Harry Potter and the Bite of No Mortibus by Pearl Drop Angel

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Drama
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 26/06/2004
Last Updated: 22/04/2005
Status: In Progress

Over the summer Voldemort has been far too quite, and that's how Harry knows he's
planning something to destroy him. Why does he fear that his reoccuring dream might mean that
Hermione's life is in danger? Because it is. Better than it sounds.




1. Chapter 1: Here Comes Aunt Marge Again
-----------------------------------------

Disclaimer: I own nothing you can recognize, so don’t bother, everything else though, is and
will always be mine, so you can’t touch it ^_^’ Well, maybe if you ask ne nicely…

Well, here I’m at it again, nearly an entire year after the ending of KoaM. I guess I should
apologize for the long delay, but I really can’t apologize for something that I have no control
over, such as the twists of my life (my parents are still on me about writing our biography, but I
just don’t find it fun to write something that you’ve already lived, fiction being much more
entertaining, especially when it has the Harry Potter universe thrown in.) In any case, this won’t
be very romantic, but it’s seventh year sequel will be, and I’m really priding myself of this work,
because it goes, I think, a little bit more into this reality than the last fic did. Just a warning
though. It’s REALLY going to be angsty, and, I think I’ve said this before, Hermione might die at
some point or another. Hope that caught your attention. Anyway, you’ll just have to read and see if
it’s true! Oh, and in my last fic, I described things while jumping from one character to another,
which is generally how I write all stories, but, for this, I thought it would be best to stick to
JKR style and what things from Harry’s point of view, and least until I think it’s necessary to
change to another. By the way, I suck at summaries, so if anyone can help me with a better one, I’m
all ears. Oh, and thanks to the lovely J Choo for reading over this for me. I love you J! ^___^ And
to my betas who still haven’t gotten back to me: shame on you! Michelle and Lola are excused
though, cuz they have good reasons.

Well, on with the fic then.

Harry Potter and the Bite of No Mortibus

By Pearl Drop Angel

Chapter 1: Here comes Aunt Marge again

He could feel something rising, gurgling against his will, like some foreign thought being
placed into his mind, stirring contrasting reactions, conflicting emotions. Impatient excitement
against a weary sense of foreboding; calculating glee opposed to frozen fear; cold, senile triumph
and terrified despair; rebirth and a loss of self. And there in the midst of it all, a blur, an
image trying to clear, a mist dissipating. As though in slow motion, the scene played in his mind
again, Sirius speaking to him, shouting curses, fighting. And then falling, and disappearing. Back
into the mist his mind went, where another image was, slowly, trying to reveal itself. Leaving
behind a face, one that he knew well, that was now convulsing in pained spasms, and then stopping
altogether, leaving empty eyes staring into space.

Cold…

Ashen.

Unmoving, unfeeling, dull…

Dead…

Hermione’s.

THUMP, THUMP, THUD!

The hard pounding against the door of his room ripped him from those images, the shout of his
angry uncle on the other side stopping his agonized screams from escaping his mouth.

“STOP WHIMPERING, BOY! AND GO MOW THE LAWN BEFORE MARGE GETS HERE!” bellowed uncle Vernon
loudly.

Harry groaned inwardly, rubbing his throbbing scar, mumbling something about being out in a
moment, all the while chanting in his mind that it had all just been a dream. It was a reoccurring
dream, one that he’d been having for more than two weeks now. Ignoring the fact that he was covered
in a cold sweat, he dressed, knowing that in any case nobody cared. He didn’t bother to look in the
mirror, or try to tame his hair—what was the point? No one would notice the difference—but he did
glance out the window, to see if an owl was already bringing the usual copy of the Daily
Prophet.

Nothing yet, sighing, he gave a heartless glare to the growing pile of papers by his bedside.
He’d learned his mistake the previous summer, so now he read everything from cover to cover,
searching for hidden meanings in the words, but nothing. Only reports of Muggle-hating Wizards
attacking innocent people. He would have been worried about this, but Hermione had told him this
was to be expected. She’d said that when Voldemort would do something, he would know.

But Voldemort hadn’t done *anything!*

And that was the most alarming thing when compared to those dreams.

What if they were true? What if Voldemort was intentionally showing him those images to warn him
of what was to come, so that it would wear him down, make him paranoid? What if they were a farce,
and, instead, he was just trying to distract Harry from his real purpose, like he’d done in the
Department of Mysteries? All these questions, along with the fact that the Ministry wasn’t doing
anything to help at all, were wearing his sanity thin. Or whatever was left of it.

“GET OUT, BOY! I WANT THIS HOUSE TO LOOK PERFECT WHEN MARGE GETS HERE!” Vernon shouted at him
again. Oh, yes, Aunt Marge. The last time he’d seen her he’d accidentally inflated her like a hot
air balloon. He reckoned she wouldn’t be too happy with him when they’d meet, not that she’d ever
been before.

Sighing, he opened the door with a subdued, “Yes, Uncle Vernon,” which seemed to put an
immediate halt to his shouting.

The Dursleys had been watching him strangely since he’d come back, and that wasn’t surprising.
The previous summer he was always trying to eavesdrop on the news, and he would shout, answer back,
and get angry. Now he stayed in his room until called, spoke only when spoken to, and even then he
was subdued, quiet, and lifeless. Dudley and Vernon watched him wearily, more so than usual, but
Petunia had been down right bizarre near him. She looked…well, she looked worried for him.
Sometimes he thought that she might have gone mental enough to actually hug him, what, with her
watching him all teary eyed.

But Harry didn’t pay them any heed.

He knew that he could leave this house whenever he wanted to. He knew that he could join his
friends and be in the company of those who loved him if he so chose. But how could he choose to be
with them if they were at Grimmauld Place? Once Sirius had been there, now he was there no more.
How could he choose to live in that place of death, when the only spark of life was gone from it?
Hermione had written him a week prior, when she had arrived at the Black estate, telling him that
it had changed very much, that it looked very different now. She even told him of a device, of
Dumbledore’s invention, that could communicate with Muggle phones, which she used to speak to her
parents while gone. She asked if he would mind their calling him. He didn’t answer. Who cared for
those things anymore? Sirius would never bark his laughter in that house again, there would only be
a dull, painful echo of it. And even if he ached for that echo, he knew it would never be the real
thing. He knew it would only deepen the realization of his passing. He knew that it wouldn’t bring
him back. It would only bring the pain back.

He didn’t want the pain. He had become numb in the attempt to run from it. He didn’t want to go
to Grimmauld Place. He knew that if he stayed out of the Dursleys’ way, they would be civil, so out
of their way he stayed. Without bothering to eat breakfast he walked out and began his work on the
lawn, knowing that soon enough Mrs. Figg would come around asking of his health. She’d been
watching over him all summer, and probably reporting everything to Dumbledore, not that she needed
to. Now that he knew that he was being watched over at all times, he could detect the presence of
any and all Order of the Phoenix members on duty. “Morning, Dung,” he mumbled as he heard a bush
rustle. A throat clearing was his only response. And Harry went on with his work.

At noon, Petunia had come out of the house, as furtive as a thief, carrying a handkerchief
wrapped bundle in her hand, while looking over her shoulder as though afraid of getting caught. Of
what, Harry didn’t know, but he stopped what he was doing and waited for her. She was breathless as
she spoke. “Your Uncle doesn’t want you in the house till you’re finished, so this is your lunch,”
she said, stuffing the bundle in his dirty, grass stained hands. She watched him expectantly. Not
sure of what to do, he opened the bundle and found a large ham and cheese sandwich well stuffed. He
mumbled a much-surprised thank you, which seemed to make her happy enough. “I’ll bring you some
lemonade later,” she rushed out before rushing back into the house. Under normal circumstances
Harry would have wondered if she was under some kind of hallucinogenic substance or if one of the
Order members had put an Imperious on her, but he simply didn’t care how he was treated
anymore.

He would have gone back to work if he hadn’t heard the distinct sound of shouting from the
kitchen, where Petunia had just disappeared into. It seemed that his Aunt and Uncle might have been
having a row, which was unusual enough, but that they would be arguing so loudly while the windows
were open—and all the neighbours could hear—was an unprecedented event. For some reason he had a
feeling that it had something to do with him.

“I SWEAR, PETUNIA! EVER SINCE YOU CAME BACK FROM LONDON YOU’VE BEEN TREATING THAT FREAK LIKE
SOME KIND OF HERO! IT’S DIGUSTING! AND I WON’T HAVE YOU ACTING THIS WAY IN FRONT OF MY SISTER!”
Harry could distinctively hear Dudley whimpering, which made him realize that the sandwich in his
hand was probably meant to be his cousin’s appetizer. Vernon was right about one thing; Petunia’s
behaviour toward Harry had changed entirely after she’d gone to London to call on an old friend at
the beginning of the month.

In any case, Harry heard enough of his Uncle’s booming voice directed at him all day; he didn’t
need to hear it indirectly if he wasn’t held to it. “Dung, how about some kind of diversion?” He
asked before he turned on the lawn mower again, already drowning a bit of the angry sounds from
inside the house. Of course, Mundungus Fletcher’s wonderful choice in divertive techniques had to
involve a pack of Filibuster Fireworks which was thrown against the now active lawnmower that he’d
been pushing.

Uncle Vernon was not a happy camper on this happy day.

*°*°*

Vernon was even less of a happy camper than Harry had originally thought.

When Aunt Marge had arrived an hour earlier, Harry was still washing Dudley’s grungy, sweaty,
downright disgusting wrestling suits—that, he guessed, had been piling up for at least a year so
that he could do them all himself—and, after said hour, he still had half the pile to do. How many
could Dudley have of those things? It looked like there was one for each day of the year. At least
while he was doing that he could try to look like he was concentrating on his work, and not
purposely ignoring the conversation the Dursley siblings were having about him.

“Can you believe it Marge? The three of us were having a nice, quiet lunch together, and all of
a sudden that ruckus comes from outside. I don’t know what he put in that blasted thing, but there
were sparks and whistles covering the whole yard! You saw the mess outside! And the neighbours! You
just don’t know the complaints!” He exclaimed, his double chin bouncing with his sputters, his
chubby face as red as ever before. Although in Harry's point of view, he didn’t remember them
having all that quiet of a lunch.

“I can’t believe he did this! Blew up the lawnmower! Oh, he must have leaned it from someone at
that delinquent school of his, I bet! I tell, you Vernon, a good walloping is all he needs! That’s
the only way to straighten out those crooked ones! Look, boy! Look at what you did to his
moustache!” She replied. Oh, yes, the moustache. When the Filibusters had gone off, the quick
reflexes of five years of Quidditch gave him the speed to run around the corner of the house fast
enough to be out of the line of fire. Vernon, instead, driven by his outrage and curiosity, ran out
into the garden, which was looking like a Vietnamese mined war zone, and lost one half of his once
proud moustache to a green petard. The neighbourhood had been terrified to leave their homes for
hours. Mrs. Figg thought it was the grandest laugh. So did Mundungus. Harry suspected that Moody
would have enjoyed seeing Vernon with only half a moustache, too.

After that Petunia and Vernon took up their arguing in a much more subdued manner. Harry hadn’t
seen her since he’d come back into the house—a long time later, since he’d had to try and hide the
fact that a very large pack of wizarding fireworks had just blown up near the front door.

“I told you to look, boy!” Marge screamed in order to get his attention. Oh, right, he was being
spoken to.

“Wha?” He uttered intelligently.

“Oh, I see that school has done absolutely no good on you has it?!” Harry didn’t bother to
answer, just turned, grudgingly, back to his work and tuned her out. But it was getting
increasingly harder to do so, since her voice was rising very quickly. It was funny how at first
she watched him fearfully. It didn’t take her long to notice that there wasn’t a thing in the world
she could say to make him react. He was too numb for that. And she took advantage of it, enjoyed it
for a while. Now, Harry’s lack of response was angering her. She tried everything to get a rise out
of him, even that old line about his parents. But the only real family Harry had ever known was now
gone. Yet, the growing hostility coming from Aunt Marge was beginning to affect that blasted dog of
hers, who was barking louder and louder at his feet. The beast was beginning to foam at the mouth,
and, from a previous experience in which Dudley had tormented the dog long enough that it chased
him up a tree, Harry knew that was not a good thing. He was ready to bite.

But Marge beat him to it as her temperance broke and she lunged for Harry with the intention of
giving him that “good walloping” herself. Harry’s Quidditch expertise came in handy once again.
After five years of dodging high-speed ferocious bludgers, ducking slow Aunt Marge was rather easy.
The problem with that was that the missed impact of her fist with his jaw caused the woman to lose
her balance. She ended up kneeing that evil beast of hers, who, aggressive as he had been already,
sunk his teeth as deeply as he could into her leg.

Again, screams filled the household. Marge instantly began shouting for help and trying to beat
the beast off her bleeding limb. Vernon yelled at the dog, ordering it to let go, and trying to pry
the animal off his sister’s leg. He almost lost a hand. Sighing, Harry handled the dog like he
would a loose bludger, he wrapped one arm around its neck, and the other was used as a vice to
close its mouth between his arm and forearm (he’d seen Marge do it to one of her “more crooked
dogs” once) and shoved him into a linen closet, where it barked and growled and, from the sounds of
it, ripped the linens to shreds, but why care? After all, Harry was practically already dead.

“PETUNIA!” Screamed Vernon, “PETUNIA! I’M TAKING MARGE TO THE HOSPITAL, YOU CAN STAY AND MAKE
SURE THE BOY DOESN’T DISAPPEAR AGAIN!” He yelled up the stair while telling Dudley to come with him
so that he would be safe, away from dangerous Harry. Vernon was shaking with anger, trying to carry
Marge’s girth while she bellowed; his skin a mix of white and purplish red dots, and with only half
a moustache, Vernon looked rather senile as he threatened Harry. “Just you wait until I come back,
boy!” He whispered menacingly and left with such a strong slam that the door fell off its
hinges.

“What happened?” Asked his Aunt as she rushed down from her bedroom, where she had exiled
herself after her row with her husband. Harry pointed to the linen closet where the sound of
shredding could still be loudly heard, when a rustling that was very familiar to him could be heard
all around. Out from under their invisibility cloaks came Mundungus Fletcher, (he’d stuck around
for the whole day? How unlikely), Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad Eye Moody, Nymphadora Tonks (with lime
green hair and Snape’s nose, for the occasion), and Remus Lupin, while at the door stood Arabella
Figg, as always, dressed in her house robe and slippers.

“What are you all doing here?” Harry asked surprised. “How long have you been here?” He was sure
that it had only been Dung until a while ago.

“Well, Figgy here thought it might be a good idea for a few of us to come on duty after
Mundungus decided to set off those Filibusters,” Moody began explaining, but was interrupted.

“He wanted a diversion, I delivered,” was the indignant reply.

“In any case, Harry,” Lupin began, “after what just happened, you can’t stay here. I think your
Uncle is ready to get very violent with you. By the way, great dodge. Do you have your cloak
handy?” The ex professor asked.

“It’s in my room, but I don’t have anything packed,” Harry answered.

“You don’t? And how were you intending to come to your birthday party tomorrow? And don’t worry
about the packing, Nymphadora will take care of it, won’t you, Nymphadora?” The werewolf
replied.

“Don’t call me Nymphadora,” she threatened as she headed up to the room she’d seen a year
prior.

“Birthday party?” Harry asked surprised. Oh, right, his birthday was tomorrow.

“I guess Hermione’s owl didn’t reach you yet. I told her she shouldn’t have used Pig,” he
replied mindlessly. “How are you, Harry?” His tone was cordial, but Harry knew that the question
itself was serious. The boy couldn’t look the man in the eye. He felt guilty towards Lupin. Because
of him, and his foolishness, a good man with too many troubles had lost his only real friend left.
Lupin didn’t wish to interpret the silence, so he simply placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder and
looked away. A throat could be heard clearing. Everyone looked to Petunia, who appeared entirely
terrified, but at least she was composed. “Are you taking him away?” She asked, her voice a quiet,
horrified squeak.

“Yah-huh,” Tonks called as she came down from the upper story, a familiar silvery cloak in one
hand, and a freshly cleaned birdcage wielding a slightly ruffled Hedwig in the other. Tonks wasn’t
being very careful with the way she carried the candid owl. Hedwig began to make her discomfort
known by hooting loudly. “Oh, shut up you silly goose, it won’t be a long trip,” the young Auror
muttered, though Hedwig didn’t seem to care so much about the length of the ride as she did about
the turbulence. Or the fact that she’d been called a goose.

“Don’t worry,” Lupin told Petunia as he took his eyes away from the one sided conversation Tonks
was having, “Professor Dumbledore is already aware of this.” Harry didn’t know how that was
supposed to allow his Aunt not to worry.

Strangely Petunia nodded. And then she gulped, placing a preoccupied hand on her neck, as though
protecting it from something. “What shall I tell my husband?”

“Oh, just tell him we threatened you with some broomsticks,” Tonks shrugged as she handed Harry
his invisibility cloak all the while putting on her own. Petunia gasped when the strange looking
girl disappeared under its material.

Speaking of broomsticks, Harry didn’t see any. “We’re not flying this time?” He asked.

“No, Dumbledore thought it would be a good idea for you to Floo,” Moody replied, his eye moving
frantically around his head, “thank Merlin, he asked Figgy to attach to it,” obviously the retired
Auror hadn’t enjoyed the moonlit ride of the previous year. “Let’s go, I don’t want any unexpected
company,” he concluded, and disappeared under a silver swish of fabric, the others following
suit.

Harry looked to his Aunt, not really knowing what to say. “Uhh, bye Aunt Petunia,” he said
awkwardly, and, thinking of her late behaviour towards him, added a very quiet “Thank you,” before
vanishing himself and following Mrs. Figg slowly, trying not to run in any of his invisible
companions. Tonks was easy to avoid. She was walking slightly to the right of him, and he could
tell simply by the sounds of Hedwig’s complaints and the sound of her talons and beak beating on
the metal cage, begging for mercy. Within minutes they were all at the door. Mrs. Figg opened it,
and, acting as though she was pulling out weeds from a flowerpot, quietly called out Harry’s name
telling him to go in and wait by the fireplace. He did as told, and listened as he heard her
whisper the names of those who had come to get him. She entered her residence only when she was
sure they were all in, and then went to close all the windows and curtains, so that the neighbours
would not notice the flames, which were already unusual at the end of July, but down right
frightening when green.

“Okay,” she whispered, and the group shed their invisibility cloaks, Harry following suit.

“Very well, Harry, you go first,” Mad Eye ordered, and wordlessly the boy stepped into the
fireplace. Moody took a pinch of Floo Powder, and, throwing it into the fireplace he shouted,
“Number 12, Grimmauld Place!” and knocked the numbness out of Harry.

Oh, no! They were taking him to Grimmauld Place.

To Be Continued

Well, there’s the first chapter, not too good, but hey it’s just the beginning. Let me know what
you think at Robbygal@hotmail.com or simply leave me a
review.

Love

Pearl



2. Chapter 2: The Changes of Grimmauld Place
--------------------------------------------

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. Everything else, along with the plot, is mine though,
but I’ll let you borrow if you ask nicely ^______^.

Uhm…I only got 7 reviews off ff.net, while I got 11 on Portkey, must say I was expecting the
contrary, since I seem to be more appreciated on ff.net than the latter, based on my previous fic
of course. Maybe this is a bit too dark for the ffn readers. Whatever, I really LOVED the reviews!
Remember, I appreciate ALL sorts of criticism so long as it’s constructive. Well, I’m in really no
mood to do my review replies right now, I’m a little too tired for that, just know that whatever
question you have will be answered (eventually) as the story unfolds. By the way, I was planning to
put a chapter up a week, but I found out that my new job is FAR more exhausting than I originally
thought, so I might not be able to keep up with that (I tried to bring myself to post this last
week, I just couldn’t force myself to though), but I will try.

A special thank you to Michelle White and J Choo for being the wonderful beta readers that they
are before letting you go onto reading this yourselves.

On with the fic.

Harry Potter and the Bite of No Mortibus

Chapter 2: The changes of Grimmauld Place

With the loud crash of a breaking chair, Harry made his entrance into the mausoleum where the
last of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black descendant had been only a few weeks earlier and
now was no more. It was incredible to think it had been such a short time, when, in truth, it felt
like years, even centuries.

Looking around though, Harry felt the rising doubt that he’d, again, landed in the wrong hearth.
For one, there were no cobwebs, dust, or doxy ridden tapestries anywhere; there was light despite
the fact that the sun was already setting; in the place of thick, suffocating, dark draperies stood
rich, bright scarlet velvets with golden embroidery, a theme that repeated itself in the lining of
the chairs and the tablecloth dressing the cherry wood table; and even the cupboards were a deep
scarlet paint with golden edges, instead of the dark colours that he remembered of Grimmauld Place.
He felt right at home.

But it was Grimmauld Place, he realized. The proof of it being a motherly redhead trying to help
him up from his uncomfortable position on the cream marble of the floor. That had once been dark,
too. Even the walls had taken a bright cream hue. “Oh, Harry dear, are you all right?” Molly
Weasley gushed over him as she tried to dust the soot of the chimney off of him.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he replied, his voice dull, distant. Molly seemed to freeze at his tone. He
didn’t bother noticing. He should have known that she would be overly emotional toward him now,
after what had happened at the Department of Mysteries. “What happened here?” He asked, referring
to the change of scene, but before she could answer there was another burst from the chimney, and
Tonks stood before them, her hair now bright orange and nose normal, a broken birdcage with a
thoroughly ruffled Hedwig in hand, looking much cleaner than Harry, followed instantly by Kingsley
Shacklebolt. Hedwig seemed to be unconscious. Had he been anywhere else, Harry would have worried
for her. As it was, he hadn’t even noticed.

“How’s dinner coming along, Molly?” Kingsley asked the second he saw Mrs Weasley and the pots
near the stove. Molly whacked him with her wooden spoon. Had she been holding that the whole time
Harry had been there? Mad Eye Moody, Mundungus Fletcher, and Remus Lupin arrived just in time to
get shooed out of the kitchen by her menacing weapon—the wooden spoon.

“Out, out, dinner won’t be ready for another hour, so help Harry settle down in his room, and
keep busy till I call you,” she told them all, shoving them slightly out the door.

“Yes, yes, we’ll stay out of your precious kitchen,” Mundungus called over his shoulder, then
turned to wink at Harry. “Ever since the place has been cleaned up she’s taken it over and doesn’t
let anyone stay there for long if it’s not for eating and Order business,” he explained.

“What happened here?” Harry asked again when he looked at the entrance hall that they had just
stepped into. It looked and felt a lot like Gryffindor tower, and, incredibly, the portrait of Mrs.
Black was no longer hanging on the wall. There were no heavy curtains in that spot, not even a
light shadow indicating that something had been there at all, and no one was telling him to keep
his voice down. “Where did the portrait go? And the heads of the house elves?” Those were gone,
too.

An uneasy silence fell over them all.

“Let’s get you settled in Harry,” Lupin told him quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder and
leading him up the stairs. He was the most uncomfortable of them all. While Harry passed by the
door of the study, he heard sounds of rummaging. He stopped wondering who it could be, and then he
heard a familiar lecturing tone speak clearly enough to be heard on the other side of the door.
“Fred, George, if you don’t stop playing around we’ll never finish this before Harry gets
here!”

“Oh, come on, *Mum*,” that sounded like Fred (or was it George?), stressing out the word
“Mum” in the intention of making her loosen up. Lost cause, Harry thought.

“Yeah, we have plenty of time. Relax,” George (or maybe Fred) added. Harry felt like stepping
into their “plenty of time to relax”. Without warning he opened the door and stepped inside. The
first things he noticed were Fred and George holding a “Happy Birthday Harry!” sign that roared as
it changed to the Gryffindor colours while they were flying—or trying to—not on broomstick, but
with what looked like large twigs attached to their backs which flapped frantically in the attempt
to hold them up.

“HARRY!” Hermione shrieked surprised. Fred and George turned to look at him and dropped the
roaring sign.

“Harry!” They echoed, and tried to fly to him, but only managed a slow awkward float. “Hey,
Harry, what do you think of our new invention?” Asked one of the twins, completely forgetting that
a second earlier they were being urged to finish whatever they had been doing.

“They’re called Hoversticks!” Fred told him eagerly. “They’re still being tested, though.”

“Yeah, but once they work well we’ll introduce a whole new game,” George said.

“A sport, really,” corrected Fred. “In a couple years it ought to be as popular as
Quidditch!”

“What do you think?” They asked together.

“Er…I think I like my Firebolt better,” Harry replied uneasily.

“Oh, bloody hell! The bloke just got here, let him settle in! Hey, Harry, you wanna look at the
new issue of Quidditch Weekly with me? The owl brought it this morning,” Ron piped from a far
corner where it was obvious that he hadn’t been very intent in whatever they had been doing
either.

“Maybe later, Ron,” Harry mumbled quietly. He didn’t really care all that much about what was
going on in the Quidditch world, even if he would have loved a good, long, mind numbing ride on his
Firebolt. Too bad he’d been banned from the team for life. Everyone seemed to freeze at his lack of
enthusiasm, as though suddenly realizing that Harry must still be mourning his godfather’s
loss.

Everyone except for Hermione.

“Oh, honestly, Ron. You said yourself to let him settle in!” She told him, standing with her
hands on her hips. “Oh, Harry, I’m so glad you’re here!” She smiled at him as she turned to him and
wrapped her arms tightly around him in a friendly comforting hug. Yet as she did so, the memory of
her cold lifeless face came back out of his dreams from the recesses of his mind to freeze him.
Hermione noticed—of course she did—but she refused to let go until he loosened up. And, after
feeling her warmth, and the strength of her arms, he eased the tension of his pose and gave her a
pat on the back. “Thanks, Hermione,” he told her quietly; she grinned her welcome.

“No problem, Harry, but I need you out of here now, you weren’t even supposed to see this till
tomorrow, so out you go,” she said playfully as she lightly shoved him out the door and locked it
behind him. Not that Harry had seen a whole lot besides the Hoversticks and the roaring sign. For a
second he stood staring at the closed door as he heard his petite friend bossing the twins from the
other side.

“Move along, Harry,” Tonks grunted as she shoved past, dangling the broken birdcage and the
sleeping beauty within it in a very careless, possibly dangerous, manner. Was it just Harry’s
impression, or had she been in a rather dark mood the entire time? Oh, her hair had just turned a
deep vermilion with ghastly green streaks, could that mean anything?

“Don’t mind her, Harry, She got an owl this morning. Said she has to go to the Ministry in the
morning for a new assignment,” Lupin told him with an amused shrug. It seemed that he was aware of
what the new assignment might be.

“Is that bad?” Harry asked without much enthusiasm.

“Aurors don’t get reassigned. Only in case of emergency, but that can’t be it. Ministry must
think she’s doing a bad job since she’s always here or running an errand for Dumbledore” Kingsley
explained. Tonks’ grunt could be heard from inside the bedroom, the same one where Harry had
already stayed before. The room had been transformed to look like his dorm in Gryffindor tower,
giving him a strange sense of nostalgia. Hegwig seemed to cheer up quite a bit upon seeing her
surroundings, though at the site of a restless Pig she quieted down, looking more disheveled than
ever. The portrait of Phineas Nigellus was in its old spot, though it looked empty as ever. Harry
had the fleeting urge to call him out, but repressed it. After all it was his fault that the man—or
portrait—didn’t have any real family left anymore.

With an empty sigh he let himself fall in a sitting position on what had to be his bed. *Just
like home*, he thought to himself—home as in his dorm in Gryffindor tower. Hermione must have
gotten the mattress to be just like he liked it. Maybe he should have gone to see how Buckbeak was,
but he had no strength left, he hadn’t even enough to try to lay down. So he just sat there and
allowed his mind to drift in a numb mist. He didn’t even have enough strength to feel anything. It
was as though the very walls, though now bright and colorful, were slowly seeping everything out of
him, more so than ever before. Than again, he himself hadn’t been too bright before getting there.
He didn’t know how long he sat there like that, but the familiar voice from the shadows of the
portrait before him wasn’t unexpected, or unwelcome, though the greeting wasn’t of his favorites,
“Are you breathing?”

Harry gave a dull chuckle, “I think so. Not too sure, though,” he wasn’t kidding.

“Your friends thought you’d fancy the new decor,” his voice was there, but his portrait was
still dark as he spoke. “I was rather fond of its former look, but this isn’t all too shabby,
though on the bright side. They worked quite hard to finish it in time for your arrival.”

“Oh,” Harry whispered, “they did?” He knew they did, but he felt too weak to appreciate it. That
was the whole problem right there. He was just too weak.

“Yes, well, I should say that clever girl did most of it. She might have finished much sooner if
she didn’t waste so much time trying to sprone those redheaded rebels,” that got a genuine laugh
out of Harry.

“Yeah, she’s still at it,” Harry smiled, though he sobered when a question struck him. “How did
she get rid of the portrait of Sirius’ mother?”

A silence ensued for a time, as though Phineas was contemplating whether it was a good idea to
tell or not. “She didn’t. It wasn’t even there when she arrived.”

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed. “Who did it?”

Another silence. “Don’t you think your friends should be the ones to tell you? That boy, Ron,
and his sister Ginny, saw the whole thing.”

“No,” Harry replied without even bothering to think about it. “I don’t think they’d tell
me.”

“Why not?”

He drew a heavy sigh. “Because they think I need to be protected.”

“Oh, the youth of these days! They don’t even trust their own friends!” Phineas huffed, though
he didn’t sound all that convinced of his own words. “Well,” he added, “they do want to protect
you. Though that Muggleborn thinks you need no protection at all.”

“What?” Harry asked surprised. He was convinced that Hermione was the one that wanted to shelter
him the most. Then again, Phineas might have been playing with him.

“Well, I’m sure you’re too busy wallowing in self pity to notice how much they’re doing for
you,” Phineas told him absentmindedly.

“What do you mean?”

Phineas’ reply was rather saucy. “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough.” And another silence
ensued.

“Phin—I mean, Professor Nigellus?” Harry called. No reply. He tried again, and still no reply
came. He’d gone elsewhere.

“Hey, Harry, who were you talking to?” The twins asked after Hermione opened to door for them
and gave them an eye roll as they still hovered pitifully on their new inventions. Ron and Ginny
followed, a school textbook in hand. Harry just shrugged his shoulders.

“Harry, did you get any sleep at all?” Hermione asked as she stepped closer to him and examined
his face. He was ashen and gray and he looked deadly tired.

“Would you like me to make you some sleeping drought?”

“No I’m fine,” he replied simply.

“Are you sure?” She insisted. “You know it’s no trouble. I have to make some for Professor
Lupin, anyway.”

“Lupin?” Harry asked, curious. Why would Lupin need sleeping drought?

Everyone seemed to be simultaneously struck by the need to look at anything that wasn’t his face
at the moment. They seemed to find the floor a rather interesting sight all of a sudden. Hermione
watched all the Weasleys indignantly.

“Oh, fine! *I’ll* tell him. Honestly!” She huffled at them, her hair puffing out with her
temperance, making her look like an angry cat. With a sigh, she quietly took a seat next to Harry,
her hair seeming to deflate. The twins left their perch on their precarious vehicles, finding the
foot of Ron’s bed more appropriate. Ginny sat next to her. Ron across from Harry on his own bed.
“Harry…Professor Lupin, he…well, he’s been finding it hard to sleep lately.” Well, that far, Harry
could have gone himself, after all, why else would he need a sleeping drought? His question was,
“Why?”

She twirled a strand of dark hair around a finger while she nibbled on her lips in search for
the right words. “You know the portrait that was in the hall?”

“The one of Sirius’ mother?” Hermione nodded. “What happened to it? How did they get it
down?”

“You know how it always started screaming when there was the slightest noise,” Harry nodded.
“Okay,” Hermione said after taking in a deep breath, “during the first day of the full moon, Fred
and George were testing out another version of that stupid twig, and—” and she was interrupted by
said twins.

“It’s not a twig! It’s a Hoverstick!” They corrected.

“*Twig!*” Hermione went on. “In any case, well, they crashed into the heads of the house
elves—”

“Yeah, didn’t fancy that at all,” Fred shuddered at the memory.

“Aw, I’d do it again just to see Kreacher’s face,” George replied.

“Wait, Kreacher’s still here?” Harry asked, a twinge of horror creeping into his voice, the
first sign of a sensitive reaction on his part in the last few weeks. Harry had been terrified at
the idea of simply stepping back into the house, but what would he do if he were to come across
Kreacher?

“Oh, but he’s been hiding since then,” Ginny waved his concern aside.

“Yeah, the place has been much better since,” Ron grumbled.

“But Mad Eye cast a spell on him, so now he can’t leave this house even if he’s ordered to,”
Ginny reassured Harry, probably worried of another possible leak of information via deranged house
elf.

“*IN ANY CASE!*,” Hermione stopped them from getting further derailed off the track of
conversation. It was obvious that the only one that wanted to tell Harry what had happened to the
portrait was the one that he would have least expected. “In any case,” Hermione picked up again,
“when they made all that noise, the portrait woke up.”

Harry nodded for her to go on. She didn’t know how. Her twirling of the strand was becoming
maniacal.

“Harry, Professor Lupin had just turned into a werewolf,” she looked to him to see if he
understood. He didn’t. She took a deep breath before continuing. “Even if he’d taken the
Wolfsbane…well, his transformation was very painful. Moreso than usual. You see, he’s been edgy
since…the Department of Mysteries, and all that’s happened.” Harry still wasn’t getting it,
although he had noticed that Lupin seemed to be acting rather strange.

“See, Harry, usually, when it’s the full moon, Professor Lupin asks to be locked in one of the
rooms. Well, when the portrait woke up and started screaming, Lupin snapped, I think,” she tried to
explain. “I wasn’t there, Harry, I can only tell you what I’ve been told from others, but Mrs.
Weasley said that the screams were horrible, and that, when she went to check, the room in which
Professor Lupin had been locked in…well, it was destroyed. The door had been clawed down,” she told
him.

Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Benign, friendly Remus Lupin tearing down a door
with his claws, after having taken his potion. “Hermione, what did he do?”

“Oh, Harry,” her strand of hair had become a dark, knotted fuzzball with all her twirling it, so
she moved onto a different one, “he broke down the door and then he went up to the portrait,
and…well, he took everything out on her. He ripped huge tears into the canvas, to the point that
there was almost nothing left. I saw what was left of it. Who was there said that the portrait
sounded like a dying Banshee, and that, all of a sudden, it stopped. And then he moved onto the
heads of the house elves that had been knocked over. He rampaged the whole house, everything
that…everything that Sirius hated about it. He destroyed it.” There was a general intake of breath
from all around, almost as though Sirius’s name was as forbidden as Voldemort’s. But Harry was glad
she’d pronounced it, though he didn’t know why. It made him feel alive, as though the name itself
was full of vitality, enough to breath some into him.

“But,” Harry began voicing a doubt, “didn’t he take the potion?”

“Yes, he did Harry, and there was nothing wrong with it, if that’s what you’re wondering,”
Hermione answered clearly. “He didn’t try to bite Fred and George, or anyone else that was in his
path when he lost his head. He tried to go for Kreacher when he saw him, but
he—Kreacher—disappereared to Merlin knows where and we haven’t seen him since,” she explained. “It
wasn’t the werewolf that destroyed the House of Black, Harry. It was Lupin. Maybe he wouldn’t have
done it if it wasn’t for his animalistic instincts, but Lupin wanted to destroy everything that his
friend hated.” She took one last deep breath. “He did it for Sirius.”

The air itself seemed to sit still, as though incredulous of all that Hermione had dared to say.
Nobody wanted any of that said. None of it. And how would Harry react? He was immobile. For the
longest time he was completely still, everyone around him holding their breaths, waiting for some
kind of reaction from him, any sign of life at all. Even his temper tantrums from only a year
prior, with all their tempestivity and intensity, were preferable to this. At least those were
alive. Finally, Harry took an audible breath, and, as though he was too tired to sit any longer, he
found himself inching back until his back laid on the mattress. Strange. Earlier he felt as though
laying down was too big of an effort. Now, he doubted he would ever be able to stand again.

“So that’s why everything changed,” he commented out loud. And in all of that story, the thing
that surprised him the most was that it had been Hermione to tell him everything. Who’d figure that
Phineas Nigellus would be right?

Hermione nodded, her face almost directly above his, full of concern. “As soon as Lupin finished
his rampage, he fell asleep exhausted in the middle of the hallway, and when he woke up, human
again…he didn’t remember any of it. When I got here, that afternoon, he asked me if I could help
him make the house look happy for when you got here. It didn’t even take long, because there were
only shreds to pick up.” Harry raised his eyes to hers. “Well, he did do it for Sirius, though he
didn’t say it, because this is the house in which Sirius would have liked to grow up—that’s what he
said when we finished—but he did it just as much for you, Harry.”

Harry didn’t even need to ask what she meant. He was all that was left of the best days of
Lupin’s life. First his father, James, had died, at the hands of someone that he trusted, and
Sirius was blamed for it. In one night he’d lost the three most important people in his life; one
to Azkaban, one to the Dark Side, and one at the hand of the betrayer. And he’d had to lose Sirius
twice over. Now Harry was all that was left of it all. But how could Harry live up to that? How
could he come to care for Lupin—not that he didn’t already—as much as he had for Sirius, and then
be the cause of his death as well? In Harry’s mind there was the certainty that Lupin would die if
they were to get close. People got hurt when they got close to him. He already thought it was a
miracle that his friends had only been injured. He was already quite sure that Hermione’s injury
had been a lot worse than what she had let on. A soft knock was heard at the door, and Mrs Weasley
peeked in. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she announced, though she was more than a little subdued. “Come
on down.”

“Come on, Harry, time to eat,” Hermione said, suddenly quite cheery, and, standing, she grabbed
onto his hand and tugged him into a standing position as easily as she would a rag doll. “You,” she
said jovially while poking his sides, “definetely need to eat more.”

Throughout dinner, Harry found it rather amusing that his friends didn’t seem to know how to
behave around him anymore. He found it even more amusing, that they didn’t seem to know how to
handle Hermione either. Strange, considering that, at that table, she was the only one behaving
like her normal self.

They must have thought she’d gone crazy.

°*°*°

They’d been quiet throughout the whole meal, only interrupted every once in a while by
Hermione’s complaint about the fact that their Hogwarts letters still hadn’t arrived. She had also
said that Ginny was rather terrified of her upcoming fifth year after having seen the insanity that
seemed to ensue with its coming, and that she didn’t know if finding out her friends OWL results
would help her in the matter, or only increase her fears. Ginny had barely said a word since he’d
gotten there. Fred and George weren’t letting her hear the end of it.

The only one that had spoken directly to Harry had been Hermione. Ron had just watched him
strangely for the entire duration of the meal. Harry knew that he was worrying them. He knew that
he should have been making an effort. He also knew that he couldn’t. The only solaces were
Hermione—her behaviour, completely unchanged toward him, seemed to be able to draw out his own
usual self, even if only in small part—and Tonks—who was still huffing and pouting about her
reassignment to worry about treating Harry as though he were a total loon. Mrs Weasley looked too
close to tears whenever she looked at Harry to bother saying anything.

Looking at her watch she gasped, and ordered them all to leave instantly. “Meeting’s going to
start soon. You should all be getting out of here. Now.” She was still wealding her menacing wooden
spoon. Nobody wanted to face its rath.

