Harry Potter and the Eye of the Storm by Jane99

Rating: PG13
Genres: Drama
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 16/10/2004
Last Updated: 02/06/2008
Status: In Progress

My take on sixth year. Glacially slow, so if you like fast-paced fics this isn't for you. No
Mary-Sues or exchange students or long-lost twin sisters...




1. Chapter One
--------------

Chapter One.

Taking tea with Mrs. Figg did not help Harry Potter’s summer pass any faster. Cat hair floated
unappetizingly in his teacup, and whenever he visited, Mr. Tibbles would stare at him from under an
old moth-eaten armchair. The cat’s gaze was unblinking, and Harry found the attention unnerving,
though in a strange way it was almost a relief.

Privet Drive had never been a comfortable place for Harry, and understanding why he had to go back
for the holidays didn’t make it any more pleasant. When the Dursley’s had picked him up from King’s
Cross Station at the end of his fifth year, the thought of a summer with them had been almost more
than he could bear. Alternately angry and numb from the loss of Sirius, he had dreaded spending
time with his only relations, who would take great delight in picking over any wounds that they
could discover. Sullenly, Harry had retreated to his bedroom for several days. When hunger drove
him from it, he was amazed to find that he was almost completely ignored by his horse-faced aunt,
his bullish uncle, and his bullying cousin. Apparently, the threats that Mad-Eye Moody had made at
the train station had had some effect. The Dursley’s could never be persuaded to be nice to Harry,
but they could be convinced to ignore him. It was a tactic that Uncle Vernon, in particular, had
tried before, and Harry had never been so grateful for it. Aunt Petunia’s acknowledgement of his
existence stretched so far as making sure he was (for a change) decently fed. After the first few
silent meals, Harry had begun to take his food back to his bedroom after it had been dished up, to
avoid the very obvious silence in the dining room.

He continued to keep to himself. Every few days he sent several terse sentences to the Order,
although Harry was sure that this was only a formality on his part. He was certain that the Order
of the Phoenix had him under close surveillance, but he wasn’t inclined to try and communicate with
them beyond that. Professor Lupin had sent him a couple of letters, to which, made awkward by
sympathy he did not want, Harry had sent a very short note in reply. Lupin had apparently got the
hint and not written again. Ron had not. His letters, scrawled and messy, arrived every other day,
and he didn’t seem bothered by the lack of a proper reply. Harry always felt a little lightened
when Pig, Ron’s owl, zoomed through his open window. Ron’s letters weren’t like Lupin’s – they
pointedly avoided any mention of Sirius, Voldemort, or the events at the Ministry of Magic.
Instead, he gave blow-by-blow accounts of the latest Quidditch matches, whether they were from the
professional League or just the games he had bludgeoned his family into playing with him in the
backyard of the Burrow. They were deliberately chatty and inconsequential, and in his better moods
Harry appreciated them very much.

Hermione’s letters had*not* been either chatty or inconsequential, and Harry had responded to
them in much the same way as he had responded to Lupin’s. And like Lupin, Hermione had stopped
writing – Harry hadn’t heard from her for a couple of weeks. Dimly, he realised she might have been
hurt by his refusal to “talk about it”, but he simply didn’t have the energy to go through it all
again. Mostly he just wanted to be left alone to brood and, bar Ron’s letters, Harry got exactly
what he wanted. In some ways, he began to understand that he got more than he wanted.

The prolonged silence of the Dursley’s had begun to grate on him. It wasn’t even funny to watch
Dudley stumble through some of the chores that had once been his, Harry’s; although he got the
feeling that Fred and George would have found it highly amusing to watch his elephant of a cousin
lumbering behind the lawn-mower (even if he was rewarded afterwards with a giant tub of ice-cream).
Harry would never before have believed that he could want the Dursley’s to explode at him, but that
summer it would have come as something of a relief. It would almost, he felt, be a comfort to have
someone to fight with; to have a focus for his anger other than himself. To have someone to talk to
who would take his mind off of Sirius.

That was where Mrs. Figg came in. She was utterly batty, and Harry spent a good half hour after
each visit picking cat hair out of his teeth, but at least she was company. It took very little
encouragement to get her chattering about Mr. Tibbles and his little friends, and she didn’t need
any help to keep the conversation going. Privately, Harry felt that it was a good thing that he
didn’t want to talk, because he wouldn’t have been able to get a word in edgewise anyway.

He was on his way back from Mrs. Figg’s one night when something flew over him, just above his
head. Harry groped for his wand, and it was in his hand before he recognised the flapping of wings,
and saw a shadow heading toward the smallest bedroom of number four, Privet Drive. The bird was too
dark to be his own owl, Hedwig, and to large to be Pig with a letter from Ron. Harry ran the rest
of the way home, and pounded up the stairs to his room, suddenly alert. It couldn’t be bad news –
could it? Surely if something big had happened, the Order would send someone to tell him in person?
Harry couldn’t think of anyone else who would be writing to him.

It was a fine barn owl, and it glared at him imperiously. It reminded him of Mr. Tibbles. The owl
dropped two envelopes onto the windowsill and flew off. Harry grabbed at them. One had the familiar
Hogwarts Crest (although it had arrived earlier than the usual yearly reminder), and the other bore
a great seal imprinted with the letters “W.E.A.” – the Wizarding Examinations Authority. The OWL
results. Harry swallowed – he had forgotten all about them, forgotten that Professor McGonagall had
told the Gryffindor fifth years to expect the results of their OWL exams sometime in July.
Suddenly, he was afraid to open them. He thought of Ron and Hermione, his two best friends, and how
they were probably doing the same thing that he was right now – holding their W.E.A. envelopes and
shaking. Hermione would be near-hysterical, Harry thought, afraid that mistranslating runes had
made her fail her OWLS. He didn’t think that she had anything to worry about though. Hermione was
the brains of the trio, and she was bound to get all O’s. It was him and Ron who really needed to
worry...

Harry was certain that he’d done well in Defence Against the Dark Arts, but doing well in one
subject wasn’t enough, not if you wanted to be an Auror. He had to have enough OWLS. Standing in
his bedroom with his unopened results in his hand, Harry wanted that more than he remembered
wanting anything – at least in the weeks since Sirius had been killed. He had to have enough OWLS.
Sirius had died trying to protect him, and the thought of revenge, unfocussed, angry revenge, had
sustained Harry in the horrible weeks since his godfather’s death. Now there was a way to focus his
feelings, a channel to pour them through - if he only had enough...

Still staring at the envelope, Harry backed away from the window until the back of his knees hit
the bed. He sank down on it, not sure that he was going to be able to stand without his legs
buckling. Carefully Harry slit open the envelope and, with nerveless fingers, unfolded the sheet of
paper within. He forced himself to read each result carefully before moving onto the next.

He had been rated as Acceptable in Astronomy. In spite of himself, Harry breathed a quick sigh of
relief. One down. It had never been his favourite subject, and when he remembered the practical
exam, and how it had been disrupted by the Ministry attack on Hagrid and Professor McGonagall, he
was just grateful to have scraped a pass.

Care of Magical Creatures had gotten him an O! Hagrid would be thrilled, Harry knew (although he
had to admit to himself that Professor Grubbly- Plank probably deserved some credit as well, but he
wasn’t going to tell*that* to Hagrid!).

In Charms, he had gotten an Exceeds Expectations. That should be enough to let him continue it to
NEWT level. He knew that he hadn’t done perfectly in the practical, but the written part of the
exam had gone well. He remembered Ron’s dinner-plate sized mushroom and hoped he had done as well.
Ron also wanted to be an Auror, and Harry knew that any further study wouldn’t be as much fun
without him.

Defence Against the Dark Arts had earned him another Outstanding grade. Harry was pleased, but
privately unsurprised. He had a feeling at the time that he had done well – he had certainly
practiced enough in his fifth year, Umbridge not withstanding.

The fact that he’d failed Divination came as no shock at all. Harry was just amazed that he’d
managed to scrape a P. He’d been fulling expecting a D – Divination was certainly Dreadful
enough.

He’d gotten an A in Herbology and was slightly disappointed. Harry knew that it wasn’t his best
subject, but he also knew that he could have gotten an E if he’d worked harder at it. He’d just
spent too much of his revision time on other – to his mind, more important – subjects.

The D he’d escaped in Divination came back to haunt him in History of Magic. Harry wasn’t
surprised, the exam had been a disaster; he didn’t want to think how much. He couldn’t find it in
himself to be too upset though, History of Magic was the dullest, dreariest subject ever devised
and he couldn’t wait to drop it.

When he read his results for Potions, his heart stopped within him. He needed Potions to be an
Auror, and Professor McGonagall had told him that he needed an O to continue the subject. Harry
only had an E. Snape wasn’t going to take him. He had failed. It echoed in his brain: only an E,
Snape wouldn’t take him. Couldn’t be an Auror.

The part of his brain that was reading automatically fell on the last result, another E, this time
for Transfiguration. He’d needed an E to carry on in it, and had managed to pull his grades up to
get it, but now it didn’t matter. Snape wasn’t going to take him. He had failed. How was he
supposed to defeat Voldemort if he couldn’t conquer fifth year Potions?

It was several minutes before Harry remembered the other letter. Numbly, he tore it open and
recognised the neat, looping script of his Head of House.

*Dear Mr. Potter,

By now you have no doubt received the results of your OWL
examinations. I see from those same results that you have achieved
nearly all the grades necessary to continue with your ambition to
become an Auror. I have taken the liberty of speaking to Professor
Dumbledore on your behalf, and he agrees with me that, due to the many
disruptions in your education last year, an exception can be made in
this case. Professor Snape has been persuaded to accept you into his
advanced Potions class, should you still wish to take it.

Enclosed is a list of subjects available for sixth year study.
Bearing in mind the results of your exams, please indicate those
classes you wish to take and return it to Hogwarts within the week. Be
advised that sixth years are expected to take a minimum of six
subjects, and that there may be conditions attached to your further
study of Potions.

Congratulations on your results,

Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Head of Gryffindor House* *Hogwarts* *School* *of Witchcraft and
Wizardry.
* Harry had to read the letter several times before it sunk in. Another year of Potions!
The thought of it almost made him happy, but he knew that Snape would make the year hell. Having
been forced to accept Harry into advanced Potions, Snape would be even nastier than ever. After
what had happened to Sirius, Harry found the idea of enraging Snape a grimly pleasant one.

Rifling through the Hogwarts envelope, Harry found the sixth year form. He rummaged for a quill and
started trying to choose his subjects. Five were easy. He remembered the career advice he had been
given in the fifth year, the prerequisites for becoming an Auror, and ticked off Defence Against
the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions. He needed a minimum of five NEWTS at E level,
and Care of Magical Creatures would give him an easy pass there, so he ticked that as well. But
McGonagall had said he needed six subjects for sixth year, which left him one more to choose. He
studied the rest of his options. Some, like Arithmancy, were out immediately, as you needed to have
studied them at fifth year level to progress. Others had a more open entry. Harry counted them off
on his fingers. He could choose his final course from between Astronomy, Herbology, Muggle Studies,
History of Magic and Divination. Harry snorted to himself – as if he was going to choose one of the
last two! – but he didn’t know which of the others he was going to pick.

In the end, he chose none of them. Instead, he wrote quick notes to Ron and Hermione, asking them
how they did on their OWLS, giving them his own results, and wondering what subjects they were
going to take for sixth year. He didn’t want to end up in a class without either one of them, so he
decided to wait until he knew what they were taking before making his own choice. If nothing else,
it would probably get Hermione talking to him again.

Harry woke the next morning to a buzzing sound, and blearily recognised Pig, Ron’s owl, hurtling
around his room. Hedwig could never have gotten to the burrow and back so fast – Ron must have
written to him yesterday, and their owls had crossed each other in the night.

*Harry,

I got my OWL results an hour ago. You must have them now too, how’d you do? I
did okay, Mum wasn’t too thrilled but at least I did better than Fred
and George. She started yelling when she saw I’d failed Potions (a “P”)
but when she realised it’d stop me from being an Auror I don’t think
she minded so much. On the bright side, no more Potions, but it would
have been cool to be an Auror. I know you wanted it too, and I’m sorry
mate, but try to remember: NO MORE SNAPE!! We never have to have that
greasy git again! McGonagall told Dad at one of the Auror meetings that
only two Gryffindor’s got O’s in it (I heard him telling Mum, there are
still some Extendable Ears she hasn’t found yet). Guess who? Hermione,
(of course!) and NEVILLE! Can you believe it?! Maybe he managed to
sneak a Remembrall into the exams after all... I also failed History of
Magic and Divination – big loss, that was. But I got O’s for Defence
and Magical Creatures (Mum actually cried!) and an E for Herbology. Got
A’s in Transfiguration (so couldn’t have carried on in that anyway),
Charms, and Astronomy (bloody hell! Dunno how I managed that). This
year I’m signed up for Charms, DADA, CoMC, Herbology, Astronomy and
Muggle Studies. Yeah, I know, but I needed six and there’s no way I’m
putting up with Binns and Trelawney again. You should do Muggle Studies
as well! You grew up Muggle, after all, so it should be easy for you
(and you can explain it to me!).

Cheers, Ron.
* Harry was puzzled. Didn’t Ron get a letter from McGonagall as well? He thought of how
Ron would react if he, Harry, was allowed to go ahead with Potions anyway, and winced to himself.
He’d think that Harry was being shown favouritism because he was the “Boy Who Lived”, and if past
form was anything to go by he’d be rather upset. Harry didn’t think that it was entirely fair
either. Surely if Snape could take one extra student, he could take two. And while Ron hadn’t done
as well in Transfiguration, he had beaten Harry in Herbology. Harry sighed to himself: Ron was
definitely going to be pissed.

He had a point about Muggle Studies though. Getting into Auror training needed good grades, and for
Harry Muggle Studies would be an easy pass – and he’d get to do it with Ron. There’d be no more
cold nights up on the Astronomy Tower, no more being covered in Stinksap, no more feeling himself
drift into coma with Binns, and no more being marked for death by Trelawney.

Except he WAS marked for death, or at least marked with death. Divination had been good for showing
that at least, and Professor Trelawney wasn’t a total fake – and neither was Firenze, who had saved
Harry’s life in the past, more than once. Harry knew quite well he had no talent or liking for
Divination but, sitting in Privet Drive that morning with the sun on his face, he also knew that he
wanted an eye kept on both of the Divination teachers that year. If he took Divination – and
Harry’s stomach roiled queasily at the thought – then he was likely to fail it at NEWT level, which
would mean that he’d need E’s in all his other subjects to be accepted for Auror training. It was
tough, but doable, even without the safety net of Muggle Studies. Harry wavered a moment. The
thought of dropping Divination, as Ron and Hermione had done, was a very attractive prospect, but
one that suddenly chilled him. Ron hated the subject and had already given it away. Hermione
wouldn’t go back to Trelawney’s classroom if you gave her a thousand Galleons to spend on SPEW. If
he, Harry, dropped it too, then he’d have to rely on getting information from and about Trelawney
and Firenze from... Lavender and Parvati, his fellow Gryffindors, and THAT prospect was just too
unnerving. If Harry wanted to keep an eye on the Divination teachers – and after the events at the
end of his fifth year, he did – then he would have to do it himself.

There was still nearly a week remaining until Hogwarts needed his form back, and for a few days
Harry put it off, trying to convince himself that his reasoning was off, that he didn’t need to
take Divination that year after all. He struggled with it alone – Ron hadn’t written back and Harry
was saddened but not surprised. He just hoped that Ron could get over it before term started. He
didn’t think that he could handle being face to face with his best friend’s jealousy at the
moment.

He heard nothing at all from Hermione.

Finally, with two days to go before the week ended, Harry carefully marked his form with the
choices that would take him away from his friends, into Divination and towards Auror training. He
hoped that they would understand...



2. Chapter Two
--------------

Chapter Two.

“Harry. Harry!”

“Wha-at?” He was being shaken. Confused, still half-asleep, Harry rolled over and squinted up at
the face above him, weirdly lit in the moonlight. He let out a yell, and bolted upright. Strong
hands held him in place.

“Calm down, Harry,” a hoarse voice whispered. “It’s alright; it’s only me, Remus Lupin. It’s
alright.” The shadowy figure raised an arm. “Lumos.”

Wand light flooded Harry’s bedroom, illuminating the man in front of him. He had dark hollows
under his eyes, and Harry could see new lines on his face.

“Professor Lupin? What are you doing here? The Dursley’s are going to have a fit.” It wasn’t
much of a greeting, but Harry was still befuddled with sleep.

“I’ve come to get you out of here,” said Lupin. “And what the Dursley’s don’t know won’t hurt
them.”

Harry snorted. “Uncle Vernon might be able to sleep through a lot of things, but me screaming in
the middle of the night isn’t one of them.”

“Silencing charm,” said Lupin. “I put one around your room before I came in. Just in case. It’s
probably best to make as little fuss as possible. Come on now Harry...” yanking the bedclothes back
“...get up. We’ve got to get you out of here, and the sooner we do it the better. Where’s your
suitcase?”

Pulling on some jeans, Harry pointed to the wardrobe. There were clothes and books spread over
the floor of his room, and crumpled bits of parchment scattered around like confetti. “Sorry about
the mess,” he offered half-heartedly.

Lupin gave him a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I think you must have inherited it from
your father. He was never very tidy either. It used to drive your mother crazy.” He waved his wand,
and clothes began to fly into the trunk. Harry started pulling the rest of his schoolbooks out from
the hiding place under his bed.

“So where are we going?” he asked non-committally. “The Burrow?” It was hard to stop a note of
hope from creeping into his voice.

Lupin was quiet for a moment, his back to Harry. “Not the Burrow, no.”

“Oh,” said Harry flatly. “Right.”

Lupin turned and twitched his wand. The books zoomed out of Harry’s hand and into the trunk. The
lid snapped neatly down and locked. “I’m sorry, Harry,” he said, “but we’re going back to Grimmauld
Place. Look, I know it’s not exactly ideal, but...”

“It’s fine,” said Harry tersely.

“I don’t like it either,” said Lupin.

“I said it’s *fine*,” Harry repeated. “After all, it’s not like I have a choice, right? The
Order pops in, in the middle of the night – where are the rest of them anyway? – to whisk me away
to my dead godfather’s house. No word of explanation, as usual, so I assume something’s happened
somewhere and this is a matter of life and death. Right?”

Lupin looked at him sadly. “I’m afraid so, Harry. I don’t think that you’re in any immediate
danger, but...”

“Are Ron and Hermione alright?” Harry blurted. “I heard from Ron a few days ago, but nothing
from Hermione, not for weeks...” his voice died off at the set expression that had come over the
face of his former professor.

“It’s alright, she’s safe. Ron too, as far as I know.” Lupin waved his wand at the suitcase, and
it levitated obediently and began to follow him as he moved towards the door. “Come on now, we’ve
got to go. Have you got everything? Broomstick? Owl?”

Harry snatched his Firebolt and wrapped an arm around Hedwig’s cage. The owl snapped her beak at
him grumpily, annoyed by the jolting of her cage. He was sure that Lupin was trying to dodge the
subject, and the thought caused a large icy pit to form in the base of his stomach. What had
happened to his friends?

Awkwardly, he stumbled down the stairs and into the living room. Lit by streetlamps, strange
shadows shone through the window, and there was just enough light for him to be able to see Lupin
fumbling for something in his robes. Retrieving a small pouch from one of his pockets, Lupin
stepped over to the window and rapped on it quietly. Harry nearly yelled for the second time that
night when one of the shadows moved, and the greasy face of Mundungus Fletcher pressed against the
glass, eyes twitching around the room.

“Will we be flying again?” Harry interrupted.

“No. Dumbledore’s got the Floo Control Board back on side,” said Lupin. “The Order just has some
people standing guard outside until we leave.” Reaching into his pouch, he threw a small handful of
powder into the fireplace, and flames roared up suddenly, illuminating the room. “Off you go
Harry,” said Lupin. “Quickly now. I’ll be right behind you.”

Clutching Hedwig’s cage tightly to his chest, nearly deafened by her indignant squawking, Harry
stepped into the fireplace and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Number twelve, Grimmauld Place,” he said.

He pitched into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, tripping over his broomstick as he did so.
Hedwig was shrieking and beating her wings. He set her cage carefully on the table and reached in
to try and soothe her. She snapped at his fingers.

“I’m sorry, girl,” said Harry. “You don’t like travelling by Floo much, do you? Can’t say I
blame you.” He wiped soot from his glasses. Replacing them on his nose, he turned at a flash from
the fireplace to see Lupin step gracefully from it, patting soot from his robs. “I should have let
Hedwig fly,” he said self-reproachfully. “She must have got a hell of a fright, coming through like
that.”

Lupin winced. “She’s certainly making enough of a racket.” He took a box from one of the
cupboards and tossed a few of what looked like Owl Treats through the bars of the cage. The Treats
buzzed around Hedwig’s head – “New brand,” said Lupin, seeing Harry’s amazement – and angrily,
feathers askew, she snatched them from the air, swallowing one after another and shooting Harry
some very foul looks.

“Well that’s one done, at least,” said Lupin. He was bent over, rummaging through a cupboard
next to the oven. Straightening, he grabbed two glasses off the bench and motioned Harry towards
the chairs at the kitchen table. “I hope you don’t mind, but I haven’t got around to wrapping it
yet.”

“What?” said Harry, blankly.

Lupin looked at him oddly and sighed, sliding a bottle across the table to him. “Birthday
present, Harry. It’s your birthday. Early morning, but it still counts.” It was a squat, bulbous
looking bottle with a curling label.

“Ogden’s Old Firewater Whiskey,” read Harry. “Wow. Are you actually allowed to give me
this?”

“Good heavens, no!” said Lupin. “You’re a bit too young, so kindly don’t let on to Minerva
McGonagall that I gave it to you. She’d have my head.”

“Wow,” Harry repeated. “Ron’s always wanted to try this stuff.”

“He’ll be here tomorrow, so you can give him some yourself,” said Lupin. “There’s a whole crate
of it in that cupboard, hidden behind a stack of Tupperware. Try to use it wisely, won’t you?” He
gestured towards the bottle. “May I?” Cracking it open, he tipped an inch into both the glasses.
“Happy birthday, Harry,” he said, clinking his glass against Harry’s.

Curious, Harry raised the glass to his lips and stuck his tongue into the amber liquid. It
tasted of honey and was strangely warm, tingling and bubbling against his tongue like a soft drink.
It seemed harmless enough, and so he tipped it back. Heat exploded in his throat and stomach. Fiery
tendrils were reaching down into his toes, and up against his eyeballs. Through the corners of his
watering eyes, Harry was sure he could see steam coming out of his ears. He choked and spluttered.
Lupin reached over to whack him hard on the back, several times. His face was a mixture of worry
and laughter.

“Well, yes,” he said. “It might be a good idea if you didn’t mention this to Mrs Weasley
either.”

Wheezing, Harry nodded. Of all the things he needed right now, a top-of-the-lungs lecture from
Mrs Weasley wasn’t one of them. Blinking back tears, he looked up to see Lupin lean back in his
chair. Harry noticed that he hadn’t touched his drink, and suddenly felt less like finishing his
own.

“I’m getting bloody tired of being kept in the dark, you know,” he said, and was surprised by
the resentment in his voice.

“I don’t like keeping things from you either,” said Lupin heavily, studying the table. “But you
were right earlier. There have been... developments. I take it that you haven’t been getting the
Daily Prophet this summer?”

Harry snorted rudely. “Why would I want to read anything they’ve got to say? It was nothing but
a load of rubbish last year, I’d be better off getting the Quibbler. So? What have they been
writing about me now?”

A ghost of a smile crossed Lupin’s face. “Surprisingly little, actually.” The smile faded.
“They’ve had other things to write about.” He glanced up sharply, and Harry felt a chill go down
his spine. “You may as well know now,” Lupin continued abruptly. “There’s no sense waiting until
the morning. Hermione’s here. She-”

“Here? At Grimmauld Place?” Harry interrupted. “Where is she?” He started for the door but Lupin
called him back, with a low intensity in his voice that stopped Harry in his tracks.

“Don’t wake her, for Merlin’s sake! It’s taken one of Madame Pomfrey’s Sleeping Draughts to make
her drop off as it is. She hasn’t been getting much rest lately.”

Harry glared at him accusingly. “You said she was fine!”

“I said she was safe!” Lupin retorted. “You know as well as I do that it’s not the same
thing.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Harry demanded. He stalked back to the table and flung himself down in
the chair. He took another sip of Firewhiskey, and fought to swallow without reaction. Lupin was
looking at him with something very like pity, and Harry had the sudden urge to throw the glass at
something, anything. “What’s wrong with Hermione?” he repeated.

“There was an attack on her house,” Lupin said abruptly. “Death Eaters. Her parents are
dead.”

For a moment Harry felt nothing but shock, ringing to his fingertips. Then nausea spread through
him and he doubled over, head between his legs. Anger followed, a strangely calming sensation,
strangely pleasing. It stilled the spinning behind his eyes, and settled his stomach. Anger was
good. Anger he could use. “Voldemort!” he choked. “Voldemort tried to kill her!”

“No, Harry.” The simple denial in Lupin’s voice cut through the clamour in Harry’s head; sent a
small tendril of puzzlement through the rage inside him. He stared at Lupin, uncomprehending. His
former teacher leaned towards him.

“Think, Harry. Think.” Lupin’s voice was quiet and insistent. “What is it that Voldemort wants
most in the world?”

Harry’s tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth. “To kill me. To kill Dumbledore. To take
everything over.”

“Wrong! Well, backwards at least. Voldemort’s main objective is not to kill you. He simply wants
power. He knows that he’ll have to kill Dumbledore, kill you to get it, but to him you are only an
obstacle. Your death will not be an end in itself. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell
you?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry truthfully, after a pause. Part of his mind felt clearer somehow,
reaching the way it had when he was groping towards the solution of taking Divination.

“You don’t know. Alright. When was the last time you saw the Daily Prophet?”

“What?” said Harry. “Does that really matter right now?” Lupin raised an eyebrow at him. “I
don’t know! Um... Hogwarts. No! The train. On the train going home from Hogwarts last year.
Hermione – Hermione had a copy.”

“And do you know what it said?”

“I didn’t really read it. Hermione was telling us what was in it. Um, tips for recognising Death
Eaters. People thinking their neighbours were Death Eaters and that they’d seen Voldemort in the
pub. Rubbish like that.”

Lupin laughed hollowly. “That’s not rubbish, Harry. That’s Voldemort’s best and greatest weapon
– fear. It’s what’s giving him breathing room.”

“I don’t understand,” said Harry.

Lupin leaned back in his chair. “Voldemort’s not at full strength yet, we know that. We also
know that he’s trying to regain that strength, as much if not more as he had in the First War. So
he’s recalling old Death Eaters and sending embassies to the Giants and getting creatures like the
Dementors on side. Right?” Harry nodded.

“But these things take time,” Lupin continued. “So to take the pressure off himself he’s using
fear to keep the wizarding world occupied and in a panic. There’ve actually been several attacks –
not many, and never very big. Not like in the Fist War. Nothing that will over-extend him, but
enough to keep everyone off-guard and disorganised. Frightened, suspicious of each other and
fighting amongst ourselves, we’re doing his work for him. All Voldemort has to do is stoke the fire
now and again until he’s ready to strike.”

“Like the eye of a storm,” said Harry quietly.

Lupin nodded wearily. “Like the eye of a storm.”

“So that’s why he tried to kill Hermione,” said Harry, anger rising in his voice.

“No, no. She was never the target,” said Lupin.

Harry stared at him dumbly.

“Voldemort wants to frighten people, turn them against each other. But he doesn’t want the
Second War to start yet, he’s too weak. And he knows how close you and Ron and Hermione are. He
knows...” Lupin’s voice trailed off sadly. “...He knows that if he had one of them murdered after
you had just lost Sirius,” Harry flinched, and Lupin reached over to squeeze his shoulder briefly,
“...that you would likely to be angry enough to take the Second War to him before he was ready. So
he chose a lesser target, one that would still hurt. Who better than the Muggle parents of a
Mudblood witch? It’s not as if there’s a shortage of suspects... The Weasleys are capable of
putting up some defence against a Death Eater attack, but the Grangers...”

“I thought that they would be protected,” said Harry. “I thought the Order would be watching
them.”

“We were,” said Lupin heavily. “But we thought that the danger would be to Hermione, we
concentrated the protection on her. One day she went out to run an errand. Most of the guards went
with her. Voldemort must have had someone watching. There was a massive attack on the house. It was
quick, well-planned. The remaining guards were over-powered. They managed to give the alarm but by
the time the rest of us got there it was too late.”

“How d’you know it wasn’t just an accident that Hermione wasn’t there?” said Harry.

Lupin winced. “There was a note left for her on the door.”

“What did it say?” Harry asked warily.

Lupin pushed Harry’s glass of Firewhiskey towards him. “It said: ‘Dear Hermione, I hope you like
your early birthday present, love Harry’.”

Numbly Harry reached for his glass and took a large gulp. It made his eyes water and he was glad
for the excuse. “She must hate me.”

“I imagine that was rather the point,” said Lupin. His voice grew stronger. “But I think you’ll
find that Hermione lays the blame exactly where it belongs.” He reached over again to clap Harry on
the shoulder. “Really. She wanted to stay up to see you tonight, argued about it all afternoon.
Tonks nearly had to force the Sleeping Draught down her throat.”

“Right,” said Harry. “Right.” He scrubbed at his eyes, hoping against hope that Lupin wouldn’t
notice. When he looked up, his former teacher was again studying the table top. “When exactly did
this happen?”

“Several weeks ago. No, don’t look like that. You needn’t bother to say anything. She didn’t
want you told – or Ron, for that matter.”

“Why on earth not!” screeched Harry.

“Keep your voice down! It wouldn’t have done any good to tell you – what could you have done?
You still would have had to stay with the Dursleys - for your own protection. Yes, I know about the
charm Dumbledore laid on you, and them. Besides...”

“You still should have told me,” said Harry coldly.

“It wasn’t up to me,” Lupin countered. “Hermione needed time to come to grips with it herself,
and streams of badgering letters – no matter how sympathetic – from you and Ron, were more than she
thought she could cope with. The Weasleys are telling Ron and Ginny tonight, and they’ll be here
tomorrow. You can thrash it all out then. But I hope,” and Lupin’s voice grew distinctly harder,
“...that the three of you will respect her right to act as she has. Don’t go ganging up on her,
demanding explanations.”

“We won’t,” said Harry uncomfortably, fully aware that he and Ron might well have done just that
without a warning against it. Hermione had often told them how insensitive the pair of them could
be, rolling her eyes and muttering “*Boys!*” under her breath.

Lupin looked at him closely, his face softening in sympathy. “Perhaps you’d better go up to bed,
Harry. You’re in your old room. The rest can wait until tomorrow.”

“There’s more?” said Harry, bleakly.

The lines stood out in Lupin’s young face. “There’s always more,” he said.

Harry got to the kitchen door when he looked back towards his teacher, slumping back in his
chair and staring morosely into his glass.

“Um, Professor?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“The Grangers...how were they... was it-”

“Avada Kedavra, yes,” said Lupin.

“Ah,” said Harry sadly. “Right.” He closed the door behind him.



3. Chapter Three
----------------

Chapter Three.

Harry awoke feeling thoroughly depressed. He had tossed and turned for hours before falling into
a restless sleep, and had dreamed of flashes of green light and a woman's screams. His
mother's face had floated before his eyes, sometimes with her hair auburn and smooth, sometimes
brown and bushy. The room was still and gloomy, and even the portrait of Phineas Nigellus was
empty. At least tonight Ron would be there to share it with him.

Silently he dressed and went down the hall to Hermione's room. He raised his hand to knock
and then yanked it down again. Harry shuffled uncomfortably outside the door, feeling awkward and
foolish. What on earth would he say to her? What *could* he say? *"Hi Hermione,
how's your summer been?"* Idiot, he thought. *"I know how you feel, but at least
they didn't suffer."* Now *that* would be comforting! *"I'll kill him
for this, Hermione, I promise – it's my destiny...maybe."* Harry cringed; he was
beginning to sound like the stories in the back of Witch Weekly – or worse, Gilderoy Lockhart.
Perhaps it was best just not to say anything. He rapped hard on the door before he could change his
mind. There was no answer. He knocked again, harder. "Hermione?" Carefully, he pushed the
door open and stuck his head into the bedroom. It was empty. Harry felt even more foolish.

Behind him a throat cleared, and Harry jumped in shock, bashing the side of his head on the
door. Scowling, rubbing his ear, he turned to find Lupin standing on the landing in a shabby
dressing gown.

"I'd try the kitchen if I were you," he remarked.

"Thanks," Harry muttered, heading for the stairs.

"I'll be down in a few minutes," said Lupin. "Try not to wake the portrait as
you go past," he added plaintively.

Harry edged past the velvet curtains covering Mrs. Black. Snores reverberated from it, dry and
rasping. He had forgotten about the old witch, and supposed that it was only luck that he
hadn't woken her the night before. One of his shoes caught the fringed end of the hall rug, and
he tripped slightly, causing a hitch in the snores, a sleepy grumble. Hurriedly, he skidded into
the kitchen.

Hermione looked up from a bowl of porridge.

"Hi," she said with an attempt at a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Hi," said Harry awkwardly. He shifted from foot to foot and wondered what she wanted
him to do. Should he hug her? Pat her on the back? That had seemed to work with Cho, but she had
been in tears at the time, hanging off him and sobbing. This wasn't nearly so easy. He opened
his mouth, stopped, and shut it again.

"Would you like some porridge?" asked Hermione.

"Um, yeah. Porridge would be good. Thanks," said Harry.

"It's not good actually," said Hermione. "I made it myself, and the bottom of
the pan got all burnt. Tonks tried to show me how to make it with magic, but her spell kept going
wrong, and I... I wasn't really paying attention."

"I'm sure it will be fine," said Harry.

"I couldn't have used it anyway, what with the Restriction for the Use of Under-Age
Magic," said Hermione. She had filled a bowl from a pot on the stove and pushed it across the
table to him, careful to keep some distance between them. The porridge had black lumps floating on
top of it.

"There's milk and sugar on the table," she said pointlessly.

"It looks great," Harry lied. "Thanks." He felt hopelessly inadequate, and
wanted to kick himself for being so formal. Instead, he began to sprinkle brown sugar slowly over
his porridge, making sure to cover all the burnt bits. Hermione, he noticed, was woefully stirring
her own breakfast, fixed on the lumpy surface. There were dark rings under her eyes.

*This is ridiculous*, Harry thought. *I've got to do* something.

"How are you, Hermione?" he blurted.

Hermione looked across at him. "I'm fine thanks, all things considering," she said
politely and automatically, and seemed almost to cringe at the sound of her own voice. "Things
are getting better," she added, in a tone with something of forced cheer in it. Her spoon was
trembling against the side of her bowl. Without thinking, Harry reached over to catch hold of her
hand and promptly knocked over the milk jug. Liquid streamed across the table and poured into
Hermione's lap. She squealed and jumped up, grabbing a tea towel and scrubbing at her
skirt.

"I'm so sorry," Harry stuttered. "I didn't mean to, it was an
accident..."

"Easily fixed," said Lupin, coming into the kitchen. He drew his wand and waved it at
Hermione. "Scourgify!" The milk disappeared from her clothes.

"Now then, what's for breakfast?" said Lupin, moving towards the stove.
"Something smells... good," he added uncertainly, catching sight of the pot. He peered
into it with a mournful expression and covered it with a lid. "So who's for toast?"
he asked brightly.

Harry was refilling the milk jug when he heard a scratching coming from one of the cupboards. It
sounded like a rat had gotten stuck back behind the boiler. Harry froze. It couldn't be, could
it? Surely Lupin would have wrung his neck. Perhaps he was hearing things... but then the door to
the boiler wobbled slowly open, and from a nest of grime crept Kreacher, a filthy tea-towel wrapped
around him like a loin-cloth. He was muttering to himself, a sneaky creaking whine that raised the
hair on the back of Harry's neck.

"Nasty messy mudblood, dripping all over Kreacher's nice clean floor..."

"Harry! No!"

Harry pounced on the house-elf, reaching for the scrawny body. He was so focussed upon him that
for a moment he didn't notice that he had stopped moving towards him. Lupin was hauling on him
from behind, keeping him away from the elf. Harry struggled desperately, but Lupin was stronger,
and he heaved him across to the other side of the kitchen, keeping himself between them.

"What are you DOING!" Harry bellowed at him.

Kreacher was staring at him with a sickly pained disgust. "She never would have believed
it, no never! My poor mistress! Her house, her beautiful house, and full of vermin now, mudbloods
and half-breeds and all the family gone away, even the blood traitor..."

"He isn't gone away, he's DEAD!" bellowed Harry. "And you killed
him!"

Kreacher sniggered delightedly. "Oh no, not me. Master chose his own traitorous
path."

"That's enough, the pair of you!" snapped Lupin, in a voice so terrible that it
quelled them both. "Kreacher, get out of here now! Go and feed Buckbeak or do whatever it is
that you do! I don't care where you go but stay in this house and keep out of sight. Now!"
he snarled, and Kreacher scuttled nervously towards the door. Whipping his wand towards the door,
Lupin locked it behind the elf, loosed his grip on Harry and leaned against the wall, looking pale
and ill.

"You knew," said Harry quietly, stunned. He had never felt so betrayed in all his
life. "You knew that... that *creature*... was still here."

"I knew," said Lupin. Harry could hear the sadness in his voice but he could also hear
the total lack of apology. "That wasn't the way I had planned for you to find out, believe
me. He's been spending most of his time in the attic lately, not appearing for days at a time.
I couldn't bear to tell you last night, not with everything else..." his eyes slid over to
Hermione "... but I thought that I would have today at least."

"Apparently Kreacher thought the same," said Harry savagely. "How can you stand
up for him, after what he's done? How can you even bear to look at him? Why didn't you
just... why didn't you just-"

"Kill him?" Lupin interrupted wearily. "I'm a lot of things Harry, and
they're not all good - but a murderer I am not."

"He's right, Harry," said Hermione. "Kreacher may be horrid, foul, but we
can't just kill him."

Harry stared at her. "Did you know about this?" Hermione's face was chalk-white,
and there were tears on her cheeks but she met his gaze bravely. "I see," said Harry
coldly.

"Do you," said Hermione. "Do you really? I know what Kreacher did. I know what he
is. And I know what you're not. You can't fight evil by being it yourself, Harry."

"We're in a war, Hermione!" Harry said brutally, without thinking. "People
are going to die and you better learn to accept it!" He could have bitten his tongue out the
instant that he said it. Hermione looked like she was about to faint. Slowly, jerkily, she moved
towards the door and pushed at it clumsily, fists banging helplessly against the wood for several
seconds until Lupin had recovered enough to undo the spell.

"Hermione!" Harry called. "Hermione, wait!" but all he heard in response was
the sound of ghostly footprints trailing up the hall. Leaning back against the kitchen wall, he
slid down onto the floor and crouched there. Harry wasn't sure who he hated more at that
moment, Lupin or himself. *Kreacher*, he decided. When Lupin spoke, he seemed very far
away.

"Kreacher stays, at least for the next few days. You won't touch him, Harry. Is that
understood?"

"It's not fair. It's not fair," Harry repeated brokenly. "He gets to go
on like nothing happened, like everything's the same. Why is he here? Why can't he
go?"

"Where would he go?" Lupin sounded older and more tired than Harry had ever heard
him.

"Let him go to the Malfoys!" Harry said with a flash of malice. "Let him live in
the streets. I don't care."

"I see. You'd leave him to suffer, put him back into slavery, disregarded and
abused."

"So? He'd deserve it!" said Harry.

"Does anyone deserve that?" said Lupin gently. "Kreacher is what he has been
made, a product of that life to which you would return him. What good would it do, Harry?"

Dumbledore had told him much the same thing, Harry remembered numbly. He didn't feel nearly
as sympathetic. "You talk about him as if he's like the rest of us. As if he had feelings!
As if he were-"

"Human?" Lupin interrupted with bitter humour. "No, Kreacher’s not human. But
then I'd know all about that, wouldn't I?"

"I didn't mean it like that," snapped Harry. He refused to be made to feel anymore
guilty than he did already. "But he's soft in the head, all twisted up. He doesn't
care about things the way normal people do!"

"He has been taught not to care," said Lupin softly. "Why should he have the same
loyalties as others?"

"I don't care about his loyalties! I don't care about his life!" Harry yelled.
"This is Sirius's house and he doesn't belong here any more!"

"It's Sirius that doesn't belong here any more," said Lupin bleakly.
"This is no longer his home, Harry. This is just the place where he used to live."

Harry felt as if he had just been slapped. "Then who does this house belong to now? What do
*they* have to say about it?"

Lupin sighed heavily. "I expect it will belong to you."

"Me?" said Harry, astounded.

"Sirius didn't have any living family – at least, none that he'd want to leave
anything to. But he was also your godfather, and I know that he had changed his will after he got
out of Azkaban. I imagine he'll leave everything that he had, the entire Black estate – which
is really quite substantial – to you."

"Fine," said Harry. "Fine. If this is my house, I want Kreacher gone.
*Now*."

"It's not your house yet," said Lupin. "Not legally, not until the reading of
the will. Until then I'm looking after things, and Kreacher stays – at least until we can find
a humane alternative."

"When is the will being read?" Harry spat out.

"Three days time, at Gringotts Bank. I hope that by then you'll have reconsidered,
Harry."

"You've got to be joking," said Harry. "He doesn't deserve to live!
I'll do it myself if I have to..." He cast a defiant eye at Lupin, who was standing with
his head bowed, and his jaw clenched. When he spoke, the words ground out of him as if they choked
him.

"Whatever else Kreacher has done, whatever else he is, Harry, he saw Sirius as a threat.
Does he not have the right to defend himself?"

"No," said Harry resentfully.

"Ah," said Lupin softly. "There are those in the wizarding world who would treat
me – who have treated me – in the same way that Kreacher has been treated all his life. Can I help
what I am? I'd change it if I could. You tell me, Harry – are my rights less than
theirs?"

"It's not the same thing," said Harry.

"No? Last term, during your astronomy exam, Hagrid was attacked by Ministry officials. Did
he deserve that?"

"No!" said Harry, shocked.

"Why not?" said Lupin. "He's a dangerous beast, uncivilised, not even fully
human. Only a half-breed. You saw what he did to those officials."

"He was only defending himself!" said Harry, his voice rising. "You didn't
see it! You weren't there! Umbridge was... she was..." he trailed off. "Oh, very
clever," he said grudgingly. "But it's not the same thing."

"Why not?" said Lupin.

"Because Sirius was a good man!" Harry shouted, pushed passed endurance.

"And is the Ministry for Magic fully bad? They have Dolores Umbridge, true, and Cornelius
Fudge. But they also have Arthur Weasley, Madame Bones, Kingsley Shacklebolt and many others. It
depends upon your perspective, Harry. Sirius was a threat to everything Kreacher has ever known,
all the twisted values that have been forced upon him from birth"

"He should have known better!" said Harry.

"And how could he have known? Did you know, before you came to Hogwarts? Do you still know?
Be honest now, Harry. If you were sent back to the Dursley's right now, *forever*, with no
escape possible ever again – could you honestly say that you could spend the rest of your life
never raising a single hand in your own defence? Could you "know better"
forever?"

Harry stared at his hands. He thought of Privet Drive, of the years of starvation and neglect.
He thought of the cupboard under the stairs, and always being treated as if he were less than
nothing. He thought of Aunt Marge, floating off into the distance.

"I don't know," he said finally, honestly.

"Well, you've got three days to think about it. I can't make the choice for you. I
can barely make it for myself!" said Lupin in a tone of quiet self-loathing. Harry, staring at
the floor, saw him swivel out of the corner of his eye, and assumed he was leaving the kitchen. A
few seconds later, a plate with some cold toast, slathered with butter and honey, was pushed into
his hands.

"Here. Take it. You haven't had breakfast yet. I saw the porridge, it doesn't
count."

"Thanks," said Harry awkwardly.

"Go on," said Lupin. "I'll clean up. I suggest you go and apologise to
Hermione."

"Yeah," said Harry. He stopped at the door, feeling a trifle ashamed of himself.
"Professor?"

"Yes?" said Lupin, his back to him.

"I don't think that I can agree with you on this," said Harry quietly. "I
just can't. He deserves to die."

Lupin sighed heavily. "Maybe he does at that." He turned, wiping his hands on a
dishcloth. There was a curious look on his face. "But do you deserve to kill him? Are you so
eager to become a murderer, Harry?"

Harry couldn't answer; he just stared wordlessly back at his former teacher. After a few
seconds, Lupin seemed to nod to himself, and turned quietly back to the bench-top. With a feeling
of escape, Harry took himself and his toast out of the kitchen.

Harry found her in the library, staring at a book that he could tell she wasn’t really reading.
Nervously he went up to her, clutching the plate of toast like it was a sacrificial offering.

“Hermione? Um... could I sit down?”

Hermione tucked her legs up under her and nodded at the toast. “Is that for me?”

“Yeah. I think so. Lupin sent it up.” Harry sat down gingerly on the sofa and put the plate
between them like a shield. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean it
the way it sounded. I just didn’t-”

“It’s alright,” said Hermione softly.

“But it’s... what?” said Harry weakly.

“It’s alright. I know you didn’t mean to say it. You’ve... you’ve lost someone as well. You must
be feeling as bad as I am this summer.”

“I just wish I was handling it as well as you are,” said Harry.

Hermione snorted. “Tell that to Professor Lupin. He said the same thing a few days after... a
few days after it happened. We were in the library at the time, actually,” she continued
conversationally, looking around, “...and I threw fourteen copies of *Hogwarts: a History* at
him.”

Harry gaped in astonishment. “You did what? *How* many?”

“Fourteen,” admitted Hermione in guilty tones. “He only managed to duck the first five. It’s not
*funny*, Harry!”

“Yes it is,” Harry choked out. He caught sight of her expression and managed to clamp down on
the laughter, but he couldn’t stop himself smirking. “I just never expected that anyone would have
fourteen copies of *Hogwarts: a History*,” he added innocently.

“I don’t; this library does,” said Hermione defensively. “All the different editions. Well, they
keep updating them, don’t they?”

“I bet you’ve read all fourteen,” said Harry.

“I’m only trying to keep up,” said Hermione composedly.

“Good for you,” said Harry, and hastily stuffed a piece of toast into his mouth to keep from
sniggering. Hermione glared at him.

“I’m not the only one who needs to do extra reading,” she said smugly. “Here. I got this for
you. Happy birthday.” She tossed him a parcel from an end-table. It landed in his lap like a brick,
and Harry just knew that under the bright wrapping was a hideously complicated and difficult book.
He tore open the wrapping and read “*The Annotated Guide to Antipodean Antidotes* – This looks
really good, Hermione,” he said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“You’ll thank me for it later,” she said briskly. “You only just scraped into Potions, you know,
so you’re going to have to work really hard this year.”

“Don’t remind me,” said Harry. “Please, Hermione, please tell me you’re taking Potions too.
Don’t leave me alone with Snape!”

“I’ll be in nearly all your classes actually,” said Hermione. “The only ones I’m not studying
this year are Divination and Muggle Studies. I can’t *believe* you’re taking Divination
again!”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” said Harry dismally. “You did alright on your OWLS
then? Hermione?”

“You didn’t see it,” said Hermione slowly. At Harry’s puzzled expression she reached back behind
the sofa cushions and pulled out a very tattered, very crumpled copy of the *Daily Prophet*.
Across the top of the front page, in big black letters, Harry could read the headline: “Highest OWL
Scores Since You-Know-Who!” Hermione gave him a few seconds to look and then tossed the paper
aside. “Actually, we tied,” she said shortly. “The only person who’s ever done better is
Dumbledore.”

“That’s amazing,” said Harry honestly. “You must be really pleased.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Hermione in a small voice. “I just wish Mum and Dad could
have seen it. They would have been so proud.”

Harry reached over and squeezed her hand. “Hermione, I’m really, really sorry about your
parents,” he said. *There. That wasn’t so difficult now, was it?* chirped a voice in his
head.



4. Chapter Four
---------------

Chapter Four.

Harry shifted position, trying not to draw Hermione’s attention towards him. She was clearly
absorbed in taking notes from a massive book at the library desk. He guessed that Lupin had put it
there for her because it was surely too big for Hermione to lift on her own. He had snuck a look at
it on his way to get some pumpkin juice from the kitchen and it seemed full of hideously
complicated and obscure Transfiguration theory. Harry’s only comfort was that the book was
certainly not the Hogwarts set text for the subject, which meant that he wouldn’t have to read
it.

As it was, the Potions book was bad enough. He’d been trying to read it for hours, and had
gotten bogged down in what seemed like an unnecessarily detailed description of the various uses of
flax in antidote-brewing. He was bored out of his mind and hungry and his body had begun to ache
from staying in one position, but he was a bit afraid of distracting Hermione by stretching. If she
wanted to study, the least he could do right now was to keep her company and not upset her. Even if
it was torture. Even if it was Potions.

When Ron charged through the door Harry felt he had never been so pleased to see anyone in his
entire life. Hermione’s single-minded focus on her book was beginning to scare him, and even if all
Ron could do was to get her to start bickering with him, then at least that would be
*something*. At least that would seem *normal*. At that moment, Harry was willing to do a
great deal for normal.

When Ron saw Hermione, he stopped dead. Catching sight of Harry, he tried to motion towards him
without Hermione seeing. Harry thought he looked a bit panicked, but all he could do was stare
blankly back at Ron and shrug. *Don’t look at me for help, mate*, he thought, *I’ve bollixed
it up already today*.

“Hi, Hermione,” Ron quavered, and then as an afterthought “Hi Harry.”

Harry rolled his eyes. This was not going to be pretty. He wished he had some idea of what to do
to help. “Hi Ron.” He moved over to stand beside him, thankfully dropping his book. At least he
could give moral support.

“Hi Ron,” said Hermione evenly.

“Dad told us – Ginny and me – he told us last night. I’m really sorry, Hermione. You alright?”
*Bloody hell*, thought Harry, *it sounds so much easier when he said it*.

Hermione’s head cocked to one side, studying them both. For a moment Harry thought he saw a
shred of amusement in her eyes, but it faded away too quickly.

“I’m alright,” she said, “But I’m a bit sick of having people ask me how I am. I don’t really
want to talk about it right now.”

“Don’t you think you should?” said Ron, and cringed slightly, as if he was about to have an
ink-well thrown at him. Harry was amazed - and a little bit jealous - at how much better Ron was
doing than him. It seemed to be going far easier for him. *Probably because he’s not yelling*,
he thought. Still, Ron had a point, and though Harry would rather go a couple of rounds with
Voldemort than upset Hermione again this morning, he had to agree with him.

“Ron’s right,” he said. “You should be talking to someone.”

“Even if it’s not us,” said Ron, a shade resentfully, and Harry could have sworn the temperature
in the library had dropped a few degrees. *And he was doing so well...*Ron obviously felt it
too, and hurried to change the subject. “Can’t say that I blame you for that though,” he added in a
strangled voice, his ears turning pink. “So, um, what are you studying?”

“Transfiguration,” said Hermione, a shade frostily, but she warmed as she talked. “It’s an old
edition but I found it behind a ten volume set on the eating habits of Hinkypunks, and it’s really
interesting. There’s not much practical in it, but you see here the theory behind...” Harry saw
Ron’s eyes glaze over and knew his were doing the same, but they trooped up to the desk and leaned
over, making appreciative noises and, Harry felt, fooling no-one. Still, it gave them all an excuse
to concentrate on a different topic and for ten minutes all was well as Harry and Ron tried to look
as fascinated as Hermione no doubt felt they should be. Then disaster struck: Ron yawned, and
quickly trying to cover his mouth knocked over Hermione’s inkwell, splattering her arms and hands.
With a small shriek, Hermione snatched her book and parchment out of the way of the spreading ink
puddle, her hands smearing them in the process.

“Ron! Can’t you be more careful!”

“Sorry! I’m sorry!” said Ron, scarlet. “Look, just do a scourgify charm and it’ll clear it all
up.”

“We’re *under-age*, Ron,” Hermione said scathingly. “I’d rather not round out the summer by
getting *expelled*, thank-you very much!”

“Alright, alright,” said Ron, looking very harassed. “We’ll just get Mum to do one, she’s really
good at all that household type stuff. She’s always saying that with seven children she
*needs* to be good at them, but honestly, I don’t think we’re that bad really. She doesn’t
believe me though, always tells us she doesn’t know what we’d do without her-” he stopped suddenly,
looking very uncomfortable. Harry winced inwardly. He knew he should try to say something to smooth
it over but his tongue appeared to be stuck to the roof of his mouth. Hermione had no such
problem.

“It’s a good thing you don’t have to do without her then, isn’t it,” she said tearfully,
jerkily, and ran out of the room. Ron looked utterly mortified.

“If it makes you feel any better” said Harry finally, “I was worse.”

“You couldn’t have been,” said Ron hollowly.

“I tipped a jug of milk over her and yelled a lot,” Harry admitted. He cringed just remembering
it.

“Bloody hell!” said Ron, looking relieved. “Maybe you *were* worse.”

“Cheers, mate” Harry said, in a mock-grumpy tone. Oddly enough, the fact that Ron had made a
mess of it too was making him feel a little better.

“You both did splendidly, I’m sure,” a voice came from the doorway. “Don’t you think,
George?”

“Indeed I do, Fred,” said his brother. “Delightful, the both of you. Utterly sympathetic.”

The Weasley twins were standing in the entrance to the library, smiling benignly and resplendent
in lime-green suits that Harry now recognised as being made of dragon hide. He had the horrible
feeling that they had witnessed Hermione’s tearful departure – or at the very least had heard it
through their Extendable Ears. Telltale strings extended from their pockets. Neither twin seemed to
have any scruples against eavesdropping, or much else that Harry could think of. Ron scowled at
them.

“Just shut up, would you? We’re trying our best here...”

“Trying you certainly are,” Fred responded drily.

“With friends like you who needs the Dark Lord?” George commented lightly.

“I’d like to see you do better,” Harry snapped, embarrassed.

“That shouldn’t be hard,” said Fred.

“Sounds like a challenge to me,” said George. “What d’you say, Fred?” and the two of them, with
one last look of exaggerated disgust, apparated out of sight with two small distinct
*pops*.

Harry saw Ron looking at him anxiously, his ears slowly returning to their normal colour. “I’m
sure they wouldn’t do anything, well... *really* bad,” he said. The two looked at each other
in silence for a moment, imagining what the twins might be about to attempt.

“D’you think... d’you think we should go after them?” said Ron tentatively. He was looking,
Harry thought, as he had before the last year’s Quidditch matches. The thought of interfering made
Harry wince – with the way he and Ron had just handled things, he wasn’t at all confident of their
ability to do it without making things even worse.

“Er, perhaps we should just let her cool down a bit?” he said hopefully, feeling guilty and a
bit cowardly.

Ron nodded his head fervently. “Yeah, I think we should. Fred and George wouldn’t do anything
really. They know Mum would clobber them if they did.” He looked over at Harry unhappily. “This
shouldn’t be happening. It’s not fair. I can’t believe she didn’t tell us! Did she... did she tell
you anything about it?” Ron sounded a bit distant, Harry thought, as if he was trying to make
himself believe that he wouldn’t feel left out if she had.

“Nope. Nothing.” Harry sighed heavily. “I got here last night, and all we’ve done is watch me
make a fool out of myself and study bloody Potions,” he waved disgustedly towards *The Annotated
Guide to Antipodean Antidotes*, which was squatting, bricklike, on the sofa. “I’ve spent the
past five hours reading the same stupid chapter and not understanding any of it, trying to think of
something to say that won’t come out wrong.” He saw Ron’s face had cleared a bit at first and then
clouded again when he had referred to Potions.

“You’re studying Potions,” said Ron flatly, fingering the book nervously, as if it might be
about to bite him. Harry shuffled his feet, not knowing quite what to say when Ron looked over at
him with a wavering grin, obviously determined to steer the subject into safer waters. Harry was
grateful for the distraction, and grateful that Ron didn’t seem like he was going to blame him for
being able to take it. “Did Hermione give you this for your birthday?” Ron asked.

“Yeah,” said Harry, surprised. “I can’t believe people have remembered, all things considering.
Lupin actually gave me Firewhiskey, can you believe it? A whole boxful.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron breathed. “Actual Firewhiskey? Can we try some?”

Harry couldn’t help but grin himself at the expected reaction. “Now’s probably not a good time.
It’s hidden in the kitchen, and we’d have to get past-”

“Mum,” Ron nodded.

“Lupin said we can’t tell her. Or McGonagall,” Harry countered quickly.

Ron looked at him in disgust. “How stupid do you think I am?” he demanded, then tugged at
Harry’s arm, dragging him out of the library. “Come on. It’s not Firewhiskey, but I’ve got you
something too. It’s in my luggage...”

Ten minutes later, Harry and Ron were in the room they both usually shared, munching happily on
Harry’s birthday present: a monster box of Chocolate Frogs.

“We should probably keep some for Hermione,” said Ron around a mouthful of chocolate. “Peace
offering, you know.”

“She may not want any,” said Harry, idly watching a French wizard doing something hideous with
frog legs on the card from his latest chocolate wrapper, and tossing Ron another Frog. “Don’t
forget, she’s been here with Lupin for a couple of weeks; he’s probably been stuffing her with
chocolate every day. After third year with him, I couldn’t stand the sight of the stuff for a
month... So how did your summer go? Anything happen?”

“Apart from Mum acting like we were going to be killed at any minute, jumping at every little
noise, things were great,” said Ron sarcastically. “Actually, Dad wasn’t much better. They wouldn’t
even let Ginny and me near the *Prophet* – of course, now we know why. And we’ve been getting
heaps of chores to keep us busy and not asking questions... oh. And then there’s Percy.”

“Finally came crawling back, did he?” said Harry.

“No actually,” said Ron. “I know, you’d think by now even Percy would realise what a pillock
he’s been but you’d be wrong. He’s still putting his faith in the Ministry, won’t even speak to us.
Thinks too much of himself; of being pure-blood. I’m beginning to think the Sorting Hat made a
mistake with him. He should have gone into Slytherin.” Ron scowled. “I told Mum that and she
whacked me upside the head and made me go de-gnome the garden. *Again*.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Harry, shocked. He had always known that Percy was overly
ambitious, but nevertheless... “He really didn’t see that – Ron? What’s wrong?”

Ron had suddenly gone very still, and was sitting with his mouth open, chocolate beginning to
dribble out. “I don’t believe it,” he said blankly, staring down at the card in his latest
Chocolate Frog.

“What?” said Harry impatiently. “Don’t tell me they’ve finally given the Cannons a card.”

Ron looked as if he was struggling between anger and resignation, but when he spoke his voice
was calm and only slightly strained. “It’s you,” he said. “They’ve given you a card. Look.” He
flipped the card over to Harry. Horrified, he saw a moving image of himself in heroic pose, waving
and flipping back his hair.

“No, oh no,” Harry said pathetically. “*Look* at me! I look like bloody Lockhart!” he
glanced over at Ron pleadingly. “This is a joke, right? Fred and George knocked this up for my
birthday, right?” One look at his friend’s face told him it wasn’t so.

“Have you read the back?” Ron asked composedly.

“I don’t want to read the back!” Harry snapped.

Ron picked up the card, looking at it as if it was something he had to scrape out of a cauldron
in detention with Snape. “*Harry Potter, “The Boy Who Lived” is the first of our new additions to
the Chocolate Frog cards. Repeatedly surviving attacks by You-Know-Who, Potter single-handedly
assaulted numerous Death Eaters and the Wizarding World’s greatest scourge at the Ministry of Magic
earlier this year. Not only that, he is an outstanding student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry, where he was named the youngest Quidditch seeker in a century (and he’s still single,
ladies!)*.” Ron looked over at Harry. “Well,” he said diplomatically, “It could have been
worse.”

“How?” Harry howled. “How could it have been worse? Can you *imagine* what the Slytherins
are going to say about this! I’ll be the laughing-stock of the school, which couldn’t be better as
my life *just isn’t hard enough*!”

“But you’re on a Chocolate Frog card,” said Ron stubbornly. “At Hogwarts, the only other person
on them is Dumbledore. Of course...” he went on waspishly “... of course with your ‘outstanding
studentship’ and ‘single-handed assault,’ well, who wouldn’t want to give you one?”

“Shut up Ron” said Harry angrily. “This is no time to be jealous. I can’t help it if they write
this rubbish! We know it’s not true – you were at the Ministry just as much as me, and we both know
I’m not that clever...”

“You got into Potions,” Ron said mulishly.

Harry snorted. He had a feeling this was going to come up sooner or later. “I got into Potions
because McGonagall pulled strings for me, not because I deserved it,” he said frankly. “I think she
was just trying to annoy Umbridge, even if she’s not teaching any more.” He thought he heard Ron
mutter “*Cow*” under his breath when he referred to their former Defense Against the Dark Arts
Teacher. “Yes she was,” Harry agreed, sinking down on the bed next to Ron, snatching the Chocolate
Frog card from him and viciously shredding it. “So, things could be worse, huh?” he said
miserably.

“Well, yeah,” said Ron after a pause, in a friendlier tone. “You could be Hermione.”

Harry winced. “Please, don’t remind me. I feel guilty enough as it is.”

“Well, don’t,” Ron interrupted forcefully. “It’s not your fault.” He seemed to struggle with
himself for a moment, and then said, very quickly, “I’m sorry I was such a berk. I mean, I just
really wanted to be an Auror, and, well, when you wrote and said you’d gotten special treatment,
*again*...” he stopped a moment in reflection, and shrugged.

“Then last night Mum told Ginny and me about Hermione. Didn’t seem as important then,
somehow.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Harry. “Hey, Ron, why don’t you speak to Professor
McGonagall? Your results were about the same as mine. If she knew how much you wanted to be an
Auror, she might get Snape to take you too.”

“I don’t know,” said Ron, although he was looking much more hopeful, “Snape’s already going to
be upset about being forced to take you...”

“That’s my point,” said Harry. “He’ll already be furious, so what’s one more? How angry can he
get?”

“I guess,” said Ron, perking up. “He doesn’t hate me nearly as much as he hates you.” He
sniggered. “Pity you ripped up the card. You could’ve shown Hermione, it might’ve given her a
laugh.”

“Shut up, Ron,” said Harry good-naturedly. “In fact, do me a favour and don’t ever mention it
again.”

“I’m not promising anything,” said Ron. “Come on, though. When we got here Mum said lunch would
be ready in an hour, and I’m starving.” Seeing Harry look at him sideways and smirk, he pointed out
that Chocolate Frogs didn’t qualify as anything more than snacks.

From the corridor they could hear voices, wheedling tones coming from the room that Hermione
shared with Ginny. It sounded like the twins, and Harry fervently hoped that they were having
better luck than he and Ron.

“Come on Hermione, you know you want to...”

“Just say it! You’ll feel better...”

“They better not be bothering her,” Ron grumbled under his breath.

Just out of sight, the twins chorused “You know you want to...”

“Fine,” came Hermione’s voice, sounding wobbly but exasperated. “Fine. It’s a terrible idea, and
it looks disgusting and it’s *dangerous*. Who did you test those on? Do you know what could
have gone wrong? You could have ended up in St. Mungo’s!”

“You should have seen them test it,” giggled Ginny’s voice. “They dropped it into a cauldron of
soup at the Leaky Cauldron when Tom wasn’t looking – you should have seen the guests! Earwigs would
fall from their noses into the soup, and when they started complaining they couldn’t prove it,
they’d all dissolved!”

“Earwigs?” Harry mouthed at Ron, before coming face-to-face with Fred and George, earwig
moustaches slithering out of their nose and writhing about their upper lips.

“You did *what*?” shrieked Hermione, giving an eerie impression of Mrs. Weasley.

“What if you had been caught?”

“Then you could forget St. Mungo’s” smirked George.

“We would have ended up in *jail*” said Fred.

“And I suppose you think that’s funny,” snapped Hermione, but Harry could see that she wasn’t
putting much effort into it – she even seemed to be trying not to laugh. Ginny had no such
compunction, her fist was stuffed into her mouth to keep from shrieking with glee. The twins winked
at Ron and Harry. Clearly they felt they’d made a much better showing, and Harry had to admit they
were right. He knew that Ron realised this too, when his friend said, in a tone of grudging
admiration, that lunch was about to be served.

Heading downstairs with Ron and Ginny (Hermione had gone to wash her face, and the twins had
hinted at a birthday present they needed to fetch from their room), Harry was surprised to see
Professor McGonagall in the kitchen, talking seriously and quietly with Lupin and Mrs. Weasley.

“Are you staying for lunch, Professor?” Harry asked politely, after greetings had taken
place.

“No, Mr. Potter,” said his teacher, looking harassed, “This is only a short visit. I’m afraid I
have other things to do this afternoon. Mr. Weasley! Miss Weasley! *What* is the problem?”

Harry winced. Even out of school, McGonagall had a voice that could cut through glass. Ginny and
Ron had been whispering and pushing each other in the direction of their teacher, who was now
glaring at them as if she was about to give them a detention. Mrs. Weasley had a similar
expression.

“Er, sorry Professor,” said Ron, turning bright red. “We were just wondering, er, have you
decided who’s going to be Quidditch captain this year?”

“Because *we’ve* been wondering all summer,” said Ginny smartly. Her mother glared at her
and swelled ominously. “Well, we have! And Harry doesn’t even know if he can play this year...” she
added pitifully. Harry was impressed that she could shift tactics so fast. No wonder she wanted to
be a chaser this year. Even Lupin was smothering a grin.

“Potter, I can tell you right now that your ban has been revoked.” McGonagall made a noise of
disgust in the back of her throat. “You can pick up your broom from my office at the beginning of
term; which is when I *usually* inform the new captain of their position.”

“It wouldn’t really hurt to let us know now though, would it Professor?” Ron blurted
painfully.

“Is it Harry?” Ginny asked brightly. “He’s been on the team as long as anyone. Well, he
*has*,” she said defiantly, when Ron turned to her with a ferocious scowl on his face.

“Actually, he hasn’t,” said McGonagall coolly. “He was banned for most of last year, if I
remember rightly.”

“That wasn’t my fault!” said Harry. “It was that old... that old...” he trailed off as two pairs
of beady eyes glared at him from the other side of the kitchen.

“Be that as it may, Potter,” McGonagall said “You were still banned.” Three pairs of eyes looked
at her with painful intensity. “Very well,” she sighed, “I’ll be offering the position to Miss
Bell. She’s been playing *continually* since second year and this is her final year in
Hogwarts. I hope that is satisfactory?” She glared at them, daring them to complain. “Good. Now if
you’ll excuse me, I’m already late for another appointment,” and she apparated out of the
kitchen.

“Never mind, Harry” Ginny said bracingly, slapping him on the back. “Next year.”

Oddly enough, Harry didn’t feel disappointed. He hadn’t even considered the question of
Quidditch captaincy over the summer, and was just happy to hear that he would be playing again.
From the look on Ron’s face, though, he had spent the last few weeks hoping for a different
decision. He had, after all, won the Cup for Gryffindor last year, but McGonagall was right – Katie
was a good player and had been on the team as long as anyone. She deserved her chance.

“Is McGonagall here?” Hermione panted, rushing into the kitchen. “I thought I heard her...” and
that was as far as she got before Mrs. Weasley smothered her in what she clearly imagined was a
comforting hug. Hermione suffered it stiffly, looking as if the contact was enough to cause her to
break into tears again.

“Ah, Molly?” Lupin interrupted, “Is there anything you want us to do? Maybe set the table?”
Hermione shot him a grateful look from her position, half-smothered against the motherly bulk of
Mrs. Weasley. It broke the moment and soon they were being shooed around the kitchen, doling out
cutlery and plates, while Mrs. Weasley shifted platters of steaming food – including an enormous
birthday cake – to the table. Fireworks, courtesy of Fred and George’s birthday present, whizzed
around the table, liberally decorated with balloons and sweets. Ron, Harry, and Hermione were just
dodging a Catherine wheel of particularly lurid pink and green – Ron was mumbling that looking
straight at it would make you dizzy enough to be sick – when Hermione asked if McGonagall was still
there.

“Damn,” she said. “I really needed to ask her something about Transfiguration. It was really
important.” She looked downcast, and Harry remembered the textbook she had been poring over that
morning. Still, if it made her happy and he didn’t have to look at it...

“Would you like to borrow Hedwig?” he asked.

Hermione brightened. “Could I?” When he nodded, she hesitated a moment and said “Actually, do
you mind if she takes a letter for me to Nottingham as well? I know it’s a long flight with both of
them, but-”

“Sure, no problem,” said Harry, relieved to find something he could actually *do*.

“Who d’you know in Nottingham anyway?” he asked.

“Oh. Well, Susan Bones lives there,” said Hermione quickly, determinedly not looking at him or
Ron.

“Susan Bones? From Hufflepuff?” said Ron. “Why would you write to her? We don’t know her that
well.”

“*You* don’t,” said Hermione, still not looking at them. “But she’s been in my Ancient
Runes class the past couple of years, so I know her better than you do. She’s... she’s been really
nice this summer... ever since it happened... has written me a lot of letters. Her aunt, uncle and
cousins were killed by V-Voldemort too, last time. Stop it, Ron! Anyway, she understands.”

“And we wouldn’t?” said Harry loudly. Ron whacked him in the side with his elbow. Harry could
almost feel the *shut up, don’t make it worse* vibes coming off his friend, even as he could
see that Ron was a bit upset with Hermione’s admission as well.

“You two were the ones saying I needed to talk to someone,” said Hermione shrilly. “And Susan’s
just... distant...enough.” She stared them both in the eye defiantly. “So can I still borrow
Hedwig?”

“Sure,” said Harry, baffled. “I’ll get her for you after lunch.”

“Thanks,” Hermione muttered, and went to sit at the table. Harry and Ron looked at each other in
bemusement. Ron rolled his eyes. *Girls!* Harry knew how he felt, and was just about to thank
Ron for reminding him not to do something stupid when-

“Fred! Look at this! Hey Harry! Did you know you’ve got a Chocolate Frog card?”



5. Chapter Five
---------------

Chapter Five.

In the end, Hedwig had taken four letters with her for delivery. Ron had argued that since she
was already going to Professor McGonagall, then she could take with her a letter from him asking
whether or not he could take Potions in the coming year. Hopefully, Harry had added a small note of
his own in support. He didn’t really think that McGonagall would be swayed in any way by his
opinion, but he knew that his token support would make Ron feel happier about the whole situation.
They had spent the afternoon of Harry’s birthday in the library, writing and rewriting their
letters, trying to make them as convincing as possible. When Ron was finally satisfied and Hermione
had checked them over – “Honestly Ron, if you had only studied more last year instead of worrying
about Quidditch…” – they had sent them off. Hedwig had been gone several days, and only returned on
the morning of Harry’s trip to Gringott’s Bank.

Breakfast with the Weasley family was always chaotic, and Harry’s silence and picking at his
pancakes went largely unnoticed in the din. Spending time with Ron and Hermione had helped push the
spectre of Kreacher to the back of his mind, but Harry had never fully forgotten the house-elf’s
presence in his godfather’s house. A small rift had formed between him and Lupin about it, albeit a
polite one acted out in silence and avoidance. Harry often saw Lupin eyeing him sadly over the
kitchen table at mealtimes, and wondered which of them felt more disappointed in the other. Ron had
had no such scruples: “Barmy. Absolutely barmy,” he had said, shaking his head in disbelief. “How
can he feel sorry for *Kreacher*? He should have given him what he wanted and stuck his head
up on the wall.”

“*Ron!*” Hermione had been shocked.

