Spike stopped and looked over her shoulder for a moment at the adult who had just hurried by. Head down and hood up, on his? Her? She couldn't tell, not under the heavy cloak and half-mask -- way to the Headmistress's office, swift scissoring strides making it clear that the was not a social call, and was not likely to be a pleasant visit, either. Glad I'm not their kid, she thought, with a little shiver.
Come to think of it though . . . Hadn't she been seeing more and more strangers around campus lately? Adults with hard eyes and carefully blank faces. Some in masks of metal, some wearing masks of flesh. They all seemed to know their way around, not a map or House elf among them to provide guidance. Surely I would have heard about alumni festivities-- Spike turned around and headed for the walls just outside the Great Hall, where the announcements were posted. She hated to miss a party.
Nothing, just the term's Quidditch schedule, and the usual warnings to the Muggle-born First Years not to purchase passes for the elevators or the shuttle bus to Hogsmeade. Spike stared at the board as if she could will the information into appearing. Something's going on. Something isn't right here, I can feel it. She shook her head. If I'm going to start setting store by glimmerings and fantods, I should chuck everything and declare a Divination major right now. She stepped back to turn away from the board and slammed into Philandra Duntisbourne, an upperclass Gryffindor. Rolls of parchment and schoolbooks went flying.