And at that precise moment—as they were demurely inching away from the horrifying weapon—beloved
Severus Snape walzed in as though being summoned after having apparated, looking darker than ever.
Harry had initially blamed him for…everything, but, for some reason, now he didn’t even have the
strength to detest him. After a quick goodnight he followed his friends out the door.

“Yes, the little babies can’t participate in the big adult meetings, now can they?” Fred taunted
in a childish singsong.

“No, they can’t,” sang along George, “They have to go take their little naps now. Bye, Babies,
have a good nap.”

Harry turned to give Hermione a quizzical look. “They joined the Order as soon as they became of
age,” she explained, “and they haven’t stopped bragging about it yet. But it’s useless to try and
find out anything from them. They said they gave Dumbledore their word, and they’re not going to
break it.”

“Yeah, but if Iridis doesn’t show up tonight we could try with the Extendable Ears again,” Ron
piped up finally. It seemed that his curiosity about the going ons of those meetings hadn’t
diminished at all. If anything, it had increased even more, now that everyone knew of You Know
Who’s return.

“What if your mother finds out?” Harry asked.

“She won’t. Ever since Iridis started showing up she doesn’t even check,” Ginny answered as she
crouched down behind the stair rail, where it was dark enough to not be noticed. Ron and Hermione
followed suit, so Harry did as well.

“Who’s this Iridis?” Harry questioned.

“Iridis Larvae,” Hermione answered. “She’s an Oculus Immensus.”

“A what?” He turned to her with furrowed eyebrows.

“An Oculus Immensus. They’re very rare,” she began to explain. “They’re born with the white
eye.”

“And what’s that?” She was getting more and more confusing.

“I’d tell you if you’d let me,” she replied a bit saucily.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he watched Professor McGonagall apparate into the hall, followed by
Professor Flitwick, allowing Hermione to finish her lecture.

“Someone with a White Eye is blind, generally they don’t have eyes, but they can see everything,
supposedly. Including spirits. Generally they become mediums. Anyhow, nobody really knows how they
*see* everything, because even if they tried to tell you, they can’t describe it, since they
don’t know how *we* see, but it’s said that their sight, if it can be called that, can see all
around them, through walls, through minds—“

“Minds?” Harry interrupted surprised.

“Yes,” she answered, “somehow they sense things and this sensing gives them some kind of visual
sight. Many think that they can hear your thoughts, but I think its’ more like they percept them,
they can basically see what you’re thinking about. Even if they *could* hear your thoughts, I
don’t thinnk they’d need to.”

“Why not?” This time it was Ron to ask. He himself knew as little about them as Harry did.

“Because they can sense us,” Hermione answered quickly. “If your heartbeat speeds up, if your
breathing changes, if your palms are sweaty, if you start feeling agitated, if your face heats up,
or if you start biting your nails, they can sense all those things and read into their meaning. We
don’t even realize it, but we do thousands of things when we’re in a certain state of mind that we
don’t even pay attention to, but they do, and that gives us away to them.”

Harry was confused, as well as Ron and Ginny. Could there really be human beings such as the one
Hermione was talking about? Ron and Ginny already knew her, but they had never known what she
really was. They just thought she had strange eyes.

“There she is now,” Hermione whispered after someone Harry had never seen appeared in the hall.
His eyes widened. She was an albino. A tall, ghostly figure in pale robes. She was lithe and thin,
almost too thin, nearly skeletrical. She moved as though her feet didn’t touch the ground at all.
Her skin was the palest he’d ever seen, as though she’d never stepped into any sunshine in her
entire life, and her hair was as white as milk and as long as her back. For a second, Harry feared
her. Until she looked up at where they were hiding. Her facial features were soft, though not
defined at all, her eyebrows thin and white—they didn’t even seem as though they were there, her
forehead wide, her nose thin and long, though her cheeks full. Her eyes were entirely white. They
looked empty. She looked like she had no face at all, though he wasn’t scared of her anymore. She
seemed to radiate warmth, though she looked as cold as marble, and even if she had no irises he
felt as though she was watching him tenderly. Her mouth formed a knowing smile as her visage faced
the direction in which they were before turning to the kitchen and entering it. For some reason,
Harry felt as though she’d smiled some life into him.

“Well, she saw us,” Hermione grumbled before standing up, “no point in staying here
anymore.”

Harry gave one last glance to the spot that the strange woman had vacated before following. “Are
there many wizards like her?”

“No, I think she’s the only one,” she answered turning back to him. “The White Eye is usually a
Muggle trait.”

“Muggle?” He asked surprised.

“Yes, Harry, hardly any wizards or witches ever had them,” she explained. “There can’t be more
than twenty alive at the time being, and they’re all somehow imparented,” she told him. “To a very
loose degree it’s an hereditary trait, and it usually only shows in women.”

“But, how can Muggles have it?”

She looked thoughtful as she formulated her answer mentally. “Well, all creatures have a certain
amount of magic when their born. In some it grows enough for them to become witches or wizards, in
others it doesn’t. But, in some cases, their magic will grow in strange ways. It might not become
big enough for them to hold a wand and cast a spell, but it will give them certain gifts. The White
Eye is manifested at birth, so generally, the magic that could have gone for spells and things is
concentrated in it, and it requires a lot of strength, not leaving enough for other things. For a
White Eye to be part of the Wizarding World there has to be a lot of power involved, or simply, the
person distributes it differently,” she finished leaving Harry more confused than before. How could
one ‘distribute’ magic in a certain way? Before he could ask, a yawn overtook him.

Hermione laughed. “I guess we’ll talk more about it tomorrow,” she smiled. Stepping closer to
him she gave him a tight hug while she whispered her, “Good night,” and, too soon for Harry, she
let go and turned to the room that she was occupying with Ginny. That night, Harry fell asleep
feeling a lot more exhausted but a little more alive than the night before.

To be continued

There’s chapter 2 for you, remember to always tell me what you think of it, criticism always
welcome as long as it’s constructive. Oh, and I made up that whole Oculus Immensus thing by mixing
different cool characters from some mangas I read, so don’t beat yourself up trying to figure her
out, cuz even I can’t do that. Well, that’s it for today.

Thanks for reading

Pearl



3. Happy Birthday, Harry
------------------------

Disclaimer: Um…just read the ones in the first chapters, I don’t feel like writing one right
now.

Um…the feedback on chapter 2 was REALLY disappointing on ffn (I mean ONE review! That’s
embarrassing actually, but I guess people don’t understand this at all), I hope this chapter gets a
little more than that. Not that lack of reviews will stop me from writing, but their presence makes
me write faster (though some of you might not want that at all if you didn’t even think it was
worth reviewing). ^_^

Well, here’s some answers to your questions: **Jae**, **bamaslamma29 and Mel:** Er…well,
this fic is supposed to be a two part thing, Bite of No Mortibus in sixth year, and Other Side of
the Veil (might change the name) for seventh. I had planned on no romance in this one, but I just
can’t seem to stop sweet scenes from writing themselves out (as you probably will see in this
chapter) so some interaction between them will pop up all the time between them, but I think I’ll
put a lot of angst afterwards to make it even ^___^ don’t kill me, please! **Willow and
shawnpickett:** I really think that Hermione is the ONLY one that truly understands Harry, and I
just can’t help slipping a few hugs in there, which I truly think he needs, because words can just
wash off people, but physical warmth is concrete and real and true. **Davaca, melanieblack and
Victoria87:** You’ll find out about Aunt Petunia further on (don’t know when to actually stick
that in, but it will pop up and be rather important along with something else ^__^). And a special
thank you to all the KoaM readers who reviewed this as well. I love you all! And a big hug to J
Choo and Michelle White for their wonderful beta reading.

Two words on this chapter: for one, it’s LONG, but my betas thought it would be a bad idea to
chop it in two because it would interrupt the flow, so if you feel you have to, you can read in two
sittings (or more) but don’t forget to review! And two, if you think the gifts are kind of
perverted (>__<) I actually based them on a couple of my brother’s sixteenth birthday gifts
and I couldn’t help but refer to them because my little boy is so much like Harry in so many ways,
and I thought it could be rather funny. Hope I’m not offending anyone.

And now I’ll stop writing your eyes off and let you read the fic.

Harry Potter and the Bite of No Mortibus

Chapter 3: Happy Birthday, Harry

“Harry!” A voice called to him. “Harry!” This time more anxious. “Harry! Wake up!” And the world
was roughly pulled out from under him, sending him tumbling down in an endless voragin. Actually,
it wasn’t the world that had been pulled from under him, only the blankets, and not a bottomless
voragin he fell to, only the cold floor.

“Finally!” Hermione huffed. “I can’t believe it took three of us to get you down! Oh, I knew you
weren’t getting any sleep, it looked like you were carrying the world under your eyes!”

“H-Hermione? What—?” He mumbled as he rubbed his eyes to clear his eyesight. Lost cause: his
glasses were still on the nightstand. Before he could blindly attempt to reach for them Hermione
had already perched them on his nose for him. “Thanks,” he grunted, now able to finally see. He
felt as though he’d slept for the first time in years, and made up for all the lost time in one
sitting. Groggy and rested at the same time.

“Harry, hurry up and dress. Dumbledore’s waiting for you in the kitchen,” she urged him.

“Yeah, with Snape,” Ron added, pronouncing the name as though it was the foulest in the world.
Not that it wasn’t. Harry didn’t care, though.

“I’ll be right down,” he told, letting the girls know that they were to leave the room. Why
would Dumbledore come to see him so early? He dressed quickly and sleepily stumbled down the stairs
and into the kitchen, where, sure enough, sat Albus Dumbledore and stood Severus Snape. Harry was
glad of Dumbledore’s presence.

“Morning Professor,” he yawned.

“I see you slept well,” Dumbledore commented, his eyes twinkling at him over those halfmoon
spectacles, never leaving his own. He seemed relieved that Harry wasn’t angry with him.

“Hmm,” was Harry’s articulate response as he used one sleepy hand to try and pull his hair down
after noticing Snape’s sour expression upon seeing it. He knew he was only making it worse. Eh!

“How are you feeling?” The Headmaster’s tone was serious while asking.

As was Harry’s upon answering. “I’m not.” He was suddenly wide awake.

Dumbledore knew this, of course. It was his turn to “Hmm.” He watched Harry for a while as he
thought things that Harry would never be able to guess. “You’ve noticed the lack of events since
the Department of Mysteries, haven’t you, Harry?” The boy nodded. “You think he’s preparing himself
for something?” Despite the fact that he’d asked a question it felt much more like a statement.
Harry nodded again. “Do you think he’ll try to confuse you again, like he already has?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry answered honestly. Dumbledore watched him waiting for further explanation.
“Sometimes I think that he won’t use the same trick twice. Other times I think that he could turn
that trick around endlessly so that I’ll never know what to expect.” Dumbledore nodded.

“It seemes that the latter has most propability of being accurate,” he didn’t have to look to
Snape to indicate that it meant he’d heard something. “Unfortunately, we already know from the last
episode that Severus is no longer trusted among Voldemort’s ranks, so we cannot rely on him to find
out exactly what is going on, but we could prevent the intrusion on Voldemort’s part.”

Harry knew what was coming. “Occlumency,” he voiced for Dumbledore. The ancient wizard nodded.
“But…aren’t you worried about Voldemort…hearing all this?” Harry was referring to his nemesis being
able to breach into his mind.

“No,” Dumbledore answered immediately. “You said yourself, Harry. Right now you’re not feeling
anything. Though that saddens me to know, at this time we could ask for nothing better. You’re not
giving him any indication as to what is happening to you. You’re making him think that nothing out
of your ordinary is going on,” Harry nodded, remembering how the only times he’d *felt* what
Voldemort might have been doing was when he’d been overtaken by strong emotions.

“You will be starting tomorrow with Severus, right after breakfast,” he instructed.

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied. “Is there anything else?”

Standing up, Dumbledore answered, “Yes, there is,” as he walked around the table to lay a hand
on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ve grown quite a bit, Harry, you’re getting tall,” Harry didn’t know
whether to be proud or confused, though a smile was born on his face nonetheless. “Happy birthday,
Harry.” His eyes widened. He’d forgotten, again, that it was his birthday. “I believe that Minerva
will give you your present later today.”

“Thank you, sir,” this time the smile that spread his face wide was genuine, and it seemed to
spark something in him. What? He didn’t know yet.

“You’re welcome, Harry,” Dumbledore smiled at him once more before regretfully taking his hand
off his shoulder, and leaving after having said, “We’ll leave you to your breakfast and your
friends, now.”

Snape left with him. He hadn’t said a word throughout the short exchange, not even a taunt, or a
complaint about having to teach Harry again—who thought it was rather strange. He hadn’t even
looked annoyed or disgusted at him. What had he been thinking the entire time?

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Mrs Weasley’s voice wrapped around him as quickly and unexpectedly as
her arms did as they came from behind him. “What would you like to have for breakfast on your
birthday?” She sounded close to tears.

“Oh,” Harry cleared his throat. He didn’t really want anything at all, but he didn’t think that
would make her very happy. “Why don’t you surprise me with something?”

Her lip quivered. “Whatever you like, Harry.” Oh, he hoped she wouldn’t breakdown.

“Thanks, Mrs Weasley,” he mumbled as he sat in one of the chairs that were situated around the
table—noticing that they were much more comfortable than they had ever been before—and ran a
nervous hand through his hair. Would she ever treat him normally again? Would Ron? Would
anyone?

“Hey, Harry,” Hermione called as she sank in the chair to his right, “er, I’m sorry about
before.” Harry knit his eyebrows at her as she nibbled on her lower lip.

“Huh?” He questioned intelligently.

“You know, about knocking you out of bed without wishing you a ‘happy birthday’. It’s just that
you were so out of it, and it was as though you couldn’t hear us, and Dumbledore was waiting, and I
thought it was important that you came straight down, and—,” Harry stopped her mid ramble.

“Don’t worry about it, Hermione,” he calmed her, “thanks for waking me up,” he grinned at her
reassuringly. She smiled back embarassed. “If it hadn’t been for you I might have slept through my
birthday.”

She giggled at that. “Happy birthday, Harry,” she said to him while placing her hand on his
shoulder, much like Dumbledore had a few minutes earlier. Her touch was even more soothing,
somehow. Harry missed it instantly when she withdrew her hand.

“How does it feel to be sixteen, Harry?” Lupin’s voice was like having a warm blanket pulled
away in a cold night. It brought him back to reality. To the reality that it was his sixteenth
birthday, and that Sirius wasn’t there with him to celebrate.

“Er…I don’t know really,” he replied uncertainly. “Still trying to get used to it, I guess.”

Lupin smiled back at him, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t bother. You’ll end up
trying to get used to it for the rest of your life,” he joked as he took a seat that, Harry
noticed, was the furthest from him.

“Where’s Ron? And Fred and George? And Ginny?” Harry asked upon noticing that they still hadn’t
entered the kitchen, even though the smell of a delicious breakfast was more than slightly
detectable.

“Oh, Fred and George went to open up the shop already, they should be back for lunch, but it’s
never sure because business is going so well for them. I’m sure Ginny’s still barricated in her
room trying to get ahead of the program. She hopes to get away easy with OWLs, and as for Ron, I
think he wanted to give one last glance to that poster from ‘Witches Pinned Up’ that Fred and
George snuck him—and that he thinks I ignore the existance of—before coming down,” she told him as
she rolled her eyes at her friend’s behaviour. “Honestly!” She huffed.

“Hey, how did you find out about that?” Ron’s indignant voice came from the doorway.

“Oh, please! Don’t you think I noticed that you hide it in the pages of Quidditch Weekly? You
can’t be *that* slow of a reader! You should turn the page at least sometime,” she replied
indignantly. At this point Harry would have expected some kind of angry mother goose reaction from
Mrs Weasley, but she’d obviously been too busy trying to cook and keep from crying at the same time
to pay any heed to the conversation.

“I study the plays,” Ron tried to defend himself.

“Oh, yes, and what plays those are!” she exclaimed. “I still wish I’d never found out about the
existance of *moving* pornographic pictures!”

“What?” Harry asked, completely startled by the turn of conversation.

“Yeah, Harry you want to see it?” Ron asked eagerly.

“Okay,” Hermione nearly screamed, “could you please pick up this certain topic of conversation
when you’re in your room and out of my earshot, thank you?”

Harry was surprised when a bout of laughter burst out of him from the inside like a volcano
erupting, but he couldn’t seem to stop all of a sudden. He’d never laughed so much and so heartily.
He laughed until tears blurred his vision. It had been as though he’d been watching the whole scene
from the outside, and somewhere in the middle of Ron and Hermione’s argument, the familiarity of it
all pulled him back into his own body and into the warmth of his life with that, even if only for a
short time. Maybe later he would unconciously go back to feeling numb, but right then he felt more
alive than he had in months. Ron and Lupin were rather dumbfounded at this improptu display of
vitality on his part.

And in the center of it all there was Hermione’s face, smiling at him and laughing with him for
no reason that she was aware of, making him even merrier. And then, as sudden as his unexpected
bout of laughter, an image filled his mind. One that he’d entirely forgotten about in this short
period of time. Hermione’s face, dead, from his dreams came to replace the smiling joyful
expression that she was wearing still.

Fear gripped him.

He’d already forgotten what fear felt like, so it’s sudden uprising was even more intense than
it should have been. It was like a damp, dark vice grabbing hold of his heart and lungs, long bony
fingers tightening around his organs, making his breath impossible, and the palms of his hands
clammy. His face burned with it, but there was a biting chill that overtook his body, his nails
automatically dug into his palms as the mental image became clearer and clearer. He tried his
hardest to hide his shudders from his friends. Hermione noticed. Of course she would. “Harry, are
you all right?” She asked, her hand on his shoulder again, seeping warmth into his tense body,
relaxing him.

“Yeah,” his voice was shaky and slightly raspy. He cleared his throat. “I just remembered
something,” he gave in sense of explanation, and, nervously, he brought his hand to rub his scar in
thought. Dumbledore’s words came back to his mind. Snape was not well trusted among the Death
Eaters, and the information was filtering in thin, but, from Dumbledore’s tone, Harry had gathered
that the Headmaster thought they’d use Harry again for whatever it was that was being planned (and
something was obviously being planned). He’d been worried since the start of those dreams that
Voldemort’s next target would be Hermione, but, for some reason, after seeing her so lively he’d
entirely forgotten about them all together, as though his subconcious had judged her too strong and
intelligent to fall victim to him.

Now, though, the fear was back entirely, even if he refused to except the images. Maybe he
should have spoken to Dumbledore, but would that be the right thing to do? What if Hermione was
just a diversion, a way to have him in the right place at the right time, like it had been for the
Department of Mysteries? He didn’t know what to do. If he told Dumbledore, they’d try to protect
Hermione, but, if she wasn’t the real target, her protection would only be of hinderance because if
would leave Voldemort more possibility of arriving at whatever goal he’d set this time, and maybe
someone else would be lost. Still, even though Harry *knew* with a certainty that he could
trust Dumbledore, another part of him still remembered the way everything had been done without him
and kept from him before.

He needed to talk to someone. Generally in these situations he spoke to Hermione, but she was
*definitely* out of the question—it was probably not a good idea to tell her “Hey, Hermione,
I’ve been having this reoccuring dream where you die, do you think I should tell Dumbledore?” Nope,
not a good idea, even though he was pretty sure that she would say ‘Yes’—and Ron was already
walking on eggshells around him, he didn’t need him to start doing so around her as well. All of
the other Weasleys were ruled out as well.

“Harry, your breakfast is getting cold,” Hermione told him, slightly shaking him out of his
state of spaced out contemplation.

“Huh?” He asked as he pulled himself out of his thoughts. Looking down he saw a far too full
plate—bearing sausages and eggs with corn bread and blueberry muffins—sitting right under his nose.
There were also several other plates in the center of the table containing various breakfast foods.
Everyone had been decent enough not to ask what he’d just been thinking of. “Oh,” he mumbled as his
cheeks tinged pink, “smells great Mrs Weasley,” he said before digging in. He didn’t feel very much
like eating—especially after that traumatizing mental image—but Harry didn’t feel like making his
best friend’s mother cry quite so early in the morning. He stopped forcing himself when he began to
feel the urge to gag. At least he’d halfed the portion that had been given to him.

“Don’t you like it, Harry?” Mrs Weasley asked from across the table. She looked ready to cry.
Harry repressed a groan.

“No, it was great Mrs Weasley,” he replied quickly. “Just too much,” he reassured her, “I’m not
used to eating this much anymore, specially at breakfast.” That was true, generally he got a slice
of bread—when lucky—even though Aunt Petunia had been sneaking him small muffins whenever she
thought nobody was going to notice. That seemed to calm down the motherly woman enough.

“Mmh,” Hermione moaned as she swallowed her last bite, “that was wonderful, Mrs Weasley, thank
you. We’ll be going now,” she said as she grabbed Harry’s shoulder and heaved him up like she had
the night before, pulling him out of the kitchen.

“Hey, wait for me!” Ron shouted as he shoveled the rest of his food in his mouth, and, grabbing
three muffins before going, ran up the stairs and into the room he occupied with Harry.

There, the trio spent the day together with Ginny, who—after a couple hours—had deemed that
she’d studied enough considering it was Harry’s birthday. They played Exploding Snap and Wizard’s
Chess, mostly, and talked. It had been pleasant, for the most part, though there was a strain in
Ron’s behaviour—and Ginny’s, too, though she was much more subtle about it—since he still didn’t
know quite how to behave around him. Except, of course, when the talk came to Quidditch. Absolutely
no strain there. As a matter of fact, they spent most of the time talking of nothing but that.
Strangely enough, Hermione hadn’t seemed to mind. On the contrary, she seemed to have learned quite
a bit about it (Ron thought that maybe she’d eaten a copy of Quidditch Trhough The Ages, or
something like that, Harry just figured she’d been around them too long). She hadn’t said a word
about homework the entire day (not that they had any after the OWLs) or getting ahead of the
program.

They stayed there without ever coming out. The only exception had been when Hermione had gone to
get some sandwhiches from the kitchen for lunch. Nobody else would have even thought of food had
not Ron persistently insisted on it.

Mid afternoon, though, Lupin came to call them.

“Hermione,” he turned to her after coming in. “Everyone’s waiting,” he informed her. Harry
wondered who was waiting for what. She beamed, though.

“Great, thank you!” Hermione exclaimed, jumping in a standing position instantly. She’d become a
lot quicker and more agile since the last time he’d seen her, Harry noticed, where did all that
come from? “Come on, Harry,” she turned to him, grabbing hold of his hand and pulling him up
effortlessly again, “we have to go.” A lot stronger, too, he added. It was strange though, because
her frame hadn’t changed one bit, though she did stand a little differently. Actually, she hardly
stood at all, and, when she did, she had a tendency to lean against something.

“Go where?” Harry asked, being forced to run with her since she was still holding on to his
hand.

Looking behind her, wearing the brightest grin she could muster, she answered, “To
celebrate.”

“Huh?” He called to her articulately. Her grin simply broadened as she led him to the study, the
same one where he’d seen the tapestry that Sirius so hated. Would that still be there, or did Lupin
destroy that as well? Giggling, Ginny and Hermione opened the door simultaneously, and, as soon as
he stood in the doorway, he was showered by confetti and the loud shout of “HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY!”
He thought he’d gone deaf. And blind. Someone had just shot a magical picture of him. When he was
able to blink he realized it had been Fred and George, both holding a camera.

It took Harry a while to figure out that he was supposed to step inside the room. It was just so
*different*. He knew it had to have been redecorated, like the rest of the house, in the
Gryffindor style, but much richer than any other room he’d seen.

It made him think of Sirius. Even though it was covered with seemingly thousands of banners
wielding the mantra of ‘Happy Birthday Harry’. In on corner of the room was a long table, similar
to the ones that adorned the Hogwarts Great Hall, completely covered by food and presents. Here and
there a little bit of scarlet and gold embroidered tablecloth would peek out. And, very strange
thing, there were three Quidditch hoops on each end of the room. And everyone was there. The twins,
Mr Weasley with Bill and Charlie, Dumbledore and McGonagall along with Madame Pomfrey and half of
the Hogwarts staff (including Snape), Tonks, Mad Eye, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mundungus Fletcher, Mrs
Figg, and everyone who cared for him and wanted to support him. Even Dobby and Winky. He could feel
Hermione’s hand on his arm leading him forward, her whisper by his ear as she wished him “Happy
Birthday Harry,” again.

“So,” Tonks said as she stepped up to him and leaned on his other shoulder, “what do you say
about what Hermione went through for you?” She was definitely a lot brighter than she had been the
previous day.

Harry turned to Hermione in surprise. She looked at him sheepishly before casting her eyes to
the floor and nibbling the right corner of her bottom lip. Obviously she didn’t want him to know it
was her idea. Even more awed he looked again at the spectacle that the room had become, and at all
the people that she had gathered for him. Than he looked back at her. She started to torture
another lock of hair under his scrutiny, and it took him a second before he found his speech.
Clearing his throat, “Wow,” was all he could say. Her eyes met his, and a small blush tinged her
cheek.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. She simply smiled her welcome, before suddenly brightening up.

“So,” she started, in much the same manner that Tonks had, as she leaned on the opposite
shoulder, “what do you want to do first? Open your presents or play?” She asked, her grin bright
and contagious.

“Play?” He asked, baffled and intrigued.

“Play it is,” she didn’t answer his question, but she slapped the same shoulder she’d been
leaning on affectionately. Stepping over to the Table of Wonders she picked up his Firebold—when
did that get there? He hadn’t even noticed it—and handed it to him. “Ginny and Lupin, Fred, Ron,
and Harry on one team; Tonks and Kingsley, George, Bill, and Charlie, respectively in the positions
of Chasers, Batter, Keeper, and Seeker,” she instructed as she grabbed a large, rather agited,
chest out from under the table, and placed it on the floor between them. Harry noticed that
everyone she’d named was weilding a broom. “Alastor Moody is refereeing, Professor Minerva
McGonagall commentating,” with that she stepped back and took a seat at the foot of the table,
where the rest were already sitting, some munching on the goodies that—no, doubt—Mrs Weasley had
provided.

Professor McGonagall cast the Sonorus charm. Mad Eye took the spot that Hermione had just
vacated. “I don’t need to tell you that I want a clean game, but I’ll tell you still,” he said in
his best referee voice. “I want a clean game!” His tone made that perfectly clear. “Happy Birthday
Harry,” he added patting his shoulder. “Players on your brooms.” He ordered. Harry, still not
really believing any of this, did so. “Play Quidditch,” he told them as he gave a strong kick to
the chest he’d kept his foot on till then. Two bludgers shot out, and, almost instantly, he threw a
quaffle straight up, that Ginny took no hesitation in grabbing before Tonks had even been ready.
Quidditch! But he’d been banned for life from it.

“And the game begins! Ginny Weasley has possession of the quaffle, passes it to Lupin who dodges
magnificently a bludger from George Weasley and passes back to Ginny!” McGonagall was doing a
rather impressive commentary, she almost sounded like Lee Jordan in later years. And she was also
completely ignoring the fact that Harry, along with Fred and George, had been banned for life from
the game. He shrugged. He turned back to the game, but something seemed off.

It looked like everyone was pushing their broom at rather steep angles either up or down, but
they stayed pretty stationary, and they appeared much further from him than they should have been.
The room was only so big. Just as he thought that he heard the whizz of a bludger racing to him
from behind, and, instinctively, he raised his broom at a steep angle to avoid it, only to realize
that he was going to run head first into the ceiling. Yet he didn’t. What was going on? And then he
remembered the time in third year when the Ministry had provided Muggle cars that magically fit
more people than phisically possible, and realized that the same charm had been cast on the room to
allow as much flying space as needed.

The game became a lot more fun from then on. Ginny was an even better Chaser than she was a
Seeker and in fifteen minutes she’d already scored seventy points with the help of Lupin, who was
himself a good player. Tonks was a better player than Harry would have expected—once she began
paying attention to the game she began giving Ginny a hard time—and had scored thirty points.
Kingsley had a good eye, and smart plays, but he was rather slow on a broom. Fred and George were
having a grand time playing against each other.

Harry hadn’t felt so good and alive in ages. There was no wind in a closed room, but there he
could feel the emptyness below him, and the gravity fighting against his broom. He felt like the
heaviest, yet lightest thing in the world, there was nothing holding him up but a stick of charmed
wood—sublime as it was. Nothing was as excitingly scary as a dodged bludger, or a race against the
pull of gravity in one of his heartstopping dives as he would reach for the Snitch. And there was
definitely nothing like the feeling of a cold, smooth Snitch fluttering its silver wings against
the strong hold of his hand, trying to free itself from the prisony of his palm. And the knowledge
of having caught it. However, there was no sign of the Snitch. Harry began to wonder if the charm
that had been cast had a limit. Could the Snitch fly endlessly in the room? If it did it would be
almost impossible to find. Yet, just as Harry thought that, he saw a glint of gold fluttering
quickly a few meters behind and below the other Seeker’s broom. Charlie still hadn’t noticed.

Harry decided to try and get closer since, if he were to bring the Snitch to Charlie’s
attention, despite the fact that he had a much better broom, there were very little chances of
Harry coming out victorious. He began circling the action while heading in Charles’ direction, but
realized that, because of the charm, Charlie was even farther away than he looked, and so was the
Snitch. Just then the Snitch zoomed out from its hiding spot under Charlie’s shadow. Harry didn’t
need to look to his opponent to know that he’d noticed. Harry had no choice but to make a mad dash
for the desired Snitch.

His’s heart thumped madly as he thought that he would never make it on time, all the while
flattening himself against his broom to push it to higher levels of velocity. The Snitch was
changing directions, diving to the ground below, forcing Harry to change his trajectory to a sharp
angle. Charlie was riding nearly perpendicular to the ground, so he had the added advantage of full
gravity, but, Harry realized, the redhead was much further from the Snitch than he had originally
appeared. Sproning his broom on as much as he could, he accelerated to the point that his eyes
watered, and he held his hand out to try and catch the elusive Snitch. He didn’t know if he would
reach it, or if it was just an illusion of the charm, but when he closed his fist he felt a cold
metallic fluttering within it, his heart nealy lurched in triumph.

He ignored it, and pulled up and to the side so that Charlie wouldn’t slam into him while still
concentrated on his dive. His breath was impossibly ragged, even more so than it should have been.
He’d won. He’d caught the Snitch. It was there, in his hand, trying to escape. He was hardly
listening to the cheers from below, and the strong hands that were slapping his back in
congratulation. His heart was thumping madly in its ribcage, his blood was sounding its beat in his
ears, his skin burned and prickled with excitement, his warm breath tickling his parched lips.
Everyone of his nerve endings was drawn as tightly as could be in a euphoric hum.

He was overwhelmed by the feeling of vitality that had completely overtaken him.

His friends had guided his broom down near the ground, and were heartily congratulating him, but
he was concentrating on the strange feeling of his feet on the ground once again. He stood slowly,
and found it a little unsettling, as though he hadn’t tried walking in years. He suddenly realized
that the muscles in his cheeks were burning from all his smiling.

°*°*°

“That was a great play Harry,” Charlie spoke from behind him.

Harry, with his mouth full of a chicken drumstick, swallowed, immediately embarassed. “Uhm,
thanks,” he mumbled while cleaning his mouth. “But if you had a better broom it might not have gone
like that.”

Charlie grinned. “Maybe,” he replied amused.

Harry watched him in thought. “Why didn’t you try to play professionally? Ron said a lot of
teams offered you great positions,” that had been one of the topics of conversation the previous
hours.

He shrugged. “I like playing,” he started, “it makes me feel good. Forget all my problems when
I’m up on a broom. But I don’t want this to be my life. It’s my refuge. It’s what I turn to when I
want to try to get away from my life and forget what’s bothering me. If Quidditch became my life,
it would be great for a couple of years, but after that probably everything that’s in it would
become something that I want to get away from. Then what would I turn to?” He asked
rethorically.

Harry nodded. On one side he understood Charlie, but on the other, Quidditch was the only thing
that he was good at on his own. He excelled at it with his own skills, and the only thing that he
would ever think of excepting fame for. Something that had nothing to do with his scar. Yet, Harry
asked himself the same question. If he were to play Quidditch for a living what could he take as
his escape from everything that his life included? Then again, that old idea of becoming an Auror
didn’t seem any good anymore. He hadn’t even been able to save Sirius.

He hadn’t even figured out that it had all been a stupid setup. He sighed deeply. He should have
listened to Hermione. She always knew. Harry never did. He didn’t even know what to do about those
stupid dreams of his and the fact that he couldn’t possibly think of telling her about them made
the whole situation unnerving.

“Hey, Harry, are you still in there?” Charlie asked him with a mix between worry and
amusement.

“Oh,” Harry replied, shaking himself out of his thoughts, “yeah.”

“Well, good. It’s time for you to open your presents, and I have other things to do tonight so
lets get this over with,” Tonks told him as she slapped his shoulder. She was definitely too
cheerful considering that it was Harry’s birthday and that the previous day she looked ready to
bite. It was then that Harry noticed that everyone was watching him expectantly with their presents
in hand.

“Oh,” Harry whispered. He had never opened presents in front of so many people before. “Ok,
what’s first?”

“Here, take mine first,” Tonks shoved a badly wrapped package in his hands. By the shape and
size he could have guessed it was a something along the lines of a magazine in the format of
Quidditch Weekly.

…

Well, it was a magazine of sort…

He just didn’t know what to say about a magical sexy kittens pin up book.

“uhm…” he began with a squeak, turning the gift over as to avoid seeing the embarrassing image
on the cover just to find another one on the back of it. He was red up to his ears with
embarrassment at the fact that he was holding such things. In front of his friends and teachers.
Rather flustering.

“Whoa, Harry! That’s from the first, unfindable edition!” Fred exclaimed, grabbing it out of his
hands and whistling appreciatively as he flipped through the pages.

“Bloody hell! Let me see that!” Ron shouted as he huddled next to his brothers.

Harry was very relieved that he didn’t have to hold it anymore, and grateful for the fact that
the twins were distracting Tonks from noticing that he had no idea of what to say of the gift. He
probably should have thanked her, but that hardly seemed appropriate in front of Snape and
McGonagall, and he had no idea of what Dumbledore might have thought of it. Not to mention
Hermione. Especially after that discussion at breakfast.

“Hey, Harry, you have to let us borrow this for a while!” George exclaimed, getting a wooden
spoon over the head once Molly Weasley realized what the contents of ‘gift’ implied.

“This is Harry’s,” she chastened, taking it from them and handing them to Hermione, “and I’m not
giving it back until he turns of age and he asks for it,” she warned them.

“What?” Ron screamed. “You can’t do that!”

“Oh, yes I can!” She replied stubbornly, “Harry’s still an underage wizard, and I won’t let you
corrupt him until the law considers him old enough to make his own choices,” she probably had not
realized how this could have affected Harry.

The room seemed to still. They all knew that one of the things that had continuously brought
Harry to have one of his temper rages had been the fact that everyone made the choices for him,
completely forgetting that he’d saved their world as they knew it times over, and that he was more
than able to choose for himself.

He sighed. He knew that to the Weasley matron he would always be a boy who needed to be
sheltered. And he also thought that, maybe, she was so protective because she didn’t want to admit
that the danger they were in was as fierce as it was, and that her children weren’t truly risking
their lives like they were. Still, it stung. She should have known better by then.

Fred and George looked at each other. “Well,” Fred began, “I guess you’ll have to settle for
this,” he handed over a heavy rectangular box.

“It isn’t exactly a first complete edition of Witches Pinned Up, but I think you’ll find that it
comes in as a close second,” George boasted. Their leering grins were slight scaring him.
Tentatively, he opened the package, expecting the worst, and finding a pair of, seemingly, innocent
Muggle binoculars. But he knew that whatever might have passed through Fred and George’s hands
could look decieving. Especially when they were grinning like Chesire cats and couldn’t seem able
to sit in their own skin. “Go on, Harry,” George incourage him, “try them.”

Not knowing what to say he looked through them. He blinked confused. They seemed completely
normal binoculars. At least they did until they fell on Professor Sprout. With a horrified scream
he fell off his chair.

“Harry are you okay?” He heard Hermione coming around to help him up, and, with another great
display of strength on her part, pulled him to his feet, though he still looked rather disturbed.
“What did you see?” She asked concerned, and took the binoculars from his hands.

“No, Hermione, don’t!” Harry tried to stop her, but she’d already looked at Snape.

She dropped the cursed object in horror. “Oh, Merlin, I’m scarred for life!” She said as she
became deadly pale and looked ready to feel very sick.

“What? What do they do?” Tonks asked as she picked them up. Hermione stopped her from bringing
them to her eyes.

“I strongly advice you not to do that,” she warned, her voice sounding nauseous.

“Why not?” The young Auror asked, confused.

“They see through clothes,” Harry answered, trying to rid himself of the mental image of his
Herbology teacher. Tonks seemed rather interested, but before she could test them out, Hermione
took them and placed them back in the box. Snape, who seemed rather angry at Hermione’s reaction,
sneered. “Is this perverted idiocy going to be a reoccuring theme here?”

“Let’s hope not,” Harry mumbled, never having been that flustered in his life before, finding
this even more embarassing than *any* uncomfortable Cho Chang moment.

“I believe that Minerva and I might be able to interrupt this cicle,” Dumbledore seemed rather
amused as he sat there sipping a lemon sherbet.

Harry looked to him. The Headmaster did not look away. Harry couldn’t keep a small smile from
tugging at the corner of his lips. At least Dumbledore seemed to mean what he’d said before Harry
had left Hogwarts.

“Minerva, if you will,” the ancient wizard prompted his deputy as she stepped forward, placing
an envelope in Harry’s hand. Harry looked down in puzzlement. He gingerly opened the envelope,
scrolling over the words, understanding their meaning but not registering them. He looked up at his
Headmaster and at his Head of House. She looked stern, yet pleased with him. “Congratulations on
your first victory of the season,” she told him, referring to the game he’d just won.

“Harry,” Hermione exclaimed, after having read over his shoulder the contents of the piece of
paper that he was holding. “You’re back on the team!”

He was. That insignificant piece of parchment stated that, after having taken under
consideration some of the decisions made by High Inquisitor Dolores Umbridge, his banishment from
Quidditch had been reconsidered, and, therefore, cancelled. He was free to play all he wanted.

“And that’s where my gift comes in handy,” Ginny smiled as she handed her brightly wrapped
package to her brother’s best friend, who had, recently, become a good friend of hers (as soon as
she’d stopped mooning over his, that was, of course). Harry, now feeling a little more confident
about the gifts that he was beginning to recieve, tore through the flashing paper eagerly. “Wow,
Ginny,” he began.

“Rather nice, aren’t they?” She asked as she picked up the woderful, mohogany colored Quidditch
gloves. They shone as though they were made of metal.

“Armordillar skin,” she explained. “Might prevent a bludger from breaking your arms, and they
mold to your hand, so they’re not uncomfortable,” she grinned as she handed them back to him. He
wore one, and instantly it magically shrunk to fit him perfectly, barely adding any width to his
wrist and forearm. “And,” the redhead continued, “they’re hex proof. Might be helpful when playing
against Slytherin.” Harry couldn’t help smiling his thanks to her.

“No fair,” Ron piped up, “makes my gift look boring,” he pouted as he handed Harry another
package that could have been a book, or another magazine. Harry looked worried again, but was glad
to see that it was not another first edition of “Witches Pinned Up” but a black leather bound book
whose cover read in rich golden letters: *A guide for expert Seekers: historical tecniques and
innovative plays for the daring* by Quick Catchit. Flipping through it, Harry saw that it was
written in perfect detail and accompanied by clear wizard illustrations. It must have cost a
fortune. Much like Ginny’s gloves.

