. So no harm is done."

While the professor thought this over, their breakfasts arrived. Imogen's normally healthy appetite had returned by this point and she was very hungry. The waitress was puzzled as to where to place the food - the table was covered in bank notes. Imogen hastily swept the thousands of pounds into her purse and away from the startled eyes of the waitress. Imogen acted as if it were commonplace to be in possession of thousands of pounds of cash, and did not acknowledge in any way the inquiring look she received. She thanked the waitress for the food, and eagerly dug in to her breakfast of an omelet, bacon, potato cakes and black pudding.

Professor McGonagall observed Imogen eat, not without envy as the teen began to shove hundreds of calories into her mouth without a thought. The girl simply assumed (and rightly) that her young body would easily burn off every particle of what she consumed. McGonagall had left that stage behind many decades before, and was careful not to consume the yolks of her eggs, nor more than one piece of fried bread. Long after the professor had finished eating, Imogen was still shovelling food into her mouth.

"Professor, if you're not going to eat the rest of your toast... , " Imogen cheerfully ate the rest of McGonagall's breakfast after downing her own. Eventually she finished - satiated, but only just so.

After breakfast and numerous cups of coffee, there was still quite some time before Prada would be open. While Imogen had been consuming her breakfast and half the professor's, she'd had an idea about how the rest of the waiting time could be used.

"Professor, right about now you would be giving me a transfiguration lesson if we were at Hogwarts. We've got some time, and I was wondering whether you could help me with my studies now. It will help me catch up with the other fifth years - they're all missing their lesson with you, but if I get some private tutoring, this would really do me some good."

"I'd be happy to teach you, Imogen, but don't think for a minute that your fellow fifth years are falling behind due to my absence - far from it."

"Wands out, everyone", said the substitute teacher, an extremely elderly, infirm and wizened old man. The fifth year Gryffindors strained to hear the quavering voice - the man looked like a light breeze would knock him over. Those in the front of the class who heard him reached for their wands, and those in the back copied the students in front of them. But before the lesson could continue, they were interrupted by the arrival of Umbridge. She had not bothered to knock, and after opening the door, she moved her squat, ugly form into the classroom.