“Oh come on, Hermione. Kreacher doesn’t deserve any sympathy,” Ron argued. “You want to treat
them as if they’re the same as us? Sirius got sent to Azkaban for killing a wizard, why should
Kreacher get any different? Or better yet,” Ron sniggered, “…send him to live with the werewolves.
Let’s see how much sympathy they have for him then.” Hermione hadn’t spoken to either of them for
the rest of the afternoon. Harry had felt guilty about it, but in his heart he couldn’t help but
agree that Kreacher was irredeemable. Still, a small part of him had noted with some dismay how
easily Ron had linked werewolves and house-elves as ‘the other’. Not that he ever treated Lupin
with anything less than respect, but Harry remembered how, in the Shrieking Shack at the end of
third year, Ron had recoiled in fear and disgust at the thought of Lupin being a werewolf. Of
course, he had thought he was about to be killed at the time, so there was some excuse.
Nevertheless, Harry’s traitorous brain also remembered Ron’s discomfort at Hagrid’s parentage, and
his dismay that it had been leaked to the wizarding world at large. Harry didn’t blame Ron for any
of this – after all, Ron hadn’t let the ingrained prejudices of his world affect his feelings for
Hagrid or Lupin – he had no problem with the heritage of the people he knew. But, Harry realised,
there was an ingrained sense of magical superiority that many people would have difficulty shaking
off.

Harry knew that this was a bad thing, that it sowed the seeds of a continuing conflict that
could only benefit Voldemort, whenever he decided to move. Knowing that and acting against it were
two different things, however – at least when it came to Kreacher. Loathing and contempt were the
only two emotions Harry could summon up on behalf of the house-elf, and he waited for the day when
he would be able to see him gone from Grimmauld Place for good.

It was this that he was thinking of over breakfast, staring stubbornly at his plate and
deliberately avoiding his former teacher’s eye. It was a relief when Hedwig had arrived and flown
tiredly to his shoulder. There were two letters bound to her leg – neither for him, Harry noticed –
and, placing his owl on the table, he offered her his water goblet while undoing the letters.
Hedwig drank greedily, and Mrs. Weasley gave her a long-suffering look. Harry couldn’t bear to
think how his Aunt Petunia would react if animals had been fed on *her* table, and he could
only imagine that Mrs. Weasley’s objections to the same practice had been worn down over the years,
after living with the various pets of seven children.

The first envelope, addressed in purple ink by an unfamiliar hand, was addressed to Hermione,
who opened it eagerly and began scanning it, only to gasp in surprise at the first few lines.
Seeing that she didn’t look alarmed, and suspecting that it was a reply from Susan Bones, both
Harry and Ron craned their necks to try and catch a glimpse of what was in the letter. Hermione
glared at them, and whisked the letter into her lap.

“Letter from Susan?” Ron asked innocently. “Is she having a nice holiday, then?”

“You can ask her yourself in a few days,” said Hermione composedly. She turned to Lupin. “Why
didn’t you tell us there’s going to be a new Secretary for Magic? We *are* going to see the
vote, aren’t we? Susan’s family is going,” she added unnecessarily.

“When did this happen?” said Harry loudly, leaving the second letter still half attached to
Hedwig’s leg. The owl pecked softly at his hand and, not really paying attention, he continued to
try and loosen the knot.

Lupin looked harassed. “It was decided a few days ago,” he said. “People are angry at Fudge for
not doing enough to protect them from Voldemort.” The Weasley family cringed at the name.
“Professor McGonagall told us when she was here that it had been decided Fudge would step down if a
public meeting of the Wizengamot voted no confidence in him. They will, of course, Dumbledore’s
seen to that, but they also need to elect a new Minister if they do.”

“It’ll be good to see that useless git gone,” said Fred.

“As long as they don’t elect another useless git in his place,” George warned.

“So much for not keeping things from me anymore,” said Harry angrily. He knew that Mrs. Weasley
must also have been aware of Fudge’s imminent removal, but from his point of view Lupin had just
added another betrayal, minor though it was.

“Really, Harry dear,” said Mrs. Weasley disapprovingly. “Your birthday lunch was hardly the time
to bring it up. Besides, we didn’t know when it would happen...”

“Molly’s right,” interrupted Lupin. “The fact that it *would* happen wasn’t even public
knowledge yet. Dumbledore wanted to keep it as quiet as possible and not release the date until the
last possible moment. This way Voldemort gets less time to plan a disruption. There seemed no point
in telling you what we didn’t know.”

“You knew Fudge was out,” Harry pointed out coldly.

“We all knew that though,” said Hermione suddenly, reasonably. “At least…” she said, looking
around the table nervously “…any sensible person should have realised this was coming. After the
past few months it was just a case of when. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.”

“I still would have liked to be told,” said Harry, trying to keep his temper. He didn’t want to
admit that he hadn’t even considered Fudge’s position at the Ministry when half the table obviously
had – the twins had nodded at Hermione’s words – but he didn’t want to give them the impression
that he was happy at anything that kept him in the dark. He had had enough of that in the past year
to last him a lifetime.

“Fair enough,” said Lupin casually, trying to smooth things over. “My apologies, Harry. I should
have told you but truly, I was waiting until I had something to tell.”

“Okay,” said Harry, mollified but still angry. He did his best to be civil. “I’d appreciate
that.” He stuffed down another bite of pancake, forcing it past the tightness in his throat. He
could feel the rest of the table glancing at each other and it didn’t improve his temper. A new
thought came to him. “How come Susan Bones knows before we do?” he demanded, glaring at Hermione.
She opened her mouth to answer him but again Lupin interrupted smoothly, drawing Harry’s attention
away from Hermione and back onto himself.

“Madame Bones is, I imagine, one of the leading choices to take over as Minister of Magic. No
doubt she was informed of her candidacy before it was made public – I imagine that the *Daily
Prophet* will have a rather interesting story this morning. If she knew yesterday, and prepared
her family, well… Susan’s her niece. If she and Hermione have been mulling this over for much of
the summer…” Hermione blushed and stared hard at her plate, “… then no doubt Miss Bones passed on
the news. Correct?”

“Yes, actually,” said Hermione. “So will we go and see the vote? It *is* public, after
all.”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Weasley. “It might be dangerous, and you could always hear the result
on the wireless…”

“I want to go,” said Harry instantly

“So do I,” said Ron and Hermione together. Ginny, Fred and George agreed loudly.

“I think that’s a very good idea,” said Lupin quietly. Mrs. Weasley’s head snapped towards him
and she glared at him in horror, but he continued “We need to be seen to be able to still function
as a society. Voldemort would want to see us fractured and cowering, so that’s what we’re not going
to do. The more people are there, the more legitimate it will seem, not some hole-in-the-wall
swearing-in that most people only hear about second-hand. Dumbledore and most of the Aurors will be
there, it should be safe.” He looked at Mrs. Weasley in compassion. “Whether Ron and Ginny attend
is of course up to you and Arthur. But if Harry and Hermione want to go then they will,” he said
firmly. Harry felt a moment of pure gratitude to his former teacher, before the events of the past
few days again tempered that emotion.

“You’re not keeping me away,” said Ron stubbornly.

“Nor me,” said Ginny. “Will you? Mum?”

Mrs. Weasley looked strongly tempted to refuse there and then. “I’ll talk about it with your
father.”

“But *Mum*…”

“I said I’d speak with your father!” Mrs. Weasley snapped, “And I don’t want to hear another
word about it!”

Harry and Hermione shot each other relieved looks, and quickly turned back to their plates.
Harry was surprised to see Hedwig, whom he had forgotten about entirely, viciously ripping the rind
from his bacon. She shot him an unhappy look, standing at an awkward angle because of the letter
still attached to her leg. Grumbling under his breath at the knot, Harry worked it free. He thought
he recognised the writing.

“Looks like Professor McGonagall…” he muttered under his breath.

“Ooh, is it?” said Hermione, reaching over to snatch it out of his hand. “About time!”

Harry wrenched it out of her grasp. “Get off! It’s not for you, it’s for Ron.” There was a
garbled sound from the end of the table, where Ron had been angrily stuffing pancakes into his
mouth. Hermione went back to her breakfast in disgust. “You already got a letter, remember?” Harry
reminded her.

“Fine,” Hermione huffed. “I think I’ll just go upstairs and finish reading it then. Thank-you
for breakfast, Mrs. Weasley,” she added politely, and left the kitchen. Harry stared after her in
puzzlement. What could possibly be so important that she was so desperate to talk to McGonagall?
His musings were interrupted by Ron snatching the letter from his hand, and ripping it open with
enthusiasm. Harry, remembering their effort of a few days earlier, promptly forgot about
Hermione.

“Come on, Ron! What does it say?”

Ron’s face had turned beet-red. Harry wasn’t sure if it was from anger or happiness or just the
lack of air from trying to breathe through a mouth and cheeks packed with pancakes. Ron sputtered
loudly, spraying the table. “Oh, that’s nice,” said Ginny in disgust, moving her chair away from
him. Her brother breathed heavily, and his face was turning an even darker shade of red. Harry
began to have a bad feeling about things…

“That bloody woman…” said Ron thickly, indistinctly, “That bloody woman won’t let me take
Potions…” Harry winced in sympathy, but the twins weren’t nearly so sympathetic.

“But Ron,” said Fred bemusedly, “You don’t even *like* Potions.”

“More to the point,” said George, “You didn’t even *pass* Potions. Take it from someone
who’s been there – Hogwarts is a lot more pleasant when you don’t have classes with Snape.”

“He’s right, little bro,” agreed Fred. “Best year of our lives, sixth year was.”

“I don’t *care*!” Ron ground out. “I don’t care that I hate it. I need it!”

“I’m certainly not sorry,” commented Mrs. Weasley stubbornly. “I never thought I’d see the day
when I’d be glad that one of my children had failed an OWL.”

“Count yourself lucky, Ron” said Fred. “Mum was never that soft with us.”

“Yeah, there are other careers,” added George.

“Careers that are less dangerous than being an Auror!” Mrs. Weasley snapped. “You get into
enough trouble at school as it is – not that I’m blaming you, Harry dear…” Ron shot him a furious
glance.

“No, nothing’s ever his fault, is it? And yet *he* gets to take Potions! *He* gets
exceptions made for him!” Ron’s voice was getting progressively louder and louder. “It’s not FAIR!”
he bellowed, storming out of the kitchen and slamming the door behind him. Harry and Lupin both
winced and carefully avoided looking at Mrs. Weasley. Ginny was staring fixedly at her plate,
looking tearful.

“He’s been like that half the summer,” said Fred lightly. “Charming boy.”

“Must be hormones,” George agreed. “We were never that much trouble.” They both smiled
angelically, and both Ginny and Mrs. Weasley gave watery snorts of half-hearted laughter.

“It’s partly my fault,” Harry admitted. “I *do* get special treatment sometimes. Besides,
Ron would have more time to study if he wasn’t always around me. Things just kind of *happen*…
I’m sorry,” he said miserably.

Mrs. Weasley snorted again. “I don’t hear Hermione making excuses for bad marks,” she said. “Ron
is capable of studying harder but he just doesn’t choose to. It’s no-one’s fault but his own,
although…” she looked at Harry kindly but firmly “…I do wish you would try not to encourage each
other so much. I sometimes feel that the three of you go looking for trouble. You’re only children,
for goodness sake! I know there are… extraordinary circumstances, but I don’t want my children in
danger!” She turned to Ginny. “That goes for you too, young lady. You’re to keep out of trouble
this year, do you understand? No trips to the Forbidden Forest or out of Hogwarts grounds *no
matter what*.” She swung back to Harry. “I’m counting on you to make sure that you don’t-”

“Lead them into anything dangerous?” finished Harry dully.

“Yes,” Mrs. Weasley admitted bluntly. And despite Ginny’s protests, Harry felt he had no choice
but to agree.

There was an awkward pause, and Lupin broke it by reminding Harry of their trip to Gringott’s
that morning, and that Harry needed to bring with him the key to his vault. Mrs. Weasley was also
going into Diagon Alley, to collect schoolbooks for Ron and Ginny. As Harry left the kitchen, he
heard her asking Lupin about Hermione’s books, and offering to buy them at the same time as she got
her children’s. Morosely, Harry remembered that Hermione’s parents could no longer do that for her.
The implications made him veer away from his room and go look for her. He found her in the room she
shared with Ginny, trying to coax Crookshanks out from under the bed. Privately, Harry doubted she
would have much luck. The furry orange cat could be aggravatingly stubborn, and once he had made
himself comfortable did not want to shift. Hermione, he knew, was just grateful that the cat had
survived the attack on her house by virtue of being shut out in the garden.

“Stay there, then,” said Hermione grumpily, inching out from under the bed. She stared up at
Harry from the floor. “Ron didn’t get Professor McGonagall to get him into Potions, then?” she
asked.

“You heard?” said Harry.

“Hard not to. Don’t worry, he’ll get over it.”

“I hope so. It’s got to be hard for him, being left out. I know how that feels,” said Harry,
remembering the previous summer.

Hermione snorted. “Yes, we should be feeling *really* sorry for *him*,” she said
dryly. “Let me know when he’s got real problems, will you?”

“Right. Sorry,” said Harry. “Listen, Hermione, after you left Mrs. Weasley was wondering about
getting you books, and…er…”

“Spit it out, Harry,” said Hermione briskly.

Harry swallowed and spoke very fast, carefully not looking at her. “The Weasley’s aren’t rich,
and your parents… it’s just I’ve got more gold than I know what to do with, so if you need any,
well... it’s yours if you want it.” He fixed on his shoelaces, and hoped that Hermione wouldn’t
behave in the same way that Ron would if Harry offered him money. When he heard her laugh at him,
Harry felt relieved and also a bit insulted.

Hermione noticed the scowl beginning to form on his face. “It’s really nice of you to offer,
Harry, but I’m alright. Mum and Dad… it’s just, they had insurance for me if anything happened. I’m
alright.”

“Muggle insurance is slow, though, isn’t it?” said Harry. “I mean, Uncle Vernon came home once
complaining that someone had crashed into his company car – other way round, more like – and they
didn’t pay up for ages.”

“That’s why they got life insurance from Gringott’s,” said Hermione quietly. “They signed a
magical contract, and it activated when… well. I’m going with you and Lupin to Gringott’s today, to
have the account signed over to me. It’s worth a lot of gold. Mum and Dad were dentists, you know,”
she went on conversationally, “so they could pay for quite a big one. After Cedric died, they
decided that if there was any chance of Voldemort targeting students and their families, then it
was best to be prepared.”

Harry marvelled that Hermione and her parents had been thinking so clearly so far in advance.
“Did you tell your parents everything, then?” he asked hesitantly. He remembered how the parents of
Seamus and Dean, boys that he shared a dorm with in Gryffindor house, had reacted to the events of
the past few years. Seamus’ mother had nearly pulled him out of Hogwarts (and away from Harry)
because she was so worried. Dean had avoided that situation by simply not telling his parents
anything about it. It was like Hermione to be scrupulously honest with her family about the
dangers, Harry thought, but he couldn’t understand why the Grangers were so apparently willing to
expose her to them.

“Yes,” said Hermione simply. “It wouldn’t have been fair to keep it from them. They actually
considered taking me out of school and moving overseas after Cedric died.” She looked at Harry
calmly, a speculative look in her eyes. “But it felt like running away and, in the end, they agreed
with Dumbledore. Do you remember, Harry? About the choice between what’s easy and what’s right?”
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Hermione’s steady gaze was unnerving him. “They didn’t
want me to stay at Hogwarts. They didn’t even want me to stay in *Britain*. But sometimes what
you *want* to do isn’t always what you *should* do. Do you understand me, Harry?”

“I understand that you’ve been talking to Lupin,” said Harry bitterly.

“I think he might be right,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “He just doesn’t *want* to be
right, and it’s not easy for him.”

“He’s not the only one it’s not easy for,” snapped Harry. “Look Hermione, I’m sorry but I don’t
want to talk about this. I don’t even want to think about it. You’re not going to get me to agree
with you, so you can bloody well stop trying.”

“Fine,” said Hermione coolly. “But you’re going to have to deal with it, whether you like it or
not.”

Harry made for the door before he lost his temper. “I have to find my key.” Crookshanks hissed
at him from under the bed as he left.

*

Diagon Alley was dreary and depressing. Notices from the Ministry of Magic advertising the
upcoming Wizengamot meeting were plastered over the shops, and small groups of people were huddled
about them, whispering uncomfortably to each other. Even the shops looked unwelcoming, doors firmly
closed against the nearly deserted streets. The usual hustle and bustle of a busy summer day was
absent, and grim faces were everywhere. The entire atmosphere was suffocating, Harry thought, and
it irritated him. There was a kind of exaggerated silence that made him feel as if something
horrible was about to spring. Even Mrs. Weasley seemed subdued, with a fistful of Ginny’s robe
clamped in her hand as she walked, as if her daughter was a toddler about to wander off. Harry
noted with a trace of bleak amusement that Lupin seemed to be having difficulty not doing the same
thing to Hermione. Ron had point-blank refused to go anywhere with them, and his mother and sister
had left him sulking back at Grimmauld Place.

As Mrs. Weasley and Ginny left them to go to Flourish and Blott’s, Harry became aware that the
few people in the Alley were whispering and pointing as he went by. Instantly the suffocating
feeling increased, and he had to fight the urge not to tug at the neck of his robes. They seemed to
be tighter and it was harder to breathe. It was Lupin who reminded him that the attention wasn’t
directed solely at him. His former teacher had dropped back beside Hermione and had put a
supporting arm around her shoulders, clamping her to his side. Harry realised then that, given his
connection to Hermione, the murder of the Grangers must have been front-page news. At least half
the stares were directed towards her, in a mixture of pity and fear. One witch, out shopping with
her small son, folded the child behind her at the sight of Hermione, hiding him behind her skirts.
Both Harry and Lupin glared at her, and she cringed slightly away from them. Harry thought
miserably that they must have made a fairly awe-inspiring trio for the customers of Diagon Alley
that day – the Boy Who Lived, a werewolf, and the girl who was popularly believed to be the latest
target of the Dark Lord. He moved to flank Hermione on her other side, and one look at her
chalk-white face told him that she was also horribly aware of the scrutiny.

It was a relief to reach Gringott’s Bank. Lupin shuffled them quickly through the doors – the
goblin ushers staring at them with, Harry felt, cleverly faked indifference. Lupin was looking at
them worriedly. “Perhaps we should have flooed here directly,” he said. “I knew the atmosphere had
changed, but I didn’t think it would be that bad.” He poked in his robes, coming out with a small
bar of Honeydukes chocolate, and, snapping it in half, gave a piece to both Harry and Hermione.
“Here. Eat.” Hermione made a small face at hers, but nibbled obediently.

“Harry! Hey, Harry!” a familiar voice rang out. Harry spun around to see Neville Longbottom
hurrying towards him from across the bank’s enormous foyer. He skidded in to a halt in front of
them, round face lit up momentarily, but Harry noted that he fell back into a sad, serious
expression with the habit of long practice. “Oh, hello Hermione, Professor,” said Neville. He stood
there for a moment looking awkwardly at them. Harry began to realise just how tired Hermione must
be getting of awkward pauses. In the end it was Lupin who again broke the moment.

“I’m going to get hold of a goblin,” he said, strolling off towards the counter. “You three just
amuse yourselves for a minute. And *no wandering off*.”

“We’ve been hearing that a lot lately,” said Harry dryly.

“You’re not the only one,” said Neville. “Gran only came in today to get shopping done before
the Wizengamot. Wants a new hat. After that she’s not likely to let me out of the house again until
September first.” He winced. “Sorry, Hermione. I didn’t mean to be…”

“It’s alright,” said Hermione, a trifle wearily. “I’ve been meaning to write to you to thank you
for your letter a few weeks ago. It was nice.” Harry frowned to himself, feeling more than a little
jealous. Of course Neville would know about what had happened to the Grangers – the entire
wizarding world was aware of it, after all – but did he, Harry, have to be the absolute last to
know? Hermione held out her half of the Honeydukes bar to Neville. “D’you want it? I’m sick to
death of the stuff.”

Neville grimaced. “No, thanks. Uncle Algie and Gran have been forcing it down my throat all
summer. If I never see chocolate again I’ll be happy.”

Hermione turned to Harry, who shook his head vehemently. “Just hide it behind that pot plant,”
he said, indicating a fanged geranium nearby. “Neville and I will cover you.” The two boys blocked
the view from the counter as Hermione disposed of the chocolate. One of the goblins behind the
counter glared over at them, eyes glinting wickedly. They stared back innocently, and suspiciously
he turned back to his ledger.

“Only goblins would have carnivorous plants on display,” said Neville in an undertone.

Harry smirked. “It’s not a very friendly look, is it? ‘Welcome, sir and madam. Now give us your
money and get out’.” They sniggered together quietly until Hermione inched safely away from the
geranium. Harry noted with actual amusement that both he and Neville shut up the moment she came
near them. The last thing either of them wanted was to prompt a new campaign over the unappreciated
role of goblins in wizarding society. Idly, Harry wondered what she would call *that*
organisation.

“Have you heard anything about who the next Minister is likely to be, Neville?” said Hermione
quietly.

“Only that Dumbledore would be given it in a second, if he wanted it,” said Neville. “Only
problem is, he doesn’t seem to want it. Of the rest, it’s most likely to be Madame Bones, though
I’ve heard a couple of other suggestions – Fred and George gave me a pair of Extendable Ears in the
hospital wing last year. Professor McGonagall’s name has actually come up a couple of times, and
some of the senior Aurors. Some of the pure-blood families – not mine, but others, like the
Malfoy’s – have actually been sticking up for Fudge-”

“They would, wouldn’t they,” Harry hissed. “He’s no use at all.”

“That’s probably the point,” muttered Hermione. “Though I can’t see why they wouldn’t choose
someone who’d be a bit more pro-active – for them, of course.”

“A few people have even been talking about Umbridge,” said Neville grimly.

“WHAT!” Both Harry and Hermione were horrified. Their screeches, quiet as they were, had been
noticed by the other customers. Fingers were pointing their way again, and out of the corner of his
eye Harry thought he saw a brief flash. Lupin, talking with a goblin at the counter, shot them a
repressive look, and he wasn’t the only one. From the other side of the room, an elderly woman
wearing a stuffed vulture hat moved determinedly towards them.

“Don’t worry,” said Neville hastily. “It seems there’s not much chance of it. Dumbledore would
never allow it, and no-one wants to move against him now.” He brightened slightly. “There’s even
been a suggestion that Ron’s dad should get the job.”

“That’d be much better,” said Harry in relief. “He’d do a great job.” He had barely seen Mr.
Weasley since his arrival at Grimmauld Place; the older wizard had been spending nearly every
waking hour at the Ministry of Magic. If he was given a high position, perhaps it would even put
Ron in a good enough mood to talk to him again.

“No he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do a good job *at all*,” said Hermione immediately. “Oh, come
on Harry. I like Mr. Weasley as much as you do but he’s got no experience running anything bigger
than an office with two people in it. Perhaps if he had the training… but he doesn’t, and we can’t
afford to wait until he gets it.”

The stuffed vulture bore down upon them. Politely, Harry and Hermione made a few moments of
polite conversation with Neville’s grandmother who, Harry noticed, was treating Neville with more
pride than he had ever seen her exhibit before. They bore with it patiently until the Longbottom’s
left, both wishing that they had had more time to speak with Neville without his grandmother’s
censorship. Neville, too, was attending the Wizengamot vote, and Harry was surprising at how
heartened he felt at the prospect of seeing him again so soon.

“Maybe we could write to Neville and ask if Mrs. Longbottom will speak to Mrs. Weasley about Ron
and Ginny going as well,” said Hermione. Lupin was still at the counter, dealing with what looked
like another, more superior goblin. She scowled to herself. “I really should have written back to
him. He did send me the most helpful letter.”

“Good for him,” said Harry neutrally, wishing very much that he hadn’t promised Lupin not to
question her about her decisions this summer, before deciding that he and Ron had already blundered
into the subject anyway. “Why didn’t you write to one of us?” he asked, trying not to sound whiny
and, he thought, not entirely succeeding. “I mean, I know I haven’t been the most pleasant person
to be around this last year, and Ron, well, he can be so… but we would have tried.”

“Ron wouldn’t have understood,” said Hermione. “How could he? *His* family’s fine.” She bit
her lip. “And you – well, no offence Harry, but you’re as messed up as I am right now. I just
couldn’t face dealing with *your* moods and *your* guilt as well as my own.” Seeing Harry
cringe slightly, she went on. “It’s not your fault. It’s just the way it is. Susan and Neville –
they know what it’s like. And I can talk to them about it – especially Susan – without feeling like
I’m making things worse for her.” She nudged him. “Look, if it bothers you that much, when we get
back to Grimmauld Place I can throw some books at *you*. Would that make you feel better?”

“Probably not,” Harry admitted, laughing slightly. He could see Lupin and a very solid-looking
goblin making their way towards them, and afraid that they would arrive before he could make
Hermione understand what he wanted to say, blurted out “It’s good that you’ve found someone.
Really. It’s just, Ron and me, well, we’re here too. If you want.” Out of the corner of his eye he
could see Hermione nod. It was enough.



6. Chapter Six
--------------

Hi everyone – thanks for taking the time to review my story, it’s really kind of you! It’s my
first attempt at a HP fanfic, though have been greedily reading them for a while now. Yes, it is
H/Hr but the romance will be *very* slowly built up. I just have real difficulty believing
(although other people differ, naturally) that their relationship would be anything other than
gradual. I’m sorry if that’s frustrating for you!

Chapter Six.

Ever since his eleventh birthday, when Harry had discovered that he was a wizard, there had been
precious few times when he had wished to leave the wizarding world altogether and go back to live
with the Dursleys. In second year, he had been accused of being the Heir of Slytherin, and nearly
all the students of Hogwarts had turned against him. In fourth year, after his name had been pulled
out of the Goblet of Fire, even Ron had fallen out with him. And last Christmas, believing that he
had been possessed by Voldemort, Harry had reluctantly planned to leave Grimmauld Place in order
not to endanger his friends. In none of those cases was he as depressed and as angry as he was
now.

The whole atmosphere of the house had taken a turn for the worse in the days since Harry’s
appointment at Gringott’s Bank. Fred and George, the only two who could somehow be relied upon to
be cheerful no matter what, were spending most of their days at work, gone before Harry got up and
rarely back until after dinner. Harry suspected that it was not so much their work ethic that kept
them away as the chance to get out of the house and away from the eagle eyes of their mother – they
probably spent their evenings in the Leaky Cauldron, he thought, under the suspicious eye of the
inn-keeper and well away from the cauldrons. Mrs. Weasley, on the other hand, was in what amounted
to a state of war with her two younger children over their desire to attend the Wizengamot meeting
(which was to be held the next day). Ron was still not speaking to Harry, deliberately avoiding him
and only going to bed long after Harry had done so. Worse, he had managed to fight with Hermione,
who had retired to the library and was stubbornly engrossed in the enormous Transfiguration book.
And Kreacher was still in the house…

*

It was a situation that Harry could never have expected. Lupin had warned him that he was likely
to be the sole heir to the House of Black and all it entailed, and Harry had no reason to doubt
him. At Gringott’s, he, Lupin, and Hermione had all followed the goblin in his scarlet and gold
uniform to a private office. They had agreed to settle both Hermione’s account and Sirius’s will at
the same time – Harry thought that Lupin was unlikely to let either of them out of his sight in any
case. The office was magnificent in a very cold way, marbled and austere. There was even a pair of
very sharp, very deadly looking swords hanging on the wall behind the desk, and Harry noticed that
the goblin himself had a long knife strapped to his belt. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a goblin
so obviously armed before – Gringott’s usually had their own, more subtle, forms of security. As he
stared at the knife, he began to think that the goblin looked somehow familiar…

“Griphook?” he asked tentatively.

The goblin seated itself behind the desk and grinned at him, a mouthful of very sharp teeth
glittering nastily at him. “It’s always good to see you at Gringott’s, Mr. Potter.”

Harry turned to his friends. “Griphook was the goblin who helped Hagrid and me when I came here
before first year.” He smiled nervously at the goblin, who only widened his shark-like grin. “Got
promoted, did you?” Griphook stared at him flatly. He seemed to almost visibly resist rolling his
eyes, and Harry was reminded sharply of Snape. “Er, that’s good then… isn’t it?” he finished
lamely. Hermione, he noticed, had no compunctions about rolling *her* eyes. He flushed.

After opening an account for Hermione and having the insurance money paid into it – Harry was
gob-smacked at the amount her parents had set aside for her, he wasn’t exactly sure of his own
financial standing but Hermione’s seemed to easily exceed it – Griphook had turned to the last will
and testament of Sirius Black. Lupin was right in that Sirius had changed his will after he had
gotten out of Azkaban, but he was wrong in that Harry was the main beneficiary.

“Me?” said Lupin weakly, in amazement. “I think you must have read that wrong. Sirius was the
godfather to Harry here; he would have left it all to him.” He looked at Harry in apology. “Don’t
worry, we’ll get this all cleared up in a minute.”

“Mr. Potter is indeed referenced in Mr. Black’s will,” pronounced Griphook. “But I corresponded
with Mr. Black myself on this matter and he was very clear. Half the money in the Black family
vault (a quite considerable sum), and all of the ancestral jewellery, were to go to young Mr.
Potter. It was felt,” and Griphook gave a nasty smile “… it was felt by my client that you, sir,”
he turned to look at Lupin “would not particularly well suit the jewellery. The other half of the
vault and the deed to the Black residence was to go to you, Mr. Lupin. My client was
*particularly* clear on this point. He felt that you would understand.”

Lupin blanched at his words. “Of all the stupid, selfish things for him to do…” he muttered. He
looked at Harry directly. “I am sorry. I knew nothing of this. You were his godson, it should be
yours. If you want to contest the will I’ll help you do it.”

“Can’t be done,” hissed Griphook, looking rather insulted. “This is a perfectly legal will, a
signed magical contract. It cannot be gainsayed. I should know, I set it up myself and Gringott’s
prides itself on the work done here. Our contracts are watertight. We have found that it saves us
having to get involved in *family squabbles*.” He glared at them, as if daring them to
object.

“It doesn’t bother me,” said Harry immediately. “Take it. He wanted you to have it.” He felt the
frost coming from Hermione lessen a little.

Lupin looked at him miserably. There were circles under his eyes and new lines on his face, and
Harry realised that the full moon must be approaching. Lupin always became sicker around that time.
“Are you sure, Harry?”

“It’s not like I need it,” said Harry honestly. “Just do me one favour,” and he looked his
former Professor straight in the eye. Part of him was glad that Lupin now had a home and money
enough to support himself in relative luxury. As a werewolf, he had had considerable difficulty
getting a job, and Harry had never known him not looking ill-fed and shabby. But Harry also knew
that Lupin would be feeling a great deal of guilt right now, for the unexpected windfall that he no
doubt felt should have gone to another. He was utterly ashamed of himself for trading on that
guilt, but the words spilled out before he could help himself, cold and uncompromising.

“Get rid of Kreacher.”

To his left, he felt Hermione scowling at him in renewed disgust, and she rose and stalked out
of Griphook’s office without a backward look.

Lupin had seemed to crumple in on himself at Harry’s demand, and grief and self-hatred was plain
in his eyes for a moment before hardening into a wretched determination.

“No, Harry,” he said. “No, I’m sorry. Kreacher stays.” And at that moment, the breach between
them widened into a gulf.

*

Morosely, Harry watched Buckbeak shred another curtain. He felt as if the hippogriff must be as
frustrated as he was, and had no urge to stop him. Buckbeak had been trapped inside Grimmauld Place
for longer than Harry, and what was meant to be a temporary arrangement had lengthened into
something more permanent. Due to the death sentence still in effect against him, Buckbeak could not
return to Hogwarts, and as yet no-one had decided what should be done with him. Harry supposed that
someone needed to decide something soon before the hippogriff wrecked the entire house, but it
seemed that Buckbeak was a low priority. Harry scowled to himself, feeling hard-done-by and
sympathetic towards the creature.

He could hear someone stumping up the stairs, and hoped it wasn’t Ginny. The youngest Weasley
sibling, fed up with the moodiness and surliness of everyone in the house, had been trying to jolly
him along since their return from Diagon Alley. Harry knew he was being unfair but couldn’t bring
himself to appreciate her effort.

A red head poked around the door. “Hi,” said Ron tentatively. Harry shrugged at him
noncommittally. Ron seemed to be in a better temper, but Harry couldn’t tell for certain and was
sick of trying not to provoke his friend.

“Er… should you be letting him do that?” said Ron, pointing over at Buckbeak, who had started to
gnaw disconsolately on the curtain rail.

Harry shrugged again. “It’s not my house.”

Ron came and flopped down beside him, looking sheepish and a bit nervous. “Right,” he said.
There was a newspaper in his hand, and Harry recognised it as the *Daily Prophet*. His stomach
dropped at the sight of it. It seemed that the *Prophet* was determined to dog him wherever he
went. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the paper when he had not been sickened,
angered, or simply embarrassed by what had been printed in it. It crossed his mind for a moment
that there might be a perfectly innocent reason for Ron having it with him, a reason that had
nothing to do with him, but as much as he wanted to believe that he knew that it was unlikely. He
heard Snape’s voice echo in his head for an instant – *Arrogant, Potter* – and for the first
time wished that his Potions professor was right.

“Tell me you’re planning to use that for Buckbeak’s dirt box,” he said, and felt the joke go
flat. Ron was looking at him in a curious mixture of sorrow and pity, and that was one expression
that Harry wasn’t used to seeing from his volatile friend. Harry sighed. “Who is it now?”

“What?” said Ron. “Oh. No, it’s no-one. It’s not like that.” Again the look of pity. “It’s just…
I know that we haven’t been getting along lately,” Ron said carefully, “but I didn’t want you or
Hermione being surprised by this at lunch.” He thrust out the paper, folded carefully around an
enormous photo that took up half of the front page. It was of the foyer at Gringott’s bank, and
dimly Harry remembered seeing a flash out of the corner of his eye; a flash that had patently come
from a camera.

The photograph showed Harry, Neville, and Hermione huddled together in front of a fanged
geranium, whispering urgently to each other and casting worried, miserable looks out of the frame.
Numbly, Harry turned to the caption.

**Is this the future of our world?**

*Two days ago, at the headquarters of Gringott’s bank, Diagon Alley, three of*

*the youngest victims of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named comforted each other in*

*a world that is increasingly comfortless. Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived,*

*was in his infancy the miraculous survivor of an attack by the Dark Lord that*

*claimed the life of his parents, Lily and James Potter. The First War also saw*

*the vicious incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom, who now reside*

*permanently in St. Mungo’s. Their son Neville is pictured to the left. And a few*

*short weeks ago, the parents of Muggle-born Hermione Granger were left*

*dead after a Death Eater attack. All three are students of Hogwarts, and all*

*three were involved in the brave defence of the Ministry of Magic at the end*

*of June this year, surviving yet another Death Eater attack. Who can say the*

*same? Whatever the fate of Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom and Hermione*

*Granger, it would seem that they have been marked out.*

*The Daily Prophet would like to know just how many more children are going*

*to suffer in the same way as these three. If left to the current Minister*

*for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, the number may be incalculable…*

“So are you going to tell me how unfair it is that I get on the cover of the *Prophet* and
you don’t?” said Harry nastily, and then winced. “Sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Maybe I did,” said Ron reluctantly. “It’s just, you’re my best mate and all, but for so long
I’ve been so jealous of you. You’re famous, and rich, and everyone cares about *you*. And then
when this came in, after breakfast, I saw the picture and… well. There doesn’t seem so much to be
jealous of, right now,” he said bluntly.

Harry snorted disbelievingly. “You’ve only just realised this? Come on, Ron! My parents have
been dead for years. You’ve met the Dursley’s. What did you think my life was *like*?”

“I know, I know,” said Ron. “Well, I *did*,” he said defensively, seeing Harry roll his
eyes. “I just never really understood it before, I s’pose,” he finished lamely.

“Must be nice,” said Harry coolly.

Ron reddened. “Look, I’m trying to say I’m sorry, right? But if you’re not interested…” He
scrambled to his feet.

“It’s alright,” said Harry hastily. “Sit back down, you prat.” He was still upset with Ron, but
then he was upset with *everyone* at the moment, including himself. He found it difficult to
believe that Ron’s realisation would completely change his behaviour, but when he looked into his
friend’s eyes he could see, without the need for words, that Ron was ashamed of himself, and that
any future jealousy on his part would at least be better controlled. Harry looked at Buckbeak,
still gnawing away in a lonely, dejected manner, and decided that he would take what he could
get.

“Has anyone else seen it?” he asked.

“Just Mum. I found her crying over it in the kitchen,” said Ron uncomfortably. “You know, she’s
doing that a lot lately.”

“What about Hermione?” Harry asked. “Have you shown it to her?”

“Not yet,” said Ron. “I don’t much want to, either. But the Wizengamot’s tomorrow, and you’ll
have your public to meet,” he gave a sheepish half-smile as he said it, to show that he was not
really serious “…so someone’s going to have to warn her.” He brightened. “You could do it.”

“Nice try, Ron,” said Harry, beginning to grin himself. “She’s not really talking to me at the
moment.”

“Yeah, I know. What did you do, anyway?”

“Who said I did anything?” said Harry, stung. “I just… I just... Oh, fine. It was my fault. I
should have kept my mouth shut. Lately I can’t seem to help myself. How’d you know, anyway?”

“Oh, she borrowed Pig to send a letter to Neville. I asked her why she didn’t use Hedwig and she
nearly bit my head off.” Ron looked at Harry judiciously. “You really should be nicer to her right
now, you know.”

“I know,” said Harry wearily. “I told you, I can’t help it. We were at Gringott’s, and she was
filling out her forms. Griphook – he was the goblin – was just kind of helping her, telling her
where to sign, and Hermione… well, she asked him if he was going to the Wizengamot meeting
tomorrow…”

Ron guffawed. “I can see where this is going. Goblins won’t be allowed in. It’s only for witches
and wizards.”

“That’s what he said. And Hermione, well, you know what she’s like, she started going on about
how unfair it was and how goblins had as much right to be there as anyone. Why can’t they go,
anyway?”

“I dunno,” said Ron. “Tradition? House-elves can’t go either, or anyone who’s not human. Don’t
suppose they feel like they’re missing much. So?”

Harry sighed. “Well, she just went on and on… and I, I might have told her to give it a rest,”
he finished in a rush.

Ron goggled at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it!” said Harry defensively. “It’s just, the sooner we got to the
will, the sooner I could have gotten rid of Kreacher.”

“Well we know how that turned out,” said Ron quietly. The two of them stared morosely at
Buckbeak, who had ground half the length of the curtain rod almost down to powder.

*

The morning of the Wizengamot meeting was tense and exciting. With the prospect of getting rid
of Fudge at the forefront of everyone’s minds, a cheerful attitude percolated through Grimmauld
Place. Everyone gathered in the kitchen, waiting for their portkey to activate. Mr. Weasley had
brought one in from the office – “It’s alright, Molly dear, Dumbledore set it himself,” –
explaining that the large amount of people that would be travelling through to the Ministry of
Magic that day meant that they had had to put a timetable in place to avoid any awkward collisions.
Harry remembered that a similar thing had happened at the Quidditch World Cup.

The kitchen was in last minute chaos. Mrs. Weasley had relented after getting a letter from Mrs.
Longbottom, and was hurriedly scrubbing at Ron’s face with a wet dishcloth (“Really, Ron, if you
had gotten up earlier you wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to gobble down breakfast”). Hermione,
a bag stuffed with parchment slung over her shoulder, had cornered the twins. Harry listened in
idly.

“Did you get it?”

“Relax, Hermione,” said Fred. “You’ve been reminding us for days now. We got it last night,
didn’t we George.”

“Yep. You were asleep when we got home or else we would have given it to you then.” With a
flourish, George offered her a small object from his robes. “One Quick-Quotes-Quill, as
requested.”

Hermione looked at them both narrowly. “That better be the real thing, and not one of your
tricks,” she said. “Because if it is I’ll make you both feel so guilty that you’d wish you-”

“Alright, alright,” said Fred hurriedly, casting a glance at Mrs. Weasley. “Keep your voice
down.” He removed another quill from his own robes and stuffed it into Hermione’s hand, before
looking at George aggrievedly. “I told you she wouldn’t fall for it.”

“I’m surprised that *anyone* takes *anything* from you two anymore,” said Hermione
loftily. She moved over to Harry, stowing the quill in her bag. Ron, red and shining, joined them
with a very disgruntled look on his face. He had been able to escape, Harry noticed, only because
his mother had started fussing over Ginny’s hair (“I won’t have you children looking like
scarecrows today!” “But *Mum*,” Ginny protested, “Harry’s hair is worse than mine. Why don’t
you go and bother him?”) Nervously Harry flattened down his hair as best he could and moved to hide
behind Ron.

“What have you got one of those for?” asked Ron, seeing the Quick-Quotes-Quill poking out of
Hermione’s bag.

“I need it to take notes, don’t I?” she replied.

“But Hermione,” said Harry, amused, “You’ll be right there. What do you need notes for?”

“I don’t,” said Hermione, in a tone of voice that got distinctly cooler as she went on. “But
it’s absolutely not right that the goblins and the house-elves don’t get to see this. The Minister
of Magic will end up affecting them as much as everyone else. They’ll who be getting the notes.
Fred and George picked me up one of these quills so it can write down everything anyone says
today.”

Ron gaped at her. “Are you mad? It’ll all be over in a few hours and then they’ll know who’s won
anyway.”

“I could say the same to you,” snapped Hermione. “But I don’t notice *you* wanting to stay
home. What is said – and not said – today might be equally as important as the final result. They
should get to know the same as anyone else.”

Seeing that Ron was about to argue, Harry broke in “I don’t suppose that it can hurt.” Ron
glared at him but took the hint. The *Prophet* article of the previous day had broken the ice
between the three of them, and Harry was determined just to get through the day without starting up
any more fights. It was made easier by the fact that Lupin wasn’t going with them. He said that it
was because that with the full moon coming up, he wasn’t feeling well enough to attend, and indeed
he looked very ill. But Hermione had fumed that the real reason was more likely to be that he
wouldn’t be allowed into the building. With Voldemort on the rise again, people were less likely to
tolerate a known werewolf at such an important event.

“It’s not enough that they know he’s fought Death Eaters,” she had snapped. “And no-one is
willing to stop him from going into Diagon Alley or anywhere like that – yet. But we can’t endanger
the precious Ministry, oh no! So they’ll keep him out because he’s a half-breed…They probably
wouldn’t let Hagrid in either.” Harry had felt a small twinge of sympathy for Lupin then, but did
his best to ignore it.

At half-past ten the portkey was ready to activate, and Harry reached out a finger, crowding
around the knitting needle with everyone else. The jerk beneath his navel always took him by
surprise, and moments later he stumbled into the great hall at the Ministry of Magic, the only
place large enough to accommodate all those who were willing to come. The building was nearly full,
but Harry noticed very few children there. Apparently most people had kept their families away.

“Neville!”

“Hi everyone.” Neville and his grandmother were standing a few metres away, and Neville came up
to them. “Professor McGonagall said you’d be dropping in about now.”

“Maybe I’ll get a chance to talk to her,” said Hermione. “*Finally*.” McGonagall hadn’t
answered her letter, and Hermione had been quite grumpy about it.

Harry, meanwhile, was staring in puzzlement at Mrs. Longbottom, who was wearing a
familiar-looking stuffed vulture hat. “Hey Neville,” he said quietly. “I thought your grandmother
was going to get a new hat.”

Neville smirked at him. “She did.”

Harry didn’t understand him at first, until he noticed that the feathers on the vulture seemed
slightly newer than normal, and that there were more of them. He, Ron, and Neville laughed quietly
together, while Hermione glared at them and shook her head in mock disgust. The moment was broken
when a small group forced their way through the crowd towards them. Harry noted with a sinking
feeling that they were all wearing badges that said, in bright purple letters: PRESS. It was with
an even worse feeling that he saw that the leader of the pack was none other than Rita Skeeter.

“Here come the rest of the vultures,” said Hermione tightly. The small commotion was making the
rest of the room turn towards them in curiosity. Harry felt his face begin to burn.

“Mr. Potter,” Rita began, “How nice to see you again. I realise that for the past year I haven’t
been able to interview you in an *official* capacity,” she shot Hermione a venomous glance,
“But as you can see, I’m back with the *Prophet*.”

“Wonderful,” said Harry sarcastically.

Rita smiled back at him like a crocodile. “I’m so glad we agree,” she said sweetly, motioning to
the photographer. “And to see you again with all your little friends…” she gave them a sweeping
glance and her smile became, if possible, even wider. “Did you see yesterday’s article? It got the
biggest response of the last few months…” She elbowed Ginny and Ron out of the way, and herded
Harry, Hermione and Neville closer together. Hermione was looking as if she was about to slap the
reporter, and as if she was mightily regretting that her restriction on Rita’s writing had only
lasted a year. Flashes went off as the photographer started taking pictures. Half-blinded, Harry
could only get brief images of what was happening a few feet away. He could hear from the noise
that people were again pointing and whispering, and he could catch glimpses of Ron’s face outside
the circle, his face carefully blank but with a mutinous set to his jaw. Harry could almost hear
his teeth grind.

“So you three, how does it feel to be back in the Ministry so soon after your battle here?”
asked Rita, clearly and loudly. Most of the room was now listening in, Harry realised, and he could
feel Hermione quivering in rage beside him.

“It wasn’t just us here,” said Harry trying to speak equally loudly.

“Of course, the Aurors arrived after you had disarmed most of the Death Eaters,” said Rita, even
louder. “We know about that, but the public wants to hear more about the three of you.”

“There were *six* of us,” said Harry through gritted teeth. Before he could explain
further, and try to give Ron, Ginny, and Luna Lovegood the credit they deserved, Rita again
interrupted him.

“Yes, yes,” she said dismissively. “So, Harry, how do you feel about the possible replacement of
Minister Fudge, after all he has said about you the past year?”

“The Minister wasn’t the only one spreading lies about Harry,” said Hermione savagely.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, dear,” said Rita, in a saccharine tone.

“You must be the only one that doesn’t,” said Neville, unexpectedly. “I’ve had enough of this.
My parents – *our* parents,” he said in clear tones that rang through the room, “are not up
for public consumption. Mind your own bloody business, will you?” And grabbing their arms, Neville
hauled them out of the spotlight and through the crowd to the other side of the room. Harry noticed
that Rita Skeeter seemed about at shocked as he was – so shocked, that she didn’t even try to
follow them.

“Neville,” he said, when he could catch his breath, “Neville, that was bloody brilliant!” It
struck Harry just how much his friend had changed since the night in the Ministry. There was a
confidence and calmness in him that Harry actually envied. In a way, he seemed almost easier to be
around at the moment than Ron or Hermione, what with the one’s tendency to jealousy and the other’s
grief.

“I’ll second that,” said a new voice. Susan Bones, her long heavy plait swinging behind her, had
moved up to them unexpectedly. She greeted them all and squeezed Hermione’s arm in silent sympathy.
Harry couldn’t help but stare at her. Five years at Hogwarts and he hardly knew her, but Hermione
had obviously made a good friend in her. Harry supposed it helped that they shared classes that he
never took. “I wouldn’t worry about Ms. Skeeter,” Susan continued. “I saw my auntie headed towards
her when she started in on you, and she didn’t look very happy. I don’t think she’ll be bothering
you again today, at least.”

“You sure about that?” said Harry. “It’s just we’ve had to deal with Rita Skeeter before, and
she doesn’t like taking no for an answer.”

Susan looked at him and smiled sweetly. “Even Rita isn’t likely to want to get on the wrong side
of the new Minister of Magic on her first day.” She giggled. “Well, technically she’s not the
Minister of Magic *yet*, and she might not even get it, but it’s a pretty big gamble to go up
against Auntie Amelia at the moment.” Her voice hardened slightly. “Your reporter friend can’t be
so foolish.”

Harry snorted with laughter. He wondered if Madam Bones had acted entirely without the prompting
of her niece. “Your mind works the same way as Hermione’s,” he said. He was pleased to see Ron and
Ginny push their way through the crowd towards them, and when Ron shot him a chagrined smile Harry
suddenly felt better than he had in a long time.

That sensation of well-being lasted even through to the afternoon. Wizards and witches, not
wanting to stand, had conjured themselves a range of seats, from armchairs to beanbags, to listen
in whilst apparently every single member of the Wizengamot gave their opinion, many of which, as
far as Harry was concerned, were derived from laws so ancient they should have been decently
forgotten by now. Ensconced comfortably in one of the squashy orange chairs that had been conjured
for them by Ministry of magic staff (lest they break the restriction on under-age magic), he was
more interested in watching the reactions of the audience than in listening to the long and tedious
speeches. Hermione, the Quick-Quotes-Quill scribbling busily in her lap, was almost entirely
focused on the speeches, whispering from time to time at Susan Bones, who seemed equally absorbed.
Harry didn’t know how they could stand it – it was almost like listening to Professor Binns in
History of Magic. Another subject he was happy not to have to take ever again…

The first excitement was over rather quickly, and Fudge was voted out by the Wizengamot with the
majority voting ‘no confidence’, although Harry noted that some of the pure-blood families looked
less than happy with the prospect. After that came the long round of speeches, and in Harry’s
corner of the room, boredom was growing. Ron had sneaked in a copy of the latest Chudley Cannons
magazine, and he and Ginny and Neville were chatting quietly and swapping Chocolate Frog cards in a
desultory fashion.

A round of applause broke through and Harry was surprised to see Dumbledore get up to speak. He
knew, of course, that Dumbledore was a member of the Wizengamot, and that as the (newly reinstated)
Chief Warlock he apparently had the responsibility of speaking last. Thankfully, as at Hogwarts,
Harry thought, he kept his speech short and to the point, firmly denying any possibility of his
taking the job and giving his full support to Madam Bones. When Dumbledore had finished speaking,
it was only a matter of minutes before his choice was confirmed by the rest of the Wizengamot in
public vote. Madam Bones was the new Minister of Magic.

Harry scanned the room quickly. Fudge had long since left in disgrace, but Rita Skeeter’s face
was definitely sour. Harry chuckled to himself.

There was a chaotic half hour as the meeting finished and people began to leave. Susan was
pulled away to pose for pictures with her aunt and the rest of her family, and Neville was shooed
away by his grandmother and a bent little wizard he had introduced as being his Uncle Algie. Mr.
and Mrs. Weasley began rounding them up, and Harry stopped to ask if they were going to see
Dumbledore before they left.

“I don’t think so, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley. “He had to go back to Hogwarts rather quickly, I’m
afraid. If it’s anything important then I can of course try to get hold of him at once. Everything
alright?”

“Fine, actually,” said Harry. “I was just wondering.” A part of him was even glad that he didn’t
have to see Dumbledore at present. It just seemed to raise too many complications that he didn’t
want to deal with. Stilted conversation with Lupin was bad enough, and the thought of the same with
Dumbledore was not comforting.

“Arthur! Arthur! Have you seen Hermione anywhere?” interrupted Mrs. Weasley in a worried
tone.

“It’s alright Mum,” said George, pointing, “She’s just over there with Professor
McGonagall.”

“I’ll get her,” said Harry, and darted through the crowd before Mrs. Weasley could pull him
back. It was obvious when he arrived that he had interrupted a conversation that neither of them
were anxious he should hear. Harry wasn’t sure which of them looked more annoyed, although
Professor McGonagall’s expression was mixed with sympathy (which was part of Hermione’s annoyance,
Harry was sure).

“We’ll continue this later, Miss Granger,” said McGonagall. “You’d best get back as soon as
possible.”

“Fine,” said Hermione in coolly, “But if you don’t help me, Professor, then I must tell you that
I plan to go ahead anyway.” And she turned and marched off, Harry trailing in her wake. “Oh, don’t
even ask,” she grumbled at his questioning look, as they rejoined the Weasleys. “Just tell me that
I can borrow Hedwig to send today’s transcript to Gringott’s and to the house-elves at
Hogwarts.”

“No problem,” said Harry, having learnt his lesson about keeping his mouth shut. It didn’t stop
him wondering though.



7. Chapter Seven
----------------

Chapter Seven.

As relieved as Harry was to have avoided Dumbledore at the Ministry of Magic, he could not do so
forever. Grimmauld Place remained the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, and Order members
were continually dropping in between assignments. Many of them actually had very little free time,
as Madame Bones had immediately started the implementation of thorough security and investigative
services, doing more in several days that Fudge had done in months, and with considerably less
fuss.

Dumbledore’s visit was unexpected. Harry found himself shaken awake in the early morning by Mrs.
Weasley, and had dressed silently as Ron’s snores echoed through the bedroom. Hustled down to the
kitchen, he greeted the Headmaster dimly, before having a plate piled high with sausages and eggs
placed before him by Mrs. Weasley. Blankly, Harry started to pick at it.

“Molly,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “Do you think you could leave Harry alone with me for a few
minutes? There are some things that we need to talk about.”

After she had left, with a none-too-happy expression on her face, Dumbledore pushed away his own
plate and, steepling his hands, leaned back in his chair and surveyed Harry, twinkling gently.
Harry stuffed a sausage into his mouth. He didn’t want to be rude, but he had very little
inclination to talk to Dumbledore. He simply didn’t know what to say, and he could feel the
beginnings of the old dull anger begin to rise in him at the sight of the calm face of his
Headmaster, who simply waited, with no apparent intention to begin conversation any time soon.

Harry gulped down the sausage. “What do you want?” he said finally, flatly, and was pleased to
see the twinkle flicker for a moment in Dumbledore’s eyes.

“I confess that, along with several other things, I wanted to see how you were,” said
Dumbledore. “I imagine that this summer has been rather difficult for you.”

*That’s an understatement*, thought Harry, unimpressed. “I’ve had better.”

“I expect that you have,” said Dumbledore, sighing heavily. “As has Miss Granger, no doubt. Has
she been well?”

“You want *me* to tell *you* about Hermione?” said Harry, annoyed. “Surely you know
better than I about what’s happened to her this summer.”

“It was not my place to tell you, Harry,” said Dumbledore firmly, but very kindly. “That
decision belonged to Miss Granger.”

“Fine. Then you can ask her yourself how she is,” said Harry. “It’s not my place to tell you
either.” He began on his eggs, wishing that he had thought to put socks on before coming down. The
kitchen was cold in the early morning, and his feet were turning numb.

Dumbledore took a piece of toast from the rack on the table and began to slather it with
marmalade. “Am I to take it, “he asked mildly, “that you are still angry with me; or is it that you
are angry with *everyone* at present?” Harry looked up from his own breakfast and saw
Dumbledore had fixed him with a penetrating gaze. He scowled and stabbed at another sausage. “I
see,” said the Headmaster. “And as understandable as your feelings are at present – I hold no small
amount of blame for them myself – it is imperative that you begin to control them, Harry. Are you
still practicing your Occlumency?”

Harry put down his fork with a sigh. “No,” he said honestly, in a dull tone. “Frankly I don’t
think I can concentrate on it at the moment. And before you ask, my scar hasn’t been playing up
much either. Oh, it prickles a lot but I’m used to that. That is what you want to know, right?” The
unspoken accusation that it was all anybody seemed to want to know hung between them, as unfair as
Harry knew it was.

“You need to begin with your Occlumency again,” said Dumbledore sternly. “Practice clearing your
mind every night before you go to bed, and again when you wake up in the morning. You *must*
learn control, Harry.”

“Fat chance of that while I’m living here,” said Harry gloomily.

“You and Remus aren’t getting on, I hear,” commented Dumbledore lightly. “I would suggest that
you try to remedy that before the start of term. I will be asking him to resume his post as Defence
Against the Dark Arts teacher. It wouldn’t be helpful for the rift between you to become apparent
to the other students…”

“Some people aren’t going to be happy that you’ve re-hired him.”

“True. But dissenting parents can, of course, remove their children from Hogwarts,” Dumbledore
smiled. Harry knew perfectly well that no parent was likely to do any such thing. Hogwarts had
gained a reputation as one of the safest places in the wizarding world; and they were unlikely to
remove their children while Dumbledore remained in power there. Harry mulled over this new change
in events rather resentfully, and his thoughts were disrupted when Dumbledore spoke again.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, Harry, but I confess to being rather curious.” The elderly
wizard leaned over the table, tucking his beard over his shoulder to avoid smearing it with jam.
Clear blue eyes regarded him intently. “The prophecy that I told you about at the end of last term.
Have you shared it with anybody?”

“No!” said Harry immediately. He began to feel rather sick. While at Privet Drive, he had never
been able to forget it; the thought of the prophecy had preyed on his mind like a cancer. Coming to
Grimmauld Place had given him new things to worry about, and while he had not entirely forgotten
it, it had become easier for him to ignore it, to hide it away in a small dark corner of his mind
and leave it there. He had begun to be aware that something about the prophecy was causing him a
strange sort of discomfort – something other than the obvious, that was. It was a nebulous sort of
instinct that he was desperate not to examine too closely. Harry had come to the conclusion that if
he didn’t start thinking about this new discomfort, then he wouldn’t have to deal with whatever it
turned out to be…

“It is a heavy burden to bear alone,” said Dumbledore carefully. “There is none that can lift it
from you, but I had wondered if it would ease you to share it with others…”

“Absolutely not,” Harry snapped.

“People will find out eventually,” Dumbledore ventured softly. “And there are those who would
wish to help you… you might even find it a relief to not have to keep this wholly a secret.”

“If you’re suggesting that I lay this on Ron and Hermione,” said Harry through gritted teeth.
“Then you can think again. Not now. They’ve got enough to deal with – especially Hermione. Besides,
it’s not as if they can do anything about it, is it?” Harry didn’t think that he could bear their
reactions. He began to understand how Hermione must have felt earlier in the summer – the knowledge
of Professor Trelawney’s prophecy was almost more than he could bear when he only had his own
reactions to it to contend with, let alone anybody else’s. “I don’t want them told,” he said
decisively. “Not anyone. Not unless it’s necessary or until I say so.” He pushed his plate away
from him. The sight of the food left on his plate was making him feel queasy. “If that’s all,
Headmaster?” he asked, formally.

Dumbledore sighed deeply. “That is all. But Harry? If you would be so kind as to send Professor
Lupin down to see me? I believe he is in one of the bedrooms. Molly told me she heard him making an
awful racket in one of them. There’s no hurry…” and he helped himself to another bit of toast, “…so
take your time. And if I can make one final suggestion this morning: you might want to have a bit
of a chat. Try to clear the air, as it were. There is more to Remus than I think you suspect. You
may find him… enlightening.”

Harry nodded abruptly and left the kitchen, feeling uncomfortable and oddly sad. It appeared
that lately he was supremely talented at alienating half the people he knew. Worse, he found it
difficult to bring himself to care. Since his arrival at Hogwarts, Harry had looked up to
Dumbledore as the ideal of what a wizard should be, and the recent realisation that his mentor
didn’t have all the answers made him feel like he was groping in the dark. He cursed to himself
silently, miserably. Why did life have to be so *hard*?

He found Lupin in one of the spare bedrooms, trying to wrench an old and extremely ugly light
fitting off the wall. He paused in the doorway for a few moments, unwilling to talk to his former
teacher but feeling strangely compelled to do so. Dumbledore had made it clear that he thought that
Harry would benefit from it, and while he was at present loathe to do anything that would give the
impression he was running off to follow instructions like a good little boy, he was not a fool. If
Dumbledore did indeed plan to have Lupin teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts this
year, then Harry was going to have to deal with him whether he liked it or not. Harry didn’t much
like it, not at all, but he was well aware that Lupin was the best Defence teacher that they had
ever had, and that he would be desperately needed by the students this year. He took a deep
breath.

“Why don’t you just blast it off?” he asked reluctantly.

Lupin froze for a moment and then turned towards him calmly. “Because that would leave a hole in
the plaster.” Noticing Harry’s puzzled expression, he added, “Oh, I could fix the hole easily
enough. But it makes me feel better having something to swear at.”

Harry smirked, although it was more because he felt it was an appropriate response than because
he was truly amused. “You’d better not let Mrs. Weasley hear you,” he said inanely. Lupin grunted
and turned back to the light. It really was rather horrid, Harry noted, extremely ancient and grimy
with nasty looking sharp bits sticking out of it. It looked more like something that could be
ripped off the wall and used to poke somebody’s eye out than a light fitting. He shifted
uncomfortably in the doorway, unsure how to start up a decent conversation, and grasped at the
first thing that came into his mind. He was reminded of it by Lupin’s attitude, as if redecorating
his new home was a particularly grim task that he would really rather not have had to
undertake.

“You really didn’t expect Sirius to leave you the house, did you?” said Harry, stumbling over
his godfather’s name. He wondered how long it would take before he could talk about him
naturally.

Lupin leaned his arms against the wall and lowered his head, stopping work for a moment. “No,”
he said heavily. Turning, he wiped his hands on his robe and sank to the floor. He patted the space
beside him, indicating that Harry should come and sit next to him. Harry wasn’t particularly happy
about it; it indicated the start of a conversation that was longer than he wanted to get involved
in, but he sat anyway, keeping an arm’s length between them. The floor was dusty and he traced
patterns on it with his finger. Lupin eyed him carefully. “It wasn’t that he didn’t love you, you
know. You mustn’t think that Sirius had forgotten about you, or that he didn’t consider your needs.
But-”

“It’s alright,” said Harry abruptly, and was a little surprised to find that he meant it. He had
spoken the truth at Gringott’s: he *didn’t* need any more money and he *wasn’t*
particularly taken with Grimmauld Place. In fact, he never could have seen himself wanting to make
it his home. It had only felt like home when Sirius was there, and now that he was gone it was just
a miserable, depressing place that more often than not gave him chills. “It’s alright, really it
is. But I don’t understand it. When Griphook read the will, you said… you said that Sirius had been
stupid and selfish. I don’t understand,” Harry repeated painfully.

Lupin winced. “I’m sorry. I should never have said that in front of you.”

Harry looked at him narrowly, lifting his eyes from the floor for the first time since sitting
down. “You shouldn’t have said it in front of me? That’s different from not saying it at all,” he
pointed out stiffly. At the silence from his companion, he continued resentfully. “Well? Spit it
out. You think Sirius was stupid and selfish. You must have a reason for it.”

Lupin heaved a sigh and when he spoke, it was very slowly. “Sirius was *not* stupid and
selfish. He could, however, do stupid and selfish things, things where he put his own interests in
front of the interests of others, even when he knew that he shouldn’t. Like with his will.” It was
Lupin’s turn to look at Harry narrowly. “Are you sure that you want to hear this, Harry?” he asked
soberly, kindly. “You will not like it, I fear.”

Harry stuck his chin out defiantly. “You promised not to keep things from me again. I don’t want
people doing that anymore,” he warned.

Lupin assessed him silently, and Harry met his eye determinedly. He could see his old professor
give the barest nod, as if confirming to himself his most private opinions. However, when he spoke,
it was on a subject so removed that Harry could find no link.

“How much do you know about the different Houses at Hogwarts?” Lupin asked.

Harry looked at him stupidly. “*What?*”

“The Houses,” Lupin repeated patiently. “How they were formed, how students are sorted, and the
qualities the Founders of each House looked for. It’s more relevant than you think. How much
thought have you given it?”

“Less than Hermione,” Harry admitted. “She knows more about this than I do. Um, the Founders
each had their own Houses, where they taught the kind of students they liked best. After a while
they made the Sorting Hat, which sorts all the students into one of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw,
Hufflepuff and Slytherin. It’s done so for centuries.”

“Go on,” prompted Lupin, when Harry paused. “What are the qualities that each House
possesses?”

“Well, Gryffindors are brave,” Harry recited, still puzzled as to where the conversation was
going and how it related to Sirius. Five years in the wizarding world, however, had taught him that
some subjects were best approached obliquely, and he was willing to go along. For now. “That is,
they prize bravery above all else. Ravenclaws are smart. Hufflepuffs are supposed to value hard
work. Oh, and fair play, I suppose. Slytherins are ambitious.” He petered off, not knowing how much
information Lupin was after. His former teacher was looking at him expectantly, and Harry shrugged
at him in confusion.

“That it?” is former teacher asked, and Harry could have sworn that there was disappointment in
his voice. It made him feel mulish and resentful, and he resumed stabbing at the dust on the floor
with his finger. Lupin sighed again. “Very well. How important are these qualities, do you think?
Is one House better than another? Or are some people better Gryffindors, for example, than other
members of their House?”

Now Harry was really confused. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to get at,” he said
grumpily. “I know I’d rather be in Gryffindor than Slytherin, if that’s what you want me to say.
That lot are all wrong.” He pondered a little about the second of Lupin’s questions. “I guess… I
guess some people in a House are better than others. Some Ravenclaws have got to be smarter than
others, for instance. And I think that Ron makes a better Gryffindor than Percy,” he said
stoutly.

“Why would you rather be in Gryffindor than Slytherin?” Lupin asked mildly, as if the question
was purely academic, and of no great importance.

Harry gaped at him. “You’re kidding, right? Would *you* have wanted to go into Slytherin?”
He snorted in disgust.

“What’s wrong with Slytherin?” Lupin remarked, in the same casual tone. He cocked his head on
one side and looked at Harry benignly. It made Harry nervous; he began to suspect that some sort of
trap was being laid for him, where whatever he answered would be wrong.

“They’re horrible people,” he said flatly. “Look at Malfoy. Look at *Snape*. They’re
ambitious; they’d do anything for power. All the witches and wizards who have gone bad have been
from Slytherin,” he continued, before remembering abruptly that such was not the case.

“Wormtail was not,” said Lupin tightly, “but we’ll come back to him. So it’s your opinion that
ambition is bad, is it?”

Harry felt around the question in his mind before he answered, probing carefully. “I think… I
think that it can be bad when it’s misused,” he answered slowly.

“Ah,” said Lupin, a smile beginning to form on his tired face. “Now you’re getting somewhere,
Harry. Ambition can be misused, it is true, but ambition is not itself wholly bad – it can have
positive affects as well. The desire to improve oneself, to fulfil one’s potential; now *that*
is a positive characteristic.”

“Slytherins aren’t like that though,” said Harry dismissively.

“Are they not?” said Lupin, arching his eyebrows. “Look at Professor Snape – yes, Harry,
*Snape*.” Harry had snorted disbelievingly and was shaking his head. “You don’t believe me?
You may not like him, Harry, and I can’t say that I entirely blame you for that, but look what he
has done with *his* ambition, *his* talent. I was with him at Hogwarts when we were your
age. You know, of course, that he was into the Dark Arts even then…” Harry nodded, remembering that
Sirius and Lupin had told him much the same thing once, after he had seen his father bullying Snape
in the Potion Master’s Pensieve.

“Well,” Lupin continued, “What you might not know is that he was equally as good at Potions.
Probably the best that Hogwarts has ever seen, I expect… You see, even then Gryffindor was sharing
Potion classes with Slytherin, and before the end of first year it was clear that Snape had a
rather extraordinary talent for it. By the end of third year, he was probably as capable as our own
Potions Master. But here’s the thing, Harry,” and Lupin bent towards him seriously, “he
*worked* at it, harder than anyone I’ve ever seen, before or since. He had a talent for making
Potions, just as you have a talent for playing Quidditch; but it wasn’t enough for him to just be
talented, he wanted to be the best. And he is,” Lupin concluded simply. “Remember the Wolfsbane
Potion? Do you remember I told you that there were very few people capable of concocting it? It’s
true – I could probably count on one hand the number of witches and wizards *in the world* who
can successfully brew it. Even Dumbledore has admitted that it’s beyond him, but then he was always
more interested in Transfiguration, I suppose,” finished Lupin fairly. “Is that sort of ambition so
unworthy of admiration?”

“I suppose not,” Harry admitted reluctantly. He also had to admit to himself that if it were,
then Hermione should also have been placed in Slytherin. She worked harder at her studies than
anyone he knew; as she worked on behalf of SPEW. Harry supposed that one could also be ambitious on
the behalf of others, although he didn’t want to let Snape off so lightly. “It doesn’t make him a
better person though, does it? I bet Dumbledore had to order him to make it for you. He wouldn’t
have done it on his own.”

“I must confess that you are right,” said Lupin with a grim smile. “Dumbledore *did* order
him to attempt it. Snape has never been a friend of mine, and no doubt would dearly love to leave
me to my own devices. But in all fairness, Harry,” he continued quietly, “Every month since I have
left Hogwarts a vial of Wolfsbane turns up on my doorstep. I no longer teach at Hogwarts, and thus
Dumbledore has no authority to make Snape continue to use school supplies on my account. Snape may
detest me, he may *loathe* me, and not without reason, but he does not forget me. There is
good in that, even so.”

Harry was silent, dumb-founded. “I don’t know what to say,” he said finally.

Lupin looked at him with what seemed like repressed amusement. “Yes, quite.”

“I still think Snape’s a bastard,” Harry blurted honestly. “And the rest of Slytherin isn’t much
better. One good deed isn’t going to change that.”

“Snape *is* a bastard,” Lupin allowed. “Certainly he is. But to get back to the rest of the
Slytherins… you told me that no witch or wizard had turned bad that wasn’t from Slytherin. That is
an unfounded legend. We ourselves know an exception to that case, and believe me, Harry they do
exist in all the Houses, excepting, strangely enough, Hufflepuff. It just seems that when times are
perilous, as is the case when Voldemort is involved, Slytherin House has a higher profile, and it
is often easier to blame all ills on them instead of looking at our own faults. All the Houses have
their defining quality, Harry, and all those qualities can be subverted.”

“No House is as unpleasant as the Slytherins, though,” said Harry stubbornly. “They’re the only
House that doesn’t have a single pleasant person in it. The rest of them aren’t like that.”

“Talked to them all, have you?” asked Lupin dryly. Harry flushed and looked away, and his former
teacher resumed. “All House qualities can be subverted, Harry. Never forget that. It may surprise
you to know, for example, that all three of the Unforgivable Curses were developed by
Ravenclaws.”

“What!” said Harry, amazed.

“It’s true. Ravenclaw tends to attract the best and the brightest minds, but those minds are
often so intoxicated by the gaining of knowledge that they may not stop to think about whether that
knowledge should indeed be gained. The Unforgivables started out as a purely academic exercise – it
was a challenge to see if they *could* even be developed in the first place. They were, of
course, which some would argue was somewhat short-sighted on the part of their inventors. The
Ravenclaws have brilliant minds, but that brilliance is capable of blinding them…”

“Hang on a minute,” interrupted Harry, “You were saying that some Ravenclaws had gone over to
Voldemort.”

“Most of those that do don’t get caught,” Lupin pointed out. “At least, not with any convincing
proof. They’re not clever for nothing, you know. Also, as quick as they are in theoreticals, there
are more who aren’t quite so clever when it comes to sorting out who is right and who is wrong.
Makes them more likely to cling to structure and tradition than some of the other Houses.” Harry
thought of Marietta Edgecombe, the Ravenclaw who had betrayed Dumbledore’s Army to Umbridge, and
Cho’s insistence that she was not a bad person, really, just misguided.

“The Hufflepuffs are a different kettle of fish,” continued Lupin. “Hufflepuffs prize fair play
and decency, but again that can be used against them. They can be persuaded to hear out people that
others would immediately discount as untrustworthy. You saw what they were capable of in your
second year, when many of them thought you were the Heir of Slytherin – although many in other
Houses did as well, or so I heard. It can make them gullible, although it must be said that they
don’t stay gullible forever. Once they trust you, they tend to trust you forever.” Harry couldn’t
help but remember Cedric Diggory…

“And then there’s Gryffindor,” Lupin concluded sternly. “Bravery can be a good thing, a noble
thing. But can you give me an example of how it can be misused, Harry?”

Harry didn’t have to reach far before he came to an example, and as he mumbled it he found
himself unable to look at his teacher. “Bravery can be recklessness,” he said, his voice shaking.
“It doesn’t let you stop and think. When I… when I went to the Ministry of Magic, thinking
Voldemort had Sirius trapped there, I was being reckless. Hermione told me so, she said it couldn’t
be true, but I…” Harry cleared his throat restlessly, feeling it tighten and prickle. “I didn’t
listen. I was sure I was right! I was *so sure*! And I dragged her, and Ron, and the rest into
danger, and all for nothing.” He hung his head, and swiped miserably at his eyes. He resented Lupin
for bringing it up again and making him feel even guiltier. “What’s this got to do with anything
anyway?” he lashed out.