“Where did you get the money for this?” He asked in wonder.

Ron turned as red as his hair while Ginny replied for the both of them. “We’ve been helping Fred
and George in stocking their store. Basically we make and charm a good part of what they sell,” she
told him, sounding rather proud of herself. After that, there were so many presents that he almost
got lost in them. There was the usual sweater from Mrs Weasley, a Muggle toaster from Arthur
Weasley, a wristband covered in real dragon’s teeth from Bill(the ladies love them, he said) with a
matching dragon claw necklace from Charlie (supposedly powerful, but stylish nonetheless), and a
lot of school material from the Hogwarts staff. Harry was rather scared when Hagrid placed a heavy
box at his feet. It probably measured five feet in width and three in height, and the Boy Who Lived
could not, for the life of him, guess what it was. He just hoped it didn’t have fangs, or stingers,
or claws, or anything that might, somehow, lacerate skin or disintegrate bones.

Hagrid had been babbling as he gave it to Harry. “Dunno why I didn’t give it ter yer earlier,
‘Arry. Fergot all ‘bout it, s’pose. ‘Ad it sittin’ in de back o’ my closet all alon’. Neveh knew
why I kep’ it really. Jest thought ye might ‘a want’d it sumday.” His eyes were slightly watering
when he said this, and Harry was even more bewildered then before he spoke. Uncertainly he took off
the wrapping to see a gigantic box. Doubting that Hagrid might cry over a box, he opened it, only
to stare in open awe. There stood something that he never would have thought he would ever see. A
Muggle motorcycle. A vintage Harley Davidson. And there was only one Muggle bike that he could
think of Hagrid ever having. He knew that, if he were to try it, it would have been able to fly
noisily. He knew that, if he’d asked when Hagrid had gotten it, the date would coincide with the
first fall of Voldemort. And he also knew that, if he were to ask how Hagrid had gotten it, the
answer would be that Sirius had given it to him while telling the giant to take the newly orphaned
baby away to a safe place.

Why *had* Hagrid kept it? Harry remembered clearly, in third year, when Sirius had been
thought to be a murderer and a betrayer, Hagrid had expressed a deep hatred, disgust, and anger
toward the only man that had ever escaped from Azkaban. If that had been the way he’d felt, then
why had he kept something that had belonged to Sirius? Hagrid cleared his throat nervously. “I
jest…jest thought ye might a want’d it, is all,” he finished nervously. Harry wordlessly hugged
him. Hagrid cleared his throat nervously patting his shoulder. “Glad ye like it, ‘Arry.”

The Weasleys, especially the Weasley matron, looked a little put off that *anyone* had
dared to remind Harry of the godfather that he had so recently lost and that he probably wanted to
forget. Mrs Weasley was glad at least that nobody had mentioned the name, considering the guilt
that Harry had to have been feeling toward the only man that had behaved as a father would have
toward him. She didn’t even begin to fathom how far from how Harry was feeling she was. Then, of
course, Lupin spoke, and she looked like she was either going to cry or murder the werewolf, or
perhaps do one while acting on the other.

“Harry,” the kindly ex-professor called to him, “there’s something I want to show you,” he said,
walking over to the spot where the tapestry of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black once
stood, which was currently covered with a massive birthday banner. Taking hold of a corner of the
banner—weilding a roaring Gryffindor lion—he gave a strong tug, making it fall away at once.

It took Harry a long time to realize that he was, in fact, staring at the infamous tapestry of
the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, and he came to that conclusion only after seeing the
golden embroidering reading said words at the top of the scarlett fabric. It did not look like the
same tapestry anymore. Once, there were many names and some burnt holes there where the name of the
family ‘black sheep’ had been written. Now, there was a noticably decreased amount of names, and in
place of the charred spots that used to be there the fabric was knotted, as though the thread had
been wound tighter there to hide the damage that had been made. There seemed to be no trace of
Doxies anywhere, but the most amazing thing of all, Harry realized, was not what might have first
caught the eye. The names had been inverted. The ones that had once been deleted were now the only
ones remaining, while the others were hidden under the more thickly threaded parts, and, in the
middle of it was Sirius Black, his name more richly embroidered than the rest, standing out like
the brightest star in the sky, the golden letters almost twinkling there on the deep red
canvas.

Sirius Black, the very best of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.

Someone had to have cast some sort of hex on Harry. There was something in his throat that kept
him from making a sound, kept him from breathing, kept him from his numbness. Several times he
tried to say something, but only managed to gape his mouth like a fish out of water. “H— ” he
started, but his voice was nothing but a strangled squeak. Clearing his throat he tried again,
though the only word he could manage was “How?”

He could see that Mrs Weasley was about to kill him for rendering Harry practically speechless
(not that he’d been speaking much earlier), but Lupin smiled nevertheless. “I thougth that was
rather obvious, don’t you?” He asked rethorically while sending Hermione a meaningful glance. Harry
turned to see her blushing under their scrutiny.

“It was Remus’s idea,” she told them quickly. “I just helped him and Professor Flitwick with the
spells.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. So he didn’t say anything. He just walked up to the canvas, and
lightly tounched his godfather’s name, feeling the thread under his fingers, the light giving a
golden glow to the letters. Lupin’s hand was on his shoulder, and Harry didn’t think he could look
at him at the moment. A very uncomfortable silence ensued, though Harry noticed Dumbledore’s eyes
twinkle behind his half moon spectacles, while McGonagall looked quite proud of them. Hermione’s
eyes were glistening as well as she looked at the tapestry and at the way Harry was touching it so
affectionately.

Fred and George were, of course, the ones to break the icy atmosphere, offering to teach
everyone how to use their Hoversticks and asking if anyone wanted one of their new binoculars
(which had not been named yet) which was enough to get Mrs Weasley to stop being so overprotective
of Harry for a little while and everything was back to how it was before anyone had mentioned
anything about presents.

Soon enough the underage wizards were being shooed to their rooms because a meeting of the Order
was to ensue shortly, and Harry was being hugged from all sides and saluted with the best wishes
for his sixteenth birthday. Hermione, who’d been speaking in a subdued, secretive, slightly
conspirive tone with Madame Pomfrey, suddenly jumped to speak to her Head of House.

“Professor McGonagall,” the transfiguration master turned to her.

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

“Oh,” Hermione couldn’t keep her eagerness out of her voice, “I was wondering if you knew
anything of our OWL scores,” Ron groaned behind her, while Ginny gasped in horror, as though she
suddenly remembered that she could have been spending the day getting ready for the dreaded
exams.

“The results have already been calculated,” Professor McGonagall answered readily. “You will
recieve your scores with your Hogwarts letters, along with your schedules for the year, within the
end of the week,” and with that she left.

“Schedules?” Ron asked, looking like he hadn’t liked the sound of it. “What schedules?”

“Oh, honestly Ron, think about it,” Hermione huffed. “We’ve had five years in which we learned
the basics for our required courses. The OWLs’ purpose is to see which subjects you should and can
take to higher levels, then the careers that you’ve taken into consideration with McGonagall are
confronted with your results to outline your schedule for the next two years,” she explained as she
began to step out of the room and headed up the stairs to where their beds were.

“Oh,” Ron looked like he liked the sound of that even less as he shuffled past Hermione and into
his room.

“Uhm…Harry?” Hermione called him. He turned to her. “Can I…talk to you? For just a second?” She
asked nervously.

“Oh! I forgot I need to ask Ron something about the OWLs!” Ginny suddenly exclaimed and
disappeared into the boys’ room, making Harry think that she knew what Hermione was going to say to
him. After all, why would she go to *Ron*—of all people—to ask about the OWLs, especially
after he’d seemed so put off by the idea of the new schedules?

“Sure, Hermione,” Harry replied, hoping that she wouldn’t start behaving strangely now, right
when people finally seemed to understand that he didn’t need to be treated like a piece of glass.
Wordlessly, she led him into her room. Nervously she indicated for him to sit on the edge of the
bed, and he followed suit. She was fidgetting rather badly. “Harry,” she began, reaching for the
trunk at the foot of her bed, “I know I should have asked you first,” she apologized while nibbling
anxiously on her lower lip, “but I took the liberty of taking—borrowing—this,” she pulled his
family photo album out from under her things.

Harry was really rather confused. “Why did you take it?”

Hermione seemed to read accusation in his tone, though there was none. “I know I should have
asked you, but I thought it wouldn’t be much of a birthday present if I did,” she replied.

“Birthday present?” She nodded. “I thought that was the Quidditch game.”

“Oh, no,” she told him quickly, “that was just an idea that I had when McGonagall told me that
Umbridge’s educational decrees were being cancelled. Dumbledore and McGonagall thought it would
have been a nice way to say ‘Welcome back to the team.”

Harry furrowed his eyebrows. “What about the tapestry?”

“That was Lupin’s idea, Harry,” she explained readily, “I just helped him charm it so that Mrs
Weasley didn’t know.” She took a deep sigh. “She said it would have made you feel guiltier…about
what happened,” the air seemed to still with what she’d said. It had been the first time that
anybody was confronting Harry—truly confronting him—about the feeling of Sirius’s disappearance
caused in him.

Harry looked away.

“Lupin and I thought she was wrong, though. That’s why we did it, Harry,” she placed a hand on
his shoulder, making him look at her. “I can guess at what you’re feeling, Harry, because I’ve
known you all those years, but I don’t think *you* know what you’re feeling.”

“I’m not feeling anything, Hermione,” Harry replied quietly.

“That’s not true, Harry,” she contradicted him. “You think you’re not feeling anything, because
you don’t *want* to feel anything and because—even if you did—you probably wouldn’t understand
what you would feel, and I can understand that,” she was handing him his album as she spoke, “so
that’s why I chose to give you this.”

He took the leather bound picture book from her, opened it to the first page, and, seeing what
had always been there, flipped rapidly through until he found something completely new, and
completely foreign, at least to those pages. Muggle pictures, people captured in an eternal smile,
a still posed that would remain forever, or as close to that as possible. And in each there was
Sirius. Sirius with Harry, Sirius with Ron, Sirius with Hermione, or the Weasleys or some Hogwarts
staff member. In most of them, the people rappresented didn’t look as though they were aware of
being photographed. Harry stared at them all for so long that Hermione felt the need to justify her
action.

“I took them last Christmas,” she explain, beginning to ramble already. “You know, sometime at
home we get visitors so I can’t put out any of my moving pictures, and I wanted some so that when I
would look around I could see them in the kitchen, or on the wall by my bed, so that I could see
you all—I have that one right by my bed,” she mumbled as Harry was looking at a picture of himself
laughing next to Sirius about something that his godfather had said, “and when everything
happened—the Department of Misteries…well, I was afraid that you would try to forget Sirius, or
that you’d hate him, or hate yourself for what happened, and I think a little of all three has
happened, so I…well, I thought that this would be a good way to think about things because you
don’t really like to talk about what you feel and you especially don’t talk about it with me, and
considering how Ron and everyone else is behaving I knew you wouldn’t talk to them either, so at
least this could help a little. You can be alone in your thoughts and everything, but I think that
at least you’ll think about…something…or other, or—,” she inhaled violently after all that ramble,
and she was about to begin again, had not Harry stopped her.

“Hermione!” Harry his hands up in surrender, so that she wouldn’t start again. She looked to
him, her face anxious and worried about what he might have been thinking as she twirled on her hair
again. “Don’t spoil this for me,” he whispered, appreciating those pictures more than almost
anything else in his life. She watched him speechless. And in awe she watched him as he ran his
fingers over a picture—*her* picture, the one that she’d told him was by her bedside—tracing
the laugh lines of Sirius’s eyes, watching his own expression as though it were foreign, looking as
though he was trying to remember something so far and remote in time that it could have been from a
past life. He looked as though he were thinking of everything, yet of nothing at all.

She sighed heavily as she placed a hand on his back, touching ever so slightly in soothing
circles. Watching him she felt as though she had seen his fragility for the first time. She knew
Harry was human, she knew he had feelings, and she knew that, therefore, he was not invincible. He
did manage to make that impression, though. Since the first day she met him, he seemed as though
nothing could harm him, yet as she began to know him, she realize that there were many ways to hurt
Harry, and the most effective one was to hurt his friends. Still, even with this *weakness* it
seemed as though nothing, absolutely nothing, could physically hurt him.

But that wasn’t true. Not of him, not of anybody. Perhaps she had thought that because, though
she’d been in life threatening situations before, she’d never—truly—gotten hurt enough to know the
fear of losing her life. Human bodies were vulnerable on their own, but when the mind was bothered
as well…well, a human could become very weak. She knew that, yet she’d never been faced by that
reality before. And that this reality would have to face up to her in the form of Harry, the never
wavering pillar of strength and morality…she sighed again.

*I wish you’d tell me what you’re thinking, Harry*, she told him in her mind, but she knew
that wasn’t the right thing to say to him. “Do you miss him?” To most people that would have seemed
like a stupid, pointless question. But it wasn’t. It was Harry’s turn to sigh. “No…yes—I don’t
know,” he mumbled, trying to figure out his thoughts. “It’s as though I think so much that it’s
almost like not thinking at all,” he fumbled with his words. “Last year, I was so mad at
everything. I couldn’t stop Cedric from dying, and Voldemort was back, and the Dursleys hated me
more than ever, and the Dementors, and Dumbledore who wouldn’t look at me, you and Ron were
Prefects and I thought you were going to leave me behind, and Snape was worse than he’d ever been,
and Cho was trying to talk of Cedric when it was the last thing to do, and…” what else was there to
say? He sighed again. “And then…the Department of Misteries. And Sirius and the veil.

“When it happened, I lost it. I screamed and destroyed Dumbledore’s office, and the prophecy—…”
oh, yes, the prophecy. What of that? He’d almost slipped it to Hermione, he’d almost told her that
he would either die or become a murderer. He didn’t want her to know about that. She knew that he
was holding back what he was about to say, it was all over her face, and she wouldn’t have been
Hermione if she didn’t notice it, but he refused to speak of that. He didn’t want his friends to
know that. “At the end of the year feast I ran into Sir Nick, and Luna…and I talked to them. They
said a lot of things and I didn’t know what to feel anymore.”

He looked at her finally, watching her watching him. “When I smashed Dumbledore’s office, I felt
so guilty about Sirius it was eating me alive, but then after I spoke to them, it just disappeared.
I didn’t know if I was to feel anything anymore. Was I supposed to be mad, depressed, guilty,
scared, hopeless? I didn’t know. So I just ended up feeling nothing. And that was the easiest thing
to feel,” he suddenly thought of the dreams he’d been having, and how, after the numbness had gone,
it had made him terrified. “It’s good to be numb,” he told her suddenly, “because everything just
washes off. You can feel a dull throbbing, but nothing else.”

“No, Harry,” she told him, brushing some hair away from his eyes. “It’s not good to be numb.
It’s better to bleed and cry and hurt and feel everything in one swift passing, then to have a
constant dull throbbing that’ll grow everyday stronger for the rest of your life. It would only
make you a involucroul for pain and self loathing. Because that’s what that numb feeling is. It’s
the lack of those vibrant feelings that make you alive. The only things you’d feel are those that
drive people to kill themselves, Harry,” she looked down at the floor. Maybe she’d said too much.
Oh, hell! If she’d said too much she might as well go through it all with it. “Harry, Sirius
doens’t want you to feel that. Nobody does.”

He stared at her for a second, then, exhaling deeply, he looked back down at the picture that
had been staring at him since he’d turned to it, still as it would ever be.

“It’s strange,” he whispered.

“What is?” She asked him, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Right now I feel that…looking at these pictures makes me think that…” He began, and she combed
some more strands of hair out of his face to encourage him.

Harry watched her poignantly. “Right now I feel that Sirius isn’t dead.”

She blinked. Out of all the things that Hermione Granger could have expected him to say, that
had not been placed in her list of possibilities. She frowned slightly, already working an equation
in her mind. “What do you feel he is then?”

Harry was surprised that she hadn’t tried to dissuade him from that feeling, that she hadn’t
told him that it wasn’t possible and that he had to move on. He looked back down at the photograph.
“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I think he’s lost. Someplace where he’s stuck and he can’t get out.”
He sighed. “I know it sounds crazy.”

“Do *you* think it’s crazy?” She asked him, rethorically.

He shook his head with certainty. “I *know* it’s crazy. But I just have this feeling. I
look at this pictures, and they don’t move, but there’s just something that tells me that he’s not
dead.”

“And how does this *feeling* make you feel, Harry?” She was staring with an absolutely open
face, an almost conspiring look in her eyes, a promise of complicity, that what he would say would
be between them and them alone. He closed his eyes, and thought. He took in a deep breath and
sighed. “Alive,” he told her finally. Closing the album in his lap she hugged him. “I wish I could
tell you that this is true, Harry,” she began.

He interrupted her. “I know…I know it can’t be true…but I…I don’t know.”

She pulled away enough to look at him. “That wasn’t what I was going to say, Harry.” He watched
her confused. “I can’t tell you that it’s true, because I don’t know, and I don’t think anyone else
does.”

“But,” he was about to interrupt her again.

“Listen, Harry, I *really* don’t think anyone knows what that veil was or what was behind
it. Yes, it scared me, and everyone made up their own idea about it, but nobody actually
*knows* what it is, or it wouldn’t have been in the Department of Misteries,” she told him
sharply. “And what that could imply is very complicated. Or very simple. He could be dead, simple
as that, but how could we know for sure?” She asked him. He was thinking about his conversations
with Nearly Headless Nick and Loony Lovegood, and he thought of what Hermione was trying to say. He
didn’t know what to think.

“He *could* be lost, Harry. He could be in some kind of Limbo or in a different time in
space, a different dimension, he could be locked somewhere, or he could have just disappeared. We
don’t know Harry.” She told him firmly.

He looked more baffled than ever. “Than…what am I supposed to think?”

She smiled at him. “I can’t tell you what to think, Harry. I never even tried.” He looked ready
to object again. “I *can* tell you, however,” she stopped him before he started, “that if that
thought made you feel alive, then you need to think about it. You need to think about it, and be
confused about it, and eventually come to terms with whatever you think.”

“You make everything sound easy,” she mumbled.

“Oh, thinking’s not easy, Harry!” she exclaimed, becoming playful. “I would know, wouldn’t
I?”

He smiled at her. “Yeah, you would.”

Returning his smile, she hugged him again. “Thank you, Hermione,” he told her as he held her
tightly. She pulled away to look him in the eye as she told him, “Happy Birthday, Harry.” She gave
him one more squeeze, and wished him a good night. When Harry returned to his bedroom, he fell
asleep almost instantly, with the photo album by his side. However, instead of dreaming of
Quidditch, of friends, of Sirius coming out of the veil, he dreamt of Dementors. He dreamt of dark
sellars being opened, of wands being retrieved, of madness being restored. He dreamt of Lucius
Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange free, and of Voldemort’s glee. And that didn’t allow him to think or
feel or live anymore for several days to come.

To be continued.

Now, there’s my angsty ending for a generally happy chapter (at least for this story)! Er…sorry
if I’m no good at Quidditch scenes (recently I bought the Quidditch World Cup for PS2, so that
should help me be a little more creative, since I always seem to write the same thing). Anyway,
please, I need feedback, good or bad I don’t care so long as it’s constructive.

Love

Pearl



4. Happy Birthday, Harry Potter!
--------------------------------

Disclaimer: You know the drill: if you recognize it, it ain’t mine.

*blushes in obvious embarrassment* I can’t believe I wrote ‘involucroul’ instead of ‘involucre’
(which is a real word, and it’s that kind of cocoon that bugs hide in when they change shapes, like
butterflies for example). My spell check is kinda screwed up, and I don’t blame my betas for not
noticing that (or whatever other mistakes I made in that chapter) because those poor souls were hit
with the entirety of my first FOUR chapters at once (something like sixty pages) and chapter 3
alone was a real whopper, so I understand that their attention might have wavered at certain
points. I may one day go back and fix that chapter, but I won’t promise that it will be anytime
soon. For what I said about the reviews last time, I guess I kinda phrased that wrong, because it’s
not like I’ll stop writing just because it’s not getting much response. It’s just that I tend to
get demotivated and lose interest if I don’t have any outside input. But I do love my reviews (and
reviewers!). **Liongirrl4eva:** *blushes* Thank you so much for your praise! And no,
unfortunately, I am not JKR in disguise *sigh* I’m only a 20 year old fashion designer (and I love
Fuyumi’s stories, too!). **Victoria87:** thanks for reviewing again after I posted the wrong
chapter ^____^’ Okay, I already said that the Petunia thing will be explained later on, and as for
Harry and Hermione, I also already said that in THIS (as in the Bite) I had planned on no romance
at all between H/Hr (they’ll get a clue in the seventh year sequel, which is bound to be a fluff
fest…as much as can be with all my angst) it’s just that those two get out of control when they’re
together, and I keep them from having moments like the one at the end of the last chapter, so those
will be popping up at intervals ^_^’ I have no control over them whatsoever. **Favo de Mel:**
Hey, babe, interesting how you’re the only one who picked up on the connection between what I said
about Sirius and the possible title of the sequel! You are such a rocking clever witch! I’m not
telling you what’s going to happen though! ^_^ **davaca:** Harry thinks that he can’t play
Quidditch for the simple reason that Umbridge had not limited herself to banishing from his team,
but gave him a life sentence (I believe the exact words were: Banned for life). I might be wrong
though, so correct me in that case, k? Besides, his Firebolt was still at Hogwarts, wasn’t it? Or
am I wrong about that, too? **Willow:** I absolutely love it when my readers pick up on the
little things! Smacks to you! **Demosthenes**: Cool name by the way, and no, I don’t hate you
because I happen to appreciate constructive critisism, and I still can’t believe I wrote THAT! In
any case, could you point some of the other mistakes? I might not notice them, so I’d appreciate
knowing what they were (living in Italy, my english is getting really pretty rusty) ^_^.
**Muirnin:** I was just giving my readers a little time before I hit them with the thick of it.
Already here you see a little more plot then before. I actually just wanted Harry to have a good
birthday before things start to go bad. Anyway, I noticed that JKR seems to take a bit of time in
the first chaps to get into the plot, too, or maybe that just my impression *shrugs*. I think this
chapter should satisfy you more, and, if it doesn’t, I’m sure the next one will overwhelm you, and,
if it doesn’t…well, I’m just wasted as a writer ^_^’ **MissLexiRe:** Yep, Sirius is lost,
but…possibly he’ll be found. **Bamaslamma29:** I actually have two betas (one of which is an
english major…I guess they just get distracted sometimes ^_^)

This chappy is kinda short to compensate the last one, (and the next one will be another
whoppy!). There was actually a whole piece of about two pages where Hermione spoke to someone of
slightly relevant importance, but I chose to chop it out because of the next chapter. Anyway,
enough of my ramblings, on with the fic now.

Chapter 4: Happy Birthday, Harry Potter!

The morning of the fifth day of August, Harry was awakened in what he thought was definitely not
the best way to start the day. An owl was madly pecking at his ear. He should have been trying to
shoo it away, but the second his hand went anywhere near it, it risked being nipped off.

“Stop that,” he mumbled, and, immediately, it obeyed, and bounded off to find a perch next to
Hedwig. Putting his glasses on, Harry noticed that his ear was bleeding, that it was precisely 7:30
in the morning (and therefore there must not have been many Weasleys awake) and that Ron looked as
though he’d been victim in one of those Muggle killer bird horror movies. Obviously the tawny owl
that had tried to eat his ear had gotten his fill on Ron first. Hedwig was watching the newcomer
rather wearily. Ron was snoring away peacefully, which made Harry realize that the bird was not
just insane with his carnivorous hunger, but had been trying to wake up the redhead, and, not
managing that, had moved onto Harry in much the same way.

Unfortunately, Harry’s slumber was not as heavy as Ron’s.

Looking over at the ruffled bird Harry noticed that the tawny owl was carrying two envelopes
bearing the Hogwarts seal. He was about to walk over to retrieve what had to be his and Ron’s
Hogwarts letters when a female scream reached his ears from the recesses of the room that Ginny and
Hermione were occupying. It sounded like Ginny. Ron was up instantly. Harry dashed into the girls’
room just in time to watch Hermione scream as she stared at her own Hogwarts letter. When her voice
ran out her face was still in the mold of the previous scream, her eyes not wavering from the sheet
of paper.

“What in bloody—!” Ron began sputtering as he entered the room behind Harry, just as confused as
the latter.

“I’m Prefect,” Ginny squeaked.

“What?” Ron asked surprised, as though he wasn’t sure whether he heard right.

“I’m Prefect,” she repeated, her voice gaining a little confidence as she held up a fist while
in the other hand she clutched her Hogwarts letter.

What?” Ron repeated, sounding like he’d heard right but refused to believe it.

“I’M PREFECT!” She screamed as she began jumping up and down in glee, while Ron had no idea what
to make of the news.

As though summoned by the sound of the ‘P’ word, Mrs Weasley, followed by her mischievous twins,
burst through behind Ron. “Ginny dear, what did you just say?” Mrs Weasley asked with a squeak, her
voice far too vibrant for the early hour (after all, it was the middle of summer).

“I’m prefect,” the youngest Weasley repeated again, this time opening up the palm that she’d
been fisting to show a familiar small badge with a detailed P glistening in the morning light.

Instantly, Mrs Weasley began to gush over her as was her usual. “Oh, Ginny dear, I’m so proud of
you! Oh, now all my babies have been prefects!”

“There she goes again,” mumbled Fred.

“She’s forgetting all about us again,” George added.

“But when she’s done fussing with Ginny she’ll chew our blooming arses,” they agreed. Mrs
Weasley ignored them. She was trying to cope out of—a rather speechless—Ginny what she would have
liked as a present (especially now that they were earning rather well thanks to Fred and George’s
activities) and planning a trip to Diagon Alley when Harry’s eyes fell back on Hermione during a
lull in the exchange. She was still staring open mouthed at her Hogwarts letter, looking as though
the need to breath or blink wouldn’t be able to get past whatever shock she was under until someone
decided to slap her silly, since the ongoing ordeal hadn’t even fazed her. Well, maybe that wasn’t
the most pleasant way to go about it, Harry thought.

“Hermione,” he called to her quietly. No reply. “Hermione,” he tried again, this time a little
more persistantly. Still no answer. Placing his hand on her shoulder and shaking her slightly, he
brought his lips close to her ears and enunciated her name clearly. She blinked and turned to him,
almost not seeing him at all, her mouth still agape. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” He asked,
wondering if her mind had acknowledged him at all. She simply handed him her sheet of
parchment.Quickly he read through its contents, wondering if anything horrible had happened to her
parents.

*Miss Hermione Granger,*

*Enlisted below you will find a brief description of your results for your Ordinary Wizarding
Level tests. A more detailed retelling of your examinator’s judjement will be provided to you by
your Head of House upon your arrival at Hogwarts.*

*Potions—*

*Written: O Practical: O Average: Outstanding*

*Transfiguration—*

*Written: O Practical: O Average: Outstanding*

*Charms—*

*Written: O Practical: O Average: Outstanding*

*Defense Against the Dark Arts—*

*Written: O Practical: O Average: Outstanding*

*Herbology—*

*Written: O Practical: O Average: Outstanding*

*Care of Magical Creatures:*

*Written: O Practical: O Average: Outstanding*

*Ancient Runes—*

*Written: O Average: Outstanding*

*Arithmancy—*

*Written: O Average: Outstanding*

*Astronomy—**

*Written: O Average: Outstanding*

*History of Magic—*

*Written: O Average: Outstanding*

*Muggle Studies—*

*Not listed*

*Divination—*

*Not listed*

*The above grading demonstrates that you have scored the highest number of OWLs in your grade
and in the last two decades, placing you (in percentage) next to Lily Evans in the list of highest
grading students through the centuries.*

*Based on this, and on the exceptional devotion to your position as Prefect of the last term,
such Prefect position will be extended until the end of the starting term. Attached you will find a
schedule to match your results and your choices in possible future careers and a detailed list of
what you will need. If you find that it does not suit you please inform your Head of House before
term begins to agree on a new schedule.*

In closing there was McGonagall’s trademark signature.

Harry blinked at the parchment. What was Hermione so shocked about? It wasn’t as though it came
a surprise that she’d come first on the highest grading students list. However, maybe it had been
the fact that somebody bothered to mention it that shocked her and pleased her. After all, they
were so used to her brilliance that they took it for granted. He turned and smiled at her. “This is
great, Hermione, I’m really proud of you,” he told her honestly. He’d expected nothing short of
what had been stated of her, but the fact that she’d managed to stay humble in all her successes
made Harry realize that, perhaps, following the troll in the girls bathroom might have been one of
the best things that he’d impulsively done in his life. For some reason, when he was around
Hermione the numbness that he constantly felt (especially after the dreams of his birthday night
that he still hadn’t told anyone about) completely disappeared, though most people didn’t notice
the difference, since they spent most of their time together.

“Hey, what’re you two grinning about?” Ron asked, sounding defeated and slightly angry, probably
because his status of only current Weasley Prefect had been taken from him, forcing him to share
the glory with his baby sister. Harry, ignoring his best friend’s tone of voice, allowed his grin
to grow wider.

“Hermoine got the highest score on her OWLs of the last two decades,” he announced, making
Hermione blush as red as Weasley hair and twirl a poor strand of hair around a finger, though she
was smiling proud of herself nonetheless. Before any Weasley could begin to shower her in
congratulations she turned the topic away from herself. “Ron, Harry, didn’t your letters arrive?”
As though she’d summoned it, the murdering owl swept into the room and onto her shoulder, facing
Harry with the letters attached to its leg.

“Yeah, they did,” Harry mumbled taking the envelopes from the bird and handing Ron the one with
his name on it. “Too bad the owl that brought it wasn’t very well trained in how to wake up the
person who’s supposed to receive them,” he added, gingerly touching his wounded ear. Hermione,
along with the rest, looked confused as she handed the owl a treat before it flew off and away,
probably to devour someone else.

“Aren’t you going to open them?” Hermione asked eagerly. Harry watched her a little wearily,
afraid that she wouldn’t be as proud of his scores as he was with hers, but opened his letter
nevertheless. Skipping through the heading that was very much like Hermione’s, with the exception
of his name at the top, he went straight to the grading results.

Potions—

*Written: O Practical: E/O Average: Outstanding*

*Tranfiguration—*

*Written: O Practical: O Average: Outstanding*

*Charms—*

*Written: O Practical: O Average: Outstanding*

*Defense Against the Dark Arts—*

*Written: O Practical: O* Average: Outstanding*

*Herbology—*

*Written: O Practical: O Average: Outstanding*

*Care of Magical Creatures—*

*Written: O Practical: O Average: Outstanding*

*Astronomy—*

*Written: A** Average: Acceptable*

*History of Magic—*

*Written: A Average: Acceptable*

*Divination—*

*Practical: P Average: Poor*

*Ancient Runes—*

*Not listed*

*Arithmancy—*

*Not listed*

*Muggle Studies—*

*Not listed*

**Your examinator expressed an insistant wish to give you a higher score still, however, this
in not allowed by the commitee*

***Your grade has been raised one level after taking in consideration certain distracting
events during the testing*

From then on it closed much like Hermione’s.

Harry found himself blinking again. How in Merlin’s name had he managed to get an average of ‘O’
on his Potions test? He could understand Hagrid’s class (after all, Hagrid taught it, though it
hadn’t been him for too long in Harry’s opinion). He could even understand Charms and Herbology
(after all, he was Hermione Granger’s best friend). And he could stretch that fast as to understand
even Transfiguration. But Potions? He knew he’d done rather well on his testing (especially since
it hadn’t been Snape to test him while trying to break his vials) but an ‘O’ seemed rather
pushed.

Could that be the reason for why Snape had not shown for the Occlumency training as had been the
agreement? He’d been missing for five days now, and Harry figured that it had something to do with
the dream—or rather nightmare—that had attacked him the night of his birthday, ruining a rather
perfect day that had been filled with life. Only Hermione, and her complete understanding, made him
feel something (though he didn’t know what precisely) and manage to draw him out of the state of
emptyness that his mind seemed to automatically go into. Since then, though, nothing had happened,
so, perhaps, it was Snape’s hatred of Harry that made the Potions master disobey one of
Dumbledore’s direct orders.

Or perhaps he’d gone back to the Dark Side, as he called it.

“Oy, Harry, what did you get?” Ron asked looking over his best friend’s shoulder, pulling Harry
out of his reverie. Confronting the two sheets, the redhead frowned. Harry had gotten an average of
six Os, two As, and a P. Ron had four Os (Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Herbology, and
Care of Magical Creatures), two Es (Tranfiguration and History of Magic), two As (Potions, where
Harry had gotten an unbelievable O, and Astronomy), and a D (in Divination).

Hermione congratulated them both very sincerely on their achievements, but Ron did not seem
satisfied with his. “You both did so well! I’m so proud of you both! Let me see your schedules,”
she said as she grabbed both their result papers and turned them over to look at their weekly
timetables that had been drawn there. After a quick scan she cursed. “Oh, bugger!” She huffed
loudly. “The only classes that we all share are Charms, Care of Magical Creatures, Herbology, and
Defense Against the Dark Arts, then Harry and I have Potions and Transfiguration on our own,” she
complained. She scanned the papers once more, hoping to see that she’d missed something. She knit
her eyebrows. “Ron,” she turned to him, “your schedule is very unusual,” she told him.

He shrugged and snatched his paper back, seeming uncomfortable. Fred and George looked over
their brother’s shoulder to see what was so unusual about his schedule, and laughed out loud.

“That” Fred started, “is the schedule of someone who doesn’t have a bloody clue as to what he
wants to do,” he explained.

“Or,” George added, “the schedule of someone who didn’t get enough OWLs to get what he
wanted.”

“Sod off, you two,” Ron told them as he crossed his arms and looked cross himself.

“Hey, Mum!” Ginny intervened, trying to save the moment, “when are we going to Diagon Alley?”
She asked, in an attempt to divert the conversation off her temperamental brother. She was finding
out that the random angry outbursts seemed to be a regular step in a boy’s growth, though it would
have seemed strange that Harry would go through it before Ron.

“We’ll floo as soon as you’re all ready,” she told them, as all the boys exited the room with
the intention of preparing for their first outing in nearly a week.

°*°*°

*There was something definitely wrong.*

This was the first thought that had run through Harry and Hermione’s mind as they stepped
through the wall that had just opened up to reveal Diagon Alley.

Already back in the Leaky Cauldron people had been rather subdued when the Weasleys, Harry, and
Hermione had stepped through it, but, then again, that could have just been because everyone had to
acknowledge Voldemort’s return.

That, though, did not explain why, in Merlin’s name, the street that had always been populated
by hords of Hogwarts students in need of supplies for the beginning of the year was so incredibly
quiet.

Full of people, but incredibly quiet. Everyone shuffled around, their eyes shifting in every
direction, trying to keep any and all necessary conversation down to a hushed minimum. If anyone
crossed Harry’s eyes, their own would widen and search for anything else to look at, generally
finding the floor a good choice. Mrs Weasley seemed suddenly uncomfortable, but, to Harry, it was
obvious that she was trying to feign ignorance or nonchalance, attempting to not let any of the
underage wizards in her care notice that something was off, forcing herself to sound as sharp and
chipper as usual, though her mother goose expression seemed rather obviously forced to him. He knew
that she was aware of what was going on, and he also knew that she had no intention in having him,
or anyone else, know.

“Harry,” Hermione called to him in a whisper as they passed Florean Fortecues Ice Cream Shop (is
that what it’s called in english? Not sure). He turned to her as the both of them slowed their pace
down enough to put the right distance between themselves and their friends, so that they couldn’t
be overheard and wouldn’t arouse notions of suspicious behaviour. “Harry, did you notice that
everyone is hiding newspapers?” Hermione asked him, as she looked around with a frown of puzzlement
and suspicion.

Harry followed her gaze to the few people occupying the tables outside the ice cream parlor, and
realized that his friend was right. At the sight of him they would hide copies of the paper under
the table, sneaking it out of his eyes reach just in time. He nodded to her. “It looks like the
Daily Prophet,” he told her, his judgement based on the type of parchment and the style of
heading.

“Sunday Prophet,” Hermione corrected. “Today’s Sunday, and the Sunday Prophet gives a detailed
retelling of the most important events of the week. But why are they hiding it? What could have
happened?” She wondered out loud, just as a shop owner grabbed an entire stack of the
aforementioned paper out of her selling shelves and nervously took it to a back room. Over the spot
that had been occupied by the stack of papers was a sign reading:

*As of August 1st the selling of newspapers or informational magazines has been
strictly forbidden to underaged wizards or witches by order of the Minister of Magic. No such items
will be sold to any wizard or witch, of age or not, after the hour of 11:00 am. All adults are
advised to not leave any copies of papers uncostudied.*

The seal of the Ministry was at the bottom of the warning poster.

It had just turned 11.

“They’ve gone bloody mental!” Ron exclaimed upon reading it.

“They’re trying to hide something,” Hermione spoke out loud.

“What?” Ron squeaked, completely startled by her statement.

“It’s like the Quibbler. Umbridge forbid people from reading it so that nobody would know the
truth about Voldemort,” she ignored Ron’s shudder, thinking how annoying it must have been for
Harry to be subjected to it continously since first year, “but we all know that it’s the worse
thing to do. Remember how everybody managed to read it somehow? All the students here have already
read the Sunday Prophet, and if it hadn’t been forbidden they might have all ignored it to begin
with.”

“Yeah, but what are they hiding?” Harry wondered out loud, afraid that it had something to do
with his nightmare.

“Honestly, Harry, I think it’s pretty safe to say that it has to do with you,” Hermione stated
dryly. She knew there was no point in skirting around the matter. Harry was always able to pick up
on it and he never liked it when he did. He also had a way of finding and figuring out things on
his own. She knew she was just stating the obvious. Harry gave a sound of acknowledgement as he
remembered how Dumbledore had promised that he would not keep things from Harry anymore. If he
hadn’t drawn himself into his numbness he would have felt betrayed.

Hermione sighed next to him. “It’s no wonder that there are hardly any first years today,” she
whispered, looking dejected and hopeless. Harry looked around, noticing for the first time that
there were hardly any fresh faces around. “I bet all of these are Muggle born, and they don’t know
what’s going on, but the atmosphere scares them.” She tried to smile at the uncertain Muggle
parents, that seemed out of place and confused, trying to encourage them, thinking that, for them,
this could not have been as it had been for her on her first Diagon Alley visit, where everything
had been bright and new and completely magical.

As Mrs Weasley said that it would be best to head to Gringott’s first Hermione caught the sight
of a couple with their son. They were looking around, curious yet out of place. “You go ahead, I
already have what I need, I’ll meet you later,” she told them. Harry gave her a curious look.
“Prefect instincts,” she murmured to him as she turned in the direction of the—obviously—Muggle
family. Harry didn’t want her to go, but didn’t stop her. Hermione seemed reluctant to leave him
alone, but she any case, so he followed the Weasleys into the Wizarding bank known as Gringotts. He
noticed that the goblins looked even more cross then usual.

Had Hermione been there, he would have tried to conjure a reason of this with her, but she had
remained outside and had been left feeling along in a sea of Weasleys, wondering what had caught
his best friends attention enough to keep her from consiping with him.

*°*°*

“Were your Prefect instincts right?” Harry asked Hermione as she parted from a red headed Muggle
holding a piece of parchment, his voice sounded distant, and a bit hurt. Being alone with the
Weasleys must have been harder on him than she thought it would be.

Taking hold of his hand and squeezing it tightly she grinned at him before releasing his
fingers. “More than I thought,” she told him in a whisper. “More than you’ll know, Harry.” She saw
his eyebrows furrow at her, but he shrugged it off like she knew he would. Better this way. She
needed time to think a few things over.

“So,” Mrs Weasley drew their attention, “where should we go first?” She asked, obviously
invigorated by the feel of a few heavy Galleons in her pocket, glad that she could finally spend a
little money on her children.

Hermione caught sight of Harry watching the sign forbidding the sale of newspapers to underage
wizards as he said, “I’d like to visit Fred and George.” He was hoping that, perhaps, since they
were in the Order, they might tell them what was going on. Harry looked at Hermione and noticed
that she looked like she could already begin to guess what.

Mrs Weasley was suddenly apprehensive, but agreed nevertheless, though she tried to make the
short walk much longer than it would have been by making comments on the minimal changes of Diagon
Alley, but not managing in the least to derail them from their destination.

The shop was incredibly…overwhelming. Tacky and exaggerated, just like the brothers that owned
it, and loud and full of eager joiful students and filled with life in general, the only thing
resembling the Diagon Alley that they all knew and loved. And it was filled with a ridiculous
amount of…well, ridiculous things.

There was an entire section for the fireworks that had terrified Hogwarts only months prior
(though the scale had been diminished), and Canary Creams, and Jelly Beans (turned your legs into
jelly for the duration of time they stayed in your mouth), and fake wands, and countless of other
things. Thankfully, Hermione thought, the Binoculars from Harry’s party had not been patented
yet.

As they stepped through the brightly colored (fuschia and lime green with lemon yellow and
cobalt blue) shop they saw George at the cash register, and Fred demonstrating several items to
some third years, who, having seen the possibilities the year prior, were studying intently
everything that was shown to them. Harry deflated. They seemed to be completely unaware of their
entrance, and, even after acknowledging them they would probably say ‘hello’ and go straight back
to their clients.

“Hey mates, been waiting for you for the last few days!” Fred shouted from the far corner,
stepping forward, leaivng the third years to marvel at the display that he’d kept at his shoulders
while speaking.

“Hey, Mum!” George called to the matron. “Come help me with the register while Fred shows them
the store, will you?” He made it rather obvious that she really didn’t have a choice. Mrs Weasley
threw her twins a skeptical suspecting look, but moved away from her two youngest children and
thier friends, making her way toward one half of the Mischievious Miscreants that were her sons.
Fred immediately turned to them secretly. “Come into the back room with me,” he ordered, moving
quickly around the milling students, and opened a small door in another corner. Quickly they all
stepped in behind him, Harry and Hermione surprised to find a room twice the size of the shop,
cleanly kept, and full of strange looking, bright inventions, most of which seemed Muggle based.
There was an endless amount of rubber duckies. Fred’s behaviour, suddenly so serious, made it quite
clear that some answers would be given.

“Harry,” he started, “Dumbledore wanted us to give you these,” he stated as he pulled a small
stack of newspapers and an envelope from a hidden drawer in the table that was at the center of the
room.

“We’ve been collecting them for you for the last few days,” he explained, “but you don’t need to
read them all, the Sunday paper is the most informed one yet. We expected you earlier, but we found
out that the Ministry’s been filtering the mail. They read everything that goes everywhere. That’s
why your Hogwarts letters weren’t addressed to Grimmauld Place. McGonagall sent the owl that the
Order uses to send messages to Grimmauld Place when nobody can bring the news directly from
Hogwarts so that you couldn’t be traced.”

Wordlessly, he took the envelope and pulled the parchment out to be read, recognizing right away
the complicated flourishes. It was Dumbledore’s hand.

*Harry,*

*Certain events have happened on the night of your birthday that you need to be informed about
since I believe the Ministry will try to keep them from you in every way possible.*

*No more secrets*

*Albus*

Nodding to himself he looked at the papers, his’s indecision on whether or not to trust the
Headmaster’s promise was dented, but not destroyed. He looked at Hermione, hoping that she would
read the news that he was supposed to be told about for him. Wordlessly, she picked up the paper on
top of the stack, the Sunday Prophet, and, clearing her throat, she began to read out loud.

*“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY POTTER!*

*“On the night of July 31st the dozen Death Eaters that had been captured only a
few weeks prior escaped. At the time the prizoners were being guarded by an elite team of
Aurors.*

*At the estimated hour of 10:20 pm, an average of six well known Death Eaters, whom the
Ministry has been after for months, irrupted into the fort of Azkaban accompanied by an army of
Dementors. The Aurors managed to keep them back, almost forcing them into a retreat, when,
misteriously, the prizoners were provided with their wands by another Death Eater who had remained
in the shadow till that moment (many believe he may have been an unregistered Animagi). At a
disadvantage, the Aurors were forced to retreat and escape, however, three of them received the
Dementor’s Kiss and are now lost.*

*Among the Auror ranks there were two casualties reported, and a full of thirteen of them is
still in St Mungos in critical conditions. The Death Eaters suffered less losses, two gravely
injured, and no deaths.*

*The Aurors were prepared for a breech attempt of the fort on the Death Eaters’ part, as well
as a special appearance from the Dementors, they did not, however, know that the prizoners’ wands
had not been broken. They had, instead, been kept in the safe that held the captives’
possessions.*

*Surprisingly, the intruders were aware of this, and were also informed on the safe’s opening
charms and protective spells, making them able to retrieve the objects easily.*

*Upon further investigation it was discovered that, under order of a signed document from
Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, the distruction of the condemned’s wands had been strictly
forbidden. The Minister will soon be interrogated on the matter, and, be his response not accepted,
trialed before the Wizengamot, where is title, and his freedom, will be placed on the line. His
entire staff denied the knowledge of such a document, making the Minister’s position even more
precarious.*

*However, as it is, most believe that the entire ordeal will reflect itself in much heavier
terms on someone else. Evidently, it was not by chance that July 31st had been picked as
the right day for breaching. The date coincided with Harry Potter’s sixteenth birthday.*

*To prove that it was not left up to coincidence, in Bellatrix Lestrange’s cell, on the cold
stone wall, written in blood were the words: “Happy Birthday, Harry Potter! Enjoy your
last.”*

To be continued.

Heheheheheh! The plot thickens! Yes, there IS a plot! Well, you know the drill, just tell me
what you think and I’ll love you forever ^_^.

Love

Pearl



5. Exile to Grimmauld Place
---------------------------

Harry Potter and the Bite of No Mortibus

Chapter 5: Exile to Grimmauld Place

“Come now, Harry dear,” Mrs Weasley called in a hurry as she rushed all of them out the door.
“We’ll miss the Muggle bus if we don’t hurry.” She locked the door behind him as he walked out.
Thankfully, she’d agreed on shrinking their trunks until they reached platform 9 ¾, since four huge
wizarding trunks weren’t easy to pull onto a bus that would only wait two seconds—at the most—in
one stop.

Mr Weasley had announced that Dumbledore thought it best to stay in crowded places as much as
possible to avoid any seriously dangerous encounters. Despite the fact that everyone was now aware
of Voldemort’s return, Voldemort was still more than capable of waiting patiently for the right
time and place, which so far, had not come yet. Harry would not be escorted by the Aurors or Order
of the Phoenix members this time as the last time had aroused far too many suspicions among certain
Slytherins who thought it best to tell their Death Eater parents.

Harry was sure that Mr Weasley’s choice of transportation was not based only on the amount of
people carried by it. Mr. Weasley was as fascinated by the idea of a Muggle bus as he was with
anything Muggle.

Truthfully though, Harry missed the ruckus that came with the usual escort. Even Fred and George
hadn’t been able to come as they had to open up the shop, and Tonks hadn’t been around much because
of her ‘new assignment’. He missed the clatter of sound that followed them everywhere and generally
always managed to get him away from dark thoughts.

Oh, yes, lately he’d been thinking quite a bit ever since he received that smuggled edition of
the Sunday Prophet. He’d read the entire blasted thing from cover to cover, and didn’t gain much in
respect to the article on the front page. There were only a couple of interesting inserts about how
the unbroken wands had been kept, and how Percy Weasley, Ministry’s secretary, “had no knowledge
whatsoever of what had transpired behind Fudge’s closed door, where all the top secret documents
were signed, outside his line of sight”.

Bullocks! Harry was sure that the decadent Weasley was perfectly aware of the entire ordeal, and
was just trying to keep himself covered and protected. Harry didn’t mention anything to the
Weasleys, and Hermione had helped him remove the article from their sight. Of course Fred, George,
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley must have been aware of it and were trying to hide it, if poorly, but everyone
thought it best that Ron and Ginny didn’t know.

Hermione felt the deepest disgust towards Percy, and agreed that Percy must have been aware of
what had happened. She didn’t dare say much though, only talking about it on the rare occasions
that she and Harry were alone and she was certain that nobody was within earshot.

“Oh, here it is!” Mr Weasley shouted as the well known red vehicle came round the curb and he
began to call to it, frantically waving his arms in the middle of the street and ordering it to
stop. It did so even though the bus driver, a stout man who looked like he’d been sitting behind a
steering wheel too long, looked at the wizard as though he was rather mental.

Not that he wasn’t, of course.

Harry followed everyone up the high steps and toward the very back, where he, Ron, Ginny, and
Hermione, took the four seats lined up under the rear window. Ron and Ginny kept looking around
open mouthed, noticing that there weren’t any round tables with chairs that fell over at every
bump, that it ran within the speed limits, and that there wasn’t a man named Ernie or Stan talking
their ear off, which apparently was quite normal on wizarding buses.

Harry however was still absorbed in his thoughts. The last few weeks had been so strange. Since
the Diagon Alley episode, people were constantly popping in and out of Grimmauld Place, stopping
only for a few whispered sentences, and then popping out to do something that Harry would probably
never be aware about.

Dumbledore spent nearly the entire day—and a hefty portion of the night—in the kitchen of the
home, speaking to everyone and anyone that he thought needed to be heard, Harry hadn’t seen
anything but a few wisps of his white beard disappearing around a corner to talk to someone
secretively.

Snape was probably the most frequent visitor, and their hushed discussions went on for hours at
times. However, Snape had never mentioned Occlumency—he hadn’t even so much as graced him with a
glance of acknowledgement, but maybe that wasn’t as unusual as it might have been—and Dumbledore
didn’t seem to care or notice. Obviously they thought their conspired thoughts were much more
pressing, urgent matters, than Harry Potter, the boy who was in the middle of it all, the boy who
had to die because of it, or become a murderer. Maybe he was being selfish and petty, but he
thought he should have been made a part of it.

What really picked at his curiosity, however, was Iridis Larvae. She was very often a
participant to those quiet conversations, seeming to know more than both the men put together, and
even more frequently, she stayed with the Headmaster for ridiculously long stretches of time, most
not even speaking, but rather looking at each other (though that might not have been the most
adapted choice of words since the Oculus Immensus had no real eyes) and seeming to read each
other’s minds.

Harry wanted to know what was going on, he wanted to know what they were not telling him.

Then, suddenly, a thought struck him.

Maybe they didn’t know.

For some reason, he felt the swelling urge to talk to Dumbledore about his reoccurring dream of
one of his best friends dying.

*°*°*

The arrival at King’s Cross was much like every other in his previous years, rushed.

There was Molly Weasley jogging ahead of the four teens (each pushing a heavy cart that
attracted strange stares from the Muggles) shouting to her husband who was panting, trying to keep
the pace at the back of the line. “Hurry, Arthur or we’ll miss it!”

“Oh, if that Muggle bus hadn’t hit that poor man on that two wheeled chair crossing on those
strange stripes in the road we would have had plenty of time!” He huffed in a complaint of the
senior citizen in a wheelchair that had been nearly killed while crossing the street.

The two of them attracted even more attention than the trunks and the cages of strange animals
(even Pig seemed quiet compared to the two).

It was 10:55 when they all crossed the barrier and stepped onto platform 9 ¾, and Harry, along
with his friends, shoved their trunks onto the train as quickly as they could, found a compartment
that looked empty enough, and all together stuck their heads out the window to say their last
salutations to the Weasley parents.

“Try not to get into too much trouble this year!” Mrs Weasley shouted at the Hogwarts Express,
but none of them bothered to give her a reassuring answer.

In Harry’s mind the admonishment from his best friend’s mother sounded rather frustrated, and
scared, as though she knew something was going to happen, but was not aware of what it was. Nobody
was.

Hermione was the only one who, like him, thought twice about what Mrs. Weasley had said. Ron and
Ginny were probably too used to her.

In any case, Ginny had already pulled out her textbooks to review a little more before getting
to the castle, and Ron had pulled out his set of Wizard’s Chess, which Hermione admonished him for.
“Ron, we have to go to the Prefects Compartment! You, too, Ginny! You’re the new Prefect,
remember?”

The siblings let out identical sighs as they stood and began to exit the cabin. Hermione looked
back at Harry. “We’ll only be a minute,” she offered, making it sound like an apology.

“I know,” Harry sighed, remembering how Dumbledore had said that the only reason Harry hadn’t
been made Prefect had been because the ancient Headmaster thought the boy had already enough on his
mind. He didn’t like being left behind, but maybe he could take the opportunity to think some more
(it was much easier to think without the Weasleys around). “Go,” he told her.

She looked back at him uncertainly, biting her lip as though the thought of him by himself in
that cabin left her more than a little uneasy. “Are you sure?” She asked regretfully, knowing that
she had no choice in the matter in any case.

“Yeah, no problem,” he replied with a half smile. “You’ll only be a minute, you said so
yourself,” he reassured her, almost feeling the urge to chuckle. She smiled at him, and turned to
follow the Weasleys.

Now, the question in Harry’s mind was, should he go talk to Dumbledore about his dreams, or wait
until he found out more about what was going on? If he was to take the previous year as an example,
he could hope that there would be a long period of time still before any plan was put into action
by Voldemort. After all, his other infamous session of dreams started more than five months before
it was acted upon.

Then again, that could just have been practice, and this time Voldemort could be doing this at a
much quicker pace, especially now that he’d freed the Death Eaters from Azkaban and they were at
his beck and call.

Harry’s question was why Hermione, though?

True, she was one of his best friends, but so was Ron. Harry could very well see, from
Voldemort’s point of view that Sirius had been the right person to torture Harry with. Not only was
Sirius Harry’s Godfather and only remainder of a family, he was also out of Hogwarts and out of
contact with Harry, allowing the boy’s anxiety to grow over time. Tricking Harry had been a good
way to draw Sirius out of Grimmauld Place.

Hermione, though, seemed like a far lesser target to Voldemort.

Harry doubted it was because of her origins. Because Hermoine was a Muggle born, that should
have made her a lesser opponent than a Pureblood in Voldemort’s eyes, like, for example, Ron and
Ginny, or Neville (who represented the other half of the prophecy), or Lupin (who was also an
important Order of the Phoenix member), or even Dumbledore or Harry himself.

It could have just been because Hermione was one of his best friends, and therefore one of the
people he cared about most in the world. And maybe Voldemort thought her weak because she was a
girl, but Hermione had proved time and time again that she was not weak, and in any case, Voldemort
himself had more than one female on his side.

Like Bellatrix Lestrange.

Harry still didn’t want to recognize the fact that he’d used an Unforgivable on her. Even
stranger was the fact that, no matter how enraged he’d been, he still hadn’t managed to make his
curse very strong. Harry had thought very often of this in the light of late events.

When the time would come to face Voldemort, Harry understood very well that he could not count
on a killing curse or on any of that sort, which was both a relief and a worry. How in Merlin’s
name was he to kill him otherwise? He gave a mental shrug, maybe he would find out in Occlumency if
Snape ever decided to start teaching him again. Besides, he was sure that Voldemort’s first choice
in what to send at Harry when the time would be right was nothing other than the Avada Kadavra.
Since their wands had the same core however, he couldn’t use it anyway.

There seemed to be no end to the question as Harry turned it over and over in his mind countless
times until the plump lady with the Trolley of Wonders came by.

It was strange that his friends hadn’t come back yet, but he figured they’d been held behind by
some pointless assignment or another, so he stocked up on goods for himself and his companions as
well, and went straight back to his brooding, this time chewing on a Chocolate Frog.

He was numbly aware of people going back and forth in front of his compartment, many of them
halting before it—as though wondering whether or not step in and speak to him—and then continuing
on their own way. He didn’t know if it was because they’d heard of the Department of Mysteries, or
if they thought that he was mentally preparing a plan to destroy Voldemort, or if they’d heard of
his loss, or if he just looked like he didn’t want to be bothered. Whatever the reason, he was glad
of the lack of interruptions.

Cho Chang had walked by (as far as he managed to count while completely ignoring her) four times
with a couple of followers already. Oh, there was the fifth. He hadn’t even bothered to try and see
what expression she was wearing. It was none of his business anymore, and he honestly didn’t care
anyhow.

“HARRY!” Shouted a breathless Hermione as she burst through the door of the compartment, making
Harry jump out of his skin. She looked like she’d just made a mad dash across the length of the
train. “I’m so sorry it took so long, but the new Head Boy kept on trying to grope the Head Girl,
and it took us forever to get all the issues over with, and then Malfoy was being his usual self so
it was really hard to finish a conversation” she rushed in sense of explanation.

“Yeah,” Ginny panted behind her, entirely out of breath. “To compensate Hermione turned our
patrol into a race against time! It felt like we were running some bloody marathon!” She stood
leaning against the door (Ron in much the same position next to her), trying to regain her breath,
before calmly going to her seat to retrieve her books and picking up where she left off before they
had gone to the Prefect’s compartment. Ginny actually didn’t look that upset as to getting back so
early.

Ron looked much worse for the wear as he stepped to his Wizard’s Chess set and looked at it
dejectedly. He really didn’t seem to want to do much of anything at the moment, which suited Harry
just fine.

Hermione hadn’t even been allowed to sit back down next to Harry, when the compartment door was
pulled open, this time by a sneering Malfoy. “Skipping patrol, aren’t you?” He looked like the very
portrait of the Cheshire Cat (the one that Hermione always said was by far the worst character in
the Lewis Carroll world).

“No, actually,” Ginny replied calmly, not offended in the least and with her breath completely
back to normal, her eyes not leaving the page they were on. “We’ve finished already. Why? Haven’t
you?” Despite the fact that her tone was cordial, it came across as rather insulting, which had
been her intent in the first place. Ginny looked like she was spending too much time around
Hermione, considering that it had been a trademark Granger comment.

Malfoy, apparently not knowing how to counter it, turned his sights elsewhere. “So Potty, enjoy
your birthday present?” He asked maliciously, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards at the very
thought.

Harry didn’t flinch in the slightest. He didn’t even give him the cross look, though Ron looked
ready to pull out his wand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry watched the half smirk
twitch away before turning his sights to the quickly changing scenery outside the window.

“Oh, you mean, you haven’t heard?” Harry, still without looking at him, shrugged his shoulders
carelessly. “You haven’t heard that interesting story about the Dementors back in Azkaban?” Harry
knew perfectly well from the beginning that he’d been talking about the break-in at the Wizarding
Prison, but he still shrugged his shoulders, his eyes not leaving the passing sights in front of
his window.

“Or is it that you just don’t care, after your little doggie died?” Right there, that felt like
a knife twisting in his gut, but Harry refused to show that it had affected him. And, in any case,
Harry was more and more convinced by the day that Sirius was lost, not necessarily dead. He
shrugged again.

“It’s funny that you should be acting so calm after an Unforgivable,” now, how in bloody hell
had he known that? Well, it wasn’t very hard to figure out how actually. It simply meant that
Malfoy was still in contact with his father.

Thankfully, Hermione saved him from having to react to the last comment, “Don’t you have to
finish your patrol, Malfoy? I wouldn’t want our Head Girl to find out you lacked in your first
assignment,” Hermione told him calmly and cordially, though it came across with a definite edge.
How she managed to do that, nobody knew—except, maybe, Ginny.

The Slytherin walked out wordlessly after spitting at Hermione’s feet. Ginny managed to grab
hold of her brother’s shoulder before the redhead got his badge taken away.

Harry felt his teeth grind at what he’d just done, but it was quickly washed away by a feeling
of shame as he felt Hermione’s eyes on him, Malfoy’s use of the word ‘Unforgivable’ not escaping
her. Harry refused to look at her, but her unwavering stare was making him squirm nervously. He
didn’t know what she was thinking, and he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want the last person who
treated him normally to stop behaving like herself around him.

Sighing in defeat, he stood up and walked out of the compartment, the air in there seeming to
suffocate him with questions he was not ready to answer, and might never be. There were too many
regrets, too much grief, too much despair and self loathing. Too much guilt about everything.

Walking with his arms crossed in front of him as though they were a shield of some sort, he had
barely taken three long strides when he heard the compartment door open and one of his best
friends’ familiar steps tapping quickly up to him.

“Harry!” She called, making him stop in his tracks.

He took a deep sigh before turning around to face her, his arms still protecting him as he
prayed that she wouldn’t ask about Malfoy’s mention of an Unforgivable. “Yeah?”

She gave a long annoyed sigh at him, which, strangely, seemed to calm him a little. “Look,
Harry, I can only try and guess at what happened after I passed out in the Department of Mysteries,
and I won’t say that I don’t want to know,” she began, her tone belying something other than her
frustration at his lack of sensibility sometimes. Harry knew that she felt wounded that he didn’t
understand her state of mind at the moment, probably thinking that he should have known her better
by now, “but I’m not going to force you into telling me.” She told him. “It’s not the first time
that you keep something from me, or Ron, for that matter, but you’ve always let us in on it when
the time was right, and I trust your judgement in this.” He nodded, his eyes fixed to the ground,
as his mind played with the, rather terrifying, idea that, if he ever told her or Ron what he’d
done he’d end up losing both.

“Harry,” Hermione called him again, this time softly. He made a sort of grunt of
acknowledgement, but kept his steady gaze pointed at the ground between their feet. “Harry,” her
tone annoyed this time, and he felt, more than saw, her placing her hands on her hips in a manner
that reminded him strongly of Mrs Weasley as she got ready to shout a lecture at one of her
misbehaving children. He still didn’t look at her. He heard her sigh in defeat as she dropped her
arms from her hips and brought them to cup his face. “Look, at me Harry,” she ordered him, and he
felt the urge to bolt away, but this time did as told.

She was watching him, the same way she watched him when he needed to be understood and she knew
she was the only one who could provide that. Full of compassion, and understanding, and trust in
his decision. She looked worried for him, she always did, and her eyes were pleading with him to
understand *her,* at least once in his life, and understand what she was trying to tell him.
“Harry, you know I could never be ashamed of you, right? You know that?”

He tore his eyes from her as he turned to look out the window in the corridor, taking his face
out of the safe shelter that was provided by her hands. “Yes, you could,” he told the window
quietly, “and you will.”

“Harry!” She exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air in frustration, making him to look at her
again. She was wearing an exasperated, yet amused smile. She looked at him while shaking her head
in disbelief. “Harry, you’re not a saint, you know. You’ve done stupid things, and broken rules,
and been an all around prat several times, and I don’t blame you for it. It’s who you are and it’s
part of your humanity,” she started, and kept on going before he could say that what they were
talking about was different from a few broken rules. “Harry, I don’t blame you for the mistakes
that you’re bound to make. And I definitely will never blame you for something you did in a moment
of desperate anger,” she’d phrased it rather perfectly. Desperate anger. That had been exactly what
he’d felt when he’d chased after Bellatrix Lestrange.

She had his complete attention now. “I don’t know what I would have done if I’d been in your
place,” she whispered, this time her turn to look out the window, her eyes bright and watery, maybe
from a trick of the light, maybe from the thought of watching a man she loved fall through that
veil that she’d claimed as dangerous. “I think I might have lost my mind and broken down in
hysterics,” she seemed ashamed to confess that, but he knew very well that it would never have been
the case. “But you, Harry…you react to this so differently from me or other people. Things happen
to you and you fight back and you try to protect the people that you care about,” her face was
nearly entirely hidden by her hair as she stared at her feet, her face turned to the side.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled, “my people-saving thing, right?” He spoke bitterly.

Her head snapped up. “No!” She whispered outraged, upset that he was refusing to see what she
was saying. “Harry…I should have never said that, I was just trying to make you think about the
situation a little more clearly.”

“You were right though.” She was always right, and he never listened to her. Prat.

“Harry, I don’t blame you for running to the Department of Mysteries because I know you were too
worried about Sirius to even see straight, and I won’t blame you for anything you might have done
when you saw him cross that veil, because I know that whatever you did, it was because you cared so
much about him and you didn’t want to except what had happened,” she sounded exasperated and
desperate to get the point across. “And your people saving thing…Harry, it’s probably the most
beautiful thing about you,” she said in a whisper. “If it hadn’t been for that, I would have
probably died in first year, locked in a bathroom with a troll.” She joked. “I wouldn’t want you to
change that, Harry,” she told him, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lip, “just…try to
consider things a little more.”

Harry sighed. It was pointless to argue with her, and her little speech had actually aroused a
wish in him to tell her what *had* happened to get the burden off his mind for a while. And he
should have told her and Ron about it before they heard it from a Slytherin or other. He just
wasn’t ready yet. And it terrified him to think that he could scare the two of them away. They were
all that he had left. His only link to sanity.

As though sensing his thoughts, Hermione stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his
shoulders, a little awkwardly since his arms were still crossed in front of him. Harry had never
been one to take well to physical displays of affection, having lacked them his entire life, but
she knew that words weren’t getting through him, and she didn’t know how else to make him
understand that she was his friend, and she would never abandon him. “You’re not going to lose us
Harry,” she told him, standing on her tiptoes and trying to seep that knowledge into him.

And, slowly, he felt his arms unfold between them, and come to cross behind her back, drawing
her into a real, intimate hug, as he clung to her as though he was clinging to the last bit of
sanity left in him.

“You’re never going to lose me Harry, I’ll always be here when you look for me,” she whispered
quietly. In the back of his mind he knew, with absolute certainty, that this was wrong. He had no
right to cling to her, he should have put distance between them, making her free of the prison that
was their friendship to live her life safely and happily away from him and the danger that being
near him implied.

He just couldn’t though. It was selfish of him, but he couldn’t let go of his friendship to her,
or Ron.

Numbly, he heard several footsteps approaching, and, with a sigh, they both relented in their
comforting embrace, Harry realizing that all the hugs that Hermione had been giving him in the last
few weeks (more than she’d given in five years of friendship) were as much for her sake as for his
own.

Pulling apart, they noticed that the steps were provided by Cho Chang, closely followed by three
other girls, one of which they recognized as Marietta, the girl who had told High Inquisitor
Umbridge about the secret DA meetings. Cho was wearing a rather pinched expression as she passed
by, as though she was trying to look like she didn’t care but failing rather miserably.

Harry found that he was completely unaffected by this.

He wasn’t, however, when he saw her, and her friends, sneering in a rather ugly manner as they
passed by Hermione, Marietta’s lip curled in disgust, probably remembering the “Sneak” incident. He
felt his jaw tightening.

“Let’s go, Harry,” he heard her say in a tight voice as she tugged on his hand, pulling him in
the direction of their compartment. “Ron and Ginny must be worried.” She had obviously not
forgotten the ‘Sneak’ incident, either.

As they walked away, he distinctly heard Marietta whisper loudly to Cho, “I *told* you
there was something going on!” Hermione tugged on his hand a little harder, her walk a little
stiffer.

Harry felt that there was something going on there that he’d missed somewhere along the way.

*°*°*

Harry stepped onto the platform behind his friends after the Hogwarts Express pulled at a stop,
tugging at the neck of his robes. In the last few hours a strange kind of anxiety had taken over
him, and it had nothing to do with his conversation with Hermione earlier. It had come over him as
he’d looked out the window to changing scenery. It had been a beautiful day actually, clear and
devoid of clouds, the sky a startling blue. It might have inspired tranquillity in most people, but
Harry couldn’t help but feel that it was mocking him, provoking a strange sense of foreboding.

The sun was beginning to set behind the castle of Hogwarts, streaking the sky behind it a deep
vermilion fading into orange and dark purple hues. It made for a beautiful sight, and many girls
behind him were heard sighing and commenting its charm, yet, as he felt the bitter chilly wind whip
sharply at his robes, he couldn’t help but think that it spoke of nothing but pain. And loss. And
it only added to his uneasiness, making the horrid image of Hermione’s dead face resurface from the
recesses of his dark dreams.

He chanced a sideway look at her, and realized, to his surprise that she was looking at it with
apprehension as well.

Hagrid’s booming voice made him jump and pull away from his thought as he could be heard
shouting to the first years to go to him. “’ey, ‘Arry!” He greeted him from afar. “Ron, ‘Ermione.”
His salutation seemed a little less enthusiastic than it might have been, but maybe it could have
been from the small amount of first years that were gathering around him.

They waved back to him, and headed for the horseless carriages, which weren’t really horseless,
but rather pulled by Thestrals, creatures that were invisible to anyone who hadn’t been witness to
a death.

Harry, who’d been walking rather very close to Hermione, heard her whisper to herself in a
surprised hush, “I can’t see them.”

Before asking what she was talking about, he heard his name being called by a familiar voice,
and turned to see the clumsy figure of Neville Longbottom running to catch up to them. His nose was
back to normal, Harry noticed. Luna was closely behind him, looking at them with her wide eyed
stare, holding a copy of the Quibbler, which had actually become a rather reliable magazine after
that article about Harry, and fixing her unwavering stare on each of them as she greeted them.

The carriage ride was actually rather very quiet, since Hermione seemed to be wrapped up in her
own thoughts, her mind plagued by one of those questions that only she could answer, and Harry
didn’t know how to react to Neville, while everyone else didn’t know how to react to Harry.

The only one that seemed completely at ease seemed Luna, who was idly staring at her copy of the
Quibbler upside down and singing ‘Weasley is our king’ in a whisper.

Thankfully, the ride was short and over quickly, and everyone practically jumped out of the
carriage to run to the Great Hall, Harry’s feeling of foreboding increasing as he watched the sky
again. To his surprise he felt a slight twitch on his forehead.

But…at Hogwarts. It wasn’t possible, was it? Unless, of course, Voldemort managed to get another
of his followers to teaching against the Dark Arts. It had already happened twice.

With that queasy feeling settling in his stomach he made his way to the Gryffindor table,
ignoring the sighs of those staring transfixed at the inspiring sight above them that showed
through the enchanted ceiling, and sat down, waiting for the first years to enter, not actually
paying attention to anything around him, in his mind the question of what this heavy feeling in his
stomach was and the question of who might be the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher ringing
in his mind.

As he was about to scan the faculty’s table for a new face, he heard Hermione gasp next to him
and grasp his arm strongly to catch his attention. “Harry! Look!” She was staring fixedly at
someone at the teachers table, somewhere near Dumbledore’s seat, and Harry saw immediately who she
was pointing out to him.

Not like she was hard to miss.

Sitting next to the space generally occupied by McGonagall, was a thin, ghostly, ethereal
looking creature, with milk colored skin, strikingly white hair, and empty white eyes, wearing an
opal colored robe. Among the colorful teachers she stood out like a beacon. Harry recognized her
unsettling looks instantly. Iridis Larvae, the Oculus Immensus that had been appearing in and out
of Grimmauld Place since the first day he’d returned there.

“Dumbledore must have gotten her to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts,” he heard Hermione
whisper in awe, trying to picture the things that an Oculus Immensus could teach them.

Then Ginny’s voice pulled them both out of their stupor. “Hermione, did you see who’s sitting
next to Snape?” She asked, a slight note of amusement in her voice.

They all turned to see who she could have been referring to. And there, next to a very
disgruntled looking Potions master, with hair spiked in all sorts of directions much like a
hedgehog’s, splashes of gold and red covering her head, sat a very talkative Nymphadora Tonks.

“What’s *she* doing here?” Ron asked startled.

Harry thought he might have had an idea of what she may have been doing there, but it just
didn’t seem very plausible. Hermione looked like she might have answered that, had not a door swung
open, and a small group of first years entered, led by a stern looking Professor McGonagall, who
was using a walking stick for support, and followed by Hagrid, which, upon closer inspection, Harry
noticed was lacking the horrid bruises from the previous year. Maybe things with Grawp were cleared
up, but he felt that this particular chapter had not been closed yet.

Harry had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he hadn’t even realized that the Sorting Hat had
already finished his song, and he’d missed it entirely, and was now being perched atop the first of
the newcomers, a shy looking girl with blonde braids named, “Archer, Madeline,” a Gryffindor.

Then there was “Baker, Anthony,” in Hufflepuff. “Barner, Christina,” another Gryffindor, “Crill,
Tonya,” a Ravenclaw, followed by two Hufflepuffs, four Gryffindors, and another Ravenclaw. So far
there had been no Slytherins. And then a name was called out that Harry was already familiar
with.

“Evans, Mark,” McGonagall called, and a familiar red haired, scared little boy walked up to the
stool and sat on it as the Sorting Hat was placed on his head, taking a few seconds before shouting
out, “Gryffindor!” The boy visibly relaxed, and, jumping from the stool, ran to the nearest free
seat, that, Harry realized with horror, was right in front of his. Not that he didn’t like the boy
who lived three streets over from the Dursleys, he just didn’t want any of what Little Whinging
gave him there at Hogwarts.

“Hello, Mark,” Hermione greeted him with a smile, which he replied to shyly, glad that someone
had acknowledged him nicely.

“Hi,” he whispered quietly, as he looked around, his eyes landing on Harry, and becoming wide,
before he jumped, falling off his seat, and let out a short scream, interrupting McGonagall from
calling the next name. “What are *you* doing here?”

Harry’s neck and face started to burn with a flush as he felt the stares of everyone in the
Great Hall watching him and the new boy. “Er,” he tried to say.

“But you’re supposed to be at that St. Brutus school for the really bad criminals!” He yelled in
fear from his seat on the floor. The Slytherin table burst out laughing.

All Harry could mumble was another embarrassed “Er,” as he felt the entire school’s stares. He
really wished that the last particular bit of information had been kept from the school’s
knowledge. Hermione nudged him lightly.

“Er…No, that’s just what the Dursleys say to people so they don’t have to explain that he’s a
wizard. They hate magic,” Hermione answered for her friend, who was rather speechless at the time.
Mark looked between her slightly amused, yet confused, face and Harry who was nodding to say that
she was right, and touching his scar nervously. He blinked.

“Oh,” he said quietly, getting back on his seat, a highly embarrassed look crossing his
face.

McGonagall could be heard clearing her throat. She looked more than a little miffed at the
interruption. “I would like to continue with the Sorting if you are quite done,” she told sternly,
and without waiting for an answer went on to do exactly what she’d said.

Chancing a look at the teacher’s table, Harry couldn’t suppress a groan.

“What’s wrong, mate?” Ron asked from his left.

“Snape’s never going to stop bringing this up,” he pointed to the Potions master, who, for once,
wasn’t wearing his usual sneer, but a, rather alarming, smug expression.

“You’re forgetting about Malfoy,” Ginny told him, turning to glare at the Slytherin, who was
still chuckling at Mark’s revelation.

Harry shrugged. “Malfoy I can handle,” he sighed, watching Snape again. “But Snape’s been trying
to make me sound like a criminal since first.”

“Who are you talking about?” Mark asked in a small voice, trying to make himself small in front
of Harry, looking as though he was scared to ask, but was too curious to stay quiet.

“Professor Snape,” Hermione replied in a hushed voice, not wanting to be heard. “He teaches
Potions, and hates Gryffindors. He’s always taking points off for no reason,” her lip curled in a
display of disagreement toward his manners.

“He has it in for Harry,” Ginny added.

“But,” the little boy started, “from how you’re talking it sounds like everybody has it in for
him.”

Everyone looked at him with raised eyebrows, just as Dumbledore stood up.

He cleared his throat and the Hall went quiet. “Tuck in,” he told them, as all sorts of
wonderful food appeared on their tables, and went completely unnoticed by the section of Gryffindor
table who was still staring at the little boy. Nobody had actually ever had to explain this to
anyone, since everyone they’d encountered so far already knew.

“Mark, didn’t your father tell you?” Hermione asked him, her voice incredulous. “Didn’t he talk
to you at all about what’s going on?”

“You mean about…those bad wizards?” He whispered so that only they could hear him, not daring to
call them what they were.

Hermione nodded. “Didn’t he tell you the whole story? About his cousin, and the baby?” Mark
nodded, looking pale. “Mark, Harry was that baby,” she told him, “so a lot of people *do* have
it in for him.”

“Oh,” Mark looked at Harry, not knowing what else to say. Quietly, they began to pile food on
their plates, allowing their thoughts to be absorbed by the wonderful house elf provided meal.

“That also makes you cousins,” Hermione added nonchalantly, biting down on a piece of ham and
chicken pie.

Harry nearly choked on his food, Mark dropped his fork with a clatter, and Ginny nearly spit out
her pumpkin juice. Ron was lucky, as he was still filling his plate, though he did manage to ask
rather touchily, “How does she always know everything?”

“Ronald, if you’d been listening to the conversation you would have probably figured out that I
spoke to Mark’s father,” she replied dryly, continuing to eat as though she was commenting the
weather.

“When?”

“At Diagon Alley, when you were at Gringott’s.”

A look of understanding crossed Harry’s face. “Your Prefect’s instincts?” he asked, referring to
what she’d told him that day. She nodded with a smile to him. “But,” Harry began, slightly
confused, “I thought the Dursleys were my only relatives.”

She shook her head. “They’re your only *immediate* relatives, Harry. You have plenty other
relatives here in the Wizarding World, they’re just not close enough to be considered family.”

“How does she *know* all this?” Ron exclaimed indignantly.

Harry looked to Mark, who was staring at him as though he was trying to figure out what to think
of all this. Harry noticed that Mark had several scratches on his hands and a still healing bruise
where his shoulder met his neck. “Dudley cornered you again?” He asked, pulling the conversation
away from what it had been. The boy blushed, and nodded embarrassed.

“Used to do it to me too, till I got my wand at least,” Harry told him secretively.

“Really?” The boy looked surprised and slightly hopeful, as though Harry would let him in on the
secret to stop being tortured. Which he did.

“Yeah,” he leaned over the table and closer to him. “Next time you see him, show him your wand.
He knows you’re not supposed to do magic out of school, but he’ll be too scared to try his luck.”
Mark grinned widely at this, going back to eating, now entirely enjoying the wonderful meal.

Once they were well fed and satisfied, the familiar clinking of McGonagall’s spoon against her
goblet caught their attention as the Headmaster stood up again. “A few start of the year notices,”
he began after having greeted them, much like he had in previous year. “Mr Filch would like to
remind you that the Forbidden Forest is still…forbidden, and announces that any and all Weasley’s
Wizard Wheezes items are not allowed. You may go in his office to take a look at all the other
things that are not permitted as there is a list on his wall.

“On a different note, there are two changes to our staff that I would like to introduce. Taking
over the course of Defence Against the Dark Arts will be Professor Iridis Larvae,” and the Oculus
Immensus stood, taller than the Headmaster, and a collective gasp was heard all around, as though
nobody had noticed her till then, and everyone seemed too stunned to cheer until Hermione started
clapping, enticing the others, “and, as High Inquisitor, Nymphadora Tonks,” and the young Auror
stood up, her hair now flashing from gold to scarlet as she gave Dumbledore a glare for having told
everyone her first name. There was a large round of applause at seeing that *this* High
Inquisitor didn’t seem to have anything to do with the last one.

“Tonks is High Inquisitor?” Ron exclaimed, thoroughly shocked.