“It matters, Harry,” said Lupin quietly, “It matters because the Sorting Hat does not
differentiate between true bravery and recklessness, just as it does not differentiate between the
other three qualities of the Founders. You’ve met Wormtail. Did he strike you as brave? Really
brave, I mean?”

“No,” Harry answered. “He betrayed his friends because he was scared. He was a whimpering,
pitiful little *coward*. He should never have been in Gryffindor.”

“But he wasn’t solely a coward, Harry. Wormtail was weak when it mattered, but he could be as
reckless as Sirius or your father. He didn’t baulk at becoming an Animagus, nor did he worry about
midnight runs with a werewolf, although all of us certainly knew that it was a foolish, foolish
thing to do. And the other thing about recklessness as opposed to true bravery, Harry, is that it
can be used *against other people*. You saw the way that we behaved towards Snape. There was
no excuse for it – I might not have taken part, but I didn’t stop it. You can be the worst sort of
bully and think yourself brave, because… because you can look at people who you think are less than
you are and think that their bravery is also less.” Lupin’s voice had become very quiet, and very
sad.

“You asked why I said that Sirius had been stupid and selfish. In… in the First War, when your
parents realised that they were in danger, Dumbledore suggested the Fidelius Charm, and... well.
You know the story. It was a terrible time, we knew that there was a traitor in our group, but we
didn’t know who.” Lupin’s voice was very distant, and Harry listened in growing fascination. “None
of us suspected Wormtail, not really. James would never have endangered you or your mother. So that
left Sirius and me as the prime suspects. I admit, I thought it was him, and I tried to persuade
your father. I knew that it was a mistake as soon as I had done it. He never would have believed
that Sirius would betray him, and my trying to implicate him just made me look guilty. So the two
of them had a choice: would they trust me, or Wormtail? And… you have to understand, Harry.
Voldemort may have hated all non-humans and part-humans, but then, just as now, he was willing to
use them to accomplish his goals. And many of them, tired of being treated badly, of being despised
by the wizarding world, allowed themselves to be used. Distrust was growing ever stronger against
us. There were only a handful of people who knew that I was a werewolf, and of course two of them
were Sirius and James. I don’t believe that that would have been enough for them to turn against
me, not on its own, but I had implicated Sirius, and so… they trusted Wormtail over me. It is… it
is hard to believe that what I am never played a part in that decision.”

Harry felt suddenly, immensely sorry for him. “Crazy. That was crazy. I’ve *seen* Wormtail!
How could anyone have trusted him over you?”

Lupin smiled sadly to himself. “They looked at him and they did not think to distinguish between
recklessness and true bravery, as you have begun to do. Your mother disagreed with them – that I am
sure of, Sirius told me so himself - but James told her that he and Sirius knew me better than she
did. But Harry, I want you to understand. The world then was a much darker place than it is even
now. Difficult choices had to be made, and James and Sirius did the best they could. Never doubt
that.”

“That’s why Sirius left you his house,” said Harry flatly, certainly. “He felt
*guilty*.”

Lupin nodded miserably. “There was no need. I forgave him long ago. The house should have been
left to you, you needed a proper home and you’re not even of age. And Sirius didn’t do what he
should have by you because of that guilt. If it was absolution he wanted, it was a selfish way of
going about it. He should have known better.”

“I shouldn’t have stopped the two of you from killing him,” said Harry unhappily. “Wormtail, I
mean.”

“You were braver than I that day,” admitted Lupin, “and I am forever grateful that you
*did* stop us. It would have been a terrible crime, killing a defenceless man purely out of
vengeance. It doesn’t matter what he did.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. He felt terribly ashamed of his father and of Sirius and of
himself. Lupin’s strong hands reached over and gripped his shoulders, and he found himself being
shaken roughly.

“I don’t want you to feel sorry,” said the werewolf sternly. “I want you to *understand*.
There is no bravery in recklessness. There is no bravery in vengeance, or in tormenting something
because it is weaker than you or because it is different. *That* is why Kreacher is staying in
this house, Harry, and *that* is why you *will* learn to tolerate him. I will not forget
those lessons again, and for the sake of your parents I will make sure, if it is the only thing of
worth I do in this life, that you do not forget them either. *Do you understand?*” And his
voice was terrible, more terrible and more certain than Harry had ever heard it. He nodded, and
tears ran down his face.

“I understand.”

Lupin’s grip on his shoulders loosened. “Good.” He looked very tired, and his eyes were older
than they should have been. Harry was suddenly deeply, profoundly grateful to him, to possibly the
one adult in his life that didn’t treat him like a child. He did not enjoy the lesson, and it was
unlikely that he ever would, but he wished that there was some way that he could let his teacher
know that he was grateful for it regardless – and then he realised that there was.

“Professor,” he said quietly. “Dumbledore’s in the kitchen. He wants to speak with you.” Lupin
nodded silently, and moved wearily towards the door. “Professor?”

Lupin turned. “Yes, Harry?”

“Tell Dumbledore… tell him I said for you to ask about the prophecy.” Lupin stared at him
closely for a moment, then nodded and left. Harry breathed a sigh. He thought that it was of
relief.

HaH



8. Chapter Eight
----------------

Chapter Eight.

Up until the beginning of term, life in Grimmauld Place had settled into a brief period of
normality, punctuated with reminders of the gathering storm. Harry tried his best to keep things
between himself and his friends on a more even keel, although it didn’t always work. Ron was
determinedly cheerful, but Hermione’s moods seemed to change with the wind. Both Ron and Harry were
worried about her, but couldn’t seem to find a way to get through to her, although Harry had to
admit to himself that they didn’t try very hard, fearful of the consequences. For the most part,
Hermione was best when distracted, either by the enormous library or by Lupin’s frantic
redecorating.

Harry knew that his teacher had been utterly horrified by the revelation of the prophecy; but
was hamstrung by the fact that Harry, underage and out of school, was unable to practice any
practical form of defence. Instead, Lupin had found him some textbooks that, like Hermione’s,
focussed upon the theoretical side of magic, in the hope that it would give him a head start on the
school year. Harry was glad of the distraction, and buried himself in them as much for the
information they contained as to avoid talking over the prophecy with his teacher. Recognising his
reluctance, Lupin had channelled his dismay and anger into making Grimmauld Place a more pleasant
house to live in; and he set about his task with a single-minded intensity that betrayed to Harry
just how frustrated he really was.

Mrs. Weasley, concerned with the amount of time the teenagers were spending in the library
(“Children like you need exercise! It won’t hurt you to work a bit…”) regularly routed them out and
put them to work cleaning and sanding in preparation for fresh paint. This suited Harry fine – the
combination of work and study made it easier for him to forget both Sirius and the prophecy.
Occasionally he was reminded of both, when from time to time he would stumble across Kreacher
skulking through the corners of the house. Lupin was always polite to the house-elf, although the
strain on him to be so was obvious. Harry could not match it, and at the sight of the creature
would abruptly leave the room before he could say or do anything either of them would regret. He
found it terribly hard, but was determined to control himself. Oddly enough, Kreacher seemed to
respond best – if one could call it that – to Tonks, who popped in and out with paint and curtain
samples whenever she could take time away from her job. Harry expected that it was because she was
the only member of the Black family in the house, and was thus the one Kreacher was most disposed
to tolerate. Two days after hearing the prophecy from Dumbledore, Lupin, in a fit of frustration,
had blasted a cannon-ball sized hole straight through the portrait of Mrs. Black. It had been
enough to dislodge the sticking charm, and though plaster seemed to drift everywhere for days,
including into the food, even Ron wasn’t about to complain.

“It’s worth it to get rid of that old horror,” he had said with satisfaction, dusting off an
apple. “They should have tried it years ago…”

*

The morning of the first of September was howling and miserable, and Harry was glad that the
Ministry of Magic, under the auspices of Madam Bones, had provided them with Ministry cars,
complete with Auror escorts. Unwilling to have them turn up on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place,
Lupin had flooed everyone through to the Ministry itself before herding them hurriedly into the
cars. There hadn’t been any attacks since Harry had left the Dursley’s, but no-one was taking any
chances. It was the same on platform nine and three-quarters, with Aurors and other Ministry
officials supervising the transfer of students onto the Hogwarts Express.

Harry found it rather creepy. The platform was usually buzzing with activity, but now, as in
Diagon Alley, students and their families were going about their business quietly, with grim and
tearful expressions. Lupin hustled them onto the train and into a carriage. For once, they were
there early, and found an empty carriage almost immediately.

“You three should get to the Prefect’s carriage,” said Lupin to Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, who
had recently received her Prefect’s badge (much to the delight of her mother). “Come straight back
here after you’re done. There won’t be much for you to do on this trip; Madam Bones has ordered
that the Aurors accompany the train to Hogwarts. Just as a precaution,” he added in worried tone.
He helped them stow their luggage on the overhead racks and under the seats, and shut the door
firmly behind them. Harry felt a pang of isolation as his friends left but ignored it.

“You don’t have to baby-sit me, you know,” he said mildly to Lupin. “If they need you to help
somewhere else, I mean. I’m not about to drop dead as we speak.”

Lupin blanched. “Don’t even joke about it,” he said hoarsely. “But yes, the protection on this
train is about as tight as it can be at the moment. No-one was about to let all the students set
off on their own, not under the circumstances. But I don’t fancy leaving you here by yourself, not
until the others get back. It’s not a case of protection, you understand,” he added hurriedly. “I’d
just feel better if you had some company, that’s all.”

“I’m fine,” said Harry. “Really.”

Lupin eyed him carefully. “You’ve been very quiet this summer…”

“What is there to say?” Harry asked him flatly. “I don’t want to talk about you-know-what,” he
said, lowering his voice even more, “and I can’t talk about Sirius. Not really. Not anywhere
Hermione can hear me – you’ve seen what she’s been like this summer! I’d just make her feel worse…”
he finished glumly.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Lupin.

“No? It makes *me* feel worse talking about him to her. I can’t help but think that her
grief must be worse than mine,” said Harry fairly. “After all, I only knew Sirius for a short time,
really. It’s not like I knew him my whole life…”

“That does not make your loss less,” said Lupin. “Time, amonst other circumstances, does not
always accurately reflect the effect another person can have on your life.”

Harry shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I do. You’ve seen it yourself.” At Harry’s expression of disbelief, Lupin continued. “Look at
Ron and Hermione. You’ve only known them since you started coming to Hogwarts. By your logic, you’d
be more upset if something happened to your cousin Dudley that if it did to one of them.”

Harry made a face. “I suppose you’re right. Still, I don’t want to talk to them about it.
Especially Hermione. I’d feel like I was… intruding, somehow.”

There was a rap on the glass of the carriage door. Looking up, Harry could see Neville
Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, and Susan Bones squashed into the narrow corridor outside. “Speaking of
interruptions,” said Lupin dryly. “We will continue this later, I think. I should be outside,
helping.” He opened the door and let himself out, while the other three pushed into the car. Susan
Bones was wet through.

“This weather is absolutely appalling,” she said, turning her wand on herself and activating a
drying charm. “I got a ride here with Ernie MacMillan and his parents – Ernie’s in the prefect’s
car now, I think – and as soon as we got out of the car it just started pouring down.” She gave the
other two a sour look. “You must have just missed it.”

“We can always go back out,” said Luna dreamily. “I like rain.”

“Er, probably not a good idea,” said Harry. “Things are a bit frantic out there at the moment.”
He cast about for a topic to distract her. “How was your summer, anyway? Did you get to
Sweden?”

“Oh, yes,” said Luna, settling by the window. “We saw lots of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, too. But
they’re shy, you know. Don’t much like having their pictures taken. We could only get some from a
distance, look.” And she passed over a copy of the *Quibbler*, which was liberally illustrated
with what looked to Harry like very blurry woolly socks. They could have been anything, and he
could almost hear Hermione scoff.

“It looks really interesting,” he said politely.

“You don’t like having your photo taken either, I expect,” Luna went on. “They had pictures of
you in the *Swedish Seer* – I think they got them from the *Daily Prophet*. You were in
them too,” she said, turning to Neville. She cocked her head to taken them both in at once. “You
didn’t look very happy. Was the photographer not nice?”

“We didn’t really notice,” said Neville. Luna was looking at him strangely, and it seemed to
fluster him. “Er… how come you’re not in the Prefect’s car as well? I would have thought…”

“Oh, I’m not really Prefect material,” said Luna idly. Harry noticed that she had discarded her
necklace of Butterbeer corks in favour of a troll with violently coloured spiky hair that hung from
a chain around her neck. “Oh, you’ve seen Boris, have you?” she said, noticing Harry staring at it.
“I found him in a little shop outside an old burial ground. Dad said it was just tourist rubbish
and what I needed was a good solid set of rune stones, but I ignored him.” She stared at the figure
in satisfaction.

“I’m beginning to wonder about runes myself,” said Susan darkly. “I got an ‘O’ in my Ancient
Runes OWL, even though I made a mistranslation.” She scowled slightly to herself. “They both just
looked the same! Oh well, I think you’re probably better off with Boris anyway.”

Harry just shook his head silently in amazement. Of all the strange conversation he had ever had
on the Hogwarts Express, this was turning out to be the strangest.

*

Ron, Hermione and Ginny came back from the Prefect’s meeting with big smiles on their faces.

“Harry, guess what?” said Hermione, beaming in satisfaction. “Slytherin’s got new Prefects!
Malfoy and that absolute *cow* Pansy Parkinson have had their badges taken away!”

“You’re kidding?”

“Nope,” said Ron, smirking. “I can’t wait to see his face, for once.”

“Someone said he was down the back of the train. Probably hiding,” said Ginny scornfully. She
dug out a pack of exploding snap cards from her suitcase. “Anyone want to play?”

“So who’s replacing them?” Harry asked. “Course, after Malfoy, anyone’s an improvement.” Ron
snorted disbelievingly.

“Don’t you believe it. They’re all as bad as each other.”

“Really, Ron,” said Hermione, unlatching Crookshank’s cage and lifting the furry ginger cat into
her lap “I’m sure that’s not true. It’s Blaise Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode,” she added, making a
face.

“And Millicent Bulstrode’s not as bad?” said Ron. Harry got the impression that this was an
argument that had been going on since they had left the Prefect’s carriage.

“Well, they needed another girl, didn’t they? And Millicent’s really the only other sixth year
choice. I don’t like it any more than you do,” said Hermione resignedly.

“Never seen a girl who looked less like a girl than Bulstrode,” muttered Ron to himself, but
quiet enough so that only Harry could hear him. They shared a quick grin.

The morning passed happily, with giggles and shrieks and small explosions. Harry had settled
down with his copy of *Quidditch Through the Ages*, and was reading contentedly when the door
to their carriage swung open, revealing a pair of Aurors. Harry remembered being told that they
worked in pairs.

“Hi kids,” said the first, “everything alright in here?”

“Fine, thanks,” said Harry. “Is something wrong?” The noise in the carriage had stopped
abruptly, and Neville dropped his cards in worry.

“No, it’s fine,” said the Auror easily. “We’ve just been told to check in on everyone from time
to time.” He winked at Susan Bones. “Your auntie’s a slave driver, lass.” He closed the door and
two sets of footsteps could be heard wandering down the corridor.

“Do you think everything *is* alright?” said Ginny apprehensively.

“I should think so,” said Susan thoughtfully. “I heard my auntie talking to Mum and Dad last
night. The Ministry’s had the Aurors practicing for today for the past week. There’s also a sort of
panic button, I think, so that they can call for reinforcements if they need to.” She smiled at
Ginny reassuringly. “We’re probably as safe as anyone at the moment.”

Harry nodded, as did everyone else except for Ron, who was staring wistfully in the direction
that the Aurors had gone. Slowly, he turned to Neville. “So I suppose you’ll be taking Potions with
Harry and Hermione this year.” The words came out a trifle painfully, but as if Ron was determined
to be pleasant about it.

Neville’s round, open face gaped back at him. “No fear!” he said. “Why on earth would I want to
do that? I *hate* Potions! I wouldn’t spend another year with Snape if you paid me,” he
continued stoutly.

“But I thought you got an ‘O’ on your OWL…” Ron said in confusion.

“So? Doesn’t mean I want to keep going in it. It’s just… people spent all last year telling me I
just needed more confidence. So I thought to myself, right, the least that I could do was to try
and finish on good terms. Besides,” Neville reflected, picking up his exploding snap cards and
sorting them gingerly, “the exams were actually alright. It’s a lot easier when Snape isn’t
standing over you expecting you to fail.” He shuddered to himself.

Ron looked as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and as if he was finding it hard to
contain himself. “But don’t you want to be an Auror?” he burst out suddenly. “After last term? I
mean, what about… with your…” he trailed off in embarrassment as Neville stared very hard at his
cards, a troubled expression on his face.

“If you’re talking about my parents,” he said in a small voice, “I don’t want the rest of my
life being defined by what happened to them. I don’t *want* to be an Auror. I don’t
*want* to take Potions. I only really like Herbology,” he finished sadly.

Ron was scarlet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“Really, Ron,” Hermione chimed in scathingly. “Not everyone wants to be an Auror, you know. I
don’t much myself.” Harry wasn’t sure which out of the three of them looked more distressed.

“No, I don’t suppose they do,” said Ron flatly, and his effort to shut his mouth was plainly
visible. “I think… I think I’ll go patrol the corridors for a bit,” he said unnecessarily, looking
as if he couldn’t get out of the carriage fast enough. There was an awkward pause after he left,
then everyone turned slowly back to what they were doing. Harry pretended to concentrate on his
Quidditch book, though he wasn’t really taking anything in.

“He’s trying, you know,” said Ginny next to him, quietly. “It’s just you can take Potions even
though you didn’t get the marks for it. Neville *did* get the marks and he doesn’t even want
to. And Hermione… she’s taking it too, but not to be an Auror. I think he thinks it’s just a little
unfair. But he’s trying.”

“I know,” said Harry wearily, but just as quietly. “Thanks.”

“He’ll find something else,” said Ginny bracingly, although her eyes betrayed her worry.

“Course he will.”

*

It was early evening when the Hogwarts Express arrived at its destination. Hauling his luggage
out of the train, Harry squelched through the dark and the rain to the waiting carriages,
shuddering anew at the sight of the ghostly Thestrals. Getting into the carriage, he was surprised
to see Hermione outside in the rain, staring at the place where the creatures were. He and Ron
shouted to get her attention (“Barmy,” said Ron worriedly, shaking his head, “She’ll get soaked”),
and she clambered in after them.

“I don’t see them,” she said shakily. “I thought I would but I don’t…”

It was a relief to leave the dark, jolting carriages and run into the warmth of the Hogwarts
Entrance Hall. Students began to move into the Great Hall, skidding as they went, and Harry, Ron,
and Hermione were about to join them when Professor McGonagall appeared.

“Potter. Miss Granger. I’d like to see the both of you in my office immediately, please. Gone on
Mr. Weasley,” she said, fixing Ron with a beady stare. “I won’t keep them for long.” Harry shrugged
at his friend in confusion and hurried up the stairs after Hermione and the Professor.

Professor McGonagall hustled them into her office. A large barn owl was scratching on her desk,
and as she scowled at it another burst out of the fireplace, feathers ruffled from the weather.
Both had letters bound to their legs, and McGonagall swept them both to one side angrily.

“Not again!” she snapped. “I’ve spent the past few days dealing with owl after owl; then I turn
my back for a minute and more turn up! You’d think by now that people would have the sense to leave
well enough alone…”

“Is something wrong, Professor?” said Hermione nervously.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” said their teacher severely; then softened slightly at the
taken-aback expressions on Harry and Hermione’s faces. “Some of the parents have a… difference of
opinion with regard to Professor Lupin, I’m afraid. That is all.” She gestured towards them
irritably. “Sit, sit. We don’t have all day.” They sat uncomfortably in hard-backed chairs. Harry
felt his stomach grumble, and wished he was in the light and warmth of the Great Hall. He looked up
to see McGonagall eyeing them both beadily, a reluctant expression on her face.

“The Headmaster and I have devoted considerable thought to the pair of you over the summer,” she
said. “I can’t say that I agree with everything that he – and you – have put forward,” and her gaze
flicked to Hermione, “but Professor Dumbledore is of the opinion that it is better to channel your
abilities than to leave you to your own devices.” She looked disapproving, and to his left Harry
felt Hermione lean forward a little in excitement. “Nevertheless,” McGonagall continued, “there are
conditions. Potter!”

“Yes, Professor?” said Harry.

“I believe that you were informed of there being conditions attached to your further study of
Potions.” It was not really a question, and Harry remembered quite well the letter he had got from
McGonagall that had been included with his OWL results. He nodded.

“Very well. I must tell you, Potter, that Professor Snape is not entirely happy about your
inclusion in his classes.” That was of no surprise to Harry. The enmity between himself and the
Potions Master had been complete since he had first walked into the dungeon where the subject was
taught. Harry had no doubt that Snape would do everything possible to make him wish he had never
chosen to undertake Potions in the first place. McGonagall leaned back in her chair, eyeing him
severely and, Harry felt, sizing him up. “He insists – and I support him in this – that you
maintain the same standard as every other student in his class. Your position will be reviewed at
the end of the school year. If you cannot keep up, then you will not be permitted to continue to
seventh year and take the NEWT exam. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Professor,” said Harry obediently. He hadn’t expected anything else, and was suddenly
grateful that Hermione would be in the class to help him.

“You will also continue your Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape,” McGonagall went on.

“What?” said Harry, dumbfounded. “You’ve got to be kidding…” His teacher’s glare silenced him
and he sat back mutinously. Beside him, Hermione cleared her throat.

“Excuse me, Professor, but is that really such a good idea? Is there no-one else who could teach
him? Perhaps Professor Dumbledore…”

“Professor Dumbledore has a good deal else to do with his time,” said McGonagall curtly. She
turned to Harry. “It is his wish that you continue to work with Professor Snape.” She looked as if
she didn’t much agree with it herself, but went on regardless. “Of course, if you feel it is beyond
you, Potter, you may of course decline. We cannot force you to work with him.” Beside Harry,
Hermione gasped quietly and clutched at his arm, but Harry didn’t need her warning. He could figure
out himself what McGonagall was saying: if he couldn’t work at Occlumency with Snape, then his
opportunity to study Potions would also be taken away.

“I understand,” he said through gritted teeth. “It won’t be a problem.” He felt Hermione’s grip
loosen on his arm, and fervently hoped that he was telling the truth. He supposed that this was
Dumbledore’s way of making sure he learned to control his temper; by working with a teacher whom he
loathed and who loathed him. Unhappily, he remembered that if he had managed to do that last term,
then Voldemort couldn’t have broken into his mind, making him think that Sirius was in danger,
being held and tortured at the Ministry of Magic.

McGonagall relaxed minutely. “Good,” she said. “You’ll be taking extra lessons in Occlumency
twice a week. Check your timetable tomorrow for the details. Professor Lupin has also expressed a
desire to schedule some time with you weekly for advanced lessons in Defence. I trust that is
acceptable to you?”

Harry nodded quickly. Lupin had been the best Defence teacher he had ever had, and Harry knew he
needed all the help he could get if he was to have any chance at all of defeating Voldemort – even
if he didn’t exactly know how he was going to achieve that. He also knew that the revelation of the
prophecy had horrified Lupin, and that throwing himself into extra training was one way his teacher
had determined to aid him.

McGonagall peered at him closely. “I hardly need tell you that you will be having a rather busy
time of it, Potter,” she said. “I would remind you, however, that I nevertheless expect Gryffindor
to retain possession of the Quidditch Cup this year.” She drew out a long object from behind her
desk.

“My Firebolt!” said Harry, excitedly. He cradled it to him, marvelling at the feel of it. It
looked as perfect as it ever had. Next to him, Hermione rolled her eyes, but he ignored her. Harry
had long since given up expecting Hermione to share his love of flying and Quidditch – she was
happier on the ground, and had funny ideas about the inter-House rivalry that the yearly tournament
encouraged..

“As for you, Miss Granger,” his teacher’s voice snapped out, “I have been most… concerned by
your intentions this summer. I realise that they have stemmed from a truly tragic occasion, but I
must tell you that I thought long and hard before deciding to agree to your request.”

Hermione squeaked in her seat, face shining. Harry thought she looked happier then than she had
all summer, but the moment faded as she became aware of his scrutiny. “Professor,” she began,
glancing between them worriedly and biting her lip.

”There are conditions for you as well, Miss Granger,” McGonagall continued, over-riding her.
“Professor Dumbledore is rather unhappy at the idea of the pair of you undertaking secret classes
without another student to confide in. Your classes *will* be secret,” she said, taking in
them both. “Potter, I believe the phrase ‘remedial Potions’ is not unfamiliar to you?” Harry nodded
dismally, remembering how last year his Occlumency lessons had had to be explained to the other
students. “Miss Granger, your lessons, if you choose to go ahead with them, will be held twice a
week and explained as advanced Transfiguration. No doubt the thought of you taking extra-credit
classes will not be thought of as remarkable.” Stifling a laugh, Harry silently agreed with her.
Hermione was notorious for her obsessive study habits, and no student in Hogwarts would think twice
about her cramming in extra work. “You may discuss your classes with each other,” McGonagall
continued, “But I do *not* want to hear of details being spread to the rest of the students.
*Is that clear?*” she snapped.

Harry and Hermione nodded hastily.

“Good.” McGonagall folded her arms and peered down her nose at Hermione. “That just leaves
*your* workload to discuss, Miss Granger. Most of the sixth year students have confined
themselves to taking six subjects.” She shuffled through some of the papers on her desk. “I
believed that you have signed up for ten.” *Typical*, thought Harry in amusement. “Considering
the extra workload that you will be getting from me,” McGonagall rapped out, “that is not
acceptable. I will not have you overworking yourself in this manner. A lack of concentration could
prove to be very dangerous. I must insist that you resign from two of your classes if we are to go
ahead.”

Harry’s head swivelled towards Hermione in amazement. Her mouth opened in protest, but before
anything could come out their teacher had pounced on her.

“This is not up for discussion. Mr. Potter had to accept restrictions on his study this year and
you will have to do the same.” She fished up a piece of paper that looked similar to the course
selection form that Harry had filled out earlier in the summer. “According to this, you signed up
for Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Astronomy, Charms, Care of Magical Creatures, Defence Against the
Dark Arts, Herbology, History of Magic, Potions, and Transfiguration.” McGonagall turned beady eyes
towards Hermione, who was poised resentfully on the edge of her chair. “If you really wish to
continue with your elective this year, you will resign from two of these classes and you will do it
now, Miss Granger. Which are they to be?”

Hermione gaped like a fish, and began to stutter protests, but their Head of House was
implacable. Harry watched her in a mixture of surprise and amusement. He had no idea what was going
on, and while he meant to find out, the thought of Hermione forced to *drop* classes was an
absolute novelty. Personally, Harry couldn’t see what the problem was. He leaned towards her. “Come
on Hermione. It can’t be that hard. What about Arithmancy? Your homework for that always looks
*horrible*.”

“But I *love* Arithmancy,” Hermione whimpered, wringing her hands. She shot pitiful looks
at her teacher but McGonagall, Harry noticed, wasn’t buying it, and sat behind her desk
stony-faced.

Harry tried again. “History of Magic, then? You can’t seriously want to spend another year with
Binns…”

“That’s *Professor* Binns, Potter.”

“Right. Er… Sorry.”

Hermione looked scandalised. “But I can’t drop History of Magic! It’s a really important
subject!” She looked close to panic, and Harry patted her awkwardly on the back. A part of him
couldn’t help but think that if only she was more interested in Quidditch, she wouldn’t get so
upset about her school-work.

“I don’t have all night, Miss Granger,” McGonagall commented, and Harry could have sworn there
was a twinge of sympathy in her voice. “Of course, if you wish to take all ten subjects, you can
always reconsider-”

“No! No!” cried Hermione shrilly. “It’s alright! I’ll… I’ll…” She dropped her head dejectedly.
“Fine. I’ll drop Astronomy and Care of Magical Creatures.”

“Hermione!” cried Harry in amazement. “You can’t be serious! What about Hagrid?”

Hermione moaned softly, and bent over, her face hidden behind her hands. When she spoke, her
voice was muffled and tearful. “Hagrid will understand,” she said. “It’s not as if I was planning
to go into dragon-rearing or anything.”

“I can’t *believe* you’re choosing Binns – sorry, Professor Binns – over Hagrid,” said
Harry blankly. He knew that Hermione had never been totally impressed with Hagrid’s teaching, but
he had never thought she would quit his classes.

“I think it’s a very sensible solution,” said Professor McGonagall firmly. “It’s nothing against
Hagrid, Potter,” she said, catching sight of his face, “but History of Magic is more important than
you give it credit for. I must say, I’m quite impressed with your decision, Miss Granger.” She
scratched on the course sheet with a quill, and Hermione whimpered pathetically. “Well then, that
should be everything. Drop your broom off in your dormitory, Potter, then the two of you should get
down to the feast.” Hermione stayed slumped in her chair, and Harry waited beside her, willing her
to move. McGonagall glared sharply at them. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

“Er… nothing, Professor,” said Harry hurriedly, and grabbing his broomstick in one hand and
Hermione’s arm in the other, he propelled her out of the room, Hermione walking as if she was in a
daze. As they left, Harry heard what sounded like a soft feathery *whump* against glass.

“Not another owl!” McGonagall cried behind him, in disgust.

*

The trip up to Gryffindor Tower was painfully slow. Hermione was wandering in a daze, and Harry
had to keep directing her through the long corridors and many staircases. When they reached the
portrait of the Fat Lady, he had to shake her to get her attention.

“Oh,” said Hermione faintly, looking about her as if she didn’t know quite how she had gotten
there. “Crumpets.” The portrait swung open, the Fat Lady harrumphing at the delay, and Harry shoved
her through the hole and into the common room. The chamber was bright and cosy, and Hermione
collapsed into one of the old squashy armchairs that sat before the fire. Harry dashed up the
winding staircase to his dormitory and propped his Firebolt carefully against his bed.

He jogged back down to the common room and found Hermione staring blankly at the fire. Harry
sighed to himself. It had been a long day and he was starving, but he couldn’t very well leave her
there while he went down to the Great Hall.

“It’s not that bad, you know,” he said. “Think of all the time you’ll have to practice advanced
Transfiguration….” It wouldn’t have thrilled him, but he remembered that Hermione had spent much of
the summer poring over Transfiguration texts in the library. “What exactly *does* McGonagall
mean by that anyway?” He prodded her in the shoulder. “Hermione? Snap out of it, will you?”

She glared at him in irritation, batting his hands away. “Stop that!” Knowing how uncertain her
temper had been since her parents’ death, Harry moved over to the rug in front of the fire and
settled down to wait. His stomach grumbled again, and he thought wistfully of the feast beneath
him. It should go on for a while yet, there was the Sorting to get through and everything. He might
not miss it all… Perhaps Ron would think to bring something up? Harry snorted to himself. That was
unlikely. Still, he knew the way to the kitchens now, and he could always count on Dobby to find
him something to eat. He glared at Hermione pointedly.

“What?” she said, a trifle grumpily.

“I’m fed up with people keeping stuff from me,” Harry repeated for what felt like the hundredth
time that summer. Guiltily, he remembered that he himself was keeping secrets from his best
friends, but shoved the thought of the prophecy to the back of his mind. It wasn’t something he
wanted to think about.

“Who says that it’s anything you should know?” snapped Hermione. At least, Harry thought, she
seemed to have recovered her equilibrium, even if she had gone back to being horribly grouchy. He
breathed in deeply – after all, she had put up with *his* behaviour for the whole of the past
year.

“Dumbledore,” he countered. “You heard Professor McGonagall.”

Hermione swelled ominously. “I’m sure she didn’t mean… oh *fine*,” she finished in
exasperated voice, and then seemed to deflate slightly. “Sorry,” she offered, in a slightly
friendlier tone. “I’ve been thinking this summer about… well, about a lot of things. One of those
things was that I decided to want to learn how to become an Animagus.” She smiled a little at the
look of shock on Harry’s face. “I’ve been trying to persuade Professor McGonagall all summer. I
didn’t really think she’d agree,” she finished absently.

“But…but why?” said Harry, in amazement.

“Think about it, Harry,” she said, leaning forward in the armchair. “We know what a useful skill
it is. Look at McGonagall and Sirius!” She snorted. “Look at Rita Skeeter and Wormtail, for that
matter. It’s *useful*. You never know when these things are going to come in handy. So I
thought that one of us should learn it and… well, I’m sorry Harry, but you and Ron have never been
that good at Transfiguration. I am. It makes sense, really.”

Harry hesitated for a moment. “Okay. Assuming you can do it – and of course you can,” he said
hastily, seeing Hermione’s face darken at his words, “what would you use it *for*?” He was
careful to keep his voice very neutral, but Harry got the impression that he wouldn’t like her
answer. Not one bit.

“I would have thought that was obvious,” said Hermione coolly. “Once I can change into something
else it will be easy for me to get close to Voldemort, get information from him that will help to
stop him.”

“You must be joking,” said Harry loudly, his voice shaking in anger. “Have you completely lost
your mind?!” he bellowed. “So much for being the smartest witch in Hogwarts! I’m sorry about you
parents, but this has gone FAR ENOUGH! IT’S NOT YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO GO AFTER VOLDEMORT! IT’S
NOT…It’s not…” Even utterly infuriated, Harry could see that Hermione was listening to him quite
calmly, and was gazing at him with a jaundiced eye. “You’re not *serious*, are you?” Harry
asked weakly, sinking back to the rug.

Hermione slid out of the chair to join him. “Of course I’m not serious,” she said snappishly,
but her expression was gentler than her tone. “That would be an utterly, utterly stupid thing to
do.” She sighed unhappily. “The truth is… the truth is, Harry, that I’ve got no idea what sort of
thing being an Animagus would be useful for. I’ve just seen that it *is* useful, and that’s
enough. I could try doing it on my own, of course, but that would take longer and would be harder
to get right.”

Harry shot her a hard stare. “No going after Voldemort alone, then?”

“Of course not,” Hermione sighed again, rolling her eyes. “I didn’t think you’d actually believe
me. It was meant to be a joke.”

Harry snorted. “It wasn’t a very good one.”

“No,” said Hermione reflectively. “Perhaps not. But it was a *useful* one,” she shot back,
her voice growing harder. “It’s not your responsibility to go after him…” she mimicked, and stared
at him crossly. “Do you know something I don’t know?” she asked shrewdly. “Secret-keeping only bad
when it applies to everyone else, is it?”

“You’re one to talk!” snapped Harry. “All summer long, and not a word! Nothing!” He didn’t
bother to deny her accusation about keeping secrets of his own. Hermione knew him too well and
would have seen right through him. “And when I finally did find out what happened – after everyone
else, I might add – then still nothing!”

“What is it your want from me?” broke in Hermione shrilly. “All the gory details, is that it?
Coming home to find them… to find them…” she sobbed suddenly, a single unhappy spasm, and Harry’s
temper evaporated, leaving him feeling guiltier than ever.

“Sorry,” he said fervently, clutching her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that…”
Briefly, he wondered what it was that he *did* mean.

“It’s alright,” sniffled Hermione. “It *is*. And there is something else… but I can’t talk
about… that part of it yet. Not to anyone. I just need time.”

“Me too,” said Harry quietly. “You’re right. There is something I’m not telling you; you and
Ron.” His breath caught in his throat at the thought of the prophecy. “I just… I can’t do it yet.
Not yet.” He felt Hermione squeeze his hand.

“Okay,” she said simply, and gave a watery giggle as Harry’s stomach groaned again. “Honestly,
you’re as bad as Ron. Get down to the Great Hall while you still can. At least you’ll get
pudding.”

Harry nodded in relief, glad to be back on more familiar ground. Lately he seemed to be getting
a lot of practice with crying girls, and he didn’t feel like he was getting any better at handling
them. “Are you going to come?” he asked.

Hermione looked startled. “Oh, no. I don’t think so. I don’t really want to come in late this
year. I’ve had enough of people staring at me, pointing and whispering. You go. I can wait until
breakfast.”

Harry heaved her up. “No you don’t. It won’t be any easier then. They’ll still stare – believe
me, I know what I’m talking about. Best get it over with now. Besides, if both of us go in together
they won’t all be staring at you. I’m the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ again, remember?”

*

Hermione dragged him to a stop outside the Great Hall. She plucked at her robes nervously to
straighten them, and Harry could see she wanted nothing more than to turn around and head straight
back to the tower. He grabbed her hand.

“Come on. With any luck we might be able to sneak in without anyone noticing.” He led her into
the Hall, keeping himself between her and the rest of the students as they made their way across
the back of the room, over to the Gryffindor table. He was dismayed – although not really surprised
– to notice that their entrance had indeed attracted more attention than he had hoped. “Just ignore
them. Just ignore them,” he kept repeating under his breath, trying to keep his lips from
moving.

At last they reached the table, where Dean and Seamus made room for them on one side of the
table. They sat beside Ron, who gave them a rather hard stare at the sight of their joined hands.
Quickly, Harry disentangled himself. They had indeed arrived in time for pudding, and he began
heaping portions of his favourite treacle tart onto a plate. He shot a quick glance at the top
table, to find both Lupin and Snape watching him. He nodded to the former and pointedly ignored the
surge of anger in his stomach at the sight of the latter. Hagrid, he noticed in alarm, was nowhere
to be seen; and in his place was Professor Grubbly-Plank.

“Why isn’t Hagrid here?” he asked Ron quietly.

“And what happened with the Sorting Hat?” Hermione questioned, in a somewhat

watery tone. Seeing her red eyes, Ron regarded them both with a friendlier expression.

“Dunno about Hagrid,” he said. “Dumbledore said he was off on sabbatical or something, for the
first term anyway. He should be back after Christmas.” Next to him, Harry felt Hermione let out a
long, shuddering sigh. At least she wouldn’t have to disappoint Hagrid immediately, he thought.
“Sorting Hat was a bit like last year,” Ron continued. “All doom and gloom and ‘I’ve got no good
purpose in life’. You know, same old stuff. What did McGonagall want with the two of you?” he asked
suddenly.

“Oh,” said Harry carefully, privately thinking that it was a stupid thing to ask, given that
half the Gryffindor sixth years were listening in to their conversation. “She, er, she wants to me
continue with *remedial Potions*,” he said clearly.

“Ah,” said Ron, realisation dawning. He regarded Harry with a look of pity. “Rather you than me,
mate,” he said, obviously remembering Harry’s Occlumency lessons of the previous year. “And what
about you?” he said to Hermione casually. Harry froze.

“Yeah. Is everything alright?” said Dean, a little too casually. “It’s just that we heard…” He
and Seamus looked at each other and stared at Hermione, both at a loss for words.

“It’s fine,” she said thinly. “She just wants to give me some private lessons. Advanced
Transfiguration.” She had taken a helping of trifle, and was poking at it with a spoon, but not
actually eating it.

“Oh, I get it,” said Ron cheerfully, in a loud tone. “That’s what you get for being the smartest
witch in Hogwarts! Extra homework!” he grinned manically, and some of the students around him began
to chuckle. Harry and Hermione stared at him as if he had grown an extra head, and Hermione, Harry
noticed, looked a bit hurt. “That’s just typical,” continued Ron, as loudly as before. “I bet
you’ll love every minute of it!” he sniggered, heaping his bowl with a second helping of dessert.
“Just don’t go expecting the rest of us to go learning it too! There’s life outside the library,
you know!”

“I had noticed that, Ronald,” said Hermione, a little stiffly, and turned to talk to Ginny, who
was on the other side of her.

As soon as her back was turned, Harry rounded on Ron. “What was that for?” he hissed, then
yelped as Ron’s foot connected solidly with his ankle.

“Shut up,” his best friend grunted, with the manic smile still plastered to his face. “Would you
rather everyone knew the *real* reason she’s having extra lessons with McGonagall?”

Harry gaped at him. How had Ron figured it out? He, Harry, had only just found out himself. Ron
was looking at him expectantly, and to give himself a few more seconds to think he shoved in a
mouthful of treacle tart. Ron, he noticed, was looking at him with long-suffering expression.

“Don’t tell me you hadn’t guessed something like this would happen,” Ron said under his breath.
“Come on, Harry! You’ve seen her this summer – up one minute, down the next. Like a ruddy bludger.
Not that you can blame her, I s’pose.” He wedged an enormous forkful of rhubarb crumble into his
mouth, speaking around the food. “No wonder McGonagall wants to keep an eye on her.
*Transfiguration lessons*,” he snorted. “As if. She needs advanced Transfiguration lessons as
much as you need a new broom.”

“I don’t need a new broom, Ron,” started Harry, utterly confused. “I just got mine back half an
hour ago.”

Mouth bulging, Ron shot him a look of deep pity. “No kidding,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s
an *excuse*, Harry. McGonagall will teach her some complicated little tricks to get her mind
off stuff, and that way she’ll be able to check up on her without Hermione having to admit she’s
veering off the bloody rails.” He swallowed another giant mouthful. “Hey, Dean! Pass us a bit more
of that crumble, will you? So anyway…” he said, lowering his voice again and turning back to Harry,
“…just go along with it, will you? Last thing Hermione needs right now is for everyone to know
exactly *why* she’s taking those lessons.”

Harry stared at him, dumbstruck. Raising another forkful of pudding towards his face, Ron opened
his mouth and then shut it again, lowering the fork.

“Honestly, Harry” he said. “I know that you’ve had a rough summer and all, but try and be a
little more *sensitive*, will you?”



9. Chapter Nine
---------------

Chapter Nine.

Breakfast in the Great Hall on the first day of term was as rowdy as usual, and made Harry feel
better about his failure to practice Occlumency. He had woken in the early morning, and lain in his
four poster bed trying to clear his mind, but the rumbling snores of his roommates had been a
continual distraction. Eventually, fed up with the noise, he had thrown his pillow at Ron, waking
him, and the two boys had gone down to breakfast. Hermione was already there, picking at a piece of
toast and anxiously awaiting their new timetables. There were dark rings under her eyes.

“Is that all you’re eating?” asked Ron bluntly.

“I’m not really hungry,” said Hermione.

“Yeah, that teaspoon of trifle you had last night must have really filled you up,” said Ron
sarcastically. He shot Harry a worried glance and began to load a plate up with bacon and eggs.
“D’you want any black pudding?” he asked, shoving the plate in front of Hermione. “Hey! Colin! Pass
us up some of that, will you?”

“I really don’t want any, thanks,” said Hermione tiredly. “Ron! I’m serious! Don’t wave that
stuff at me. I *said* I’m not hungry.”

“If he’s not careful, he’s going to start sounding like Mum,” said Ginny, plopping down on the
bench beside them. She stuck her tongue out at her brother. “Mind your own business, Ron.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Ron calmly, tipping half the basin of black pudding onto a plate of
his own. “You’ve got OWLS this year; you won’t have *time* to be nosy.”

Ginny made a face. “Don’t remind me. I’ve already had the lecture from Mum and Dad. No wasting
time, no skiving off…” she grinned at them in a manner eerily reminiscent of Fred and George.
“Honestly. As if I would.”

Ron snorted disbelievingly, and reached for the kippers. Harry also began to eat, feeling the
noise of the Great Hall wash over him, relaxing him. As quiet as the ride on the Hogwarts Express
had been, it seemed as though the students were now reverting to their usual selves, and the
atmosphere had lightened a bit. Even the teachers seemed unworried, calming buttering toast and
chatting together. He noticed that Snape, however, kept glancing over at the Gryffindor table with
a smirk of satisfaction, as if waiting for something both pleasurable and expected. Harry glared at
him, but the Potions professor seemed not to pay him any attention.

It wasn’t long before the timetables started wending their way down the table. Harry shuffled
through them, looking for his own schedule, and flipping Ron’s at him when he came to it. Finding
his own, he looked at it and felt his stomach drop. He scowled.

“Anything wrong, Harry?”

“Nothing important,” he said dismally. “It’s just I’ve got Divination with Trelawney this
afternoon. Look at this,” he thrust his timetable towards Ron. “Transfiguration after breakfast,
then nothing until after lunch, then double Care of Magical Creatures, then Divination. In the
*tower*. That means Trelawney – and on a Monday, too! It’s not fair.”

“Well Harry, you did ask for it, you know,” said Hermione briskly, nibbling at a piece of bacon.
She had cheered up when the timetables had come around. Ron shot him a sympathetic glance.

“Cheer up mate. It’s not until this afternoon, anyway.” He lowered his voice a little and leaned
in towards Harry. “Perhaps a Puking Pastille…”

“I heard that,” snapped Hermione.

“Alright, alright,” said Ron hastily. “It was just a thought. But I’ll see you this afternoon, I
guess. I’ve got double Muggle Studies, then a free period, then Magical Creatures, and then I’m
done for the day.” He started in on some baked beans. “Monday’s a good day for once. Course, that
depends on how Muggle Studies turns out.” He looked at them both anxiously. “I wish one of you was
taking it. All I know about Muggles is what I’ve picked up from Dad.”

“You needn’t worry,” said Ginny conversationally. “Dean’s taking it too, and he’s Muggle-born.
You can get him to explain it to you.”

“Really? That’s brilliant!” Ron’s face brightened for a moment, and then he scowled at his
sister. “And how d’you know what Dean’s taking then?” he asked aggressively.

“Well, he *is* my boyfriend,” Ginny answered brightly. “We do actually talk to each other.
From time to time,” she added sweetly.

“You need to remember what Mum and Dad said,” said Ron grumpily. “What was it? No wasting time,
no skiving off? You should be *studying*, not carrying on like some… like some-”

“Give it a rest, will you?” said Ginny. “Forget Mum, you’re beginning to sound like
*Percy*.” And she flounced out of the Great Hall, leaving Ron looking decidedly horrified. He
turned to Harry and Hermione.

“I don’t, do I?” At their awkward silence, he visibly deflated. “No. Oh, no.”

“Look, it’s alright,” said Harry quickly. “Dean’s not a bad sort, after all. You get along with
him, remember?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” said Ron slowly, then began to look more cheerful. “Besides, I can always hex
him if things don’t turn out, can’t I?” Harry decided that it was wisest to try and change the
subject.

“What’s your day like, Hermione?”

“Oh, not too bad,” she said. “I’ve got Transfiguration first, of course. Then double Ancient
Runes; and after lunch there’s double Arithmancy and History of Magic.” She considered briefly.
“Actually, I think I’m going to like Mondays.” Over his beans, Ron made a noise of strangled
disbelief. Hermione glared at him, and he was saved from having to explain himself by Neville, who
was wandering along the Gryffindor table looking for his own timetable. Ron shuffled through a pile
of them and handed one over to him.

“Here you go, Neville. I knew I’d seen yours in here somewhere.”

“Thanks,” said Neville, glancing at his schedule. He seemed to choke, and turned the colour of a
ripe tomato. Ron reached up and whacked him on the back in concern. Neville whimpered and sank onto
the bench, glancing pitifully up at the teacher’s table. Following his gaze, Harry noticed that
Snape was making his way down to the Gryffindor table, smirking in satisfaction. He snatched at
Neville’s timetable.

“Neville,” he said carefully, looking up to see Hermione try and force pumpkin juice down his
friend’s throat, “I thought you weren’t taking Potions this year.”

“I’m *not*,” squeaked Neville. “There must be some kind of mistake.”

At that moment, Snape had stalked up to them. “No mistake, Longbottom,” he said silkily. “You
can’t expect me to give up one of my best students, can you? An ‘O’ on your OWL, wasn’t it?
How…extraordinary that you never showed such talent in class.”

Neville’s face turned bright pink. “I didn’t cheat, if that’s what you’re saying!”

“Indeed.” Snape sneered at him. “I took the liberty of sending an owl to your grandmother
yesterday morning, explaining to her the *wastefulness* of your decision. She very wisely
agreed with me that you should not be allowed to drop such an *important* subject, one in
which you had done so *well*.” His sneer deepened. “It is her wish that you replace Astronomy
with Potions for the coming year.”

“You can’t do that!” Hermione interrupted in amazement.

“I don’t believe anybody asked for your opinion, Miss Granger,” said Snape dangerously. “As
Longbottom here is not yet of age his grandmother has every legal right to make the decisions that
affect him; such as his schooling, for instance.” He peered closely at Neville. “Either you have
considerably more talent in making Potions than anybody could ever expect, or you have found a way
to cheat in the exams. Either way, boy, *I* expect to find out.” He smiled sinisterly. “We
shall see, won’t we?”

As he swept away Neville looked close to fainting. “It’s not fair,” he kept repeating. “I didn’t
cheat. I *didn’t*.” Harry glared back up at the teacher’s table, where Snape had returned. He
could see Lupin and McGonagall staring down at them with carefully blank expressions, although the
twitch in the face of his House Mistress showed Harry just how annoyed she was. Lupin shrugged at
him helplessly.

“He can’t do that,” said Ron. “Can he?”

“I think so,” said Hermione angrily. “He’s right about your grandmother Neville, at least I
think so.”

“*I* think” interrupted Ron, “that he was very careful to wait until Neville had got on the
train before talking to his gran. That way, he wouldn’t be around to object.”

“But I didn’t cheat,” Neville repeated blankly.

“We believe you,” said Harry firmly. “This is just Snape being Snape, right? You passed that
exam on your own, so that means that you can keep passing. You just need confidence, okay?”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” moaned Neville. Harry looked at him helplessly. Ron was looking
at their friend’s timetable.

“Look, it’s alright,” he said. “You don’t have Potions today anyway, just Care of Magical
Creatures and History of Magic after lunch.” He whacked Neville on the back again. “Cool! That
means you get the morning off.” Neville whimpered pathetically.

“Er… maybe you better go and lie down,” said Hermione uncertainly. “You don’t look very well,
actually.”

“Come on, I’ll take you,” said Ron sympathetically. “I left my quill in the Tower anyway.” He
shot Harry and Hermione a glum look as he shepherded Neville out of the Great Hall.

“I wonder what that was all about,” said Harry quietly, casting an evil look up at Snape. “He’s
been waiting years to get rid of Neville.”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione thoughtfully. She pushed her plate away in disgust and gathered up
her schoolbag. “Come on. I don’t really want to stay here anymore. We might as well get to
Transfiguration.”

Harry followed her silently out of the hall, before another thought struck him. “I hope…I hope
Ron’s going to be alright with this,” he said quietly.

“Why wouldn’t he be?” said Hermione, picking up on what was concerning him. “Neville’s not
taking Transfiguration, is he? So he’s still not going to be an Auror.”

“I guess,” said Harry, feeling a twinge of relief.

“You can’t keep feeling guilty about it,” said Hermione sympathetically. “It’s not your
fault.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. They arrived at McGonagall’s Transfiguration classroom, students milling
about outside. Harry was surprised to see students from all the Houses waiting there, but realised
that after OWLS, some sixth year classes would be smaller depending on who had the grades and
inclination to continue with them. From the teachers’ point of view it must just be easier to
combine those who chose to take their subjects into one group, but his heart sank when he saw that
several members of Slytherin, including Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, were also included.

“Look who’s here,” shrieked Pansy in a mock-thrilled tone. “Hogwarts’ newest couple! No
hand-holding today, then?”

“Shut up, Parkinson,” said Harry, feeling his face go red. He glared at them both, and to his
surprise Malfoy contented himself with simply smirking, rather than his usual snide remarks.

“Or what?” said Pansy nastily.

“Or Hermione will be forced to take points off you for performing magic in the corridors,” said
a familiar voice. “You know, given that she’s a Prefect and you aren’t.” Seamus Finnegan edged his
way out from the midst of the crowd, Parvati and Lavender behind him.

“I haven’t done any magic in the corridors,” snapped Pansy, but she looked suddenly
uncertain.

“That’s not what I saw,” said Seamus innocently. Behind him, Parvati and Lavender smiled
sweetly, and Pansy was saved from having to make a response by the arrival of Professor McGonagall,
who swept them into the classroom abruptly. Harry snatched the opportunity to mutter his thanks to
Seamus, who responded with a wink. “Well, she’s had a rough time of it, hasn’t she?” he said
quietly, indicating Hermione. “Doesn’t need the hassle. Parkinson can go stick her head in a
bucket, eh? Preferably one full of bubotuber pus…”

McGonagall rapped on her desk with her wand. “Attention, please. As this is your first class of
the sixth year, I have an obligation to inform you of the changes that will be made to your
schooling system this year. With the OWLS behind you, many of you have hopefully decided on some
sort of career path, and thus your courses have become more specialised to your future interests.
This means more mixing in the classes, as you can see here. Most of you will now have classes with
members of all the Houses combined.”

“As senior students, you will find that more is expected of you this year. Those of you who
think that you now have the license to relax your standards after the efforts of your OWL year are
sadly mistaken.” A groan went up from most of the class, and McGonagall glared at them with a beady
eye. “This year you will begin study for your NEWT level exams. You will not undertake them until
the end of your seventh year, but believe me, most of you will need all the time to study that you
can get.” She looked at them sternly.

“And as senior students, there will be some changes to your learning structure this year. Now
that you are older, you should be prepared to take more responsibility for your own learning. In
addition to your course work this year, you will be required to undertake a research project with a
partner, to be handed in by Easter. You will find this to be the case in all your subjects. I
expect each of you to notify me by the end of the week as to who your partner will be and the
subject of your joint research. Are there any questions so far?”

Hermione raised her hand. “How long are these projects going to be?”

“A minimum of ten rolls of parchment,” McGonagall replied. A second groan echoed the room, more
heartfelt than before. Harry leaned over to Hermione’s desk, catching her eye. She nodded quickly
at him and he felt a burst of relief. If nothing else, working with her would ensure that he would
do well in this project. Hermione simply wouldn’t let either of them get away with anything
less.

“Professor?” came a voice from the back of the classroom. Harry craned his head around to see a
girl whose name he didn’t know, but who he vaguely recognised as being from Ravenclaw. “When my
brother was in sixth year, he went out for work experience. Do we get to do that?”

McGonagall sighed heavily. “That is still up for debate. For those of you who are unaware of
this facet of your education, Hogwarts has a tradition of sending out the brighter, more
responsible students for work experience in their chosen field after the Easter break. They remain
at Hogwarts and floo to and from their assigned positions for several weeks. However, as you are
all aware, circumstances this year mean that this tradition may in fact be cancelled.”

Harry leaned over to Hermione again. “I don’t remember Fred and George ever going on work
experience,” he said, as quietly as possible.

“She said the *responsible* students, Harry,” Hermione hissed, trying not to move her lips.
Harry nodded to himself. That made sense – no teacher in their right mind would want to send Fred
and George forth as a shining example of their school’s finest students. It was an interesting idea
though, and he hoped that they would be able to continue the practice this year. He scowled to
himself – of course that would depend on Voldemort, which meant that it was as good as cancelled
already. He was jolted out of his reverie when Hermione passed him a box of matchsticks. Hastily he
took one and passed the box on.

“As for today’s lesson: you should all have your matchsticks by now,” said McGonagall. “If you
recall, the first Transfiguration spell that you should have been taught in Hogwarts was that which
Transfigured a matchstick into a needle. Kindly repeat the process.”

“*This* is what we’re being taught?” drawled a voice from the back of the classroom. “Any
first year could do this.”

“If you feel that you are too advanced in the discipline of Transfiguration to need this class
Mr. Malfoy,” came the cool voice of their teacher, “you may feel free to leave it. I do not
tolerate interruptions.”

Harry smirked to himself. The thought of sharing classes with the Slytherins suddenly didn’t
seem that bad. He looked down at the needle on his desk, remembering the first time he and Ron had
tried to perform this spell. It had seemed impossible then, but they had both mastered it long ago.
In that sense Malfoy was right, Harry conceded. Why were they going back to the beginning
again?

“It is one thing to Transfigure a single object,” continued McGonagall. “It is quite another to
be able to exert *control* over the Transfiguration; over the rate of change and the area of
change. You can all switch a needle to a matchstick and back again with ease. What you need to
learn is how to control that process. I want you all to try this spell again, but this time I want
to concentrate on Transfiguring the head of the matchstick only. The incantation and wand movement
are the same; the result depends upon your focus. Concentrate. Replace the head of the matchstick
with the eye of the needle, but keep the matchstick shaft intact.”

Harry concentrated on his matchstick. He thought that it should be an easy spell to accomplish,
remembering how, when he had first tried this spell five years ago, he had only been able to
accomplish partial changes at first. He focused upon the matchstick and performed the spell, and
the matchstick changed wholly into a needle. Harry looked around in frustration, and saw that much
the same thing had happened to the other students. Lavender Brown was poking at her needle
disconsolately, but it remained stubbornly whole. Out of habit, he looked over at Hermione’s desk
and saw that she had managed to change the head of the matchstick into the eye of a needle, but
that the shaft of the match, while still wooden, had turned a silvery colour. McGonagall hovered
over her, and tapped the object, transforming it back into a matchstick.

“Try again, Miss Granger,” she advised. “You nearly had it. Focus upon the head of the match,
try to control the spell. Again.” Hermione muttered, her wand waved, and her match transformed into
a perfect hybrid. She smiled in relief, and Harry noticed that McGonagall had been watching her
carefully, and had smiled in turn. He realised that their teacher must have had grave reservations
about teaching Hermione to become an Animagus, and the fact that she was able to control her spells
so easily must have been a great comfort. He stared at his needle sadly. If only he could say the
same.

McGonagall kept them hard at it for the next hour, and by the end only a handful of the students
– Hermione and all of the Ravenclaws – had managed to complete the spell successfully. The rest of
them were told to practice the spell as homework, and McGonagall promised detention to any student
rash enough to return to her class without being able to perform it. As the students began to file
out of the classroom, Harry hung back. He signalled to Hermione that he would talk to her later
about their project – he had no idea what topic they could use, and was frankly prepared to agree
to almost anything she came up with. Some moments later, he was alone in the classroom with
McGonagall. Harry realised it was a long shot, but he had to try, and thankfully this way no-one
else would know that he did it.

McGonagall eyed him quizzically. “What is it, Mr. Potter? I have a second year class arriving
here directly, so if this is going to take more than a few minutes perhaps you would care to make
an appointment?”

“Er… no thanks, Professor. It’ll just take a minute.” Harry shuffled his feet nervously, unsure
of how to phrase his request. “It’s about Ron…”

“I see,” said his teacher neutrally. “I can imagine what this is about.”

“Isn’t there any way you could get him accepted into Potions?” Harry blurted. “He *really*
wants to be an Auror, I don’t know if he told you, but-”

“I did give Mr. Weasley career advice last term, Potter,” said McGonagall. “He knew precisely
what standard he had to obtain and he didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t either,” said Harry fairly. “But you bent the rules for me. And he did better than me
in some subjects.” He looked at her pleadingly.

McGonagall sighed. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she said. “Truly I am. But you must understand that young
Mr. Weasley failed to make the grade in *two* subjects. It doesn’t matter that he did better
than you in Herbology, because Herbology is not a requirement for being an Auror. Transfiguration
and Potions are. I realise that it may seem unfair that you can progress in this and he cannot, but
the decision is made.”

“Yeah. I mean, I just thought…”

“There was no harm in your asking,” said McGonagall. “It was a kind thought on your part. Now,
don’t you have another class to get to?”

“Actually, I’m free until after lunch, Professor.”

“Good. Have you got your matchstick? Go and practice with it then.”

*I walked right into that one*, Harry thought. He supposed he should do as she suggested.
Who knew what other homework would be dumped on him today? He had learned from fifth year that
leaving it all until the last minute wasn’t exactly the best way to go about things. Hermione, of
course, had been telling him so for years, but he hadn’t paid any attention. At the door he
halted.

“Professor?”

“Yes, Potter?” she said, sounding harassed.

“You won’t tell Ron I said anything, will you?”

“I don’t see what that would accomplish,” she said dryly.

“Right. Er… thanks.” Harry left and wandered back up to Gryffindor Tower. He tried practicing in
his bedroom first, but Neville was there, staring at the ceiling, and Harry found his mute presence
disturbing. The common room was empty, however, and Harry spent two solid hours practicing the
Transfiguration spell. In the end, he was hungry and grumpy but decided he had definitely got the
hang of it, having performed it successfully five times in a row. When his fellow Gryffindors
started popping in and out during their lunch break, he went back up to the bedroom and hauled
Neville down to lunch. Neville was still pale, but looked as if he could stomach food at this
point.

Down in the Great Hall, Ron was enthusiastically planning his Muggle Studies project with Dean.
Harry was pleased to see that Ron had indeed enjoyed his morning, but he was also surprised at his
friend’s keenness to start a research project encompassing ten rolls of parchment.

“This project idea is bloody brilliant, Harry,” Ron said happily. “All we need to do is pick a
part of Muggle life and compare it to how we do things in the wizarding world. Guess what we’re
doing?” At Harry’s bemused expression, Ron went on “Sport! Dean’s got his obsession with football,
right?” He stabbed at the air with his fork for emphasis. Harry couldn’t help but remember the West
Ham poster that had stayed by Dean’s bed for the past five years, and his continual attempts to
make Ron understand the game.

“But you don’t know anything about football, Ron” he pointed out.

“Yeah, I know,” grinned Ron. “But I do know about Quidditch.” He stuffed a whole ham sandwich in
his mouth at once, and continued to speak around it. “Dean’s going to do the football side of it,
and I’ll write about how it compares with Quidditch. Great, eh?”

Harry couldn’t help but agree. No wonder Ron was so happy – he could go on forever about
Quidditch, and this way he’d even get marks for it. Ten rolls of parchment would be no problem… It
made him wonder what topic he’d have to do for Transfiguration. No matter what it was, it had to be
mind-numbingly boring in comparison. He looked over at Hermione, who was absently eating her lunch
in front of an Arithmancy textbook that was propped up against a jug of pumpkin juice.

“How was Ancient Runes?” he asked her. “Got a project sorted out?”

“No, actually,” she said. “I’ve paired up with Susan for it, but we haven’t decided anything
yet.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “D’you have any idea what to do for McGonagall?”

Hermione gazed at him thoughtfully over the rim of her book. “Not really. I was hoping you might
have some ideas.” At the look on his face, she shrugged. “Oh well. We’ve got until the end of the
week to decide. We can talk about it tonight; see if we can come up with anything interesting.”

After lunch Harry, Ron and Neville trooped outside for their Care of Magical Creatures lesson.
Harry was convinced that without Hagrid it would never be as interesting, but he had to admit to
himself that at least it would be *safe*. Professor Grubbly-Plank might not demonstrate the
most exciting animals, but at least there was no danger of having them tear off someone’s leg. He
wondered where Hagrid had got to, and made a mental note to ask Lupin next time he saw him. He knew
that the werewolf would be the one most likely to give him an honest answer.

Care of Magical Creatures was again a mixed class, and Harry was again disappointed to see a
large Slytherin presence. Did Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson have to be in all his classes? Luckily, he
didn’t have to stand near them. Professor Grubbly-Plank was demonstrating a form of tunnelling
spider (“Nothing to worry about, it’s a vegetarian…”) and Ron had quickly moved to the back of the
class. Harry and Neville stood with him, and they were joined by Susan Bones. The advantage of
being at the back was that they could talk quietly amongst themselves without drawing much
attention. Much of their talk was based around the projects, which were apparently more directed in
this class. Grubbly-Plank had instructed each pair to pick a magical creature for an in-depth
study. Ron had made his feelings very clear.

“No spiders, Harry. And no Blast-Ended-Bloody-Skrewts. Other than that, I don’t mind so much.
But we’ve got to get in quick, you know. I don’t want to be left with the duds.”

Susan had been more conciliatory. Neville’s drafting into Potions had not escaped the notice of
the other students, and she had volunteered to partner him in Magical Creatures. She had suggested
the two of them study Bowtruckles, and Harry was impressed with her tact. Neville might not care
about the thorny little creatures, but they inhabited wand trees, and their habitat would be a big
part of the project. Anything even remotely connected with Herbology could calm him down, and he
was even starting to get rather interested in the Bowtruckle research.

“Psst! Harry! I don’t want to do Flobberworms either. I know they’re not dangerous but they’re
bloody boring. There’s got to be a middle ground in there somewhere…” Harry let his friend chunter
on, trying half-heartedly to listen to the professor talk about the uses of the spider’s silk. As
useful as it was, he didn’t think that he cared much for this animal either. It might be
vegetarian, but it was the size of a saucer, and Harry didn’t fancy sticking his hand down its
burrow to rip out half its house.

“Harry?” Susan asked quietly, while Grubbly-Plank was demonstrating how to distract the spider
with a large piece of orange peel. “A lot of Hufflepuffs have been asking me. Are you going to
start up the DA again this year?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” said Harry out of the corner of his mouth, trying to look
like he was still paying attention. “Only really started it last year because Umbridge was so
useless. Professor Lupin’s not like that.”

“No, he’s not. But with things the way they are, students are going to want to practice more,”
commented Susan fairly. “And a lot of them trust you to know how to teach them.”

“I don’t know,” said Harry uncomfortably. “I’ll have to think about it. Talk to Hermione and
Professor Lupin. Odds are they’ve already considered it.” He turned to Ron. “How about a
Thestral?”

“How can I write about a creature I can’t even see?” hissed Ron. “What about a Niffler?”

“No good. I heard a couple of students telling Grubbly-Plank they wanted to do Nifflers. We have
to pick something else.” As the class ended, there was practically a riot to get to the Professor.
Apparently everyone else in class had come to the conclusion that all the interesting animals would
go if they didn’t get there first. As Ron and Harry pushed into line, they were surprised to see
Crabbe and Goyle, two burly Slytherins, forcibly push Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson out of place in
the line, forcing them towards the back.

“Oho,” said Ron softly, smugly. “Looks like all is not well in the House of Slytherin…”

“Malfoy’s Dad has been chucked into Azkaban, hasn’t he?” said Harry. “Incompetence on that scale
must make a lot of people very unhappy.”

“Not me,” said Ron happily, and Harry had to agree with him. Privately though, he determined to
keep more of an eye on the workings of Slytherin House. He was still mulling over the new
developments when they came in front of Professor Grubbly-Plank.

“Well?” she said. “Hurry up now. I don’t have all day. Which animal did you want to study?”

Harry looked desperately at Ron, who was staring in turn at the spider and weaving a little on
his feet. He cast around desperately for an animal – any animal. “Has anyone got Hippogriffs yet?”
he asked stupidly, and was relieved to find that it was still open. If nothing else, he had access
to Buckbeak. And it would keep Ron away from spiders. He hauled his friend away, and Ron looked at
him, his skin a greenish tinge.

“What are we doing again?” he asked. Harry rolled his eyes and sent his friend up to Gryffindor
Tower. He thought a lie-down would do Ron good, and he was positive that his friend’s appetite
would be back by dinner. Some things never changed. That left him making his way miserably to
Divination. Having to come from across the school lawn, he was last up to the Tower where Professor
Trelawney presided.

It was embarrassing having to fumble his way across the incense-scented room in front of
everyone; especially after he had tripped over a pouffe and sent a teapot flying. Trelawney peered
at him in morbid sympathy, and continued with the speech he had just interrupted.

“…Divination, my dears, is an art which can be taught at any age. You cannot learn it from
books; you may only nurture the talent with which you have been blessed.” Harry choked on the
smoke, and discreetly tried to open a window. “Some of you,” continued Trelawney dreamily, “have
been here before. For others, studying the art of Divination is a new experience. This matters not
if you have the talent, and the ability to *persevere*.” She gazed at Harry mistily, and
trying to avoid meeting her eyes, he glanced around the room. What he saw made his heart drop.

Students were scattered in pairs around the circular room, and he was the only one by himself.
Trelawney swooped down upon him. “Do not worry, my dear,” she fluttered, “There is sometimes an odd
person out. You may still do the research project. That is what is upsetting you, yes? I’m sure you
can manage on your own, and if you need a partner in the class exercises, then I am more than happy
to offer my services...”

Harry smiled at her weakly, and shuddered.



10. Chapter Ten
---------------

Hi everyone. I’m really, really sorry that it’s taken me so long to update. It’s been a fairly
horrid month – first I had exams, then I got appendicitis and ended up having a *lovely* stay
in the hospital. Still, the horrid little thing will never bother me again! It’s the summer
holidays now though, so hopefully I’ll be able to get back into the swing of this story, for those
of you who haven’t forgotten it entirely.

And you know, it’s just struck me that I’ve never said this before: Not mine. Don’t sue. Unless
you want my student loan…?

This is quite a short chapter, but it goes some way towards solving a puzzle that turned up
earlier in the story – a puzzle that no-one seemed to notice, according to the reviews, LOL. It may
have interesting ramifications down the track, however…

CHAPTER TEN.

Ron stormed into the Great Hall on Tuesday, throwing himself down besides Harry and Hermione,
who were eating lunch and discussing their Transfiguration project, which was still undecided.

"You won’t bloody *believe* what’s happened," he snapped, in a towering temper.
Harry and Hermione glanced at each other worriedly, and Hermione began to dish out some lunch for
their friend, taking a second helping of sandwiches for herself at the same time. Harry was pleased
to see her eating normally again, and noted in admiration the height to which she was filling Ron’s
plate.

"Eat this," said Hermione consolingly, popping the plate in front of him. "It’ll
make you feel better."

"Yeah, you look terrible," said Harry without thinking, and both Ron and Hermione
glared at him. "Er… I mean you look upset. What’s wrong? Is it Dean?"

"Oh, no," said Hermione despairingly. "You haven’t had another falling out, have
you?"

"What? No, it isn’t," said Ron grumpily. He pushed the plate of food away. "Stop
fussing, Hermione! Lunch isn’t going to fix this!" He glared at them both. "This is all
your fault!" he said accusingly.

Harry winced, and saw Hermione pale. "What’ve we done?" he demanded, hoping that Ron
hadn’t somehow found out about the true nature of Hermione’s extra lessons. She had proved to be a
little wary of telling Ron about them, pleading that Professor McGonagall had instructed them both
to keep their extra tuition secret from the other students. Harry had argued that ‘secret’ didn’t
mean Ron, who Professor McGonagall would no doubt expect them to tell anyway, but Hermione had been
firm. Secretly, Harry felt a sneaking tinge of relief. Ron had been making a brave attempt to hide
any jealousy he felt, and had spent the previous night doing his best to cheer up Neville with
ridiculous impressions of Snape, but Hermione was obviously unwilling to push their luck, and Harry
had regretfully agreed with her.

"You left me alone to take Astronomy, that’s what!" chuntered Ron, his ears the colour
of his hair.

"Is that all?" scoffed Hermione, and there was a note of relief in her voice.
"Well I’m sorry Ron, but we can’t alter our timetables just to suit you. Besides," she
added hastily, seeing Ron’s expression darken still further, "it can’t be that bad. There must
be other Gryffindors in there with you."

"Well, yeah," admitted Ron, absently pulling his plate back towards him and spearing a
boiled potato. "Parvati and Lavender. But you know what they’re like." He chewed
miserably. "Always working together. They’ve partnered for the project, and do you know who
that’s left me with?" Ron’s voice rose in protest. "Malfoy! *Malfoy!* How can this
*happen*?"

Harry stared at him blankly. "You actually chose to do a project with Malfoy? Are you
insane?"

Ron glared at him. "Don’t be so bloody stupid. We were told to get into pairs for the
project – we’ve all been assigned different lots of stars to map, dunno what for – and everyone
else got a partner before I had a chance to find someone. Except Malfoy. Even the Slytherins didn’t
want to go with him."

"Really?" said Hermione sharply.

"It seems there’s some loss of face in being seen with a Malfoy lately," said Harry
simply, filling her in on what he and Ron had seen in their Care of Magical Creatures lesson.

"I said I didn’t mind working on my own, but the Professor *made* us team up,"
said Ron bitterly. "And now I have to spend every Wednesday night on the Astronomy Tower with
that *git*." He sprayed potato dolefully over the table.

Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust, but didn’t comment on it. Instead she said "If what
Harry says is true, this might be a good opportunity for you, Ron."

Both Ron and Harry looked at her in sheer disbelief.