“But she’s much too young for the Ministry to have chosen her,” Ginny added rationally.

“Actually, I’d imagine it was rather easy for Dumbledore to get her, and quite clever, too,
wouldn’t you say?” Hermione thought out loud. “I’d say that now that Voldemort” she ignored her
friends who shuddered around her, “is officially out, Fudge wouldn’t refuse Dumbledore anything,
being he the wisest and probably most powerful wizard alive. I surmise that all he had to do was
ask for a Metamorphmagus, there aren’t that many. And Tonks is likeable, unlike Umbridge, people
wouldn’t be afraid of her. She’s easy to trust,” Hermione explained, her attention back to
Dumbledore as he spoke again after the applause died down.

“The Ministry has also revoked all of the Educational Decrees that High Inquisitor Umbridge had
styled last year.” The applause was deafening, and the Hall seemed abuzz as they set out to sing
the school song, nearly every tune an enthusiastic one.

Strangely, though, Harry had felt hollow the entire duration of the Welcoming Feast.

Ron and Hermione beckoned the first years to them as they led them to Gryffindor tower, Ginny
and Harry walking next to them, the latter beginning to feel uneasy again as he felt a sort of
twitch under his scar, almost as though it was perking its ears to catch a sound it wasn’t sure
whether it had heard or not.

And there was a sound. A tumbling, and scrambling, and frightened screams from a couple of
staircases below.

Confusion and panic spread like a wild fire as many girls were heard screeching. Hermione rushed
to look over the railing of the landing she’d been standing, closely followed by her friends. Three
landing below, a first year who had been sorted in Hufflepuff was dangling in empty space over the
ledge as two older students held his hands to keep him from falling the long height to the ground.
How he’d managed to fall over the high, thick railing couldn’t really be figured out at first
glance, but one thing was more than obvious.

The boy was going to fall to his death if somebody didn’t stop it.

And somebody did.

Hermione quickly whipped her wand out of her pocket, performed a well practiced swish and flick
of her wrist, calling out, “Wingardium Leviosa!” The effort to keep the scared child up seemed to
lessen for those that clutched his hands so Harry did much the same that Hermione had done and cast
his own levitating charm, followed by Ron and Ginny.

A sigh of relief spread through the corridor as the trembling frail looking child’s feet touched
solid ground softly, and soon after questions were beginning to fly. How had he fallen over? Had
someone pushed him? Why?

But there really wasn’t any time for questions, and Hermione knew that. “Ginny, take the first
years up to the tower. Ron, go get Dumbledore and the Head of Houses, I’ll go take him to the
Hospital Wing,” and with that she ran down the flights of stairs calling out to make room for her
as she was Prefect, leaving Harry behind with an extremely oppressive feeling behind.

He didn’t know what the feeling meant, but he knew that he shouldn’t leave Hermione alone. He
contemplated running to catch up after her, but she’d already reached the boy and was levitating
him to the Hospital Wing, and the steps leading to her were far too filled with people who had
stopped to see what was going on for him to reach her before she was out of sight.

He felt Ginny grabbing hold of his robes as she turned in the direction of Gyffindor tower
telling him that they should have gone to take care of the first years, who were scared out of
their wits, and were submerging them with questions as to what could have possibly happened.
“Well,” Ginny began, not really knowing what to say and feeling like that had not been a good first
day as a Prefect. Just then the stairs moved and attached to a different landing, the first years
gasping in surprise and screaming in fright as they latched onto the hand rails. “The stairs like
to change a lot. Nobody’s ever gotten hurt though before, it generally only gets you lost at first.
Maybe somebody shoved him by accident while it was moving and he fell over.”

Harry looked back over at the landing. “Ginny, isn’t that the landing right before the
Hufflepuff Common Room, the one that continues on into the dungeons?” Confused, the redhead leaned
over to see as well.

“I think so. Why?”

“Because Crabbe and Goyle are running down there,” he told her simply.

“Harry, you don’t think…?” she asked, looking disgusted at what she knew was a strong
possibility.

And then a thought hit him. “Where’s Malfoy?” He wasn’t with Crabbe and Goyle, and Harry was
sure he’d seen him at dinner. And then his scar hurt. A lot. So much that he lost his balance and
fell to the cold steps, his hand over his forehead, his sight blurring and changing, no longer
seeing the overcrowded steps, but a deserted corridor, one that he knew very well.

It was the one leading to the Hospital Wing, but it wasn’t seen as he would have normally. The
eye level was far too low, practically touching the ground, and the eyes that were seeing it were
looking around slowly, as though searching for something.

And he knew what that eye level was. He’d seen it before in another such occasion, and he grew
terrified of what it could mean. Struggling to his feet he heard himself telling Ginny to get
everyone out of there, though he couldn’t have explained how he’d managed that, and ran stumbling
down the flights of stairs, instinct driving him along the familiar way while his sight of the
surroundings was covered of the view seen from someone else’s perspective.

From a snake’s perspective.

He knew.

He knew now that Voldemort hadn’t been fooling with him while showing him Hermione’s dead face.
He knew he wasn’t sidetracking him onto a fake victim. He was trying to slowly chew away at his
judgement so that he wouldn’t say anything about said dreams to anyone.

And it had worked. Harry had allowed it to work, and now Hermione was going to pay for his lack
of logic.

He could hear footsteps, but they hadn’t been registered by his ears. It was Nagini who was
hearing them nearing, which meant that Hermione was walking right into the arms of her awaiting
death. He saw her running into the snake’s line of sight, levitating the boy who had passed out
after his earlier shock behind her.

*Run, Hermione. Run!* He screamed at her mentally, yet Nagini wasn’t chasing after her.
Relieving as that thought might have temporarily been, another struck Harry as he fuzzily watched
Hermione break through the heavy door of the Hospital Wing. *What’s it waiting for?* He asked
himself as Nagini squatted in a dark unseen corner. *Ron should be along with Dumbledore soon. He
knows that!* Didn’t he? Maybe he was certain that they would be held back. *Maybe that’s where
Malfoy went.*

Terrified of the last thought, he sped up, slamming into the walls in front of himself that he
couldn’t see through the foreign vision overlapping his own. *Please, Hermione, stay in there!
Don’t come out yet. Just wait for Dumbledore. Wait for Dumbledore like you always would and you’ll
be safe. Wait for me to get there. Just wait a little longer.* He kept chanting in his mind,
knowing that she wouldn’t be attacked unless she was alone.

It had all been planned, he knew it. That first year had been pushed on purpose over the ledge,
and it was easy to figure out that Hermione would be the only one to understand that she had to do
something instead of just gaping at the sight of him hanging out there. It was easy to figure out
that she would also feel responsible of taking him to the hospital wing. It was easy to figure out
that if someone managed to stop Dumbledore or other from reaching her on time she would be an easy
target.

It had all been planned, and he hadn’t stopped it.

And then, through the snake’s eyes he saw the thick doors of the infirmary opening, and time
went slowly.

He tried to speed his pace, but it was as though he was watching the entire thing through stills
in slow motion. With each running step, all he heard was his own heart beat drumming in his ears,
and all he saw was what the snake was seeing as it sprinted forward, seeming to take forever to
reach his best friend’s feet, taking long enough to make him hope that he *could* reach her on
time, after all the Hospital Wing was right around the next turn, only a few steps into the
corridor.

But no, in an infinitely painful moment that would be locked in eternity, he saw through
Nagini’s own eyes that it had reached Hermione. He could feel the snake’s jaw opening as though it
were his own, and felt the bite as though he had inflicted it, feeling the resistance of flesh
being pierced by sharp points.

And he saw.

He saw Hermione look down at her murderer, fear and unspeakable pain written all over her face,
her mouth open in a scream that he could hear both in mind and in his ears as he rounded the
corner, and begin to see with his own eyes.

Nagini was already slithering away, but he didn’t care. Hermione’s scream had turned to a
strangled gurgle as she slid to the ground, her soft muted thud sounding final as time began to
move at it’s regular pace and he finally reached her.

Too late. Much too late.

He heard himself scream her name as though his voice was coming from somewhere so distant, so
far away that it was veiled and unclear. He took her in his arms, as she convulsed, her skin
already grey and ashy, her body shaking so much that he almost couldn’t hold her still in his
grasp.

Her eyes focused on him weakly, and her mouth moved as though to form words, but nothing seemed
to come out, and, much like a candle’s light burns brightest before dying out, Hermione’s body
began to spasm beyond control and then stopped altogether, and then she was as she was in his
nightmares. Her eyes on him but unfocused, dull…dead.

That’s when he felt.

He felt his voice hurting his throat as it burst through to scream his denial, he heard his
voice booming down the halls and all through the castle, he felt an essential part of himself being
ripped away. He felt the pain that he’d refused to feel since Sirius come to shred at his sanity as
it added onto this new…this…he didn’t know what it was, but nothing—nothing—in his life had been so
absolutely…wrong.

It couldn’t be Hermione, it simply couldn’t be. Not her. Not now, not ever. Just not her.

In his arms, Hermione gave another shudder, as her body was still under the effects of the bite,
and he could feel, he knew he could feel her life as it seeped out of her and dispersed into thin
air.

He was sobbing, his body heaving with his great heaving gasps of pain.

Somebody was trying to get him off of her, but he wouldn’t let them. He held onto her as firmly
as he could, not letting go of his only bit of sanity left. He wouldn’t even look around, he didn’t
want to know who was trying to pry Hermione’s body away from him. He just wouldn’t let them.

Until he felt a hand on his shoulder that he recognized all too well.

Dumbledore.

Where had he been while Harry had been running as though the very essence of the world was on
the line? Where had he been while Hermoine was being attacked? Ron had gone to fetch him earlier,
had he cared so little about his students that he felt he could take his dear sweet time?

He was Dumbledore, the never wavering pillar of wisdom, he was supposed to know everything. He
was supposed to stop things like this from happening.

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t stopped Crouch disguised as Mad Eye from turning the Triwizard Cup into
a Portkey that would lead to Voldemort’s resurrection, he hadn’t stopped Sirius from falling
through the veil, and he hadn’t stopped this.

And Harry hated him for it. With one arm he clung to Hermione while he flung the other in all
directions to inflict strong angry blows onto the ancient wizard endlessly, stopping only when he
had nothing left in him at all, his arm to sore to be lifted again.

He felt his strength leave him as he clung to Hermione, her body already cooling while he sobbed
into eternity.

“Harry, you have to leave her now,” he heard the Headmaster say as their eyes met. There was no
twinkle behind them as usual, and it might have been Harry’s blurred vision, but he could have
sworn that Dumbledore was crying. Again. “Go back to your dorm.”

“No.”

“You have to leave her, Harry,” Dumbledore repeated. “Go back to your dorm,” his voice held an
underling of understanding, but he didn’t. He didn’t understand anything.

“I can’t stay here,” Harry told him truthfully, his eyes trained on him, his voice strong, but
betraying what the utter despair that he was feeling.

Dumbledore wouldn’t speak, and Harry refused to let Madame Pomfrey take Hermione.

“Where would you go?” He finally asked.

“Anywhere but here,” Harry replied readily. “There’s nothing left here.” Nothing but heart
wrenchingly intense pain at the memories of his happy moments with her all throughout the castle.
He couldn’t live with those haunting him everyday.

Harry knew that, this time, Dumbledore understood.

“Grimmauld Place, then?” he proposed. Harry nodded. There was no place that he could go to that
wouldn’t be filled with Hermione’s words, voice, and scent, but anything was preferable to Hogwarts
castle.

He didn’t ask if he would ever come back, and Harry was grateful for that.

He watched Dumbledore stand, and reluctantly allowed the school nurse to take Hermione away from
his vice like hold, and slowly, leaning on the wall for support, he stood as well.

He ignored McGonagall’s tears, Ginny’s distraught look (when had she arrived in the first
place?), and Ron’s hurt and angry expression, and allowed his body to lead him through the familiar
passages to the Headmaster’s office.

Dumbledore had told him that he didn’t need him to explain anything, the portraits could very
well retell the tale for him, and instructed him to step into the fireplace.

“I will send your things to you and tell you when the memorial service will be held,” and
without waiting for Harry’s reaction, the Headmaster threw Floo Powder at the boy’s feet calling
out the name of Grimmauld Place.

Harry allowed the green flames to devour him and transport him to the one place that he had once
wanted to avoid, feeling that something more than the obvious was wrong with what had happened.

Something was brewing, slowly simmering to boiling point, and it wouldn’t be long before he
found out what.

To be continued.

There it is! Oh, my God! I ACTUALLY cried while I wrote this (and it was really embarrassing
since I was working at the time and clients were coming in). Anyway, this was really emotional for
me, and it’s supposed to be one of the most important points of the story (there will be more of
course, I couldn’t just put the climax in the fifth chapter!) and I hope it gave you the feelings
it was supposed to. If it didn’t, then I’m really wasting my time writing. Anyway, I didn’t answer
any questions this time because I really thought it wasn’t the time (and I have a fever so I sorta
don’t feel like it), but ask away and I’ll answer next time.

Please, tell me what you think because I absolutely need opinions for this.

Thank you

Love

Pearl



6. Chapter 6: The theft
-----------------------



Disclaimer: I own only what is not recognizable as a JKR masterpiece…basically nothing.

Okay, I'm really sorry for the long delay, but for 3 weeks I couldn't get to my
computer, and for the remaining time I couldn't get to it anyway because it broke down,
couldn't really access it yet. I'm going to cut this short because I really don't have
time (have to work in like two minutes), just wanted to asnwer someone who pointed out that Iridis
sounds like a Naruto character. I've already said in a previous chapter that I based her
characteristics off a lot of Anime/Manga characters that I liked, but the most influential one was
definitely the Huyga clan's `White Eye' (I use the spelling that the Italian version of the
manga uses, it's not a mistake so don't call me on that, and I don't remember the name
of the ability at the moment, Japanese isn't my forte). Thanks to everyone who reviewed. Keep
`em coming, I thrive on them. My betas are currently on chap 7 so that should be out within the
week.

And now, on with the fic.

Harry Potter and the Bite of No Mortibus

By Pearl Drop Angel

Chapter 6: The Theft

“My Lord?” a small terrified voice called into the dark of the room he had stepped into. There
was no light at all within it, only a thin thread of glow from the outside hallway managing to seep
through the crack of the door that he had purposefully forgotten to close. The mousy man tried to
search the room for a form—any form whatsoever—that might be outlined by that sliver of light, yet
the room was pitch black. With the exception, of course, of two thin slivers of glowing red that
had turned to face him.

His master was watching him.

“Yes, Wormtail,” the hissed whisper belied a certain malicious excitement that made the servant
shiver in fear.

“The positive outcome of the mission has been confirmed,” Wormtail managed to inform without
stuttering. The room seemed to ripple with the Master's excitement as he wheezed a chuckle.

“M-my Lord?” the servant asked again, this time not managing to hide his fear. He was aware that
the question he wanted to ask might anger his master, but, as was often the case with him, his
curiosity dared more than he.

“Speak, Wormtail,” annoyance seeped through his hiss at having his calculated victory
interrupted by his snivelling, lowly serf.

He swallowed in fear of his master's response, but went on nonetheless, knowing that he
would enrage him more in taking back his word. “W-Why not kill her?”

His Lord seemed to laugh at him, though, enjoying remembering his true plan. “To destroy the
boy.”

Before he could stop himself Wormtail phrased his next question, “How?”, and quivered at the
thought of possibly angering his Master.

But the Dark Lord was in far too good of a mood to let lowly Wormtail bother him, and he
emanated a strong sense of triumph as he spoke the words.

“By making her one of us.”

And then his horrid laughter filled the room, and the mind of the boy that had unwillingly
witnessed the exchange in his dreams.

°*°*°

Slowly, he opened his eyes as his troubled slumber left him. The world around him was blurry,
and of course it would be. He didn't have his glasses on.

He had no wish to place them on either.

He had no wish to see that the bright colorful room that he slept in, the same one he'd
shared with Ron such a short while earlier, would no longer look the way it did before. It would
hold no joy for him, no feel of home.

His home had been Hogwarts, but Voldemort had taken that away from him as well, turning into the
place that represented the most awful loss yet. He felt his body quaking at the mere thought.

Her fall—he refused to call her dead!—had affected him so differently from Sirius'.

His fall had made him numb, or better yet, *he* had made himself numb as to not be aware of
the emptyness that he felt at the possibility of never seeing him again. Hermione's—hers was in
way the same. Much as he hated to admit it, despite the fact that he loved his godfather and had
truly wished to one day live with him, Harry was not that close to Sirius, they had not truly
gotten to know each other. They'd never really had the time. After he and Hermione helped
Sirius escape, Harry's correspondence with him had been sparse and rather to the point because,
after all, Sirius was on the run.

And then Gimmauld Place. Harry had really enjoyed his summer and Christmas with Sirius there. It
was like finally having a family. That had been the reason for why Harry had made himself go numb,
so that he wouldn't have to feel the bitterness that came with losing the one thing that
he'd desired his whole life right after finding it. And avoiding feeling the guilt as well.

But with Hermione, it was all so different.

She had always been near him, she had been the one constant in his life, the one rock that he
could cling to when he thought he was drowning. More so than with Ron. The redhead simply did not
understand Harry the way Hermione did.

Hermione took care of him, kept him sane, even if he was only realizing that now.

She had been his family.

His true family.

What a family was supposed to truly be. Someone he could fight with knowing that once they'd
made up it would be as thought the row had never occurred. Someone who understood him, and
supported his choices even when they were wrong. Someone who loved him and cared for his for who he
truly was, not because of *what* he was or *why* he was what he was. Someone who accepted
him without expecting anything from him.

Someone who appreciated him, and wasn't upset if he didn't appreciate her back.

He felt his eyes mist over with something more than the lack of eyesight.

He'd never appreciated her.

He'd never thanked her for always believing in him and his choices.

He'd never told her how much it truly mattered to him to have her by his side.

He had never even realized it himself.

He fought back a sniffle.

That was what was truly different between her fall and Sirius'. With his Godfather, Harry
had managed to make himself numb enough to not feel the true burden of the loss. With Hermione that
was impossible. He was too tied to her. He had been too dependent on her and he'd never even
realized it.

He could never forget the pain of watching her hit the floor in her overwhelming spasms. Never
get over the guilt of knowing that he could have stopped it with a simple letter to Dumbledore and
hadn't.

He heard a sound coming from the portrait of Phineas Nigellus, like a cloak swishing and then a
sigh. It meant that he was there and waiting for Harry to speak to him. But Harry didn't want
to speak to anyone that could judge him. Nor did he want to speak. It would only dislodge the lump
in his throat and allow the sobs through.

No, it was better to leave.

Not allowing the portrait time to stop him, Harry leapt from his frumped bedsheets and walked to
the door, leaving his glasses behind.

He could only see a few inches from his face and kept on bumping into things in the hallway. He
hardly noticed. The pain of his bare feet hitting the corner of a door was nothing compared to the
knot that he felt in his chest, making it hard for him to breath. It felt like a part of his heart
was missing.

Relying on instinct, he quickly reached Buckbeak's room. That's where he stayed most of
his awake hours. The rest he spent in bed reliving both falls in his dreams.

The only time that had occurred had been that one night (how long ago? How long had he been here
anyway? Did it matter? No.) when his dreams had been filtered by a whispered conversation between
Voldemort and the man responsible for the loss of his parents, Wormtail.

He tried not to think of it too much. When Wormtail had asked why they weren't killing
`her', Harry dared to hope that they were speaking of Hermione. But they couldn't be. They
had already killed her, hadn't they? It made him hope that maybe the whole thing had been just
another set up. But it couldn't be. He'd felt her. He'd felt the life leaving her body,
felt the warmth of her flesh dissipating, felt her heartbeat becoming weaker and then stopping all
together.

And then they'd spoken of breaking a boy. Wasn't Harry the only boy that Voldemort would
want to destroy? Then again that had already been accomplished.

He'd done what he had to. He wrote to Dumbledore telling him what he'd seen and then
went on to trying to forget it. He could almost hear Hermione explaining that it was just his
subconscious trying to make him think that there was a way that she was alive.

But his scar had hurt, didn't that mean that it was real?

Then again, didn't it mean that Voldemort was feeding him another illusion?

Not knowing what to think anymore he stepped into the room, not caring of the smell or the
stuffiness. He didn't bother bowing to Buckbeak, the hippogriff was already used to him as
he'd been there quite frequently since his return to Grimmauld Place.

Buckbeak was lying in a corner, his head on his front legs. He'd looked asleep, but he
raised his head in greeting to his only real visitor.

With a sigh, Harry walked up to him, and sat down with his back resting against the beast's
side, his head against its neck.

He was used to the smell of animal, he probably smelled like one himself now in any case, but
the pile of dead rats in the corner of the room had terrified him the first time he'd walked
in.

It had made him think if Sirius, of Hermione, and even of Cedric. And of what they would one day
become. And he'd found himself bawling in the door way. Thinking back on it, he was surprised
that Buckbeak hadn't attacked him for the display that would have angered most hippogriffs, but
then again, the creature probably felt something akin to what Harry did. After all, Sirius had been
his only real companion, and now he was gone.

That had been the reason why Harry found himself spending so much time with Buckbeak. He seemed
to understand. And he didn't judge him or think him insane or blame him for anything—but maybe
that was only because hippogriffs didn't speak.

In any case, those times in which Harry found himself sobbing out of sheer desperation and
helplessness and mourning, Buckbeak seemed to mourn with him as well. And Harry found himself
talking, of anything that came to mind. Anything at all, ranging from his guilt at never
appreciating Hermione for the person that she was and all she'd done for him, to stories of his
adventures with his friends, or recallings of some of the things Dudley used to do to him.

He'd spend hours in there, only coming out to try and eat a bite of the meals that Mrs
Weasley prepared for him and that he could barely touch.

Thankfully, she didn't know how to behave around him, so, for the most part, she left him
alone, and he was grateful for it.

However, just as he thought that, Mrs Weasley knocked on the door that he'd left slightly
ajar, and peeked her head in.

“Harry?” she asked apprehensively.

“Yes?” That lump in his throat was likely to remain there for the rest of his life.

“Dumbledore sent you an Owl…and a newspaper,” she sounded very flustered as she spoke of the
second. “I left them on the kitchen table for you.”

“Thank you,” he replied, letting her know that the conversation was over. Quietly, she left.

Harry didn't want to follow her. He didn't want to leave the safety of Buckbeak's
comfort, nor to read that Dumbledore requested his return for classes. He didn't know how long
he'd been there, but classes were bound to have began by now. He'd hoped the Headmaster
would allow him to return in his own time.

But maybe there was something else.

Maybe something had happened. He'd sent a newspaper after all.

With a sigh and a pat to Buckbeak's neck, he stood, walking briskly back to his room for his
glasses, and stumbling his way down to the kitchen, not wanting to wear the spectacles until he was
required to.

Mrs Weasley was busy trying to look busy at the kitchen sink, while a letter sat quietly on top
of a folded newspaper on the table in front of the hearth.

Dreading what it might say, he adjusted his wire rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, and
sat down in the seat in front of what Dumbledore had sent him.

With a defeated sigh, he took the envelope in hand, recognizing the ancient Headmaster's
intricate flourish branding Harry's name in the front. Heaving another sigh, he tore it open
and pulled out a single sheet of parchment.

*--Harry*—It read.

*I know that you do not yet wish to return to Hogwarts, and I will not force you to, but I
would advice you to take the option into consideration while you read today's edition of the
Sunday Prophet.*

*Several things have happened, Harry, and, when compared to that vision that you told me of,
they require your presence here.*

*Please think of it.*

*--Albus—*

Dumbledore had never signed his first name, at least not when addressing Harry. Harry stared at
the message for a long time, not sure he'd truly registered what he'd read. Did Voldemort
attack some poor unsuspecting village? It seemed unlikely, as his scar hadn't hurt in the
slightest besides that one time in which he'd had the vision that Dumbledore had mentioned. Did
Fudge make some other hairbrained decision that could only help Voldemort? If he did, Harry felt
like it wouldn't have affected him all that much.

With yet another sigh, he picked up the Sunday Prophet.

“It's Sunday?” He asked aloud. A week had passed then. It had been a Saturday when
Dumbledore had sent him here. The paper told him that today was, in fact, Sunday the eighth.

Picking up the paper he unfolded it to read the front page and, after a glance at it, dropped it
as though the pages scorched him. There, black on white, was a moving picture of none other than
Hermione, smiling at him.

He recognized the picture as one that Colin Creevey took at the beginning of fifth year after
finding out that she had been made Prefect—her badge was in plain sight.

The lump in Harry's throat grew twice its size.

She looked so happy there. And here he was, a full year later, trying to push the tears back as
he watched her smile nervously back at him.

Why was her picture in the paper today? What happened should have already been old news, or at
least not front page news.

Than he read the heading.

**The Mistery disappearance of Hermione Granger!**

Harry blinked at the words in front of him. `*Disappearance'?* How could they call it
that? Not knowing what to think, Harry read on.

*All of Hogwarts—and the whole of the Wizarding World—is still mourning the sudden death of
Hermione Granger, who perished at the hands—or rather teeth—of You-Know-Who's pet snake, just
last week within the walls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry right after having saved
the life of a first year student.*

*She was well known by her peers for her studious demeanor and sense of responsibility,
qualities that earned her a Prefect position in her fifth and sixth years—even if, unfortunately,
she will never fulfill the last as the oppurtunity was taken from her—and one of the highest scores
in OWL testing of the last several years, while she was also famous for being one of Harry
Potter's closest friends and possible romantic interest.*

*She had also narrowly escaped death just only over two months ago in a terrible encounter
with some Death Eaters at the Ministry of Magic, with her friend Harry Potter and four other
students from her school.*

*Her death, however, is shrouded in mystery.*

*For one, the bite that she had received under the eyes of her aforementioned best friend,
Harry Potter, and several of the school paintings, had been given to her by You-Know-Who's pet
snake, Nagini, which just so happens to be an enormous constrictor (which species has yet to be
specified). It is a well reknown fact that snakes of such sizes are not poisonous (if they are it
is not in large or fatal amounts), when they indend to kill, they do so by literally squeezing the
life out of their victims.*

*Madame Pomfrey, who is known as the school nurse but is in truth a fully fledged and schooled
mediwitch, also declared Miss Granger's death as highly suspicious in the fact that the poison
within the snake's fangs was unlike any other natural venom—within reptiles or any other animal
or plant—and looked to have been created. It might have been a new type of potion brewed by
You-Know-Who or one of his Death Eaters.*

*This deadly concuction killed the poor girl within seconds.*

*And, as though this was not enough, other strange occurances have been reported, starting
from an owl post from the Grangers, Hermione's parents, to Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of
Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, complaining of the fact that their daughter's
corpse had not been returned to them yet. This was three days ago.*

*Miss Granger's body was supposed to reach them long before then, as it had been sent,
under the watchful eye of three Aurors, just after her death was certified, in the first hours of
the second day of the month.*

*That, however, is not all. After the Grangers' report, Dumbledore requested that the
Ministry of Magic send a search party, not only for Miss Granger's missing body, but for the
Aurors that were guarding her as well.*

*The Aurors were found, twelve miles into the woods beyond the village of Hogsmead, all three
of them dead at the hands of the killing curse.*

*Miss Granger's remains were nowhere to be found.*

*Where might her corpse have been taken, and what would someone want do with it? These two
questions are plaguing the minds of the Aurors, who have determined to find the Granger girl, not
only to answer their own curiosity, but to at least return her to her grieving parents.*

*The Grangers, after consulting with Albus Dumbledore, have decided not to hold the memorial
service until she is returned to them.*

*As of yet, however, the mystery remains unsolved.*

For the longest time, Harry could only blink at what he'd read.

Then, slowly, what he'd read began to sink in. Nagini's attack on Hermione was different
from Arthur Weasley's because of the venom that had been implanted in his teeth. It was
different from the one used for the Weasley patron. Did that mean that he had been attacked with
some potion implanted in Nagini's incisors.

Hermione's…body (he refused to call her a corpse) had been stolen, and the Aurors who were
guarding her killed, all three of them.

And then there was that vision. The one where Wormtail was asking Voldemort why they weren't
going to kill `her'.

And Dumbledore was asking him to return to Hogwarts.

Something began to swell within him, implanting impossible thoughts in his mind. Hope. He was
beginning to hope. He knew it was not smart, that it could very possibly just turn the knife within
the wound, but he needed his questions answered.

He had to go back to Hogwarts.

Without a word to Mrs Weasley, and without bothering to take off his glasses again, he made a
dash for his room, where he threw the few clothes he'd worn over the period of his stay in his
trunk, along with the photo album that Hermione had `upgraded' for him, and locked it. Those
had been the only things he'd removed from it in any case. Grabbing his wand from the bedside
table, he went to say goodbye to Buckbeak.

The hippogriff seemed taken aback by his sudden agitation, not understanding where it was coming
from, but Harry knew that his friend understood that he had to leave. Buckbeak nuzzled him, almost
as though he was wishing him luck, and gently pushing him out the door, giving him the strength to
go back to the place he'd had to run away from. With a small smile of apology toward his
friend, Harry walked into the kitchen.

And the sight that greeted him enraged him like nothing else before in his life.

An upset Mrs Weasley was threatening a house elf with her wooden spoon.

Not just any house elf either. It was Kreacher.

The Weasley matron was chasing him around the kitchen, but Kreacher kept on popping out of one
spot and into another, just out of the woman's reach, before popping somewhere else. The house
elf was holding the Sunday Prophet in his hands.

Harry was seeing red.

And Keacher was speaking, his high pitched voice filling the kitchen from all sides.

“Ooh, ickle Mudblood got a big bad bite! Yes, Miss! And now they has her, yes! Mistress would
like this. But Mistress is not here. Filthy wolf tears her away! But Mudblood pays! Mudblood dead!
Dead! Dead! Dead! Dead!” and he kept on shouting the word as he popped away with each
declaration.

Than it was quiet, and Harry saw that Kreacher had popped onto the chandelier hanging from the
ceiling, still clutching the Prophet. “Filthy, dirty, icle Mudblood dead, and Kreacher is here.
Kreacher is not dead,” he seemed to whisper more to himself than for anything else.

So that's what it was all about. Kreacher's bitterness at never being able to have his
head exposed besides his ancestors. And now, he was degrading the one person that had wanted to
show him kindness. “If you want to die, go ahead, we won't stop you.” He didn't know what
he was saying, it was as thought there was someone else speaking through him, as though the guilt
that he felt for Sirius had molded into the hatred that he felt for the house elf and his part in
Sirius' fall and formed a new being that spoke through him. He'd wanted to scream at him,
lash out and throw things like he'd done in Dumbledore's office. He would have never
expected this malevolent, vendictive, quietly seething anger to come from him.

Kreacher looked scared and put off, as his eyes searched frantically around the room. Mrs
Weasley looked terrified. “The Potter boy speaks to Kreacher, but what does he say? Kreacher is not
listening to dirty half blood Potter, no,” he began to whimper.

“You're afraid,” Harry hissed at him angrily. Kreacher, for the first time the boy could
remember, looked at him. “You keep on saying on how much you want to join your honored ancestors,
but you're afraid.” He accused. “But guess what? Nobody is going to do it for you. Nobody is
going to make it easy for you. You have no more Masters, so the choice is up to you, but you're
terrified.”

Kreacher was whimpering under his gaze.

“You are disgusting,” Harry said as he walked toward Mrs Weasley, who looked like she had no
idea in the world of what to think. Honestly, neither did Harry, he didn't know where it had
come from, but it had to get out of him, and he didn't regret it.

And that was a scary thought.

“I'm going back to Hogwarts,” he told the woman who had been a surrogate mother for him. She
nodded, her wooden spoon still in place. Not knowing what else to say after his terrifying desplay
he tried an awkward “Thank you.”

And that seemed to do it. She lowered her spoon and drew Harry in the shelter of her motherly
embrace. When she let go there were no words. There weren't any, and if there were, neither of
them knew what they were.

So, wordlessly, Harry took hold of hid trunk, grabbed a hanful of Floo Powder and made for
Dumbledore's office. And as he stepped out of the hearth and into Dumbledore's chamber of
wonders, he felt a hope gurgle within him and rising. Rising to the point that it would not be
supressed, it embedded itself in his mind, and he could not remove it no matter how he tried.

There was a thought that struck him like lightning.

The near certainty that Hermione might be alive.

To be continued.

Okay, you know the drill, whatever critisism you have, positive or not, I'll take it because
I need it (it's starting to get chilly here so even flames are welcome). Contact me at Robbygal@hotmail.com or simply leave a review.

Oh, and if you don't like what Harry said to Kreacher, I'm sorry, it wasn't meant to
be that evil, he was supposed to just be really angry, but these characters have a will of their
own which I do not have the power to stop, but, since it works better for my future plot it will
stay as it is. Sorry if that bothers you.

Thanks

Love

Pearl

-->



7. Chapter 7: Connection
------------------------



Disclaimer: I only own what can be recognizes as something not borne from the genius mind of
JKR…which really leaves very little. How sad.

Okay, here is the chapter mostly everyone was waiting for, where the question `is she really
dead or maybe not?' gets an answer. I'm afraid hat from an outside point of view this might
be either skewed or quite farfatched, but hey, it's all spewing forth from my overactive
imagination, whoever said that had to be realistic? Well, I hope you enjoy.

Harry Potter and the Bite of No Mortibus

By Pearl Drop Angel

Chapter 7: Connection

*Drip.* *Drip.*

Through a hazy cloud of pained sleep, sound was beginning to come back.

*Drip. Drip.*

And that dripping was beginning to get annoying.

*Drip. Drip.*

It was water. Water that, falling from a height, seemed to shatter the surface of the small
puddle that had formed, and, along with it, the thick fog that would not allow conscious
thought.

*Drip. Drip.*

And beyond that fog was a splittling headache.

One unlike any that this particular mind had ever felt. She felt the urge to gurlge a
disapproving wince, to give a groan of displeased pain, to hiss at the discomfort that completely
invaded her form.

She was a creature of reason, and she would act accordingly, no matter how unbearably loud her
muscles were screaming or her head was pounding. She would use said head before anything else,
therefore pushing the sounds of disapproval till she had everything figured out.

Well, first off, she felt cold. A chill that seemed to come from her very bones and out rather
than the other way around, which she found extremely peculiar. Oh, and her body was lying flat on a
gelid, uneven earthly surface, completely flattened against it with her limbs lying at odd angles.
She felt like a boulder the size of Hogwarts was on top of her and preventing her from moving.

And her body tingled in the way that feet tend to do when they fall asleep. However, that rather
unpleasant feeling was invading every inch of her form, in places she didn't even know she had,
and it did *not* feel good.

She ached. Everywhere.

It felt like waking up after months of petrification. Almost as though she'd died only to be
pulled away from the afterlife and forced back in a body that could no longer hold life in it.

And at that thought, the recalling of it all hit her still groggy mind, piercing realization
into her.

She remembered.

She remembered walking out of the infermary right after having helped Anthony (a first year
Hufflepuff), who'd nearly lost his life while climbing the stairs to his dorm, just to have her
world end.

That moment was burned into her mind.

As she'd closed the heavy wooden doors behind her, she felt an overwhelming oppression
taking hold of her, a sense of foreboding of the kind that she generally scoffed off as jumbled
nerves that she couldn't ignore. She'd felt watched. Actually she'd felt so even before
entering, but she'd written it off as nothing. Yet when she'd walked out she'd felt
like two holes were being burnt into her.

There were footsteps approaching as well. Two heels beating heavily on the gravel stone floors,
running at a pace that spoke of desperation, seeming to come in her direction. But those heavy
footfalls she felt she could trust, and they seemed to be telling her to run.

Yet, before she could, her eyes caught moment from a short distance away. Her vision wasn't
fast enough to register what it was that was suddenly at her feet until it was too late.

Two sharp deep points broke through her socks and lacerated the flesh of her ankles, where her
flesh seemed to become burning ice. And looking down she saw.

She'd never seen it before, but she'd heard enough about it to know what it was. Nagini.
Voldemort's snake. She'd felt a scream escape her throat, or rather a loud gurgle that
spontaneously burst from her as the only sign of obvious pain.

And the footsteps. They were replaced by a true scream of horror. One that had not been borne
from her. It was deeper in tone and far more desperate than hers. Despite the fact that she could
already feel her conscious leaving her, her eyes sought out the source of such an anguished cry
that she had never heard of in her years.

Her body was leaving her, crumbling to the ground, but all her thoughts were of him. Harry. Her
best friend. The boy that was still mourning for his godfather. The same boy that didn't
deserve to mourn anyone else close to him. Ever again.

It was strange in those moments.

She knew she was dying.

She knew that she could have never seen the light of day again. She'd contemplated her death
often, being Harry Potter's friend, she'd accepted it as a strong possibility, almost a
certainty. And she'd always thought that, in that moment, she would be a frenzy of thought, or
that her memories would flash before her eyes in such a blur that she couldn't follow them, or
that she wouldn't think at all and simply succumb to the numbness.

But the case was that she didn't reflect any of those. Her only thought for him. For the boy
that was covered in a cold sweat, his shoulders shaking as he held her, his eyes and voice
desplaying a sorrow that no creature of the world (Muggle or magical) should ever go though. Harry
should never have had to know it. Not him. Not sweet, lovable, selfless Harry, who had already lost
nearly everyone that had ever mattered.

And, if she mattered even a fraction of what he meant to her, her death would devastate him. She
could already see it. She could see it in that moment while he looked to her, their eyes locked
together, him begging her not to leave him alone in a world that would never understand him.

She didn't want to die. She'd wanted to be there for him still, to continue being the
rock that he clung to when his own limbs seemed to give out. She wanted to continue being the one
that kept him sane. Ron was the one that kept him happy, but the one thing that she was proud of in
her life was precisely that. She kept him grounded. Many believed him to be cold and calculating,
not even realizing how far from the truth the truly were. Harry was a creature of feeling and
emotion and irrationality, even if he could hide it in the moments where it mattered. When he
wasn't facing his death, however, she knew that he relied on her, however subconsciously, to
keep him in this world.

But she could no longer help it. She'd tried to open her mouth, tried to tell him that she
would always be with him. But she'd never managed to. Her forces were leaving her.

And she found herself praying to whatever entities were listening that the strength that would
soon no longer be with her, would reach him instead and fill him with something that belonged to
her to rely on.

She didn't know if she was just imagining it, if it was just a subconscious wish on her
part, but she'd felt, with a certaintly, that her life was leaving her—not in a painful,
sorrowfilled void—and that it was seeping out of her still-not-yet-healed-scar from the Department
of Misteries, and flowing into Harry. She'd felt connected with him then.

He didn't seem to feel the same, but that could have been because he was choking on his
sobs. Despite that, Hermione had died happy, knowing that she'd given to Harry everything that
she could have, though her last thought was that she wished to live their intense friendship far
longer than they'd been able to. Just a moment longer.

But, if she had died then, what was she doing there now? Wherever `there' was, of course. It
seemed to be pitch black.

Oh, wait! Maybe if she opened her eyes she might be able to assess whether or not she was in
hell or had simply been subjected to the experiment of some sick, cruel, ressurecting rite.

Her eyelids felt glued shut by that awful grime that seems to form when one slept too long, but,
after several tries, she managed to pry them open.

And, suppressing a gasp, screwed them back shut as she realized that Dolohov, the one that had
injured her just a few months earlier (or maybe longer, as she didn't know how long it was
since she'd died) was not two feet away from her with his back against the cave wall. She
stilled her breathing, hoping he didn't notice that she had risen.

Then she heard a shuffling sound, as though he was shifting, a dull thud followed by a sort of
snorted snore, and another shuffling.

She tried to keep her face from displaying any signs of life, but…was he snoring? She cracked
one eye open just enough to see that he had, in fact, slipped down to the ground and turned his
back to her, facing the cave wall, to sleep. She didn't dare sigh in relief.

Still not moving, she tried to assess things around her from the one eye that was only partially
open. For one thing, it was still very dark. It could have been night, but she couldn't find
the opening to the cave, so they might have simply been too deep into it to discern whether or not
it was day or not. Then again, she was surrounded by sleeping Death Eaters.

Besides Dolohov, who was obviously supposed to be keeping guard of her and was failing rather
miserably, there was a group of about a dozen cloaked figures huddled against another wall of the
cave, which she realized, was extremely vast. She couldn't see who the Death Eaters were since
their hoods were drawn to give them even that small bit of protection against the biting chill of
the space they filled.

But she could guess.

And there were two figures in particular which were not difficult at all to pick out amongst the
other two. One was broad shouldered, with his hood covering the top half of his visage, though it
didn't matter. The permanent sneer and the unkept tangle of dirty silver blond hair were
unmistakable. Lucius Malfoy.

And close to him a smaller, more feminine figure. Overly pale hands crossed over a small bosom,
long ebony black hair just as unkept as Malfoy's, and a face which she would never forget.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Screwing her eyes back shut, Hermione felt the overpowering urge to call to the boy that the
sleeping woman had hurt possibly beyond hope.

*Harry!*

She hadn't been expecting an answer.

*°*°*

*When in the process of transfiguring an object (animate or inanimate) into another of a
different nature, it is best to picture the shifting of its shape in one's mind several times
before beginning, then, when confident, to replay the process over mentally but with the addition
of wand movement. Once that has been mastered, simply imagine what had been played in one's
mind happening as the incantation is pronounced along with the practiced wand movement.*

That, at least, was what Hermione had written several months earlier in the study sheets that
she'd passed he and Ron to help along with the OWL studies. Harry had hardly looked at them
twice at the time. Now, they had begun his Bible. Not as a momento of her, because, in his mind,
Harry felt that she was still alive. And she would come back.

When that did happen, she would be most upset if nobody had bothered to get good notes for her.
Since he was the only one who believed that she would someday return among the living (not that
he'd told anyone that), such a job had to be taken into his own hands.

And he found that burying himself into his studies was a good way to stop the flood of
conflicting thought from drowning out his mind. He knew with absolute certainty that Hermione was
alive (not that the papers had given any indication or any more hints since her…body had still not
been found) but he also knew that he was very likely in denial. After all, he'd been feeling
the same thing of Sirius.

Was it possible that two of the most important people in his life who had fallen right before
his very eyes were both still salvageable? Not very likely. But he had to cling to that or lose
himself to his despair. And so he studied.

Taking a deep breath, he looked down at the small circle made by a short chain of ivy. He was
supposed to be transfiguring it into a small hand held mirror. Looking at it he tried to picture
the best way to go about it, deciding that using the ivy as a garland in a way of frame to the
mirror and filling in the space with the reflective glass would be the best way to go about it.
Following the directions in the study notes (which he didn't even need to look to anymore since
he knew them by heart), he closed his eyes, drew three circles in the air with his wand in an
anticlockwise movement, and pronounced the word “Ederspecchio”.

When he blinked his eyes open, and looked down expecting no change at all, he stared in
surprise. There, in place of the small palm sized wreathed ivy, stood a very similarly shaped
mirror, it's frame made of white gold in the form of the ivy leaves. It looked as though
he'd turned the green leaves into thick ice, the small drops of dew solidified into small
diamonds, the reflective glass that he'd made appear out of thin air as sparkling as the water
in the depth of small rivers racing down snow covered mountains, it's edges thinly webbed with
what might have looked like ice outside a frozen window, but was in truth tendrils of more thinly
and delicately worked white gold.

It looked like it had been kissed by Christmas itself.

He sighed deeply.

Hermione would have loved it. She loved winter and Christmas in all its immaculate beauty. It
was her favourite time of the year. He'd never pictured her to be one to carry small mirrors in
her pocket (unless considering the basilisk accident in second) just to be able to check her
reflection whenever needed, but, if she *would* carry one, he was more than certain that the
one he'd made would have never left her pocket.

He sighed again, and this time McGonagall heard him. She turned to see what was bothering, and
stared in shock at what lay on Harry's workstation. While everyone else still hadn't even
managed to solidify the outside edges of the ivy leaves, Harry had made the most beautiful ivy
mirror that she'd seen since his father had made his own. Recovering from her state of
disbelief, she cleared her throat, and announced that Harry had managed to complete the assignment
first, assigning him thirty points (based on the difficulty of the task) for doing so. He looked up
at her, and she was taken aback by the sheer look of pain written across his face, as though he
hadn't understood what she'd meant.

She tried to keep her softened expression from showing to the on looking class as she told him,
“Use the remaining class time as you wish, Potter,” and with that moved on.

Harry, not noticing how Ron was openly glaring at him for some reason, decided to spend the time
left doing the only think he'd been able to do since he'd returned to Hogwarts two days
earlier. He thought of Hermione, and whether or not he was crazy to think that he still had the
chance to see her in the flesh.

But he had to think that he could, or completely lose his sanity.

And it didn't help that Ron still acted awkward around him, seemingly more so than before,
even though Harry himself had been acting much more like the boy he'd been before the
Department of Mysteries (without the anger, of course, and maybe a little too much depression).
Ginny had welcomed him warmly, much like her mother would have before Grimmauld Place. And he'd
welcomed it; her motherly behaviour was comforting, if a little smothering. It felt like the only
true contact left in his life.

But it didn't replace Hermione, and the firm, calming grip that she'd always had over
him. Nothing could ever replace that which had so quietly grown inside him with her. Not having her
there was like having no more home.

Again, he sighed. Home. He'd always thought that Hogwarts was home. In a way it was, but
only when it held everything he cherished in it. Now, when he walked down the halls he could hear
the sympathetic whispers softly muttered behind hands, the strange looks, and even the badly
concealed mutterings of the possibility of him as her murderer.

If she had been by his side, he could have handled them, somehow. Alone, he couldn't. He
could never do anything without her.

Then again, it was exactly in those moments, when he walked the cold stone halls and heard the
familiar voices hushing about him, that he felt that her life was not gone. He felt that because
they didn't oppress him. They didn't suffocate him. They didn't kill him. Everything in
the castle breathed of Hermione, and it didn't hurt to have this constant reminder of her. It
reassured him.

Those were the moments when he knew he would see her again, and hear her voice call out his name
in a startled gasp, as though his presence always delighted her and somehow surprised her. As
thought she found it impossible for him to seek her out. He'd never paid attention to the way
she'd pronounce his name in earnest. Like he was precious to her.

He wished he could hear her say his name again.

And then it came.

*“Harry!”*

He jumped in his seat, the name he'd been thinking of cried in a mental shout of
“*Hermione”!* and around him, there was the sound of shattering as the solidified ivy leaves
fell to shards simultaneously. His mind called out, as he looked around the class, and noticed that
everyone's assignment had broken the very second that he'd heard his name called.
Everyone's, except him own, which was concealed in his hand. Afraid that someone would notice,
he slipped it into his pocket, berating himself for what he was allowing his mind to play on
him.

*“Idiot!”* He told himself. “*Hermione's not here! She can't have called you!
Stop kidding with yourself, Potter!”* He screamed inwardly. He knew that the only reason why
he'd heard her voice was because he'd wanted to hear it. “*It came from inside my head
anyway,”* he reasoned, “*that has to mean it was just borne from my desire her to hear
her.”*

That sounded very plausible, but, if that were the case, he wouldn't have shattered
people's assignment. He knew that it had been his doing, however unwilling, but every muscle in
his body seemed to tense to its breaking point when he'd heard her voice, and the mirrors must
have shattered in his place.

Her tone of voice. It was terrified. Ignoring the ruckus around him, he rolled his eyes skyward,
and sent a silent prayer. “*Please be okay, Hermione!”* And yet, as silent as it was, his
prayer had been heard.

*“H-Harry?!”*

He jumped again. That was Hermione's voice alright, and he'd heard it with his ears, not
his mind, although it seemed to come directly from his eardrums, not registered by them. And the
voice sounded surprised, as though it had heard him calling to her, and didn't believe that it
could be possible.

And it couldn't be possible. “*Oh, Merlin! I'm losing it!* He thought, horrified.
*It can't be Hermione, it just can't be! She said that even for wizards it was strange to
hear voices. I've lost it completely.”* He tried to convince himself. He felt himself
trembling. He wanted it to be Hermione.

*“Harry,”* this time the voice seemed more confident, as though his words of incredulity
had convinced her that it was real. Whatever `it' was.

*“Her-Hermione?”* He tried to call out to her with his mind.

*“Harry!”* She answered, her voice relieved and surprised and pleased to hear him, just as
it was in the moments that he'd been recalling such short minutes earlier.

*“Am I losing it?”* He asked. He had to be. His best friend was nowhere to be found, and
yet he was having a mental conversation with her. Or rather, she said his name, and he conjured and
shared thoughts with her. “*I'm definitely losing it.”*

*“I don't think so. You sound pretty sober to me, if a little more depressed than what I
would like…I just don't know how this is possible!”* She exclaimed. “*I've never read
of anything of the sort. Oh, how I wish I could go to the library and find out!”*

*“Oh, gods! It really is you!”* He rejoiced within, and he practically felt her grin at his
sigh of relief, but then he felt her confusion.

*“Harry, what happened to me?”*

He hesitated at that. “*What do you remember?”*

Her reply was ready. *“Getting bitten in front of the Hospital Wing.”*

He winced as that mental image flashed his mind again, as it did countless times during the day.
“*And then?”* He prompted her.

*“Nothing”,* she answered quickly, as though she'd already studied the situation,
which, of course, she had. “*I just woke up here.”*

*“Here where?”* He asked confused. She was in a physical place, then?

*“A cave of some sorts, and it must be pretty deep,”* she explained. “*I can't tell
whether it's night or day.”*

*“You don't remember how you got there?”*

*“No. But I would think it had something to do with the dozen or so Death Eaters sleeping
around me*” she told him far too calmly.

Harry nearly shouted out a cry of terror at that, but, fortunately for him, it was drowned out
by McGonagall dismissing class for all the commotion of the broken ivy mirrors and the following
shuffle of departing students. He tried to swallow his gurgling emotion. “*What?”*

He began to gather his things as well, lurking behind everyone else, hoping that nobody would
try and wait for him. No one did. Not even Ron.

She didn't answer his question, so he repeated her. “*Hermione, what Death
Eaters?”*

She hesitated, but finally decided to answer. “*The ones that were freed from Azkaban,”*
she told him reluctantly.

Harry had to fight to keep his gasp from escaping. Bellatrix Lestrange and Dolohov had been
among them!

*Yes, Harry,*” she confirmed his fear, “*but they're sleeping now, and I haven't
moved yet from where I am, so they don't know I'm awake.”*

*“Awake?”* Harry repeated. It was a strange word to use.

*“I don't know of any other word for it. I just…woke up.”*

*“So…you didn't die?”* Harry asked, feeling stupid. She had been medically declared
dead by the wizarding medical community.

“*I…I don't know. Maybe I was in a sort of hibernation,”* she conjured. *“I just woke
up in this cave feeling like I'd slept for half a year. I still can't move.”* She
paused. “*Harry, how long have I been…gone?”*

*“Eleven days,”* He replied readily.

*“And how did I get here?”*

*“You were…”* he searched for the right word, *“stolen…when you were being sent back to
your parents.”* He knew he didn't need to tell her that she was supposed to be buried by
that time. She knew.

There was silence. For a second, Harry was afraid that he'd been imagining the whole thing
and now it was gone, but, thankfully Hermione spoke to him again.

*“How are Ron and Ginny?”* She changed the subject.

*“I don't know really,”* he replied honestly. *“I didn't really stay long after
you…fell.”*

*“Why?”*

*“Because…Hogwarts is full of you.”*

She hesitated before speaking again, as though she didn't know what to make of what Harry
had said, but it really was rather obvious. There wasn't one inch of Hogwarts that Harry had
stepped through in which she had not accompanied him. Something like Grimmauld Place and
Sirius.

*“Where did you go?”*

*“Grimmauld Place,”* he replied tonelessly. There really was no other place safe for him
after all, and she ought to know that.

*“Why did you come back?”*

He sighed aloud, but she still heard him in her mind. *“Dumbledore called me back when
you…disappeared.”*

At the mention of Dumbledore, Harry felt, as though she were sitting next to him and the air had
shifted in display of movement, Hermione jump.

*“Hermione?”* He asked confused. *“What's wrong?”*

*“I don't know, Harry,”* she spoke apprehensively. *“I don't know that you should
tell Dumbledore.”*

*“You reckon he'll think me a nutter,”* he replied quickly. Not that he would have
blamed the old mage, he was wondering so himself.

*“No,”* she answered quickly. *“He's always believed you before, there would be no
reason for him to doubt you now.”*

*“But you said yourself that even in the Wizarding World it wasn't normal to hear voices
in your head.”*

*“Yes! But Harry, listen! If Dumbledore sent for you than he must have had good reason. I
think he suspects that I'm not actually dead. He'll believe you if you tell him that your
hearing my voice.”*

*“Yeah, in my head!”* He exclaimed.

*“Harry, he'll believe you if you tell him,”* she told him strongly. He believed her.
He knew she must have good reason to say so, even if he didn't see it. *“Just don't say
anything to him yet.”*

*“Why not?”* He was rather baffled by her request, since, from the very beginning, she had
always adviced him to keep their Headmaster always involved in what was happening around him—and
sometimes—within him.

*“Just don't. Not yet. We need to know more of what is going on. If you tell him now,
he'll try and get things started and bring attention to himself, as subtle as he is. It's
happened before. I mean isn't that the reason for why my kidnapping was so obvious? Voldemort
wants Dumbledore to search for me, and I'm sure he'd doing that, but I'm also sure
there is no lead yet, as we're here in a cave in Merlin-knows-where!”* She exclaimed
anxiously. *“I don't want the Order to come charging in thinking they're going to save
me, just to run into an ambush. We need to bid out time, Harry, and find out what's going
on.”*

Harry resisted the urge to physically nod, and was about to reply when he heard his name being
called. Several times.

“Mr Potter,” came a quiet voice behind him, slightly huffing in an attempt to keep up with the
maddening pace he set whenever his mind went in overdrive. He'd never heard Iridis Larvae speak
before, and it surprised him. Despite the fact that she looked like some kind of ghostly figure
that might have been found in a Muggle movie, completely ethereal and seemingly made of air and
ice, her voice was surprisingly concrete, rich in texture, and deep in tonality, slightly throaty
as well.

Harry blinked at her, trying to get his mind back into his own body. Until that moment, he'd
felt as though he'd been asported to wherever Hermione was to converse with her. He shook his
head lightly to clear it. “Yes, Professor?” After all, she was the new Defense Agaisnt the Dark
Arts teacher.

She took a deep breath, saying, “You were so lost in thought, you didn't even hear me call
you all those times.” She seemed amused by this, but when Harry caught sight of her eyes, which
he'd first thought to be two entirely white orbs with no iris or pupil, he was struck by the
reality that, in fact she did have both, though they were entirely blank, her iris slightly
outlined by a shadow, as well as her pupil, and he remembered what Hermione had told him about
her.

“Can you see them?” He asked her, slightly alarmed.

“Your thoughts,” she spoke as though asking a question, but was rather stating a truth. She took
a breath and shrugged her milky whtie strands over her shoulder. “Not exactly. Your at least,
though I can still feel you.”

Harry's eyebrows furrowed. “Er, what does that mean?”

She shrugged. “Your feeling aren't just your own,” she explained, “From what I'd seen,
your thoughts never managed to space out much, not enough for me to see them well,” she squared
him, and he saw the small shadow outllining the pupil that fixed him in her gaze dilate as she
searched deeper. “It seems different now.”

Harry didn't know what that meant, but she gave off a small sound that made him think that
she thought that a subject to be looked over at a later time. “That's not important now.” She
waved off the topic, making Harry very confused. He would have thought her to be rather like
Dumbledore, one that did not truly say what was happening in and around them, but she'd been
surprisingly open with him. “I wanted to speak to you of your friend.”

“Hermione?” He asked, worried. Did she hear her thoughts through his mind?

“No, your other friend,” she replied quickly.

“Ron?” His question was confused this time.

“Yes,” she replied, and she looked as though she was furrowing her features, though they
remained smooth. “I've…noticed some changes in the way I…percieve him.” She explained.

Harry blinked. “Oh, well…I guess he's not taking…it…too well,” he answered, although he
didn't truly know. Ron had seemed distant, but that had been during the summer as well.

The Oculus Immensus was still seeing right through him. “Yes, he's not taking it well,” she
answered. “Watch out for him,” she advised him, and with that walked away, her pale billowy robes
whipping around her as she stepped down the hall in the opposite direction.

Harry stood in the hallway, wondering what had happened, and why, within all that had happened
in the few days, the strangest occurance seemed to be what had just transpired with the
`seeing' woman, and that fact that her `advice' seemed to tell him to what out `from'
Ron, rather than `for' him.

To be continued.

Okay, that was it. Next chapter out next week. Thanks to Michelle White for betaing (shame on J,
who seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet again!) and Kudos to whoever is lovely
enough to leave a review. You know I thrive on feedback (even flames are welcome as it is getting
quite cold here lately ^_^)

Thanks for reading

Pearl

-->



8. Chapter 8: Professor Larvae
------------------------------

Disclaimer: It’s mine, mine, I tell you, all mine! BWAHAHAHAHA! *ahem* Anyway, what is really
ALL MINE is only the stuff that you don’t recognize as something that the goddess that is JK would
have stuck in her books, which really narrows it down to almost nothing besides the plot and the
lovely Professor Larvae, that is really a whole lot of fun to write.

Speaking of Iridis, this whole chapter’s about her, and how Defence Against the Dark Arts is
after Umbridge. One of my betas said she loved it, but she was also worried that I would continue
in this ‘write-a-whole-chapter-on-one-class’ thread. Do not worry, that will not be the case, this
is just to let you know about Larvae, who is a MAJOR character here, and the next chapter might
have a lot about Quidditch (but there’s reason behind that) and after that the plot will thicken
again. Not to worry, not to worry.

I was really afraid to write this chapter, and I kept on stalling from doing so, but, once I
started I had a lot of fun with it, and I had to keep myself from adding really pretty useless
things in just for the fun of it. I hope you enjoy as much as I did.

Harry Potter and the Bite of No Mortibus

Chapter 8: Professor Larvae

Harry was confused. He’d just left his first Potions lessons since his return to Hogwarts. And
it had not gone as might be expected.

For one thing, since he’d missed a week and a half of lessons, he’d expected to be lost and very
far behind with the lesson plan. And he wasn’t, but maybe that could have been because he’d taken
Hermione’s study notes as his new Bible.

He’d have thought to find some excruciatingly difficult potion waiting for him on the
instruction board, but he didn’t. It was a rather simple calming draught that even Neville would
have been almost successful at — if he’d managed to get into Snape’s advanced courses.

And strangest of all was Snape himself. Despite the fact that Harry was nearly encompassed in a
sea of Slytherins, the Potion teacher hadn’t jabbed at him, sneered at him, or, for that matter,
even acknowledged him. He’d behaved in a very Dumbledore-not-looking-at-Harry-throughout-fifth-year
sort of way, only difference being, Snape *would* look at him without the slightest hint of
emotion being revealed.

And his behaviour seemed to hinder the Slytherins’ thirst for barbs at the Boy-Who-Lived, or his
‘dead’ best friend as well.

Another thing about Snape was that he seemed completely unaware that he was supposed to be
teaching Harry Occlumency again, and that the potion master was about a month and a half behind on
*those* lessons. He really didn’t know what to think about this. It wasn’t making any sense at
all really.

Before his departure from Hogwarts at the end of fifth year, from the various discussions, it
had appeared that Dumbledore himself would take over Occlumency. Then on his birthday he’d said
that it would be Snape teaching him yet again. On hindsight he should have asked himself why that
was.

*“Because obviously Dumbledore told him to give the both of you another chance and start
over,”* Hermione’s voice came from within himself. He nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise.
He was used to her presence always within himself, was comfortable with it, but when she piped up
like that, so suddenly, he always ended up startled because she spoke in his mind, not at his side
where he always thought she was.

He shook his head to clear his mind and get back on the track of conversation. *“But he never
showed up for it,”* he pointed out to her.

*“Well, he very well couldn’t the day after your birthday,”* she explained logically,
*“after all the Death Eaters escaped, if you remember. I’m sure Dumbledore kept him very busy
then.”*

*“Yeah,”* Harry agreed, *“but what of after that?”*

*“Why don’t you ask him?”* She questioned reasonably. *“If he doesn’t answer you, you can
always ask Dumbledore. Besides, I think he’s been rather civil to you today.”*

*“He ignored me,”* he pointed out.

*“I think that’s the only civility he is capable of openly demonstrating,”* she answered so
matter-of-factly, that Harry couldn’t contain the wry grin that spread over his face, startling
many of the people that saw him as he crossed the hallways. *“Besides, at least today he didn’t
try to break you potion sample.”* She added, as though to drive the point home.

Harry nearly chuckled. *“I think that’s because he saw me cast an unbreakable charm on the
glass vial.”*

*“You did?”* She asked surprised.

*“Yeah,”* Harry replied. *“I thought you could…sense that.”*

*“I try not to pry too much into your mind,”* she told him sheepishly. *“I can sense what
you feel, and I could probably follow lessons with you, but I’d get frustrated being there but not
actually being there. I also think we still need to keep our individuality somehow.”*

Harry agreed with her, as he practically always did. *“Changing the subject,”* he said,
*“You were really quiet yesterday, even though you were awake.”*

*“Yes, well, the Lestranges were keeping watch of me. I didn’t want to let them know that I
was conscious yet. They all think I’m still sleeping, and I want to draw this out as much as
possible.”*

Harry nearly screeched to a halt. *“How long do you think you can keep it up?”*

She seemed to think for a bit. *“Well, it’s hard to keep track of time since it’s so dark in
here, and they sleep most of the time. They go hunting when they finish stocks, so I guess I could
keep it up another couple of weeks at least, until they realize that they’ve been here longer than
they think.”*

A couple of weeks, that wasn’t a heck of a lot of time, really, and what would they do to her
when she did wake up?

*“Have you had Care of Magical Creatures yet?”* She asked curious, changing the subject
rather admirably.

*“Yesterday, before McGonagall’s,”* he supplied quickly.

*“Was Hagrid teaching it?”* She sounded concerned, and, honestly, Harry couldn’t blame her,
as he was so himself before attending the lesson.

*“Yeah,”* he told her, *“I was worried that he was out of teaching for good last term,
but he said that, since all of Umbridge’s decisions were of questionable intent, they were all
being cleared to be inspected on further notice.”*

*“How so?”* A few traces of lingering apprehension could be detected in her question.

*“Throughout the year there will be two members of the Wizarding Examination Authority
checking on him at intervals to see what he’s teaching, and if he’s following his own schedule
well,”* he reassured her. *“His lesson programs have already been approved by both of
them.”*

He could feel, more than hear, her sigh of relief. *“Well, that sounds decent enough if he’s
already gotten that approved. I hope his examiners are nice, and that they don’t have reserves on
his mixed blood.”*

*“He said he already met them, and that they seemed like nice folk,”* he relayed.

*“I reckon that should go well enough then,”* she seemed to speak more to herself than to
him, the way she often did when she was thinking things over. *“How was his lesson?”*

Harry’s lip curled at the memory with a cross between a grin and a sneer. *“Fairies,”* he
told her simply.

Her voice held surprised amusement. *“Fairies?”*

*“Yes, fairies,”* he realized his tone was rather disgruntled.

*“And what’s wrong with them?”* He could practically hear her grin.

*“Nothing besides the incessant giggling, the braided hair, and Lavender and Parvati cooing
like pigeons,”* Hermione laughed at that, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder at how he’d missed
the sound.

*“Yes, I bet they loved that one, didn’t they?”* The smile was detectable in her voice.

*“Yeah,”* he replied with a shrug.

*“So what class do you have next?”* She asked curiously.

*“Defence Against the Dark Arts,”* he replied quickly.

*“Oh!”* She exclaimed in excitement. *“Have you had that yet? Do you know what she’s
like?”* By her tone of voice he could practically see her besides him bouncing on the balls of
her feet and balancing her armload of books as she did so. It was a very endearing mental image, he
had to admit.

*“No, this’ll be the first lesson I have with her,”* he told her.

*“Oh, it must be interesting to have someone like her teaching,”* Her voice was rather
wistful as she said this.

*“You can sit in if you want,”* he offered, hearing by her tone of how she wanted to be
there, although he had to admit that ‘sitting in’ was a strange way of putting it. She hesitated in
answering, contemplating the matter.

*“I’d better not,”* her tone of voice was regretful, and Harry didn’t know what made her
come to that conclusion. *“Just…make sure to tell me everything, ok?”*

Harry sighed. *“Alright.”* And with that he felt her drawing away slightly, though she was
still somewhat within him, connected, yet not interacting.

And so he stepped into the new Defence classroom, wondering what exactly it might look like
*this* time. And, considering that the teacher was very well blind, it was not what he would
have expected at all.

Colour was everywhere.

Thick, luscious velvet drapes were hung from the tall cathedral ceiling down to the floor all
around the room, strategically covering nooks and crannies that Harry remembered very well,
concealing what was behind in a display of rainbow hues that seemed to lift his spirits instantly
and dissipate his worries.

All around was light, because the windows had all been left purposely free of coverage, and
somehow it seemed that the warm glow of day was enhanced by the room itself—which, as far as
Harry’s memory went, always seemed rather dark—and there were—globes—of what seemed to be light
captured in a pulse of colour—all around the room, providing a spectrum of light at various
different heights of the room. They must have had a purpose, and he was sure Hermione would have
been able to tell him what they were for, but, as it were, she was giving him his own privacy in
this, leaving him entirely in the dark.

Finally crossing the threshold, overcoming his initial shock and finally freeing the doorway to
step inside, he found that the room was already half full (strange for such an early time, even
considering what class this was), and that there were only a few seats left available up front.

The seats themselves were different from what they usually were in all his other classes, where
two or even three people could pair off at a table. Here there were no tables at all, but
comfortable looking seats made of wood with no armrests, spacious, but not space consuming. These
were spread rather far apart, so that a teacher could very well walk through and inspect each
individual student, but Harry wondered how he was supposed to take notes if he didn’t have a
writing plane to lay his parchment on.

Looking around at his peers that were already seated—and noticing with satisfaction that all of
them were from the DA—he saw that they obviously didn’t have this problem, for, where they were
seated, either the left or right side of the chair had an armrest that extended to cover the
person’s lap in a practical writing board that didn’t confine the occupant in the least.

Curious, he saw a chair next to Neville unoccupied on the first row, and, uncertainly, let
himself down in it. On his right side (must adapt to the wand hand, he thought idly), he saw the
wood grow as though it was still alive, to form the desk like surface that he saw on the other
occupied seats, covered entirely in intricate carvings representing scenes that had unmistakable
links to the battles against the dark arts, so light that one had to pay close attention to notice
them, and, within those, something that he thought he’d seen before but couldn’t recognize right
away. It seemed just a bunch of dots that bumped the wood lightly, but there was a definite pattern
to them, and, as Harry ran his hand over them, he remembered them for what they were; the letters
that formed the Braille alphabet. It made perfect sense of course, since the teacher couldn’t see
the conventional written language, but how could she grade their papers then?

“Pretty neat, huh, Harry?” Neville asked enthusiastically from his left. “Professor Larvae
charmed these herself the first day.”

“In class?” Harry asked surprised.

Neville nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, we were her first class of the year, and when we sat
down at the usual desks, she said that she couldn’t work with us so close together, because our
energy or something became blurred with who was next to us, so she had us stand up while she
changed them.”

“Couldn’t she have done that before class started?” Harry replied confused.

“She thought she didn’t need to,” at this he pointed at the spheres of light over their head,
one coming close to Harry as though trying to inspect him. There was a definite feel of magic and
power coming from it, unsettling, but rather soothing at the same time. “See those? They’re
supposed to help separate each of us for her, but, apparently, when class first started we were all
either really sad or really scared of her, so it kind of gave her a headache. I think that when
we’re in too tight a group and all feeling the same things it hits her harder than it does when
we’re individuals.”

“And she told you all this stuff?” Needless to say, the Boy-Who-Lived was a little sceptical,
especially since he’d figured that the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was a living
enigma and thrived in being such.

“Yeah, well,” Neville had an almost rueful grin, “Lavender and Parvati were practically
squirming in their chair the first day, and they asked as soon as they sat down. She didn’t seem
too happy about that, but I don’t think she had a choice.”

Harry was about to ask what the Oculus Immensus was like as a teacher, but before he could
phrase his query, he felt the omniscient sight fixed on him from somewhere within the classroom. He
didn’t know how he knew that she was studying him, but he thought he found her ‘glance’ to be quite
different from any other he’d ever felt, and quite easy to pick up on himself. So he looked around
for a suitable change of subject, finding one as he eyes landed on Neville’s scribing plane. “You
got a new wand,” he pointed out to his peer, who lit up at Harry.

“Yeah, yew, dragon heart string,” he pointed out proudly picking it up from the indentation in
the wood where it was sitting seconds earlier. “Gran almost had a stroke when I told her my dad’s
broke, but I think she was kind of proud when I told her how it happened,” Harry wished he hadn’t
said that. It reminded him of just *how* Neville’s former wand had broken, in the Department
of Mysteries, which, of course, led him to think about what happened *after* the Department of
Mysteries, which in turn led him to remember about the prophecy he heard in Dumbledore’s office,
and how he had been *chosen.*

He felt a surge of bitterness flood him for a second as he realized that the boy happily
rambling about his new wand could have been the one to have to bear it all, and he had to suppress
it before he felt the urge to lash out, which was already bubbling beneath the surface.

Harry blinked surprised. Where had that come from? He didn’t want to hurt Neville. Sometimes he
wished that it was his classmate that had all this weighing down on him, but he didn’t wish him any
harm, no matter how much contempt he bared for his own faith. *And the ones of those around
me*, he thought desperately, as the image of Hermione’s lifeless face came back from the
recesses of his mind to haunt his vision before he pushed the traumatising picture back to where it
came from. It almost felt like these thoughts were coming from the outside, not provided by his own
mind. Harry sighed, as he realized what this meant. Voldemort was still poisoning his conscious,
and this time, he was being more careful, subtler, so that the lack of violence didn’t raise his
suspicions. But they did. Because when Hermione was not in the forefront of his mind, and her
reassuring presence wasn’t palpable, those tainted thoughts were like an assault to his inner
self.

Harry repressed the urge to shake his head as he forced the intrusion from his mind to focus
back on Neville, who was telling him how much better his magic was now that he had a wand that was
his alone. There was still a twinge of regret within Harry that he doubted would ever leave him,
because he knew that Neville had nobody’s death on his heart the way Harry did, and Harry envied
that.

Thankfully, Neville’s attention was captured by someone else at that moment, which gave Harry
the chance to shift his own away from his thoughts to swirl in nothingness as he stared down at the
desk. He noticed that there were several indentations in the desk that seemed to be placed there
for a purpose. One was definitely for his quill and ink bottle, and he pulled those out to set them
there, along with parchment and a few other things that he liked to keep when he had to take notes,
a space that seemed made for his book, which he readily placed there, and an elongated straight one
that *had* to be a wand holder, just as it was on Neville’s desk. It was just the right
length, width and depth for his own wand and he found that everything was placed precisely as he
liked it around him, as though the desk knew what he wanted.

He really never *had* seen the Defence classroom quite as it was now. Looking around the
room again he could see that there were definite hints that this *was* actually a class on the
study of Dark Arts and its deflection, one just had to look for it. There were charts on dark
creatures displayed along the banister of the stair leading to the teacher’s private office (he’d
been there many times, and wondered what it might be like now—definitely not the disgustingly
flowery thing that it was just a few months prior), and behind the exquisite drapery he could see
some kind of movement, and unusual sounds, that indicated there might actually be creatures to be
studied concealed within (he smiled as this reminded him of Lupin), and the free wall space was
occupied by more charts (of wands and other magical items), and by myriads of bookshelves all
filled with tomes that seemed to promise many interesting spells and would have made his fingers
itch if it hadn’t been that the side binds showed the titles in Braille, which he couldn’t
read.

And it was then that he noticed that the corner closest to him, where the books were grouped
more heavily and the sun shined brightest, was a desk, surprisingly bare compared to all the other
times he’d seen it, and currently occupied by a ghostly figure in ethereal robes which seemed to be
burning holes into him. She’d been studying him probably since he’d walked in, which meant her
‘gaze’ wasn’t as detectable as he would have believed, and her brow, though smooth as always,
seemed to be knit in deep thought (*how* exactly it could look smooth and knit at the same
time he did not know, but it did indeed).

He’d seen her eyes up close once, and after he’d noticed that, though entirely white, both her
iris and pupil seemed to have a shadow around themselves, it was actually easy for him to see in
which direction her ‘sight’ was pointing, even at a distance, and, even if it was mostly trained on
him, he’d seen it flicker once toward Neville, and then towards several seats on his right.
Following her gaze he saw Ron, sitting between Dean and Seamus, even though he remembered clearly
that there was a seat behind him that had been unoccupied for quite sometime.

He found himself looking back at his new teacher, her unseeing stare fixed upon him again as
though she were trying to remind him of what she’d told him just the day before.

He understood now why Hermione didn’t want to ‘sit in’ for this lesson. She had probably feared
that her exuberance and enthusiasm in learning new things would show too clearly through Harry and
give her presence within him away. The constant scrutiny was unsettling him greatly, when, finally,
the door closed by itself to announce that the lesson was to commence, allowing him to sigh in
relief. It wasn’t likely that she’d give up on her study of him, yet, at least, it was bound to be
less focused on him with an entire class to teach.

As she stood with a fluidity that only seemed to enhance the ethereal vibe that already seeped
out of every pore, she stood, quiet and imposing, addressing the class with that startling deep,
rich tone filled with throaty vitality to indicate the start of lesson. “Good morning, class,” she
greeted in a very Umbridge like way, Harry realized, although her salutation was welcomed much more
warmly than the former teacher’s ever had.

“Good morning, Professor Larvae,” the class replied in unison, not in that bored, disrespectful
drone that had been donned the previous year, but in a pleasant, almost reverent way. She showed no
expression at this, but she seemed to radiate warmth at their response, as though she were smiling
without having to. The air itself seemed to tingle when she walked by, her robes billowing in a
manner resembling the theatrics of Professor Snape without the crankiness.

This particularly tickled Harry, as he wanted to know as much as Hermione had just what this
teacher could give them, yet, as the class wore on with the Professor asking questions, he began to
doubt. She was asking second year questions.

Simple second year questions.

That most of his classmates were not answering correctly.

He frowned to himself. What was going on? His weariness continued to grow as the lesson went on
and the teacher went into extreme detail of all that they had covered in second as though this were
the first time that they’d had to learn it.

Eventually, his uncertainty must have been too much to bear, because the Oculus Immensus saw all
of it, and called him on it.

“Is there something wrong, Mr Potter?” Her tone of voice was neither unpleasant nor annoyed,
both of which would have been the case if this were Professor Snape—which, thankfully, she
wasn’t—but rather…amused.

“Er, no, Professor Larvae,” he answered uncertainly, rather fearful that she might find his
problem offending.

One eyebrow was raised without the above forehead being wrinkled in the slightest. “Oh, really?”
She obviously didn’t believe him.

“Well,” Harry began, “it’s just that…well, isn’t this second year theory?”

“Yes, Mr Potter, it is,” she answered Harry’s next question before he phrased it. “As far as I
have gathered you and your classmates have had some lacking teachers before you, and, therefore,
have fallen very far behind,” Harry was about to tell her that Lupin had been a great teacher, but
she spoke on, already knowing what he would say. “On the other hand, some others were quite good.
That, however, did not help you all that much with your learning schedule. Professor Quirrell’s
program might have actually been considered a decent one by some people’s standards, although,
major setbacks aside, that man didn’t teach you half the things that you should have learned in
your first year. Thankfully, Professor Lupin was able to insert most of what you’d missed in his
lessons, while still teaching third years what they were meant to learn. Unfortunately, as much as
he is a good man, he is only human, and therefore, could not fill the abyss of knowledge that you
had missed out on in your second year, thanks to the ego of what was Professor Lockhart. Now, I’m
sure that, both because it is a subject that you have interest in and because you are friends with
Miss Granger, you yourself have gathered what you were to have learned in that time, but most of
your classmates have not,” she told him.

“Despite the fact that he was a dark and insane wizard, Barty Crouch Jr, disguised as Alastor
Moody, still managed to teach you some very valuable things, though most of them had nothing to do
with what is generally taught to fourth year students, and, as far as your fifth year is concerned,
I’m not sorry to say that it was nothing but time wasted with what you were forced to
read-memorize-repeat. Dolores Umbridge’s views were challenged enough already for the position she
occupied within the Ministry, and she definitely should not have brought them to school where young
minds were at stake,” she took a deep breath, as though she’d been as angry as she would allow
herself to be, and had to steady her breathing to regain her composure.

She turned back to Harry. “At the speed at which we are going we should be able to cover most of
the theory that you have missed by the time we celebrate Gryffindor’s first Quidditch victory,”
there were no protesting Slytherins replying here, because, as it was, none of them had managed
scores high enough to get into this class on their OWL’s.

This last statement seemed to pique the interest of the class more then the entire monologue
that had just transpired. “You’re a fan of Gryffindor?” Seamus Finnegan called out, surprised.

At that she smiled a smile that had the impishness of a rueful grin. “Once a Gryffindor, always
a Gryffindor.”

“You were a Gryffindor,” Neville asked surprised.

“Yes, I was,” she replied with a proud tone in her voice, and was about to continue with the
lesson, when she realized that Harry’s earlier weariness still hadn’t lifted after all that she’d
told him. “Is something else the matter, Mr Potter?” this time she sounded bewildered.

“Actually, there is,” he replied. “You haven’t mentioned anything at all about the practical
side of this class.”

“That would be because before you can use your wand you must know how to make it function well,”
she answered readily. “Once the theoretical part of the program is caught up we will start on the
practical, which should be done with by Christmas time,” she reassured him. “Since this is your
sixth year we can afford to cram all those things and your own study program in one term without
hindering your results in your other courses. This way you will be ready to take on your seventh
year and NEWT tests with much more ease, I hope.” And with so, having acquiesced all of Harry’s
doubts, she began to walk among her students, once more asking basic questions that would, surely
and rather quickly, be getting much more challenging.

To be continued.

Author’s notes: Okay, as usual, let me know what you think, comments, constructive criticism,
flames, all welcome (especially since it’s promising the first snow here) ^_^. I have a job
interview on Monday, which I’m getting ready for, but that shouldn’t delay me too much, since bite
9 is already on its way, no promises, though. Special thanks go to J Choo and the lovely Lola (who
is magnificent and marvellously helpful) for wonderful beta reading and support. Don’t know where
Michelle went to, but she should turn up soon to start beta reading for me again, so thanks to her
too for all the other times she’s helped me. And thanks to you for reading.