"Well, think about it," she said impatiently. "If something’s going on in
Slytherin House, it would be helpful to know exactly what it is."

"Yeah," said Harry, catching on. He turned to Ron, who was still looking morose.
"Look, mate. Just think of it as an assignment. Like you were a spy or something, trying to
find out information from the enemy."

"Slytherin House is not the enemy, Harry," Hermione reminded him sharply, but both
boys ignored her. Ron began to look a bit brighter.

"It might help to know what they’re up to," he said, stabbing at a Cornish pasty with
renewed interest.

"It certainly would," said Harry fervently.

After lunch they had their first lesson in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and no-one was
surprised when Lupin launched almost immediately into teaching the students how to summon a
Patronus. Harry had no doubt that with the Dementors on the loose, knowledge of the spell was at a
premium in the wizarding world.

Lupin instructed them to get into pairs, and informed them that they would be working in the
same pair for the rest of the year, both in class sizes and in their extra project. Harry saw Ron
scowl at Malfoy, who was over on the other side of the room, and move quickly towards him. Harry
felt awkward. He didn’t want to disappoint Ron, but after the summer she had had he didn’t want to
see Hermione partnered with anyone other than the two of them. He could see Neville moving towards
them, and felt a little better, but before he could suggest anything – indeed, he wasn’t quite sure
he knew exactly what he was going to suggest, and Ron was giving him a rather hard glance - Lupin
moved over towards them. Harry had the distinct impression that he had been waiting for something
like this to happen.

"Good afternoon," Lupin said pleasantly to the four of them, as the rest of the class
bustled around behind them. "I believe I heard Mr. Finnegan telling someone that you tried to
teach this in the DA last year, Harry."

"Yes, Professor," said Harry. "Only a few people got it, though."

"That’s not surprising," said Lupin. "It is very difficult, after all." He
turned to Ron, Hermione, and Neville. "Did any of you three manage it?" he asked
casually. Hermione raised her hand shyly.

"Mine was an otter," she said.

"Marvellous," said Lupin briskly. "If you would just pair with Harry then,
Hermione; and you, Neville, can go with Ron." He raised his voice, addressing the rest of the
class. "If you would just make sure that your partner is at about the same skill level as
yourself, please. Anyone who can already produce a Patronus please make your way up the
front." A few pairs of students that Harry recognised from the DA made their way over towards
them. Lupin turned to them.

"As I’m sure Harry will tell you, there’s a world of difference in summoning a Patronus as
a class exercise and summoning one against a Dementor – even a Boggart Dementor," he said,
with a smile. "Harry, in the next classroom I have a Boggart shut up in the old bureau. I want
you to take the students who can already summon a Patronus and lead them in a practice against the
Boggart." Harry nodded, seeing the sudden paling of the faces around him, with the exception
of Hermione, who simply looked excited, if a little nervous. He couldn’t help but admire Lupin’s
phrasing: a Boggart would appear as whatever the person closest to it feared most, and by telling
the students it would appear as a Dementor, Lupin had put that fear in the front of their minds,
ready to take shape. As Harry led his little band next door, he waved apologetically to Ron, who
was looking wistfully and resignedly after them as the advanced group left the classroom.

As Harry left himself, after being laden with chocolate by the Professor, he heard Lupin say
"Repeat after me, all of you: Expecto Patronum!" There was a dull echo as he shut the
door.

*

Harry’s pleasure at the success of his Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson (all but one of his
five pairs had managed to defeat the Boggart Dementor, with Hermione, predictably, succeeding
before anyone else, far quicker than Harry remembered even himself achieving, which made him eye
her curiously) evaporated quickly when he realised that after dinner, he was expected in the
dungeon for an Occlumency lesson with Professor Snape.

"Just do your best, mate," said Ron sympathetically. He had been rather quiet since
the Defence lesson, but Harry’s long expression had jolted him out of it somewhat.

"*Please* try and keep your temper, Harry," entreated Hermione. With matching
expressions of worry, both she and Ron had watched him slink out of the Great Hall, dragging his
footsteps. Harry had never enjoyed the Occlumency lessons, but he was particularly dreading them
this term. The nagging tickle at the back of his mind, the thing he didn’t want to investigate, was
something he was sure Snape would want to drag out and harangue him with. Trying not to look too
carefully, he tried to forget about it, bundling it into the very back of his mind. There would be
plenty of other things for Snape to pick through before he got to that, and Harry was determined to
find a way to hide it from Snape. And from himself.

He was under no illusions, however, about the necessity of him learning Occlumency; both as a
means of keeping Voldemort out of his mind, and as a condition of keeping on in Potions. Harry was
determined to do whatever he could to master it, even if it meant being civil to Snape, when after
the events of the last term he would have liked nothing better than to hex the Potions Master into
oblivion.

It wasn’t a feeling that subsided as he stood in the dungeon, listening to Snape lecture him.
Harry tried desperately to remember how vital it was that he paid attention.

"I trust you understand, Potter," said Snape "that I am not inclined to waste my
valuable time trying to drum the disciplines of Occlumency into your rather dull brain without a
considerable effort on your part."

Harry stayed silent. It seemed the safest thing to do, but inwardly he seethed. Did Snape think
he *wanted* Voldemort poking around in his brain?

The Potions Master continued. "I expect you to inform me *immediately* should you feel
the presence of the Dark Lord. Knowing the patterns and occurrences of your link to him might
enable you to better protect yourself. Do you understand me?" He peered at Harry
menacingly.

"Yes, sir," said Harry reluctantly. He was loathe to go to Snape any more than
necessary, but he understood that if he were to have any chance of combating Voldemort, he would
have to take every chance he could get.

Snape continued to glare at him. "Well?" he snapped eventually, when it was clear that
nothing more was forthcoming from Harry.

"Well what?" said Harry, confused.

"Have you, at any time since you left Hogwarts at the end of last term, had any… connection
about which I might be interested?" Snape spelled out witheringly, pacing in front of the
fireplace in what seemed like absolute disgust.

"No," said Harry. "That is, my scar prickles a lot," he added reluctantly,
"but I’m used to that. But I haven’t felt Voldemort at all since then."

Snape stopped abruptly, winced, and turned to peer at him closely. "Not once?" he
questioned intently.

"No," said Harry in irritation.

"Are you sure?" pressed Snape.

"Of course I’m sure," Harry snapped back. "It’s not exactly something I can
forget about."

Snape stared at him as if he was something to be scraped off the bottom of a cauldron, and Harry
felt terribly uncomfortable under the unflinching gaze of the Potions master.

"Has it not occurred to you, Potter," Snape said bitterly, biting off each word,
"that the fact that no such connection has taken place might have been important? Did it not
for one minute cross your feeble excuse for a brain the unusual nature of such a lapse? Are you
such a *dimwit* that…" he peered even closer at Harry’s face, which had darkened with
anger. "No," Snape continued silkily, "it obviously has not." He sat in his
armchair, his robe settling around him like a cloud. He steepled his fingers together and his gaze
appeared to lose focus, as if he was staring at something far away that no-one else could see.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, feeling rebellious. He didn’t understand what he was supposed to
have realised, but the quietly reflective expression on Snape’s face unnerved him more than the
usual sarcasm. He at least was used to that, but this sudden stillness, like a predator that was
about to spring, caught him off guard. When Snape spoke, his tone was unusually mild.

"You haven’t been practising Occlumency this summer, have you, Potter?"

"No," said Harry honestly. He felt even more nervous. The fact that Snape merely waved
aside his confession rather than exploding into rage at the wastefulness of his summer break made
him want to inch slowly towards the door and make a run for it.

"And yet…" Snape continued reflectively, "And yet… you were able to block any
intrusion into your mind." He trailed off, and Harry felt curiosity overcome his wariness.

"But we don’t know that Voldemort was even trying to… to…" *Mess with your head?*
he could almost hear Ron finish. "Do we?" he added hesitantly.

Snape’s head swivelled towards him and pinned him with a glare that signalled any latent
approachability was over. "That has never seemed to be necessary," he pointed out.
"In the past, intent on the part of the Dark Lord has been less often a factor than not. It is
strong emotion that seems to be the trigger, yes?"

Harry nodded, remembering the strong feelings of rage or happiness he had often felt surging
from Voldemort’s mind. The recollection struck a chord in him, as if a realisation was somehow
struggling to force its way to the surface of his mind.

"In fact, your frequent histrionics could lead one to believe you suffer excruciating pain
every time the Dark Lord so much as stubs his toe," continued Snape nastily. Harry felt his
face go hot, and he was about to protest loudly when Snape cut him off.

"So why is it that the events of this summer triggered no warning or connection in your
mind?" Snape wondered aloud, a grim smirk on his face as he looked at Harry.

Harry felt as if someone had just dashed a glass of water in his face. Of course! Voldemort must
have been thrilled at the murderous success his Death Eaters had had with the Grangers, a success
that had been orchestrated with Harry in mind. In the past, Harry had always known, both through
strange visions and an agonising pain in his scar, whenever Voldemort had felt powerful emotions.
His glee at the death of the Grangers should have triggered a response in Harry, who seemed to be
becoming more and more attuned to Voldemort’s moods as time passed. Moreover, Voldemort would have
*wanted* Harry to learn of it; would have taken no precautions to shield his savage joy. So
why had he, Harry, not felt anything?

"Ah," said Snape quietly, dangerously. "He comes to it at last; what any fool
would have realised the instant that he had heard of the murders."

Harry glared at him, but was unable to fashion a retort. A chill swept through him, and he felt
the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He *should* have felt something, should have
realised sooner that not feeling anything was a warning sign in itself. But a warning sign of
what?

"I… I don’t understand," he stuttered, and was too discomforted even to mind Snape
snorting rudely at him.

"That much is obvious," said the Potions Master with disdain. "It is logical to
assume that your mental connection to the emotions of the Dark Lord would have continued if
something hadn’t interrupted it. It is no great stretch to assume that the blockage must have
eventuated in you. *Clearly* it is not a result of directed talent on your part, as you have
practised Occlumency with the same diligence as young Mr. Weasley has practised Potions."
Slowly, Snape leaned forward in his chair, and Harry felt again the urge to flee. There was
something very nasty in the eyes of his teacher.

"It is possible, however," Snape drawled, "that you have managed to construct
some kind of barrier while being wholly unaware of doing so. In effect, you may have accidentally
blocked off your mind to any outside influences, but doing so takes an extraordinary amount of
focus." A thin smile appeared on his face. "Have you by any chance been concentrating on
any one subject particularly hard over the summer, Potter? Your *godfather*,
perhaps?"

"Leave him out of it," snapped Harry suddenly, angrily. "Don’t even
*mention* his name!"

"Who? *Sirius*?" said Snape, feigning a rather horrid amazement.

"Shut up!" But Harry couldn’t help but remember that all the times he had felt a
connection to Voldemort, all the times that he had seemed to tap into his emotions, to the events
surrounding him, his mind had been somehow open, not entirely focussed. He had woken from sleep, or
been daydreaming… even the History of Magic exam had not seen him focussed to the extent he had
been over the summer, brooding over Sirius and his own role in the death of his godfather.

"Fascinating, isn’t it?" said Snape silkily, seeing the expressions run over Harry’s
face. "Not practising Occlumency – as you were told to do on numerous occasions, both by the
Headmaster and myself – lead to Sirius’ death, inadvertently providing you with a better mental
defence than any we could provide…"

"Shut up," said Harry again, but his voice was weak and shaking.

"It would seem," said Snape calmly, a triumphant twinge in his voice, "that
dwelling on your feelings of overwhelming grief and guilt allowed you to block any other emotion –
either yours or the Dark Lord’s. My, such *focus*. If you only attempted such in your classes,
Mr. Potter…"

"Shut up," said Harry finally, his voice cracking and barely audible. He was shaking
and had an overwhelming urge to vomit. He backed towards the door blindly, wanting nothing more
than to get out of the dungeon.

"If you wish," said Snape unctuously. "But remember, Potter, that you are
required back here on Friday, to resume your lessons. I will excuse you early tonight, as you look
quite unwell." He smirked. "Of course, it is bound to upset you. Sirius wasn’t much of a
parental figure, I understand, but nonetheless, getting him killed must cause you some upset. I
wasn’t fortunate enough to be there myself, of course, but I *do* hope it was quick." He
gleamed at Harry maliciously. "Still, there wasn’t much of a life for him to lose at the end,
was there?"

Harry stumbled blindly out of the door, retching loudly. "You certainly don’t seem to enjoy
my Occlumency classes," Snape called after him. "However, it appears there may not be
much need for you to take them further…" he added quietly. Moving to the door, Snape watched
his most troublesome student stagger away along the corridor, and absently waved his wand at the
pile of sick outside his office, causing it to vanish. His expression was carefully blank, and he
stood there some time.



11. Chapter Eleven
------------------

Chapter Eleven.

“You’ve lost you mind,” said Ron in disbelief. “Tell her, Harry!”

“Well, I…” Harry sputtered. Hermione stared at him beadily. “I don’t really understand it
either,” he said, trying for tact. “What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?”

“You’re going to be miserable for the rest of the year,” Ron prophesised gloomily. “It was bad
enough that *I* had to be paired with a Slytherin, but at least I didn’t walk into it.”

The three of them were sitting before the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room. It was Wednesday
evening, just after dinner, and Ron was still munching on an enormous slice of fruit cake that he
had taken from the Great Hall as dinner was ending. They had spent most of the afternoon in Charms,
their first class of the year in that subject. Predictably, Flitwick had lectured them on their
responsibility not to slacken off after the efforts of the OWL year. Harry was beginning to think
that it was a lecture that he could now repeat by heart, having heard it in just about every class
he had had so far. He had pretended to pay attention, and taken the opportunity to study the rest
of the class. It was also a mixture, and rather large. Charms was one of the more popular classes
at Hogwarts, and every House was well represented in it, although Harry noted that they had tended
to congregate into their four separate groups.

It had surprised him to see that Hermione was also studying the other students, instead of
focussing entirely upon their teacher, as she usually did. She had a determined look upon her face,
and Harry felt his heart sink within him. It was the kind of look she got when preaching about
SPEW, or lately, the treatment – or mistreatment, as Hermione would put it – of goblins and other
non-human magical creatures as well. It didn’t bode well for the lesson, even though Harry couldn’t
see any object of her crusade present. From the look of her, she’d find a way to work it in. He
cringed inwardly, and then reconsidered. At least her attention had been taken off him for a while.
Since his lesson with Snape the previous evening, Harry had been alternately moody and silent. Both
Ron and Hermione had noticed the change in him as soon as they had seen him, but no amount of
coaxing – or even Ron’s flat out demand – had made him tell them what had occurred.

Eventually they had given up, or at least moved onto other subjects, while still shooting him
worried glances that were more annoying than reassuring. Harry was grateful for their lessons, as
it gave him an excuse not to pay any attention to them, although he could tell that Ron, in
particular, wasn’t buying his newfound scholarship. He just didn’t want to talk about it – it was
enough that he had lain awake the previous night, hearing the words of his Potions Master echo
again and again throughout his head. He had even tried concentrating on his scar, willing it to
burst into pain – anything to enable him to discount Snape’s theory. He had gotten up at dawn,
groggy and resigned, hoping for an easy day.

His Charms lesson had bought a new set of difficulties. Hermione might have been momentarily
concentrated on something else, but he was very aware of both her and Ron. Harry knew that Flitwick
was also likely to get them sorted into pairs, and he was torn as to which of his friends to work
with. Realistically, he knew he’d be better off with Hermione – at least then he’d be forced to get
things done. And if Harry was honest with himself, he wasn’t happy about the idea of letting her
out of his sight after the events of the summer. He knew there was something she wasn’t telling
him, and there was something in her manner that he felt was related, something new, and it worried
him.

But Harry could also feel Ron shooting him assessing glances. Ron, who was supposed to be his
best friend, who Harry knew was already feeling left out. He had seen as much in their Defence
classes. Harry could see that Ron was really making an effort to get past the jealousy that he
often felt, and Harry didn’t want to make it any harder on him by rubbing his nose in it.

In the end, Hermione had made the decision for him. Almost the exact second that Flitwick had
told them to arrange themselves into pairs; she had stood up, ignoring Harry and Ron, and marched
deliberately over to the corner of the room where the Slytherins were gathered. Harry felt himself
gape, and could see out of the corners of his eyes a matching expression on nearly every face in
the room, which had gone almost completely silent. Every pair of eyes, it seemed, was fixed upon
Hermione.

She had stopped in front of a familiar-looking Slytherin that Harry identified as Blaise Zabini.
He briefly recalled that Zabini had been given the new Prefect position after it had been taken
away from Malfoy.

“Hello, Blaise,” said Hermione in a calm, friendly voice. “Would you like to work as my Charms
partner this year?”

Next to Harry, Ron dropped his wand in amazement. The entire class seemed to gasp together in
astonishment.

Zabini was looking up at Hermione sarcastically. “Why would I want to do that, Granger?” From
behind him, somewhere in the midst of the Slytherin group, there was a quiet hiss.
“*Mudblood!*” Harry tensed in anger, and from the corner of his eye he saw Ron start turning a
dangerous-looking red. Zabini, he noticed, merely glanced behind him towards where the hiss came
from, and made no comment on it. Instead, he returned his gaze to Hermione.

“I think as Prefects we should set a good example, don’t you?” said Hermione, a trifle shakily,
her face pink. “But of course if you don’t *want* to work with the smartest witch in the year,
it’s no skin off my nose,” she added coolly, turning to go back to her seat.

“Wait!” said Zabini suddenly, reluctantly. “I didn’t say that.” Slowly, suspicion still plain on
his face, he shifted along the form to make a space next to him at the end of the bench.
Determinedly calm, Hermione returned to her desk, collected her school-things and moved to sit
beside Zabini, amongst the Slytherins. Harry noticed that she didn’t look him or Ron in the face
the entire time. There was a moment of silence, and then the entire class started to whisper to
each in excited tones.

“Blimey,” Ron breathed.

“Don’t make such a fuss,” Hermione had said to them loftily at the end of the class, as they
were filing out of the classroom. She said it again at dinner, and again in front of the fire in
the Common Room, where people were still giving her strange looks. “Don’t make such a *fuss*,
Ronald.”

Ron looked as if he was going to snap at her for a minute, before taking a deep breath. Harry
could see him barely restrain the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m not making a fuss,” he said, in a
harassed tone. “I just don’t understand why you did it.”

“I would have thought that was obvious,” said Hermione. “The two of you know as well as I do
that inter-House rivalry is a bad thing. Look at Quidditch, and all the bad feelings *that*
causes.”

Harry and Ron carefully avoided looking at each other. She might have been their best friend,
but Hermione had some decidedly funny ideas about their favourite sport.

“Besides,” continued Hermione, “you’ve heard the Sorting Hat. The school has to stand together,
now more than ever.”

“Alright,” argued Ron. “I get that you think that. But why not choose a Hufflepuff, or a
Ravenclaw?”

“I already have,” said Hermione calmly. “I’m partnered with Susan Bones for Ancient Runes and
History of Magic, and Padma Patil from Ravenclaw is working with me in Arithmancy.”

“But *Slytherin*,” said Ron again, clearly revolted. “Tell her, Harry!”

“Harry’s not going to tell me anything of the sort,” snapped Hermione. “Are you?”

Harry crouched down further inside himself and stared into the fire. “Don’t go dragging me into
this,” he grumbled. Their bickering, combined with his lack of sleep from the night before, was
beginning to give him a headache.

“Fine,” said Ron, whose ears were beginning to redden. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

“I don’t need warning,” said Hermione wearily. “I know exactly what I’m doing. It’s all very
well, Ron, for you to say ‘don’t get involved with the Slytherins’ but you know perfectly well that
it’s not just me. *No-one* from the rest of the other Houses likes them, and it’s not fair.
They can’t help what House they were sorted into.”

“Bollocks,” said Ron, his voice getting louder. “They’re all terrible, you know they are. You
didn’t pick Zabini because you thought you could get through to him. You picked him because the
only other Prefect was Millicent Bulstrode.”

“I’m not doing *anything* with Bulstrode,” interrupted Hermione shrilly, obviously without
thinking.

“Yeah,” said Ron, chuckling. “No surprise there. Didn’t she have you in a headlock at the end of
last term?”

Hermione shot him a very dirty look. “I’m not denying that some of them are awful. But they
can’t all be that bad. And if I don’t start to work with them, who will? You? Harry?”

“Forget it,” said Harry flatly. He was only half-listening, but he thought it was better to bang
*that* idea on the head before Hermione started to run away with it.

“And I’m *already* stuck with Malfoy,” pointed out Ron. “I’m doing my bit for inter-House
cooperation, if that’s what you want to call it. Don’t think it will do any good though.”

“It won’t with that attitude,” said Hermione briskly.

“What do you want from me?” asked Ron, in obvious puzzlement. “You want me to say that I like
him? That I want to work with him? Because I don’t. Even if I pretended to, Malfoy’s not stupid
enough to fall for it.”

Hermione patted him on the arm. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to snap. You don’t have to
like him. I don’t much myself.”

“You don’t have to work with him either,” said Ron, working himself up. “I’ve got to start
tonight, you know. In a couple of hours!” He scowled horribly, and then suddenly brightened up.
“Hey! D’you reckon if I pushed him off the Astronomy Tower-”

“No!” Hermione interrupted with great firmness.

“I’d do it when no-one was looking,” Ron offered. “It’s not like anyone’d miss him.”

“They might,” said Hermione, but her mouth twitched as she said it. “Look, I don’t know. But
you’re stuck with him for the rest of the year so you might as well try and make the most of it.
You don’t have to like him. Just… just be civil, alright?”

“Civil, she says,” said Ron, rolling his eyes. “How long are you going to be civil about Zabini,
then? I’ve got a box of Chocolate Frogs that says you’re screaming at him by the end of the
month.”

“I don’t *scream* at anyone,” said Hermione confidently. Ron snorted, and she glared at
him. “I don’t,” she said again, her voice rising. “Do I, Harry?”

Harry’s head throbbed. “I think I’m going to go for a walk,” he said abruptly, and made for the
portrait hole before either of them could try and stop him.

*

Harry made his way aimlessly through the corridors. He felt bad about worrying his friends, but
he didn’t think that he could take another evening of listening to Ron and Hermione bicker.
Strangely, the cosy atmosphere of the Gryffindor common room was making him feel worse, as if he
was dragging the poison of Snape’s words into a place where he had always felt at home, tainting
it. And yet ghosting through the halls on his own was making him feel still more lonely and
miserable.

Eventually, he found himself just below the Owlery. The thought of seeing Hedwig, and being
among the small noises and movements of the owls was somehow comforting to him. He had just climbed
the last few steps into the high open space when he saw a familiar figure at the far end of the
room, gazing silently out into the night. Harry cursed silently to himself, and turned to go. He
liked Neville, and lately he had begun to feel closer to him than ever before, but he just didn’t
want company at the moment. Before he could make his escape, however, he heard Neville’s voice echo
quietly around the Owlery.

“It’s nice up here, isn’t it? Quiet. Makes it easier to think.”

“Yeah,” agreed Harry. He felt a twinge of shame that he hadn’t even considered the fact that
Neville too might want to be alone. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone was up here. I’ll just
get out of your way, then.”

“You can stay if you like,” said Neville slowly.

“Thanks,” said Harry awkwardly. He didn’t really want to now, but he didn’t want to be rude
either. He made his way over to Neville and leaned on the balcony. The two of them stood side by
side, staring out into the dark. Harry was surprised at the easiness of the silence between them.
He didn’t feel the need to say anything, or to do anything, and the silence between them stretched
for a long time.

“So what did he do to you then?” asked Neville eventually.

“What?” said Harry, startled back into an awareness of himself. “Who?”

Neville gave him a sympathetic glance. “Snape, of course. I came up here to send a letter to
Gran. Thought I might be able to get out of it. Didn’t even send it in the end.” He turned back to
the blackness. “It wouldn’t have done any good. Besides, you were right before; you and Hermione
and Ron. I can’t go being scared of him forever.”

“Be grateful that you’re only scared of him,” said Harry bitterly, before he could stop
himself.

“What is it you’re really doing with him?” said Neville curiously. “Ron said you had Remedial
Potions last night…”

“Yeah,” said Harry again.

“But you were doing that last year too,” persisted Neville. “That’s what I heard Malfoy saying,
anyway.”

“So?” said Harry uncomfortably. “It’s never been my best class, has it?” He glanced at Neville,
who was regarding him closely, with a very strange expression on his face. Harry swallowed
nervously. He didn’t know why, but suddenly, in the half-light, Neville looked almost like an
*adult*.

“I never had to take Remedial Potions,” said Neville quietly.

Harry’s palms began to sweat, and he wished that he had never come into the tower, had never
stayed. He wished that he had listened to his earlier instinct to be alone. Neville was easily one
of Snape’s worst students. The fact that he had done so well on his OWLS spoke of a latent ability
that was merely suppressed by the domineering attitude of the Potions Master – but until the OWL
exam, Neville had given absolutely no reason to believe he had any ability in Potions at all. If
Snape was giving private tutorials in Remedial Potions, then Neville would have been at the top of
the list to receive them. Quickly Harry tried to think of an excuse, but his mind was blank, and he
was all too well aware of the seconds ticking away. The longer he waited, the less plausible his
excuse was likely to be.

“It’s alright,” said Neville eventually. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” He
turned back to the balcony, and although his voice was carefully neutral, Harry could see from the
set of his shoulders that his refusal to answer had hurt his friend.

“It’s not that,” he said quickly, desperately. The thought of upsetting Neville filled him with
guilt, but Harry knew that if he did tell him, he would have disobeyed Dumbledore’s orders on
keeping quiet about his extracurricular activities. It seemed he would feel guilty either way, and
the thought raked at him. *This is terribly unfair*, Harry thought resentfully. *And I’m so
bloody tired of feeling guilty.*

“It’s not that,” he said again. “You caught me by surprise, that’s all. Does anybody else
know?”

“I don’t think so,” said Neville.

“Are you *sure*?” said Harry. “I mean, if anyone’s come to the same conclusion that you
have…”

“Don’t worry,” said Neville, in that same strangely adult way. “I covered for you. Seamus and a
couple of the others asked why I wasn’t doing it last year, and I told them it was because there
was no way I was going to do extra classes with Snape.”

Harry stared at him, dumbstruck. “Did they believe you?”

“I think so.” Neville grinned at him shyly, the moonlight casting strange shadows on his round
face. “They probably thought that I’d rather fail than do something like that. Well, they’d be
right, wouldn’t they?”

“Neville, I don’t know what to say,” said Harry honestly. “Thanks. I really mean that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Neville. “I assumed there’d be a good reason behind it.”

“There is,” said Harry. “At least I thought there was,” he added morosely. He looked over at his
friend, who was once again staring out into the dark. The owls swooped and coughed behind them,
hooting quietly to each other on their perches. The temptation to tell Neville about the Occlumency
lessons was overwhelming, and suddenly Dumbledore’s stricture against it seemed less important.
Although Neville wasn’t aware of the prophecy – Harry would have died before telling him – he felt
a certain kinship with him nonetheless. If not for a strange twist of fate, it might be Neville
alone in the dark after his Occlumency lesson, Neville alone with knowledge that he was apparently
all that stood between Voldemort and the destruction of the wizarding world. Harry couldn’t help
but wonder if, had their positions been reversed, he would have shown the same quiet loyalty to
Neville as his friend had now shown to him, possibly for many months, unknown to himself.

It was that which decided him. Neville had already figured out more than most – he was probably
more than halfway there, Harry reasoned to himself. He had already proved that he could be trusted
to keep his mouth shut. Dumbledore’s face swam before Harry’s eyes, and he resolutely pushed it
away. If either option - telling Neville or not telling him – was going to laden him with yet more
guilt, then it was his responsibility, and no-one else’s, to decide what form that guilt should
take.

*Dumbledore was wrong*, thought Harry, suddenly, clearly. *He was wrong*. The thought
shook him deeply, but beneath it all was a small solid core of self-belief that had just pushed its
way up. For too long now, Harry felt, he had let people shove him into things without knowing the
reason why, always relying on them – and mistakes had been made. It was a bitter knowledge, and
bitterer still was the fact that when he had finally acted on his own, against the advice of his
friends, it had been Sirius that had paid the price. And yet at last, on the Owlery Tower with
Neville, Harry acknowledged to himself that the fact that he had made bad decisions in the past
would not absolve him from the need to make decisions in the future. Never again would he be so
rash and thoughtless, but the need to regain some of the trust in his own judgement was strong, and
he was convinced that now, the decision to trust was the right one.

“Snape’s teaching me Occlumency,” he said abruptly. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Hermione
and Ron have known since last year, and of course McGonagall and Dumbledore do as well.”

“*Occlumency?*” said Neville, his voice wavering. “But that’s really advanced…”

“Tell me about it,” said Harry flatly.

“It isn’t going well, is it?” said Neville acutely, round face screwed up in thought.

“I wonder if it’s going at all,” said Harry darkly. Haltingly, he recounted what had happened
the previous evening. Neville’s face got paler and paler.

“That’s… that’s just *sick*,” he said finally. “What right does he have to say those things
to you?”

“Why shouldn’t he have the right?” Harry countered. “Tell me – what did he say that wasn’t true?
And if it’s the only way to stop Voldemort, what right does he have *not* to say it?”

“I can’t believe you’re defending Snape,” gasped Neville. The strange adultness had gone from
his face, and he looked like a boy again.

“It’s either defend him or defend myself!” hissed Harry. “And I can hardly do that, can I?
Sirius is *dead*. And it’s *my fault!*”

“So what are you going to do?” asked Neville. He sounded very young.

“I don’t know,” admitted Harry. “There’s not a lot I can do, is there?”

“So you’re just going to let him keep doing this to you?” said Neville, incredulous.

“Looks that way, doesn’t it,” said Harry shortly. “Unless you’ve got any better
suggestions.”

There was a long silence. “You could stop sulking about it and try taking your own advice,” said
Neville in a rush, his voice high and shaking.

Harry gaped at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Neville’s voice wavered a bit, and then strengthened. “Who was it telling me a
couple of days ago – not to worry about Snape, that I just needed confidence?”

“Er… that was me, I guess,” said Harry, feeling a little sheepish.

Neville’s voice drifted at him from out of the dark. “Did you mean it?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, and to his own surprise he almost laughed. “But I don’t think it’s the
same…”

“Isn’t it? You could learn Occlumency if you wanted to,” Neville went on. “Just like you said I
could do Potions. Course, neither of us actually *wants* to… but I don’t think we’ve got that
much choice in the matter. Right?”

“Right,” said Harry after a moment, a bit bemused.

“So it looks like we’ve both got a choice. I can fail Potions and waste a year’s study, or I can
find a way to pass despite the fact that Snape scares me half to death. And you…” Neville’s voice
became penetrating “…you can be scared of him too, or you can learn the bloody thing and tell him
and his nasty mind to get stuffed. Does that about sum it up?”

Harry gaped in amazement. At that moment he realised that he’d always seen Neville as being
somewhat less than capable than himself. Since Dumbledore’s revelation about the prophecy, there’d
always been a sneaking relief at the back of his mind that Neville *wasn’t* the one burdened
with it. Harry was ashamed to realise that in some ways, Neville was actually further ahead. He
hadn’t sent that letter to his grandmother… had made the decision not to before Harry had even set
foot in the Owlery. It all made him feel just a little bit embarrassed.

“Yeah,” he said. “That just about sums it up. You’re right, you know.” In the darkness, he could
see Neville’s round face blushing with pleasure.

“First time for everything, I suppose.”

“I mean it,” said Harry. “Thanks. And… thanks for being the only person who hasn’t tripped over
themselves to tell me that it wasn’t my fault.” His eyes burned, and he scrubbed at them with his
sleeve.

“We all had a hand in it, Harry,” Neville said sadly. “A lot of people made mistakes that night.
At least… at least yours was in good faith.”

“Doesn’t change the end result though, does it?” said Harry bitterly.

“No,” said Neville. “It’s…”

“It’s almost time for you to be back in your House,” came a drawling voice from the stairwell.
“Students aren’t allowed to roam the school at night, you know. Well-” and they could hear the
smirk in his voice, “Prefects excepted.”

Harry spun about, off-balance. It was difficult to see the speaker because of the light in the
door behind him, but his voice sounded familiar. Slowly, Harry’s eyes adjusted, and with a chill,
he recognised him as Blaise Zabini, the Slytherin Prefect Hermione had confronted earlier in the
day.

“How long have you been standing there?” Harry asked harshly.

“Standing, or listening?” Zabini said rather nastily.

“Both,” Neville piped up from behind Harry.

“None of your business,” said the Slytherin Prefect flatly.

“I don’t know what you heard,” said Harry warningly, “but if you say anything, I’ll…”

“You’ll what? Try and make *friends* with me?” Zabini laughed sarcastically. “I don’t think
so, Potter.” He moved back towards the door. “Now unless you want me to give you a detention, I
suggest you get back to your House quick-smart.”

Harry and Neville had no choice but to obey.

*

They were halfway back to Gryffindor House when they passed the corridor where the
Transfiguration classroom was. Harry noticed that there was a thin line of light shining under the
door.

“Go on ahead, Neville,” he said. “I’ll catch up in a bit. I just need to talk to McGonagall
about something.”

“Don’t be too long,” Neville warned. “You don’t want to get a detention. That Slytherin
Prefect…”

“I’ve still got a few minutes.” Seeing Neville disappear down the gloom of the darkened
corridor, Harry moved over to the door of his Transfiguration classroom and, steeling himself,
knocked upon it. When he heard the crabby voice of his teacher, he pushed open the door and walked
in. McGonagall was sitting behind her desk, a quill in her hand and a pile of parchment before her.
She looked up at Harry, an expression of surprise on her face.

“Mr. Potter. What can I do for you this time of night?” She sounded a little annoyed, and Harry
swallowed. No doubt she had expected him to be safely tucked up in Gryffindor Tower by now. His
habit of roaming the corridors at night had no doubt not gone unnoticed. Harry hesitated for a
moment, and then decided it was best just to spit it out.

“I thought you should know, Professor,” he said, inwardly surprised at how calm he sounded.
“Neville knows about my having Occlumency classes with Professor Snape.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed.” She scowled at him and dropped her quill down on the pile
of parchments with an audible *snap*. “And how precisely did Mr. Longbottom come into this
knowledge?”

“I told him,” said Harry honestly. He felt like cringing at her glare, but forced himself to
meet her eyes. “He suspected something anyway. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Did I not make it perfectly plain to you, Potter,” said McGonagall, “that it was the wish of
Professor Dumbledore and myself that you kept your extra lessons a secret? Was I in any way
unclear?”

“No Professor,” admitted Harry. “You were quite clear.” He lifted his chin slightly, feeling
quite stubborn but also feeling, for once, as if he was in the right. “And while you’re right in
that it shouldn’t be public knowledge, I was right to tell Neville.”

McGonagall leaned back in her chair, eyeing him beadily. “That’s not your decision to make, Mr.
Potter.”

“I’m very sorry, Professor,” said Harry politely but determinedly, “but I disagree. Anyway, I
just thought you should know.” He turned and made to leave, feeling a bit nervous but better than
he thought he would. At the doorway he turned.

“I didn’t have to tell you this, you know,” he said carefully, almost sadly, staring at the
floor. “It was a matter of courtesy, that’s all.”

He shut the door behind him, and made his way back to the Common Room. He found Hermione
ensconced in an armchair, hidden behind a massive Arithmancy textbook. The Common Room was nearly
deserted, and it was obvious to Harry that she had been waiting up for him.

“Hi,” he said, seeing the worry on her face and feeling a tinge of regret.

“Harry!” said Hermione, closing her textbook and marking the page carefully. “Are you… are you
feeling better?” she asked tentatively.

Harry nodded. “Yes,” he said simply. “I am.” He was surprised to find that he actually meant
it.



12. Chapter Twelve
------------------

Chapter Twelve.

Harry scowled as he stirred his cauldron. Potions was, as usual, going horribly. And Hermione,
of all people, had just made it worse.

He had come to the dungeons buoyed by Neville’s example, determined to be polite to Snape. Harry
knew perfectly well he would never like his Potions teacher, but had come to the conclusion that
perhaps it was possible to find some common ground between them. Just enough to be able to work
together – enough so his Occlumency lessons would stop being such nightmares. Harry knew that his
own lacklustre performance at Occlumency hadn’t endeared him to the Potions Master. Snape would
never like him, it was true, but he might perhaps be brought to respect him.

Harry couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that he was going to try civility with Snape for
no greater reason than improving their complicated relationship, but every time he doubted his
decision (and the first ten minutes of class gave him plenty of the usual reasons to do so) he saw
Neville out of the corner of his eye, looking pale and nervous in a corner with Susan Bones.
Neville was terrified of Snape, but had managed to steel himself to take Potions class anyway.
Harry, on the other hand, was not at all afraid of the Potions Master, but thought that if Neville
was prepared to face his own challenge, then it would be a bit cowardly of Harry to refuse to do
the same.

The badly hidden shock on Snape’s face at Harry’s careful politeness had almost made the effort
worth it on its own. Harry smirked inwardly, but was careful to show nothing on his face. He
loathed Snape with a passion, but indulging in that emotion would only play into the hands of the
Potions Master. Made overconfident, Harry had gone too far in trying to be pleasant. He had known
that he had made a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth.

Snape had been sweeping around the class, demanding that they volunteer a particularly difficult
potion to make as their project for the year. He had already pointed out that it must be of a high
level of complexity – Harry suspected it was because he wanted to fail as many of the class as
possible. As long as they weren’t Slytherins, that is.

“Potter. Miss Granger,” said Snape in an oily voice. “I hope the dream couple of Hogwarts has
some idea of their plans for my class?” The Slytherins sniggered. “I must tell you, Miss Granger,
that I will not tolerate a drop in standards just because you happen to be partnered with someone
of *markedly* inferior abilities.”

“I’m sure Harry and I will do just fine,” said Hermione coolly, and began to suggest several
ideas she had – all for potions Harry had never heard of.

“Miss Granger,” Snape interrupted sarcastically. “Far be it from me to intrude upon your dreams
of grandeur, but you should realise that some of those potions are *very advanced indeed*.” He
tossed a book at her. “I suggest you look through this and try to come up with something more
appropriate to your skill level.” His lip curled. “And the…er… *skills* of your partner.”

Harry opened his mouth to speak but saw Neville frantically shaking his head at him from the
corner of his eye. He bit his tongue and counted to ten – and remembered how Lupin had described to
him Snape’s talent in making potions. Later he realised he should just have shut up, but some mad
desire to at least build some kind of bridge with the Potions Master swept over him.

“Talking of difficult potions,” he said quietly, so that no-one other than Snape would hear him,
“Lupin told me what you did for him. The Wolfsbane Potion. I guess… I guess I just wanted to say
thanks.”

Snape reared back, looking utterly affronted. “Don’t go getting the wrong idea, boy,” he hissed.
“I only ever made one batch, but Professor Lupin needs so little each month…” He brought his greasy
head close to Harry’s. “Personally I’d like nothing better than to leave him to suffer, but I
cannot abide the waste of good ingredients.”

Harry could feel his control over his temper slip, but before he could say anything, the sound
of a book slapping shut reached his ears. Hermione practically shoved it back into Snape’s arms.
Her expression was very cold, and Harry realised that she must have heard the entire conversation.
“That cauldron won’t last forever,” she said in a tone of dangerous sweetness. “And since it’s
obviously such a burden to you to make more, Harry and I can do it.”

“What?” blurted Harry, appalled. This hadn’t gone the way he had planned at all. Snape, on the
other hand, was positively beaming.

“Interesting choice you’ve made there, Potter,” said Snape, looking as scarily happy as Harry
had ever seen him. “I hope it doesn’t come back to *bite* you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Harry furiously, ignoring the fact that it hadn’t been his
choice at all – which was something that Snape was perfectly well aware of.

Snape cocked an eyebrow. “You should be more careful about the company you keep, Potter,” he
said softly, dangerously. He looked at Hermione and then, very deliberately, at Neville. “It can be
more trouble than its worth.”

Behind them, Harry heard a muffled snort of laughter. He rounded on the person behind him, and
saw Blaise Zabini smirking at him. The knowing glance that passed between the Slytherin Prefect and
the Potions Master kept Harry fuming for the rest of the lesson – the more so because he couldn’t
do anything about it.

*

Hermione was frantically flipping through an enormous Potions book, her face getting paler by
the minute. “I can’t believe we have to make this!” she said shrilly. “Just *look* at the
ingredients!”

Ron peered over her shoulder. “There’s got to be over a hundred of them. Snape’s not going to
give you any – you know that, don’t you?”

Hermione glared at him. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Me?” said Ron, looking offended. “Why shouldn’t I? I’m allowed…”

“This is the first week of school,” said Hermione. “I’ve *never* seen you in the library
this early before.”

“It’s not my fault,” said Ron grumpily, flinging himself into a chair. “It’s Malfoy, the git. He
didn’t do *anything* last night, just folded his arms and smirked. *I had to do all the
work!*”

“Well that won’t kill you,” said Hermione sarcastically. “It might actually be good for
you.”

Ron stared at her as if she had grown a second head. “Harry, tell her!”

Both Ron and Hermione were glaring at him. Harry thought it best just to tell the truth. “Hey,
if you fail, he fails. I wouldn’t do his work for him.”

“Yeah,” said Ron. “But… Malfoy doesn’t have to go home to *Mum* when he fails.”

“Perhaps if you worried less about Malfoy’s grades and more about your own you wouldn’t have
that problem,” said Hermione sniffily.

“That’s not the point!” protested Ron. “Just because you’ve gotten yourself into a great fat
mess doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me.”

Hermione scowled at him, but Ron was saved from her reply when a big hand reached down over the
top of her and plucked the Potions book out from in front of her.

“A great fat mess is a good way of describing it,” Lupin said mildly. “Harry, I’m almost afraid
to ask, but why in Merlin’s name did you suggest this to Snape?”

“Ha!” said Ron, before Harry could open his mouth. “Harry didn’t do anything of the sort.”

“It was me,” admitted Hermione uncomfortably. “I know I shouldn’t have, but he was just being
so…” she trailed off, and Lupin looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

“You shouldn’t make promises you cannot keep,” said Lupin softly.

Hermione turned red, but met his eyes. “With all due respect, Professor, I haven’t failed yet. I
don’t intend to start now.”

Behind her, Ron reached for a shelf and furtively stuffed an astronomy book inside his
robes.

*

Even after dinner, the grounds were still light, which made Harry feel better. The thought of
stumbling into the Forbidden Forest in the dark (even when he knew he would have to stumble
*out* of it in the dark) was a small comfort to him. He had asked Ron again over dinner
whether he wanted to come out with them, but Ron had just given a hollow laugh, and Harry couldn’t
really blame him. Every time they had ended up in the Forbidden Forest something had gone
disastrously awry, and he knew better than to expect anything different this time. Still, at least
he and Hermione would have Lupin with them this time.

Lupin had finally relented and agreed to help them with the Potion, although he did so very
grudgingly. Harry couldn’t help but think that the thought of Snape gloating all year in the
staffroom about their likely failure was one factor. He had managed to persuade Lupin to substitute
their first training session for a trip into the Forbidden Forest. There was a particular
ingredient that grew there, and Harry had argued that they might as well go and get it, treating
the trip as an exercise in practical Defence. He had also hinted rather broadly that if Lupin
didn’t agree, then he and Hermione might have to sneak out with Harry’s invisibility cloak and give
it a go themselves – and it was this that had finally convinced their teacher. The Forest was still
forbidden to students, and Harry knew that Lupin would accompany them himself before letting them
go out alone – no matter how unhappy he was about it.

“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Hermione muttered as they waited on the steps to the Entrance
Hall, wrapped in cloaks against the evening breeze.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Harry.

“I’m serious,” said Hermione, a shade unhappily. “It was a *stupid* thing to suggest. I
could’ve bitten my tongue as soon as I said it.”

“Try to look on the bright side,” said Harry, wishing that he could do so himself. “Snape was
bound to hate *anything* that we were going to do. At least now he’s got a good excuse.”

Hermione frowned. “That’s not funny, Harry. I know this is my fault, and I’ll get this Potion
right if it kills me.”

Harry took a deep breath. “It wouldn’t be the end of the world if we couldn’t do it, you know.”
Hermione glared at him. “I’m just saying! Lupin told me that there’s only a handful of witches and
wizards who can make it work.”

“And you don’t think I’m one of them?”

“I didn’t say that. But you’ve got me as your partner, remember? That hasn’t exactly bettered
the odds.”

Hermione glared at him again. “We’re going to be *fine*. I don’t want to hear you say
otherwise, Harry Potter. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Hermione,” said Harry dutifully, grinning as she rolled her eyes at him.

Lupin joined them shortly afterwards, an apprehensive look on his face. “I can’t believe I’m
going along with all this.”

“Yeah, well. You can’t always be the responsible one,” Harry quipped. Even though the thought of
a return visit to the Forbidden Forest had tied his stomach in knots, part of him felt buoyant to
be out of the castle, and away from everyone’s eyes. It was a relief just to be doing something. He
met Lupin’s gaze innocently, but his teacher just shook his head in disbelief.

“Alright, you two. Stay close together and keep your wands out. For pity’s sake *don’t* go
wandering off – we’re going straight to Grawp’s clearing and coming straight back.”

“Um, Professor?” Hermione squeaked, as they started across the lawn. “Are you sure Grawp’s
actually gone?”

Lupin nodded. “Hagrid took him away over the summer holidays.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Over to France at first, I think, but after that…”

“Oh, no,” groaned Harry. “Don’t tell me he’s going after the Giants again.”

Lupin looked at him sympathetically. “That was my assumption, though I never asked. I can’t help
thinking it’s a lost cause, myself,” he finished absently, as they came to the fringe of the
Forest. Harry and Hermione hung back a little. Lupin turned to survey them. “Are you sure you want
to do this? You needn’t feel obliged to carry on for my sake, I assure you. And I expect even
Professor Snape will let you change to another topic if you ask him to.”

Harry snorted. “Fat chance.” Beside him, he could see Hermione’s shoulders straighten as she
took a deep breath.

“Harry’s right, Professor. He’d never let us change now. Personally, I’d just as soon as not
give him the pleasure of saying no, if you don’t mind.”

Lupin shook his head in dismay. “I give up. You’re both as stubborn as each other. Come on
then.”

It got steadily darker and cooler as they drew away from the fringe and moved deeper into the
Forest. Harry wrapped his cloak around him a bit more closely, trying not to trip over the tree
roots in his path. Missing one, he stubbed his toe badly. “What do these things look like again?”
he grumbled.

“They’re not things, Harry, they’re Silvercaps,” said Hermione quietly. “Honestly, I showed you
at lunch, remember? They’re like horse mushrooms, but their caps glow silver in the moonlight –
which is why you find them in clearings. They’re forest dwelling, but need the moonlight to
grow.”

“I wonder if that’s why they’re used in the Potion?” said Harry, and Hermione nodded
thoughtfully.

“I think so. After all, werewolves are strongly affected by the lunar cycle, and a lot of the
ingredients we need have a connection to the moon as well.” She shivered a little. “I don’t like
this place. I don’t like it *at all*.”

“We’ll be there soon,” said Lupin comfortingly.

“It’s just so quiet,” said Hermione despairingly. “Is it always like this? I don’t
remember…”

“It’s nothing,” said Harry, though he inwardly admitted that she was right. He cursed under his
breath at himself, and Hermione scowled at him. “Uh, I tripped again…” he lied. “Bloody rocks.” The
Forest did indeed seem too quiet, with none of the small rustlings that generally scared him half
to death. Harry concentrated carefully, but although the hair on the back of his neck seemed to
rise, there was no feeling of immediate danger. He gripped his wand tighter, and noticed that Lupin
was also scanning the Forest on either side of them with greater urgency. His wand was held before
him, glowing with light, and although it lit their way Harry knew that if anything was out there,
it would also draw them closer in.

The feeling became stronger, and he was relieved when a few minutes later they reached the
clearing. The trees that Grawp had uprooted during his previous stay lay fallen like matchsticks,
but being out of the closeness of the Forest, in a place that he could feel cool air on his face,
made Harry feel slightly better.

Hermione tugged on his arm. “There! Do you see them, Harry?” Clumped around the edges of the
clearing was a faint silver haze. Harry squinted at it.

“Is that them?” he asked. “You know, somehow I thought they’d look a bit more impressive.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. “*Really*. What a thing looks like has no bearing on how
useful it is. Just look at Dragon’s-”

“Dragon’s blood,” Harry recited, smirking. “Amazingly useful. Yeah, I know.”

Hermione shot him a repressive look. She moved to the nearest patch of Silvercaps, and began
gathering them. Harry was just about to go and help her when a chill wind seemed to cut through the
clearing. It died down almost instantly, but the feeling that had been growing in Harry during
their walk in the Forest came back full force. He ran over to Lupin, who had his wand out and was
turning in slow circles, obviously also affected.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know,” said his teacher tersely. “Whatever it is, it’s getting closer.” He shook his
head in anger. “I should never have brought you two out here. Stupid, stupid.”

“We would have come anyway,” Harry said honestly. “With or without you…” his voice trailed off.
The glade had darkened suddenly, and a horrible, all too familiar feeling washed over him. It only
took a glance at his teacher’s face for him to realise that Lupin was also aware of the danger. A
cold mist swept through Harry’s mind, and he began to shake.

*Dementor*.

Wand lit, Harry circled in the darkness, trying to get a fix on the creature. In the few moments
it took for his eyes to get adjusted to the light streaming from his wand, he reached out with his
mind, trying to judge the direction from which the chill was coming. Disoriented, in the dark, when
he could see at last he felt his heart stop in his throat.

A Dementor stood between Hermione and himself and Lupin, advancing towards her as she crouched
beside the mushrooms. Frozen, Harry tried to call out to warn her, but his voice died in his throat
when he saw that she was already aware of it. Next to him, he could hear Lupin’s breath coming in
explosive gasps, and dimly he realised that his teacher was as shocked as he was.

For Hermione seemed not to be reacting to the Dementor at all. Her wand was still held loosely
in her hand, and she stared at it with a strangely distant expression. To Harry’s sheer disbelief,
she gathered the few Silvercaps she had gathered in her arms and began to walk slowly to the next
patch, turning her back on the Dementor as she did so. It moved to intercept her, and Harry willed
himself to move, but before he could speak the incantation that would summon his Patronus Hermione
had turned, and gazed straight at the Dementor with what looked like pure contempt. Amazed, Harry
was certain that he saw it shrink from her. He could have sworn that it *cringed*.

Beside him, Lupin broke into action, running to put himself in front of Hermione, calling
harshly at the Dementor. Silver shot from his wand, and an enormous wolf hounded the creature from
the clearing. Slowly, Harry felt his head clear, but still he couldn’t seem to make himself move.
He shook his head, trying to understand what had just happened.

Behind Lupin, Hermione was calmly picking the last of the mushrooms. Stowing her wand in a
pocket, she stood up and shook her hair from out of her face, arms full of Silvercaps. “Shall we go
then?” she said, and her voice had only a tiny tremble in it. “I think I’ve got enough now.”

“Hermione…” began Lupin hoarsely.

“I could really do with a mug of hot chocolate,” said Hermione thinly, and began to press back
onto the path back to the castle. Dazed, Lupin and Harry trailed after her.

“Did you see that?” said Harry quietly to his teacher, more to hear the sound of his own voice
than to get a response.

Lupin nodded abruptly, swallowing. “I thought… I thought you said she knew how to produce a
Patronus.”

“She does,” said Harry.

“And against the Boggart?”

“I told you,” Harry said. “She drove it off faster than anyone. Faster than I did when you
taught me, actually. I told you.”

“She learned faster than you did?” Lupin repeated, frowning.

“It’s different when it’s the real thing,” Harry argued, trying to convince himself. “Maybe she
just panicked.”

Lupin made a hollow noise. “That wasn’t panic – at least no panic I’ve ever seen. She knew what
she was doing, Harry. She didn’t even try to ward it off.”

“No,” agreed Harry reluctantly. “It seemed to want to go away on its own.” The thought made him
nervous, and the realisation that he and Lupin were speaking in hushed voices so that Hermione
couldn’t hear them made him more nervous still. He peered at her shadow in front of them on the
path, something nagging at him. In the silence that followed, he looked up beside him to see Lupin
staring down at him with a solemn, fixed expression. “Well it did, didn’t it?” Harry said
defensively.

“It did at that,” said Lupin slowly, unhappily. But his gaze never wavered. It made Harry feel
distinctly uncomfortable, and he was glad to break out of the Forest and hurry towards the warmth
and safety of the castle.

“Are you going to tell Dumbledore?” he asked as they went up the stairs and into the Entrance
Hall.

“This very evening,” said Lupin grimly. “But first… Hermione? Can I speak with you for a few
minutes?”

“I’m a bit tired actually, Professor,” said Hermione in a high, distant voice, not looking at
either him or Harry. “I think I’d really better go to bed. And I’ve got to do something with these
mushrooms first…” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and began to move automatically up the
stairs, going faster as she went up.

Harry started to go after her, but Lupin held him back. “My office. Now.”

He followed Lupin down the corridors into his office, craning his head behind him to see
Hermione disappearing up the stairs with her arms full of mushrooms. Not looking where he was
going, he would have banged into the door if his Defence teacher hadn’t hauled him to one side at
the last second.

Propelling him into the office, Lupin shut the door firmly behind him and rounded on Harry.

“Do you know what happened out there?” he demanded.

“No,” said Harry honestly, feeling as bewildered and worried as Lupin looked.

“Are you sure?” Lupin asked, his hands on his hips. “This is serious, Harry. If you know
something and you’re not telling me to get back at me for not telling you what happened over the
summer…”

“I’m not,” Harry insisted. “I’m *not*. The truth is… the truth is I don’t know what’s wrong
with her.”

Lupin regarded him steadily. “Alright. I believe you. But what we just saw tonight… something is
very wrong here Harry, and I want to know what it is – for Hermione’s sake, if nothing else. Do you
understand me?”

Harry nodded, and Lupin waved him towards a chair. “Sit.” He turned to rummage about with a
tray, making some tea and tipping some Ginger Newts onto a plate. Pushing a steaming teacup over to
Harry, he seated himself behind the desk. Harry noticed that he didn’t touch his own cup, and his
hands were interlocked so hard that the knuckles had turned white. Still, when Lupin spoke, his
voice was calm.

“I need you to think very hard, Harry. I know you don’t understand exactly what happened in the
Forest tonight, and to tell you the truth I don’t understand it either.” He rubbed at his forehead
tiredly. “Still, you know Hermione better than I do, and from the look on your face earlier tonight
I think you might have some idea about what’s going on. Now normally I wouldn’t force a confidence,
and I don’t want to have to do so now. But if there is something you would like to tell me, now
would be the time.”

Harry bit his lip, uncertain, and reached for a biscuit. He ate it slowly, deliberately not
looking at Lupin, and feeling torn. He didn’t like the idea of telling tales one bit, but the
incident with the Dementor had left him feeling shaken. He knew perfectly well that something was
bothering Hermione, and at this point he felt quite unequal to dealing with it.

“I don’t know what’s upsetting her,” he said finally, abruptly. “But I know that something is –
she’s said as much.” He hesitated, and looked at Lupin in appeal. “I don’t even know if I should be
telling you this,” he confessed, “But I just don’t know what to *do*.”

Lupin nodded slowly. “You’re in a difficult position,” he acknowledged neutrally. “Just do what
you think is best.”

Harry breathed in deeply, then let it all out in a rush. He was actually glad to have someone to
confide in about it – he hadn’t dared to tell Ron. “She’s been acting really weird lately, you
know? Not so much any more – you can only see it when she’s quiet. At first I thought it was her
parents, but…there’s something… something that’s happened that she hasn’t told me about. Hasn’t
told anyone, actually.”

“Are you sure about this?” said Lupin, starting a little.

“Yeah. She told me that something had happened the night… the night her parents were killed. She
won’t tell me what it is.”

Lupin looked thoughtful. “Could she have told anyone else about this?” he asked. “Ron, for
instance? Maybe Susan Bones?”

“I’m sure she hasn’t,” said Harry positively. “I’m the only one that knows that there’s
something else.”

Lupin leaned back in his chair. “I’m not sure how that can be,” he said, looking honestly
puzzled. “Aurors were with her all the time from when it happened to when she arrived at Grimmauld
Place. If anything had happened they would have said something to me or Dumbledore.”

“They were with her all the time?” said Harry. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what I was told,” said Lupin.

“That’s what you were told?” Harry repeated. “You mean you weren’t there yourself?”

“I apparated in when the alarm came,” said Lupin unhappily. “Aurors and Order members were
arriving all over the place, sweeping the house and the neighbourhood. It was chaos.”

“So you weren’t with her all the time,” clarified Harry.

“No,” said Lupin shortly, and Harry could see the questions begin to dawn in his eyes. He pushed
himself up from his desk, and quickly stepped over to the fireplace. There was an old brass jar on
the mantel, and reaching inside, Lupin tossed some of the contents into the fire, which blazed up
bright green. *Floo powder*, Harry realised.

“Auror Headquarters, Ministry of Magic,” Lupin said in a clear voice. An instant later a dark
head was visible in the flames.

“What is it?” the head said tersely.

“I need to speak to Nymphadora Tonks,” said Lupin tersely. “I’m Remus Lupin, the Defence
Against-”

“I know who you are,” the little man snapped back in disdain. “Auror Tonks is busy at the
moment; she has a lot of paperwork to catch up on. Is this an emergency, or can you call back
later?”

“It can’t wait,” said Lupin flatly.

The little man sighed, and pushed his glasses higher up on his nose with a look of great
annoyance. “One minute please.”

Harry and Lupin waited impatiently, Lupin motioning Harry to be quiet when it looked as if he
was going to comment. After a short wait, a head with spiky pink hair appeared in the fire. Lupin
interrupted her before she could speak.

“Is there any chance you could pop over for a bit of a chat?” he said. “The sooner the
better?”

“With *pleasure*.” Tonks’ head disappeared, and a few moments later she stepped out of the
fire, tripping over the grate and dusting soot from her cloak, eyeing them both grumpily.

“I’m glad you called,” she started. “I needed a distraction. Wotcher, Harry.”

“Hi, Tonks,” said Harry. “Who was that before?”

Tonks rolled her eyes. “Bates. He’s come to run the Auror Department. Madame Bones has foisted
him off on us. Bloody menace,” she grumbled.

“Really?” asked Lupin. “I wouldn’t have thought Amelia Bones would have…”

“She hasn’t, really,” said Tonks wearily. “Oh, I mean she *has*.” She helped herself to a
Ginger Newt. “Bates hasn’t been there very long, and there isn’t an Auror in the Ministry that
doesn’t hate his guts; but in all fairness he’s the best manager we’ve had for ages. Madame Bones
wants someone running things who won’t slip up, who won’t compromise trials and so on. I’ll give
him this,” she went on grudgingly, “his organisational skills are second to none. We’re running at
peak efficiency.” But she made a face as she said it.

“So what’s the problem?” Harry asked, mystified.

“Poor old Bates is a stickler for having things done *just so*,” answered Tonks. “He didn’t
think my report from today’s shift was thorough enough so I have to do it all again. Still,” she
brightened a bit, “you should have seen him yesterday. Apparently Kingsley was rash enough to put a
goblet of pumpkin juice on his desk without a coaster. I thought Bates’ head would explode!” she
went on mirthfully. “Kingsley says he’d rather face a couple of trolls than go through that
again!”

Harry and Lupin smiled somewhat weakly. Tonks glared at them. “Okay. I can see I didn’t waste my
life by not signing on as a comedy act for the wizarding wireless. What gives?”

Briefly, Lupin outlined the situation for her. Tonks sank into a chair and helped herself
somewhat absently to another biscuit.

“Well,” she said. “I don’t know how much I can help you here…”

“Were you with her the whole time?” Harry asked, and Tonks nodded thoughtfully.

“Perhaps you could just give us both a quick rundown,” suggested Lupin, getting them all some
more tea.

“I got there before Hermione, but after the attack,” said Tonks sombrely. “She’d gone to the
corner shop to pick up something for her mother. I was in front of the house when she got back;
could see her coming down the street. She seemed normal until she saw all the Aurors outside her
house, and then she started running. We stopped her from going in at first, tried to break it to
her gently, but she pushed passed us. On the door…” Tonks bit her lip and glanced at Lupin.

“Harry knows about the letter,” he said.

“Does Hermione know that he knows?” asked Tonks astutely.

“Yes,” said Harry impatiently. “That’s not it.”

Tonks eyed him assessingly. “Alright. She read the note and I think she must have known then.”
Tonks looked miserable. “Her little face went white and she pushed into the house before we could
stop her. I went with her; thought maybe it was better that she should see. You know, rather than
imagine it. There wasn’t much *to* see, actually: they just looked asleep. After a few moments
I took her out, and we came straight to Grimmauld Place.” She looked at Lupin. “You arrived only a
few minutes after that. I had Hestia Jones bring her some clothes and books from her bedroom-”

“Was there anything unusual in there?” Lupin asked, and Tonks shook her head.

“Nothing. Other than being freakishly tidy for a teenage girl, that is. Someone else found
Crookshanks in the garden.”

“Wasn’t there anything else?” said Lupin, and Harry could hear the barely concealed frustration
in his voice.

“No. Nothing.”

“Did she say anything at any time? Anything that could be important?”

“I didn’t hear two words out of her,” said Tonks. “She just looked. And…”

“What?” said Harry.

“It’s nothing,” said Tonks. “Probably just shock, I expect. But when she saw her parents’
bodies, she got the *oddest* look on her face. I don’t think I could describe it if you paid
me… gave me chills, to be honest,” she said. “Course, it was only there a few moments, then she
burst into tears and I took her away.” She looked round at them both. “Like I said, it was probably
shock.”

“That would be normal,” Lupin agreed. “But are you sure you didn’t see anything else? And you
thoroughly checked the house?”

“Positive. Aurors went over that place for two days solid, with every kind of spell we knew, and
a few more that Dumbledore suggested.”

“Well you missed something,” said Harry impatiently.

“No Harry,” said Tonks sadly, shaking her head at him. “We didn’t. I’d bet my life on it. There
was nothing else.”



13. Chapter Thirteen
--------------------

Chapter Thirteen.

“Harry. Harry!” Someone was shaking him roughly by the shoulder.

“Huh? Get off!” Harry waved his arm in the general direction of the disturbance. The sun was
bright on his pillow, and he squinted. “What time is it?” It had taken him hours to fall asleep,
and he had lain awake for a long time with plenty of uncomfortable thoughts. He reached for his
glasses.

“Breakfast,” said Ron shortly. “It’s almost over. If you don’t get up you’ll miss it.”

“Alright,” Harry grumbled, rolling out of bed and fumbling for his robe. The dormitory room was
empty apart from him and Ron, and looking at his friend, Harry realised that something was
bothering him. Ron was looking at him seriously. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a rumour going around the Great Hall,” said Ron slowly. “About Hermione and a
Dementor…”

“What?” yelped Harry. “How did they find out about that?”

“It’s true then,” said Ron, almost fearfully.

“Who told you?” Harry repeated, frantically pulling on his shoes.

“It’s all over. Don’t look like that; you know how this place is. You can’t keep a secret to
save your life here.” Ron picked at his sleeve. “Is it true? That there was a Dementor and it was
afraid of her?” He looked at Harry’s face. “Blimey.”

“Can no-one in this bloody school keep their mouth shut for five minutes?” grumbled Harry. “Does
Hermione know about this?”

“Haven’t seen her yet,” said Ron. “I think she’s still up in her room. Ginny’s gone to knock on
her door.”

“We better warn her,” said Harry resignedly, heading for the door.

“Uh, Harry?” said Ron, a bit hesitantly. “I just wanted to say… I’m sorry I wasn’t around last
night. I should have come with you, but… I just don’t like that bloody Forest. If I had known that
anything like this would happen, I would’ve come. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, clapping him on the shoulder. “I know.” But he couldn’t help but remember
promising Mrs. Weasley that he wouldn’t drag Ron off into any more dangerous situations. He flushed
slightly as he realised he’d forgotten all about the promise when he’d asked Ron to go with them.
“Still, at least your Mum can’t get upset about it,” he said.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” said Ron hotly. He narrowed his eyes. “She hasn’t been
getting at you, has she? Because I’m not going to hide in the castle just because she says so,
d’you hear?”

“Er… right,” said Harry hastily, wishing he’d just kept his mouth shut. He’d just have to be
more careful in future. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, but Ron was eyeing him closely, a
shade resentfully.

“I can take care of myself,” he said, ears going pink.

“Course you can,” said Harry, a bit too heartily, and winced at Ron’s expression. “Sorry. Look,
let’s just go find Hermione, shall we? Before the rest of the school does?”

They barrelled down into the common room, in time to see Hermione and Ginny clambering through
the portrait hole. The girls waited for them on the other side, and Harry noticed Ron staring at
Hermione with a rather fearful expression on his face. He stamped lightly on Ron’s foot, and it
seemed to snap him out of it.

“Er…morning,” said Harry, feeling rather uncomfortable himself.

“Morning,” said Hermione dully. She looked as if she hadn’t gotten much sleep either, and from
the carefully blank expression on her face, Harry could see that Ginny had already filled her in on
the latest gossip.

The four of them stood awkwardly in the hall for a moment. Ron broke the silence first. “C’mon,”
he said stoutly. “Breakfast’ll be over soon. You might as well get something to eat.” He
brightened. “The kippers are good today. I might come and keep you company.”

“Get some more food, you mean,” said Ginny, rolling her eyes and making a face at her brother in
an attempt to normalise things. “Honestly. Why you’re not too fat to get on a broom I don’t
know.”

“Just lucky, I guess,” said Ron cheerily, chivvying them down the corridor.

Breakfast was a dismal meal. The Great Hall was full of students and they went quiet as Harry
and Hermione came in. No doubt they’d been waiting all morning, thought Harry uncharitably,
hovering like vultures. Whispers had started up almost immediately, and although many of the
students at the Gryffindor table sent some hard glances towards the loudest wonderers, there were
still others at the Gryffindor table who were looking worried and whispering themselves. The
incessant noise, loud enough to hear but not loud enough to decipher, was driving Harry crazy. He
threw down a half-eaten bit of toast in disgust, unable to swallow it. Hermione, he noticed, had
barely touched her food either, and sat, eyes downcast, staring at her plate.

Just when Harry had almost reached boiling point, when he felt like he could happily start
throwing crockery at his fellow students, Professor McGonagall swept down upon them. “Miss Granger.
Professor Dumbledore would like to speak with you when you’ve finished eating. You too, Potter.
You’ve been excused from your first class this morning.”

Harry looked hopefully at Hermione, hoping that being dragged from her beloved books would get
some sort of reaction from her, but she just threw her napkin onto the table with a sharp motion.
He realised that she was as frustrated as he was. “I think we’re ready now, Professor,” he said.
They trailed out of the Hall after her, and even Ron’s sympathetic gaze couldn’t distract him from
the fact that every eye watched them leave.

McGonagall hustled them through the corridors, and up into the tower where Dumbledore had his
office. As they trooped onto the moving staircase, Hermione swayed slightly and clutched at Harry’s
hand. She looked pale and unhappy and Harry fervently hoped that Dumbledore might be able to make
something out of the situation. He squeezed her hand briefly in support, and as they reached the
top of the staircase they could see Dumbledore sat behind his desk, with Lupin and Snape sitting at
opposite ends of the room and pointedly ignoring each other. Hermione snatched her hand away and
straightened her shoulders. She was still pale, but Harry thought she looked a little too calm –
almost blank. It made him nervous, and he gave a small shrug at Lupin when the Defence teacher
raised an eyebrow at him.

“Ah. Harry, Hermione,” greeted Dumbledore benignly. Harry noticed that the usual twinkle was
absent from his eyes, though he was putting on a very good show of being his usual self. “Please,
have a seat.” He conjured up some squashy chairs, and the two students sat gingerly in them,
McGonagall standing behind them like a sentry. Harry could see that all the portraits were awake
and paying close attention, not even bothering to hide their interest. He could have sworn that one
of them was peering through opera glasses.

Dumbledore leaned back in his seat, hands folded together. “I must apologise for dragging you
away from your classes. I imagine you’d much rather be there than here at the moment.” Snape
snorted rudely, and Dumbledore shot him a warning glance. “However,” he continued, “the very
*unusual* nature of last night’s events has left me, I confess, rather baffled. I don’t
suppose you’d care to shed any light on the situation?” Ostensibly, Harry noticed, Dumbledore was
speaking to them both, but his attention appeared to be fixed on Hermione.

Hermione, who refused to answer, and sat staring at her hands.

“I see. Perhaps it would be better if you could just describe to me, in your own words, what
happened. Hermione? Would you like to start?”

“Harry and I and Professor Lupin went out into the Forest,” said Hermione mechanically. “I
didn’t like it, it was too quiet. We walked to Grawp’s clearing to find some Silvercap mushrooms.
While I was collecting them a Dementor came. Professor Lupin conjured a Patronus and chased the
Dementor away. We came back to the castle.”

Harry barely caught his jaw before it dropped. That was it? That was all she was going to say on
the matter? It was a true retelling, in a way, but so much was left out that it was almost fiction.
Harry was well aware, though, that the fact that they were up in Dumbledore’s office with three his
strongest teachers meant that Dumbledore and the others had already heard everything that Lupin
could tell them. Hermione must have known it too.

Lupin leaned forward, and when he spoke his voice was kind. “Are you sure that there’s nothing
you want to add to that, Hermione?”

She shook her head but didn’t look at him. “Yes, Professor.”

Dumbledore sighed deeply, and his eyes were sad. “We’re here to help, Hermione.”

“Yes, Headmaster.” It was very quiet and respectful, but to Harry the message was loud and
clear. He’d used that same tone to Dumbledore himself from time to time, whenever he’d wanted to
avoid conversations with the man. It was worse, he knew, being on the receiving end of an
inquisition with four teachers, and despite the fact that Hermione trusted them all (including,
against Harry’s better judgement, Snape) he could tell by looking at her that there was no way she
was going to open up to them. Harry couldn’t blame her – the flat stare of Snape alone was
disconcerting enough.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, startling him. “I see. Harry, what about you? Do *you* have
anything you would like to add?”

Harry shot another glance over at Hermione. She was still staring at her lap, and her face was
calm, but he could see her distress in the tension of her body. That decided him. “No, Headmaster,”
he said neutrally. “I have nothing to add.” Behind him, he could sense McGonagall shift slightly in
irritation. He felt a bit bad for Lupin, and shot an apologetic glance over towards his teacher. He
was surprised to see that Lupin didn’t look angry or disappointed, but only a little resigned. “Is
there anything else?” he asked. “We should really be getting back to class.”

“Rather unusual dedication for you, Potter,” sneered Snape.

“Severus,” said Dumbledore mildly, and the Potions Master scowled and was silent. Dumbledore
gave another sigh. “Very well then. Off you go.” Hermione was almost out of the door before Harry
was up from his seat, and as he followed her he heard Dumbledore call his name, very softly.

“I do hope you know what you’re doing, Harry,” the old man said softly.

Harry felt a sudden rush of resentment. “I could say the same to you, sir,” he said, and it came
out more coldly than he had intended. Dumbledore winced.

“As far as I’m concerned, neither of you know what you’re doing,” snapped Snape. “You should
never have let that girl leave, Headmaster. We should have given her some Veritaserum – forcefully
if necessary.”

“What FOR?’ said Harry loudly, not caring if he was rude. He felt his temper rise when he saw a
glance pass between McGonagall and Lupin, a glance that betrayed the fact that they more than half
agreed with Snape.

“Harry,” said Lupin carefully. “You need to understand. The only known way to repel a Dementor
is with the Patronus Charm. We know Hermione didn’t do that, so either she has found another way to
ward them off, or-”

“Or she has no need to ward them off,” finished Snape grimly. It took a moment for Harry to
understand what he was getting at.

“No,” he said flatly. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Harry,” McGonagall started, moving in front of him.