Pearl Drop Angel

AKA Roberta



9. Chapter 9: Ron and Quidditch Tryouts
---------------------------------------



Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it ain't mine.

Author's notes: I know, I know, I'm late again, but this time, it's not my fault!
First I was bedridden for three weeks thanks to a very evil dentist who took pleasure in making my
wisdom tooth withdrawal as painful as it could get just so that it would still be impossible for me
to open my mouth when Christmas came around *grunt*, then there were the holidays (which just
happen to be high season here, meaning loads of work), and my computer crashed again! But enough of
that, As it is, I only have six months to finish this baby and its sequel before JK puts out HBP,
and if I don't make that deadline, I'll end up just like I did with KoaM, forced to write
as fast as possible to be able to actually read it (and I won't read it till this is finished),
so if I miss my one week deadline, please hunt me down and force me to do it, flaming is welcome in
this case as well.

Anyway, responding to some reviews (which, on FFN are still too few and far between. I LIVE on
reviews, people, they're what fuel me to write, and I'm rather starved at the moment!)
**Voakands:** Iridis won't be that big of a part in Hermione's rescue, but she
*will* be a very big part of Harry's year, and as far as DADA goes, for now, Harry's
just reviewing (it's always good to review! Shameless plug). **Loudnproud223:** Actually I
was born in the States, but my parents moved to Italy when I was about 6 months old, where I lived
until I was twelve, then for business reasons we moved to Florida for 4 years, and now it's
been 4 ½ years we're back in Italy, so, even if I wasn't born there, you can pretty safely
consider me a native of Italy, meaning that I do speak Italian, every day of my life in fact, and
am damn proud of it! ^_^ And I'm very flatter that you read my fics even though you don't
float the boat (actually you'd be surprised how many non H/Hr shippers are fans of
mine…can't understand why, but I'm flattered nonetheless). ^____^ **Trowa no Miko:**
sorry that you found it boring. I really don't blame you, but you might find this boring as
well, still, I hope you stick around because the plot will be coming back next chapter. YAY!

Chapter 9: Ron and Quidditch Tryouts

It was beginning to get unsettling. He'd had two days' worth of meals in the Great Hall
(the ones before those two days had been consumed in the kitchens with the house elves, where
prying eyes couldn't reach him), and at each of those meals those eyes were staring at him
incessantly.

The both of them were trying to drive him insane; that had to be it.

Headmaster Albus Dumbledore and Professor Iridis Larvae would eat with their eyes trained on
him, speak in hushed, whispered tones, sometimes involving Head of Gryffindor house McGonagall—who
at least was far more discrete and less persistent—and then resume their staring of him once
again.

Once, Tonks had been there making a marvellous job of distracting them from him but, he
discovered, most of the time Tonks was nowhere to be found, or rather, he was pretty sure that most
of the time she was hiding amongst students disguised as one of them. He'd tried to pick her
out of the crowd of students during lunchtime, but apparently she was much smarter than she
appeared to be—well, she had to be if she was an Auror—and much subtler as well. In all honestly,
he'd have thought that she would be the kind to stick out in a crowd, even without the peaky
hair colours and strange noses.

Or maybe he was just imagining things, though he didn't think so.

In any case, he knew he wasn't imagining those stares. And he knew, that, if they'd
intended to be covert they would have been, but as it was, they were openly inviting to stride up
to them and spill his turmoil.

Right. Like that was going to happen anytime soon.

And Professor Larvae was getting even more overwhelming. She'd stare at him as though trying
to tell him that she knew he was hiding something—or someone—within his mind (and she seemed hell
bent on convincing him of the latter) with just those looks, and it was as though she was trying to
drive him to tell her of it.

And most of the time that was precisely what he wanted to do, he wanted to so much that it was
almost unbearable, but he knew he very well couldn't. After all, she'd go straight to
Dumbledore with the information, and Harry and Hermione couldn't afford him knowing. He wanted
so much to tell someone about Hermione's life still beating within her, if at least to stop the
whispers and looks. The Slytherins derogatory comments on Hermione's heritage, and how the
school was better without her, the Hufflepuffs giving him those sympathetic grieving looks, and the
Ravenclaws not quite hushed remarks on how he might have been in part responsible for her
death.

Worst of all were the Gryffindors. Not because they insulted Hermione or because they were
mourning her or because they thought that he was responsible but because they didn't.

As Harry had discovered from Dean and Seamus, Ginny had found quite a passion for Extendable
Ears since coming back to Hogwarts in her first week, or rather, since Hermione fell. She was
determined to know what had happened to her friend. Especially after the knowledge of her
disappearance spread through Hogwarts—after all, since the presses had been banned, everyone in
school had become obsessed with knowing why it had been such, much like the Quibbler episode a year
prior. Apparently, the day that article had been published, Ginny had noticed a lot of commotion at
the faculty table, and she'd seen Headmaster Dumbledore leave with Professors Larvae, Snape,
McGonagall, Flitwick and Hagrid, and had decided that, whatever the commotion was for, she had a
right to know about it since it would have most likely have been about either Harry or
Hermione.

And she'd been right.

It had been decided that Harry was to be called back to Hogwarts—the reason for which Gryffindor
house was not surprised—and, apparently, Hermione's death had been called a hoax quite sometime
before since Dumbledore had been the one to first know of Hermione's disappearance through a
complaint from the Grangers on behalf of their missing daughter.

From there, she had spoken to the whole of her House tower about this to know what they thought,
and the vote had been unanimous. Hermione Granger was still alive somewhere—like she could truly
die that easily—and was probably a captive of Death Eaters.

Now, even if those conjectures were both very true, that didn't stop the whole of Gryffindor
to discuss them, analyze them, and ponder them out loud whenever there was no interaction with the
differing houses (Ginny had only told Luna).

It was all that which was impossible for him to handle. The constant wondering, reminding him
that not even he—who was directly involved—truly knew what was going on with Hermione.

His housemates kept questioning him. Did he know? Did he think? Did he act? All the questions
drilling into the back of his mind, at the front of his sanity.

And despite the fact that this had all been instigated by Ginny, she was his only reprieve in
the situation, the only one that cared for him as a friend, as a sister, as someone truly worried
for Hermione. Someone who hadn't—at the time—grieved for the bookworm, bushy headed Prefect;
but for Hermione Granger, the clever, introspective young woman with an insatiable thirst for
knowledge.

Ginny was a lot of help because she wasn't trying to replace Hermione, like many others
were. Not like she'd be able to.

“Hey, Harry!” The youngest Weasley sat next to him, as though his thoughts had conjured her. Her
voice wasn't quite chipper, but rather agitated, and almost nervous.

“What's up?” he asked, noticing her mood as she twisted a lock of fire red hair.

“Well—McGonagall called me to her office earlier to talk to me,” she began, and he turned
slightly in his seat to let her know that she had his attention, “to talk about the Quidditch
team.” Harry didn't speak, so she was forced to elaborate. “She asked me, to be Captain.”

Harry blinked. That was unexpected, but then again, there was nobody else, was there? Katie had
told him already that she'd refuse Captaincy for the simple fact that she would be graduating
and didn't want the extra distraction; Alicia, and Angelina had graduated; the replacement
Beaters were horrible, and therefore their spots had to be tried out for again; he had that big
black mark on his record where he had been banned—and despite the fact that it had been removed, he
had still been involved in a public fight on the Quidditch Pitch—so that left the two remaining
Weasleys still attending Hogwarts. “That's great, Ginny!” He told her truthfully.

“Great, my bum!” she screeched quietly. “Do I have to remind you that I have OWLs?!” Oh, yes,
the only times she tore herself from studying were when snooping was involved. “I told her
*you* should have the spot! I mean, you're the only one left with any experience! And I
don't even have a fixed position!” she told him, trying to be as quiet as possible while
whispering her shouts.

“Er—thanks, Ginny, but I don't think McGonagall was going to make someone who was banned
from the game Captain,” he told her awkwardly.

She sighed. “Yes, that's what she said, too, though she made it clear that she wanted the
spot to be yours.” She sighed again, more heavily. “So I did the only think I could do.”

“Er—you accepted, right?” He questioned.

“No,” she sighed once again. “I told her to give the spot to Ron.”

Harry thought about it. “Well, that's good. I mean, he's the one that likes to work on
strategies and things, and he seemed to have gotten over the whole `Weasley is our King' thing,
right?”

“Yes,” she answered, sighing yet again, “if only he wasn't such a royal git right now
though.”

“Er—” Harry spoke. He really wouldn't know about that. He hadn't quite had a lot of
contact with Ron Weasley lately.

“In any case, he's coming over here now, which means that McGonagall's told him, so try
and act surprised when he tells us,” she instructed as she began to pile her plate high with food,
while muttering something about needing strength for her studies. She hadn't even managed to
dig her fork into the first bite that a throat was being cleared behind them. She visibly forced
herself to be pleasant. “Yes, Ron?” she questioned as she turned to face her brother.

“I just wanted to let the two of you know that I've been made Captain of the Quidditch
team,” he told them in such Percy-esque way that it was somewhat scaring Harry, especially when
taking in Ginny's new animosity for him.

“Oh,” Ginny voiced in a way very reminiscent of when Hermione had found out that *he* was
Prefect instead of Harry. “That's great, Ron.”

“Yeah, good one,” Harry added quietly, not really knowing what to think of the current
situation.

“Oh, and Harry,” the redhead turned on him with a malicious solicitude that would have made
Malfoy proud; “you're going to have to tryout for Seeker again, since you lost the spot last
year.”

Harry blinked stupidly for a few seconds. “Okay,” he said slowly, “that makes sense,” but even
so, Harry had never actually had to try out for his Seeker position before, which made him feel
awkward now.

“Tryouts are Saturday in two weeks, I'm going to spread the word,” he said, and, right
before storming off toward where Dean and Seamus were seating, he added, “and be there *this*
time, Potter.”

Harry and Ginny were staring with their mouth agape after him, until Mark Evans' quiet,
curious voice pulled them out of their stupor with a simple, outrageous question. “What's
Quibblitch?”

*°*°*

They were snug. Very much so. And short as well. For the first time in his five going on six
years of Quidditch seeking this had never happened to Harry Potter. Never once did it occur that
after only one summer away—okay, it was a little more that that, but still—his loose Quidditch
Gryffindor coloured robes were tight on him. That could only mean one thing.

He'd finally hit a growth spurt, and was going to be like other normal boys, or as close as
he could get. Judging by precisely how short his robes were, he guessed he'd gotten a good four
inches, which was miraculous by his standards. His mouth widened into a face splitting grin, and
his first instinct was to call out to Hermione in his mind to tell her.

But he stopped himself. He'd rather see her face when she saw him next, whenever that would
be.

With that thought in mind, he took off his robes and changed into a pair of Muggle castoff jeans
and one of Dudley's old jumpers. Not the best way to show up at a try-out, but at least he
could fly well without the hindering thought of his robes splitting on him at an inopportune
moment.

He'd spoken to Hermione earlier that morning, and she'd wished him the best of luck,
though she'd made it very clear that she had no intention of `seeing' what he would be, so
he would have to give her a shout when it was all over and done with. He hadn't bothered
telling her about Ron's strange behaviour, since the day right after the incident he seemed to
be back to his old temperamental Weasley self, though she seemed to have sensed it somehow since
she kept asking questions pertaining to their friendship. He had always been very vague. She knew
it, but didn't push him.

Making sure the belt was buckled so that his cousin's pants didn't decide to slide down
of their own accord, he grabbed his Firebolt reverently from the bed, gleaming after a good
polishing the night before, and made to go down to the Common Room. It was true that he'd been
able to familiarise with her again on his birthday, but he knew very well that taking her back on
the Quidditch Pitch where she loved to be would be entirely different.

It was rather early—tryouts were at noon, and there was more than and hour and a half before the
time rolled around—and he expected most of his Housemates to be outside on the pleasantly warm day,
so he was quite surprised when he saw his newfound little magical cousin sitting in one of the
overstuffed chairs in front of the hearth reading the copy of Quidditch Through the Ages that Harry
had lent him. He was apparently enjoying it. A lot.

Not bad for someone who didn't even know what `Quibblitch' was.

“Whoa, Harry, what's that?” His usually shy voice sounding eager and awestruck at the sight
of what the older boy held in his hands.

Harry couldn't hold back the grin. “This,” he said holding out his treasure, “is a
Firebolt.”

“Wow,” Mark said as he abandoned his book for a closer look at the broomstick of wonders. “That
doesn't look like the brooms Madame Hooch gave us for flying!”

“I'd hope not,” Harry replied jovially—how could he not be in a good mood when there was
flying in sight—flashing him a playful smile. “It can kick off so fast that you'll be left
behind if you're not an expert flyer.”

“Cool! Really?” Mark was practically jumping out of his skin in excitement.

“Yep, want to see?” He didn't know why he was offering this—he wasn't generally very
generous when it came to his Firebolt, as it was a gift from Sirius, especially towards a first
year—but, in a way, Mark was the only real blood relative he had—or better—the only one that he
liked and actually liked calling family.

Mark looked ready to burst. “Whoa! Can I really?”

“Sure,” Harry grinned at him. “I was just about to go and get a bit of practice in before
tryouts. If you want, you can come and watch.”

“All right!” And with that the little boy was out of the portrait hole before Harry even saw
him, leaving him laughing and thinking that the Seeking reflexes didn't seem to come entirely
from his father's side.

*°*°*

He was truly at home.

There where he was halfway between the deep green of the Scottish grass covering the Quidditch
Pitch's land and the infinite blue of the cloudless sky above and could choose to be closer to
one of the other.

There he felt truly at home, where he could dive and feint and shoot up and just be one with the
wind, using it to his advantage or choosing to challenge it.

He'd never felt so welcomed in that patch of sky before, maybe because he'd never quite
appreciated it as he should have before losing it. Not unlike his friendship with Hermione.

He sighed and looked below. The other flyers were pouring onto the Pitch now, as it was almost
time to tryout. With another sigh he dove for the ground, lifting up at the last possible moment,
and dismounting in one fluid, nearly impossible movement. He looked to the stands, where Mark had
decided to stay after he actually got to see what could be done with a broom firsthand. The little
boy was practically jumping out of his skin in excitement.

In all honesty, Harry was more than a little nervous. He had never actually tried out for the
team before, he didn't know what to expect, and, most of all, he didn't know what to expect
from Ron. And there was the fact that Ginny was trying out as well—this time for a Chaser
position—and therefore couldn't give all that much support, though she had been a great help.
There was also the fact that Ron wasn't exactly acting chummy toward…anybody, two out of three
Chasers had graduated, the Beaters—one of which had graduated—would have to try out again, Ginny
was trying out for a different position, and he—well, he was in the situation that he didn't
really understand all that well.

Looking around, he noticed that there were about twenty people who had come to try out, most of
which he didn't know. The ones he did recognize were the Creevey brothers—whom, he thought,
didn't appear to have a high chance of making the team since they'd brought their camera
and were already firing it at him—Dean Thomas—who seemed rather bored and might have come only to
appease Ron—Seamus Finnigan which was giving certain glances that made Harry think he was just
there for Ginny, and—Neville Longbottom?

Yes, that was Neville alright, holding one of the school brooms and talking nervously with Ginny
who appeared to be trying to reassure him. When she looked his way, Harry raised a questioning
eyebrow at her, to which she replied with a hand gesture that clearly stated she would explain
later.

He shrugged. He liked Neville, and at the Department of Mysteries he proved that he wasn't
as inept as everyone made him and that he could hold his own in difficult situations, though Harry
didn't know if he could hold his own with Quidditch, but he could be very determined. If
Neville made it, Harry was certain that it would be great for his confidence.

“Alright, everybody, I'm Ron Weasley, for those who don't know me, and I'm Captain
of this team.” At this declaration much whispering arose from the gathered crowd, most of which
consisted of things along the lines of `I thought that Harry was a given for sure!' which
didn't seem to please Ron in the least, as his ears were turning rather a remarkable shade
resembling that of his hair.

“First, we'll have the Beaters so the rest can take up on the stands and wait for your
turn,” his voice sounded quite unpleasant and it unsettled some of the younger years.

Harry really didn't know what to think, so he made his way to where Mark was sitting to be
able to watch. Ginny and some of her friends that he didn't know came close to him. The Creevey
brothers weren't far behind, picking a spot at medium distance for better shots.

“Hey, Harry,” the redhead greeted at she took the seat next to him.

“Hey, Ginny,” he replied, turning toward her, “so…Neville?” He asked, not really knowing what to
ask or how to put it.

“Yeah, Neville,” she replied with a deep breath. “He heard about trying out the day that Ron
told us, and he asked for my help. I really wasn't sure about it, but he was really insistent,
so I agreed. I've been helping him for three hours everyday for the past two weeks.”

Harry raised his eyebrow again. “You missed three hours of studying a day to help him?” He
remembered far too vividly how much studying had been important the previous year, and how
difficult it was to keep up with it.

“Yeah, that's why I didn't want to at first, but keeping up with it hasn't been so
hard really, I mean, I just followed Hermione's advice and organised my time as best I could,”
she gave him a sad smile, “I think that none of us really listened to her as we should have. But
Neville's been great, really great. I just hope he doesn't freeze up out there. I mean
almost everyone is trying out for Beater and he's bound to be nervous enough as it is without
the added pressure.”

Harry started as he looked out towards the Pitch. Neville was trying out for BEATER? But
nonetheless, there he was, with Dean, and Seamus and seven other boys and one girl, listening to
Ron as he gave them instructions.

“Yeah, I know, I was surprised, too, but he's not half bad. He's got a good arm,
stronger than he looks, if he practices he could hit as well as Fred and George. Good aim. Much
better than I would have thought. His only real problem was flying, he was scared of it, I guess,
but he's doing better. And then there the fact that he has almost no confidence in himself,”
Ginny explained.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, “but if he makes the team it should help him a lot with that.”

“Exactly,” Ginny smiled brightly at this, “that's really the reason for why I was helping,
once I saw that he wasn't all that bad. I just hope Ron doesn't go git on us today,
though.”

Harry remained quiet at this. Looking back over the Pitch a question struck him. “So…he's
the only one actually judging the tryouts? Where's Katie?”

Ginny nearly laughed. “Oh, no!” And then she really did laugh. “Katie knows how close minded he
can be sometimes, she saw it last year, so she decided that she would assist as well even though
she's already behind with her NEWT studies, and the members would be picked based on their
joint opinions, so we should be okay. See she's on the other side of the Pitch, taking notes
already.“

Harry nodded and went to watch how the Beaters would be selected. Ginny explained, for
Mark's benefit as much as his own, since Katie had been keeping her up to date with everything
`to keep Ron in line'.

“First, they're going to be tested on their aim. They each take up different sections of the
Pitch, then, they have to send the Bludgers that have been charmed to fly at them, back to that
marker, and hit it as centrally as possible. They get points for this, based on accuracy and
strength, which are going to be taken into consideration.” Harry nodded, and followed the different
students with his eyes. Dean was hitting with good strength, but it seemed that he was hitting out
of annoyance, therefore often missing the target, but more than anything he seemed to be having
problems flying, the broom was rather temperamental, and he didn't seem to be able to show that
he was in charge; Seamus on the other hand, seemed to be having a grand time, he had great control
over his broom, but he also was completely lacking in the eye-hand coordination department.

The only girl on the Pitch, a Latino looking girl with braids who seemed to be about a fourth
year, at the moment was doing quite well, but her hits weren't very strong at all, and she was
built more like a Chaser in any case. Harry was actually quite pleasantly surprised to see that
Neville was one of the best ones out there. He really did have a good arm, and his aim was steady.
Sometimes the broom would act up beneath him, but he would get it under control without too much
time and effort. The only one doing better than he was a heavy looking boy, probably a fifth year,
with sandy hair that stayed straight and neat even up in the air, and an arm that could easily take
off a limb with a bat and Bludger at hand.

At this point, Harry hoped that Ron wouldn't be too biased by Neville's reputation, and
that McGonagall would give him the chance that he seemed to deserve. Neville really needed to have
the confidence booster.

“Looks like they're done with that. Now, they'll be tested on speed,” Ginny continued
lecturing, “Ron told Katie that he wanted to have a team based on speed, to be able to work with
the better fast acting strategies, so if they're good but too slow, they'll be cut.” She
sounded rather nervous at this, probably remembering that it was the flying part that Neville was
having problems with.

Looking over the Pitch, Harry tried to reassure her. “Well, they all have pretty much the same
level brooms, none of them are made for speed, so that should keep them all level, Seamus might be
good here, but if he's the fastest, he won't make it, because he missed the target too many
times, and Dean doesn't have a high chance here, because he doesn't control his broom well.
That girl should do alright here, but I don't think she'll be picked for this position.
Most of the others aren't even to be taken into consideration. That big kid with straight hair
seems a given, so if Neville stays calm he should be able to make it just fine,” it was, of course,
all true, but it was still all up to Neville.

As it turned out after two racing laps of the Pitch, there was nothing to be worried about,
though Neville seemed uncertain in curve, in a straight line he did just fine, and he ended forth,
after Seamus, the sandy haired boy, and the girl in the lead. Considering their previous standards,
it ought to have been good enough.

Harry watched as Ron and Katie seemed to discuss for a few minutes the situation, their argument
heating up for a second before settling down, and then they called over the only girl and spoke to
her for a few seconds.

“What do you think they're talking about?” Ginny asked anxiously as she wrung her hands.

“I don't know,” he replied as he watched the happening from afar, “but if it were me,
I'd ask her to try out as Chaser.”

As it was, Harry was right. When the Chasers were called onto the Pitch, the Beaters reached the
stands, while the girl stayed on the field for the next tryout.

“Hey, Harry,” Neville called happily as he sat next to him, looking rather satisfied. Dean and
Seamus followed, giving annoyed grunts of salutation.

“I hope I didn't make it,” Dean called out as he sat heavily on the stand before
Harry's.

“Why?” Mark asked, almost outraged, speaking for the first time since the selection had
begun.

“Because, I don't even like Quidditch, and, even if I did, I wouldn't want to play with
Ron as Captain. I mean, he's an okay bloke and all, but not only he's obsessed, but
he's been a right pain in the arse lately,” Dean answered bitterly.

“Hear, hear, mate,” Seamus called from next to him. Harry, not knowing what to say, remained
silent and turned his attention to the selections. There were seven girls trying out for the
positions, and no boys—maybe because to the Gryffindors it seemed like a given female position
based on its previous history. For the Chasers the speed race had been the first trial, and Harry
was quite glad that they had all been rather fast, with Ginny in the lead, followed by the girl who
had tried out for Beater, another girl that Harry recognized as one of Ginny's roommates, and a
little way back a seventh year, and another fifth year, the rest he didn't know.

After Ron gave instructions for the next trial, he took position at the goal posts, and the
girls lined up in rows of three, following the line up in which they'd ended the race. First
they had to pass to each other, than steal from each other, and finally they would all have to fly
and score, using whatever measure they thought appropriate, before the next group could try.

The first three, Ginny, the Latino girl, and Ginny's roommate did exceptionally well, and
they had great teamwork as well, though the roommate seemed to lack creativity. The other groups
weren't too shabby, but Ginny's seemed to have the most fun while flying, which, in his
opinion was a very important factor while playing. The Chaser tryouts took forever, though, since
Ron mixed the groups several times, and, by the time it was over with, it was nearly sunset, and
Harry wondered if he would have to try out without sunlight.

When Ron called the Seekers, there was only one other person beside Harry, a thin looking third
year with a speedy built, who would be trying out as well.

Looking back out over the stands he realized that everyone would be staying to watch the last
tryout, which, in a way, made him relax, making him feel like there was actually a game going
on.

As it was, his try out would be rather similar to what he had to do during the game, find the
Snitch, catch it, and avoid the Bludgers that had been charmed to chase anything that moved on
Pitch. Two minutes into it, and Harry figured that the same spell that Dobby had charmed the
Bludger with in second year must have been placed on them now. They were quite a bit more vicious
than they usually were, and they seemed to be attracted to his broom—possibly because of its power.
But Harry found that it wasn't much of a problem. The other potential Seeker was just following
him, apparently not knowing what to do, and the reddish setting light of the sun made the
glimmering gold of the Snitch nearly impossible to miss, at least for him. It was hovering right
behind Ron's head, so Harry, after dodging a rather nasty Bludger after his tail, dove into one
of his trademark heart stopping dives, nearly giving Ron a stroke, pulled up right in the nick of
time and landed with the wings of the Snitch fluttering insistently against his fist, fighting for
its freedom.

However, despite the cheer that rose from the stands, Harry was rather unsettled by Ron's
less then pleasant expression. With a heavy heart, he went to sleep, trying to figure out what was
going on, and what the results would be when he went down to the Common Room the following morning.
Yet when morning came, it was with a happy note that he spoke to Hermione, reading the names off
the list that had been posted.

Judging by the faces of those around him he could easily guess which of them matched the names
on the list.

Beaters—

Daniel Jacks-5th (the sandy haired heavy boy)

Neville Longbottom-6th

Chasers—

Ginevra Weasley-5th

Marina Lopez-4th (the girl who tried Beater)

Seeker—

Harry Potter

Practices will be Monday, Wednesday, Friday from 6pm to 8pm, from 8am to 11am on Sundays.

To be continued.

You know the drill, whatever thought you had about this, as flimsy as it might be, I'd like
to hear it, so either leave a review, or contact me at Robbygal@hotmail.com

-->



10. Quidditch Tryouts and Revelations
-------------------------------------



Disclaimer: I own only what you don't recognise, and, I hope, that would include the
plot.

Alright, let me tell you that this chapter was hell to write, and I think it's terrible, but
my betas, which I think very much, all thought it pretty good, so here it is. I'm afraid that
with Mark's conversation Ron comes across as worse than he actually is, almost like he's
going to turn Death Eater—which he isn't, though I'm itching to write a story like
that—and, terror of terrors, another Quidditch game. But don't worry, there is at least the
return of the main plot, and some things going on. Now, to answer some reviewers. **Lady
Darkshine:** Thank you very much for your compliments ^_^, I think being compared to JK is just
about the best thing one can say to a HP fanfiction writer. As for Ron, his behaviour has to do in
part with what you said, but it's mostly due to something that is obscure to everybody but
me—and I made it so on purpose. And as for Harry explaining to Ron about Hermione…well…he's not
^_^, plain and simple, and that has its reasons as well. **Trowa no Miko:** WOW! Someone
actually liked the last chapter! I'm so glad! And yes, Ron's a prick, and he blows things
WAY out of proportion, we all know that, especially if they're particularly insignificant.
**Insane clutz 4 eva:** You want my chapters LONGER?! Man, nearly everyone else is ready to
throw rotten tomatoes at me if the chapter's more than 6000 words! But in any case, I have no
intention of doing that. I find the 5000 media comfortable. And if I got away from the MAIN plot is
because I thought there was reason to. Sorry you found it boring, I'm still an amateur, I know.
Anyway, the plot's back here. So I hope you like.

And now, on with the fic.

Harry Potter and the Bite of No Mortibus

Chapter 10: Quidditch season and revelations

He sat there, watching the general hustle and bustle that ensued such festivities as that of
Halloween at Hogwarts, not really taking it in at all. It was days like these that he missed seeing
her most of all. Halloween was always one of Hermione's favourite holidays, and, despite the
fact that he spoke to her nearly every waking hour of the day, Harry was finding out rather quickly
that it all wasn't the same when he couldn't see her face and the myriad of expressions and
gestures that she would always display as part of her nature.

Halloween was also the day that five years prior had brought Hermione to be a fixed part of his
life, one that he had come to depend on without realizing it, without even appreciating it. He let
a heavy sigh escape. At least he and Hermione's disappearance weren't the centre of
attention anymore—smuggling the forbidden Daily Prophet had taken up that role.

“What's wrong, Harry? Worried about the game?” Mark asked from across from him, a large
serving of pumpkin pie on his plate. Harry gave him an empty shrug, so Ginny replied for him.

“Hufflepuff doesn't worry Harry, Mark. And he won't get nervous about it until tomorrow
morning. Then he'll come down to breakfast and pick at his food without eating it until
it's time to go to the Pitch,” she told him matter of factly.

“So what's wrong?” the small boy asked with a confused frown upon his freckled face.

“It's Halloween,” a voice called gruffly from their left, and they found Ron shovelling food
in his mouth as per his usual, and if they hadn't recognized the voice they very likely
wouldn't have guessed that he had spoken.

“What are you on about now, *slave driver*?” Ginny asked, her tone sounding rather miffed
at both his intrusion into a conversation that—according to her—he had no right to intrude upon,
and his behaviour on the Quidditch Pitch which had earned him the nickname of `slave driver',
or `evil incarnate' when he was in certain moods. After all, it was Ron's own fault for
holding the tryouts so late that they had to cram extra time to get the team to synchronise.

“What is wrong with Halloween, Ronald?” A dreamy voice drifted to them from behind, where Luna
Lovegood was making her way toward them, her feet looking as though they weren't touching the
ground.

“And what do you want?” Ron asked, sounding rather rude, and offended by the formal use of his
name.

“I just thought I'd come and wish you luck on your game for tomorrow. I'll be cheering
Gryffindor. Never did fancy Hufflepuff much,” the last was added with a breathy whisper, as though
she didn't want to be overheard, the motion of her head moving closer making her radish
earrings swing mightily on her ears.

“Uhm…you won't be wearing another roaring lion on your head, will you?” Ginny asked,
sounding rather apprehensive, and Harry could understand why, despite the fact that he had started
considering the Ravenclaw a friend the year prior, he still couldn't overlook the ridiculous
distracting headdress that she chose when showing support for a team.

Luna's face took an almost melancholy expression. “No, unfortunately,” Harry was a little
more successful than Ron at hiding his sigh of relief. “I had one prepared, but apparently it was
misplaced in my dorm, and I won't have time for another one, so I'm afraid I'll only be
bringing a banner this time.”

“That's…great, Luna, but you don't have to, really,” Ginny reassured her, probably
wondering what kind of banner she would be able to come up with.

“Oh, it's no trouble, really,” Luna answered dreamily, her protruding eyes turning back to
Ron, as she took a seat next to Mark. “What is it that you were saying about Halloween,
Ronald?”

Ron's annoyance seemed to increase each time his name was pronounced that way. “Nothing,” he
replied stabbing angrily at his mince pie.

Luna's appearance had made Harry forget that Ron had guessed the reason for why he was in
such a mood, but then again, it wasn't all that surprising really, after all, Ron was her
friend too.

Ginny, didn't seem to want to drop the subject as easily as her brother did. “No, no, no!
You *were* saying something about Halloween, now, what could it be? Halloween—Halloween,” she
began muttering to herself, tapping her chin in thought. “Hmm, Halloween…Oh, bugger!” She suddenly
exclaimed, slapping her hand over her mouth in realization.

“What? What's going on?” Mark asked, confused at Ginny's sudden change of demeanour.

She turned her eyes on Harry, “The troll?” she asked quietly.

Harry was actually confused. Ginny hadn't even been there in first year, and, if Ron had
told his family, he was sure that the story wouldn't have centred on Hermione (he did have a
tendency of making himself the hero). But he nodded, asking her “How do you know about that?”

She shrugged, giving him a sad sort of smile. “She told me,” she replied simply. “You two may be
her best friends, but Hermione *is* a girl, and a girl needs to talk to another girl when all
she's got is boys,” she quirked an ironic smile, “I would know wouldn't I?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he relented, not really knowing what to say. He wanted to ask what Hermione
liked to talk about, but thought that it might be best not to ask. Ginny, however, seemed to read
his mind.

“She mostly talked about you, and Ron, and what you three would do together. And how she was
always worried about you,” she retold. “I probably know more about you than anyone who's not
part of your triangle ever should, and I heard more complaints about Ron's loud trap then I
care to count,” and, for a second, she fixed Harry with a steady stare. “Did you notice how much
she learned about Quidditch over the summer?”

Harry nodded. “I figured she'd been around us too long.”

Ginny grinned widely at that. “Yeah, that was actually it. She said that being around you, and
watching your games, and seeing the way you seem alive when you're up there halfway between
earth and sky had always fascinated her, but she refused to show it to the two of you because she
thought that then she'd never be able to make you concentrate on anything else.” Harry
couldn't keep the smile off his face. That sounded like Hermione alright. “And then, the
Department of Mysteries happened, and I have no idea how she could, but she knew you were going to
start acting like you did, and she thought that Quidditch might be the only thing to bring you out
of it—and she was right, of course, if you remember your birthday. So she asked me to help her
learn more about it while she helped me get ahead for the OWLs,” she finished sadly.

“This summer was the first time she ever mentioned the troll,” she started again after a brief
pause. “I'd already heard about it from Ron, but I asked her about it because I know that his
storytelling isn't generally very accurate,” she said this with a glare directed at her
brother, who had yet to lift his eyes from his plate of mince pie. “When she told it to me she said
that it was one of her most precious memories.”

Harry, not knowing what else to do, gave her a simple, but very meaningful, “Thank you.”

“So…” started Mark, seeming hesitant to disrupt the mood that had washed over them, but too
curious not to, “what happened with a troll?”

And, while Ginny began retelling the long story of a possessed teacher, a mountain troll that
managed to infiltrated the school, and the mayhem that had been Harry Potter's first
year—interrupting Ron whenever he tried to put a word in--Harry tuned himself out of the
discussion, letting the buzz of conversation drift around him without bothering to catch any of it.
In the back of his mind he felt a stirring, like something was stretching, and recognised it as the
very subtle presence of Hermione's conscience waking.

He'd never known what Hermione was like in her sleep, since he'd never shared a room
with her the way he had with Ron (there was the exception of the Quidditch World Cup, but that
night his mind had been occupied with Veelas, and Quidditch and glory, and he hadn't noticed),
but now, he could somewhat guess from how she became aware within him. She seemed to be rational in
this as well, he could sense how uncomfortable she was, feeling like she needed to move, to
reawaken her atrophied body, but, even in sleep, when consciousness slipped away, a part of her
stayed, forbidding her body to move. She was an early riser, her mind sharp practically the moment
she slipped out of sleep.

But, this time, along with the awareness, there was something rising, suffocating, and
suppressing him from the deepest reaches of his mind. He felt the tiny hair at the nape of his neck
standing at attention, his entire body covering in goosebumps, his breath coming short for no
reason at all. Icy fingers wrapped around his heart, squeezing the very life out of him, a slight
sheen of sweat covering his brow nearly instantly in cold heat. His heartbeat sounding a low,
incredibly fast rhythm within his ribcage, making the thick vein on the side of his neck pulse
mightily and stand out. He knew what it was. What was making him react the way he was.

Fear.

Raw, powerful, indescribable fear.

And it wasn't coming from Voldemort, like his first instinct could have told him, his scar
quiet and completely still. It was from Hermione, and it was so strong, it was oppressing. He tried
to reign in his reactions, to steady his breathing, keep it quiet so that nobody around would
notice his change of disposition, try to keep the fear from showing in his bright green eyes. He
had to be rational, he had to try and think like Hermione, just for once.

But just as Harry was about to call out to her, to ask her what was wrong, to find his answers,
he felt a thick wall rising in front of him, preventing his voice from reaching hers, effectively
blocking him out. She was aware, still awake, but she didn't want him to know what was going
on, so she managed to fully block his mind from hers, much like he'd never been able to do with
Snape, barely sparing a quick, *“Everything's fine. Just wait.”*

And Harry tried, he truly tried to break through the wall that she'd lifted against him, but
all he could detect was more of that fear. He could hear the quick, scared rhythm of his heart
beating within his ears, and it taunted him, told him that he could do nothing, and that she was
going to be lost to him, just like Sirius was.

And he felt just as afraid. What was he supposed to do? For the first time, *he* was the
one with the impulse to tell Dumbledore everything, but Hermione's warnings stopped him. Her
words came back to him. *Just wait.* Even in her state of absolute terror, she still thought
it was dangerous to go to the Headmaster, and she'd told him to wait. Could he afford to?

Generally, he would have thrown her cautions to the wind, but that had done so much damage in
other situations, he was afraid it would do much the same here. After a glance at the faculty
table, he saw that Dumbledore and Larvae were scrutinising him just as much as they'd been
doing, the latter having picked up on the sudden mood swing that had surged through him—not from
him—and decided to follow Hermione's advice.

He would wait for some kind of signal from her, and if that didn't come, he would wait as
long as his instincts allowed him, and then he would do what he had to. Whatever that might be.

*°*°*

“Hey, Harry?” Mark's small apprehensive voice came from behind him as Ron set away his
Wizard Chess set and left for the dormitories. They'd had a couple of matches after the
Halloween feast, and Harry had lost repeatedly, which wasn't new.

“Yeah?” Harry asked, flopping down in a squishy armchair, Crookshanks leaving the comfort of the
lit fire by the hearth to jump into his lap.

“Can I ask you something?” His tone made Harry think the boy thought he might get offended by
it, as he took a seat close to him.

“Sure.”

Mark seemed to find great interest in his shoes as he fidgeted with the edge of his sleeves.

“Well,” he began hesitantly, “that guy, at dinner, with the red hair…that you were just playing
with…Ginny's brother…”

“Ron?” Harry asked surprised. Mark nodded. “What about him?”

“Well…isn't he supposed to be your best friend?” There was an embarrassed blush colouring
his face brightly, but his eyes were trained on Harry, who nodded back. “Well, it's just…I
don't know…it's like, he's there, and he talks, and sometimes he laughs, but he's
not really there at all, or like he's here just to be here. It's like he doesn't really
want to be there.”

Harry had noticed that, after finding out that he wasn't an insane criminal, Mark had taken
quite a liking to him, which was returned, yet he didn't think that it would lead him to being
so observant of him, though he knew from personal experience that those forced to watch their own
back saw more than most thought. He sighed, scratching his cheek in thought. Harry had made a few
attempts to reach Ron—things like asking to play Wizard's Chess a few moments ago. Ron accepted
most of the time, and they'd have conversations like they used to, and Ron would win as always,
but there seemed to be something entirely off with the way they were with each other, and Ron did
seem particularly distant. “Yeah,” Harry spoke in a huffed breath. “I can't really blame him.”
Mark's eyebrows raised in question. “I haven't been a really good friend to him
lately.”

“Because of your godfather?” Harry was tempted to ask how he knew, but he figured that it could
be attributed to Ginny—who had also taken a real liking to the small first year—so he simply
nodded. “Ginny said that you were weird, but she said that Ron wasn't really trying,
either.”

“Don't think he knew how to handle that sort of thing,” Harry shrugged, using the past tense
only for the boy's sake, since, in actuality, he was still behaving quite a bit like that.
“Ginny didn't either, though she's been better lately. Hermione was the only one that
could.”

“But she's not here, now.”

“No, she's not.”

“But he's still not trying,” Mark insisted.

Harry looked at him, long and hard. He knew that Ron was being distant, but it seemed like
everyone was trying to point out something more to him. “Maybe I should be the one trying,” he
suggested.

“You know what else Ginny says?” Mark asked, seemingly out of the blue. Harry shook his head in
reply. “That you need to be away from your memories, because they hurt you and because Ron
doesn't understand that they hurt you, and that's why you're not trying with him, but
he doesn't understand that.” And Crookshanks, as though agreeing Mark, jumped in the young
boy's arms and purred loudly. Even the cat seemed to be holding a grudge against Ron at the
moment. And Harry didn't know what to think anymore.

A short while later, he made his way to the dorms, Mark's words weighing heavily on his
mind. Maybe the reasons that he'd given for Ron's—and his own—behaviour were true, and
maybe he was trying to escape memories, which the castle was already full of, but, didn't that
make him selfish? Or maybe, he had always been selfish, and never realised it.