“You think she’s possessed,” he stated. “Or something like that. Of all the stupid-”

“Hold your tongue, Potter,” Snape growled.

“I won’t,” said Harry loudly. “I know Hermione better than you do – if something like that was
happening I’d know. I’d know.”

“We’re just trying to look at all the angles,” said Dumbledore calmly.

“You’re wasting your time,” said Harry flatly. “Look somewhere else.”

“It’s just a precaution, Potter,” McGonagall started.

“Just a precaution?” Harry repeated. “Are you trying to make things worse for her right now?
Just KEEP AWAY!” He shot Dumbledore a hard stare, feeling resentment towards the Headmaster rise up
within him yet again. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Seeing the sorrow come over the old man’s face, Harry realised he didn’t feel the least bit
guilty. “Just keep away,” he repeated flatly, and left the room. He slammed the door behind him.
Stumbling down the moving staircase, he burst through the door at the bottom and, cursing quietly,
tried to remember what class Hermione was supposed to be in. He had a vague recollection that it
might have been Arithmancy, and started running in what he hoped was the general direction of the
Arithmancy classroom. After a few minutes he caught sight of Hermione trudging miserably down a
long corridor, and gave silent thanks that Hogwarts was so large and well spaced out.

He grabbed hold of her hand. “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

“Where are we going?” Hermione asked dully, and Harry felt a twinge of worry in that she was so
compliant, trailing after him without complaint. The Hermione he knew would have whacked him round
the head with her book-bag before letting him drag her away from a class. He couldn’t help but
think of Snape’s likely reaction to her out of character behaviour, and firmly suppressed it,
trying to appear cheerful.

“Outside. It’s a sunny day for once, might as well enjoy it. McGonagall said we were excused
from class, remember?”

“She only meant that we were excused while we were with Dumbledore,” said Hermione, a shade
disapprovingly, and Harry felt himself lighten at her tone. That *definitely* sounded more
like her old self.

“What’re they going to do?” he said flippantly. “Expel us?” He caught a glimpse of her face.
“Hermione, they’re not going to expel us. Trust me on that.” There was no way that Dumbledore was
going to expel him now, Harry thought grimly. The prophecy made him too valuable. He snorted under
his breath. It was a shame he didn’t know about it before – it would have saved him a lot of worry
when he and Ron had smashed into the Whomping Willow, and when… he checked himself. It wouldn’t
have saved him the worry; it would just have given him something else to worry about. And Harry had
had enough of worrying for the moment. It *was* sunny, and damned if he wasn’t going to enjoy
it. Even for only a short time.

Twenty minutes later they were comfortably settled under one of the trees beside the lake. Harry
was thoroughly enjoying chucking rocks into the water. Ostensibly, he was trying to skip stones,
but the wet *whump* of rocks was infinitely more satisfying. Hermione, he noticed, was shaking
her head at him from the bank, lips pursed, trying to look maintain her look of disapproval. Harry
knew it was a fake, however – even a few minutes out of the shadow of the castle had improved her
spirits. There was less strain on her face, so he ignored the expression on her face and happily
continued chucking. Hermione seemed much more relaxed, having apparently come to the conclusion
that he wasn’t about to start pestering her over the incident with the Dementor.

Harry desperately wanted to know what was going on, but had the sense to keep his mouth firmly
shut. She’d tell him when she was ready. He just hoped it would be *soon*, though a part of
him realised, with a twinge of guilt, the luxury of having someone else’s problems to deal with. It
wasn’t that he wanted Hermione to be miserable, but dealing with her unhappiness was taking his
mind off his own. He threw another rock in with extra force, and Hermione squeaked.

“Harry! You’re splashing me.”

“Sorry,” he grinned, and flopped back down on the grass beside her. “This is so much better than
lessons. We should do this more often.”

“We’d fail if we did this more often,” Hermione reminded him, but she didn’t sound particularly
worried. Then again, Harry thought, she didn’t need to be. She was probably weeks ahead in all
their classes anyway.

“I wish I’d thought to bring some food,” he commented.

“You could always go and get some if you’re really hungry,” said Hermione. “Lunch isn’t for a
few hours yet, you know.”

“I’m alright, really. Besides, I can’t go putting the House Elves to extra work, can I?” Harry
retorted, and ducked as Hermione slapped him lightly on the arm, scowling playfully at him.

“I’m glad you’ve finally started thinking about them,” she said, and paused for a long moment.
“Thanks.”

“Well, I figured it was listen to you or hear about their poor oppressed lives every day until I
did,” Harry pointed out, smirking.

“I don’t mean for that,” Hermione said hesitantly.

Harry looked up at her. “It’s okay.”

“I mean it,” Hermione continued. “Don’t think I didn’t see the looks on their faces. They think
that I’ve been… that I’ve been *influenced* somehow.”

“No they don’t,” said Harry uncomfortably, and Hermione rolled her eyes at him.

“You’re a terrible liar, Harry.” She looked at him curiously. “Why aren’t you thinking the
same?”

“Come off it, Hermione,” said Harry, more uncomfortably still. “I know you. If something like
that was happening, I’d know.”

“I haven’t exactly been acting myself lately,” Hermione pointed out.

“It’s not like you haven’t had a reason.” Harry shot her a glance. “You almost sound like you
*want* me to agree with them.”

“I appreciate the faith you have in me Harry,” said Hermione slowly. “Really, I do. But don’t
you think you’re being a bit, well, *trusting* here? You should at least keep yourself open to
the possibility that-”

“Bollocks,” interrupted Harry. “Well no, not bollocks, exactly. But you’re right. About the
trust, I mean.” He rolled over onto his back. “I told Neville about the Occlumency lessons, you
know.” At her gasp of surprise he went on. “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. And
if I can trust him to keep my secrets, I can certainly trust you to keep your own.” He stared up
above him at the leaves on the tree. “You’re the only one, you know. The only one who’s stuck by
me, no matter what. Even Ron… well. It doesn’t matter now. And if it’s my turn now, then so what?”
He rolled over slightly to look at her full in the face.

“Keep your secret, Hermione, until you’re ready to tell it. I won’t ask about it. I promise.” He
saw her swallow, saw a tiny tear glisten at the corner of her eye, and before anything could get
more maudlin, and feeling more uncomfortable still, he went on. “Besides. I know it’s you. Only the
real Hermione would have told me not trust her.” He smirked at her, and didn’t even try to avoid
the slap she aimed at him. It wasn’t very hard anyway. He could have sworn it was more like a
caress.

*

It was several hours and more than one missed lesson later when they finally left the lake and
wandered back into the Great Hall for lunch. Harry had actually dozed off in the sunshine, and felt
much better for having a sleep. They sat down next to Ron, who looked at them curiously.

“Have you been with Dumbledore all this time?”

“Nope,” said Harry cheerfully. “That took all of ten minutes.”

“What about the rest of the morning?”

“Bunked off,” said Harry succinctly, beginning to load up his plate with sandwiches. He shot a
glance at the teacher’s table, and saw Dumbledore and McGonagall, deliberately not looking in his
direction. Snape, however, was staring quite avidly, as if he was waiting to pounce. Harry frowned.
He thought he felt someone nudge him under the table.

“You could have called me,” said Ron grumpily. “All morning in Muggle Studies. As if I don’t
hear enough of it at home. I was bored out of my mind.”

Harry nodded, and then jumped. “Ow!” It felt like someone had kicked him this time, and kicked
him hard. “Who’s doing that?” A small hand crept up his leg and tugged at his robe.

“Dobby?” Harry tried to duck his head under the table, but bashed it on the side. Ron shook his
head in sympathy, placed his hand on Harry’s head and shoved, landing him with a bump on the floor
under the table. Dobby, amazingly, was crouched beneath the feet of other Gryffindor students,
wearing mismatched socks and a frantic expression, and obviously trying to be as inconspicuous as
possible. “Is everything alright?” Harry asked, rubbing the side of his head.

“Dobby is very happy to see Harry Potter again,” squeaked the house elf. “Dobby would like to
invite Harry Potter and his friends to come down to the kitchen and have some lunch. We is making
some very nice pastries this morning, Harry Potter, sir.”

“Er, perhaps another time,” said Harry bemusedly. “It’s good to see you again, Dobby, but-”

Dobby was wringing his ears, and expression of abject worry on his face. “Harry Potter should
come and eat in the kitchens,” he repeated pitifully.

Harry stared at him suspiciously. “Hang on a minute,” he said. “Why can’t I eat what’s on the
table? There’s nothing wrong with it, is there?”

Dobby began to beat his head against a pair of shoes, which twitched and kicked him by mistake,
the owner obviously mistaking his head for someone else’s feet. Harry grabbed him before he could
start banging on the floor.

“What’s wrong with the food, Dobby?’ he said hastily. “Has someone done something to it?”
Miserably the elf stared at him, his eyes gone large and hopeful. *Why do I always have to drag
it out of him?* Harry said to himself in irritation. “Who?”

The elf whimpered, and Harry had to grab hold of his jumper to keep him from hurting himself
further. “Dobby is not supposed to tell,” he whimpered. “Dobby was *ordered* not to tell…”

Harry stared at him. Dobby was one of the house elves of Hogwarts, and no-one should be able to
order him to do something apart from the teachers… “Snape,” he said suddenly, and Dobby didn’t have
to nod to confirm it. Harry could see the truth on his face. “Thanks, Dobby,” he said, and shot
back out from under the table, bashing his head again as he did so. Frantically he stared at the
spread of food on the table. Surely Snape didn’t have enough Veritaserum to put into everything on
the Gryffindor table? Harry knew instinctively that the Potions Professor had gone ahead with his
threat to try and force the truth out of Hermione – but where was it? He looked around in
panic.

“Harry? Is something wrong?” said Hermione, pouring herself a goblet of pumpkin juice.
*Pumpkin juice*, Harry thought suddenly. The table was full of food, and there was no
guarantee that Hermione would have some of every dish – but all the students drank pumpkin juice.
There was no other drink on the table. Instinctively, he knocked the drink out of her hand, and it
spilled over the tablecloth. A few of the other students grimaced at the mess, and a few even
laughed, but Ron and Hermione stared at him as if he had gone mad.

He leaned over and started patting clumsily but obviously at the stain with his napkin. “Don’t
drink the pumpkin juice,” he hissed under his breath. Hermione looked puzzled for an instant, but
after a moment he could see her glance up at the top table in realisation.

“What’s going *on*?” Ron hissed back. Not knowing quite how to explain himself, or even if
he was definitely on the right track, Harry did the only thing he could think of. He poured himself
a goblet of pumpkin juice from the jug in front of Hermione and took a large gulp. He turned to
Ron.

“Ask me if the Cannons are going to win in the League this year,” he said in a low voice. Ron
looked at him as if he was mad. “Just ask, will you?”

“Okay,” said Ron slowly. “Do you think the Cannons will win the cup this year?”

“Not a hope in hell,” said Harry, clearly and immediately.

Ron scowled at him. “Look, I know they haven’t always been that great, but-”

“Shut up, Ron,” said Harry. “There’s Veritaserum in the pumpkin juice. Snape’s slipped it
in.”

“Are you sure?” said Ron sceptically. “I know you don’t support the Cannons like I do…” Harry
shoved his goblet at him, and Ron, shaking his head, took a sip, and looked up expectantly.

“Tell me you like working with Malfoy,” said Harry.

Ron looked at him in disgust. “But I *don’t*.” Harry just stared at him, and Ron went on.
“Oh, alright. But I’m not saying it loudly, d’you hear?” He took a deep breath. “I like… I like… I
*loathe* working with Malfoy. Happy now?” In any other situation, Harry might have laughed at
the run of expressions over Ron’s voice – surprise and relief quickly followed by anger. “The
*bastard*! What did he want to go and do that for?”

“Three guesses,” said Harry grimly, nodding at Hermione. He was upset to note that she looked as
withdrawn and unhappy as she had done when they had left the castle that morning. “Do something for
me will you, Ron? Take her down to the kitchens. Dobby will get you something to eat.” From beneath
his legs, Harry heard a faint pop and assumed that the house elf had heard him and had gone to
prepare something.

“Right,” said Ron, getting to his feet and hauling on Hermione’s arm. “Where are you going to
be?”

“I’ll be down in a couple of minutes,” said Harry flatly, and waited until they had disappeared
from the Hall. He couldn’t help but notice the whispers that followed them as they went, and he
realised grimly that the students of Hogwarts were about to get something else to whisper about.
Pasting a pleasant expression on his face, he tucked the jug of pumpkin juice under his arm and
made his way casually up to the top table.

“Here you go, Professor,” he said, dumping it in front of Snape with a glare that defied his
face and tone. “Veritaserum,” he explained helpfully to Dumbledore, who was watching him with
interest. From the change in expression on the Headmaster’s face, it was obvious that he hadn’t
known about Snape’s little trick. Harry smirked inwardly. He wasn’t sure he knew which of them was
more unhappy, but it was Professor McGonagall who spoke out disapprovingly, on an entirely
unrelated subject.

“You missed class this morning, Mr. Potter,” she said frostily.

“I did,” admitted Harry innocently. “Is that a problem?”

McGonagall scowled at him, but before she could give him a detention – no doubt her intention,
Harry thought - Dumbledore interrupted her. Dimly, Harry recognised that the old man was trying to
keep the peace. “I’m afraid that you’ll be missing more classes this evening, Harry,” he said. “I
cannot have a Dementor running loose about the Forest. It’s enough to sour the milk, I’m sure.
Professor Snape will be accompanying me this evening, so I’m afraid you will have to forgo your
Occlumency lesson until another time. I trust that won’t be a problem?”

“No problem at all, Headmaster,” said Harry truthfully, and with a tinge of relief.

“Are you sure about that?” said Dumbledore gently. “I don’t want you to think we’re neglecting
you…”

“It’s no problem,” said Harry cheerfully. “Professor Snape has been teaching me a new method. It
seems to work quite well.” Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Snape stiffen, and it
filled him with a strange sort of glee. He would have bet everything he owned – the entire contents
of his Gringott’s bank vault – that there was no way Dumbledore knew about Snape’s torturous new
training. He reached out, tracing the juice jug with his finger, and smiled brightly and quite
falsely at the Potions Master. “We really should tell him about it sometime.” Snape looked
absolutely furious, but Harry knew there was nothing he could say. Buoyed, and with a certain grim
satisfaction, Harry decided to push the envelope.

“About Hermione, sir,” he said, swivelling to face Dumbledore. “It’s probably best if you make
sure this type of thing doesn’t happen again.” He let his hand drop from the jug. “After all, she’s
had a horrible summer, hasn’t she? You don’t want to make her any more miserable. You never know
what she might do – she’s got an enormous bank account, you know. She certainly doesn’t have to
stay at Hogwarts.” He looked innocently at Dumbledore. “I’m sure that you wouldn’t want her
wandering around the Muggle world *on her own* at this point. *I know that I don’t*.”

Harry knew that all three teachers would take his meaning immediately. He didn’t feel the need
to hang around. His lunch was waiting for him in the kitchens, after all.

It felt good to have an advantage at last. He didn’t feel the least bit guilty about using
it.



14. Chapter Fourteen
--------------------

Chapter Fourteen.

“Mmmph. Thith iv gub,” mumbled Ron, stuffing another muffin into his mouth. Hermione looked at
him in disgust, but Harry just grinned and pushed the breakfast tray closer towards him. He was
rather enjoying having breakfast away from the prying eyes of the Great Hall, even if they were
getting funny comments from the other Gryffindors. Harry just brushed them off – mostly he allowed
them to believe he was, once again, getting special treatment. The truth was that Dobby had
arranged for the three of them to have their breakfasts in the privacy of the Gryffindor Common
Room.

Since the debacle of the previous evening’s lunch, Harry was less than keen on the idea of going
back to the Great Hall to eat. Still, he knew that they would have to go back eventually; Dobby
couldn’t keep on feeding them privately forever – at least he *could*, but Hermione refused to
allow it. Harry trusted that Dumbledore would ensure that Snape’s Veritaserum would remain safely
locked in the dungeon store-rooms, but he couldn’t help enjoying being out of the public eye for a
little bit.

There had been a brief moment of concern when Lavender and Parvati had swept down to the common
room and slammed their way out of the portrait hole, noses in the air. Ron even stopped chewing in
surprise. Harry had no idea what they might have done to offend the two girls, but was reassured
when Seamus Finnegan descended gingerly from the boy’s staircase.

“Are they gone yet?” he asked, a trifle sheepishly, and looked relieved at their nods. “Good.
Got me ear chewed off enough as it was, yesterday.”

“What did you *do*?” Hermione asked shrewdly, and Seamus looked puzzled, and a bit
shame-faced.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “Honestly. It’s just that Lavender’s done something to her hair…”
he waved his hand in small circles.

“You mean she’s curled it,” supplied Hermione. “Over the holidays, it was.”

“Yeah. Well, she asked me what I thought of it at lunch yesterday. And I said… I said…” Seamus
took a deep breath. “I said it looked like my great-aunt Olive’s poodle after a run in with the
dryer.” He looked honestly puzzled. “Dunno why I said it, really.”

Harry carefully avoided looking at both Ron and Hermione. He wondered what other fights the
pumpkin juice had caused, but decided it was probably best just not to mention it.

“How did the poodle get into a dryer?” Hermione asked reluctantly, looking a bit like she didn’t
want to know.

“Don’t ask,” muttered Seamus. “I didn’t mean to do it.” He shot a hard glare at Ron, who was
sniggering, despite the fact that he really wasn’t sure exactly what a dryer was. “I
*didn’t*.” He reached over quickly and swiped a piece of toast, which wiped the grin off Ron’s
face.

“Oi!”

“I’m going, I’m going,” smirked Seamus, and ambled over to the portrait hole, giving it a
suspicious look. “You don’t suppose they’re waiting outside, do you?” he said, around a mouthful of
toast.

Ron sniggered after him, but a bright voice descended on them. “Morning, all.” Katie Bell smiled
cheerily down at them. “Personal service, huh? Some people have all the luck. Just don’t be too
long. Trials start in half an hour.”

“What?” said Harry, and was thumped on the back by Ron, who was trying to swallow a whole
sausage in one go.

“Sorry mate,” he said after a minute. “I was supposed to tell you a couple of days ago, but
things got a bit hairy, and, well…” his eyes slid over to Hermione, who was calmly buttering a
piece of toast and determinedly not looking at either of them. “Right. Anyway,” Ron went on in a
tone that was upbeat if slightly forced, “Quidditch trials today.”

“You’re back as Seeker, obviously,” said Katie. “Ginny says she’d rather be a Chaser anyway. But
both Alicia and Angelina have left, so we need another Chaser.”

“We need a couple of Beaters as well,” Ron pointed out gloomily. “The ones we’ve got are
rubbish.”

“We won the Cup last year with those rubbish Beaters,” Katie reminded him. “Look, I know they’re
not Fred and George, but they’re the best of a bad bunch.” Ron scowled, but she went on “Besides,
I’d thought you’d’ve agreed to cut them some slack. It took you some time to get used to being the
Keeper, didn’t it?” Ron reddened, but had to nod.

“That’s alright then,” said Katie breezily. “See you all in a bit.” She swiped a muffin as she
went past, to Ron’s great disgust.

“Oi!” he yelled out, as she went through the portrait hole. “This isn’t a bloody buffet, you
know!”

“Honestly, Ron,” said Hermione. “There’s far more here than you can eat.”

“Want to bet?” said Ron, raising an eyebrow and reaching for the rest of the bacon. Hermione
just shook her head in amazement. “So,” continued Ron, emptying the bacon dish, “are you gonna come
out and watch?”

“I don’t think so,” said Hermione. “I might just go to the library. I’ve got a lot of reading to
do for History of Magic.”

“Serves you right, that does,” said Ron. “What has Binns got you doing anyway?” Harry looked at
him in surprise. He couldn’t imagine Ron ever being interested, but realised that his friend was
probably just trying to make conversation. More and more Harry had noticed that Ron was struggling
to find things to say to her, and couldn’t blame him. Half the time he didn’t know what to say
himself.

“It’s the project I’m working on with Susan,” said Hermione, becoming a bit more animated. Then
she scowled slightly. I wanted to do a history of how House Elves have been treated” Harry clamped
his mouth shut and carefully avoided looking at Ron, “but she didn’t want to. We compromised on
goblins.” She brightened a bit. “It’s quite interesting actually – at least what I’ve been able to
find.” She rummaged in her bag, and hoisted out a thick tome entitled *The History of Gringott’s
Bank: Keeping Your Galleons Out of Other People’s Thieving Hands*. Ron shot a glance at Harry,
lips twitching, but had the sense to keep silent.

“It’s not very good though,” said Hermione, disgruntled. “Everything I can find has been written
by wizards – from their point of view, you know. It makes it hard to get the full picture. Still,
we’ve only just started really. There’s bound to be more in the library somewhere.” Harry and Ron
grinned. No matter what else went on, Hermione’s faith in the powers of the library continued
unshaken.

“Still,” said Ron composedly, trying not to laugh, “You could always read in the stands,
couldn’t you? Fresh air and all.” When Hermione looked sceptical, he continued “Come on. You can’t
spend the first weekend of term locked up in that dingy place. Don’t you want to be the first to
see Gryffindor’s new team in action?”

“I’d be just thrilled to,” said Hermione dryly, but a smile tugged at her lips.

* * *

When Harry at last touched ground again, he was smiling. Flying always seemed to relax him, no
matter what might be happening. It had been a good practice session, and Katie had found a Chaser –
a tiny second-year girl – who had even managed to please Ron. Hermione had indeed come to read in
the stands, and she had been joined by Susan Bones. The two girls, books spread about them, had
been deep in conversation throughout. Harry doubted they noticed that they weren’t really in the
library after all, and he was guiltily relieved that Hermione had found someone else to latch her
crusade onto. It wasn’t that he didn’t agree with her – mostly – but there were limits to the
things that he could do and worry about. A small part of him suspected that he should actually be
paying more attention, but he rationalised it away with the thought that Hermione no doubt more
than made up for his lack. When it came to sorting information, he just wasn’t in her league.
Besides, it was good seeing her talking to someone again.

Even if that someone wanted to talk to him as well. When Susan left the stand, and made her way
determinedly towards him, he pasted a polite expression on his face. The euphoria he always got
from flying seemed to sink a little. Behind her, Hermione was gathering up all the books, and
trying to stuff them into a bag that was clearly far too small.

“Hey,” said Susan casually. “Look, I know I’ve asked you this before, but have you given any
more thought to resurrecting the D.A.? Half of Hufflepuff has been asking me about it.” She grinned
tiredly. “Actually, they’ve been pretty much non-stop since your little trip to the Forest. The
gossip in this place has to be heard to be believed.”

“No kidding,” said Harry with feeling.

“You can’t blame them, really,” said Susan fairly. “There are all these rumours going around,
about Hermione being able to get past an actual Dementor. Oh, I know you tried to teach us the
Patronus Charm last year, but it’s different in a classroom.” She shrugged. “None of us thought
we’d actually have to use it, I guess.”

“I hope you don’t,” said Harry sincerely. “Look. I know I said I’d think about it, but
honestly…” he trailed off, feeling guilty.

“You haven’t really had time. It’s alright,” said Susan calmly. “I understand.” There was no
resentment or judgement in her voice, and Harry was grateful for it.

“How about I go and talk to Lupin about it?” he offered. “He might be better running it, after
all.”

“Okay,” said Susan, checking behind her. Hermione had managed to force the book bag closed.
“We’re going to head up to the library, I think. See you later?”

“Sure,” said Harry. “Have fun with the goblins.”

Susan gave him a flat stare, which Harry found eerily familiar. “Goblins are more important than
you think,” she said primly. Harry was saved from having to answer by Ron and Ginny, who were just
landing behind them. As they made their way to the changing rooms, he could see Susan and Hermione
head off towards the castle.

“I think we’ve got a good chance of keeping the Cup this year,” said Ron in satisfaction,
stowing the Quaffle back into its box.

“As long as it isn’t Slytherin, I’m happy,” said Harry grinning. Truthfully, he wouldn’t be
entirely happy if Gryffindor didn’t win, but he didn’t want to jinx it. He and Ron left the
changing rooms and started back towards the castle, Ron happily laying bets on who would win the
first match, scheduled between Ravenclaw and Slytherin.

“Harry! Ron! Wait up, will you?” Ginny ran up past them and stopped in their path, eyeing them
beadily. Harry realised with a shock that she had something of the expression of Mrs. Weasley about
her, and he saw that Ron, too, was taken aback.

“What d’you want, Gin?” said Ron warily.

Ginny scowled at him. “You needn’t look like that. I’m not about to hex you. I was just
wondering if you knew what day was coming up.” Her tone implied that she was sure that they had
forgotten, and that they ought to be ashamed of themselves.

Harry wracked his brain, but couldn’t think of anything. “Er… Sunday?” he offered weakly. Ginny
rolled her eyes and even Ron looked at him in pity. “What?” said Harry defensively. “It’s not like
you know what she’s talking about.”

Ginny whacked him on the arm. Harry winced – growing up fighting with Fred and George had given
her an unerring instinct for catching people off guard. “*She* has a name,” Ginny pointed out
loftily. “You needn’t smirk, Ron. I know that you’ve forgotten as well.”

Ron looked hunted. “I haven’t forgotten anything. I… er… it’s just that...”

Ginny’s hand whacked out and cracked him on the elbow. Ron squealed and swung out at her.
“Geroff!” he snapped, scowling. It was Harry’s turn to smirk.

“Boys,” said Ginny loftily. “I’d have thought you would have wanted to put a *special
effort* in this year, all things considered.” Her eyes narrowed and swung from side to side,
pinning them in place. Then she said the words that froze them in place.

“It’s Hermione’s birthday on the sixteenth.”

There was a moment’s silence. “Oh, bloody hell,” groaned Ron.

“Yes,” said Ginny. “Quite.” She glared at them both. “I trust you’ve both been deep in thought
organising suitable presents?” She watched them both cringe, and then stuck the boot in further.
She was definitely sister to Fred and George. “It’s not like she’ll be getting anything from her
parents now, is it?”

Harry winced. Guilt flooded through him, and his mouth went dry. “Thanks…thanks for the
reminder,” he said weakly. Ginny glared at him for a moment before her face softened.

“It’s not your fault, Harry,” she said. “I’m not blaming you. It’s not like you’ve had much time
to think about it.” She dropped between them and started chivvying them up towards the castle. Ron
made a strangled noise, and she patted his arm reassuringly. “You’re just lucky *someone* kept
their head, while there was still time for you to get her something good. Any ideas?”

“A book,” Harry said firmly, falling back on the one thing that he was sure of. “She likes
those.”

Ginny gave him a look of deep disgust. “A book. Top marks for originality there, Harry.”

“Oh, come on,” Ron broke in. “How are we supposed to know what she wants? Books make her happy.
She likes Chocolate Frogs, so why not give her a book and a bag of them?”

“Well I’m glad to see this hasn’t put you to any trouble then,” Ginny started, her voice
over-sweet.

Harry tried again. “It’s not that,” he lied, swapping a helpless glance with Ron over his
sister’s head. “It’s just that… well…” he groped about for an excuse. “Ron’s right. They do make
her happy – remember when he got her that perfume-?”

“Yeah,” Ron interjected indignantly. “I don’t think she’s worn it once!”

“That’s because it’s absolutely horrible,” said Ginny absently. “No-one in their right mind
would wear it.” Ron scowled at her. “Sorry, but it’s the truth.” She tugged him along. “Look. If
you’re just going to stay with your normal, boring presents, then you need to do something else.
How about a party?” She glanced up at them innocently, as if the suggestion had only just occurred
to her, but Harry suddenly felt as though he and Ron had just been neatly hooked, and were lying on
the line about to be gutted.

“What?” said Ron, disbelievingly. “A party? Us?”

“Yes, you,” said Ginny firmly. “And me and Harry and the rest.”

“Uh, who’s the rest?” asked Harry warily.

“Gryffindor House, of course. And the D.A. – well, most of them.”

“Bloody hell!” said Ron again. “Where are you going to put them all? How are you going to feed
them? How-”

“I’m so glad I’ve got you to help,” Ginny commented pointedly. “Relax, will you? We can hold it
in the Room of Requirement. I’m sure Dobby will be happy to help with the food and make a cake if
you ask him to.” She nudged Harry in the side. “I’ve thought it all out. Susan and Luna will give
me a hand. All you two have to do” and from the tone of her voice they got the distinct impression
that she wasn’t at all sure of their capability “…is keep her out of the way on the night until
everything’s ready.” She glared at them both expectantly.

“We can do that,” said Harry, belatedly realising she expected a response.

“Yeah. No trouble,” added Ron, trying to look trustworthy. Ginny rolled her eyes, and they
watched in silence as she nodded in satisfaction and skipped ahead. “She’s getting more like Mum
every day, you know,” he commented mournfully.

Harry snorted, and when they were climbing up the steps to the Entrance Hall he said “Could you
take my broom back up to the Tower? I’ve got to see Lupin about the D.A. Might as well do it
now.”

* * *

Knocking on Lupin’s door, Harry entered, and was surprised to see his teacher packing some
clothes into an old ratty bag. There was a set, unhappy expression on his face, but he pasted on a
smile when he saw his visitor.

“Harry. What can I do for you? I thought you’d be out enjoying the fresh air.”

“You’re not leaving again, are you?” blurted Harry.

Lupin’s face darkened. “It’s not what you think. Most of the parents still think of me as
*persona non grata*, but Dumbledore’s taking care of them.” Lupin snapped the clasp shut on
the bag. “Or at least he’s ignoring them. I’m not sure it’s the same thing. But don’t worry – I’ll
be back on Monday.”

“Where are you going?” said Harry.

“Grimmauld Place,” said Lupin flatly.

“*Why?*” said Harry, amazed. He was appalled that Lupin could actually want to go there,
but it occurred to him that, as the owner of the house, he might have responsibilities there.
Still, he couldn’t think of anything important.

Lupin crossed his arms and stared at him. “Kreacher,” he said, in the same carefully neutral
tone. “I know what you think of him, but I am responsible for his welfare. Tonks checks on him as
often as she can, but it’s unfair of me to expect her to do all the work.”

“What’s to check on?” asked Harry bitterly. “He’s alright there, I expect. Got enough food and
everything. Just forget about him.”

“I can’t do that,” Lupin sighed. “It was neglect and ill-treatment and loneliness that made him
what he is. I can’t in good conscience continue to treat him so. There is a chance that he may be
reformed, I expect, though it may seem hopeless-”

“It *is* hopeless,” interrupted Harry angrily, and was about to go on when Lupin cut him
off in turn.

“I agree with you,” he said, and Harry’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “But there is always
the chance that I might be wrong. And even if it truly *is* hopeless, that is no good reason
to discard him as if he were only a broken teacup. Even those we try to repair.” He sighed deeply.
“I don’t like it any more than you do, Harry. I would far rather stay at Hogwarts, and during the
week I am indeed obliged to. But my weekends are my own, and there are no responsibilities here
that are great enough to keep me.”

“Right,” said Harry, taken aback. He felt a little bit injured, though he didn’t know why, and
it showed in his voice. “I see.”

Lupin smiled at him, a real smile this time. “I could always stay, and we could spend every
weekend going over Defence spells. Of course, you’d have to give up Quidditch, but the end result
should be worth it.”

“Thanks, but… um…” Harry sputtered.

“But you cannot spend every hour of the day studying,” Lupin finished. “You must have your life,
Harry,” he concluded seriously. “It will remind you what you will be fighting *for*.” He shot
him a stern glance. “But time off doesn’t mean that you get to fool around. No leaving the school
grounds. No more skipping classes. I mean it Harry – and you are to go straight to Dumbledore if
anything remotely strange happens. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Harry muttered obediently, wanting to roll his eyes but restraining himself. He’d heard
it all before – apart from the skipping classes, that is. “It’s not as if I do it often,” he
complained. “But after what Snape did – did Dumbledore tell you? – well, she just needed to get
away for a while,” he finished lamely. “We were only out by the lake.”

Lupin smirked. “I did hear. It was probably not one of Severus’s better ideas.” He sighed
wistfully. “I wish I could have seen it. Your father would have been so proud.”

“Would he… would he have done the same thing, d’you think?” Harry asked hesitantly.

“Certainly not,” said Lupin, and Harry looked disappointed. “Your father never had that much
subtlety. From what Professor McGonagall said, it wasn’t your father you resembled. She said… she
said that you look so much like James, that sometimes it is easy to forget your mother. What she
saw that night was pure Lily.” He sighed again. “I wish I could have seen it. Severus didn’t know
what to do with himself, I think.”

“He deserved it,” snapped Harry. Sudden resentment swelled through him. “I’m surprised you’re
not taking his side. In Dumbledore’s office it seemed like you agreed with him.”

“I do,” said Lupin sombrely. “But not for the same reasons, I expect. Professor Snape believes
that Hermione might have been influenced somehow by Voldemort, and in all fairness, Harry, that is
the logical assumption.” He held up his hand as Harry sputtered. “It’s the logical assumption. I
don’t say that I agree with it, mind.”

Harry stared at him, honestly puzzled. “But if you don’t agree with him then why try to force
her into telling people about it? Whatever ‘it’ is,” he added, trailing off.

“Because we’re *worried* about her, Harry,” said Lupin. “Dumbledore and McGonagall and I.
She’s a child, and there’s no-one else to look after her now. And we doubt very much whether or not
she understands completely herself what’s going on. She needs to talk. It’s for her own good,” he
finished wearily. “I don’t suppose she said anything to you?”

“I told her she didn’t have to,” said Harry. “I’m not going to ask again.”

Lupin didn’t look satisfied, but he didn’t look surprised either. “Ah well,” he said, “we’ll
just work with what we have then.” He eyed Harry. “I don’t suppose you came to tell me what project
you wanted to do for class?”

“Er… no, Professor,” said Harry weakly. He had forgotten all about it, and it showed on his
face.

“No matter,” said Lupin briskly. “You’re excused.”

“What?”

“I’ve spoken to Dumbledore. He has agreed that your extra sessions with me will count towards
it. Hermione will be attending as well. I don’t believe that she has your overall ability in
Defence, but things have changed. She seems to have a certain… *talent* for dealing with
Dementors, after all.”

“And if she won’t tell you what’s wrong you’ll keep her in a place you can see her,” Harry
summarised, and Lupin nodded.

“There is that.” He shot a quick glance at the clock. “So, what did you come up here for anyway?
I thought you were at Quidditch practice this morning.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Oddly enough, I’d like to know what happened with the Dementor,” he
said dryly. “I didn’t expect a written report but I had hoped that *someone* would have let me
know what was going on.”

Lupin frowned. “I would have thought Dumbledore would have said something to you,” he said.
Harry snorted.

“He’s not terribly good at that,” he pointed out resentfully.

“He has a lot on his mind, Harry,” Lupin reminded him gently, receiving a sceptical look in
reply. “Very well. I went with them when they went into the Forest, looking for the creature.” He
grimaced. “It took some time to locate it, but Dumbledore is convinced that there was only the one
of them.”

“It wouldn’t be there on its own,” interrupted Harry swiftly.

“Not if it was going to attack Hogwarts, no,” agreed Lupin. “I doubt it could even get onto the
grounds at present – the wards were strengthened somewhat over the summer. But if it was there only
to spy…” he trailed off meaningfully.

“The Ministry’s lost complete control over them, hasn’t it?” said Harry, not expecting an
answer. “But if Voldemort sent it to spy on us, why did it show itself to us in Grawp’s
clearing?”

“Hungry, I expect,” said Lupin. “The Forest is full of creatures for it to feed on, but three
humans wandering about must have been irresistible. As for the Ministry, they haven’t lost control
over the Dementors – they never had control over them in the first place. The Dementors
*chose* to obey. That’s a distinction you should not forget.”

Harry made a face. “Did you get rid of it?”

“For now,” said Lupin. “But even Dumbledore cannot keep the Forest clear forever. Another will
come, and another.”

“You’re always so comforting,” Harry grumbled, and Lupin gave a pale smile.

“Would you rather I patted you on the head and told you that everything would be fine?” he
suggested. “Don’t worry about a thing, and run along and play?”

“You know I wouldn’t,” said Harry resignedly. “And look, there’s something else. Susan Bones
talked to me this morning. About the D.A. She wants to know if we’re going to be starting it up
again. She’s not the only one who’s been asking about it, actually.”

“It certainly wouldn’t hurt,” said Lupin. “I expect, though, after last year, that you’ll be
getting more students than you know how to deal with.”

“Well, yeah,” said Harry. “I was hoping that you could help us.”

“I see. Well, let me give it some thought.” Lupin looked at him assessingly. “You may not agree
with everything I suggest, though.”

“Whatever you suggest will be fine,” said Harry, relieved. With his workload this year, he had
hoped that Lupin would take pity on him, and not suggest that running the D.A. was a good way of
‘developing responsibility’.

Lupin raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said dryly, hoisting his bag onto
his shoulder. “I’ll talk to you about it when I get back. Unless there’s anything else?” Harry
shook his head, and Lupin headed for the fireplace, stopping after a few steps. “What class was it
you missed yesterday morning?”

“Um, Divination,” said Harry, thinking back to his timetable. “With Firenze.”

“I would suggest that you go and apologise,” said Lupin. “You don’t want to be getting behind in
your first week back.” He replaced the Floo powder on the mantle, and the fire blazed green. “Wish
me luck,” he said, putting on a cheerful tone. Harry pressed his lips together grimly and didn’t
reply. Seeing his face, Lupin sighed, and disappeared into the flames.

* * *

He found Firenze in the ground floor room Dumbledore had ‘adjusted’ for him, on one of the
corridors leading off from the Great Hall. Moving a few feet into the forest, crushing sweet
smelling herbs beneath him, Harry heard an answering call, and was horrified to see the centaur
limping towards him, stopping slowly and painfully in the middle of the grove.

“What happened?” he asked quickly. “Do you need me to fetch Madam Pomfrey? It wouldn’t take a
minute…” he backed hastily towards the door, but Firenze waved him back, though the movement was
weary, and his shoulder obviously pained him as well. There were deep bruises down one side of him,
and Harry thought he could make out hoof shapes in the midst of the injury.

“There is no need,” Firenze intoned. “She has been and gone.” He indicated the bruises. “These
will heal in time.” He looked almost disappointed. Harry felt the urge to back out of the room –
why did everything have to be so complicated? For a moment, he wondered if Lupin had known what he
would find, but dismissed the thought almost instantly. Of course Lupin had known – the man seemed
to revel in finding emotional tangles for him to wade through, Harry thought grumpily.

He looked over the centaur again, more carefully this time. Thankfully Firenze, like most
centaurs, it seemed, was comfortable with silence. Harry reviewed what he knew about them. While it
was certainly possible that half a herd had visited Hogwarts, for the sole purpose of trampling
over one of their former members, he didn’t think it was likely, or the most logical explanation. A
small spark of amusement flared in him – he was beginning to sound like Hermione. And if the
centaurs in the Forbidden Forest hadn’t come to Firenze, then he had gone to them. Given that it
had been made perfectly clear that Firenze was no longer welcome in the Forest, he must have had an
exceptionally good reason for going back, and lately there had been only one exceptionally good
reason to head into the Forest.

“I take it you went with Dumbledore to find the Dementor, then?”

There was a pause, and then Firenze nodded. “I have lived in the Forest since I was a foal.
There is no-one in this stone pile that knows it better than I.”

“And you met some other centaurs…” Harry prodded, gingerly. He didn’t want to be rude, or
presumptuous, and he fully expected Firenze to tell him to mind his own business and kick him out,
but he had to ask. The centaur confirmed it with a nod.

“But why?” Harry blurted, gesturing to the bruises. He was honestly puzzled. “Didn’t they want
someone to get rid of the Dementor?”

Firenze cocked his head to one side and regarded Harry with flat, blank eyes. “Why would
they?”

Harry gaped. “Because… because… they’re dangerous,” he stuttered. “They’re working for
Voldemort!”

“And?” said Firenze. “They’re not coming for us… for the centaurs,” he added heavily. “And there
is little love lost between my kind and yours.”

Harry choked down the words that sprang to his lips. Accusing Firenze would do nothing, nothing
but alienate the one centaur that had been forced to leave his herd for conspiring with humans. He
cast desperately about for something to say that would sway his teacher. “But you went anyway. You
went with Dumbledore.”

“I owe him my loyalty,” said Firenze, the words rumbling out from deep within him. “He asked me
to guide him this one time, and so I did. But my loyalty belongs to my people.”

“You left your people,” Harry pointed out softly. “To help us.”

A rumble echoed around the wooded chamber. “I am not convinced I was right to do so,” Firenze
admitted stoically.

“Not getting involved won’t save your people,” argued Harry desperately. “If Voldemort wins, he
won’t stop with humans. He won’t stop.”

“We do not necessarily want him to win,” said Firenze carefully, taking a painful step closer to
Harry. He stared at him, eyes blazing. “The centaurs would prefer that he just didn’t lose.”

“I don’t understand,” said Harry, although admittedly he was never certain of understanding when
centaurs were involved. They seemed to take great pleasure in being unutterably vague.

“I believe,” said Firenze bitterly, “I believe that my herd was honoured with the stay of one of
your Ministry officials not so very long ago.” With a chill, Harry remembered how Professor
Umbridge had marched into the Forbidden Forest and challenged the centaurs, and how they had kept
her with them until Dumbledore – against all good sense, Harry thought – had retrieved her.

“Tell me,” said Firenze slowly, “If that creature and others like her gained power in your
world, how would it be any different for my people than if Voldemort came to rule?”

Ashamed, Harry looked away. He knew perfectly well that the predominant attitude to non-human
magical creatures in the wizarding world was a disgrace, and one that would be very slow to change.
“We’re not all like that,” he offered weakly.

“But there are enough,” Firenze rumbled. “There are enough. So if your Dark Lord rises to power,
why should we not feel glad at what he will do to your kind? Why should we not rejoice? Perhaps his
rising will destroy both your worlds.” His voice dropped. “There could be no better alternative for
many of us.”

*For many of us*. Harry swallowed – for the centaurs, the house-elves, the goblins, the
giants… how many would indeed rejoice if the wizarding world was brought to ruin? And would they
not be justified in doing so? Chilled, he wondered how many allies that could ever hope to persuade
to their side. Not many, it seemed that Firenze was saying. Not many, and from their point of view,
rightly so. Harry was suddenly very depressed.

“Right,” he said weakly. “I’m sorry,” he added, knowing that it would do no good, but somehow
feeling compelled to say it anyway. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to bother you. I just wanted to
apologise for not turning up to class yesterday.” He shifted uncomfortably. “It wasn’t anything
personal. There was just… there was just something else that I had to do.”

Firenze looked at him impassively. “I led no lesson yesterday morning. The class was cancelled,
while I saw your healer.”

“Right,” repeated Harry. “Er… okay. Sorry to have bothered you then.” He felt incredibly
foolish, fumbling with the handle of the door.

Lupin had known after all, he thought. *Damn him*.



15. Chapter Fifteen
-------------------

Chapter Fifteen.

“It’s the sensible thing to do, Harry,” Hermione said reasonably. She was sitting at Lupin’s
desk, with an enormous pile of books propped up in front of her. Both she and Harry had turned up
for their extra lesson in Defence, a lesson that was rapidly becoming sidetracked by Lupin’s plans
for the D.A.

“I don’t know about that,” said Harry doubtfully. He turned to Lupin. “Look, I know I said I’d
be alright with whatever you suggested, and I don’t want to sound like a whiny little kid, but…
*this*? Are you *sure*?”

“I knew you wouldn’t like it,” Lupin said calmly. “But it’s the price of my involvement, Harry.
If you want me to run the D.A. this year, then you’ll open it up to anyone who wants to join – and
that includes the Slytherins. If you can’t accept that, then feel free to run it yourself. I’m sure
you’ll do splendidly.”

Harry snorted. “You’re sure of no such thing,” he said grudgingly, but feeling pleased
nonetheless.

“You did a good job last year,” said Hermione absently, leafing through one of the books. “Ooh!
Professor, can we learn this one?”

“Well, there’s a ringing endorsement,” said Harry dryly.

“Sorry,” said Hermione unabashedly. “I didn’t mean it like it sounded. You *did* do a good
job last year, you know you did. But you probably won’t have time to keep doing it this year, and
anyway, the Slytherins have as much right to learn to defend themselves as anyone else.”

“They take Defence against the Dark Arts like anyone else,” argued Harry mildly.

“It’s not the same thing,” Hermione pointed out, flipping through another book.

“No,” said Harry. “These are extra skills that will probably end up being used against
*us*.”

“You don’t know that for certain,” Lupin stated firmly. “And even if you think you do, can you
really justify deciding how much other people should be able to defend themselves?”

“They have to be responsible for their own actions, Harry,” Hermione said, so quietly he could
barely hear her. She refused to look at him, and Harry couldn’t help but remember, couldn’t help
but realise what she was thinking.

*It’s not up to you to be responsible for everyone, Harry. You do have a saving-people thing,
Harry.*

It was a little too late for him to argue against the point. Harry sighed inwardly. It was all
very well to wander around feeling hard-done-by because the fate of the wizarding world had just
been dumped on his shoulders, and it was quite another to increase the burden by refusing to
lighten it. Truth be told, he knew that Hermione and Lupin were right, but he just couldn’t bring
himself to agree without some form of token argument. They *were* Slytherins, after all. And
in all fairness (and these were words that Harry was beginning to feel were starting to rule his
life) he couldn’t honestly say with certainty that all the Slytherins would automatically side with
Voldemort. That is, he believed they would, but he couldn’t prove it; any more than he could prove
that one of the Gryffindors attending last year’s D.A. meetings wouldn’t turn out to be a modern
version of Wormtail. He sighed again. It was all too complicated. The one thing he did know,
however, in fact the one thing that he knew with a high degree of certainty, was that if he didn’t
agree to this crazy scheme then Lupin would leave him to do the work on his own. This meant that
either he would have to run the D.A. himself, or that it wouldn’t get run this year at all. Either
way, Hogwarts ended up with more students who were slightly more helpless than they could have
been. And as much as he hated the Slytherins, he couldn’t do *that*.

It seemed he had a choice between the lesser of two evils; and he was sorry to find that the
choice was not at all difficult. It was merely unpleasant.

“You *know* it’s the sensible thing to do,” Hermione repeated, a little anxiously. “Don’t
you, Harry?”

“Yes,” grumbled Harry. “I know.”

“And it will be good for them to start to integrate with the rest of the school.”

“Yes, Hermione.”

“You might actually find it interesting to get to know them.”

“Yes-” said Harry automatically, before clapping his mouth shut and shooting her a mock glare.
“Don’t push it, Hermione.” He caught sigh of Lupin shaking his head and chuckling under his breath.
“What?”

“Nothing,” said Lupin, smirking at him. “Nothing at all.”

* * *

Breakfast in the Great Hall was fast taking on an unpleasant routine. Harry had tried to suggest
continuing with the Dobby arrangement, but Hermione had stood firm. Ron, surprisingly, had
supported her.

“They’re going to find her anyway, mate,” he had said, making a grab for the nearest owl. “At
least this way, we get to run interference.” Feathers dropped from his fingers as the owl wrenched
away from him, hooting in displeasure and snapping at him. “Look on the bright side. This has got
to be improving my Keeper skills.” He sucked at a finger, mournfully.

“Got one,” said Dean, from across the table. “Noisy little bugger. D’you want him, Harry?”

“Give him here,” interrupted Hermione, reaching for the owl. “It’s addressed to me, anyway.” Her
tone was resigned.

“No kidding,” said Ron, snatching the bird away from her and indicating the stack of letters on
the table. “They’re all bloody addressed to you. Honestly, I could *kill* that ruddy Rita
Skeeter.”

“You can’t really expect her to keep something like this quiet,” said Hermione tiredly.
“Especially as…”

“Especially as it’s you,” Ron said sagely. “I warned you not to go pissing her off, I did.” He
managed to untie the letter from the owl’s leg and opened it, leaning away from Hermione when she
tried to snatch it off him. Scanning it, he scowled suddenly and tore it up into pieces.

“*Ron!*”

“Geroff, Hermione, you don’t need to see it.”

“This one’s alright,” piped up Neville. “From an old lady at Little Snoring. Says you need
feeding up, and she’ll send you some scones.”

“I’m glad to see some people are still reasonable,” grumbled Harry, rifling through another
letter. “What I want to know is who it was that told her in the first place.”

The arrival of *The Daily Prophet* several days previously had stirred up nothing but
trouble. Ron had been right about Rita Skeeter – her grudge against Hermione had obviously led her
to keep an especially close watch on the goings on at Hogwarts (always a favourite of the
*Prophet*, it seemed). This, combined with the fact that she had apparently no trouble in
worming details out of students – whether nastily inclined, such as Malfoy, or people who simply
didn’t know any better, like the Creevey brothers – had seen the gory details (some of which were
even true) of Hermione’s run-in with the Dementor in the Forbidden Forest splashed all over the
front pages of the wizard press.

Much to Harry’s dismay, many in the wizarding world had taken it as gospel, and come to the same
conclusion as Snape. Of course it didn’t help that Rita had previously painted Hermione as a
heartless, conniving man-eater – something that many people (including Mrs. Weasley, at one point)
had also been happy to believe. This had resulted in a flood of letters – and even some Howlers –
directed to Hermione. Owls seemed to be arriving at breakfast in shifts, and it had been going on
for days. The only bright spot seemed to be that most of the other students at Hogwarts were doing
their level best to pretend that nothing was happening. Harry, remembering how they had laughed
when Ron had received a Howler in their second year, had a feeling that it wasn’t only friendliness
that was keeping them quiet. He was sure he had seen several first years scurrying out of
Hermione’s way with petrified expressions when they were in the corridor between classes. It
reminded him, again, of his second year, when people thought that he had been the Heir of
Slytherin. This time, though, he was fairly sure that he had a part in it himself. Harry hadn’t
missed the flickering of eyes from Hermione to him and back again when a touchy subject was raised.
He supposed that having people finally believe that he had survived an encounter with Voldemort
wasn’t entirely bad. Even the Slytherins were being quieter than normal.

On the bright side, though, there was a fairly solid minority of people who were writing to
Hermione for no other reason than to show their support, like the elderly lady from Little Snoring.
It seemed that since the night in the Department of Mysteries, the credibility of Harry and his
friends had gone up somewhat in the wizarding world. Mrs. Weasley had even sent Hermione a sweater
and a fruitcake the day after the article appeared, accompanied by a letter that threatened to
whack Rita Skeeter over the head with the kitchen sink if she ever came within a mile of the
Burrow.

Hermione had smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours when she had read that, and Ron had
looked unaccountably pleased. Since then he had taken it upon himself to try to vet most of the
letters, roping in several other Gryffindors to help him. It exasperated Hermione no end, but Harry
had to admit that he thought that Ron was in the right of it. There was no sense in her being any
more upset than she needed to be.

“That’s not being reasonable,” said Hermione in disgust. “I’m not five. Does she think that
Hogwarts is starving us?”

“I like that,” said Ron, taking a huge swig of pumpkin juice, after looking at it suspiciously
for a moment and then shrugging. “Poor old thing’s only trying to be nice. You could do with a bit
more like her.”

“Help is what we need, Ron,” said Hermione briskly. “Not a nice plate of scones.”

Ron shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if you still don’t want them when they get here, I’ll eat
‘em.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at him and gave a worried sideways glance at Harry. He had told them
about his encounter with Firenze a few days previously, and it had seemed to come as no surprise to
her. Ron, on the other hand, had been outraged.

“We should just bloody well leave them to it, then,” he had chuntered. “Wait till You-Know-Who
starts going through their forests. Bet they’ll wish they’d helped us when they had the chance
then!”

“I don’t know that they will,” said Harry. “Firenze seemed pretty certain.”

“And he’s the normal one!” snorted Ron.

“Actually, he’s not,” said Hermione under her breath. “That’s the problem. Or do you mean he’s
only normal because he’s doing what we want?”

Ron had scowled at her horribly, and Harry had hastily changed the subject. Only after Ron had
left them had he brought it up again. “D’you think he really means it?”

“Who?” Hermione had said despairingly. “Firenze or Ron?”

Harry had ignored the question, not entirely certain that he wanted to answer it. “You heard
Hagrid last year. Voldemort’s trying to get the giants onside and they seem to want to go with him.
The centaurs won’t get involved, and no one even knows about the goblins…”

“Harry,” Hermione had interrupted.

“It’s true,” he had said, over-riding her. “There’s just not that many people who are willing to
go up against Voldemort with us. You know that.”

“Harry,” Hermione had interrupted again, and gone on before he could get a full head of steam.
“We can’t make these decisions for them. As much as you and I and Dumbledore want them to work with
us, it’s not up to us. There’s nothing we can do to make them.”

“So what do we do?” asked Harry wearily, not really expecting an answer, but trying to calm down
anyway. They were in the Gryffindor Common Room, and people were lazing about in front of the fire,
doing their homework. He didn’t want to draw their attention, or worry them.

“I don’t know,” Hermione had admitted. “We just have to keep on trying, I suppose.” Sighing, she
hauled her book bag onto the table.

“Homework?” Harry had said incredulously. “*That’s* your solution?”

“Do you have a better idea? Besides, you’re the one who’s suddenly interested in what all the
magic races will do. It’s not like I haven’t been trying to get you to pay attention to them for a
while now. *Years*, actually.”

“I know, I know,” Harry had said hurriedly.

Hermione had waved an enormous book at him. Harry was sure he recognised it as being one of the
studies on goblins he had seen her with before. “Is it getting any better?” he had asked, and
Hermione had sighed.

“It’s fairly close to useless, actually,” she had said, letting it thump down on the table. “Of
course, there’s not a lot to measure it against. Some of the stuff in here is so ludicrous that I’m
not entirely sure I believe it. Wizards wrote it, of course, so they could very well be biased. I
just can’t seem to find anything written by the goblins. I’m no closer to understanding them than I
was when I started.”

“It might get better,” Harry had repeated, without much hope. Hermione had smiled at him
tiredly, but he could see the disbelief in her eyes, and the dark rings around them. It stayed with
him for the rest of the evening, bothering him so much that he had lost, in record time, three
games of wizard chess to Ron. He had come down into the Common Room with his set, and the two of
them had tacitly decided not to mention their previous disagreement.

It was when he had cried off another game and was watching Ron play Seamus Finnegan that an idea
had come to him. It was so simple that he nearly kicked himself for not thinking of it before.
Hermione had told him more than once that the available books about goblins were not only pretty
hopeless, but seemingly all that was available. But surely the goblins had their own history of
Gringott’s bank. Couldn’t he just ask them? The worst they could do was say no.

Actually, Harry had amended to himself, the worst they could do was tell him to sod off, that
their loyalties were already decided, thank-you very much, and that they didn’t lie with him. He
was beginning to panic a bit – knowing that a prophecy existed that made him the only one capable
of defeating Voldemort was one thing. Believing, in the middle of the night, when he couldn’t
sleep, that he’d have to do it alone was one thing. Realising, in bright daylight, that he really
*might* have to do it alone after all, because all those who might be his allies weren’t
really actually all that inclined, was quite another.

Besides, it was only a letter.

Excusing himself from the whitewash on the chess board, he had skived a piece of parchment and a
quill off Hermione and retreated to a dim corner of the common room. Two hours later, nearly
everyone had gone to bed and he was really no further ahead. Harry had sighed to himself grumpily.
He couldn’t help but feel that it would have been a nice birthday present for Hermione – Ginny’s
sarcasm aside, he knew she liked books. It didn’t seem the year to go for something different on
the off-chance that she might like it.

He slumped back in his chair and tried to find some inspiration. He didn’t want to sound as if
he was ordering them to indulge him, but he didn’t want to sound like a grovelling kid either.
Trying to decide what tone to take, he let his mind wander back to the last time he had been at
Gringott’s, at the reading of Sirius’s will.

It was not a pleasant memory. Not only had he been forced to let go of the idea of revenge on
Kreacher, but he had also managed to put his foot right in it with Hermione. He suspected that
Gringott’s was rather used to having grieving, argumentative relatives drop on their doorstep, but
that didn’t mean that he didn’t feel a little embarrassed about it. What he really wanted, Harry
realised, was an excuse. Something that he could write to Gringott’s about and casually add on a
query about any goblin histories that might exist. At least that way he wouldn’t seem like some
clumsy, desperate oaf who only took notice of them when he wanted something. Even if that was the
case.

Of course, he’d only be wanting something from them with his excuse, anyway – whatever it was.
Harry had shaken his head, his eyes blurring. He hadn’t been sleeping well the past few nights, and
if he didn’t get something down soon and go to bed then he was going to fall asleep in the Common
Room. He couldn’t help thinking that he was making things more difficult than they needed to be. He
snorted lightly to himself, amused – it was usually Hermione who everyone accused of over thinking
things.

And then it came to him – the perfect solution. At least, as perfect as solutions get at
midnight when one is grasping at straws. It was simple, it gave him an opening, an olive branch to
Gringott’s, and it might actually get Hermione a decent birthday present. Harry had smirked, and
pulled the parchment towards him. Ginny would be proud of him.

Despite posting the letter, however, he had heard nothing from Gringott’s – no reply of any kind
– for days. He had almost given up when McGonagall, waving aside owls with an expression of extreme
distaste, approached the table.

“Miss Granger,” she said, her expression softening, “I trust you’re not paying too much
attention to the opinions of these foolish people.”

“Don’t worry, Professor,” said Ron, round a mouthful of egg. “We’re only letting her read the
good ones.” He patted Hermione on the shoulder protectively, and she gave him an odd look.

“I don’t need protecting from a few letters, Ron,” she said uncomfortably.

McGonagall eyed her for a moment, and then turned to Harry. “You have a visitor, Potter. He’s in
my classroom. I would suggest that you don’t keep him waiting.” She was looking at him curiously,
an expression that quickly turned sour when another owl landed on the table, a bright red envelope
in its beak. She snatched it off him with a force that caused the owl to spin in the air.

“I’ll take these, if you don’t mind,” she said ominously, scooping up the Howler and a pile of
discarded letters. “If I never see another owl again I’ll be happy,” she muttered as she headed
back up to the top table. “When will people learn to mind their own business?”

“Looks like Hermione doesn’t need you defending her any more, Ron,” said Dean, sniggering. Ron
turned red, and Hermione shot Dean a glare that could have cut through glass. She swelled
ominously, and Harry thought it was probably a good idea to escape before she got going.

“Er. I’ll just be off then, okay?” he said, to no-one in particular.

* * *

Harry let himself into the classroom, and gaped at its inhabitant. He hoped he had wiped all the
breakfast crumbs off his robes. Griphook was sitting, ramrod straight, behind the desk, with
Gringott’s embossed cases stacked around him. The goblin did not look pleased to be there, Harry
decided. He did not look pleased *at all*.

“It is an honour to provide our services for you again, Mr. Potter,” snapped Griphook, in a tone
that implied it was anything but.

“I can see that,” said Harry dryly. “What are you doing here, Griphook?”

The goblin flashed bright teeth at him. “Your… request… was unexpected. Gringott’s felt it would
be best if someone were to speak with you directly. Since I have been largely responsible for your
account since its activation, it was felt that I would be the best representative.”

“I hope you haven’t been inconvenienced,” said Harry carefully. He was sure that the goblin
suppressed a hiss. “I only sent a letter. I didn’t think that it would cause any trouble.”

“No one ever does,” said Griphook flatly. “But no matter. We are, as always, at your
convenience.” The sarcasm sliced through the classroom like a knife, and Harry felt his temper
begin to slip.

“I’m sorry,” he said bluntly, “But I’ve really got no idea of what’s going on here. I thought
I’d just get sent a letter back – a few descriptions, maybe. I had no idea that Gringott’s was in
the habits of making house calls.”

Griphook looked insulted. “We are not. But your request was… unexpected.”

Harry took a deep breath. “How so?” he said, as calmly as he could manage.

“Goblin records are for goblins only,” said Griphook bluntly, and Harry winced slightly. He had
never really thought about the ratio of tact handed out to goblins in comparison with the other
species, but somehow he was not surprised to find out that tact was something that they could well
do without. Griphook bared his teeth at him, and Harry quickly decided that any race with teeth
that sharp had probably decided long ago that civility was only an optional extra.

“You’d let me see my files, though, wouldn’t you?” he asked, without thinking, and promptly
wished he hadn’t. He could have sworn the goblin was about to hiss at him.

“Gringott’s records are only shown to the customer in question,” Griphook pointed out, as if to
a small and stupid child. “Gringott’s records are, however, not the sum total of goblin histories.
There is more to our lives than the counting of wizard’s money, you know.”

“Right,” said Harry hastily. He realised, with a twinge of shame, that he’d never really
considered that possibility, even with five years of (largely ignoring) History of Magic.
*Stupid*, he thought angrily to himself. *What did you think they did at the end of the day?
Stacked themselves in a cupboard till morning?* He fervently wished that Hermione was there to
take over while he pulled his foot out of his mouth, before remembering that this was supposed to
be about a birthday present for her, and he couldn’t very well ask her to come and sort out her own
present. Could he?

Harry stood there for a few seconds, feeling foolish. Griphook made no move to put him at his
ease, and Harry came to the conclusion that it was up to him to get things moving from there. The
only problem was, he couldn’t think of anything to say – or at least anything that could be put as
inoffensively and politely as possible. Irritation washed over him, and in it he suddenly saw a
solution. It seemed that goblins placed a high premium on bluntness. Growing up with Uncle Vernon,
who was unparalleled in calling a spade a spade, Harry felt that he could be equally blunt.
Griphook didn’t have to like him, after all, but who said that Harry couldn’t step up to his
level?

“Is there any way I could get a copy of those histories?” he asked flatly.

Griphook paused for a moment, head tilted slightly to the side. A flash came and went in his
eyes, and Harry thought for a moment there was something like an expression of guarded approval in
them. “Why do you want them?” the goblin asked, equally flatly.

The fact that he had answered at all was a relief to Harry. The tone of the conversation had
changed, he could sense that much. It was turning from a near-fight into a negotiation, albeit one
on goblin terms. Profit and loss, Harry reminded himself. For a moment he was glad that he was the
Boy Who Lived – that one small fact was probably the only thing that had got the conversation this
far at all. He couldn’t help but remember when Hagrid had first brought him to the Leaky Cauldron,
in the summer before his first year at Hogwarts, and how all the people there had looked at him as
if he had changed something for them merely by being alive. The goblins must feel it too, he
reasoned, otherwise they never would have sent a representative to see him. He would just have
received an abrupt letter telling him his request was not open for discussion. So somewhere in the
calculations of the goblins at Gringott’s bank there was room for him to manoeuvre. They may not
like him, they may not trust him, but they were entirely too canny to see that his very existence
might still affect them – for good or ill.

Harry had never felt comfortable trading off his name, but he was beginning to come to the
conclusion that any advantage was better than none. He studied Griphook, wondering what tack would
be best to take. It wasn’t long before he realised that the truth was the best avenue. The goblins
were reaching out to him – on a very slim bridge, it was true – and if he lied to them now then he
jeopardised any chance of ever winning their trust again. Harry did not think that they were the
type to forgive easily, if ever.

So. The truth it was. “I don’t,” he said. “At least, not for me. For a friend of mine.”

Griphook’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Impossible,” he said flatly. “Even offering them to you has
been a much-debated step. Frankly, Gringott’s is not yet fully decided on the issue.” Harry felt a
small spark of triumph – he had been right then, he thought. Profit and loss – the goblins were
hedging their bets. Or at least some of them were – Griphook had let slip a small piece of extra
information: that not all agreed with this bridge. Apparently the goblin world was as divided as
the wizarding one. Harry supposed it made some kind of sense – they were waiting to see which side
would come up better before they threw in their support. On the down side, that meant that the
goblins had no ties to the wizarding world, that they would support Voldemort if he gave them the
better deal. Harry was disappointed, but he wasn’t surprised. On the other hand, he was also
beginning to doubt that Griphook’s slip was entirely accidental. A warning, perhaps? Or merely the
opening in another, more complicated set of negotiations?

“Why not?” said Harry, just as flatly, then saw that he had erred. He clarified. “Why is it
impossible for someone else?” *Better*, he thought. *Makes it sound like it’s not impossible
for him to give them to me*.

“Knowledge is power,” snapped Griphook. “Goblins live in the wizarding world. We are accepted
because of what we can provide, but our advantages are not so great that we can let even the
smallest of them go blindly.”

“Don’t you even want to know who I’d be giving them to?” Harry asked, curious. He was not
entirely sure why he was asking, but decided to follow his instinct. He was beginning to feel that
in many ways this was almost like a game of Quidditch, with its own set of tactics and feints. He
was good at Quidditch, largely by instinct, he knew, so he would pay attention to his instincts in
this.

“I can’t see how that would make a difference,” said Griphook dismissively, but Harry thought he
saw a slight twinge of interest in the tilt of the goblin’s head. He supposed that from the goblin
point of view, any scrap of information that they might be able to glean out of him could be useful
in further negotiations. Harry thought he may as well go ahead and tell him – there was no harm in
being generous, especially if he had been right and Griphook had deliberately passed information
onto him. He very much wanted the goblin to feel as if they were on a level playing field.

“A friend of mine has a birthday in a few days,” he said casually. “You’ve met her – Hermione
Granger. She was at Gringott’s with me not so long ago, remember? You activated her account for
her.”

Griphook stared at him silently, a strange look upon his face. Harry began to feel a little
uncomfortable.

“You do remember her, right? About so tall, curly brown hair…”

“I know Miss Granger,” said Griphook softly. “We all do.” At Harry’s sudden, sharp glance, the
goblin elaborated, albeit reluctantly. “She sent us a script of the election of the Minister of
Magic. It was most… unusual. No human has ever done that before.”

“So will you let her have the histories?” Harry asked, hopefully.

Griphook shot him a hard glare. “That is not up to me. However, I can… pass on your request. It
may be considered.” Harry nodded – it would have to do. For a moment he repressed a smirk – it
looked like Hermione might have arranged her own birthday present after all. Then he felt a bit bad
– perhaps Ginny had been right when she had said he and Ron had fallen a bit short in the effort
stakes this year. Hopefully the cases that Griphook had brought from the bank would change
that.

The goblin noticed him eyeing up the boxes. “If you would prefer to do this in private, I can
leave you alone for as long as you require,” he offered, and Harry could see that he had reverted
to the typical banker archetype. Apparently the conversation about the histories had just ended,
and he was unsure if it would ever continue. Belatedly, he realised that Griphook was waiting for a
response, so he nodded a bit and the goblin left the room.

Harry had to admit he was curious. His Aunt Petunia had sometimes worn jewellery, when she had
accompanied Uncle Vernon to a company dinner, and he wondered if wizarding jewellery would be
anything like what she wore (which had always seemed rather small and flashy). He poked about a
little through the boxes, and was a little disappointed to find that there were no labels on
anything. He would have liked to have known who the pieces had belonged to – and which had belonged
to his mother. Some of them were obviously from the Black family vaults, as their backs were
stamped with the family shield. Well – he wasn’t going to give Hermione one of *those.* After
a few minutes rummaging, however, he had managed to spread all of the jewellery over several desks,
and had come to one inescapable conclusion.

This stuff left Aunt Petunia’s for dead. It was, Harry concluded, the most awful, tacky,
over-the-top, hideous collection he had ever seen. Of course, he reasoned to himself, he had never
really had the chance to look at jewellery before. Perhaps this was normal?

But why would anyone wear anything so horrible?

He picked up the smallest, plainest thing he could find. It was a golden ring, heavy, and even
as ignorant as he was, Harry could tell that it was extremely expensive. It had at least five
different stones that he could count (all in different colours) with intricate designs engraved
into the gold. He stared at it in fascinated distaste. It was just so… fussy.

Harry ran his eyes over the entire gaudy pile. What on earth was he supposed to *do* with
all this? Part of him decided that it was a good thing it was all buried in a bank vault, far
underneath London. At least that way there was no temptation for anyone to wear it. He let the ring
drop. There was no way that he could give any of this to Hermione – he had a horrible feeling that
if he did it would end up in the bottom of her trunk next to Ron’s perfume. He wondered why Sirius
had palmed it off on him. What did he expect Harry to do with it?

Sighing, Harry began to stuff the jewellery back in their cases. He had a bit of trouble with a
heavy silver necklace, embossed with the Black family motto. It had sprouted fangs and tried to
bite him when he had tried to close the lid of its case on it. Sucking his finger, he seriously
considered chucking it in the lake. He was trying to pack everything back into the large Gringott’s
carry cases when he saw in the bottom of one an old, scruffy box, so dim it blended into the bottom
of the case. He had missed it on his original search, and pulled it out. Given the quality of the
rest of the jewellery, Harry didn’t hold out much hope, but he opened the box anyway.

He was pleased to find that he was wrong.



16. Chapter Sixteen
-------------------

Chapter Sixteen.

Neville’s round face appeared in his field of vision. “Harry. You alright?”

“Yeah,” he grunted, getting to his feet. “Congratulations, Neville. Looks like you’ve really got
this one covered.”

Neville just looked at him, a trifle disapprovingly. “Don’t you mean, ‘Congratulations, Neville,
you managed to disarm me when I wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention and completely
ignoring you?”

“Sorry,” said Harry grumpily. “D’you have my wand? Thanks.” He shook his head to try and clear
it. He should have known, he thought, that reforming the D.A. would turn out to be a bad idea.
Harry tried to pull himself back from that line of thought. It *wasn’t* a bad idea; it was an
idea that was demanding his attention when he wanted to put that attention elsewhere. He glanced
gloomily at Ron, wondering how useful it was to try directing attention where it wasn’t wanted.

“Come on, Harry,” said Neville quietly. “You’ve been staring at them for the better part of the
evening. Even the Slytherins are beginning to notice.” At this, the first meeting of the D.A. since
its dissolution the previous year, all Houses were represented. It was a good thing, Harry thought,
that the Room of Requirement could expand to hold all the new members. Even then, there were still
too many to supervise. Lupin had eventually – and reluctantly – restricted membership to the senior
students, believing that even with extra training, the juniors were likely to be unable to truly
defend themselves against enemies such as Death Eaters.

“It’s a matter of practicality, Harry,” he had said. “We cannot expect them to be able to master
spells that are several years ahead of their abilities. And *please* don’t start with the fact
that you and Ron and Hermione were tackling the Dark Arts when you were their age. You three can
hardly be taken as representative skill levels. There’s just no way an eleven year old can truly
hope to challenge a Death Eater – the best we can do for them is to keep them out of harm’s way
entirely. They’re complaining enough at all the extra homework I give them as it is. You cannot ask
them to do things that they are incapable of, through no fault of their own. We have to focus on
the students who can best be taught to help themselves, and that means seniors.”

Even so, not all of the seniors had become members. Many, like Marietta Edgecomb of the previous
year, came from families that were reluctant to get involved, and who were still, it appeared, not
fully cognisant of the threat that the return of Voldemort brought with it. Many of the students
from pureblood families were absent, although surprising amounts of the Slytherins had volunteered
to join, including Malfoy. Harry was not impressed at that development, but kept his mouth shut. He
could understand Malfoy wanting to pick up some extra protection – even Pansy Parkinson seemed to
avoid him now, and Harry began to think that the animosity he had glimpsed being aimed at Malfoy by
the other Slytherins was not the result of a single incident. He didn’t trust Slytherin House as
far as he could throw it, and it appeared to be reverting well and truly to type in its avoidance
of anyone associated with the betrayal of their pureblood ideals. Technically, he supposed, Lucius
Malfoy hadn’t actually *betrayed* Voldemort – he had merely been sent to Azkaban, the result
of the botched operation in the Ministry of Magic. Failure did not seem to be any more palatable
than betrayal in the Slytherin code of conduct – and considering that Voldemort’s return had been
outed to the wizarding world at large, wrecking his plans, Lucius Malfoy and his cohorts had turned
out to be very unpopular indeed, and that unpopularity had spread to his son. Guilt by association,
Harry assumed. Even paired off by Lupin in the D.A. with Blaise Zabini (who looked none too happy
at the prospect, Harry noted), Malfoy was being made the target of sneak attacks by the rest of his
Housemates whenever Lupin’s back was turned.

Not that this bothered Harry one bit. As far as he was concerned, Malfoy had done his best to
make his, Harry’s, life hell over the past five years, and had only himself to blame when he found
himself at the other end of things. Still, it sickened him slightly to see the Slytherins turn on
one of their own so easily – he couldn’t imagine hexing a fellow Gryffindor from behind no matter
what they had done. Besides, the constant attacks had begun to draw the attention of the rest of
the students, who were watching somewhat uncomfortably, but not, Harry noted, interfering. They’d
been at the receiving end of some of Malfoy’s behaviour as well.

Watching him, Harry saw a particularly vicious bolt from Blaise Zabini, moreover a hex that
Lupin certainly would have forbidden had he not been at the other end of the room, instructing a
fifth year Hufflepuff girl on the proper wave to give her wand. Malfoy was blasted backwards, near
to where Ron and Hermione were practicing against each other. Harry saw him try to rise from the
floor and then sink back for an instant. He made no move to help him, and was relieved when he saw
Ron stop Hermione from doing so. He was amazed, however, to see Ron offer the Slytherin his
hand.

“Get up,” said Ron flatly.

“Sod off, Weasley,” said Malfoy, gasping and obviously winded. “You don’t think I want your
filthy hands on me, do you?”

“Leave him be, Weasley,” said Zabini in a bored voice. “It’s not like he’s anything to you,
right? A stay in the hospital wing might improve him.”

Ron looked faintly sick, Harry thought, and Hermione seemed to be on the verge of tears. The
students nearest to them had fallen quiet, and Harry thought he had best intervene before Lupin
did. He didn’t care about Malfoy, but he didn’t want to see the look of disappointment on Lupin’s
face if he just ignored what was happening. Before he could make his way over there, though, Ron
had stepped forward and hauled Malfoy to his feet, by the back of his robes. It was none too
careful, but he did it.

“If he’s in the hospital wing,” said Ron tightly, “Then he’s leaving me to do all his ruddy work
in Astronomy. No, thank-you.” He glared at Zabini. “No-one’s going to make me do that, d’you hear?”
he added aggressively, before stalking off to the other side of the room, dragging Hermione with
him. He passed Harry by without a glance, Hermione looking apologetically at him. Harry saw that he
kept shooting glances back at the two Slytherins, however, and Zabini was not unaware of it. He
kept his attacks more moderate after that, and shot assessing glances of his own back at Ron and
Hermione – and at Harry. It infuriated him to see the smug flatness on the Slytherin’s face, the
fact that he actually seemed to be enjoying baiting the three of them. Harry didn’t like Malfoy at
all, and he never had, but at least he knew how to deal with him. Zabini was just as bad,
apparently, but in a different way. If only they’d focus on each other, Harry thought, and left me
the hell out of it.

He had a feeling that it wouldn’t be the case.

“C’mon, Harry,” said Neville quietly. “You can’t do anything by staring at him. Leave it until
after class, eh?”

“I’m not doing *anything* with Malfoy after class,” said Harry with clenched teeth, and
Neville looked at him pityingly.

“I didn’t mean Malfoy,” he said patiently. “I meant Ron. You’ve been watching him all
evening.”

“We’ve…we’ve had a bit of a fight, actually,” said Harry quietly.

“No kidding,” said Neville. “Look, you can’t do anything about it now. So just try to pay
attention, alright? You can’t let me go getting your wand like that; it’ll ruin your
reputation.”

Harry glared blackly at him, unable to appreciate the humour in Neville’s remark. Things had
been cool between him and Ron ever since Hermione’s birthday. The whole of Gryffindor Tower had
been woken early that day, by a shriek that would have done the Hogwart’s Express proud. It had
turned out that the goblins had made their decision after all, and an owl had scratched at the
window of Hermione’s dormitory in the early morning. It had a small package attached to its leg – a
set of books minimised for transport which could be magically expanded to normal size. Harry was
initially a little miffed to find out that they had ostensibly come from Gringott’s Bank, with no
mention of him at all, but he came to the conclusion that the goblins had decided that Hermione
would probably be more useful if she was beholden to them as the originators of the gift. It was
easily explainable due to the transcript she had sent them of the election of Madame Bones to the
position of Minister of Magic, and no doubt that was what most of his Housemates were assuming.

“Bloody hell,” Seamus had groaned, rubbing his eyes. After wishing Hermione a happy birthday, he
had continued under his breath, “They’re just books. Who gets excited about those? I’m going back
to bed.” His reaction was shared by most of the Gryffindors, and Harry realised that most of them
didn’t realise in the slightest the importance of the goblin histories, and what had occurred to
make the goblins share them. Of course, he didn’t fully realise himself. He wondered about the
discussions that must have taken place, and wished he knew how extreme the opposition had been.

Harry had decided to keep his mouth shut about the books, but he hadn’t reckoned on the near
phenomenal power of gossip that Hogwarts so excelled at. He had thought that his meeting with
Griphook was a fairly private event, but apparently the rumour that he had been visited by one of
the goblins from Gringott’s not long before had been circulated, and Hermione was never slow to put
things together.

“No, really,” Harry had protested. “It was them that did it. I might have made a suggestion, but
they were the ones who wanted you to have it.” *That might be a bit of an exaggeration*, he
thought to himself, but bit his tongue before he could say it out loud. “I can’t make them do
anything, and they’d never sell them, so I couldn’t buy it either. I don’t think they’d have sent
it to anyone other than you. You made quite an impression with that transcript. It looks like those
Quick-Quotes-Quills – or what ever they are – are good for something after all,” he finished
weakly.

“So it’s not really from you?” Ron had asked, in a strange voice.

Harry had shot him a look. Ron had almost sounded relieved. “*No*,” he had said firmly.
“Course, I do have something for you,” he had said to Hermione. “Er… it’s not really wrapped
though.”

“They never are,” said Ginny knowingly. “What? I’ve got six brothers, if you remember. Presents
are *never* wrapped.” The four of them had been the only ones left in the common room,
everyone else having headed back to bed.

Things had started to go downhill from there, Harry knew. Hermione had been thrilled with her
necklace, a beautiful, antique, and above all, to Harry’s mind, *plain* string of pearls. It
had even impressed Ginny, and she had given him a thoroughly approving glance. Ron, on the other
hand, with his box of Chocolate Frogs had looked utterly betrayed. “What happened to the book?” he
had hissed at Harry when Hermione had gone to get dressed. That evening, the birthday party had
only been a success because they had stayed on opposite sides of the room.

Harry had been aware for a long time of Ron’s tendency to jealousy, but he couldn’t help it that
he had money and fame – neither of which he was particularly proud of. It wasn’t as if he had
earned them himself. And he hadn’t set out to make Ron look or feel bad, hadn’t even given it a
thought, if he was honest with himself. And that’s what was upsetting him, almost more than the
fact that it had been a week since Hermione’s birthday and Ron had been no more than coldly civil
to him. Hermione was spending her time running interference between them, and that alone made Harry
annoyed enough to not reach out on his own. Did he really have to apologise to Ron for getting her
an expensive birthday present? Should he even have to?

Harry landed on his back again. His glasses flew off, and Neville retrieved them with a sigh.
“It’s hopeless, isn’t it?” he observed. “You’re not going to pay attention no matter what. And
while I’d like to think it’s me that’s disarming you, it isn’t quite the same when I know that
you’re not paying me any attention.”

“Sorry,” Harry winced, clambering off the floor. “I don’t mean to be so wet. It’s just… I can’t
help but think that…” he trailed off, noticing that the pairs around them were being unusually
quiet, and scowled.

“D’you want to talk about it?” asked Neville shyly, and Harry nodded.

“I guess so. Just not here.”

“Same place as last time, then,” said Neville briskly. “I think Professor Lupin’s about ready to
call it a night.” And indeed it was so. The two boys trailed out after everyone else, and made
their way up to the Owlery Tower. They were pleased to find it deserted, and Harry swung himself up
onto the balcony, breathing in the cool air that wafted in from over the lake.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Neville. “He’ll get over it eventually.”

“Will he?” said Harry. “Look, I know it isn’t easy for him. I know he’s trying. But what am I
supposed to do?” He hesitated. “If I ask you something, will you give me an honest answer? Really,
I mean? Even if you think I won’t like it?”

Neville regarded him silently for a moment, his round face solemn. “I can do that.”

“It’s just… before we went to the Department of Mysteries. D’you remember… d’you remember
Hermione telling me I had a “saving people thing”?” He took a deep breath. “Neville, is she
right?”

“Yes,” said Neville bluntly. Harry gaped. “But I don’t understand what that’s got to do with
Ron,” he continued.

“It’s just something I’ve been thinking about,” said Harry quietly, swinging his feet. “I don’t
know that I can really explain it.”

Neville grinned shyly at him. “You wouldn’t have dragged me all the way up here if you couldn’t
explain it,” he pointed out. “Not that I didn’t want to come, mind. So come on, Harry, spit it
out.”

“Alright,” said Harry, grinning a bit himself, and feeling unaccountably nervous. “You asked for
it. I think… I think she may have been right. But I wonder if it’s because I feel like it’s my
responsibility to do it, or whether it’s because doing it gets me more attention. It’s just that -
What?”

Neville was looking at him oddly. “Look,” he said. “I know I’m not the brightest, but you’re
making no sense whatsoever. Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m *fine*,” said Harry in exasperation. “There is a point to all this, okay?” Neville
just looked at him, disbelievingly.

“Maybe you had better get off that balcony, Harry,” he offered, “I might have hit you harder
than I thought.” He flinched slightly as Harry glared at him.

“Are you going to listen or what? Ron has a habit of reacting this way, but is it because I
really *am* hogging all the attention?”

“It could just be that he’s acting like a prat,” offered Neville.

“True,” Harry admitted. “But I spent the whole of last year being a prat, so I can’t fault him
for that. Still, it doesn’t mean I’m not making it worse. Oh, it’s not that I’m trying to, at least
not deliberately.” He noticed that Neville was still looking at him rather strangely, his eyebrows
raised. Harry sighed. “Oh, bugger it. Look Neville, do I always try to be the hero?”

“Harry, you are the hero,” said Neville slowly. “That’s just the way it is.”

“I suppose,” said Harry reluctantly. “But… you don’t think I’m milking it, do you? Showing off
my money and fame and all that?”

“By getting Hermione a nice birthday present, you mean,” said Neville, beginning to catch on. He
looked relieved. “You mean you want to know if you’re acting like a Slytherin.”

“Er… yeah,” admitted Harry sheepishly.

“No,” said Neville simply. “Why would you even think that?”

Harry thumped down from the balcony and turned to lean on it. “I can’t help but think about it,”
he said. “When I first came to Hogwarts, d’you remember how long the Sorting Hat took to make up
its mind with me?”

“Wasn’t that long really,” said Neville. “I think it just seems longer when you’re the one under
it. I was sure I’d been there for an hour.”

“Yeah. Well, it wanted to put me in Slytherin,” said Harry quietly, deliberately not looking at
his friend. “It said I’d do well there. I just knew that it was the one House I didn’t want a bar
of, so I begged it to put me into Gryffindor.” He shrugged. “Sometimes… sometimes I wonder if it
did the right thing. I seem to be as good at making Ron feel bad as Malfoy is.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Neville, though his voice was a little shaky. “The only way you’re like
Malfoy is feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not making Ron react the way he does – Ron’s making
Ron do that.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” said Harry gloomily. “He’s not your best mate.”

There was nothing to say to that. They stood in silence for a while, and then Neville piped up
“Slytherin, huh?” Harry was surprised to hear a twinge of repressed amusement in his voice.

“Yeah,” he said. “So?”

“Oh, nothing,” smirked Neville. “But have you thought? In another life, you might have enjoyed
Potions.”

Harry snorted. “And Snape as Head of House?” He clutched at his chest dramatically. “Do you
think it’s too late to change my mind?”

“Sorry,” said Neville, unrepentant. “Nothing’s going to make him like you now.” He looked
sideways at Harry. “How’s the Occlumency going these days anyway?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Harry winced. “The same. Don’t ask. There’s nothing I can do about it anyway.” Thinking about
his Occlumency lessons with Snape gave him a cold feeling in the bottom of his stomach. It wasn’t
just the taunting about Sirius, which Harry was learning to ignore. At least, he couldn’t ignore it
or even forget it really, but he was determined not to let Snape see how much it hurt. It gave him
a certain grim pleasure. Almost worse was the groping in his mind, coming steadily closer to that
awful feeling that lurked in the background, the one that he didn’t want to address, or even
acknowledge. Harry had wondered briefly if it was the thought of the Prophecy that was at the
bottom of it. It certainly made him uncomfortable enough and he didn’t want to think about the time
when he would have to face Voldemort again. He was also sure that he didn’t want Snape knowing
about it – if Dumbledore hadn’t told him already, he thought bitterly to himself. The Headmaster
might have trusted his Potions Master, but Harry was as yet loathe to do the same. Even so, he knew
that it wasn’t the case. However bad the Prophecy made him feel, he was at least beginning to
assimilate the knowledge that it existed. This new, nagging fear that he had had since the
beginning of the summer holidays was different, and he was even less inclined to let Snape know
about it than he was to let him know about the Prophecy. Harry was certain of that much, and that
made him even more nervous. He knew that he was being a coward by not dragging it out into the
open, but it was a secret so big that he wasn’t prepared to fully acknowledge it to himself
yet.

Since his Occlumency lessons had resumed, Harry had worked hard to keep this new unpleasantness
far to the back of his mind. It was a fairly nebulous thing anyway, and he had no real idea what it
was he was afraid of. It gave him an excuse not to consider it, as if dragging it out to the front
of his mind would leave it exposed to Snape. Instead, he secreted it away at the back of his mind,
and it gave him the motivation he had so lacked during the previous year. Harry worked hard to
clear his mind every night, to block away the strange emotion as if behind a brick wall. He
concentrated hard, and built well. As yet, Snape had no idea that Harry was hiding something from
him – but Harry was all too well aware that it couldn’t last. The Potion Master was also a Master
of Occlumency, and nothing Harry knew would be able to be kept hidden forever.

Neville jolted him out of his reverie. “Harry? We’d better get back to the Tower. I don’t know
about you, but I don’t want that Blaise Zabini sneaking up on us again.” He frowned. “I don’t know
about you, but that one gives me the creeps.”

“Yeah,” said Harry distractedly, still thinking about a comment Neville had made earlier. “You
know, I used to think that I’d like to see the Slytherins turn on Malfoy, but I didn’t stop to
think that what they’d turn into might not be any better. Malfoy’s an idiot, but he’s easy enough
to deal with once you get the hang of him. Zabini doesn’t bait as easily. I don’t like him either.
I wish Hermione hadn’t gotten involved with him.” He turned to follow Neville as the other boy made
for the stairwell.

“Uh, Neville?” he said, before he could stop himself. “What you said before, about having
another life… D’you ever wonder what it would be like if you did?” Harry had not intention of
telling Neville about the Prophecy, but he couldn’t help but wonder at his reaction, couldn’t help
but feel a kinship to him because of it.

Neville looked at him solemnly, the arch of the stairwell casting strange shadows on his round
face. “Yes,” he said simply, sadly. “I do wonder. Every day. I wish… I wish I could have gotten to
know my parents. But I don’t have another life, Harry. We just have to do the best with what we
have.” For a moment he looked very tired, and then he turned and stumped off down the stairs.

Harry followed him, feeling a little sorry he had asked. He trailed behind Neville all the way
back to the common room, dropping into one of the squashy armchairs in front of the fire and
watching his friend head up towards the dormitories. The common room was nearly deserted; although
Harry was pleased to see that Hermione was still up, sitting on the floor in front of the fire,
legs crossed. The pearls shone at her throat, tinted orange by the firelight.

“Here,” she said, tossing him up a small bag of sunflower seeds. “You might as well make
yourself useful. Could you take the shells off those please, so that I can grind them?” And indeed
there was a small mortar and pestle in front of her, with a few seeds already in it. One of the
goblin histories, expanded to proper size, was lying open next to one of her knees.

Harry grunted slightly and began trying to shell the seeds. They were small and fiddly, and it
was more difficult than he expected. “Where’s Ron?”

“Gone to bed,” said Hermione briefly. “I don’t think he’s any happier with me than he is with
you at the moment.”

“Sorry,” said Harry quietly. He stopped shelling and looked at her. “You know, you don’t have to
wear it if you don’t want to. I mean, if it upsets him.”

Hermione glared at him. “First of all, Ron doesn’t get to tell me what I should do with my
birthday present. Second of all, neither do you. I like it and I want to wear it so I will. Third,
those seeds won’t shell themselves. Got it?”

“Er… right,” said Harry, taken aback.

There was silence for a few minutes. “If you didn’t want me to wear it you shouldn’t have given
it to me,” said Hermione, a trifle shakily, and Harry felt guilty.

“It’s not that,” he said instantly, making sure not to neglect the sunflower seeds while he
spoke. “I just don’t want you to be caught in the middle again.”

“This is nothing like fourth year, Harry,” Hermione interrupted. “Well, I mean yes, Ron is
upset. But he’s still your friend. He’s still our friend. That isn’t going to change just because
you’ve had a fight. Wait and see – I bet you’ll have made up before the week is out. ”

“I suppose,” said Harry. Deep down, he knew the justice of her statement. Still, it made him a
bit uncomfortable talking about Ron like this behind his back – he knew his friend wouldn’t like
it. “Here.” He tipped the shelled seeds into Hermione’s mortar, and chucked the shells into the
fire, where they crackled and spat. “What d’you need them for, anyway?”

“Oh, they’re part of the Wolfsbane Potion,” said Hermione interestedly. Harry looked puzzled,
and she went on to explain. “You see, while a lot of the ingredients are related to the moon, there
are also quite a few that are bound to the sun. They help to act as a counter-measure, I think.”
She scowled slightly, biting her lip. “At least, that’s what I understand of it. This is
*such* a complicated Potion. I wonder if we’ll ever get it right.” She began to grind the
seeds. “We have to get them down to powder.”

“I’ll do it,” Harry offered, wanting to help. “Just pass it up here, will you? Thanks.” He began
grinding, concentrating hard, as much to avoid conversation as to help with the potion. He seemed
to be putting his foot in it no matter what these days. There was an awkward silence for a few
minutes, and then he looked down at Hermione, and couldn’t help chuckling to himself. If Hermione
felt awkward, it was taking a different tack. Her eyes kept sliding over to the goblin book, but
after half a page or so she kept remembering that she wasn’t alone and looking around, obviously
casting for something to say, despite the fact that the book kept tempting her attention away.

“What?” she said, hearing him laugh at her.

“Nothing,” said Harry, smirking. “Good book, is it?”

“Oh, *yes*,” said Hermione. “It’s so interesting. I mean, I know that Professor Binns has
told us all about the Goblin Wars, but I never really understood the reasons behind them before.
You might like to borrow this when I’m done with it, though I did promise Susan that she could be
the one to read it first. She’s got one of the other volumes now, but we both really need to read
them all first, so we can start working on our project. I hope you don’t mind waiting a bit.”

“Not at all,” said Harry, doing his best to keep a straight face. “Take as long as you want. I’m
happy you’re enjoying it.”

“It’s the best present I’ve ever gotten,” said Hermione in satisfaction, and then turned red.
“Oh Harry, I’m sorry! The necklace is lovely too, it really is. But…”

“It’s alright, Hermione,” said Harry. “I know how much you like your books. I’m just sorry that
there wasn’t a new copy of *Hogwarts: a History* available. That would’ve been an easy present
to get.”

“Ha ha,” replied Hermione sarcastically. “Very funny. There’s nothing wrong with *Hogwarts: a
History*, as you’d know very well if you ever bothered to read it.”

“Why do I need to read it when I’ve got you?” asked Harry, smirking, knowing that it would annoy
her.

“I’m not answering that,” said Hermione composedly. “You already know the answer perfectly
well.”

Harry snorted. It was just too hard to bait her – she knew him too well. Ron, on the other hand,
had a seemingly limitless talent for making Hermione react to him. The thought of Ron sobered him
up again. It seemed lately that for as long as he could remember there had been an embargo on some
subject or another between the three of them. He wished that they could go back to the days when
they could all be in the same room without having to try and edit what came out of their mouths.
Still, it was no use going back over it all with Hermione again. Either Ron would come around or he
wouldn’t. Harry fervently hoped that he *would*, but until then he very much wanted *not*
to fall out with his remaining friend. He felt a quick stab of guilt for feeling that way – he did
have other friends, after all. But Ron and Hermione were different, and the thought of falling out
with them both was truly horrible.

Hermione was fingering her necklace absently. “Do you really like it?” Harry asked, unable to
stop himself. “Because if you don’t, you can always exchange it, I suppose.” *Although I don’t
know what for*, he thought. *I don’t think she’d appreciate that biting thing*.

“I’m not swapping it for anything,” Hermione said firmly. “Although I have to say I’ve wondering
why you chose it.”

“It looked like the nicest thing there,” said Harry truthfully, remembering the rest of the
jewellery. He ground the seeds a little harder, not looking at her. “Not that I’m an expert or
anything. I just thought they were pretty. And, you know… sort of elegant. Nothing like… nothing
like…” he groped for a comparison.

“Nothing like Parvati would wear, you mean?” said Hermione distastefully, remembering the big
gold butterflies her fellow Gryffindor like to wear at the end of her long plaits.

“Yeah,” said Harry, grinning. “Don’t tell her I said that though, eh?”

“As if I would,” said Hermione. She rolled a couple of the pearls absently between her fingers.
“I do like them. They seem appropriate, somehow.” Harry looked at her, surprised, and she tried to
explain. “Do you know how pearls are made?” she asked.

“Nope,” said Harry. “Well, I think they come from oysters or something. I’m sure you know,
though.”

Hermione shot him a mock glare. “Knowledge can be a very useful thing,” she said primly, before
breaking into a smile. “It’s like this. A piece of grit, or sand, gets stuck inside the oyster, and
to stop it irritating, the oyster coats it with layers and layers of material to form the pearl.”
She shrugged slightly. “I’ve always liked the way that happens – the transformation, moving from
one thing to another. It’s like Transfiguration, really. Just on a much slower scale.”

Harry eyed her shrewdly. He thought he knew why the transformation of the pearl had caught her
attention. “Talking of Transfiguration,” he said quietly. “How’s it going?” There was no need for
him to elaborate further. They both knew of her Animagus training with McGonagall, although Harry’s
unspoken disapproval had led to them not talking about it often between themselves. It wasn’t that
he thought she couldn’t do it, but the thought of what she *could* do with it – might
*have* to do with it eventually - was enough to make him nervous. Ron didn’t know about it,
under the express orders of McGonagall and Dumbledore, and Hermione was apparently happy to keep it
that way. Given the events of the past week or so, Harry couldn’t honestly tell her that she had
made the wrong choice – although he knew Hermione felt she had no choice at all. She thought it
very important to obey their teachers. Privately Harry supposed that someone had to, but he knew
that one day Ron would find out, and he wondered whether their friendship would stand the strain of
his exclusion. Still, he had to acknowledge that if Ron had known, a strain of a different kind
would likely have arisen.

Hermione was looking at him oddly. “I thought you weren’t interested,” she said quietly. There
was no-one with them in the common room, but Harry noticed that they had both dropped their voices
anyway. He snorted.

“Come on. Of course I’m interested. I just don’t want you doing anything that could get you
hurt.”

Hermione frowned at him. “I’m capable of doing it,” she asserted. “McGonagall wouldn’t be
teaching me if I weren’t. Besides, I’ve always been good at Transfiguration. You know that.”

“That wasn’t what I was worried about,” said Harry darkly, but noticing the scowl beginning to
form on her face he quickly changed the subject. “But how can I not be interested? You’ve seen me
at Transfiguration. I haven’t got a hope of ever managing to become an Animagus myself-”

“Your father managed it,” Hermione pointed out.

“Yeah,” admitted Harry, “But I’m not him. I think he was much better at it than I am.” He
shrugged slightly. “It’s no big deal. It’s not something that I’ve dreamed of doing or anything.
Doesn’t mean I don’t wonder what it’s like sometimes, and what you’ll turn into.” He smirked at
her. “It’d be funny to see you with wings. You might end up flying after all.” Hermione’s
reluctance to get up on a broomstick was legendary in Gryffindor House.

“Not on your life,” said Hermione, looking momentarily horrified. “The minute I sprout wings is
the minute I give it up altogether.” She shuddered slightly. “The thought of it! No, Harry, I’m not
going to fly. I know that much.”

“Do you know what you are going to be?” asked Harry. Despite himself, he was curious. “Is there
a way of deciding in advance, or something? Have you managed to change into anything yet?”

“No,” said Hermione, a trifle grumpily. “Professor McGonagall won’t let me try anything
practical yet. She says I need to fully understand the theory behind it first.” She brightened.
“But to be fair, it’s really very involving, and I’ve only had a few lessons. I don’t want to get
it wrong and have to be taken to St. Mungo’s, after all.”

“I should hope not,” said Harry fervently. “It’s just I don’t think that it’s a really good idea
to spread it around, what you’re doing. If you have to go to St. Mungo’s, it’ll be all over the
*Prophet* next day. You know it will.”

“I do know,” said Hermione. “It’s not so bad, really – the theory, I mean. It’s really rather
fascinating, actually, although what you actually turn into seems to be a bit vague. I thought at
first that it might be linked to the shape of a person’s Patronus.”

Harry considered. “You’d be an otter. That wouldn’t be too bad.” He smirked at her. “You could
go swimming in the lake with the giant squid.”

“I’ve had enough swimming around that lake, thank-you very much,” said Hermione. “Besides,
McGonagall says that it’s not always the Patronus that shapes the Animagus. She says it’s often
something that reflects the personality of the witch or wizard.” Hermione grimaced slightly. “Look
at Wormtail, for instance. A rat suits him *perfectly*, but apparently his Patronus was
something different.”

“What was it?” said Harry abruptly.

“McGonagall wouldn’t say. Besides… well, really. Do you see me being an otter? Really? I mean I
like them and all. Mum… Mum and Dad used to take me to the zoo when I was younger, and the otters
were always my favourite. They were always so happy and playful. And so *sleek*, they
practically…What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing,” said Harry, as innocently as he could, but he couldn’t stop himself from chuckling.
“I just don’t think that *hair* will decide what you end up as, that’s all.”

“I hope not,” said Hermione with feeling. “Merlin only knows what I’d end up as. Something that
Crookshanks sicked up, I’m sure.” She glared at him and whacked him around the knee. “*Shut
up*. And keep grinding.”

“Yes, Hermione,” said Harry meekly, sniggering to himself.

“Anyway,” said Hermione, giving him a hard glare and going on. “McGonagall says that there’s no
real way to tell what I’ll turn into yet.” There was a strange tone to her voice as she said it,
and it snapped Harry out of his laughter.

“You don’t agree with her?” he asked curiously.

“She’s the expert, Harry,” Hermione pointed out disapprovingly.

“Yeah. But you didn’t answer my question,” Harry pointed out in turn. He tried to catch her eye,
but Hermione was determinedly leafing through the goblin book again. “You *do* know, don’t
you,” he said wonderingly. “It’s no use looking at me like that. You couldn’t lie to save your
life. Your face gives everything away, you know.” He leaned towards her, really curious now. “So
what is it?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “Honestly, I don’t.”

“But you’ve got suspicions,” Harry confirmed, and Hermione looked up at him.

“I’ve been having some really funny dreams,” she said. “Professor McGonagall has me doing some
kind of meditation. It’s supposed to put me in touch with the animal I’ll end up turning into, but
she says that there’s no way I’ll get results so quickly.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You *are* the smartest witch in Hogwarts,” he pointed out. “You’d
think she’d remember that. So what is it?” he asked again.

“I think… I think I’d really rather not say just yet,” said Hermione. “The thing is, Harry, I’m
really *not* sure. They could just be your garden variety normal dreams – when I was nine I
used to dream about rabbits in straw hats going bathing at Brighton.”

“You what?” said Harry.

“I know, I know. So it really could be nothing, or it could be leading to something different.
But if I talk about it, it could cement it – the animal – in my mind. You know, like when you’re
told not to think of something, and suddenly you can’t get it out of your mind? Well, McGonagall
says that that’s really dangerous when it comes to the Animagus spells, because if you get into
your head the wrong animal, then the spell doesn’t work. Instead, it goes rather badly wrong.”

“Really?” said Harry.

“Oh, yes. There’s this old story about a wizard from the seventeenth century. I think they use
it to scare people. Anyway, this wizard was convinced that he was going to be a lion. Apparently he
had all sorts of ideas about how brave and noble he was-”

“When really he wasn’t at all,” finished Harry. “I think I see where this is going.”

“Apparently he just *refused* to listen to his teachers, and tried it anyway, determined to
be a lion. Well, when they found him, transported to the Serengeti and surrounded by a hungry
pride, they just barely managed to stop him being killed. It took five months before he was ready
to leave St. Mungo’s and even then they never *could* get rid of the mane. It was the only
part that worked right.” She looked up at Harry. “So you can see why I don’t want to get ahead of
myself.”

“Fair enough,” said Harry, leaning back. “But I have to say, I think you’ve probably got more
sense than him, the daft bastard, whoever he was. Come on, Hermione, you know you’re not an idiot.
Do you really think that you’re dreaming something totally irrelevant?”

“Honestly?” said Hermione slowly. “Honestly… I think that I *do* know what I’ll turn into.
It just seems so, well, so *obvious*. Which is why I don’t trust it. Not yet, anyway. I want
to keep trying. You know, just in case.”

“Obvious, huh?” said Harry. “That narrows it down, I suppose. Look, just because you can’t tell
me yet doesn’t mean that I can’t have fun guessing.” Seeing she was about to argue, he thrust the
mortar at her. “See? Done.” He couldn’t help but notice that she automatically checked the
consistency herself. “Good enough, is it?”

“Perfect,” said Hermione in satisfaction. “I’ve got a jar in my room it can go in until we need
it again. I just thought that it would be better to start now, get some of the things out of the
way before we really need them, you know?”

“Sure,” said Harry casually. “Say, you weren’t dreaming of a beaver, were you?” he added
innocently.

Hermione looked offended. “No! And why would that be the first thing you think of?”

Harry smirked. “Because it’s a bit like an otter and I didn’t want my first guess to be a
ferret.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “That’s Malfoy,” she pointed out, laughing a little despite
herself.

“Alright then. Oyster?”

“No! Why would I try and turn into an oyster?”

“You could make your own pearls then,” Harry pointed out in satisfaction. He didn’t actually
believe that she would turn into any of those things – well, he had his doubts about the beaver –
but he was happy to have found something to tease her with. Ron wasn’t the only one who could,
surely?

But Hermione was looking at him seriously, book and bowl tucked under her arms. “I don’t need
any more,” she said. “I like the ones I’ve got.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek,
flushing a little. “Goodnight, Harry. And I know I’ve already said it, but thank-you for my
necklace.”

Harry raised his hand to his cheek, surprised. She had kissed him before, at King’s Cross
Station at the end of term, but that didn’t seem quite real somehow – more like something girls did
as a matter of course to their friends and family when they wouldn’t see them for a while. It was
different when it was in the Gryffindor common room at Hogwarts. A few moments later, he snapped
himself out of it and noticed Hermione disappearing up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories.
Suddenly, he wanted very much to say something that wouldn’t make him out to be some idiot boy
standing at the bottom of the stairs gaping like, like Roger Davies had whenever he looked at Cho
Chang. *Of course, it’s not the same thing*, he thought. *It’s not as if Hermione’s my
girlfriend or anything*.

“Hey!” he called out, and was grateful that his voice didn’t crack. “I bet I’ll figure out what
you’ll be before you do!”

Hermione’s voice floated down the stairs. “I bet you don’t,” she said.



17. Chapter Seventeen
---------------------

Chapter Seventeen.

The common room in Gryffindor Tower was in uproar. McGonagall had given up trying to calm them,
and had rolled up her scroll, pressed her lips together disapprovingly at them, and stalked out
through the portrait hole. Out of courtesy to the Fat Lady, she didn’t slam it, but it was clear
that she wanted to.

“Be reasonable, Ron,” said Hermione consolingly. “You can’t blame Professor McGonagall for this.
She’s only the messenger.”

“I’ll blame whoever I want,” snapped Ron. “It’s not *fair*. How could she do this to us?”
He glared at Harry and Hermione, clearly upset. “It’s alright for you,” he said to Hermione.
“You’re of age. But Ginny and I-”

“Still have to do whatever we’re told,” Ginny finished. The scowl on her face was a match for
her brother’s, and it was echoed in at least half the faces around the common room. In a corner,
Harry could see Seamus Finnegan kick a cushion in frustration, and it sailed through the air,
rebounding flatly off a wall. “Ron’s right,” Ginny went on moodily. It’s not fair.”

“You can understand why your parents would do it though,” Hermione said quietly. “They’re
certainly not the only ones who did.” It was Halloween, and all the students had been looking
forward to the traditional trip to Hogsmeade. The atmosphere of the castle had been growing
steadily more oppressive, with copies of the *Daily Prophet* arriving daily, pages dripping
with paranoia. It was becoming much harder to laugh at those letter-writers who were seeing death
omens in their vegetable patches and Voldemort at the garden gate when news of actual attacks kept
coming in. Oddly enough, the scariest thing about it was that they didn’t seem to be real attacks
at all – people would come home to find the Dark Mark over their houses, with their families inside
as normal, not even aware of what was hanging over them. The Aurors at the Ministry of Magic were
being run ragged chasing up panicked calls that never really amounted to very much, and Harry
couldn’t help but remember what Lupin had told him after he had come to collect Harry from the
Dursleys. Lupin had theorised that Voldemort would basically soften up the wizarding world by
terrorising them without much actual damage, and that the resulting uproar would take the pressure
off him and give him time to rebuild his army. From the rate of events – a new ‘attack’ at the very
instant the fuss from the previous one had almost settled – it seemed that he was right. Harry had
seen him walking tiredly down the corridors, lips pressed together grimly, and all the teachers
looked haggard. It was wearying for all the students, who were beginning to jump at every strange
sound, a fact that Peeves, at least, was exploiting to the fullest.

Harry had been looking forward to escaping the tension of the castle, but had been privately
wondering whether the teachers would allow anyone to go at all. McGonagall’s announcement, to the
gathered Gryffindors, had almost been worse. It had turned out that the trip was still on – for
those that were able to go. At least half of the students at Hogwarts were unable to, due to the
fact that their parents, in response to the various reporting and rumours of the *Daily
Prophet*, had owled Hogwarts and rescinded the permission slips for their children.

“It’s all Mum, you know,” said Ron, chuntering on. “You’d think that she’d realise we could take
care of ourselves – at least, *I* can-”

Ginny snorted, interrupting him. “Oh, just you then? You weren’t the only one who-”

“Shut up,” said Ron rudely, interrupting her in turn. He turned to Harry, as if trying to
explain, and Harry was more than willing to let him do it. Hermione was right, the business with
the necklace had blown over within a week, and both Ron and he had tacitly refused to talk about
it. Pretending that nothing had happened worked just fine for them, Harry had reasoned, especially
when it was combined with the fact that Gryffindor had beaten Hufflepuff hollow at Quidditch a
couple of weeks later. Ron had saved seven goals, and his happiness was such that he had been
willing to bury the hatchet with anyone.

“After all,” Ron was saying, “How many times have we gotten out of trouble? How many times have
we been into the Forest? You’d think she’d stop treating us as if we were little kids
eventually.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Harry, as neutrally as he could manage. He remembered Mrs.
Weasley’s insistence, over the summer holidays, that he not drag Ron and Ginny into danger with
him, and he felt that it was entirely within character for her to keep them within the reach of
Dumbledore’s arm. He would never forget the look on her face when she had tried to banish the
Boggart, and had been confronted with the image of her children’s bodies. Seeing Ron’s face darken,
he hastily continued, in a lower voice, casting a significant glance at Hermione, “At least they’re
still around to care about you.”

“I suppose so,” said Ron after a second, grudgingly, but trying to put a good face on it.

“Besides,” said Harry gloomily, “I don’t get to go either.”

“Are you sure about that, Harry?” Hermione said. “I’m not certain, but I’m fairly sure that
you’re allowed to go.”

“No permission slip,” said Harry flatly. “It’s a shame, really. I really did want to get out of
here for a bit.”

“Don’t worry about it, mate,” said Ron bracingly. “At least we’ll be stuck here together.” He
cast a look at Hermione. “You still get to go, at least. Could you pick me up some stuff from the
sweet shop while you’re there?”

“We could always try the tunnel,” said Harry to Ron.

“Won’t work,” said Ginny. “You heard McGonagall, she’ll be checking up to see that the people
who are meant to be here really *are* here.” She looked annoyed. “You’d think she didn’t trust
us.”

“Yeah,” said Ron dryly. “It’s not as if we’ve run off before or anything.” Ginny scowled at him,
and Ron shrugged his shoulders, much calmer now. “Look, I don’t like it much either. But I don’t
see that there’s anything we can do about it really. At least Hermione’s still going, and I don’t
think that Neville’s been banned either.” He scanned the room. “Oi! Neville!”

Neville shuffled over to them, ducking to avoid the cushion that someone had just thrown,
bad-temperedly, back at Seamus. “What?”

“Your Gran’s still letting you go, right?” said Ron. Neville shrugged.

“Yes. She’s actually gotten a lot more laid back since, well, since the end of last term.” He
gave a half-hearted smile. “She’s probably the only one that has. I think she’s just relieved that
I’m not a total squib.”

“You were never a squib, Neville,” said Hermione. She looked at Harry. “You know,” she said
speculatively, “I’m fairly sure you *can* go if you want to.”

“He doesn’t have a permission slip anymore,” said Ron, looking a bit awkward. “I think you’re
just wrong, there.” He changed tack suddenly. “Could you pick me up some Chocolate Frogs as well?”
Hermione just ignored him.

“I’ll have to check on it,” she said to Harry. “But I think I’m right.”

“Hope so,” said Harry cautiously, trying not to get his hopes up. After a moment or two,
however, he figured that Hermione was nearly always right as it was, and he was sure that she
wouldn’t hold an opportunity like this out in front of him unless she was certain. “Alright,” he
said suddenly. “I believe you. Still, it’s not me you’ve got to convince.” Beside him, Ron made a
small disappointed sound. “Don’t worry,” said Harry quietly, out of the corner of his mouth. “Just
give me a list of the stuff you want, I’ll get it for you. You know what Hermione’s like, you’ll
end up getting those flossing mint things and nothing else.”

“I heard that,” said Hermione severely. “There’s nothing wrong with them. They’re really good
for your teeth.”

* * *

Next morning, Hermione was absent from the breakfast table. Harry and Ron had stumbled down, Ron
grumbling that it wasn’t fair that he still had to get up in time for breakfast on a holiday that
he was prevented from enjoying. “They should serve it at ten,” he argued. “You lot could eat at
Hogsmeade…”

Harry passed him over a plate of kippers. It was fair to say that Ron wasn’t what you’d call a
morning person, but his mood always improved after he’d eaten. He spooned some scrambled eggs onto
his plate. “What’re you going to do today?” he asked, around a mouthful of toast.

Ron shuddered. “Astronomy. I know, I know. But we’re really behind – Malfoy’s not pulling his
weight, the git, though he’s actually not been too bad lately. I mean, he’s as bloody awful as
ever, but at least he’s taking notes while he complains. And they’re running a catch-up session
today. Sinistra says that we may as well “use our time wisely”. Bollocks to that.” Ron looked up
philosophically, mouth full of bacon. “Still, what can you do, eh?” Harry just grinned at him – the
transformation between pre- and post-breakfast Ron was amazing, and it never failed. He shuffled
over on the bench when Dean and Neville appeared, still looking half-asleep. No-one in Gryffindor
Tower had gotten much rest the previous night; arguments about McGonagall’s edict had raged until
early morning.

“Hey Neville,” said Harry, “D’you want to come to Hogsmeade with us today?”

Neville looked at him oddly. “Uh, are you sure? I thought you were going with Hermione.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “So?”

Neville and Dean shot each other a quick look. Harry noticed that both of them carefully avoided
looking at Ron. “Well,” said Neville reluctantly, “If you’re sure. I don’t want to get in the way
or anything.”

“Why would you be in the way?” Ron interrupted loudly, head swinging between Neville and Harry.
His eyes were narrowed, and he didn’t look very happy.

“You wouldn’t be in the way, Neville,” said Harry honestly, a bit puzzled. Dean snorted quietly
into his breakfast. “What?” he said.

“Yeah. What?” repeated Ron aggressively.

“Nothing,” said Dean quickly.

“Okay,” said Harry slowly. “That’s alright then, isn’t it?” No-one answered him. Neville and
Dean were staring at their plates. Ron was glaring at his. Harry tried again. “I might not be able
to go, anyway. I mean, I trust Hermione and all, but I’ve still got to get past McGonagall…”

It turned out to be almost easier than he had expected. Their Transfiguration Professor was busy
collecting permission slips from a group of over-excited third years when Harry, Neville and
Hermione slipped into the Entrance Hall and sneaked out of the door. Hermione had joined them at
the last minute, her face pink from running through the corridors of Hogwarts.

“I told you it would be fine,” said Hermione a little nervously. “Professor MacGonagall probably
already knows you should be allowed to go.” But Harry couldn’t help but notice the way she kept
glancing back. He walked a little faster, forcing both his friends to speed up to keep up with
him.

“That wasn’t so bad,” he commented happily, as they reached the bottom of the driveway with no
sign of pursuit. “You were right after all, Hermione.”

“Stop right there, Potter!” McGonagall’s voice cracked down to the gates. Harry turned in
resignation.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” he said gloomily. “She’s never going to let me go without a
permission slip, and Uncle Vernon wouldn’t sign one if his life depended on it.”

“I told you, you don’t need a permission slip,” said Hermione. “Where do you think I’ve been all
morning?”

Harry had no idea. He cast his mind about. “Er… library?” he hazarded.

Hermione glared at him. “Lucky guess.” She wrapped her coat more firmly around her. “Do you want
to go to Hogsmeade or don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” said Harry. “I suppose there’s always the Invisibility Cloak.”

Hermione snorted. “Why make things more complicated than you have to? If you’d just-”

“McGonagall’s coming,” interrupted Neville in a small voice. “Look, we don’t have to go today. A
lot of people aren’t, you know.”

“I want to go,” repeated Harry stubbornly, and it was true. Ever since he had first come to
Hogwarts, the castle had been the place that had felt most like home to him. Of course, when you
lived with the Dursleys, nearly anything was an improvement, but Harry had always enjoyed being at
the school, always enjoyed the sense of belonging that it gave him. However, over the past few
months, that belonging had come to seem stifling to him, and he was forever dreaming about getting
off the grounds. At least, getting out of the way of the other students, he acknowledged to
himself. It was bad enough having them always tiptoe around him – or, in the case of the
Slytherins, try to trip him up everywhere he went – but he had begun to get used to that over the
past few years, or if he wasn’t exactly getting used to it, simply ignoring them. But now that he
knew about the Prophecy, he couldn’t help but see every one of them as a reminder of what he would
one day have to face. He couldn’t help but look at them and wonder what they would do if he
failed.

It was all just too depressing to contemplate, and Professor McGonagall jerked him out of his
thoughts before he could depress himself any more.

“What do you think you’re doing, Mr Potter?” she asked him, her beady eyes narrowed. In one hand
she clutched a ream of permission slips, and a group of small third years skittered past her to the
carriages, making sure to give the three older students a wide berth.

“I was going to Hogsmeade, Professor,” Harry said quietly, trying to keep a sullen note out of
his voice. He felt uncomfortable, as if she had caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to
do, like sneaking supplies out of a store cupboard. It made him feel embarrassed and grumpy,
especially as he *was* doing something that he wasn’t supposed to do, Hermione’s reassurances
aside.

The beady eyes softened somewhat. “I’m sorry Potter, but as you know, students may not leave the
grounds without the express permission of their guardians, and-”

“And Sirius is dead,” said Harry bluntly. “So his permission doesn’t count any more.” He knew he
was right, but he wanted to hear her admit it, and felt a sort of savage pleasure in making her do
so.

“Actually, it does,” said Hermione coolly, before Professor McGonagall could reply. “I’ve been
looking it up.”

“Potter is under-age, Miss Granger,” said McGonagall, in a voice that was dangerously low, “And
his guardian is dead. I’m sorry, Harry, I wish it wasn’t so, but that’s the case. And as I have no
permission slip from either your Uncle or Aunt, then I am afraid that you may not leave the
grounds.”

“Prove it,” said Hermione flatly. She shot Harry a remorseful look. “Are you sure you want to
hear this?” she asked. “I wanted to tell you earlier…”

“Prove what?” snapped McGonagall, her temper clearly slipping. Hermione might have been her
favourite student, but even so, their Transfiguration teacher would only give her so much leeway.
Hermione glanced at Harry again, and he nodded at her, puzzled. He had the feeling that he wouldn’t
like what she was about to say, but Hermione wouldn’t do anything without a good reason. He knew
that much.

“Prove that Sirius is dead,” said Hermione, very fast. Her face was red, and she looked very
unhappy. McGonagall just gaped at her, and Harry felt as if he had been punched in the stomach.
Neville just looked at the ground, scarlet.

“Hermione,” he said, “Hermione, Sirius is gone.”

“Yes he is,” said Hermione. “I know it. We all know it. *But we can’t legally prove it*.
Not without a body, anyway.”

“If we can’t prove it, then why did Gringott’s read his will?” said Harry loudly.

“They’re allowed,” said Hermione. “They’re goblins, they’ve got their own way of doing things.
But goblin magic doesn’t stand up in a wizarding court – they don’t know how it works, and frankly
they just don’t think it’s that important. It’s a bit of a sticky area, actually, but in 1743 a
ruling by the Wizengamot said, and I quote, ‘What happens in that bloody bank stays there. Do we
look like we’ve got goblin teeth to you?’” She stared painfully at McGonagall. “Under
*wizarding* law, in the absence of a body, all documents of the presumed deceased are held to
be legal for the period of one year. After that, the wizard or witch is declared legally dead and
the documents null and void.”

“Hang on a minute,” said Harry, catching on. “In a year I’ll be of age anyway.”

Hermione nodded. “That’s true. But until then, the permission slip that Sirius signed for you
still stands. Legally, that is.” She was very pink, and didn’t seem to want to look McGonagall in
the eye. The elderly witch glared at her, clearly unhappy, but Harry could have sworn that he saw a
glint of admiration in the old eyes.

“Very well, Miss Granger, Mr. Potter,” she said. “I stand corrected.” She gave the three of them
a wintry smile. “Enjoy yourselves, and stay out of trouble.”

“Yes, Professor,” said Hermione meekly, and the two boys echoed her. As soon as McGonagall’s
back was turned, they raced for a carriage, and piled in. Out of the window, Harry could see his
Transfiguration teacher haranguing a group of fifth years about appropriate skirt lengths. As the
carriage pulled away, he could hear her raised voice carry past them, lecturing on the need for
*standards that reflect the reputation of this school*. The fifth years were looking sulky,
and Harry couldn’t help but feel sorry for them.

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione quietly from the corner of the carriage. Her hands twisted in her
jumper. “I didn’t want to just blurt it out in front of you like that.”

“It’s okay,” said Harry, and meant it. “I’m glad you know this stuff. I just really didn’t want
to stay in today.” He grinned at her and Neville, and if it was a little forced they had the grace
to pretend not to notice. “Besides,” he said, a little too heartily, “I want to get some Cockroach
Clusters for Ron. Might make up for him not being able to come.”

“I’m not sure anything could make up for having to spend the day with Malfoy,” Neville observed,
and Harry, snorting, had no choice but to agree.

The three of them spent an awkward half hour wandering round the streets of Hogsmeade, trying to
pretend that all was normal. The little village was usually bustling on the days when students were
allowed to visit, but now the streets were eerily empty, with small knots of students hurriedly
moving from shop to shop. The doors and windows on the buildings were shut, instead of being as
welcomingly open as normal, and event he normal residents of the village seemed dour and worried.
All in all, Harry was beginning to wish he had stayed at the castle, but the feeling wore off when
Hermione and Neville dragged him into the Three Broomsticks. Granted, it was quieter than normal,
but still bright and warm, and they snagged a table in a corner from where they could watch people
come in and out, and Neville went to the bar and snagged them some Butterbeer and some hotpots. The
noise and the warmth were relaxing despite the sombre nature of the village, and Harry felt himself
drifting off slightly. He wasn’t required to talk anyway – Hermione was holding forth about a trip
to the bookshop, trying to convince them to come with her. Harry grunted non-committally, and
privately resolved to take Neville to look for some sweets while she was browsing. He’d made the
mistake of visiting a bookshop with Hermione before, and though he knew that Neville was too polite
and too shy to disagree with her, he thought that he could sneak the two of them off someplace
interesting while Hermione was engrossed in the stacks.

As it turned out, they never reached the bookshop.

Hermione had marched off before them, and Harry and Neville were trailing behind her, somewhat
reluctantly, with their collars pulled high around their necks. Autumn was definitely upon them,
and Harry wished he had thought to bring a scarf with him.

“At least the bookshop will be warm,” Neville said quietly to him, seeing him shiver. “If
nothing else.” Harry smirked at him.

“What was that?” floated back to them.

“Nothing, Hermione,” they chorused back, sniggering to themselves, and trying to look innocent.
Harry was sure they wouldn’t have fooled anyone, and indeed Hermione was looking at them with one
eyebrow raised.

“Shall I meet you in half an hour?” she asked, shaking her head in mock disgust, and leaving
them to escape. They hadn’t gone more than a few feet when Neville sagged against Harry, a small
choked sound coming from him. A horribly familiar feeling swept through Harry, cold and terrifying.
He stumbled for a moment under Neville’s weight. It didn’t help when Hermione started shaking
him.

“Harry! Harry, you’ve got to snap out of it! You too, Neville,” she said briskly, pulling him
up. In a moment Harry was himself again. He was getting all too used to the feelings that Dementors
gave off, but he had to admit that it made him a lot better to see Hermione’s face. At any other
time, her seeming indifference to the Azkaban guards would have made him nervous, but when he
looked into her eyes he could see no sign of confusion or panic at all. It made him feel
stronger.

“Where are they?” he said wildly, spinning around.

“They?” said Neville. He sounded as if he was going to be sick. “You mean there’s more than
one?”

“It’s stronger than it was in the Forest,” said Harry, almost to himself. He twisted again. “I
just can’t *see* them.” He couldn’t hear them either, he realised, but he could hear the rest
of Hogsmeade. Screams and panicked yelling were coming from the streets and shops around them, as
the chill spread by the Dementors spread through the village. At the edges of his hearing, he could
also make out small muffled *pops*, the sound of people disapparating, and the slams of doors
and windows. Suddenly the village seemed all too deserted, although he knew that it couldn’t be
true.

“Everyone’s leaving,” said Neville slowly, as if waking from some horrible nightmare. “Can’t you
hear them?” He looked over at Harry and Hermione, and there was no colour in his face. “They’ve
gone to get help, haven’t they?”

Harry didn’t know what to say. He hoped that was the case, but he couldn’t be sure. He had seen
enough wizards and witches react to the threat of Dementors or Death Eaters, and he knew that panic
often overrode their better instincts. Especially now, when panic was the one thing that Voldemort
was trying very hard to spread. He thought of Lupin suddenly, and it strengthened him. Lupin had
been so sure that Voldemort would hold his forces in reserve for a while longer, and Harry believed
that he was right.

If Lupin *was* right, then this would be more of the same. A quick raid, and not a frontal
attack. Harry didn’t want to let himself consider what *minimal damage* could mean in this
case. He tried to calm himself and think, think before rushing into things as was his usual wont.
Hermione tugged at his arm.

“Harry,” she said briskly, as if asking him to pass the salt over dinner, “Harry, we’ve got to
find the other students.”

“They’ll be halfway back to Hogwarts by now, if they’ve got any sense,” said Harry. He sincerely
hoped that he was right, and that his fellow students, like the rest of the village, had either run
or found a place to hide. He knew that it would only take one of them to get to Dumbledore for the
rest to stand a greatly improved chance of surviving. He looked at Hermione and Neville, and
dismissed the thought that Hermione was probably better equipped to deal with Dementors than he
was. It seemed that he was always leading them into danger, and he suddenly felt very strongly that
the most sensible thing to do right now would be to get straight back to Hogwarts. He felt no
inclination to be a hero and go stalking Dementors through the streets of Hogsmeade.

“Come on,” he said. “Quickly. We’re going back to the Three Broomsticks. We can get to Hogwarts
from there.” Neville looked puzzled, but he knew that Hermione understood about the tunnel in the
cellar.

“We’ll check the streets on the way,” she said calmly, and frowned at him when he gave her a
look. “I’m a Prefect, Harry. I’m responsible for them, I need to look. Just in case. It won’t take
long.” Beside her, Neville nodded. He still looked like he was going to be sick, but he nodded.

“She’s right, Harry.” And he was forced to agree.

Wand out, a part of him wondered if she *wanted* to meet a Dementor.

* * *

Harry scrabbled at the floor of the cellar, his fingers scraping on the wood. Dimly, a part of
him knew that he would have splinters later. A bigger part of him was just grateful to be able to
breathe again, although he was till wheezing, half-winded. *Some hero I am*, he thought
bleakly, and half-snorted at the ridiculousness of the situation. *Dementors at the door and here
I am worrying about how I must have looked!* After all, the third year – whatever her name was,
he still didn’t know – was here with them, and not cowering in the streets of Hogsmeade with a
twisted ankle. So what if he had more dragged her through the streets than carried her. He wasn’t
bloody Dudley, with more muscle than brain.

The trapdoor lifted beneath his fingers. Silently he thanked Fred and George for their dedicated
rule-breaking. He had no desire to be trapped in a pub – even if it was the Three Broomsticks –
with Dementors at the door and no way out. He hauled on the arm of the girl he had rescued,
ignoring her whimper. A sprained ankle was likely to be the least of her worries if she didn’t get
a move on – there was no way that he was going to try and carry her back to the castle, hero
complex or not. “Hurry up,” he said to them all. “We need to get down here as soon as
possible.”

“What’s down there?” said Neville. He looked pale and shaken, but his voice was steady.

“Tunnel,” said Harry briefly. “Goes right back to Hogwarts.” He grabbed his friend by the arm
and propelled him towards the trapdoor. “Get them there as fast as you can.” They had indeed come
across a small group of third years, the same group that Harry had seen passing their permission
slips to McGonagall. Third years, who Lupin had said there wasn’t enough time to train in the D.A.,
and who couldn’t produce a Patronus. They had been cowering behind old boxes at the back of the
sweet shop. Neville had heard them crying as they approached. Unfortunately, so had the Dementors.
“As fast as you can. And find one of the teachers, if they don’t know already.”

“Where will you be?” Neville asked.

“Right behind you,” said Harry fervently. “Trust me, Neville, I’m not about to play the hero
this time. Hermione and I will find a way to block the door then we’ll run for it.”

“You never know, Neville,” Hermione interrupted. “We might just catch you up in the end.” She
started down through the trapdoor herself, and Harry heard her reach bottom. There were voices
beneath him – they seemed to be arguing. He threw himself through the hatch after them, and pulled
it down firmly behind him, sliding the bolts across. It wouldn’t stop the Dementors for long, but
it might slow them down a little. Already he could feel them moving through the pub, and grimaced.
The outer door hadn’t held for long. He hoped that Madame Rosmerta and the rest of the customers
had found somewhere safe to hide, but he wasn’t about to go searching them out. They hadn’t exactly
bothered to help him, after all. When they had pushed through the door, the pub had been
deserted.

He turned, and his eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the tunnel. Both
Hermione and Neville had theirs wands lit, but the small lights only made the surrounding darkness
seem blacker. “Neville, what the hell are you still doing here?” he snapped.

“They’re not moving, Harry,” said Neville despairingly, and looking beyond him Harry could see
the third years, huddled together in a small group. They looked terrified. “I’ve tried to tell them
that we have to go,” said Neville urgently, “but they just stand there and *stare* at me.”

Harry pushed past him, and stared at them, shoving down any sympathy he felt. “Right,” he said.
Behind him, he could hear Hermione casting the Colloportus charm on the hatch, and not a moment too
soon. Doors rattled above them, and for a split second Harry felt nothing but blind panic – but he
knew that Hermione’s spells were strong enough to hold for a short while, and he pushed it aside.
“Right. Listen to me, all of you. This isn’t a game. There are Dementors up there and if you don’t
start running back to Hogwarts *now*, you might not be running anywhere ever again. Now move!”
His voice got steadily louder, and echoed in the tunnel, but the third years just huddled down
further against each other, and sobbed. Harry looked at them hopelessly. He knew that he couldn’t
blame them – after all, at his first encounter with a Dementor he had fainted, and he had had far
more experience with the dark arts than them at the time. “Look,” he said hurriedly, starting
again, and trying to keep his voice calmer. To his surprise, Hermione stepped up beside him.

“What are you still doing here?” she snapped, in an eerie impression of Professor McGonagall.
There was a break in the sobbing, and several jaws dropped open. Harry saw Neville shoot him a
half-terrified, half-amused glance. Hermione swelled in a manner that reminded Harry inescapably of
Mrs. Weasley whenever she found her children doing something wrong. “I am a PREFECT,” said
Hermione, bitingly, glaring at each child. “And if you don’t get yourselves down that tunnel right
now, you’re all getting detention. For a *week*.” She stuck her hands on her hips. “*With
Professor Snape*. Do I make myself clear?”

Ten seconds later they were scuttling down the tunnel, Neville bringing up the rear with his arm
around the shoulder of the girl with the twisted ankle.

“Hermione,” Harry blurted, shaking his head as they were trying to strengthen the charm on the
hatch. “I don’t know what to say…”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Hermione answered grimly. “I’m not *allowed* to put them
into detention for a week. Only a teacher can make them do it for that long.” She glanced at him, a
worried expression on her face. “D’you think they’ll tell Professor McGonagall?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Harry grunted. “I really think we’ve got bigger things to worry about,
Hermione.” Exhausted, he lowered his wand. “This isn’t working. We can’t keep it up much
longer.”

“Colloportus wasn’t meant to stand up to much, really,” answered Hermione, her voice tinged with
panic. Harry couldn’t quite understand why, given that the Dementors had proved to be not that keen
on her in the greater scheme of things. In irritation, he supposed he would have felt better about
it if had any idea what was going on with her, or with anything. Harry felt like he was at the
point where he was about to stop being fussy when it came to information. He was getting damn tired
of secrets, whether they were for the supposed “greater good” or not. He wished that he hadn’t
promised Hermione that he wouldn’t pry – the frustration was getting too much for him; it made him
want to explode – or at least explode *something*.

The thought caught at his mind, and he grabbed Hermione’s arm, hauling her back a few feet from
the trapdoor. “What are you going to do?” she asked him tiredly.

“Reducto,” said Harry briefly, and raised his wand.

“*What?*” said Hermione, half-shrieking. “You’re going to blow the trapdoor apart?”

Harry gaped at her for a moment, dumbstruck. He had an eerie half-second of flashback to the
time when he and Ron were in first year, and trapped in Devil’s Snare with a witch who needed to
light a fire but was shrieking that she had no wood. The rattling of the trapdoor jerked him out of
the memory. The wood was beginning to give and the tunnel beneath it was growing distinctly
colder.

“No,” he said, almost absent-mindedly. “I’m not going to blow the trapdoor apart. I’m going to
blow the *tunnel* apart.” Ignoring Hermione’s expression of utter dismay, he pulled them both
back further and aimed his wands at the sides of the tunnel a few feet ahead of them. As he cast
the spell, first one wall and then the other collapsed in a deafening rumble, completely blocking
the tunnel and cutting them off from the Dementors. Harry lowered his wand, coughing on the dust.
The tunnel was dark, and silent apart from the final sad sound of the last streams of dirt sliding
onto the floor. He heard Hermione mutter something under her breath, her voice as strained from
coughing as his was, and a small light appeared at the end of her wand, illuminating them and the
dead end in front of them. Her face was pale and dusty, and Harry knew that his must look the
same.

Hermione tugged at his hand, drawing him back through the rest of the tunnel to Hogwarts. He
resisted for a moment, a foolish thought hitting him, and Hermione turned to look at him
questioningly. “What is it?” she said, sounding scratchy.

Harry waved his wand aimlessly at the blockage. “Fred and George are never going to forgive me
for this,” he said.

“I really think we’ve got bigger things to worry about,” Hermione said tiredly, but there was a
touch of amusement in her voice nonetheless. “Don’t you, Harry?” She tugged at his hand again, and
this time he let her lead him away.



18. Chapter Eighteen
--------------------

Now I don’t do author’s notes very often, but after HBP I thought I’d put one here. Bad book !
Bad! I don’t know if anyone is still interested in this story – I’d hoped to finish it before HBP
came out, but that’s clearly a pie in the sky effort. Still, I will finish it, even if nobody is
interested anymore. I just prefer my story to what we got. Clutching at straws, I know. This is a
bit of a depressing chapter – but anyone who is still reading will probably like what it’s leading
up to…

Chapter Eighteen.

The floor was cold, and Harry shivered as he pulled on an extra pair of socks. With less than
two months to go until Christmas, the weather was beginning to change with a vengeance. He and the
rest of the boys in his dorm room were grateful for the fire in the corner of their room, and even
more grateful for the house-elf who always managed to get it lit about an hour before they had to
crawl out of bed in the morning. Looking out of his window, however, Harry could see frost on the
ground, and a thin mist hanging miserably around Hagrid’s hut, and he shivered again.

It struck him that, despite the previous day’s events at Hogsmeade, life at Hogwarts would
likely go an as usual. It seemed to Harry that going on as normal was something that Hogwarts
specialised in, and it didn’t improve his temper. He still had barely any idea of what had happened
the day before – none of the teachers would spare the time to explain to him, he couldn’t find
Lupin and even Dumbledore was silent on the subject. Well, more silent than usual, he amended to
himself. Granted, the Headmaster had been kept frantically busy since the attack on Hogsmeade (owls
from concerned parents were swarming around his office window), but Harry was tired of being the
last to know exactly what was going on. He was more than tired of it, and it didn’t improve his
temper to know that he would have to go through classes today with no guarantee of getting any
useful information at all.

He scowled as he knotted a shoelace, and looked up as the door opened, and Neville’s round face
came into view. Harry was certain that he hadn’t quite gotten back all of his colour since the day
before, as Neville still looked pale and worried.

“What is it, Neville?” he asked tiredly. “Breakfast about to be over, is it?”

“Bugger breakfast,” said Neville shakily, and Harry’s jaw dropped open in surprise. He didn’t
think that he had ever heard the other boy swear before. “Hermione’s got a copy of the *Daily
Prophet* down in the Common Room. You’re going to want to see it.”

“Of course I am,” said Harry sarcastically. “It’s my only source of information, don’t you
know?” He rummaged for a scarf, and found it at the bottom of the trunk, wrapped around something
heavy. He pulled it out, puzzled, and began unwinding the long woollen scarf that had been a
birthday present from Mrs. Weasley.

“Is that *Firewhiskey*?” said Neville in amazement, as a bottle emerged from the scarf and
dropped onto the bed.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “You know, I forgot that was there. Lupin gave me a whole case for my
birthday, and we hid it in a Tupperware cupboard so that Mrs. Weasley wouldn’t find it.” He gave
Neville a half-grin. “I couldn’t bring the case, of course, but I managed to sneak one bottle out
when she was yelling at Fred and George for sticking their ton-tongue toffees in the trifle.” He
reached back into his trunk, grabbed an old jumper, and began to wrap the bottle up again,
replacing it carefully in the bottle of the trunk. “You never know,” he said. “It might come in
handy one day.”

Together they trotted down the stone staircase, and into the Gryffindor Common Room. Ron and
Hermione were already there, on their knees in front of the fireplace, with the *Daily
Prophet* spread out before them. To Harry’s surprise, Lupin was also there, staring out of one
of the windows, his arms folded and his lips pressed tight. He turned around as Harry clattered
into the room.

“What are you doing here?” said Harry bluntly. “Not that I’m not glad to see you and all…” he
hesitated. Lupin’s eyes had dark shadows under them, and his robe was torn in several places. He
obviously hadn’t been to bed.

“I promised to try and keep you up to date,” he said wearily. “Although right now the
*Prophet* knows as much as I do.” He gestured towards the newspaper.

“Are you hurt?” Harry asked. “Do you need to sit down?”

A small smile of amusement passed over Lupin’s face. “I expect I do appear rather dilapidated,
don’t I?” He made his way stiffly over to the sofa, and sat down heavily. His neck cracked as he
did so, and he sighed heavily.

“What happened?” said Harry. He had met Lupin the previous day, as he and Hermione were almost
at the end of the tunnel leading from Hogsmeade. Lupin, as one of the Marauders, had known what
Neville was talking about as soon as the other boy had reached the castle with his charges.
Alerting Dumbledore, he had then rocketed down through the tunnel himself, nearly knocking both
Harry and Hermione off their feet, and giving Harry a shock that he really hadn’t needed. Once
Lupin had ensured that they were safe, he had gone on to Hogsmeade, where Dumbledore and a group of
Aurors had already Apparated. “How many people were hurt?”

“No one, actually,” said Lupin slowly.

“That’s good,” said Harry automatically, and checked at the expression on Lupin’s face. “Isn’t
it?”

“It looks like it was all a trick, Harry,” said Hermione from the floor, waving a sheet of
newspaper at him. “There were eight attacks like that last night, all over Britain. None of them
did any serious damage.”

“I don’t understand,” said Harry, dropping into an armchair and rubbing his eyes. “Why would
they attack, but not attack?” He saw the answer in Lupin’s face before the Professor had a chance
to speak. “A diversion,” he said flatly.

Lupin nodded. “I’ve told you before, I think. Voldemort-” - Neville and Ron shuddered at the
name – “Voldemort doesn’t yet have the strength for an all out assault on the wizarding world. Last
night was a coordinated effort on his part – it very nearly emptied the Ministry of Aurors, I can
tell you. All of them on no more than a wild goose chase.” He shrugged slightly. “Oh, I am aware
that it probably didn’t seem like that at the time. But it appears that the object was to frighten
and disrupt, rather than cause any lasting damage.”

“What was it a distraction for?” Harry asked reluctantly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Beside him Neville turned even paler, although his lips were clenched in what Harry thought was
anger.

“Azkaban,” Ron volunteered bleakly. “There’s been a breakout.”

“How many?” said Harry, his lips suddenly dry.

“All of them,” said Ron unhappily, picking unconsciously at the corner of his jumper.

Harry’s knees felt wobbly, and he was suddenly glad that he was sitting down. He had to clear
his throat a couple of times before he could speak. Anger threatened to choke him. “How did this
happen?” he said, turning to Lupin. “The Ministry knows that the Dementors aren’t to be trusted.
Weren’t there supposed to be Aurors there as well?”

“There were,” said Lupin. “There no longer are.” His voice was very soft. “The remaining
Dementors turned on them. They tried to call for reinforcements, but…”

“But nearly everyone was already out,” said Neville unexpectedly, dropping down into the
armchair next to Harry’s. “And by the time everyone realised what was going on…”

“It was too late,” finished Harry. “So they’re all out,” he summarised. “Voldemort’s Death –
will you two stop that! – his Death Eaters.”

“Including Malfoy’s Dad,” Ron finished gloomily. “The stuck-up little git’s going to be
insufferable.”

“Dumbledore’s out looking for them now,” said Lupin distantly. His eyes were nearly shut, but
they sprang open again when the portrait hole opened and two small girls appeared.

“Oi! You two! Get back out of here now!” said Ron loudly, his face turning red. “Go on, get! Go
and have breakfast or go to the Library or something. Just get out!”

“Ron!” said Hermione. “You didn’t have to frighten them.” The two girls had scuttled quickly
back through the door. “Poor little things. Honestly, it’s their Common Room too.” She turned to
Harry, brandishing the paper. “I’m afraid that’s not the worst of it,” she said grimly, and next to
her Ron scoffed.

“Come off it, Hermione,” he said. “They’re goblins. They can take care of themselves.”

“That’s not the *point*,” said Hermione hotly. She turned back to Harry. “One of the
“attacks” took place outside Gringott’s Bank, and-”

“They shut up shop,” Ron finished succintly. “People were banging on the doors, trying to get in
– you know what Gringott’s is like, safest place in London I reckon – and they just left them
there. Outside, with Death Eaters wandering around. They left them there!”

“They have a right to protect themselves,” Hermione interrupted, her voice getting louder and
louder. “I’m not saying that what they did was best for everyone, but-”

“But nothing!” said Ron, turning red. “People were banging on their doors, trying to get
in!”

“The same people who think goblins are inferior?” shouted Hermione. “The same people who would
happily give them over to Voldemort without a second thought!” She swung over to Harry. “Did you
know,” she said aggressively, leaning over him, “did you know that no-one sent the goblins those
pamphlets on protecting themselves against Death Eaters? Apparently no-one even *thought* of
it. Not that it would do any good, I’m sure,” she went on, and Harry could see Ron rolling his eyes
in disgust behind her back. “It’s not as if they’re allowed wands, or places in the Ministry, or
access to information or anything like that!” She gulped for breath, thrusting a page from the
*Prophet* at him. “Read that!” she snapped, out of breath.

Deciding it was better to obey, Harry skimmed through the article. He had to admit, he had more
sympathy with Ron’s position on this one – Hermione’s reactions to non-humans were often
exaggerated, and Harry felt very sorry for the people who had been denied entrance to the safety of
Gringott’s. His mood changed, however, as he read the article. *No wonder the goblins don’t get
on with us*, he thought. The article was full of accusations of perfidy, and the treachery of
the goblins in not obeying the orders of legitimate wizards. There were even comments from minor
Ministry officials stating that Gringott’s shouldn’t be taking its historic independence too
seriously after this, and that “everyone would just be better off if those bloody thieving runts
were made to do what they were told for a change.” *No wonder they don’t like us. Hardly
surprising that Voldemort might seem the better option*. He thought of the effort he had put
into trying to build a bridge with Griphook, and his jaw clenched.

He folded the paper carefully, putting off meeting the eyes of his friends for as long as
possible. “Tell me,” he said neutrally, anger rising in him, “Is there any mention of Hogsmeade?
Because the same thing happened there, you know. Except it wasn’t goblins locking people out, it
was wizards. That group of first years we found hiding – who in Hogsmeade came out to help them?”
He looked at Hermione, and for a moment they understood each other very well. “There’s no mention
of that, is there?” he said, his voice fraying at the edges.

“No,” said Hermione flatly. “Just the goblins.”

“Right,” said Harry flatly. “Right.” He got up, remembered that he had left his bag in his room,
and saw a familiar-looking school-bag draped over one of the tables. “Is this yours, Neville?” he
asked casually, rifling through the contents. He pulled out a sheet of parchment, a quill, and a
small bottle of ink. “D’you mind if I borrow these?”

“What are you doing, Harry?” said Lupin warningly.

“Nothing,” said Harry, unconvincingly. “Don’t worry. I’m just going up to the Owlery for a few
minutes. I won’t be long.” He stalked to the portrait hole, and slammed it shut behind him.

* * *

“Honestly, Harry!” said Hermione is exasperation, clambering after him through the portrait
hole. “If you’d only let me read it first…”

“What for?” said Harry, barely keeping hold of his temper. The frustrations of the day had
gotten to him, and he had hoped to escape Hermione’s questioning, but she had followed him despite
his best efforts. He tried to keep his voice as quiet as possible, but the two of them were already
gathering some funny looks from the rest of the Gryffindors. Now more than ever, he was the focus
of too much unwelcome attention. Behind them, Ron and Ginny entered the Common Room, both looking
anxious.

“Come on, mate,” said Ron, taking his arm. “I think I’ve got the new issue of *Quidditch
Weekly* upstairs. Want to come and see?” Harry scowled at him, and Ron, reddening slightly, shot
Ginny a sideways glance full of desperation.