Maybe he was a truly inconsiderate friend. Or maybe, he was just lonely, but didn't find it
in himself to seek human comfort, unless Hermione was in a condition to have the same privilege.
Crookshanks, in his arms while he contemplated this, seemed to agree with the latter, but for some
reason he kept glaring at Ron's bed.

*°*°*

“And Neville Longbottom makes a marvellous play of defending Ginny Weasley from yet another
stray Bludger, Weasley passes to Bell, quick volley to Lopez, and some real clever flying, and back
to Ginny Weasley who overhead volleys with the hind of her broom! Hufflepuff can't catch it,
and it's SCORE for Gryffindor!” Harry heard a fourth year Gryffindor girl, by the name of
Rebecca Larson, commenting enthusiastically. She was quite good, she didn't side *too*
obviously, and she liked to get the crowd involved.

So far, it had actually been one of the best games that he'd ever played in—and one of the
longest, as it was well past two hours already, but bloody hell! Were they in horrible Quidditch
weather!

There was an incredible amount of fog, mostly due to the fact that the temperature had gone up
several degrees in respect to the previous day and the Pitch was so close to the lake.

Harry had not been able to hover in his favourite position above the game, because from there
the fog was too thick to see the bottom of the Pitch, the area that Snitches seemed to prefer when
visibility was scarce. That didn't mean that he could stay close to the grass either, because
from there it was impossible to see above. So that left only one position, and that was right in
the middle of the Pitch, close to the action, which, at the moment, was the most dangerous place to
be. Bludgers were everywhere. The Beaters were hitting them away from the playing area, afraid of
possibly targeting their own players otherwise, but, as it happened, the Bludgers had minds of
their own.

The Gryffindor Chasers, thankfully, had only thrown the Quaffle the wrong way a few times,
probably due mostly to the fact that they recognised their own team's flying style, quite
different from Hufflepuff. The score was currently 210 to 150 in favour of Gryffindor, but the game
had already been endless, and all the players were extremely tired. Neville was beginning to have
trouble with his broom, he probably didn't have the will to control it after all the effort
he'd already put.

One of the Hufflepuff Chasers had gotten hold of the ball, and was quickly making his way to the
Gryffindor posts, but Katie had managed to tackle him, though she'd dropped the ball, which had
been caught by Ginny, who had to do some seriously clever broom work when two of the opposing
Chasers began tailing her. And there, finally, out of the trail left by Ginny's broom in the
fog, Harry saw it. The Golden Snitch, hovering in the middle of the action, twittering madly among
the commotion.

He didn't think the opposing Seeker had seen it, since he had been out of sight for nearly
the entire duration of the game, but, if Harry hesitated too long, he might lose his chance. With a
quick glance around to make sure nothing might unexpectedly come hurling at him, he dove into the
action as quickly as he dared, avoiding zooming players, random Bludgers, and anything else that
might be hidden behind the fog.

And then he was there, the whistle sounding as he pulled out of the dangerous position he was in
with that little elusive ball fighting against his fist and the wonderful feeling of fulfilment
that permeated his entire form whenever he managed to catch it, and, as he heard the wild roaring
of the crowd, he began to fall.

It was as though, for a second, everything had gone completely numb, and then, suddenly, there
was a pain so intense it was maddening, and he instantly lost control of everything, his eyes
rolled in the back of his head, his limbs thrashed of their own accord as though he were possessed,
something akin to a high pitched screeching was buzzing in his ears, that he didn't even
realise had been coming from his own mouth. it felt like thousands of smouldering hot blades had
pierced every portion of his skin, his insides were melting, his body was hit by violent spasms,
and he felt as though the bones within his body were disintegrating. From the outside, it looked
like his jaw might break just for how wide it was opened in his unstoppable cries of pain, blood
was liberally pouring from a deep cut on his lip that he'd made when trying to keep quiet, his
hands, of their own volition, trying to claw at his own body, ripping the front of his brand new
robes as though they were paper.

He knew what this was, he'd felt it before. But it hadn't been directed at him, it was
rather coming from *within* him. And he knew. He knew with a certainty, that the Cruciatus
that he was feeling had been cast on Hermione, and that he was feeling some of it through their
strange connection. Yet, as the ground was quickly rising to meet him, his thoughts weren't so
much on his blinding pain, but on how, if he felt this much, Hermione must be feeling it
tenfold.

The force of multiple Cruciatuses cast on her at once.

°*°*°

His skin felt as though he were blistering, being cooked from within, his throat hurt due to the
force of his screams, and his insides were scorching. It was hitting him again, but this time, he
could think through it, which was a great improvement. He could register what was around him.

Naturally he couldn't see, since his eyes were rolled in the back of his head, and, in any
case, it didn't feel as though he were wearing his glasses, but, through the screams that he
still could not hold within, he recognised that he was in the hospital wing from the heavy scent of
healing potions that permeated the air.

Voices were reaching his ears. “Here comes another attack! Quick, immobilise him before he
starts to hurt himself again!” That was Madame Pomfrey, did she sound worried? And there were
strong hands holding him down to something that must have once resembled a mattress. His natural
instincts telling him to fight against this restriction, needing to claw at something, to bite
something, to inflict pain on something so that his wouldn't be as intense.

But it wasn't all that intense, not like the first Crucio he'd been inflicted directly
some months prior, and definitely not like the indirect multiple attack from the Quidditch game.
This was a tickle compared to those, yet he still had no control over his body, his muscles
twitching madly, his bones feeling as though they were all going to start snapping like twigs.

“Here! Put this between his teeth so that he doesn't break them,” the school nurse
instructed again, and he felt something being placed in his mouth the second that he'd opened
it to scream, a stick of some sort, and he closed his jaw over it, feeling some semblance of relief
at the simple action.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone, the curse lifted, his whole body still
burning as though he'd been put to roast. He felt something soothing, a curative spell of some
sort, going through his whole body, and relaxed slightly. “Keep holding him,” he heard Pomfrey say,
“he's going to be going through the after effects soon and he'll spasm.”

And, as though she'd charmed them to, his limbs began to thrash of their own accord, the
pain from the curse gone, but his muscles still on fire from the ordeal, and it hurt. At least now
the pain was bearable, and his eyelids shut tightly, his head whipping from side to side. Some
might have considered this more painful than the actual curse, but Harry found solace in the fact
that now he was regaining his senses as his own. He didn't scream, tried to hold in any other
sound, not able to help the heavy panting breaths that escaped his nostrils while he bit down hard
on whatever had been shoved in his mouth.

After an eternity, he finally calmed, his body finally went still. Still breathing heavily, as
though he'd been underwater too long and needed to make up for what he'd missed, he opened
his eyes, seeing nothing but blurs, mostly red blurs, some black ones, and two more. “Here, give
him his glasses,” someone ordered, and he felt the slight weight of his frames back on his face,
the world coming into focus quickly. He saw right away that the red blurs belonged to his Quidditch
team along the left of his bed, still dressed for the game, Neville the closest to him, meaning he
was one of those that had been holding him down, Mark was over to the left of him, looking
terrified next to Ginny (who didn't look much better), on his right stood Madame Pomfrey,
Tonks, Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Larvae, Luna Lovegood (what was she doing there?),
and most surprising of all, Professor Snape, who must have also been holding him still. He blinked
stupidly at them, while his breaths turned from the heavy panting, to a strangled wheezing. What?
It was like his throat had become too small to let air pass to his lungs.

“Oh, right!” the nurse said, coming closer to him and pulling a vial from one of her pockets
with one hand, and removing a stuffed roll of fabric, what he'd been biting down on, from his
mouth. “Open up, Potter,” she ordered briskly, and Harry, with a great effort, opened his mouth
slightly, his muscles weren't responding well, and that was the best he could manage at the
moment. It seemed to be enough though, and, without ceremony, she took his chin in her hand, tilted
his head back, and poured the contents of the vial in his mouth, forcing his mouth closed, telling
him to be completely still so that the liquid would make its own journey to destination.

Nearly instantly, he felt his windpipe returning to normal, the flow of oxygen to the lungs
restored. He tried to speak, but his vocal cords didn't allow anything but a wispy wheeze
through. “You won't be able to use your voice for a couple of days, Mr Potter, since you
heavily damaged your vocal cords, and I will need to keep you here until I deem it safe for you to
leave your bed,” Madame Pomfrey explained. He looked down to what he was lying on. It hadn't
felt like a bed.

“Or what's left of it,” Snape sneered, his lip curled in a well known expression of
distaste. Harry realised that the lump he was lying on must have once been a mattress, but it
looked like some wild animal had ripped what it could to shreds. And then he saw his hands, his
nails broken, his skin rough, and some blood crusted on his fingertips. He'd done it
himself.

“Wotcher, Harry,” he heard Tonks say from his side. He would have grinned, but his lips were
split in several different places, so he simply nodded, acknowledging her salute. It seemed to be
enough, so everyone began talking at once, the sudden noise making Harry's head feel like it
was going to explode.

“QUIET!” The nurse's shout had actually made Harry groan in pain, but it made the rest shut
up, so he really couldn't complain very much. “All of you, out, *right now!*” She ordered,
not leaving them any space to argue. “Potter needs to rest, so you will not be able to visit today.
You may come back tomorrow, but no more than two at a time. Now *out!*” And Harry could hear
the reluctant shuffling of his friends feet, some of them saying half hearted get-well-wishes,
others promising to visit the coming day.

“Very well, Harry, I shall be calling on you tomorrow with Ronald then,” he could hear Luna say
as she walked out, sounding as though it had been her choice to leave, and she wasn't being
kicked out. Ron didn't seem to pleased at the idea.

“Yeah, bye, Harry,” he could hear Mark call, sounding small and looking terrified, “I'll
come after classes, okay?” He sounded as though he was asking permission. Harry managed a very weak
wave, but it pleased Mark endlessly, and he left next to Ginny, who'd given him a worried wave
of the hand as well. The only ones that remained were Tonks, Madame Pomfrey, Snape, Larvae,
McGonagall, and Dumbledore.

Surprisingly, it was the Potions master to start speaking. “Potter,” he began, his tone barely
civil, “I will be asking you some questions, and all you have to do is think of the answer clearly,
and Professor Larvae will interpret for us,” that interested Harry, it seemed that, if one made his
thoughts as clear as possible, it was almost like telepathy for the Oculus Immensus. “Understood?”
Harry tried to nod, but changed his mind and formed his thoughts into an affirmative answer.

He could see his Defence Against the Dark Arts professor smile at him, her lips widening but her
cheeks remaining smooth, as though she hadn't moved a muscle. “He understood,” her startling
deep voice sounding somewhat proud.

“Have you ever felt what you did at the game, and just now?” Snape questioned, his tone
completely devoid of interest. He gave an affirmative thought, which Iridis Larvae announced. “What
do you think it was?”

The promptness with which he gave the answer through Larvae was startling to most around him,
Snape in particular. “Crucio,” the ethereal lady spoke certainly, not allowing her own feelings to
seep into her voice. “Several of them,” she added.

“Do you know how you ended up feeling it?” Snape asked after a moment of silence. Harry
hesitated. He should tell, he knew that now, but he didn't figure he could do so with so many
people watching.

“Yes,” Iridis Larvae answered for him. “But I won't talk about it now.”

Snape seemed nearly enraged at this, and Harry made sure not to make eye contact with him in any
way. “And when *will* you talk about it?”

“When I leave the hospital wing,” the Oculus Immensus spoke with the certainty that he felt.
“I'll go to the Headmaster's office.”

And it went without saying that the discussion had reached it's end, contrary to
somebody's wishes.

*°*°*

True to his words, three days later, Harry stood in front of the stone gargoyle, sprouting
random names of sweets, his palms sweating, feeling as though he were about to betray his best
friend. At `Canary Cream' the statue jumped aside, and he found himself ascending to the door
of Headmaster Dumbledore's office, moving as though her were on autopilot, and, before he even
knew it, he was sitting in a chair across from the desk occupied by the ancient wizard.

“Hello, Harry,” Dumbledore greeted, with a knowing smile, “Lemon drop?” Harry shook his head,
his voice still not fully returned. The older man seemed to understand that it was not the time to
make small talk, so he cut straight to the chase. “Care to tell me what happened?”

“Well,” Harry began, his voice still flimsy. It wasn't exactly easy describing what
happened. “I guess the first thing to say would be that I know Hermione's alive.” If Dumbledore
was surprised or not, he didn't show it.

“And how is it that you know this?”

“Because,” Harry continued, knowing that the most powerful wizard alive was soon going to start
thinking him a nutter, “I can…feel her,” and, with a heavy heart, at Dumbledore's questioning
gaze, he continued. “She speaks to me…in my head.”

But, to Harry's utter surprise, the Headmaster seemed relieved, and hopeful.

And Harry was confused.

To be continued.

Author's notes: Just to let you people know, in the next chapter a LOT of questions should
be answered, the chapter is already finished and has already been sent to my betas, which I thank
profusely. Thank you Stargurl, Madame of Sarcasm, and especially J Choo! Anyway, if you had any
opinion whatsoever on this, I'd like to know (reviews are dwindling, you know, and I'm
starting to wither away, since I live on those).

Thank you

Pearl

-->



11. The Colour of Magic
-----------------------



Disclaimer: Nothing that you recognise is mine, though I wish it were, I'm merely playing in
JKR's lovely sandcastle.

Author's notes: Where have all my betas gone? J was the only one that gave this chapter back
to me, Madame of Sarcasm seems to have disappeared (though it wouldn't be the first time), and
Stargurl wrote to me but never gave me her beta work. In any case, many thanks to the lovely J
Choo. Anyway, this chapter had been ready since before I posted 10, but I was waiting on my betas,
and, when I finally decided to post with just J, the Pope died, and I didn't feel up to
updating. I'm a Catholic through and through, and I was very devoted to John Paul II, I still
can't believe there's another man wearing his robes. Moving on. To **Trowa no Miko:**
Thank you! You are the only reason for which I still post on FFN! I love your reviews! “And I look
forward to your updates more than her books.” Oh, I just melted there. As for Rebecca Larson, I
don't know how you'd know it, but I used to know a girl in High School by that name, and
she was a real sports fanatic, so I thought I'd use it for a Quidditch player.

And now, on with the chapter that explains all.

Harry Potter and the Bite of No Mortibus

Chapter 11: The Colour of Magic

“Professor Dumbledore?” Harry asked, as though wondering if it had not been the Headmaster
himself to lose his marbles (err—more of them).

“Professor Snape has not been privileged of trust among Death Eaters since the Department of
Mysteries,” Dumbledore began, not reassuring Harry in the least of his state of mental health. “We
believe this is due to the fact that some of the students present in Umbridge's office at the
time recognised your warning to him for what it was. That, of course, means that the information
that he has been able to infiltrate us has not been too reliable, and very scarce in any case.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore. Was he blaming him for giving Snape's alliance with him away?
The older man was fixing him with a penetrating stare, yet there was no accusation in his twinkling
gaze. Harry stared right back, expecting his elder to come to the point soon. “Have you ever heard
of the `Colour of Magic', Harry?” There was that old question about his sanity again!

After recovering from his initial confusion, Harry fidgeted in his seat for the simple reason
that he felt he wasn't going to like what was to come. “No,” he answered, “can't say I
have, Professor.”

“No?” Dumbledore questioned, seeming surprised. “I would have thought Miss Granger might have
mentioned it once or twice in passing,” Harry tried, he truly tried to remember if anything of the
sort had ever happened, but came up with nothing. Knowing that he generally had a very good memory,
he gave a sure shake of the head, indicating that no such thing had ever happened. The Headmaster,
settling further in his seat to ponder his next words, kept his unwavering gaze on Harry. “You say
you can feel her,” he began strongly. “When did this start?”

“Second week of classes,” the young man replied surely, with no hesitation in his voice. “During
Transfiguration.”

The old wizard smiled at him. “Would this have been the day in which everyone's assignment
shattered, but yours?” Harry had no idea how he knew this (or everything else for that matter), but
he nodded rather sheepishly nonetheless. Getting serious again, Dumbledore cleared his throat in a
way that very clearly indicated that a lecture was coming. “The `Colour of Magic', Harry, is a
theory, saying that every living being, human, animal, or plant, is filled with magic—made of it,
so to speak. It's a theory that states that Magic is life itself.” Harry looked ready to
question, but Dumbledore prevented it.

“If you think about it, it's not so unbelievable. There are some Muggles that are capable of
performing some rudimental charms—even better than learned wizards at times—entirely of their own
nature. Some have the gift of Foresight—the Inner Eye—others can separate their minds from their
bodies, effectively finding themselves in different places at the same time, some have what they
call `telekinesis', the ability to make objects move without touching them. What Muggles call
`Telepathy' to us is a form of Legilimancy. Why, there are even Muggles capable of
communicating with those that are crudely called `spirits'.

“This theory,” he continued, returning to the Colour of Magic, “states that magic is in
everything that we are. It's what tells us how to breathe, what makes our heart beat, what
allows reproduction, and we would not even be able to lift a finger without it. It's what makes
a muscle pull another. We could not exist without it. This magic is part of us since the very
moment we're conceived, or—better yet—it's what conceives us.

“Now, theoretically, magic should be entirely colourless at the time of out conception, though I
personally think that there is always a shadow of colour from the residual magic of our parents,
from which we are made. In time, as we grow, our magic grows with us, taking it's colour from
us, changing hue as we mature. Now, I find that `Colour' is not quite the word to use in this
case, because it makes too much reference to White and Black magic, Light and Dark arts. There is
actually no such thing as White and Black magic, I personally think that magic takes on
`Personality', not `Colour'.”

“So why do we call the Dark Arts with that name?” Harry asked, taking a chance to ask his
question in a break in Dumbledore's long explanation.

“A fluke of the language, really,” the ancient mage replied with a shrug. “It's the same as
saying that someone has a black heart. The heart is not truly black, it is an expression used in
our tongue. It is true, however, that only those with a certain `hue' of magic can use certain
spells to their desired level.” Harry, very clearly did not understand the last part.

“Muggles' magic, for example, though present within them, does not allow them to do nearly
any kind of intentional magic. Your friend, Neville Longbottom, couldn't perform to the level
of your class when he first began attending Hogwarts—though he was more than a Muggle—yet, with
time, and the right teachings, his magic is becoming closer to that of you and your classmates.”
Harry still didn't seem certain.

“You, yourself, have tried your hand at what are commonly known as the Dark Arts,” the young man
jumped in his seat, but Dumbledore was not disappointed, and he wasn't accusing. “What did you
find out, then?”

Harry brought his hand up to his cheek to scratch it nervously. “It seemed to work,” he said,
remembering Bellatrix's screams when he cast the curse. “But not really. I didn't have the
will behind it.”

Dumbledore nodded. “That's one way to interpret it. Another is, that your magic is not
attuned to it. Your magic makes you who you are, Harry. Its personality is the same as yours, and
if it weren't, you wouldn't be able to live with it; it would eat away at you from the
inside. I know this because it has happened. No, not from one's own magic. Since that grows
with you, it grows like you. But there are very rare circumstances that can bring to that. When a
creature dies in mind and body, Harry, it's magic disperses, drifts out of the body that it
inhabited to become oxygen, and create new life—new magic.

“When two creatures touch or come in very close contact, so does their magic. If the two forces
are opposing there is sometimes a reaction, showing in instant dislike, or an immediate feeling of
companionship, depending on just how they oppose. When contact happens during the death of one of
those to creatures, its magic, leaving the shell, will weaken, and be pulled by the one that is
still living, the most likely of cases being that it will be drawn entirely into the other body and
absorbed. If this were to happen to someone whose magic was not compatible with the deceased, the
two forces would fight for domain, and damage the body that is carrying them. This, of course, if
very rare, because generally, if the magic is otherwise occupied, it would not attract that which
is dispersing, meaning that if in battle you are touching a dying Death Eater, but not contacting
the Death Eater with your magic, his will not reach out to you.

“Now, let's make another example here. Let's say that there are two people whose magic
is more than compatible, that one is nearly vital to the other, and one of them dies while in the
arms of the other. Not only will the dying one disperse and try to attach itself to the one that is
living, but the latter will also try and reach for the other because that would mean that it could
never again have contact and that couldn't be allowed to happen. What do you think would be the
result?” Dumbledore pierced Harry with his twinkling blue eyes.

Harry stared back at him. “A bond.”

“Precisely,” Dumbledore replied proudly, giving him a smile of admiration.

“And you think that's what happened with me and Hermione,” it wasn't a question, but the
old man replied nonetheless.

“Something of the sort, at least.”

“But Hermione's not dead,” Harry tried to convince Dumbledore as much as himself. What if
she wasn't? What if all that he'd been hearing in his mind was a result of his magic
bonding and reacting with hers, making him hallucinate, and hear what he wanted to hear?

“True, she is alive now,” the old mage agreed, allowing him to breath out a sigh of relief. “But
she did effectively die.”

“What?” Harry's question shrill, confused, and not slightly scared.

“Miss Granger was poisoned that night. Remember what that newspaper that I sent you said?” He
continued, like an attorney making his case.

“It said that it had to be a potion or something,” Harry replied, after a moment of
recollection.

“Quite right,” Dumbledore concurred. “Now, I'm sure you've heard at least once of some
kind of concoction that makes the person who ingests it seem dead until they awake.”

“Yeah,” Harry replied quickly. “Romeo and Juliet. A Muggle play.” He'd studied it briefly in
school, and Aunt Petunia owned every edition of it ever made, adapted to TV screen, of course. She
cried over it at least once a week.

“Yes, there are many allusions to it throughout literature, both Magical and Muggle, yet there
are just as many historical references of it, the earliest being recorded from Ancient Egypt. There
has never been a recorded recipe for anything of the like, so many believed that only determined
families of apothecary were aware of it, and they passed it along to their heirs. However, after
several millennia, there was no more records of it, and it was believed that the bearers of the
secret had died with the pest,” Dumbledore explained.

“But how could something like that work?” Harry asked, truly befuddled. Even if the original
makers had died, there were ways of finding out what potions were made of, he'd read it in
Hermione's notes, so the fact that it had suddenly vanished made Harry think that it was
nothing but a legend all along. “A potion that makes sleep look like death?” Snape had said
something like that on their first class in first year, but Hermione had said that he was just
trying to catch their attention because there was no written record of anything of the sort in
recent times.

“Exactly,” Dumbledore replied softly. “There is no such thing.”

“What?” Harry asked aghast, getting more and more confused by the second.

“Death cannot be simulated. It can be delayed, and sometimes avoided, but there can never be a
fake death,” the ancient man spoke forcefully. Harry was feeling as though he were going to
faint…or strangle the Headmaster.

First he would say one thing, and then he would say the exact opposite. Maybe he really was just
mad, but the young man couldn't just leave it at that, he had to find out exactly where the old
wizard was getting with this. And, if he didn't get anywhere, and he really was just senile,
well Harry would at least have that question cleared. “So how did Hermione manage to look dead and
still live?”

“Like I said. She did die.”

“So how is she still alive?” Harry nearly screamed in exasperation.

“First,” the old man spoke, raising his finger to make a point, “we should be asking ourselves
how she died.” Harry looked about to finally strangle his Headmaster. For Merlin's sake!
Hermione was being held captive by escaped Death Eaters! But Dumbledore ploughed on in search for
his answer, completely ignoring Harry's state of impatience. “Are you aware of the fact that
some potions have delayed effects?”

“I thought all potions acted immediately,” Harry replied more than slightly irritated.

“And they do,” the old man answered readily, “but, sometimes, they may have ingredients that act
at a later time—like a Muggle medicine may have side effects—or, sometimes, after a certain time,
it will reverse itself, if it is so projected.”

Harry blinked stupidly at his Headmaster for a few seconds. “Er—sorry, what?”

“Let us say, for example, that the Pepper Up potion's first effect is to make one's
temperature raise drastically, therefore making the cold evaporate,” Harry nodded for him to go on.
“Now, that cures the cold, but the sudden overheating of the body can be very damaging, forcing it
into a high fever,” again, Harry nodded, displaying his understanding so far. “To compensate this,
the Pepper Up has a delayed cooling effect.”

“Makes sense,” the young man mumbled under the heavy scrutiny.

“Now, let's return to the No Mortibus concoction that was administered to your friend, Miss
Granger,” Dumbledore continued. “There is a recording of someone who had been subjected to this
brew, before it went lost. The recorder said that the subject's blood stops moving, frozen
within the veins instantly, coincidentally the exact opposite of what the Pepper Up does,”
understanding suddenly arose like the sun on Harry's face.

“If the blood stops moving the heart can't beat anymore,” he said, slightly awed.

Dumbledore nodded. “How long after the heart stops beating do Muggles declare death?” He asked
Harry, who had finally gotten tired of being surprised and outraged at his elder's seemingly
crazy questions, so he simply shrugged, letting him know that he didn't have the answer.
“I'm not quite sure, but I believe it is around fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Any idea why?” A
negative shake of the head, since there was no need for answer, it would be provided by the
Headmaster. “Because they have to try and make the heart start pumping again, and it doesn't
usually happen quickly, or as quickly as most would like. Once those minutes are up, the organs
begin to cool, and the muscles can't move anymore, they become hard.”

Dumbledore pierced Harry with another of his eloquent glances. “Do you know how long it takes
for Wizards to declare death after the heart stops?” The young man doubted it would be long;
remembering how Hermione's death certificate had been signed before she'd even managed to
cool. “Three minutes,” Harry wasn't surprised. “That's because, with magic the heart's
beat can be reactivated instantly. If one spell doesn't work, the Healer moves onto another one
until either the heart resumes, or he runs out of spells.” A quiet nod from the student, and the
lecture started up again. “Knowing this, we know that Miss Granger had effectively died.”

And, while Harry heard these words, his mind went back to the first mental conversation he'd
shared with Hermione, where she'd used that peculiar word `awake'. But she couldn't
have awoken, because she hadn't been sleeping. She'd been dead. And then she just stopped
being so. As though reading his thoughts, Dumbledore started his speech again from there.

“However, we also know that she is effectively alive,” Harry nodded again—he'd been doing
that a lot. “It's quite easy to figure out how that came to be really. We know that in past
times, there was a potion, or poison, that froze blood within the veins, since the heart cannot
pump frozen blood, it effectively causes death. To revive the subject, very simply, the poison had
to either have a delayed effect that made the blood warm up and flow again, or it reacted to
something else, such as, for example, a spell.

“Theoretically, that brew should have died several centuries ago, but I know for a fact that Tom
Riddle had always found extinct magic fascinating. All three Unforgivables are based on it,” Harry
gave him a questioning look. “Oh, yes, Lord Voldemort never had any inventive. Others pursued even
his quest for `purity' among Magical folk before him. I'm quite sure that whatever was used
on Miss Granger was based on the potion that we spoke about.”

“So,” Harry began uncertainly, “our…connection. It's just because she died, and I was close
and our magic was connected?”

“In part,” was the pragmatic answer, “but you're forgetting some of the things I told you.
When magic disperses, it is only when both mind and body die. After that there is no chance of
revival. Evidently, there was something in that brew that kept Miss Granger's mind tied to her
body, preventing her magic from dispersing, therefore giving the chance for her return to
life.”

“But then how—?”

“The Department of Mysteries.”

Harry found himself blinking stupidly again. “What?”

“Do you not remember the spell that she received when at the Department of Mysteries?” Of
course, he did, how could he forget? He merely nodded. “What was it?” Harry gave him a questioning
look. “The spell. What was it?” Dumbledore repeated.

“I don't know,” the young man replied after a long pause. “He was silenced, and I
couldn't tell what it was. Hermione didn't know it either.”

Dumbledore nodded quietly. “Do you know why we use wands, Harry?”

Harry blinked at him. “Er—I… ” Don't know. Yep, that's what he would have said, but he
decided against it. “Maybe to concentrate the spell in one place,” he guessed.

“In part,” Dumbledore replied. “We don't need our wands to use magic. You, yourself have
done several things without meaning to and without needing your wand, the last of which I believe
was turning your uncle's sister into a hot air balloon,” Harry blushed profusely. “As you said,
a wand is most helpful in concentrating one's energy in one place, and expelling it in one
direction, to a determined place, thus reducing a possible waste of magic, or the use of an
unnecessarily wide range. But that's not all. Through the wood, always magical, and the core,
our magic takes on more power and some of the characteristics of those two things.”

Again, Harry nodded for the professor to go on. “Why do we call out incantations when using our
wands, do you think?”

Not having the slightest clue as to what the answer could be, the young man shrugged, his stare
unwavering on his elder, who nodded, and began to rub his mighty beard in deep thought. “When a
spell is invented, it generally has a motivation, or a purpose. An intent. Many wizards, when
performing a spell either don't have the time or the intent to perform it, resulting in a
faulty spell. To avoid that, all wizards are taught to pronounce the right incantation, and give
intent to the spell without need of concentration.” Harry was still staring, a furrow of confusion
creasing his brow in ever increasing amount. “Without the incantation, a spell might become quite
weak because of the unnecessary dispersion of magic, or, if performed with the *wrong* intent,
do so causing contrasting effects.”

Dumbledore pierced him with another of his intense, twinkling looks before shifting in his seat.
“What I believe happened there, is that the spell used by Dolohov, like nearly all other curses
used by Voldemort and his kind, was meant for the torture of the receiver, and the enjoyment of the
caster.” Harry's mind flew back to the memory of Bellatrix Lestrange telling him that to make
an Unforgivable work, one had to wish the receiver a world of pain. He nodded, letting the
Headmaster know he understood. “Well, when Dolohov cast the curse, he was most likely angry from
the blow received from what he might have considered nothing by lowly scholars. That anger would
have naturally contrasted with the original intent of the spell, which required a cold calculating
enjoyment, and furthermore the incantation was not pronounced.”

The Headmaster didn't wait for Harry to nod as he ploughed through his lecture. “Like I said
before this could have made the spell quite weak, but it didn't because Dolohov's anger was
great, and anger is very strong fuel for a curse. That of course, could only resolve in an even
bigger dispersion of energy.”

“Now, from what I've been told, the curse was cast at very close range, was it not?”

Harry knew that there was actually no need to answer, but he did so anyway, “Yes, sir, it
was.”

“What do you think this could lead to?”

Harry didn't want to think anymore, he didn't want to know, he was getting tired, and
wanted to draw back into his comfortable shell of numbness.

Yet Dumbledore would not let him.

“This, Harry, would result in Miss Granger getting the full strength of a very heavy spell cast
incorrectly, and a big load of excess magic with it to boot. The spell rendered her unconscious,
allowing the invading force to fill her body, who has been fighting it ever since.”

“No,” he didn't want to believe it. He didn't want to believe that a piece of Dolohov
had been living inside Hermione, festering, slowly torturing her. “She said she was fine.” And she
did, and she had to be. “Madame Pomfrey said she healed from the curse.” And she had, she
didn't even have a scar.

“The superfluous wound did heal, her skin scarred and healed completely, but her organs were
suffering a great deal, her lungs especially. She had great trouble breathing,” the twinkle was
gone from the Headmaster's eyes, yet Harry would not allow it.

“She could breathe just fine,” anger was rising within him again, an anger that hadn't been
there since he'd left Hogwarts for the summer. “She spent hours laughing and running around the
study at Grimmauld Place all summer.” She was fine, she was not dying from within, Dumbledore was
wrong.

“Tell me, Harry,” the elder began, “did you notice anything different in your friend? In the way
she moved this summer?” Harry was ready to snap at him again, but stopped before the words left his
mouth. There *had* been something different. “Did she seem stronger, perhaps?” She did. “Did
she seem quicker, more agile?” She did. “Did she seem to never truly stand straight? Was she always
leaning against something?” She was. “Had you noticed anything of the sort?” He had. And he'd
been worried. But he hadn't asked.

So maybe it was time he did.

“Why was that?”

“Miss Granger had been taking a media of ten potions a day since the Department of Mysteries to
help replenish her magic, keeping the invading energy under control. That resulted in her
heightened reflexes and in her improved strength, but it wasn't enough. Her organs were
deteriorating so much that she could not stand straight anymore because it strained them.”

A heavy silence seemed to blanket the whole room, chilling them both, and it was interrupted
only when a terrifying question occurred to Harry, and he could not withhold the need to express
it. “But…those potions. She's been without them for *weeks!* She must be so sick, and
those Crucios! How can she still…?”

“Be alive?”

Harry flinched at those words, but there weren't really any others that could be used. He
nodded. “Now *there's* a very good question!” Dumbledore's whole face lit up with
something that resembled glee quite closely, but how could it be? The Headmaster really *must*
be mad. “You see, Harry this leads us right back to the question you had earlier of how your bond
came to be with her. Part of it was because your magic and hers is so very much compatible, but the
bigger part is because of the curse that she received! Despite the fact that Madame Pomfrey managed
to heal her physically, there were she was hit her magical barrier was much weaker, and it caused
for quite a bit of magical loss. When she received the bite, even though the No Mortibus brew is
constructed to keep her magic within her, very much of it left her, because her barrier was far
weaker than it had ever been. And there you were, next to her calling out to her, and her magic
answered for her, reaching for you as well, creating this connection between the two of you!”

Harry's heart swelled with what the Headmaster was saying, and how he was pronouncing them,
but he couldn't let himself be dragged by the flow and he knew it. He was going to try and stay
level, just like Hermione would have in this situation, even though he was sure Hermione
wouldn't have even been in such a situation, because she'd have it all figured out already.
“That explains the bond,” he said quietly. “It doesn't explain how she could possibly still…be
alive.”

“Oh, but it does! It does so splendidly, actually. You see, when she was attacked with No
Mortibus, the brew prevented her body from releasing her magic, and only *her own* magic. Her
body, which was repelling Dolohov's energy from the start, must have expelled it nearly
instantly, which means that, by now, her magic is very likely nearly entirely restored. You
weren't affected by Dolohov's magic because you were calling out to your friend, and only
her, repelling everything else, much like you tried to repel me when I came close to you that day,”
Harry's cheeks coloured mightily, but Dumbledore was either too kind or to absorbed in his
explanation to call him on it. “All this time she must have been in good conditions, or you would
have come to me much earlier, which means in part that she must have been fed by magic to keep her
healthy, but I'm quite convinced that she was subconsciously drawing quite a bit of support
from you, which would, of course, be the reason for why she is still sane after all the Crucios she
was hit with.”

“Er—how so?”

“Quite simply, she would, without even knowing it, draw into the shelter that she finds in your
mind, allowing her to escape most of the pain, which in turn explains the pain that *you* felt
from it. It could also explain why you didn't feel anything from Voldemort.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” the elder began, his fingers drumming on his chin in thought, “more than once you've
felt what Voldemort was feeling, if it was intense enough, true?” Harry nodded. “Tom, in school,
used to love torturing small animals, though he hid it well enough. I'm sure that he would have
drawn great pleasure from watching one of the most important people in Harry Potter's life, the
one person standing between him and all his plans of Pureblood glory, tortured to madness or
death—and I'm sure he was present at the time. He never misses a torture. I daresay, you ought
to have felt at least a twitch.”

“Maybe I'm just closed to him.”

“Maybe,” Dumbledore nodded. “But I doubt it. At least in the sense that you mean it. You're
closed to him in the sense that he can't break into your mind on purpose, but strong emotions
should still be able to filter through, but they don't, apparently. Any idea why?”

Harry was, in all honesty, getting very tired of this game of rhetoric. It was quite obvious he
knew why, but he insisted in asking. “Why?” he relented, giving the Headmaster what he wanted.

“Because your mind is entirely filled by Hermione's presence. It's like Occlumency,
though it works in exactly the opposite way from what is orthodox. Generally, one clears the mind
as much as possible, not letting anything through. Your mind, though, does not only hold you, but
Hermione as well, there is no space for another intrusion, so to speak. Naturally, that works for
your Miss Granger as well. I say that may come in handy quite marvellously.”

Harry didn't like the sound of that. Staring at the Headmaster, he thought he knew what it
was that was making him feel that way. “You want her to spy for you. Since they can't get into
her mind, you can use her.” There was more than a little accusation in his voice.

“As I already said, Professor Snape has no longer been trusted by the Death Eaters, and we do
need much more help,” his tone had been soft and pleasant, yet Harry found it incredibly
irritating, entirely out of place, and unbelievably frightening.

“You're willing to sacrifice her?” He pronounced this as though the realisation had dawned
on him right then and there, which it had.

“Not at all,” Dumbledore hadn't even been phased by Harry's declaration. “Absolutely
not.”

“Then why would you risk her life for some of your information?”

“Exactly because I *don't* want to risk her loss, and, without any information it will
take an incredibly long time to find her, and each second we waste is a second too long,” the
elder's voice was fierce, proud, and urgent, and then it turned menacing. “Death Eaters like to
play with their toys, but they're spoiled. They tire very quickly, and once they do, they like
to break their toys.”

Harry felt his blood turn to ice at those words.

“Contact her, Harry, before it's too late.”

*°*°*

And there he was, that very same night, lying in his bed during the wee hours of the morning,
awake and restless, calling out to his best friend while she refused to answer, increasing his
worry. He'd tried everything, from telling her that Hagrid had been fired—which was false—to
telling her that he was planning a secret affair with none other than Severus Snape—outrageous,
yes, and she would have never believed him, but it should have arisen some kind of reaction. And it
hadn't. What if it was already too late? She was still there, he could feel her at the back of
his consciousness, aware, but was she still sane?

He needed to know.

And he knew of a way that would get her to answer if she could understand the question, though
he was terrified to try. He'd gone against his word to her, yet he'd had no choice, and he
feared for her life. Taking a deep breath and bracing himself, he pulled the last card that he had
up his sleeve, and called to her one last time.

*“Hermione,”* he spoke, *“Hermione!”* Stronger this time. And then another deep
breath. *“Hermione, I went to Dumbledore today,”* and there, he could feel a tension coming
from her, as though she guessed what he would say, but wouldn't let him know that he'd
heard until she was sure. And he'd give her that certainty, knowing that at least *that*
would make her speak to him, if not in friendly terms. *“I told him everything.”*

Another hesitation, and then, finally, a response. *“What do you mean,
`everything'?”*

And he sighed. *“I mean, Hermione, `everything'.”*

*“Oh, Harry!”* She sounded exasperated, and scared. *“Why would you do that? You promised
you wouldn't.”*

And he felt anger. Shouldn't she know why he did that? But maybe she really didn't, so
he'd tell her, just to be sure. *“Because,”* his tone still bitter at what she said, *“I
could have either done that, or stayed on hold, knowing you're being tortured, and waiting for
it to be over, without even being able to do anything. Sorry if I chose the first option.”*

*“Oh,”* and another one of her blasted hesitations followed. *“I didn't think you
knew.”*

*“Of course I knew, Hermione, you thought I wouldn't feel at least part of those
Crucios?”* For the life of him, he didn't know why was so frustrated and irritated, much
more than he should have been, but he was, and he hated it.

*“I didn't want you to know.”*

And a heavy silence followed, weighing mightily on his heart. *“You should have answered me,
and told me.”*

*“I didn't want you to know.”* What she said, the way he said it, made him almost feel
guilty for the fact that he felt betrayed by her silence, hurt by her indifference of his
worry.

In any case, there was no point in crying over spilt milk. There was much to discuss, and it was
high time they started on it. *“Hermione, Dumbledore has a plan.”*

And the planning went on into the night, their earlier conflict ignored, but not forgotten.

Never forgotten.

To be continued.

There you have it. Hope you enjoyed it, but tell me either way by leaving a review, or mailing
me at Robbygal@hotmail.com

Thank you

Pearl

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