“Potions!” she blurted suddenly, moving in front of Hermione and plastering a hopeless
expression on her face. “Hermione, you’ve got to help me! Snape wants a foot of parchment on… on…
the legal uses of Veritaserum by the end of the week, and I don’t get it! You’ve got to help me,
please!” She tried to tug Hermione away from Harry and towards a table across the other side of the
Common Room, where a group of fifth years were sitting. They were staring at the tableau before
them – like everyone else, Harry noticed furiously. Apparently Hermione had noticed too.

“Not right now, Ginny,” she said, breaking away forcefully and steering back towards Harry, her
face grim. “What d’you mean “what for?”” she snapped.

“Too thick to do it myself, am I?” sneered Harry. “Poor little Harry, all upset and not
understanding what he’s doing, I would have thought-”

“But it’s my OWL year…” broke in Ginny heroically, if a trifle desperately.

“Shut up,” said Harry and Hermione together, not even bothering to look in her direction, but
continuing to glare at each other.

“Don’t you tell my sister to shut up!” said Ron loudly. “She’s only trying to help!”

“Keep out of this, Ron,” Harry warned. He glared at Hermione, but before he could open his mouth
she interrupted him.

“I hope you *do* understand it,” she said forcefully. “Do you know what you might have set
off?” Her voice rose shrilly. “Do you know what they could make it *look* like?”

“It’s the truth!” Harry yelled back. “They can’t change that!”

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, and fixed him with her most prim and condescending expression,
the one she had used in years past when she was trying to goad him and Ron into keeping awake
during History of Magic. It infuriated Harry, and for a moment he was too angry to speak. The
frustrations of the day boiled within him, and he was suddenly, savagely glad for a chance at a
screaming match with someone. He would have liked to throw something.

“Are you serious?” said Hermione nastily, stalking up to him and fixing him with a beady eye.
“This is the *Prophet* we’re talking about! Have you forgotten what they’re capable of?”

“They wouldn’t dare,” said Harry, but he felt a sudden twinge of uncertainty.

“Ha!” said Hermione, and he could see from the glint in her eye that she was just as determined
to fight with someone as he was. The Gryffindor Common Room was so quiet that he could have heard a
pin drop. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see unhappy faces, some of which were turned
away in a futile pretence of ignoring the fight a few feet away, and some were watching with looks
on their face that were close to horror. He thought he saw a group of small first years by the
fireplace that looked close to tears. Neville was on the floor before him, playing a game of
Exploding Snap with Dean and Seamus, and their expressions were equally shocked. Guilt stabbed at
him momentarily, but he brushed it aside, and let it feed his anger. He was so bloody tired of
feeling guilty! And he was even more tired of feeling utterly, hopelessly useless. As if he were
floundering lost in some dark cavern where even the walls were impossible to find.

He had sent of a fiery letter to the *Prophet*, too angry to think about the possible
repercussions, and had sneaked in late to Transfiguration. McGonagall had scowled at him, but
forbore to give him a detention, for which he had been profoundly grateful. But a missed breakfast,
combined with the crowing and smirking of Malfoy whenever McGonagall’s back was turned (since the
breakout of Azkaban, Malfoy’s position in Slytherin House was seemingly once more on solid ground –
he was closer to his normal horrid self than Harry had seen him for months) had left him with a
very short fuse. Hermione’s frequent attempts to get him to tell her what he had done were met with
silence – Harry had a feeling that she wouldn’t approve, and it had been born out spectacularly.
She had spent the entire lunch hour seemingly too furious to talk to him. Ron had done his best to
run interference, but it hadn’t worked. Harry had gone into Care of Magical Creatures (with more
smirking from Malfoy) and Divination knowing that the two of them were yet to fight it out.

All afternoon the feeling had been growing in him that he might have done something very rash
indeed, and defensiveness made him even angrier. What did they expect from him, when he never had
all the information?

He had been let off the day’s Occlumency session with Snape, as the Potions Master was almost as
busy as Dumbledore answering questions from the parents of the Slytherin students. Harry would have
given his eye-teeth in order to find out exactly what questions they were…

Instead, churning inside, he had gone to see Dumbledore. Standing before the stone statue at the
base of Dumbledore’s moving staircase, Harry had recited the names of every sweet he knew, but the
door to the Headmaster’s office remained stubbornly shut. Fuming silently, Harry had waited at the
base of the staircase for two hours, before Professor Flitwick, in passing, had informed him that
Dumbledore was spending the evening at the Ministry and wouldn’t be back until late. It hadn’t
improved his temper, with his anger subsiding temporarily into a cold, hard pit in the base of his
stomach. He could almost feel his own fears battering away at the wall he had carefully constructed
in his mind. That vague, nebulous feeling that he had hidden away since the end of the previous
year, too afraid to look at, was stirring.

It wasn’t just stirring. It was getting stronger, and Harry was beginning to have a rather
horrible suspicion as to what it might be.

He felt something shake him. Blinking slightly, trying to focus his eyes, he looked around to
find himself in the Common Room, Ron shaking his arm. Hermione was standing before him, hands on
her hips and looking simply furious. Harry was so angry that he had to force himself to unclench
his fists. Half of Gryffindor House was staring at them, silently appalled.

“You know, I think we all just need a good night’s sleep,” said Ron worriedly, glancing between
them. “Everything will look better in the morning, that’s what Dad always-”

“You weren’t even listening to me, were you?” said Hermione coldly. “You stand there, nodding in
all the right places, but I *know* you, Harry Potter. You can’t fob me off! I could’ve helped
you!” Her voice got progressively higher.

“I’m sure Harry didn’t mean to upset you, Hermione,” Ron cut in desperately. “Did you,
Harry?”

“I’m not a complete bloody idiot!” Harry said, his voice loud, ignoring his friends hold on his
arm. “Stop treating me like one! I don’t need you running after me like I’m some eleven year old
who has left his homework till the last minute! I am capable of deciding things on my own,
thank-you very much!”

“Nobody said that you weren’t,” said Ron gamely, in as calm a voice as he could manage. Harry
glared at him. It sounded as if Ron was trying to calm down a hyperactive two year old.

“Oh, yes!” Hermione scoffed.

“STOP TREATING ME LIKE AN IDIOT!” Harry yelled, and for a moment Hermione seemed to falter.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot, Harry,” she said, and it sounded as if she was on the verge of
tears. “I just want you to listen, that’s all. I’ve been trying to tell you about this kind of
things for years now, and I know that you haven’t always paid attention. But I honestly think you
might have made matters worse. Couldn’t you have asked what I thought and listened? You never
listen!”

“LISTEN TO WHAT?!” Harry roared, pushed beyond all endurance. Hermione’s accusation seemed to
him to be supremely unfair, when he would have given his entire Gringott’s vault for the
opportunity to listen to *anyone*. “No-one EVER tells me ANYTHING! It’s not enough that
Voldemort’s after me and Death Eaters are on the doorstep! No-one ever tells me what’s going on!
HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT TO DO? TELL ME THAT, HERMIONE!”

There were tears streaming down her face, and the room was utterly silent. Even Ron couldn’t
look at him, but Harry felt too strangely empty to feel even the slightest bit of guilt.

“You said you wouldn’t ask!” Hermione half-sobbed at him. “You *promised*, Harry!” Her
voice rose to level that had matched his own, half-roar, half-shriek. “You said you wouldn’t
ask!”

“I’M NOT ASKING!” Harry bellowed at the top of his voice. “I’m not asking! But *no-one’s
telling*!”

Ron’s voice interrupted him. It was tense and miserable, but he moved to stand between them.
“Look,” he said. “Look, maybe we should just-”

“SHUT UP, RON!” Harry and Hermione roared at him, together. Their voices were so loud that Ron
recoiled in surprise, tripped over a stray cushion and toppled backwards against the corner of a
desk. There was a resounding *thud* as his head hit the wood. There’s was a moment of pure
stillness, and then he got to his feet groggily, a smear of blood on his forehead.

The stillness was broken when Neville quietly pulled himself up from the floor in front of the
fireplace, and headed, expressionless, to the stairs that led up to the boy’s dormitories. His
movement appeared to break the spell holding everyone in place, and muted, miserable whispers
echoed around the room.

Hermione squeaked, and Harry gasped as if someone had just thrown water on him, and started
towards him. But before he could reach his friend, Ginny had come between him and slapped his hand
away. Her eyes blazed furiously. “Don’t you touch him,” she said coldly, taking her brother’s arm
and whipping a handkerchief out of her pocket to press against his head. “Come on, Ron. I’ll take
you to the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey will be able to fix you up, no problem.”

Harry stumbled towards her. “I’ll help you.”

“Like hell you will,” said Ginny forcefully, steering Ron towards the door. Dean scrambled
towards her, and took Ron’s other arm. “Haven’t you done enough already?” she said.

Harry felt as if he had been the one hit over the head. He turned miserably to Hermione, who was
pale and shaking.

“It was only an accident, Harry,” she said, in a hollow voice. “We didn’t mean to do it.”

“Story of my life,” said Harry bitterly. He looked at her helplessly, and at last all his anger
drained away. “I just don’t know what to do anymore,” he said hopelessly. “I’m not asking you to
tell me what’s going on with you, Hermione. I promised I wouldn’t. But not knowing is so damn hard,
and no-one tells me anything. *Ever*.” He reached out and tugged at her sleeve in mute
apology. “I just don’t know what to do anymore,” he said brokenly.

He didn’t expect the response. “I do,” said Neville, from behind him. Harry turned around
hurriedly, almost colliding with the other boy. Neville had a set, determined expression on his
face, and an old jumper under his arm. He gazed at Harry steadily, then Hermione, and neither of
them could hold his gaze.

“I think Ron’s right,” said Neville slowly. “It’s about time this got sorted. But not here – I
think there’s been quite enough excitement here for one night.” He hitched the jumper up
higher.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” he said, and his voice had the curiously adult inflection
that Harry had heard when he had met Neville in the Owlery earlier that term. “But it’s going to
stop. Tonight.” He gazed at them mildly, and Harry was almost too ashamed to look at him.

“Follow me,” said Neville placidly, moving towards the portrait hole, and they trailed behind
him like two lost ghosts.



19. Chapter 19
--------------

Okay. I don’t often have put an author note in here, but I thought I’d do so with this chapter.
First of all, I realise that it’s been a long time since last update, and I’m sorry for the wait.
It’s just that in many ways, this is one of the more important chapters of this story (although not
the most important). You’ll be pleased to know (I hope!) that a couple of answers pop up in this
one – namely, what has Harry so worried, and why Hermione isn’t affected by the Dementors. The
first explanation should be fairly easy to swallow, but I have to admit that I’m worried as to how
some of you will take the Hermione explanation. I’m afraid that a lot of you will be disappointed –
many of those people kind enough to leave reviews had come up with their own explanations, some of
which were so complex and dramatic that they put mine to shame, I think. So, for those who do think
my explanation is stupid, apologies in advance.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Neville shepherded them along through the corridors, and it was a few minutes before Harry
realised that he was leading them towards the Room of Requirement. Dimly, he had thought that
Neville would again choose to meet in the Owlery, but he recognised that the Room of Requirement
could at least be made somewhat more impregnable than the drafty tower.

Hermione was trailing quietly beside him, sniffling, and Harry could see the shock and misery on
her face, and knew that his own probably looked no different. He kept seeing Ron’s face, white and
blinking, with blood pouring from the cut in his head. Even though he knew that it was only an
accident, he felt incredibly guilty that his best friend was now in the hospital wing – again –
because of him. Again. He hoped that Ron would forgive him, and realise that he hadn’t meant to do
it, and that he was now feeling thoroughly ashamed of himself.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when Neville propelled him through a doorway, into what seemed
like a replica of the Gryffindor Common Room. Numb, Harry vaguely recalled Neville, round face
screwed up in concentration, pacing back and forth beside a long stone wall, repeating under his
breath “Somewhere safe, somewhere we can talk, somewhere that no-one else can get into…” For a
brief moment, Harry wondered if the Room of Requirement had somehow siphoned them back into
Gryffindor Tower, but a closer look around the room showed several differences. The Common Room was
much tidier, for one, and there were no staircases leading off to dormitories, and no windows. No
way for anyone to get in, Harry realised.

“I hope you’re proud of yourselves,” said Neville unexpectedly. He was beside the fire, sitting
on the floor next to a small round table set for tea and fumbling with Harry’s old jumper, and
Harry felt a faint jolt of surprise when he saw his secret bottle of Firewhiskey uncovered and set
stoutly upon the table. “I expect Ron’s going to spend the night in the hospital wing because of
you two.” Hermione made a small unhappy sound, and the two of them reluctantly moved over to sit on
either side of Neville.

“It was an accident,” said Harry, feeling as if he had just been winded. “We didn’t mean him to
be hurt,” he went on, addressing Neville, and feeling an inexplicable urge to explain. “It’s just…
it’s just that there’s so much going on, and we’re all so worried all of the time, and…”

“There are so many secrets,” Hermione added mournfully, and Harry couldn’t stop himself
snorting. “I know!” said Hermione shrilly. “I’m just as bad as you. Probably worse! And I know that
it would probably be easier if we all knew the same things, but it’s so *hard* to tell them.
There are things I don’t even want to remember, let alone talk about!”

Harry found himself nodding in agreement. The interview with Dumbledore after Sirius had been
killed was fresh in his mind, and he would have given anything to be able to wake up one day and
not be able to remember it.

“I see,” said Neville carefully, and, unscrewing the bottle, he tipped a small amount of
Firewhiskey into one of the mugs laid out on the table. He was looking at them both as he did so,
and Harry could see pity and indecision battling on his face. After a few moments, the pity clearly
won, and Harry looked away. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to know what Neville was about to do, but
he felt too sorry for himself to run away. “You know, I envy you,” Neville said bluntly, and there
was an odd quaver in his voice. “Both of you.” He took a sip of his Firewhiskey and choked a little
on it. Harry had the feeling that Neville was trying to work up his courage, but when the other boy
looked up, Harry could see that there wasn’t a trace of nervousness in his face, but only a deep
and abiding sadness.

“I wish *my* parents were dead,” said Neville quietly, his expression set.

Hermione looked at him aghast. “You don’t mean that, Neville!”

“I do,” said Neville stoutly. “You don’t know what it’s like! Dragged along to St. Mungo’s every
weekend, I was, until I came to Hogwarts. And there was no point to it. They never knew me.
*Ever.* And each week, it was like losing them all over again. You’re *lucky*. You don’t
know it but you are.” He looked up at them, and his face softened slightly. Harry expected that his
own face looked as pale and shocked as Hermione’s did. He tried to argue with Neville, to make him
take it back, but his throat has closed up and he couldn’t speak.

“You *are* lucky,” Neville repeated, more kindly this time. “I mean, yes, your parents are
dead, and that’s bad. But if you think it couldn’t be worse, then you’re wrong.” He picked up his
mug and took a great swallow, emptying it, a grimace on his face. When he could speak again,
Neville looked at them both, and this time his tone was determinedly cheerful.

“There,” he said. “I wish they were dead. Whatever you’ve got to say, or whatever you haven’t
said… it can’t be worse than that, can it?”

Harry just gaped at him, horrified. Next to him, he could hear Hermione breathing in great,
gasping sobs, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from his friend’s face. Neville’s expression was
again open and good-natured, and to Harry he looked again like the child he had shared a dorm room
with for years, and not the strangely adult version of Neville that seemed to be surfacing more and
more often these days. *Do I look like that?* he thought to himself numbly, as if from a great
distance. *That… that change. Is that what people see when they look at me?*

The silence stretched on for a long time. Eventually it was Neville again who broke it, as Harry
has known that he would.

“I can leave, you know,” he said bravely, although Harry could see that the last thing Neville
wanted to do was to make the lonely walk back to the Gryffindor Common Room while the two of them
stayed behind. “I mean, if you’d rather…”

“No!” said Harry loudly, instinctively, and then cringed at the sound of his own voice. “Stay.
Please.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Hermione sniffled beside him. “We’re sure.” She still hadn’t spoken, but Harry felt a
strange triumph when she shuffled over on her knees to Neville and wrapped her arm around his. She
took a few deep breaths, and when she spoke her voice was ragged.

“Give me that,” Hermione said, waving somewhat shakily at the bottle. Silently, Harry held the
Firewhiskey out to her, but at the last minute she slapped it away.

“No… no. Wait.” She fumbled clumsily at her robes, unpinning the Prefect’s badge from them and
dropping it onto the floor. After a few moments she reached for it, carefully turning it upside
down, so that its shiny polished surface was facing away from her. Feeling a faint twinge of
amusement, but not daring to show it, Harry handed her the bottle again, and she tipped some into
the mug, spilling a little on the floor because her hand was shaking.

With one arm still clinging to Neville, she held the mug tightly in her other hand. Harry could
see her knuckles turning white with the pressure of her grip, but when, after a long while, she
spoke, her voice was calm.

“I know what it is that keeps the Dementors away,” she said.

Harry leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. “I thought you might,” he said as
casually as he could manage, trying not to push her. He had a horrible feeling that she might clam
up if he did.

Neville nodded to himself. “You don’t get as many OWLS as you did by being stupid, Hermione,” he
said, in obvious reaction to the puzzlement on her face. To Harry’s surprise, Hermione’s face
turned briefly red at the praise, before turning white again.

“Clever,” she said dismissively. “D’you know where being clever has got me?” She looked at the
floor. “You think you’re so horrible,” she said quietly, unhappily, and it was a few seconds before
Harry realised that she was talking to Neville. “But I was more horrible than you,” she went on.
“If you knew how awful I was, you wouldn’t want to know me…”

Harry’s heart constricted within him. “There’s nothing that you can have done that’s that
awful,” he said. “Neville and me, we’ll stick by you no matter what.”

“No matter what,” Neville echoed grimly.

Hermione nodded, and let out a little sob. “Alright. Thanks.” She took a deep breath. “It’s hard
to know when to start. I didn’t know that the Dementors couldn’t hurt me until we were in the
Forbidden Forest. You remember, Harry?” He nodded, recalling how they and Lupin had gone to pick
mushrooms one night, and how the Dementor had appeared, cutting Lupin and himself off from
Hermione.

“I could feel it,” Hermione said, and there was a faint trace of awe in her voice. “But it
wasn’t like before. You remember third year, when the Dementors were on the Hogwarts Express? I
know what I felt then. I know what they’re *supposed* to feel like. But it didn’t…” she shook
her head, and looked at them in frustration. “I’m not explaining this very well. The best I can
understand it is that it’s like a feedback. Having a Dementor near me is the one thing that makes
sure I won’t react to them.”

Harry and Neville exchanged looks of sheer puzzlement. Hermione sounded like she did when she
was trying to explain a complicated theory to them, and they didn’t understand her now any better
than they did when she could be persuaded to help them with their homework.

“I don’t understand,” said Harry at last. “This… this feedback? D’you know what’s causing
it?”

“My parents,” Hermione admitted miserably. “Neville’s right, you know. There *is* something
worse than having them dead.”

“Er… they are dead though, right, Hermione?” said Harry, trying to find a delicate way to put it
and failing entirely, he thought.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “Of course they are. But… I didn’t react very well.”

“I don’t know that there is a right way to react,” said Neville quietly, but Harry barely heard
him. He couldn’t help but remember Tonks’ description of that night. What was it she had said? That
Hermione had seen her parents, and, for a moment, there had been the strangest look on her face…
Lupin had dismissed this reaction as probable shock, but Harry had the sudden feeling that it was
far more than that.

“Mum had sent me to the shops,” said Hermione in a small voice. “Just to pick up some things…
milk, butter, you know. I dropped them when I saw that there were Aurors around the house.” She
gazed at Harry miserably. “I just left them there in the street. It was the last thing Mum asked me
to do and I left them!”

“It doesn’t matter, Hermione,” he said gently. “It was just milk. It’s not important.”

“Your Mum would have understood,” said Neville, and Hermione nodded, swallowing.

“It’s so hard to remember,” she said. “The last thing I do remember properly was dropping
everything, and then… it was like I felt nothing. Nothing. I know I ran to the house, and there
were people there. I pushed past them. I think that I knew what had happened, but I didn’t feel it,
you know? It was like a dream… like something that didn’t really happen. And then I saw my parents,
and it was like I woke up.”

Harry wondered if his own face was as stricken as Neville’s. He badly wanted to know what had
happened, but forcing Hermione to relive seeing her parents’ dead bodies was something he had never
wanted to do. Foolishly, he supposed, he had tried to make himself believe that it wouldn’t be
necessary. Hermione saw their faces and gave them both a wan smile.

“That wasn’t the worst bit,” she said. “It wasn’t that bad, really. There wasn’t any blood or
anything. They just looked like they were asleep.”

“That’s Avada Kedavra for you,” said Harry bitterly, unable to help himself.

“Yes. And that’s when it happened…” Hermione trailed off, and both boys could see the misery on
her face. She clutched the mug to her tighter. “I don’t want to…” she said.

“Hermione, it’s alright,” said Harry desperately, trying to stay as calm as he possibly could.
“You can tell us. We’ll understand. It’s alright.” He inched forward slightly, wanting to reach out
but a little afraid to touch her. “Did anyone hurt you?”

She laughed, and if Harry had thought he had spoken in bitterness before, he suddenly had a new
understanding of the meaning of the word. He barely stopped himself from recoiling.

“If anyone did the hurting, it was me,” said Hermione, her voice rising. “And I deserved it.
They were my *parents*. They didn’t understand me at all, but they did their best even though
I wasn’t normal. I always knew that they would do anything for me. They even stayed, for *me*,
when all they wanted to do was to take me to the other side of the world, away from this bloody
war. They were killed because of *me*. And do you know what I thought, when I saw them for the
first time? When I woke up in our living room, do you know what I *felt*?”

She looked at Harry desperately, eyes locking onto his. “Admiration,” she said flatly. “When I
saw the bodies of my murdered parents, I thought of Voldemort. I *didn’t* think ‘You
bastard!’, and I didn’t think ‘How could you!”. I thought ‘Well done. That’s so *clever*.’ And
it was. Between you and me and Ron, I’m the weak link. The only Muggle-born. The one with the least
protection. I saw the note on the door – Voldemort was trying to make me blame you for my parents’
death. He was trying to use me to get to you. And I thought ‘That’s so clever. It’s exactly what I
would have done if I were him’.”

“But… but… you were in shock,” Neville broke in weakly. “You didn’t know what you were
doing!”

“That’s no excuse,” said Hermione coldly. “It only lasted a few seconds, and *then* I
thought ‘How could you!’, but it wasn’t Voldemort I was thinking about.” She hung her head. “They
were my parents, and I treated them as if they were nothing more than chess pieces. I should have
been in Ravenclaw,” she whispered under her breath.

“I don’t understand,” said Neville again, hopelessly lost.

“I do,” said Harry, and his voice was hoarse with horror. “It was something Lupin told me. He
said… he said that sometimes Ravenclaws can get so caught up in how clever they are that they
forget to think about what the effects of their cleverness might be. He said that it had been
Ravenclaws who had developed the Unforgivables. They didn’t mean them to be used; they just wanted
to know if they could make them in the first place.”

“You do understand,” said Hermione, wonderingly.

“You’re not like that, though!” said Harry fiercely. “I won’t believe it! Neville’s right, it
was shock. You’d never end up like Voldemort! You’d never kill innocent people! You’d never-”

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Hermione unexpectedly, and Harry, caught mid-rant, gaped at her. She
smiled at him weakly and, loosing the mug, reached out to stroke his cheek.

“I know it’s hard to understand,” she said. “I didn’t quite understand it myself for a long
while. It seemed like a curse, but really, Harry, it’s a blessing. I didn’t know how much until the
Dementor came along.”

“A… a blessing?” said Harry weakly. “Now I *really* don’t understand.”

“I don’t believe,” said Hermione slowly, meditatively, “I don’t believe that anyone is born bad.
Or born good, I suppose. I think we all make choices. D’you understand? We can choose to do good
things, and we can choose to do bad things. Right?”

“Right,” said Harry, still puzzled, but relieved to be back on ground that he could at least
understand.

“I was so afraid,” Hermione admitted. “So afraid… not that I’d end up like Voldemort. I’m not
that powerful. But that maybe that I’d end up like Bellatrix LeStrange.” Neville stiffened beside
her, and Hermione squeezed his arm. “And then I realised – *she’d* never be afraid. She’d
never think something that awful and not be able to forgive herself for it. It would never frighten
*her*, what she could do. I might think the same thing that she would, or that one of those
Ravenclaws who invented the Unforgivables did, but I’d never actually *do* it. No matter what
– my choices didn’t have to be the same as theirs.” She shrugged. “And that was how I could beat
the Dementor.

“You see, the Dementor makes you relive the worst moments of your life. It drains away all hope.
And when we were in the Forbidden Forest, Harry, I realised that in some cases, that’s not enough.
When I saw my Mum and Dad, and I thought what I did, that was the worst moment in my life. Nothing
comes close to that, nothing. But in a strange way, it was the best as well. For a few seconds, I
was no different from Bellatrix or Voldemort or Lucius Malfoy or any of them – and then I came back
to myself. You can’t stop yourself thinking horrible things, but you can stop yourself from acting
on them. And when a Dementor comes near me… it tries to make me think that it’s hopeless, and that
I’ll end up as horrible as they are. But it can’t make me feel that way without frightening me,
*and it’s because it frightens me that I know it’s not true*.”

“But how come…” Harry licked his lips, a strange excitement going through him. “How come this
doesn’t work for everyone?”

“We’re all different, I suppose. What happens to you when you’re near a Dementor?”

“I hear my Mum screaming,” said Harry grimly. “I hear Voldemort killing her.”

“I’m in St. Mungo’s with my parents,” said Neville softly. “And I know that we’ll all be there
forever.”

Hermione nodded. “It’s like amplification then, you see. Most people’s worst memories are the
ones that happen to them, the ones they can’t change. They take those memories and magnify them so
much that it’s impossible to escape – unless, of course, you’ve got a Patronus. But with me, their
presence doesn’t amplify the worst moment of my life, it mitigates it. They can’t touch me.”

“Are you sure about that?” said Harry. “You were pretty bloody quick to turn your back on it in
the Forest, as I recall.”

“You and Lupin were there if I was wrong,” said Hermione. “I trusted you. Besides, I could sort
of feel it. It didn’t want to come near me – you saw.”

“It still could have given you the Kiss!” said Harry loudly. “How could you risk yourself like
that! On a few moment’s thought! What if you had been wrong?!”

“I don’t think it could have Kissed me,” said Hermione, ignoring the rest of his outburst. “You
saw. It wouldn’t come near me. You know, I don’t think they *can* Kiss you if you’re not
already weakened by them.”

“You don’t know that!” said Harry angrily.

“Tell me one person who’s been Kissed while they were still normal,” snapped Hermione.

“I can’t! But you can’t tell me that it’s never happened, can you?” Harry accused. “I can’t
believe you’d do such a stupid thing! And people call ME reckless!”

“That’s enough,” said Neville unexpectedly. “It’s over with. Done. There’s no sense in fighting
about it now.”

“Fine,” said Harry resentfully.

“Fine,” snapped Hermione, and she picked up the mug and swigged from it in turn. She choked and
spluttered so hard that Harry had to pound her on the back for close to a minute before she could
breathe properly again. It improved his temper somewhat. He wasn’t really angry with her, he
decided – more angry that she had put herself in danger. Besides, it was hard to stay upset with
her when she was wheezing like Errol after a long flight. Her theory on the Dementors intrigued
him, and he wished briefly that Lupin was there to discuss it with them.

He wished it even more when Hermione reached for the bottle again. “Are you sure you want to be
drinking any more of that stuff?” he asked her.

Hermione gave him a foul glance, but Harry could see how little her heart was in it and was
encouraged. “It’s not for me this time,” she said, measuring out a generous dose and pushing it
along the floor towards him. He caught at her hand before she could pull it away.

“I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly, under his breath. He noticed that Neville was suddenly taking a
lot of interest in the label on the Firewhiskey bottle – Harry was sure it wasn’t that interesting,
but was oddly grateful that Neville was at least pretending that his interest was elsewhere.

“Me too.” Hermione looked at him pensively. “Harry… what I said about my parents. I know that it
wasn’t very nice. You don’t… do you think any less of me for it?”

Harry squeezed her fingers, momentarily surprised at how much smaller they were than his own.
“There’s nothing you could ever do to ever make me think that, Hermione,” he said. Her hand was
warm within his own, and he was surprised when she didn’t pull away. It made him feel good.

“I’m glad,” she said, picking up the mug with her other hand and dumping it in front of him.
“It’s your turn now.”

“Not glad enough to let me off, then?” he said hopefully.

“Not on your life,” Hermione scoffed at him, but her expression had softened. “It’s not so bad,
Harry. You’ll feel better afterwards.”

Harry was privately sceptical as to that. He had known, since the summer holidays, that there
was something he didn’t want to admit to himself – a gnawing feeling that settled in the base of
his stomach like a block of ice. He had been loath to even think about it, not wanting to admit
that it had existed, and had done his best to lock it away in the back of his mind so that Snape
could never get at it in his Occlumency lessons. Harry had a horrid suspicion that if he admitted
to anyone – whether his friends or even himself – just what he believed this feeling to be, then
that protection from Snape would be voided.

And it was something that he never wanted the Potions Master to know about. Snape already found
it easy enough to manipulate him, and he didn’t want to give him any more ammunition.

Harry knew that he had been quiet for a long time. He also believed that if he chose not to tell
his friends about what was bothering him, they would let him leave without recrimination. However,
he didn’t want to do that. He felt that it would seem like cheating, or like a betrayal – but he
couldn’t seem to muster up the will power to open his mouth and *start*.

Instead, he swallowed his own portion of Firewhiskey in one large, burning gulp. Through the
roaring in his ears he heard Neville say, in mock indignation, “Doing things a bit backwards there,
aren’t you, Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry wheezed back, unrepentant. He leaned back, coughing. “Look, I’m just going to say
this straight out. You won’t agree with it, and you won’t like it, but it’s the truth, and there’s
nothing I can do to change it.”

He dragged his sleeve across his mouth. A strange dizziness had come over him, something
unrelated to the alcohol. It felt as if he was standing on the brink of a sheer cliff, staring down
into nothingness. Harry took a deep breath.

“I don’t trust Dumbledore,” he said.

Hermione gasped, her hands over her mouth. “Harry, that’s… that’s-”

“That’s the truth,” he said shortly. “It’s not that I think he’s not doing his best, or doing
what he thinks is best. I’m just not sure that they’re the same thing. He tries so hard to protect
me…”

“You can’t blame him for that,” said Neville. “He is the Headmaster, after all.” Harry gazed at
him for a few moments, until the expression on Neville’s face made him realise that the expression
on his own must have formed into something very close to pity. He suddenly felt very tired. He had
spent weeks and weeks refusing to entertain the idea of telling Neville about the prophecy – who
would want to know their part in such a thing, even if that part had gone to someone else? But the
more irritated Harry became at being kept in the dark by other people, the less he could justify
doing it to someone else.

“It’s for my own good, do you mean?” he said to Neville painfully, eyes locked onto the other
boy. “Is that enough?” he continued, and he could hear the note of pleading come into his voice,
and was slightly ashamed of himself. If he was going to do this, he should at least take the blame
on himself and not shovel some of it off onto Neville, who had done nothing this term but help him.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself. “Would that be enough for you? If someone knew something about
*you* – something important – but they refused to tell you because they thought it would be
better if you didn’t know… Would you want to hear it, Neville? Would you want to be told?”

Neville’s round face looked at him openly, slightly puzzled. “Yes,” he said eventually. “At
least I think I would.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I think I would,” he repeated.

“Whatever it was, I’m sure Dumbledore did what he thought was right, Harry,” said Hermione,
desperately trying to be reasonable. Harry squeezed her fingers again, and she trailed off
unhappily, with worry written all over her face.

“He does,” admitted Harry. “But that doesn’t mean that he *is* right. It seems like every
year he tells me new things – important things – but it’s always after the fact. Never mind that
knowing earlier might have made me safer! He treats me like I’m a little kid – a bit of information
here, an explanation there. Now I *know* he thought he was doing it for my own good, but that
doesn’t make a difference. If I’ve survived at all up until now it’s mostly been through luck and
dumb ignorance. Dumbledore had the power to change that and he didn’t.

“After Sirius…” Harry trailed off briefly. “After Sirius he apologised. Told me everything he
said he should have told me earlier. But how do I *know*? How do I know that he’s not doing
what he’s done every year since I came to Hogwarts – doled out enough information to keep me happy,
telling himself that I’m too young to know the rest?”

“Dumbledore wouldn’t lie,” said Hermione positively.

“He’s lied for five years,” said Harry grimly. “At least, he hasn’t told the truth, and that’s
the same thing.”

“What… what did he say?” said Hermione.

“He told me what the Prophecy said,” Harry said finally.

“I don’t understand,” said Hermione weakly. “It was broken… how could he have heard it?”

“He didn’t need to hear it. He knew it all along. Said he didn’t tell me because he was trying
to protect me.”

And he told them what it was.

Five minutes later, he was half wishing that he hadn’t. Neville was on his knees in a corner,
retching, and Harry was helplessly patting him on the back and wishing that the other boy was
anywhere else in Hogwarts but there. The thought made him feel guilty, as he knew that Neville was
only that upset because of him – the thought that Voldemort may have gone after Neville himself had
been too much – and the guilt made him stay with the other boy, as he seemed to be in need of help
the most.

He would have preferred to comfort Hermione, but his gut instinct to stay with her had been
over-ruled by Neville’s more violent reaction. Still, her silence worried him. At least Neville was
*reacting*, albeit in a sloppy, disgusting manner. Harry stepped back suddenly, trying to
avoid getting sick spattered on his sneakers as Neville heaved again. He shot a quick glance at
Hermione, and was slightly dismayed to see her exactly as he had left her after he had told them
both about the prophecy. Her face was very pale, her hands were clutched at her robes, and she was
staring into space with a very blank look on her face. Harry was extremely relieved that she wasn’t
crying (he had no idea about how he was going to cope if *that* happened), but a small part of
him was a little disappointed that her reaction was so muted. Still, it wasn’t as if he wanted her
to start bawling and throw herself into his arms or anything.

“Hermione,” he said worriedly, as Neville sat back, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “You
alright?”

She nodded her head. “Yes,” she said faintly. Harry didn’t believe it, but was happy to see that
she had at least partly snapped out it. She was still very white, but her lips were moving
silently, as if she was trying to work out a particularly difficult homework problem.

Eventually she spoke again. “Harry, you have to tell someone about this.”

Harry groaned – he should have known that this was what she would say. “Forget it,” he said
flatly, and felt himself deflate slightly. He didn’t know why, but he had expected more from her
than this.

“It’s important-”

“I don’t care!” said Harry, his voice rising. “Not everything can be solved by running off to
the teachers, Hermione!”

Neville staggered to his feet, breaking the tension between them. “I think I need to lie down,”
he said weakly.

“Are you sure?” said Harry shortly, and then felt bad for seeming not to care. “I mean, you
still look a bit green and everything…”

“I just need to be by myself for a while,” said Neville. “And to be honest, Harry, I don’t think
I’m up to mediating right now.” He waved a hand at Hermione.

“We’re not going to fight, Neville,” she said quietly, in a firm tone.

“We are absolutely not going to fight, Neville,” repeated Harry, with clenched teeth. Neville
looked at him with a jaundiced eye, and lurched towards the door. “I should never have drunk that
stuff,” he said mournfully.

“Stay for a few more minutes,” said Hermione. “You really do look ill. Just a few more minutes
won’t hurt.”

“It *will*,” said Neville angrily. He turned at the door, looking lost. “Look, I’m sorry.
But I really need some time to figure this out, and… and I think that you two need some time by
yourselves as well.” He shuffled out of the Room of Requirement, leaving Harry feeling restless and
resentful. He realised that he had been depending upon Neville to act as a buffer between them, and
the thought that he would now have to do it himself left him exhausted. He moved over to Hermione
and, slumping down beside her, tried very hard to smile for her.

“I really don’t want to fight, you know,” he said. Hermione’s face crumpled for a brief moment,
and she clung to his hand, resting against his side as she had earlier done with Neville. The warm
weight of her against him felt nice, Harry thought tiredly. Restful, even.

“I never said you should tell the teachers,” said Hermione quietly, and nudged up against him
when he opened his mouth. “Let me finish, Harry. It’s too much. You can’t do it by yourself. And if
Dumbledore really is keeping things from you…”

“You don’t believe that,” said Harry softly.

“No. I don’t. But Harry… that doesn’t matter. You don’t trust him. Whether he’s telling the
truth or not, you don’t trust him. But you need to trust *someone*, Harry. You can’t do it on
your own. This isn’t going to be solved by you and Ron and me working in the Library by ourselves.
We need help.” Harry’s heart gave a painful thump in his chest at the “we”.

“Lupin knows,” he offered. “I got Dumbledore to tell him over the holidays.” He saw Hermione’s
eyes narrow slightly. “I’m sorry,” he said defensively, “but I had to tell someone, and I wasn’t
going to tell you about it, after what had just happened to your parents.”

“Did you tell Ron?” said Hermione, a trifle shrilly, a tone which subsided when Harry shook his
head. “You’re going to have to, you know. He’d be so upset it you didn’t.”

“I know,” said Harry gloomily. “I will.”

“So that’s four,” Hermione mused after awhile. “Me, Ron, Neville, and Professor Lupin.” She
twisted her neck around to look up at him, and Harry was pleased to see the colour returning to her
face. “Who else, Harry? Who else would you trust?”

“Depends. D’you mean trust like I’d trust you and Ron, or like I’d trust Mr. and Mrs. Weasley? I
mean, I know that they’d do anything for me, but if push came to shove they’d go over my head to
Dumbledore. I know they would.”

“Who would you trust for you, then?” said Hermione, in a practical tone. “To stand by you no
matter what? Apart from us four, that is.”

Harry was silent a long while. “I don’t know, really,” he said. “Fred and George, I suppose.
Hagrid. After what happened in the Ministry of Magic, I’d trust Ginny and Luna. And Dobby.”

“And how much do you trust me, Harry?” said Hermione, and this time her voice was much softer,
and a little wistful. She had twisted her head around towards his again, and her face was only a
few inches away from his own. He wanted to lean in towards her, but felt awkward and too clumsy.
His face was hot.

“I trust you more than anyone,” he said hoarsely, and for a brief second he could see Hermione
look a bit teary before she pressed her cheek against his own.

“Good,” she said, and her voice vibrated against his ear. Her weight was warm against his
shoulder, and he cradled her there, feeling strangely comforted. “Because I think I’m beginning to
have a bit of an idea…”



20. Chapter Twenty
------------------



I know, I know. I'm a horrible person, and it's been months and months. I suck. I'm
sorry. Life has been extremely busy, and I haven't had much time to carve out for writing.
Things have calmed right down now, so hopefully will be able to get out a couple of chapters a week
until this thing is finished.

Chapter Twenty.

Early the next morning, Harry and Hermione waited uncomfortably outside the infirmary door. It
was chilly in the stone corridor, but Madame Pomfrey had flatly refused to let them in until her
patient had woken up on his own. Harry couldn't tell from her expression if she knew that they
had caused Ron's accident, but then she was always so snippy when anyone disturbed one of her
patients that it was hard to tell. He envied Hermione for the warm plate she held in her hands, and
wondered if it would be too ungentlemanly of him to offer to carry it for her.

Knowing how hungry Ron usually was at breakfast, and guessing that Madame Pomfrey's healthy
balanced option was likely to be presented to him before he left the infirmary, Harry had requested
a large, greasy breakfast platter from Dobby, who was only too happy to oblige. Hermione hadn't
even had the heart to protest at the extra work he was putting the house elves to. She had simply
fallen in at his side on the long walk up to the infirmary, and silently taken the breakfast
platter off him - putting a warming charm over it when it had started to cool. Harry was glad that
she had thought of it - he was feeling so nervous that if he had had to do it himself he thought he
would have set the black pudding on fire.

His nervousness in itself was distressing. When had being around Ron ever made him nervous
before? Harry knew perfectly well that while Ron could be jealous at times, he would certainly
forgive them both for what was only an accident, and yet here he was, waiting meekly outside the
infirmary as if he was waiting for an interview with the Minister for Magic. He couldn't even
talk to Hermione about it, and she seemed in no way inclined to talk to him. He found that her
silence was beginning to be a bit off-putting - she seemed to be alternately staring at him and
staring down at the plate with a truly woeful expression. It made him feel like he had a target
painted between his eyes. There were dark rings beneath her own, and Harry expected that she had
lain awake for most of the night, going over and over the revelations that Neville had somehow
forced out of them.

He hoped that she really did have some idea of what to do, because he was getting all too used
to feeling trapped and helpless. It was made all the worse because he had no clue as to what to say
to her regarding her issues with the Dementors. He couldn't tell her that it didn't matter,
because clearly her own feelings on the matter were crucial, and mattered very much. Neither could
he enthuse about how useful it would be, given the cause of her new talent in the first place.
Harry suppressed a sigh. The truth was, he had to admit to himself, that he just wasn't very
good at finding the right words to say to her lately. He couldn't pretend the he understood all
the ramifications of her ability - or what caused it - and had only managed to fall into a restless
sleep an hour or two before dawn by deciding to palm the problem off onto someone else. He winced
internally at the phrase, but he really had no clue as to what he should do.

“You need to tell him,” Hermione said quietly, her voice breaking long minutes of silence. “As
soon as possible. He'll be so hurt if you don't.”

“I'll do it today,” Harry said, more to himself than to her, before blinking suddenly and
trying to pull himself back to reality. “On one condition.”

“What?” said Hermione suspiciously. She wasn't looking very pleased with him, Harry saw, and
he couldn't blame her. He sounded as if he were using Ron as a means of making her do something
that she didn't want to do. He was actually pretty appalled that he was doing it himself, and
comforted himself with the fact that he wouldn't really keep the information about the prophecy
away from Ron. But he was fairly sure that Hermione would need a push to do what Harry had come to
the conclusion was the only right thing to do.

“You have to talk to Lupin about the Dementors,” he said, as gently as he could.

“I don't see the need for that,” Hermione said shrilly. She looked betrayed, and Harry
winced.

“Yeah, you do,” he said. “Come on, Hermione. You're always the one saying that we need to
tell the teachers about things like this, and neither of us really knows what's happening here.
Lupin will help, and he won't tell anyone if we make him promise not to. He hasn't said a
word about the Prophecy to anyone…”

“Harry!” Hermione hissed, looking scandalised. “You shouldn't be talking about that out in
the corridors! Anyone could hear you!” She eyed him acidly. “And what's this “we” business?
Planning on going with me, are you? Anyone would think you didn't trust me.”

Harry just glared at her. He knew that there was no response that he could make to that that
wouldn't make her angrier, and he was annoyed that they were falling back into the same
argument that they had had the night before.

Hermione wilted visibly. “I'm sorry,” she said. “We're going in circles here, aren't
we?”

“I don't want a repeat of last night,” said Harry fervently. “But you've never been
afraid to tell me when you thought I was doing something wrong. Well, now it's my turn. You
need to talk to Lupin. And yeah, I'll go with you if you like, or stand outside the door if
you'd rather talk to him yourself. But you've got to go.” He looked over at her. Hermione
was biting her lip and staring at the floor, and she didn't look convinced. Harry cast around
for something else to say that might sway her. “Please?” he hazarded.

He thought she might be softening slightly, but a voice came down the corridor, interrupting
them.

“Please? Please *what*,” it said fiercely, and Ginny stamped into view. One look at her
face told Harry that she had not forgiven them for what had happened to her brother. “You had
better be practicing. Please, Ron, forgive us for being such idiots? Please, Ron, we're lower
than *Malfoy* when he's in the shape of a ferret, and we'll never be so horrible
again? Please, Ron, we didn't mean to hurt you but we're so damn selfish that we
couldn't help ourselves? Please, Ron, we know you were trying to help, even though we
*don't* deserve it…”

“Please just stop?” said Harry, embarrassed. He didn't think he could feel much more ashamed
than he already did. He could see tears in Hermione's eyes and hastily took the platter from
her shaking hands, thinking guiltily to himself that if she started bawling he was heading into the
infirmary whether Madame Pomfrey liked it or not, and leaving her to deal with Ginny on her own.
His red-headed friend had an expression on her face suspiciously like Mrs. Weasley's after a
prank by the twins had caused a minor explosion.

“We're really, really sorry, Ginny,” said Hermione in a watery tone. “You don't know how
sorry we are…”

“It was an accident,” Harry added quickly. “We'd do anything to-” he stopped abruptly as
Ginny waved a hand at him, obviously wanting him to shut up. She glared at them both for several
long seconds, before her face abruptly cleared and she gave them both a small smile. “Okay,” she
said simply.

“But it really was… what?” said Harry.

Ginny heaved a sigh. “I know. An accident. Believe me, he's used to it. You grow up in a
house with Fred and George and you get used to them. Chucking bludgers at him before he was five,
they were.” Her expression hardened slightly. “It's not good enough, though. Once was an
accident, but if this happens again…” she leaned in close to them and her voice dropped to a
whisper “*I'm telling Mum*. Is that clear?”

There was a lump in his throat, and Harry nodded desperately to remove it. Out of the corner of
his eye he could see Hermione nodding in turn, a fervent expression on her face. He was dismayed to
see that her tears were coming faster than ever, and it looked as if she really was about to start
sobbing in the middle of the corridor from sheer relief. He forced his attention back to Ginny.
“It's clear,” he said roughly, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. “It won't
happen again, I promise… And Ginny? Thanks,” he added on lamely. “Ron's lucky to have you, you
know.”

“Too right,” said Ginny, with a trace of smugness. She crossed over to Hermione and began to pat
her on the back. “Ron'll get over it,” she said bracingly. “There's no need to make a
fuss.” But Hermione had begun to bawl, and Harry, dismayed, bolted into the infirmary before either
of the girls looked to him to provide some sort of comfort. Guiltily, he hid behind the door, his
back pressed to it. Across the room he could see Ron suddenly sit up in bed and stare at him.

There was a tense silence, and the echo of a wail was heard through the door. Ron grimaced.
“Bloody hell. Is that Hermione with the waterworks again?”

“Yeah,” said Harry hesitantly. “I couldn't stay; I don't know what to do when she gets
like this.” He was silent a moment. “She's really sorry, you know,” he blurted. “We both
are.”

“I should sodding well think so,” said Ron. “Do you know what disgusting things that woman has
been forcing down my throat half the night?” He glared at Harry assessingly, then seemed to find
his obvious remorse a little amusing. The corner of his mouth twitched, and another wail echoed
through the door.

“Pair of bloody idiots, the pair of you,” he said finally, grinning. “You want your heads
knocking together.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, a bit weak-kneed with relief.

“That breakfast?” said Ron, looking slightly perkier. “Madam Pomfrey was trying to feed me
grapefruit this morning. *Grapefruit.*” He looked revolted. “Do I look like a girl to you?
Disgusting muck.”

“I know,” said Harry again, chuckling. “It is. Did I ever tell you about my aunt putting Dudley
on a diet of the stuff?”

Ron snorted with suppressed laughter. “I would've liked to see that. Fat beggar could
probably have inhaled it without noticing, he's that huge. At least he was last time I saw
him.” He waved Harry over. “Don't just stand there, give it here.” As Harry handed the plate
over, and fussed over the cutlery, Ron waved him away, scowling. “Don't start,” he said.
“There's nothing wrong with me, you know. I've had worse.” He speared a sausage with a look
of absolute pleasure, and went to take a bite before stopping to wave it in Harry's face
menacingly. “Sort it out, did you?” he said.

“I think so,” Harry replied. “I need to talk to you sometime today. Privately. There's some
stuff you need to know.”

Ron groaned through a mouthful of sausage. “I'm not going to like it, am I?”

“There's not a lot to like these days,” Harry said gloomily.

Ron chewed meditatively. “There's sausage,” he said, spearing another and offering it to
Harry in a heroic gesture. Smiling, Harry took it, feeling that if nothing else, at least things
between him and Ron were alright.

“Cheers,” he said, grinning, as the door opened and the two girls came in.

* * * * *

“Don't say it,” Harry said, his teeth gritted. “Just don't say it, Hermione.” He should
have known that she would have been right, and he felt a bit bad about not listening to her - again
- but he really wasn't up to having it pushed in his face right now. Still, the look of hurt
that passed quickly over her face made him feel worse. “Sorry,” he said grumpily, taking a swig of
Ron's pumpkin juice as much to hide his face as anything. “I didn't mean that.”

“You can't have known, mate,” said Ron distractedly. A few minutes earlier, as Harry's
face had purpled with rage, Ron had ripped the *Daily Prophet* out of his hands (the delivery
owl had managed to find Hermione even in the hospital wing) and he was now poring over the
newspaper, the edge of which was dangling into the remains of his bacon and eggs, and turning
translucent from the grease. “Bloody hell,” he moaned, finally pushing the paper to one side. “This
is not good. Harry, you've got to find a way to explain this!”

“It was my explaining that started this mess!” snapped Harry, and then winced as something sharp
kicked him in the leg. He scowled over at Hermione.

“Keep your voice down, Harry,” she said calmly, although the two boys could see that it cost her
an effort to do so. Still, she was right - breakfast in the Great Hall was always a noisy meal, but
Madame Pomfrey's infirmary was not. Ginny had left them a few minutes ago, but the school nurse
kept popping in and out, scowling at them when they raised their voices above a whisper. Harry
couldn't see why - there were no other students in the hospital wing to disturb. “And it
wasn't you that started it.”

“I didn't make it any better though, did I?” said Harry. He was furious with himself, and
with the *Prophet*. When would he learn to *think*? He pulled the paper over towards him
again and stared at the front page article, hoping against hope that he had imagined how bad it
was.

*GOBLIN INFLUENCE EXTENDS WELL BEYOND GRINGOTT'S!*

*It has long been no secret that the stranglehold of the goblins over*

*the wizarding world's financial affairs has allowed them to meddle in*

*places where non-humans have no business being. But have the goblins of*

*Gringott's Bank finally pushed too far?*

*The disgraceful episode reported yesterday by the Prophet, where*

*dozens of frightened witches and wizards - many of them with small*

*children - were locked out of the safety of Gringott's Bank during a*

*Death Eater attack have caused much dismay. Readers are wondering*

*(and who can blame them?) if this was a deliberate ploy by the goblins*

*to expose the inhabitants of the wizarding world to further attack - see*

*the Letters to the Editor, on pages 3-5.*

*But even if these creatures are not in league with He-Who-Must-Not-*

*Be-Named, the long arm of their influence is looking increasingly*

*sinister. Yesterday evening,* *the Daily Prophet received a letter from*

*Harry Potter, decrying our coverage of this ghastly event in the*

*strongest terms. Yet it appears that this letter may not be what it*

*seems: the angry tones, poor spelling, and incoherent argument do*

*not speak to the abilities of a boy lauded even by the famous Chocolate*

*Frog cards for his outstanding studentship. Furthermore, Mr. Potter, a*

*student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, could not*

*have been anywhere near Diagon Alley on the day of the attack, and is*

*thus - if the letter is indeed written by him, whether in sound mind or not -*

*unaware of the true horror faced by his fellow wizards.*

*The Daily Prophet is privileged to reveal that not only does Mr. Potter*

*hold an extremely large account with Gringott's, but that he was visited*

*at H**ogwarts not so long ago by one Sn**iphonk, a Gringott's banker.
Could*

*this unlikely defence have been coerced in any way? Surely a* *race* *so*

*degra**ded as to refuse aid to terrified* *families would have no problem*

*blackmailing or otherwise influencing a young boy with no apparent*

*wizarding guardian…?*

Disgusted, Harry crushed the paper into a ball and threw it aside. “They didn't even get his
name right!” he snapped. “Sniphonk! Who ever heard of a goblin called Sniphonk! And *what* are
they going to think of me-” He turned to Hermione in near-panic. “You don't think they think I
set them up, do you?”

“Surely not,” Hermione said, although she didn't sound altogether certain.

“Might be an idea to check,” offered Ron, picking bits of newsprint out of his bacon.

“I don't think they'll be too happy to take my calls at the moment,” said Harry
dismally.

Ron gazed at him for a moment with what looked very like pity. “Hello?” he said. “Remember me?
Your best mate, the one with a Gringott's curse-breaker for a brother? Bill will talk to you -
no matter who else doesn't. He can make them see reason. I mean, if they haven't seen it
already. And I'm sure they have,” he added hastily, if unconvincingly. “No one can believe that
rubbish.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” Harry said darkly.

“Well there's not a lot that you can do about it now,” said Hermione. “Although that's a
good idea of Ron's.” She turned to him. “Do you really think Bill would be able to help?”

“Dunno,” said Ron, shrugging. “Can't hurt to ask though, can it? And he'll be alright
with it - Bill's cool. It's not like he's *Percy*, after all.”

“D'you know where he is?” said Harry. “I mean, he's not back out in Egypt again, is
he?”

“No,” said Ron. “He's back in Britain - all the better to suck up to Fleur, I reckon. You
know - *English lessons*.” He snorted. “If you believe that you'll believe anything. You
should be able to get him through Gringott's in Diagon Alley. Just owl him - you could use Floo
powder even, I think. Shouldn't be too difficult.”

Hermione nudged him. “I expect Lupin has some,” she said grudgingly. “You could check with him
later today, I suppose.”

Harry looked at her in astonishment, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. He felt a sudden,
unaccustomed urge to hug her, and promptly swiped a bit of bacon from Ron's plate, stuffing it
in his mouth to avoid embarrassing himself. He couldn't resist surreptitiously squeezing her
hand, though - after wiping it on Ron's bedclothes to get the grease off it. He thought he saw
a small smile in return, and there was an answering pressure on his fingers.

-->



21. Chapter Twenty One
----------------------



Chapter Twenty-One.

Harry and Ron led Hermione down the corridors of Hogwarts. “Why d'you need to see Lupin
again?” Ron asked curiously. Hermione had never before seemed so reluctant to talk to a teacher.
“We've just had Defence. Don't tell me you've got detention.”

“I have not!” cried Hermione, stung.

“That's one of the things we've got to talk to you about later,” said Harry, lowering
his voice. He gestured to the other students in the corridor. “Somewhere that other people
can't hear us.”

“Right,” said Ron, clearly understanding. “I'll catch up with you afterwards, then. I've
got Muggle Studies now, oh joy. If you can get hold of Bill, tell him I said hi, will you?”

“Course,” said Harry.

“I thought you liked Muggle Studies,” said Hermione, but Ron's answer was cut off by the
sight of Draco Malfoy, hexing another student in the corridors.

“Well, *really*,” said Hermione angrily. “And to think he's been on the receiving end
of it himself, recently. You'd think he'd stop after knowing what it felt like!”

“Not bloody likely,” said Harry. He watched the scene with interest, and although he didn't
know why, he got the feeling that Malfoy, though clearly back to his normal self, was somewhat more
thin-skinned than usual.

“Well, I can't let him get away with it,” said Hermione, starting towards him. Harry hauled
her back.

“Leave it,” he advised. “We've got somewhere else to be, remember?”

Hermione scowled at him, and jerked her arm away. Before she could stomp over to Malfoy,
however, Ron hauled out his wand, heaving a sigh. “Get on with you,” he said. “It sounds important.
I'll deal with Malfoy.”

Harry and Hermione's jaws dropped. “What?” said Hermione weakly.

“Think you're the only Prefect around here, do you?” said Ron, though he looked a bit red.
“Besides, how often do I get the chance to give detention to Malfoy?” He grinned at them. “I'm
going to enjoy this.”

A few minutes later, Harry and Hermione were seated in Lupin's study. Hermione was twisting
her hands in her lap, clearly uncomfortable, while Lupin set up tea and biscuits. He offered Harry
a Ginger Newt.

“No thanks, Professor,” said Harry. “If it wouldn't be too much trouble though, I'd like
to use the Floo to call Bill Weasley.”

Lupin nodded, and waved him over to the fire on the other far side of the room. Harry suspected
that he could let off all of Fred and George's fireworks, and from the way he was looking at
Hermione, Lupin still wouldn't have paid him that much attention.

Harry made his way over to the fireplace, trying not to listen to the sounds of conversation
behind him. Still, he couldn't help but notice that things were a bit stilted - but he knew
from experience that Lupin was a good listener, and Hermione had always liked him. He was confident
things would improve.

He threw some Floo powder into the fire and stuck his head in, trying not to think of the
inelegant view of himself he was giving to the other people in the room. “Bill Weasley's
office, Gringott's Bank,” he said, in a clear voice.

Through the green flames of the fire, he saw Bill Weasley startle, and turn from what seemed
like an urgent conversation with a uniformed goblin that Harry did not recognise. “Harry!”.

“Bill, I need to talk to you,” said Harry desperately. “About the *Prophet*…”

“Not like this,” Bill said tersely, exchanging a glance with the goblin, who was watching Harry
with a jaundiced expression. “Stand back, I'm coming through.” Moments later he stepped neatly
through into Lupin's study, with barely a speck of soot on him. Harry eyed him gratefully;
although the abruptness of Bill's earlier words worried him. The feeling dissipated when Bill
clapped him wordlessly on the shoulder, and began to tug off dragon skin gloves with his teeth,
moving forward to shake Lupin's hand. The two men exchanged greetings quietly, and Bill gave a
quick smile to Hermione.

“I don't need to tell you you've put the cat among the pigeons, do I?” he said to
Harry.

Harry grimaced. “I'm sorry. I know I've probably made things worse, but I couldn't
stand by and watch the *Prophet* do what they were doing and not say anything. It's not
fair.”

“Fair and politic are two different things,” said Bill seriously, but although he gave Harry a
reassuring smile, Harry could see that his heart wasn't in it. “Try not to worry about it,”
Bill continued, noting the expression on his face. “What's done is done, and probably would
have happened down the track anyway. You've just hurried it along.”

Harry wasn't sure whether or not to believe him. There were black rings under Bill's
eyes and it looked as if he hadn't shaved for a couple of days. Harry didn't know the
oldest Weasley sibling very well, but he looked to be a very worried man - albeit one that was
trying to hide it. His shoulders were set in the same way as Ron's were when Ron was upset
about something.

“Can I offer you a drink?” said Lupin. “You look as if you could use it.”

“Thanks, no,” Bill replied. “I'm sorry for interrupting you like this, but I thought it
better to come in person, while I still could. I need to speak to Dumbledore, and Harry here is
going to need to come along. You're welcome, if you want to join us.”

Hermione looked half-hopeful, half-disappointed at this, but Lupin declined firmly. “I'm
sure that I can trust Harry to fill me in on it later,” he said. “But there is something quite
important that I need to talk to Hermione about.” Her face set into a resigned expression, and
Harry gave her a sympathetic look.

He noticed that Bill was staring at her speculatively, and hoped he wouldn't say anything.
Bill looked as if he was about to make a comment as to exactly what their discussion would be
about, but appeared to think better of it. Instead, he reached out to Hermione and gave her a
comforting squeeze on the shoulder. “Enjoy the goblin histories, did you?”

“They're fantastic,” Hermione admitted plainly. “I wish more people could read them.”

“There's not much chance of that now,” Bill said, with a pained expression. He motioned
Harry towards the door. “Come on, mate. We're a bit short of time, here.” With a short goodbye
to Hermione and Lupin, he led Harry through the door, walking quickly in the direction of
Dumbledore's office. Harry remembered suddenly that Bill had been Head Boy at Hogwarts, and had
probably spent more time in that office than he had.

“I'm sorry,” he said, trying to keep up with Bill's long strides. “Hermione told me I
shouldn't have done it, But-”

“Save it,” Bill warned. It was spoken in a friendly tone, so Harry knew that he was not to take
it personally. He noticed that Bill was drawing a lot of glances as they moved through the
corridors, mostly from girls. They were staring at him with their mouths open, dozens of them, and
Harry felt a little put out at the thought that they had never stared at him that way. Of course,
he didn't have a ponytail and a fang earring.

“How's Ron doing?” Bill asked casually. “I was surprised not to see him with you.”

“He's got class,” said Harry. “He said to say hi. I told him this morning that he should
just bunk off,” he admitted, “but he said you probably would have told your mother.”

Bill smirked. “Absolutely I would have,” he said. “What kind of ex-Head Boy would countenance
such a thing?” He stopped for a moment and checked his pockets, drawing out a small Quidditch
figure, dressed in an old-fashioned style. “Give him this for me, will you? I found it in a market
in Morocco. It's about a hundred years old, I think, and cost a packet. I thought of him when I
saw it, and knew he'd like it. Tell him I'm sorry to have missed him, will you?” He dumped
a handful of beads in Harry's hand as well. “And there's a bracelet for the brat as well,
from the same place.”

“Sure,” said Harry happily, pocketing the figure himself after inspecting it minutely, and
stuffing the bracelet in afterwards. He knew that Ron would be thrilled - not just with the
present, but with the fact that his oldest brother had thought to remember him while off doing
something that was no doubt more exciting than the usual day at the office.

“Everything alright with him, then?” Bill repeated. “And Ginny?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “Why?”

“No reason,” said Bill, as they turned onto the corridor where Dumbledore's office was
situated. “But things are a bit hairy these days, so I thought I'd check.” They stopped outside
the gargoyles.

“There's a password. Usually some kind of sweet,” said Harry, before realising that Bill
probably knew all this from his own days at Hogwarts. “And you might have to wait,” he warned, a
trifle resentfully. “Dumbledore's been pretty hard to get hold of recently.”

“Oh, he'll see me,” said Bill, in a tone of absolute certainty. “I'm here representing
Gringott's after all. He doesn't have much choice.” Lifting his left hand, he touched the
gargoyle with a large square ring that he wore on his middle finger. Harry hadn't noticed it
before, but as Bill lowered his hand he caught a glimpse of a dark stone with a `G' indented
into it. Seeing his interest, Bill showed him the ring. “Think of it as a way of announcing an
entrance,” he said. “There are a lot of people that don't like Gringott's coming to call,
and this way they can't get out of answering the door.” As he spoke, the staircase opened up
and they made their way up to the Headmaster's office.

Stepping into the room above, they saw Dumbledore rise to greet them. He smiled warmly at Bill.
“You know, as much as I would like to think that one of my favourite former students has come by to
say hello to an old man, I rather suspect there is a more pressing reason for this call.”

“Sorry for the interruption, Headmaster” said Bill, not really looking sorry at all, “but
we've got problems.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore replied, waving them towards chairs, “I have seen the *Prophet* over the
last day or two. Playing with fire, there.”

“More than you know,” said Bill, seriously, dropping his friendly demeanour. “They've
finally pushed too far, I'm afraid. Gringott's have frozen their accounts.”

Dumbledore started from his chair. “Surely not!”

“They're doing it as we speak. As of about five minutes ago, no money goes in or out. The
implication that Gringott's Bank has been coercing Harry here was the last straw, I'm
afraid.”

“Excuse me, Headmaster,” said Harry, a little hesitantly. The rather sickened expression on
Dumbledore's face and the absolute seriousness of Bill Weasley's expression worried him,
especially as he could not see why. “But isn't this a good thing? The *Prophet's*
absolutely useless, and I can't say I'm sorry to see Rita Skeeter out of a job.”

“The *Daily Prophet* has its flaws as a paper, Harry,” Dumbledore replied, “but it has long
had a monopoly on press in this country. Its resources and distribution system have been heavily
used by the Ministry to help spread information about Voldemort. Most of it is rather exaggerated,
true, but the fact remains that many in Britain will wake tomorrow with the little access to
information that they had gone. The Ministry's greatest means of informing people about
emergency planning - evacuations, warnings, and defence advice - has just disappeared.”

“What about the wizarding wireless?” said Harry, shaken.

“A subsidiary of the *Prophet*,” said Bill grimly. “That's out as well.”

Harry was horrified. “D'you mean to say that the goblins have just hung everyone out to
dry?” he asked. “Don't they care what this would mean? If not for the wizarding world, then for
themselves?”

“The Ministry can use other papers, find another airwave, boost other resources,” said
Dumbledore. “It will take some managing, and a huge amount of resources, but the gap left by the
*Prophet* can actually be closed fairly quickly, I think.” He shot a reassuring glance at
Harry. “It is not as bad as all that, I hope.”

Bill snorted. “The Wizengamot will be up in arms about all this though - especially after the
attack outside Gringott's and all the publicity that caused.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly in agreement. “I fear I shall be going there directly after our talk.
Do you have discretion to come with me?”

Bill shook his head. “I have to get back to the bank. Though I'm afraid my route won't
be as direct as yours. I strongly suspect that the Floo Board will have cut off access to
Gringott's by now, in retaliation.”

“What! Why?” interrupted Harry, confused. He wished that he had thought to insist that either
Hermione or Ron had accompanied him. He had a feeling that they would understand what was going on
much better than he was. “Oh,” he said miserably, “Hermione was right. I shouldn't have sent
that letter.

Bill clapped Harry's shoulder again. “You didn't cause anything that hasn't been
coming for a long time. As to the “why”,” he went on wearily, “Retaliation, pure and simple. This
is going to turn into one hell of a power struggle. Goblins have been running the wizarding
financial world for centuries, and this hasn't always gone down well with the wizards, who
think they have too much power. The only reason Gringott's has been tolerated for so long is
that goblins do a better job than wizards could, and that they're not actually able to be
bribed. They don't care what happens outside Gringott's as long as the money keeps coming
in. Their impartiality has protected them for a very long time - and when the *Prophet*
decided to attack that impartiality, their biggest defence…”

“The goblins have decided that the best defence is offence,” Harry finished. “But surely if the
*Prophet* makes an apology…”

“I am afraid to say, Harry, that it is unlikely that the wizarding world will accept the
necessity of an apology to what is seen as a lesser species,” said Dumbledore, in a heavy tone.
“They will no more support the idea of coming to terms with the goblins now than they would support
freeing all the house-elves and setting them up with annuities for life, by way of apology - the
wishes of Miss Granger notwithstanding. The words of the *Prophet*, especially over the past
few months, will not easily be forgotten. And that means trouble for Gringott's. Voldemort has
made people angry and afraid, but his present methods make it difficult for forces to be mobilised
against him. People will be looking to fight, and the goblins have just given them a target. ”

“I'd like to see them try to take down Gringott's,” said Bill wolfishly. “Especially
headquarters, in Diagon Alley. If your Ministry wants to send every Auror it has to beat down the
doors, you will still have one hell of a fight on your hands.”

“They are your Ministry as well, William,” said Dumbledore suddenly, sternly. “You may be one of
the more accomplished curse-breakers at Gringott's, but do you so relish the idea of fighting
Aurors? Some of those people are your friends - I believe you went to Hogwarts at the same time as
Nymphadora Tonks, for instance. If the Ministry sends her to break down those doors, will you be on
the other side?”

“I don't want to be,” said Bill steadily. “And I hope it doesn't come to that. But
Gringott's have been good to me, and I know goblins far better than most people. I'm not
going to abandon them now.”

“The Ministry is not the only one at fault in this situation,” Dumbledore pointed out quietly.
“The goblins must take responsibility for their own actions.”

“And you would have me prove this point to them by taking the Ministry's side? By proving to
them that yet another wizard has put blood loyalty above all else, above friendship? Gringott's
have been good to me - they deserve my loyalty as well.” Bill leaned forward, biting off each word.
“There are no good endings here, Albus. Neither side is going to back down, both have their own
survival at stake.”

Harry had been watching them argue, feeling a quiet horror build up inside him. The thought that
he had provoked this situation with his ill-thought out letter was unbearable. No matter Bill's
reassurances that this would have happened anyway, he could not but feel as if he was partly to
blame. And he could not help but see how Voldemort would be able to take advantage of a war between
the wizarding world and the goblins. He remembered little enough of Professor Binns' History of
Magic classes, but he did remember that no goblin army had ever been easily defeated - even by
other goblins.

“What about Voldemort?” he said desperately. “If Gringott's and the Ministry can't find
a way to get along, Voldemort will wait until they've nearly destroyed each other and come and
finish the job!”

“At this point the goblins wonder if there is that much difference between them,” said Bill.
“Even in the First War, Voldemort never targeted Gringott's.”

“Only because he didn't get around to it,” Dumbledore pointed out. “Do not believe that he
would spare the goblins if he had the opportunity to enslave them.”

“I see,” said Bill. “Be conquered now, or be conquered later, is that it? The problem with that
is that it's conquering all the same - and like everyone else, the goblins would put that off
as long as possible. I expect that many of them hope that if this new war happens, Voldemort will
be drawn out by the weakness of the wizarding world. He will attack them long before he comes to
Gringott's.”

“And the goblins believe that he will be sufficiently weakened thereby?” asked Dumbledore. “That
they will be able to match him then? That is a rather desperate strategy, William, if I do say so
myself.”

“They believe - many of them do, anyway - that it's all the strategy they have left,” said
Bill. He leaned back, wiping his hand over his face in an effort to combat exhaustion. He looked at
Dumbledore candidly. “I don't want to fight with you, Headmaster. But I don't think that
you'll be able to change any minds on this one. The most that we can do is work to put off
things until later - try to prevent another war from starting for as long as we still can.”

At that moment a chime rang within the office, and Dumbledore sighed. “Speak of the devil,” he
said, looking for a moment as tired as Bill. “It appears the Wizengamot is being summoned. Hardly
surprising, under the circumstances. Things are moving fast, too fast, and I am old.” He moved
stiffly to the fireplace, taking a handful of Floo powder from a jar on the mantelpiece. He looked
at it meditatively for a moment, and then looked at Bill. Throwing it in the fire, he said clearly
“Gringott's Bank, Diagon Alley.”

For an instant the fire flared green, then suddenly turned a brilliant red. A bored voice boomed
from the fireplace: “This service has been disconnected. Please contact the Floo Board for more
details. I repeat, this service has been disconnected.” As the voice finished, the flames
disappeared with a large *puff*.

Dumbledore looked over at Bill somewhat wryly. “You always were one of our best students,” he
said. He threw another handful of powder into the fireplace, and directed it to the Ministry of
Magic. As the flames turned green, he turned to Bill, extending his hand. Bill shook it, and the
two men looked gravely at each other. “Goodbye, William,” said Dumbledore. “I am afraid that you
will have to see yourself out. Take care, my boy. I will do what I can.”

For a moment, Harry thought he heard a tremble in Bill Weasley's voice - but it was only for
a moment, and then it was gone. “Take care, Headmaster,” he said. “I hope that when we next meet it
will be under better circumstances.” And with a nod at Harry, Dumbledore stepped into the fire and
disappeared. Bill stared at the empty grate for a few moments, and Harry felt too uncomfortable to
interrupt him, even though he was burning with questions.

At last he said, with some sympathy, “D'you want me to go and find Ron and Ginny? I'm
sure they'd like to see you.”

Bill shook his head slightly as if awakening from a daze. “No,” he said, a trifle sadly. “No.
I'd like to see them, but there isn't time. I have to get back to the bank.”

“How are you going to get there?” Harry asked. “Without the fireplace. You could make a
portkey.”

“I was never particularly good at that,” Bill smiled faintly. “I think I'll just walk to the
edge of the grounds and apparate out. I could use the fresh air. It might help wake me up.”

“I'll come with you,” said Harry, hoping to get a chance to ask some more personal
questions, that he hadn't felt able to ask when Bill and Dumbledore had been having their
rather intense discussion. The two of them walked silently out of Hogwarts (with more girls
goggling at Bill), and across the grounds. Dusk had fallen, and the air was cool and quiet. Harry
thought he saw a figure flying in the distance, circling the Quidditch pitch. Something about it
looked familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

“Bill,” he said, “If the wizards and the goblins hate each other so much, why have they waited
until now to do anything about it?”

Bill shot him a slightly amused look. “Professor Binns is the most boring person alive,
isn't he?” he said. “Well, not alive, but you know what I mean.”

“I suppose so,” said Harry, “but what does that… oh. You mean they haven't waited until
now.” He flushed slightly. “I'm afraid I didn't pay much attention in History of
Magic.”

“Not many people ever do,” said Bill. “Although to be fair there was nothing major for you to
pick up. There have been spats over the centuries, but things always tend to settle down in the
end. Reason being, wizards and goblins are fairly evenly matched. At least, as matched as they can
be without giving the goblins wands, which the Ministry prevents. They don't allow any
non-human creature to have them, you know.”

“I do know,” said Harry, thinking back to all the times Hermione had lectured him on the
subject.

“But now…” Bill trailed off. “Things have been coming to a head for a while. And right now, both
the wizards and the goblins see Voldemort as a way to get to the other. To the wizards, he is the
excuse they need to rein in the power of the goblins. To the goblins, the possibility of a civil
war within the wizard community offers them a way to strengthen their own position.”

“The centaurs said the same thing, you know,” Harry commented, and Bill's head whipped
towards him suddenly.

“How do you know that?” he said.

“Firenze told me,” said Harry. “He said that the best outcome for the centaurs would be if the
wizards just killed each other off, and left the centaurs alone. Yeah, I know,” he said, catching
sight of the sudden interest on Bill's face. “It was a shock to me too. Do you know much about
the centaurs?”

Bill shook his head. “The goblins and the centaurs don't have much to do with each other.
The centaurs have no use for gold, you see, so the two species don't interact very much.” He
had a pensive look on his face, as if he were pondering some new idea.

Harry hesitated. He desperately wanted to know something, but it was rather awkward to ask. He
didn't want to seem selfish when the situation was clearly so dire, but they were very close to
the edge of Hogwarts' grounds, and he didn't have much time to beat about the bush.
Subtlety had never been his strong point anyway.

“Do they blame me?” he said abruptly. “The goblins, I mean. I don't want… when Griphook came
here, I thought we were beginning to understand one another. I don't understand most of what is
going on here, and I don't know where it's going. But the goblins… I don't want to be
their enemy. This thing the wizarding world has, with the house-elves and centaurs and goblins.
It's not right. I don't know how to change it, and I don't even think I can, but -
I'd like to. Will you tell them that for me?”

Bill stopped. “No further, Harry. You cannot leave school grounds; I'll go the rest of the
way alone. It's only a few steps. And yes, I'll tell them. I don't know what good it
will do - between you and me, there are different factions within the goblins. Just like with the
wizards. They don't all think the same. There is some interest in you - I was told to make sure
that you were in the room when I spoke with Dumbledore, so that you would know from the source what
was going on. Not everyone is so willing, however. It may be harder than you think.”

“I understand,” said Harry. “I'd gathered that much from Griphook, anyway.”

Bill raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised for the second time in a few minutes. “That must
have been one interesting visit.” He reached out his hand, and Harry shook it. Bill held onto it
tightly. “D'you still have those things I gave you? The bracelet for Ginny, and Ron's
Quidditch figure?” At Harry's nod, he went on. “Give them those. Tell them… tell them I
don't know when I'll be able to see them again. It might be a long time. Tell them that no
matter what they hear, I love them and don't forget them. And that if worst comes to worst,
that I'm sure they'll grow up fine.” He let go of Harry's hand, and Harry looked at
him, aghast.

“Where will you be?” he said. “Why can't you tell them yourself?”

“I don't know how much more freedom I'll have to tell them anything,” said Bill.
“I'll try and send letters, if the Ministry doesn't start checking over the owl posts.” He
tried to smile at Harry, and his face looked pale and unhappy in the moonlight. “It probably
won't come to anything. Wheels of diplomacy and all - they may be squeaky, but they've got
to be good for something, right? I'm sorry, Harry. I don't mean to scare you, but I've
got to go. I don't know much time there is left - it may be months, but it may only be a few
minutes. I can't take the chance. I may never get in otherwise.”

He moved quickly passed the boundary, and Harry could not follow him. “Where are you going?!” he
cried again, more desperately.

“I'm going to my friends,” said Bill. “I'm going to Gringott's, to stand behind the
doors. I'm going to wait for those Aurors.”

And he disapparated.

-->



22. Chapter Twenty Two
----------------------



Chapter Twenty Two.

Extremely troubled, Harry reluctantly returned to the castle - staring at the spot where Bill
disappeared certainly wasn't going to bring him back any time soon. He dreaded having to break
the news to Ginny and Ron, especially as he wasn't exactly sure what the news was he was
supposed to break. He wished that he could talk to Hermione or Neville about how to break it to
them, but knew that it was an unfair wish, one borne out of his desire to have someone else take
the responsibility for how they were to be told.

Harry determined that he would have to do it himself, and quickly, but he was so unnerved by the
whole experience that he couldn't help taking the long way back to Gryffindor Tower, via
Professor Lupin's office. It was empty, and he felt a slight disappointment in the fact that
Hermione and Lupin had apparently finished their talk and wandered off elsewhere. He would have
liked to have had some moral support in walking up to Gryffindor Tower, but he knew perfectly well
that Hermione couldn't be expected to read his mind. He also knew that if she and Lupin had
still been in deep conversation, it would have been somewhat cowardly of him to wait until they had
finished, as a means of putting off carrying out Bill's requests.

He was surprised, however, to find neither of them in the Common Room. According to Lavender,
Hermione wasn't in the bedroom the girls shared either. He assumed that, by default, she was in
the Library, and this was confirmed by a fourth year girl who, hearing that he was looking for her,
volunteered a little shyly that Hermione had indeed gone to the Library in the company of Susan
Bones, who had turned up a short while before and had waited in the corridor outside the portrait
of the Fat Lady until a passing Gryffindor had managed to grab Hermione for her. The two girls had
apparently gone off in urgency - probably, Harry thought, Susan had stumbled across a book that
neither of them had read yet.

He was fairly certain, however, that Ron wasn't in the Library, and he couldn't find him
in the Tower. Morosely, he settled down to wait in one of the window-seats, and stared gloomily out
of the window, picking idly at the fringe on a nearby cushion. Seeing the familiar looking
Quidditch player circling in the distance, the same one that he had seen when accompanying Bill, he
realised belatedly that it was Ron - and flying very oddly for Ron, at that. He seemed to be
jerking somewhat more than usual, and as Harry watched he flew to the ground, and was lost out of
sight. Harry waited for a few moments to see if he would come back into view, but Ron did not
reappear, and all Harry could see was small flying objects circling around the place where he
assumed Ron was. It was all rather odd, and he raced up to his room to retrieve his own broom,
before heading down to the Quidditch pitch to confront his friend.

It was all, Harry thought again, very odd, and the sight that greeted him when he entered the
pitch was even odder. As a Keeper, Ron most often practised with Quaffles, which he could charm to
whiz close by him at speed while he tried to catch them. This time, however, he seemed to be
channelling Fred and George. The Quaffles were nowhere to be seen, and instead Ron, armed with a
Beater's bat, was flailing away at two Bludgers. Standing on the ground, he wasn't even
trying to avoid them, as he could have done on a broomstick, but was planted solidly in the middle
of the pitch, belting each one as it came near him. He was grunting with the effort of it, and
Harry could hear him spitting swear words under his breath. It was obvious that he was tiring, and
even more obvious that he hadn't been entirely successful - there were bruises on his face, and
Harry could see him favouring his right side.

Standing well out of the way of the Bludgers, he called to Ron, trying to get his attention.
Ron, however, refused to answer, and just kept swinging angrily. Sighing, Harry laid his Firebolt
to one side and picked up the second Beater's bat, ducking under one of the Bludgers to stand
back to back with Ron. With two targets to focus on, they were less likely to keep directing
themselves only at Ron, who Harry could plainly see wasn't going to be able to keep up the pace
much longer. At least Harry hoped he wasn't - being a Seeker, he had never had to practice with
the heavy bats before, and the *thud* when they connected with the Bludgers reverberated up to
his shoulders.

Eventually, Ron dropped his bat and dropped down to the ground, wheezing. He refused to look at
Harry while he wrestled the Bludgers back into their case.

Eventually, Harry sank down beside him, sucking his knuckles - one of the Bludgers had bashed
into them just as he was trying to shut the lid on them. “What's wrong?” he said, and Ron
gestured miserably over to a maroon sweater, lying on the ground at the foot of the stands.
Squinting in the twilight, Harry could just make out what looked like a piece of crumpled parchment
sticking out from under the wool. “What is it?” he said again, hoping that he wouldn't have to
haul himself up to get it.

“Letter from Percy,” Ron said, in an extremely clipped tone. “No, don't bother to get up.
You don't want to see it, trust me.” He was silent for long moments, and then continued in a
heavy tone in which Harry could hear the hurt, “How did he get to be such a *git*? Tell me
that, why don't you! I mean, I know that Fred and George can be a right nuisance, and none of
us are perfect, but how did any brother of mine go so damn wrong?”

“What did he say?” asked Harry, not really wanting to know. The last letter that Ron had
received from Percy had come the previous year, and had been full of advice to Ron to drop his
unstable friend.

Ron shot him a jaundiced glance.

“Oh,” said Harry dismally. “Same old, same old, huh?”

“*Prat*,” Ron mumbled viciously. “You'd think anyone with half a brain would realise
that you're not some nutter out for what he can get. Even Fudge finally got it through his
thick head that You Know Who is back, but Percy… he was supposed to be the smart one, you
know?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, remembering. There wasn't much he could say, but he sat with Ron in
silent sympathy as the sky darkened, and eventually Ron spoke again.

“Bugger him,” he said succinctly. “If Percy thinks I'm going to drop my best mate because
things are getting a bit hairy, he can bloody well think again.”

“Thanks,” Harry muttered, feeling an unaccountable urge to hug his friend but refusing to listen
to it. “It means a lot, that does. I'm just sorry you're out a brother because of me.”

Ron refused to look at him. “You're more my brother than he is anyway.” They stared in the
same direction for several minutes, both careful not to look at the other, but Harry felt a warm
glow inside him nonetheless. Finally Ron hauled him up, rather more roughly than he normally would.
“Get up, you lazy sod,” he said, in a more cheerful tone. “If you sit there like a lump for much
longer, we're going to miss dinner.”

“Can't have that,” said Harry, grinning, and waited while Ron put the gear away and
retrieved his sweater. Pulling out the roll of parchment, Ron scowled at it.

“Only one thing for it, really,” he said, and tore it into shreds before chucking it into the
air and letting the wind take it away. A small shred wafted past Harry's face, and on it he saw
the phrase *…be careful about who your friends are…* and it stopped him in his tracks.
Abruptly, he remembered another Weasley brother who had not been careful with his friends…

“Ron,” he said, “There's something you've got to know. It's about Bill…”

* * * * *

Over the next few days, the news about Gringott's Bank was the talk of the school. It had
percolated into Hogwarts, initially through owl posts from students' families, and copies of
magazines such as *The Quibbler*. Within several days, however, as Dumbledore had predicted,
the Ministry of Magic was putting out a replacement newspaper, albeit one that was badly printed,
extremely small (it looked more like a newsletter than anything else), and restricted to basics. To
fill the gap, many small presses began to put out their own pamphlets, and Hermione subscribed to
as many as she possibly could. Looking them over one depressing lunchtime, Harry was surprised to
see the scale of anger from many of the writers, which proved to him conclusively that the
*Prophet* was actually less reactionary and less unbalanced than it could have been - and he
never thought he would see the day when he would say *that*.

“It's because they're scared, Harry,” Hermione pointed out.

“It's because they're horrible, you mean,” said Ron, whose opinions on the goblins were
undergoing a steady revolution. “I can't believe you're defending those people!”

“I'm *not* defending them, Ron…” Hermione countered defensively, and the argument
continued to circle.

Much of the basics published by the Ministry were to do with the Bank. It appeared that a
full-scale assault had been put off for the moment, as no matter how furious much of the wizarding
world was, it was blatantly obvious to people like Madame Bones that attacking Gringott's would
benefit no-one but Voldemort. This was not to say that things had returned to normal. The goblins,
and the employees who stayed with them, were still locked within the bank and would not come out,
and in deference to public opinion (“A sop, more like,” said Hermione), a small group of Aurors was
publicly ringed around the bank in Diagon Alley, ostensibly keeping the peace, and pleasing no-one.
From the many pamphlets that came into Hogwarts, it seemed that they spent most of their time
stopping wizards from throwing stones and, frequently, curses at the Bank, while all the time being
harassed by said wizards for not doing anything more than surveillance.

“For the last time,” Kingsley Shacklebolt was heard to shout, “We are not going to be hanging
goblins from the walls of the Bank!”

“Not yet, anyway,” came the muttered rejoinder from one of the other Aurors - no-one discovered
who, but the altercation was plastered over what was left of the media.

Business was going on, but at a crawl - the enormous front doors were closed, and customers had
to go in one by one through a side entrance, where a guard of goblins could be seen, and anyone
working for the Ministry was strictly refused entrance. Large queues were forming at the door, as
worried wizards and witches waited for a chance to get what they could out of their vaults (the
goblins had placed a limit on withdrawals, which was not going down well with anyone).

But by far the most upsetting thing was the reaction to the small amount of wizards who had
sided with the goblins - all were employees of Gringott's bank, and all were publicly accused
of selling out blood-loyalty for cash. Even in Hogwarts, badly copied newssheets with pictures of
these witches and wizards were being circulated, with big headlines screaming “TRAITOR!” over their
faces. Harry had seen more than one stuck to the sides of corridors leading up to Gryffindor Tower,
and he knew from Ginny and Ron that Mr. and Mrs Weasley were getting Howlers from people accusing
them of not raising their children properly.

Harry was furious when he heard about this, and promptly sent off a letter of support to the
Weasleys, receiving a jumper, a large fruit cake, and a tear-spattered letter from Mrs. Weasley the
next day. He was, however, hopelessly ineffective at putting down the bad reaction from some of the
Hogwarts students. For the first few days, he had been under the impression that it was the
Slytherins who were sticking up the pictures of Bill all over the place - they were certainly
taunting Ron and Ginny mercilessly - but he was dismayed to find that some of the Ravenclaws and
even some of his fellow Gryffindors agreed with the Slytherins. They just weren't as vicious
about expressing themselves, as Harry found in a Care of Magical Creatures class. He and Ron were
working with Neville and Susan Bones, preparing food for the Bowtruckles the latter pair were
working on for their project. Only half listening to Neville telling him the best way to shave the
wand wood, Harry was really paying more attention to Draco Malfoy being given detention for the
second time in two weeks - he had lost his temper (which seemed to be growing rapidly shorter)
again and chucked one of his chunks of wood at a student, whacking him on the head with it.
Professor Grubbly-Plank finished her tirade about wasting resources, to which Malfoy endured
stonily, but when she turned away one of the other Slytherins hissed “It's only a bit of old
oak, and the bleeding bloody well stopped after a few minutes… I don't know what all the fuss
is about.” He turned and shot a slow, deliberate look at Ron. “It's not as if he's turned
blood-traitor or anything.”

Harry was so irked by this remark, and by the implication that Malfoy's status amongst the
Slytherins was again so high that they were defending him as a matter of course, that he was about
to leap over and pound Malfoy when Susan deliberately dropped a heavy book on his hand, making him
yelp. He turned to her angrily, only to see both her and Neville shaking their heads at him. Harry
scowled, and returned the book - an extremely heavy brick like thing entitled *1001 Uses for Wand
Trees - What to Feed Your Bowtruckle if You Don't Want to Kill It*. He realised that
confronting Malfoy would not be helpful to anyone; certainly not to Ron, who was stubbornly silent,
as if he hadn't noticed anything. The redness of his ears convinced Harry otherwise, though,
and the refusal of some of the nearby Gryffindors in the class to do anything (despite the fact
that the Slytherin's comment had been clearly audible) seemed to say that they agreed with the
comment. Dean Thomas, at least, was scowling heavily, and met Harry's eye with annoyance. He
made a rude gesture at the Slytherin, but Seamus Finnegan was grating his elm wood into dust,
deliberately not looking over at them, and Harry felt his heart sink.

“I think that blood-traitor is very brave,” said Susan quietly, and her voice carried to the
Gryffindor table next to theirs. Seamus snorted.

“Brave,” he said witheringly. “Brave would be to sabotage the goblins from within the Bank, and
let those Aurors in to do what needed to be done.”

“That's not brave at all,” Harry snapped. “That's nothing but reckless. Do you want to
start another war?”

“Way I see it, it's already started,” replied Seamus angrily.

And Ron was still silent.

Harry was beginning to be very worried about him, and about Ginny. The youngest Weasleys seemed
to withdraw into themselves with the public shaming of their brother, and the ever-present threat
of his death at the hands of the Ministry. Harry had expected Ron to be angry, but instead he just
became quieter and quieter, and the figure that Bill had given him was never far from him. He was
even beginning to avoid Harry and Hermione, as though their sympathy was too much, and seemed to
prefer to spend his time with Ginny. The two of them would sit silently in a corner of the Common
Room, staring blankly out of the window. Harry and Hermione sat with them, hoping that their
presence would be a comfort, but believing it less and less each day.

Harry thought that the loss of two brothers - for Percy's second letter had well and truly
burned his boats with Ron, and although he pretended to scoff, Harry could see that the loss of his
least favourite brother was felt even more strongly alongside the loss of the brother Ron had
always worshipped - was too much for Ron to cope with at once. While he appreciated knowing that
Ron thought of him as family, he couldn't replace the two members that were being pulled away,
albeit in very different directions.

It made him reluctant to tell Ron about the Prophecy. Hermione urged him to do it, but Harry
couldn't bear the thought of telling Ron that he was likely to lose yet another brother.
Despite his reluctance, Hermione had cornered him one night on his way back from the kitchens,
where he had gone to get a pile of delicious treats from Dobby in the hope of tempting his friend,
and insisted that Ron be told immediately. “As bad as he feels now, he'll feel worse later if
you don't.”

Reluctantly, Harry had taken her advice, and pulled Ron away from his silent sister up into the
dormitory they shared. It was empty, and he locked the door behind them. Turning, he took a deep
breath, and was surprised when Ron asked him not to say anything.

“Not now, Harry,” he said, in a hollow tone. “I just… not now, okay?”

And Harry had been forced to let it be.

* * * * *

Two dreadful weeks of stalemate later, something happened that was able to get through to Ron.
He, Ginny and Harry had stayed late in the Great Hall one night, with Harry trying to encourage Ron
to do something other than toy with his food. He was on the verge of giving up when Hermione
marched in, practically dragging Luna along with her. She brought the Ravenclaw to sit with them -
there was hardly anyone left in the Hall, so it barely raised an eyebrow - and Luna slid in beside
Ginny. She yanked Harry back into his seat.

“What's going on, Hermione,” he complained, rubbing at his arm where she had gripped him.
“I've already had dinner, I don't want any more.” But Hermione ignored him, and loaded up
two plates with the remnants of the puddings still left on the table, and dumping down one each in
front of herself and Luna. She then refilled Harry's plate.

“Eat up,” she said in a steely tone reminiscent of McGonagall.

“Custard gives me nightmares,” said Luna dreamily, looking down at her bowl. “Goody.” She began
to eat.

“I'm not hungry,” Harry tried again.

“*Pretend*,” Hermione hissed. “And don't you three think about leaving either.”

Ten minutes later, they were the only people still in the Great Hall, and Harry began to picture
House Elves waiting impatiently for them to leave so that they could clean up. “Er, Hermione…” he
began, and then yelped as her foot connected with his knee under the table.

“We're not moving,” she said, with gritted teeth, then plastered a fake smile to her face.
“Would you like some more treacle tart, Harry?” she added, in an unnecessarily loud voice.

“No, I don't,” said Harry, feeling his voice rise. Hermione shushed at him, and he took a
deep breath, preparing to ask very loudly why she was acting so oddly, when Susan Bones drifted
into the room. She nodded at Hermione, who dropped her bowl instantly. “Right,” she said briskly.
“Get up, you lot.” Hauling on Ginny's arm, and leaving Harry to move Ron along, she headed over
to Susan, who stood in the mouth of a large corridor. Harry got the distinct impression that she
was looking around to see if other students had noticed their strange behaviour, but the Hall was
empty.

Susan led them down the wide, low corridor to the kitchens. Harry had been this way before,
several times, generally to find Dobby, but he had no idea as to why Susan was taking them this way
now. Did she think that the house-elves would let them use the kitchen?

There was a soft clicking noise in the distance, but Harry thought that the corridor seemed
strangely deserted, although he could not understand why. The noise grew louder, and turning a
corridor he found himself nearly tripping over Hannah Abbott and a group of young Hufflepuffs, who
were spread out for a good distance along the floor, playing quiet games of gobstones. Harry
suddenly realised why the silence of the corridors had bothered him - he knew that the way to the
kitchens led past the Hufflepuff Common Room, and the corridor should have been quite busy of an
evening, with students wandering to and fro, off to the library, for instance. Five years of
listening to the Fat Lady complain that students were always on the wrong side of the door made him
think that the other Houses couldn't be that different - and yet, there was still the silence.
Gobstones was a popular game among younger students, and even in the Gryffindor Common Room is was
often accompanied by loud squeals and laughter as students were squirted with the sticky liquid
inside the stones. Here, however, they were abnormally calm, and Hannah was looking up at him from
the floor, her round blonde face carefully neutral. She seemed to evince no surprise at seeing them
there.

Susan crouched next to her. “Everything alright?” she said softly, and Hannah nodded.

“Go on through,” she said. “We're alright here. We'll let you know if anything
happens.”

“Thanks,” said Susan, rising from the floor. “It should be fairly quiet though, I think.” Noting
the confusion on the faces of Harry, Ron and Ginny (Luna could never be persuaded to look confused
about *anything*) and the excited expression from Hermione, she tilted her head slightly,
indicating that they should keep following her. Harry and Ron shot each other puzzled looks, and
Ron shrugged his shoulders in confusion. Together they picked their way along through the students,
being careful not to knock any of the gobstones out of position and disrupt any of the games. The
young Hufflepuffs didn't even look at them - it was if they were refusing to as much as
acknowledge their existence, and it made Harry feel like he had walked into a very strange
dream.

Moving around another corner, Susan stopped in front of an old painting of a round, bald little
man. He looked at them and raised an eyebrow, removing a pipe from his mouth. “It's been a long
time since this has happened,” he said soberly.

“It has,” said Susan.

“And you're sure about this?” said the portrait. “It's no mean thing you're doing,
here.”

“We have all agreed, sir,” answered Susan politely, and the portrait gave her a long, close
stare.

“Aye, that's what the other one said. Very well then.” He turned towards Harry and the
others, and a wellspring of good humour appeared as he smiled. Harry could not help but smile back.
The portrait sobered a little, and nodded gravely at them. “Welcome, Gryffindors. Welcome,
Ravenclaw. It has been too long since we saw you last.”

And then it swung back, and opened the way into the Hufflepuff Common Room.

Next to Harry, Ron's mouth had dropped open like a stunned fish. “Harry!” he hissed, trying
not to move his lips. “D'you know what this *means*?”

“Yeah,” said Harry softly, in awe. “I think I might.” Susan had clambered into the portrait
hole, and he waved Ginny and Hermione in after her. Ginny went first, bowing to the portrait at she
went past. Hermione followed suit, and it beamed at them. Taking a deep breath, Harry went in after
them. He had no idea what to expect. It was a tradition, time out of mind, that each House was
sacrosanct grounds for its students - no others would be permitted into the private spaces of each
House. Harry had never seen anyone other than a Gryffindor in the Gryffindor Common Room - indeed,
the Fat Lady would never even have let them in, even if they did have the pass-word. In Harry's
third year, Sirius Black had been able to enter the Gryffindor tower, as he had found Neville's
dropped list of pass-words - but only because he was a Gryffindor and the Fat Lady had recognised
him as such. In Harry's second year, he and Ron had gotten a glimpse of the Slytherin Common
Room, but only because they had been polyjuiced to look like Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy had provided
the password. Harry knew that teachers were exempt from this stricture, but he also knew that they
would only have presumed to trespass in case of emergency. Even Snape wouldn't use his power to
go into Gryffindor Tower unless he had absolutely no other choice.

And yet the Hufflepuff portrait had let them in, and Harry had no idea *why*. He didn't
even know *how*.

And as he clambered out of the portrait hole, he was surprised to find the Common Room was
nearly empty. Apart from the group that had come with him, the only other person in the Hufflepuff
Common Room was Ernie MacMillan, standing at the fireplace, and he had his back turned to them, and
was staring at the fire. Susan went over to him and touched his hand and he squeezed it gently,
turning to smile at her. Harry looked away in slight embarrassment, and studied the room in order
to have some place else to look.

His first impression was of comfort - a large room in a warm shade of yellow, with plenty of
soft chairs and cushions, with a bookcase lining one wall. He could almost feel Hermione's
desire to go and investigate it. He couldn't help but notice that the room was a little shabby.
It wasn't as if Gryffindor was the tidiest bunch about, as Harry well knew. There were times
when their Common Room looked as if it had exploded. But the untidiness was only temporary, as when
he came down each morning it was shining and clean, with a smell of polish wafting up from the
wooden arms of the chairs. Somehow, the Hufflepuff Common Room, while not dirty (or even that
messy), looked more lived in. It was a comfortable feeling, and Harry decided that, while
Gryffindor Tower would always be his favourite, the Hufflepuff Common Room was very nice too.

There was a muffled squeak beside him, and he looked down to see Ginny's eyes fill with
tears. Stifling a sigh, he patted her on the back, and followed the direction of her gaze. She was
staring over in the direction of the fireplace, and the first thing that Harry noticed was an
enormous portrait, hanging over the mantle. It looked ancient, and was of a middle aged lady of no
particular beauty, but with an open, welcoming expression on her face. Harry surmised at once that
it must have been Helga Hufflepuff, but he couldn't see why that would have made Ginny react
the way that she did. Then, for a moment, he forgot all about her in his own reaction - for on one
side of the mantelpiece, in a silver frame, obviously in pride of place, was a photograph of Cedric
Diggory. He was laughing, and waved to Harry behind the glass. Harry felt his heart stop for a
minute, before Cedric gestured to his right, obviously trying to direct attention away from
himself. Puzzled, Harry followed the line of the mantelpiece with his eyes, and stifled a gasp of
his own. He squeezed Ginny's arm again, to comfort her, but a quick glance showed, that, while
there were still tears in her eyes, she was smiling. And Ron was gazing at it as if it was the only
thing holding him upright.

For on the other side of the mantelpiece, balancing the photograph of Cedric Diggory, was
another photo. It was obviously a new addition, a familiar blurred copy torn from a badly printed
news-sheet, and it was only tacked onto the wall above the mantel. Yet it was still recognisably,
obviously, Bill Weasley, and the insulting headline had been ripped off.

Ernie MacMillan came up to him, offered his hand. His Prefect badge shone in the firelight.
Harry shook it eagerly, grateful for the impact on his friends. “Ernie,” he said, “what's going
on here?”

“I'll hold off on that until everyone gets here, if you don't mind,” said Ernie.
“It'll just be easier explaining it all once.” He gave Harry a quick smile. “Don't worry,
it shouldn't be long.”

And only a few minutes later, the portrait hole opened again, admitting Justin Finch-Fletchley,
who was leading Neville Longbottom, and a seventh year Hufflepuff Prefect, that Harry only knew by
sight, accompanying Remus Lupin. The Prefect ushered the Professor in, and then disappeared out of
the portrait again. A short time later, he returned with Dobby, who was clearly confused, and
extremely uncomfortable. His face cleared a little as he saw Harry, who greeted him warmly. This
didn't seem to reassure the little elf very much, however, and he slunk to a corner of the
room, obviously trying to keep out of the way and not disturb anyone. Harry noticed him eyeing the
bookcase disapprovingly, and running one long, bony finger along it, as if checking for dust.
Beside him, Harry heard Ernie sigh in exasperation.

“We've told you before,” he said firmly, but in a kind tone. “We don't need you coming
to clean up after us. In fact, we'd prefer you didn't.” Hermione's head swivelled
around alarmingly fast, and beamed at Ernie. Ron, noticing her reaction, rolled his eyes, and Harry
stifled a grin.

“If Dobby could just…” whined the house-elf.

“*No*,” said Ernie.

“Dobby, you haven't been brought here to clean,” said Hermione, in a cheerful tone. She
leaned towards Ernie. “Do you really not let them do it?” she said.

“We prefer to do it ourselves,” said Ernie, shrugging. “Of course, it's not up to the same
standard as the house-elves could achieve, but we prefer it this way.”

Hermione beamed at him again, and reached over to nudge Ron. “You know,” she started, “we
could-”

“Forget it,” said Ron. He was about to add more, when the fireplace burst into flame, and Fred
and George stepped into the room. They looked around with amazement, and then stopped abruptly as
Fred tapped George's arm, and silently motioned George in the direction of Bill's
photograph.

“Well,” Ernie said suddenly, in a louder voice. “That's it then. I'm sorry we
couldn't get Hagrid,” he said, turning to Harry, “but, well, we don't actually know where
he is at the moment.” He looked around at the others. “I expect you're wondering what
you're all doing here.”

“I know that I am,” said Harry. “Why here, Ernie? And why us?”

Ernie shot him a surprised look. “Aren't these the people you said you trusted?”

Hermione interrupted suddenly, “It was my fault, Harry,” she said. “I was asking Susan if she
knew of a place where people could talk - a private place. We couldn't use the Gryffindor
Common Room, because Luna wouldn't be able to come, and well… frankly, I wasn't sure people
could be trusted to keep their mouths shut and let us be. And we couldn't use the Room of
Requirement, as Malfoy knows about that now, which means the other Slytherins do too, and that
means that, well… I don't know if they'd be able to get in or not, but they'd certainly
be aware of what was happening if we all started disappearing on a regular basis, and the Room of
Requirement is the first place that they'd look. We were lucky to get away with it earlier,”
she said, and Harry knew that she referred to the evening that she, Harry and Neville had spent
there. He repressed a shudder - Neville had asked for someplace that was safe, where they
wouldn't be interrupted, but Harry didn't relish the thought of anyone knowing that they
were there. The last year had proved to him how unsafe that room could be, and he was a bit
embarrassed that he hadn't considered it earlier. Of course, the three of them had all been
upset at the time, but that wasn't a good enough excuse. He couldn't count on being lucky
forever. He tuned back into Hermione. “And Susan said…”

“I said,” Susan broke in, “that if push came to shove I thought you could come here. And then I
went to talk to Ernie and Hannah, and the other Prefects.”

“I don't understand,” said Harry.

Behind him, Lupin let out a long breath. “I think I do,” he said softly.

“Please,” said Ernie, a trifle pompously, gesturing at the chairs, “feel free to take a seat.”
As the others rearranged themselves amongst the armchairs (Dobby had to be practically ordered by
Harry to do so), he remained standing. He looked around at them all, a trifle awkwardly. “I know
that people think we're a bunch of duffers,” he said.

“Oh, they don't,” said Ginny immediately, and Ernie and Susan snickered. The seventh-year
Prefect was standing silently beside the portrait hole, out of earshot and almost, Harry thought,
as if he were standing guard.

“Yes they do,” said Ernie. “We hear it every year on the train, coming to Hogwarts. Even the
first years, who haven't been sorted yet, are hoping for some other House than this.”

“Well, nearly all of them are,” said Susan, with a small, secret smile. Ron was sitting in the
armchair next to hers, and Harry saw his face redden in the firelight. He had a sudden recollection
of his own first year journey to Hogwarts, sitting on the train with a small red-headed boy who was
desperately hoping that Hufflepuff wouldn't be *his* House.

“They just don't know any better,” said Harry uncomfortably, for want of something to say.
The truth was, as much as he had admired Cedric; Harry did tend to think of Hufflepuff as the least
interesting of the Houses.

Ernie drew himself up impressively. “I feel bad having to ask this of you, but I have
responsibilities to my House,” he said. “Before I go any further, I would like your word that what
I say here tonight goes no further. You can discuss it here as long as you like, but please
don't tell anyone else, or talk about it together outside of this room. It's terribly
important to us, you see, and it will wreck everything if it gets out.”

“I promise,” said Harry, puzzled, and heard everyone else echo him. Even Fred and George were
unusually sober.

“How do you think we're sorted into Hufflepuff?” Ernie asked, and beside him Harry heard
Lupin give a small, self-satisfied grunt. From the look on his face, Harry realised that Lupin had
come to understand where this line of reasoning was going. *He ought to*, he thought, *he
used it on me over the holidays.*

“I don't mean to be rude,” said Susan, her eyes sparkling with humour, “but I imagine that
if you thought about it at all, you thought that Hufflepuff took whatever was left over. The brave
were sorted into Gryffindor, the clever into Ravenclaw, the-”

“Evil gits into Slytherin,” Fred interrupted, smirking.

“Not quite what I was going to say, but you get my point,” said Susan. “And Hufflepuff gets
whatever's left over, and they slap a pretty name on it to say that we're the hard workers,
or some such.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Not true, that,” said Ernie. “Su here, she might not be as clever as your Hermione, but
she's certainly clever enough to have been in Ravenclaw, had she wanted to be. And Cedric…”

“No-one can say he wasn't brave,” said Harry, remembering. “He would have made a wonderful
Gryffindor.”

“*If he had chosen to be?*” said Lupin, and Ernie grinned.

“Exactly my point. The Sorting Hat doesn't sort the leftovers of the other Houses into
Hufflepuff - the *only* students who are sorted into Hufflepuff are the students who ask to be
put there. If you don't ask, you get sorted into one of the other Houses.”

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Look,” he said, “I don't mean to be rude or
anything-”

“He's going to be rude,” said George.

Ron glared at him. “It's just that… er… why…”

“Why would we want to be in Hufflepuff so much?” said Ernie. “D'you think it might possible
that we really *do* value fair play and decency and hard work over everything else? That
it's important enough to us that we don't care if we're in the House that no-one else
wants to be in? We know how much a student wants to be in this House, because when they get to
Hogwarts they've got no idea which House they'll be in, and no idea that if they put on the
Sorting Hat and pray for Hufflepuff that Hufflepuff is what they'll get. They only find that
out after they've joined. The fact that they didn't know beforehand makes them have to
really want to be in Hufflepuff because they believe in our values, not because they know people in
here or because they don't want to go into the other Houses. I know it probably sounds strange
that the Sorting Hat will actually listen to what a student wants, but-”

“It doesn't sound strange to me,” said Harry. “But I don't understand why you would let
us in here - or how you could persuade the portrait to,” he finished, trying to ignore the very
smug look on Lupin's face.

“We took a vote,” said Ernie bluntly. “Got the whole House together and Susan explained the
situation. We knew if you needed a place where you were absolutely certain no-one could find you,
then it had to be important. So some of us suggested that you could come here, and we took a
vote.”

“And that was all it took?” said Harry. “Didn't the portrait object?”

“Everyone agreed,” said Ernie, looking proud. “No exceptions. It's our House - we don't
need anything more.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes,” said Ernie. “You can use it as long as you like - we'll all clear out of the way for
you. No Hufflepuff will come in or out until we say they can - there are still some in the
dormitories,” he said, looking at Fred and George “but they don't have any of your Extendable
Ears, and they've given their word that they won't listen in. In fact, as far as Hufflepuff
is concerned, you were never here.”

Harry remembered the somewhat vacant expression of the students in the corridor, and how they
had refused to look at him or acknowledge his presence. “Hannah…” he said.

“She's just making sure no one tries to be nosy,” supplied Ernie. “Not that we don't
trust our own House-mates, of course, but we're not the only ones here. I hope you noticed that
Slytherin has their weekly Quidditch practice tonight, so their attention is directed elsewhere at
the moment. Helpful if you need to come again - we can give you the use of this room on the same
night, every week, if you need it.”

Harry was overwhelmed. “Why?” he asked simply.

“Some of us felt bad,” Justin interrupted. “After what happened in second year.” He looked
embarrassed. “We shouldn't have listened when people said you were the Heir of Slytherin. This
seemed like a way to make it up.”

“They're gullible,” Lupin whispered, just loud enough for Harry to hear him. “But they
don't stay gullible forever.”

Justin looked at Harry sheepishly. “We want to help,” he said. “There's not much that we can
do, with the war and all, but we could do this. It seemed like the decent thing.”

But Harry barely heard him - he had focussed on Lupin's words, the words that his teacher
had spoken to him earlier that summer, about the characters of the different Houses. He had indeed
said that the Hufflepuffs were gullible, that they would give fair hearing to people who didn't
deserve it - but that they didn't stay gullible forever. He had also said other things…

*Once they trust you, they tend to trust you forever…**. you told me that* *no witch
or wizard had turned bad that wasn't from Slytherin. That is an unfounded legend. We ourselves
know an exception to that case, and believe me, Harry they do exist in all the Houses, excepting,
strangely enough, Hufflepuff**…*

And Harry remembered Cedric, who had thrown away glory for fair play, and who had prized decency
above all else. He remembered the disaster of fifth year, where no-one had believed him when he
said that Voldemort had returned - or almost no-one. He remembered a girl with radish earrings
publicly embarrassing him with her show of support, and feeling that embarrassment fade when a boy
from Hufflepuff stood by both him and Dumbledore and made the laughing stop.

He looked up at the picture over the fire, of the woman who had said “*I'll teach the lot,
and treat them just the same*,” and he remembered that this was the only House that had never
betrayed their world to Voldemort.

He looked around the shabby Common Room, the Room that wasn't cleaned by house elves, that
had the picture of the traitor Bill Weasley over the mantle, and that only had students who ignored
ridicule to choose to be there.

He realised that he was probably standing in the best place in Hogwarts, in the heart of
decency, and the embodiment of what he had to fight for against Voldemort.

And then he made his decision.

“Can you get Hannah in here, please?” he asked the seventh year Prefect by the door, who
promptly volunteered to take her place in the guard outside. While the Prefect scrambled through
the portrait hole, Harry indicated to Ernie, Justin, and Susan that they should take a seat. They
were quite willing to leave him to his privacy, he realised, which convinced him all the more that
they should stay. Then he made a beeline for Ron.

“You're going to have to hear it with everyone else,” he said. “I'm sorry, I really am.
I tried to tell you earlier, but…”

Hannah clambered through the portrait hole, her blonde plaits swinging. She shut it carefully
behind her.

“Right,” said Harry. “About this Prophecy…”

-->



23. Chapter 23
--------------



Chapter Twenty-Three.

“I don't think-” said Harry, but he was interrupted before he could go any further.

“Shush,” said Susan Bones severely, turning back into the huddle that she made with Hermione and
Luna.

Harry opened his mouth in irritation, to try and continue what he was about to say, but thought
better of it. The three girls were only paying him marginal attention right now, but he knew that
he only had a few moments before they started up again, and he was unlikely to have another break
for quite some time. He sank back in his armchair, relishing the comfort and playing idly with the
tattered piping on the arm. The Hufflepuff Common Room was warm and cosy, and ordinarily would have
put him to sleep, but tonight, with his friends around him, still reeling from his revelation about
the Prophecy, he couldn't have felt more awake.

Harry only wished that he could have a few minutes to spend alone with Ron. The other boy had
left not longer after Harry had finished speaking, with a set, angry look on his face, and Harry
winced in remembrance. He wished that he had taken Hermione's advice and let Ron in on it
sooner, but the situation was difficult, and he had only refrained because Ron had asked him to. He
sighed heavily. They were going to have to talk tonight, and it *wasn't* going to be
pleasant, but hopefully Ron had had some time to cool off, at least. Harry had tried to go after
him, but had been prevented by Hermione, who had shoved him rather unfeelingly back in his chair.
Then the Inquisition began.

It had gone on for about an hour, although no-one seemed to be getting tired of it. Harry
thought grumpily that he even saw a few glimmers of amusement in the eyes of Fred and George, who
were off to one side with Lupin, talking quietly. He had heard snatches of conversation from
between the three that seemed to revolve about *Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes* and its
products. Harry thought that it was a rather frivolous topic all things considered, but he had
never had time to figure out what was going on. Still, he didn't think that Lupin would be
taking part if he didn't have some idea behind it. Ginny, Neville, and the other Hufflepuffs
(saving Susan) were in a small group in front of the fire, chatting quietly amongst themselves and
drinking tea. Harry was relieved to see that Ginny was showing more life than she had since the
news of Bill's defection. Dobby, on the other hand, while listening closely, kept sneaking off
to the bookshelf and trying to dust it with his tea-towel toga - at least when Ernie couldn't
see him do it.

That just left Harry, with the other three girls huddling in front of him. He had to admit, they
were bloody scary. After shoving him into the chair, it has only taken a few minutes before the
Inquisition, as Harry had privately termed it, began. He might have been a Gryffindor, but he
wasn't brave enough to state it publicly - it wouldn't have gone down well. In his desire
to ease the tension, he had made a few joking comments, but the scowls he had gotten from Hermione
and Susan, and even Luna's look of mild exasperation, had stopped him in his tracks.

The three girls were questioning Harry on every aspect of his dealing with Voldemort and
Dumbledore over the past five years. They didn't seem to have any particular plan, or any
special goal in mind, and the questions ranged from penetrating to what Harry thought were faintly
silly. He had tried to explain things on his own, but was constantly being hushed and derailed into
other topics, and the matching foul looks he received when doing anything other than providing
prompt, relevant answers were faintly chastening. He thought that even Snape might have been
impressed. It would have made him far grumpier, he knew, had he not had a lot of respect for their
intelligence. They were plainly cleverer than he was, albeit in different ways. Even Hermione was
looking at Luna with respect, although her questions were often the most left field. Occasionally
they would pause, and huddle together, and Harry would hear frantic whispering as they argued over
what tack to take next, and whether or not he had said anything particularly fruitful. Then as one
they turned back to him, and he unconsciously straightened in his chair, shooting a quick glare at
Fred and George, who weren't bothering to hide their smirks.

“You say that Voldemort has the same wand as you do?” Hermione queried.

Harry nodded grimly. Apparently they were back to the whole Goblet of Fire debacle, and that was
something that he wasn't pleased to remember. “That's how they got sort of stuck together,”
he said.

“I wonder if that's always going to happen,” Susan said meditatively, and Harry could do
nothing but shrug.

“I suppose so. It wasn't as if-”

“Did you expect anything like that to happen?” Susan over-rode him. “You don't think you
could have influenced it somehow?”

“No,” said Harry. “It just happened. If I had known that it was going to do that, I would have…”
he trailed off. “I'm not sure exactly what I would have done.”

“Do you think you could stop it happening in future?” Hermione asked, and Harry shrugged
again.

“How would I know? And why would I want to? It turned out to be quite useful last time, you
know.”

Hermione waved at him dismissively, and turned to Susan. Harry was a bit irked at being shut
out, but he quickly began to feel more uncomfortable than annoyed, as Luna was staring at him
mildly, chewing on a strand of her hair. She didn't appear to blink, and just gazed at him as
if he was some faintly interesting specimen from Care of Magical Creatures, staked out on a board
for the class to look at. He shifted in his chair, and forced himself to look away.

“Maybe that's something we could look up,” Hermione was saying, in a low tone.

“I'll add it to the list,” said Susan. “We can draft in the juniors, they don't need to
know why they're looking for information on similar wands, after all.” She turned back to
Harry, and looked a trifle uneasy herself. “I don't suppose you know if Voldemort is still
using the same wand?” she said.

“How on earth would I know?” Harry replied.

“You do get some funny feelings when it comes to him,” said Hermione, a trifle nervously,
gesturing a bit foolishly at his scar.

“It hurts when he gets really happy or really upset,” said Harry shortly. “Not when he goes
bloody shopping.”

“Alright, alright,” said Hermione hastily. “It was just a thought.”

*Not a very good one*, Harry thought privately. “Besides,” he said, relenting a little,
“Why would he give up his own wand? You just kind of get used to it…” he ended lamely.

“He might not have to give it up,” Susan said thoughtfully. “Just have a spare. So that if
he's fighting you, and his wand won't do what he wants, he can just, well…”

“Whip out the other one and knock me off with that?” Harry finished for her, and Susan looked
relieved that her point had gotten across without her having to finish spelling it out for him.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Thanks,” Harry commented dryly. “That makes me a feel a lot better, it really does.”

“I bet Dumbledore didn't feel better,” said Luna dreamily.

“What?” said Harry, turning back to her. He noticed that she was still gazing at him vaguely,
and he fought the urge to shift in his seat.

“It can't have been very nice for him,” Luna went on.

“So what,” interrupted Harry shortly. “It wasn't very nice for me either, getting myself
sliced up so that Voldemort could resurrect himself with my blood.”

“I wonder if he kept any,” Luna went on, almost happily. “You can do all sorts of things with
bits of people, you know. You didn't give him any bits of hair or fingernails, did you? You
remember my troll, Boris? I'm almost sure it's not fake hair coming out of his head, you
know. I expect Dumbledore must have been quite unhappy that you didn't maintain bodily
integrity.”

Harry just gaped at her, feeling more disturbed at that point that he could remember being for
quite some time. He noticed that Ginny and Hannah, who were on the floor in front of the fireplace
a few metres behind Luna, had expressions of identical disgust on their faces. Hermione and Susan
just looked a bit interested, however. Suddenly Harry felt even more like a lab animal, being poked
at to see how he would react.

“It wasn't exactly my choice, you know!” he burst out, rather resentfully. “And I never
*gave* anyone anything. As far as I know, they took the blood and that's it. And
Dumbledore wasn't upset, if anything he looked happy about it!”

The atmosphere of the room sharpened, and everyone seemed to sit up a bit straighter and stare a
bit harder.

“*Really*,” said Hermione interestedly. “Happy how, exactly?”

Harry deflated a little. “I don't know,” he said in exasperation. “It wasn't really
happy, I suppose. Just like something he had wanted to happen had finally happened. Triumphant, I
suppose. He looked like I feel whenever I've caught the Snitch.”

“Did you ask him why?” said Hermione eagerly.

“I had other things to think of at the time!” Harry pointed out, glancing miserably and
automatically to the picture on the mantelpiece. “And he only looked that way for a second…”

“Fair enough,” said Hermione. She paused for a few moments, a sympathetic look on her face, and
then burst out, obviously unable to contain herself for much longer, “Did you ask him later,
then?”

“No I bloody didn't,” said Harry resentfully. “I'd forgotten about it up until now.” He
glanced at Luna.

“Nice work, Luna,” Susan said warmly, and Luna just smiled, distantly and sweetly, and hummed to
herself.

Susan leaned back towards Hermione. “I think that's another one for the list,” she said.

*

Harry looked in disgust around the empty Owlery. Ron wasn't there, and Harry didn't know
whether to be annoyed or relieved. He was annoyed because it meant that he would have to keep
looking for his friend, and Harry had been wandering about the castle for a long time. He had even
checked the greenhouses and the Quidditch Pitch, to no avail, and Hagrid's hut was locked up
tight. Harry wondered to himself, a little uncomfortably, as to why he had conscientiously avoided
checking the Owlery. He knew that he had left it until last, and he had the distinct feeling that
it wasn't because he had expected Ron to be there. He had just hoped that he wouldn't be.
It was a bit unfair, but Harry had come to see the Owlery as the place that he and Neville spent
time in. He felt slightly guilty that Neville had replaced Ron in any way, but there was a
fascination to his relationship with the other boy that he just didn't have with Ron, a “there
but for the grace of God” feeling. More and more, Neville was the one that Harry went to when he
had something he needed to get off his chest. Ron had so many sore spots that Harry was getting
tired of trying not to poke them, and he had an ingrained horror of saying *anything* that
might make Hermione cry again.

*Bugger Gryffindor bravery*, he thought. *It doesn't extend to being wept on.*

He cast one last, disgusted look around the Owlery. It was almost funny that he and Neville
seemed to be the only students who ever seemed to go there. It made Harry feel slightly resentful.
He would have given a lot to have been tired of writing to his parents.

The resentment didn't help him figure out where Ron was, though, so Harry plonked himself
heavily down on the top of the staircase, thinking. The Owlery was really the last place he had
thought to look, and he didn't have any other ideas. Briefly he cursed himself for not having
the sense to go back to his dormitory to get the Marauder's Map, but upon leaving the
Hufflepuff Common Room he had thought he would be able to find Ron easily. Now using the map would
seem like cheating. Ron was obviously trying bloody hard to not be found, and Harry thought that it
didn't seem quite honourable to use magic to find him if he couldn't figure out how to do
it on his own.

Then the penny dropped. *Ron was trying very hard not to be found*. Where was the one place
he could go where he knew Harry would never think to look for him?

Five minutes later, Harry skidded into the Library

Madam Pince glared at him, and he winced, ducking behind one of the bookshelves to avoid the
foul looks she was sending in his direction, and trying to look like an upright student while doing
so. He plucked a random book of the shelf and flipped it open, doing his best to look like he had a
good reason to be in there. He knew that the grumpy librarian was perfectly capable of throwing him
out if she thought that he wasn't there to study. Madam Pince's idea of the perfect library
was one that didn't have any students in it.

He sneaked through the rows of shelves, looking furtively in all the corners, and
absent-mindedly flicking through the pages of his book. On one page a beaming picture caught his
eye, and he was momentarily disgusted to find himself reading a volume on the love life of Gilderoy
Lockhart, with associated magical hair spells. Not wanting to be seen dead with it (bad as his hair
was, there was no way he was going to try and make it look like Lockhart's) Harry shoved it
back on the nearest shelf, and rounded the last bookcase.

Ron was sitting at the furthest table, nearly hidden behind a stack of astronomy books that
Harry was quite certain that he wasn't reading. The scowl on Ron's face was quite apparent,
and he wasn't turning any pages. Harry realised that like himself, Ron was using the books as a
reason to stay in the Library and not be bothered. He shifted on his feet awkwardly, wanting to go
up to his friend and not knowing what to say.

*I'm sorry that I didn't tell you I'm due to be murdered* certainly wasn't
a very cheerful opening gambit.

“I know you're there, Harry,” said Ron in a low voice, with heavy sarcasm.

“Er… right,” said Harry. He sidled up to the table. “Look, I know what you must be
thinking…”

“I don't think that you have a bloody clue about what I'm thinking!” said Ron, his voice
rising. Harry winced again. Ron's ears were turning red, and that was never a good sign.

“Look,” he said. “I tried to tell you. You know I did! But you didn't want to know.”

“I would have wanted to know *this!*” Ron hissed back. “No matter what else was going on,
you should have told me. You should have told me!”

“How was I supposed to know?” Harry shot back, beginning to feel supremely annoyed.

“Anyone with half a brain-” Ron began, his voice getting louder by the minute.

“Oh, anyone with half a brain!” Harry mimicked, in what he knew was an annoyingly high and
childish voice. He knew that he was being petty, but he had the sudden, uncontrollable desire to
fight with someone, and Ron was making it very easy for him not to resist. What right had he to be
angry? He wasn't the one slated for a horrible death, and Harry had only done what Ron had
asked him to do, and now he was getting a bollocking for it. He firmly pushed down the knowledge
that Hermione had told him to tell Ron, and that he himself had previously felt very guilty about
not doing so.

“Pillock!” Ron sneered, slamming shut his book.

“Whinging git!”

“I'm not the one acting like the doomed bloody hero!”

“I'm not the one acting like *Percy!*”

Harry felt a twinge of shame at the last one, knowing that it was unfair and that he had gone
too far. Ron made it easier for him to ignore that shame by promptly throwing the book at his head
as if it were a Bludger. Harry ducked just in time, and was about to throw himself over the table
in a right tantrum when the frozen look on Ron's face made him freeze himself. The next moment,
a bony, clawed finger pinched his ear in a death-defying grip, and he was dragged over to Ron
anyway, as Madam Pince snagged the other boy's ear.

“We do not throw books in the Library!” she said, in a voice as cold as Harry had ever heard.
“They are older and more valuable than either of *you*.” She propelled them through the
Library towards the door, and her grip was inescapable. Her arms were held up so high that even Ron
couldn't avoid having his ear half twisted off. Harry didn't know what was more painful -
the claws of the old bat ripping through the cartilage of his ear, or the fact that half the
Library was gaping at him like he was a Blast-Ended Skrewt, ready to blow. It didn't do much
for his temper, and he glared at Ron.

Ron glared back.

Madam Pince practically threw them through the door of the Library. “I don't care if you rip
each other's heads off!” she said. “But kindly have the decency to do it where you won't
get blood on my books!” And she slammed the door in their faces, mercifully cutting out the sight
of the gaping, sniggering hordes behind her. Through the door, Harry could hear muffled giggling,
and a final dim swearing from Madam Pince. He was momentarily distracted by the sheer amazement
that the librarian knew words that he had previously only heard from Fred and George. He
wouldn't have thought she had it in her.

His grudging moment of admiration was quickly cut off when Ron shoved him firmly into a wall,
banging his head.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Harry yelled, shoving back. But Ron was bigger and stronger
than he was, and Harry, in a red daze, resorted to kicking him sharply in the shin.

“Bloody buggery *bollocks*,” Ron swore bitterly, promptly letting Harry's collar go and
hopping painfully away down the corridor.

“Serves you right,” said Harry mutinously.

“How was I to know you'd fight like a girl?” Ron shot back, face the colour of a ripe
tomato. “Even Ginny stopped kicking shins when by the time she was eight!”

“I do not fight like a girl!” yelled Harry, growing more furious by the second.

“I do not fight like a girl!” Ron mimicked, in the same annoying way that Harry had spoken to
him just a few minutes ago. “Is that what you're going to do to Voldemort? Kick him in the
shins? Maybe you could pull his hair… after all, it's not like you're going to have anybody
there helping you, is it? *NO, OF COURSE N**OT!!* We'll all be at home,” he bellowed,
“stuffing down my Mum's strawberry ice-cream, completely *oblivious*, because you
won't have had the common sense, the guts, and the sheer bloody DECENCY to tell us what's
going on and ask for help!”

Harry gaped like a fish. There was really nothing that he could say to that that wouldn't
sound hopelessly childish. Impotent, furious, with no good comeback he decided to retreat and stand
on his dignity.

“*I do not fight like a bloody girl!*” he repeated at the top of his voice, and Ron rolled
his eyes and launched himself towards him, giving him another strong shove. Harry tried to whack
him but only managed a rather pathetic slap, and, in a fit of juvenility, Ron slapped back. For
several minutes they slapped at each other, furious and squeaking, until Harry took a swing at him
and connected, splitting Ron's lip. He then tried again, but Ron swore, and put one hand on
Harry's forehead and pushed him as far back as he could. With Ron's arms being longer than
his, Harry could no longer reach him. Scowling, he kicked out again, and Ron, once again,
crumpled.

“Serves you right for being so bloody thick,” Harry panted.

Ron laughed bitterly. “I was right from the first,” he said. “You *do* fight like a girl.
No bloke would have kicked where you did.”

Harry blanched suddenly, noticing that Ron was gripping himself somewhere higher up than the
shin. His anger fell away, and he awkwardly crouched down beside his friend, feeling incredibly
guilty.

“I'm sorry-” he began, and was promptly cut off by Ron's fist slamming into the side of
his face.

It was Harry's turn to swear to himself, as he clutched his eye. He glared at Ron balefully
through his one good eye, as the other boy got to his feet, having promptly stopped clutching at
himself.

“You *faker*,” he hissed, and Ron shrugged.

“Serves you right for being so bloody thick,” he shot back mockingly. “And for the record, you
*did* kick me where no self-respecting bloke would think to kick another bloke - in the
sodding shin. *Twice*. I hope to Merlin you're not this gullible when it comes to
Voldemort...”

Harry gaped soundlessly as the other boy chuntered on, then his face split into a painful
grin.

“What?” said Ron, clearly still annoyed.

“You said his name,” said Harry. “Voldemort. You said his name. That's the first time…”

“Yeah, well.” Ron looked at him sourly, but the corner of his mouth twitched up. “We can't
all be wusses. One girl fighting is bad enough - and I didn't mean Hermione.”

“I do not fight like a girl,” Harry repeated for the second time, but there was no heat in
it.

“And I'm a crumpled horned Snorkack,” Ron muttered. He reached out to give Harry another
shove, but there wasn't much strength in it, and Harry shoved gently back.

“Git,” he said.

“*Girl*,” Ron shot back.

“Hey,” Harry pointed out, grinning, “You might want to reconsider, you know. It wasn't just
me in that slapfight…” Suddenly, despite the pain in his eye, which was rapidly swelling shut,
things seemed very, very funny.

Ron shot him a look of genuine horror. “Fine,” he said. “*Git*.” He shot a look around the
corridor. “You don't think anyone saw that, did you?”

“I really, really hope not,” Harry said, and in mutual, silent agreement they scarpered back in
the direction of Gryffindor Tower, moving as fast as they could without it looking like they were
running. Harry was unwilling to attract any more attention to either of them. He had a sick feeling
that they'd both managed to make right fools of themselves, and he fervently hoped that no-one
had been around to see it.

They stopped outside the Pink Lady to straighten their robes, and she clucked disapprovingly at
them. Ron looked a fright, and Harry knew he didn't look any better. He pushed Ron's hand
away from the Portrait, and Ron shot him a look.

“What is it now?” he said.

“You don't want to think of a way to explain this?” Harry asked, gesturing at Ron's lip
and his black eye.

“Nope,” said Ron. “No-one else's business.” He turned back to the portrait.

“Planning on telling that to *Hermione*, are you?” Harry hissed, and Ron froze.

“Ah,” he said, and cringed to himself. “Might be a bit tricky, that.” Harry nodded his head
fervently, and Ron rolled his eyes at him. “We could have avoided all this if you'd just
listened to her in the first place,” Ron pointed out.

“That's a bit rich coming from you,” Harry said, taking hold of Ron's robe and tugging
him a bit further down the corridor. A group of second year Gryffindors were coming up to the
portrait, and they goggled at the two boys as they went in. Harry and Ron turned away, trying to
keep their faces out of sight.

“Even I catch on eventually,” said Ron, “Although that's more than I can say for you.”

“*Alright*,” Harry grumbled. “I get the message.”

Ron just stared at him, and Harry was forced to reconsider. He knew that Ron hadn't really
been referring to Hermione, and he knew that the other boy had been truly hurt at Harry telling not
just Lupin, but Hermione and Neville about the prophecy before he had told him. It was the fact
that Neville had been told that had to hurt most, Harry knew. And he was forced to realise that Ron
was right. He could no longer go about trying to keep it all on his own shoulders, trying to spare
the people around him and keep them safe. It wasn't up to him to make their decisions for them.
They had to make them - Ron and Hermione and Neville and all the rest had to make their own
decisions, and they had to take the consequences. It wasn't up to Harry to protect them from
himself, to decide what they should and shouldn't know, and when they should be allowed to know
it. They were his friends, but he couldn't decide for them. And because they were his friends,
the one thing he truly had to do, before anything else, was to make sure that they were able to
decide, because if things were reversed, that is what he would want and expect them to do for him.
If it were Ron who was destined to fight Voldemort, Harry would have wanted to know, no matter what
else was going on in his life.

Hermione had known this, and she had urged Harry over and over to tell Ron about the Prophecy,
despite Ron's unhappiness over his brother. Neville had shown that he had understood this, as
he had stuck by Harry despite the revelation that he too could have been in Harry's place.

It was, Harry thought, really only him that hadn't known. It was odd, all things considered,
that despite Hermione's intelligence and Neville's friendship, it had really been Ron's
well-timed fist to the face that had finally made Harry understand.

“I *do* get the message,” he said quietly, and it was possibly the sincerest thing he had
ever said. “I promise you that I do, Ron.” He held out his hand. “I'm sorry. It won't
happen again.”

Ron held his gaze for a moment, his face solemn, before he reached for Harry's hand and
shook it, his grip firm and lasting. “Good, then,” he said. “That's what I wanted to hear. Why
couldn't you have saved us the bother and figured this out before?”

Harry shook his head, wordlessly.

“Six sodding years,” Ron went on, shaking his head in exasperation. “I don't bloody know…”
He reached out and clapped Harry on the shoulder, but before he could say anything else, a shriek
was heard coming from the Common Room. It sounded eerily like Hermione when they told her that they
had homework due the next day, and hadn't started it yet - a sort of long, drawn out
“*Whaaaaat?*” that rose at the end like a kettle about to boil over.

Harry had a distinct feeling that he knew what had happened, and cursed the nosiness of second
years to himself. He was sure that he had never been that annoying and tattly. Exchanging winces,
he and Ron gingerly made their way to the Portrait. It flung open just before they got there, and
Hermione's voice came out, sounding *very* annoyed. “You won't *believe* what
I've just heard…”

She looked at them through the Portrait hole, her eyes narrowing as she took in the state of
their faces. Harry could see her taking a deep breath, and she swelled ominously, in a manner
rather reminiscent of Mrs. Weasley.

“Oops,” said Ron lightly, glancing at Harry. Both looked and felt a little sheepish.

“You better have a good explanation for this!”

“It's not what it looks like, Hermione…” Harry started, but Ron cut him off.

“It's exactly what it looks like, Hermione,” he said. “But don't worry. I think he's
finally got it.” Hermione glared at Ron for a moment, and then shifted her gaze to Harry. He felt a
bit awkward standing there being surveyed, and slightly more awkward when Hermione shifted her gaze
back to Ron, somewhat softened, and nodded slightly. He had the distinct feeling that this was
something they had talked about before.

“Alright then,” she said, more cheerfully. “I suppose you'd better come in before anyone
else sees you. I'll get you a cold flannel, Harry. And Ron, if you spill blood on the carpet,
you're cleaning it up yourself!”

“Yes, Hermione,” Ron and Harry chorused meekly. They followed her through the Portrait hole, and
for the first time in a long while, Harry felt that things between him and his two best friends
were looking up.

-->



24. Chapter 24
--------------



Chapter Twenty-Four.

“Well *that's* interesting,” Harry commented lightly, as he and Ron passed a corridor,
in which Malfoy and Blaise Zabini were having a quiet but intense argument.

“That they're fighting?” said Ron dismissively. “I don't think so. Malfoy's been
asking for it from just about everyone lately. Git.” But he craned his head back as they passed,
trying to get one last glimpse. “I hope he thumps him.”

“You hope who thumps who?” said Harry. “They're as bad as each other.” He still disliked
Zabini, remembering his brief encounters with the other boy during the year. “Nasty pieces of
work.”

“I dunno,” said Ron, and he looked somewhat hesitantly at Harry. “I'm feeling a bit sorry
for him, actually. Malfoy, I mean.”

Harry gaped at him. “You've *got* to be kidding me. Sorry for Malfoy?! Ever since his
dad's broken out of Azkaban he's been worse than ever. Rubbing it in our faces-”

“Except he hasn't,” said Ron. “He did at the beginning, but he hasn't done it for weeks.
You know what I think? I reckon he's stopped bragging because he doesn't know any more than
the rest of us. I bet his dad hasn't been in touch with him at all. Still-”

“I don't believe that,” said Harry. “And it wouldn't make a difference if I did.
Malfoy's a bastard, no matter what. A chip off the old block. It's why his dad likes him so
much.”

“Still,” Ron said again, “They're not like us, you know. I mean, you know my dad? He can be
a bit embarrassing, you know? Won't ever shut up about eckeltricity. It's bad enough when
it's just the family, but when he's around other people…” Ron shuddered, and his voice
lowered. “I think he's going to actually start sending people *plugs* for a Christmas
present. But no matter how weird he is, he'd always let us know he was alright. He'd never
forget about us. Even Percy. The Malfoy's aren't like that. Blood's what's
important to them, not family.”

Harry couldn't help but feel slightly impressed that Ron would make the distinction between
the two, and it must have showed on his face, because Ron shot him a mock sour look.

“Hey, you grow up in a family of pure-bloods, and it's amazing what you hear when you've
got your ear to the door. Slag each other right off, we do.”

Harry chuckled, remembering the Black tapestry.

“Still,” Ron went on philosophically, “even if I do feel a bit sorry for him, I can't help
but see things from his dad's point of view. Merlin knows if I had a son like Malfoy, I
wouldn't want to speak to him either.”

“Probably the only thing you and Lucius can agree on,” Harry said sarcastically. “You're not
going to start being nice to Malfoy now, are you? Because I don't think my stomach could take
that.”

Ron snorted. “No fear,” he said. “I wouldn't go that far. He's not going to be pleased
at what I'm about to do to him on the Quidditch Pitch this weekend - and I can't wait to
see it. Teach the ferret that money can't beat out talent…” Ron squinted in satisfaction to
himself, and Harry realised that his friend still resented the brooms bought for the Slytherin
Quidditch team by Lucius Malfoy. Still, there wasn't something quite right about Ron's
delight at the prospect of seeing Slytherin deservedly trounced - and it wasn't because either
of them actually felt sorry for them. On the contrary, three quarters of the school took great
pleasure in seeing Slytherin House lose at *anything*.

“But Ron,” he pointed out, “we're not playing Slytherin this week. We get to play them after
Christmas, remember?” Given Ron's penchant for all things Quidditch, Harry knew that he would
have memorised the year's schedule the first night of their return to the castle at the
beginning of term, and he found it odd that his friend - whose memory was encyclopaedic when it
came to Quidditch, if nothing else (to the constant dismay of Hermione) - had forgotten. “It's
Hufflepuff playing them Saturday.”

Ron's ears reddened slightly. “Yeah, I know,” he said briefly. “Thing is, Harry,
they're, well, they're *terrible*. You know that they are. We thumped them, and
Ravenclaw will thump them, and while I'm happy to see that happen, they shouldn't have to
lose to Slytherin.”

“Are you *helping* them?” Harry asked. He didn't know whether to be amazed or amused,
and settled on being grateful that Oliver Wood wasn't around to see actions that he surely
would have perceived as being traitorous through and through.

Ron didn't look at him. “They were good when they had Cedric. He was the only one of them
who knew how to play. Now… let's just say that they could use a hand. Coaching and stuff.” He
shot Harry a sideways look. “And it's not as though I've been teaching them stuff that they
can use against us. Gryffindor's not going to suffer. I've got heaps of ideas to counteract
them but” - and here Ron's expression turned gleefully smug - “Slytherin won't.”

Ron's coaching proved to be spot-on when Hufflepuff squeaked past Slytherin by ten points,
to the great delight of three-quarters of the school. Somehow the fact of his involvement had
spread throughout the school (although Harry was distinctly unsurprised at this, having been on the
end of the Hogwarts gossip chain more than once), and despite the shrieking from the Slytherins and
a few sceptical glances from other Gryffindors (which Harry knew would die down once Gryffindor won
their next game), Harry was pleasantly surprised by the reaction that Ron was getting. Most people
were actually rather pleased that he had thought to help out another team - although admittedly,
they probably wouldn't have been so pleased if the team being ganged up on wasn't
Slytherin. Several of the teachers - most noticeably Professor Sprout - had even forebore giving
them homework the week after Hufflepuff's win, which was having a morale-boosting effect of its
own amongst students. Odd strains of “Weasley is our King” had begun floating down the school
corridors in the last couple of days before the match, and for a good week afterwards. Ron had
become distinctly more popular, and even Hermione was pleased at his efforts towards inter-House
cooperation. She beamed at him for a full week, and even managed to stop herself from commenting
sarcastically on Luna Lovegood's new hat: a monstrous chimera of a lion and badger which she
had taken great pride in wearing to the game and even - as Harry noted - one of Ron's
supposedly closed practice sessions.

It was a big concession on Hermione's part, Harry knew, as he had seen her face freeze at
first sight of the hat, and then carefully rearrange itself into something a lot more pleasant. She
had still rolled her eyes at it, but only privately to Harry afterwards, when the two of them had
shut themselves into an empty classroom to giggle over it.

“It's simply *hideous*,” Hermione had squealed, half-horrified, half-delighted.

“I'm sure Ron appreciates it,” Harry had commented, wheezing.

“It could be worse, I suppose,” said Hermione. “At least it's not orange.”

This had set Harry off again. “I dare you to suggest it to her,” he said, but Hermione had
refused point-blank.

“I will not!” she said indignantly. “Poor Luna… she'd do it and look like an absolute idiot.
You know she would!” Hermione's opinion of Luna had distinctly improved of late, especially in
the late-night study sessions that the two girls were holding with Susan Bones. Harry had tried
attending one but had just gotten lost, and now simply read what they told him too in the hope of
finding out something useful. He hadn't found anything so far, and neither had anyone else, but
it was good to see Hermione getting along so well with the other girls. She looked happier than she
had in months. He thought that it was partly because she had gotten a weight off her chest, and
partly because they and Ron weren't in some combination of disagreement - but he had to admit
that it was also possible that she was just happy to have the company of people who liked to study
as much as she did. He and Ron had never been particularly up to standard at that as far as
Hermione was concerned (something that the two boys were in no real hurry to change. Ron had
recently commented to Harry that even the thought of colour coordinated notes and categories of
subheadings was enough to put him off his dinner, and Harry was inclined to agree. He much
preferred practice to theory).

“Maybe she doesn't care if she looks like an idiot,” said Harry. “And orange *is*
Ron's favourite colour…”

“Those blasted Canyons…” Hermione grimaced, and Harry couldn't stop himself from correcting
her. Hermione had been their best friend for a long time, but he and Ron had never been able to
convert her to what they felt to be a true appreciation for Quidditch. Still, Hermione had seen his
point, and grudgingly agreed with it. The next day, Luna's horrible hybrid was seen in the
halls of Hogwarts in a bright pumpkin shade.

Ron, both Harry and Hermione noticed, had flushed but pretended not to pay any attention.
Hermione was fairly sure that he was just too embarrassed to want to deal with it, but neither she
nor Harry were truly convinced. It wouldn't have taken a Blast-Ended Skrewt to realise that
Luna had something of a crush on their friend, and Harry, unaccountably, was beginning to support
the idea. He didn't care to examine his own motivations too closely on the matter, though.

They had decided to have their celebration on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day proper. For
one thing, it wouldn't feel the same without Ron and their other Gryffindor friends, who were
prepared to put off their trip home until late that night. For another, Harry didn't feel
particularly cheerful at the thought of spending what would no doubt be a painfully proper
Christmas dinner with the teachers, and the few other students who were remaining at Hogwarts over
the holiday. It was something that he had done before and actually enjoyed, but the thought of
making small talk with Dumbledore while pretending that nothing had changed between them made his
stomach churn. Also, he was rather worried about Hermione. It would be the first Christmas for her
without her parents, and the day itself would be hard - especially with McGonagall and the other
teachers hovering over her like kindly ghouls.

Mr and Mrs Weasley had invited them both to stay at the Burrow, as they did every year, but
Dumbledore had proved reluctant to let Harry leave the castle, and Hermione would not be convinced
to leave him behind. Ron was very unhappy about having to do so, but a letter from his father had
pointed out to him that his mother would be finding Christmas hard enough without Bill or Percy
(“even Charlie is coming, and you know that it's a long way from Romania”), and he felt as if
he had to go home. Mrs Weasley had not been very impressed at the thought of Harry and Hermione
left at the castle - she had already sent a large hamper to them, to tide them over, and a stack of
presents for them - but the continuing minor raids by Death Eaters had prompted her to bow, very
ungraciously, to Dumbledore's judgement.

All in all, given the strain Harry expected to occur throughout Christmas Day, they had decided
to celebrate on Christmas Eve instead. With only a handful of them, they had first thought to go to
Hogsmeade to celebrate, until Ginny rather sadly pointed out that she and Ron still did not have
permission to leave school grounds. All the common rooms were in chaos as students prepared to
leave, so eventually Ron decided that the Room of Requirement was their best option. It wasn't
as if they were going to do anything secret, he pointed out, so it didn't matter if anyone knew
where they were. Also, this way Luna, Susan, and anyone else interested could come. Ginny had
insisted on bringing Dean Thomas, which made Ron roll his eyes in disgust, and they were all
determined not to mention the fact that Seamus was unlikely to make it.

“Bugger him,” said Katie Bell succinctly, both before and after a good dose of Harry's
contraband Firewhiskey. “He'd only get in the way, what with all that sulking.” Along with a
wireless, she had sneaked in a Snitch, and trying to catch it (without brooms) as it flitted around
the room had proven to be a fun game. Luna, unexpectedly, was most successful - she managed to
catch it three times without really trying, as she seemed to spend more time gazing at Ron than at
the Snitch itself. Hermione, face flushed with effort, had nudged Harry in the ribs at the sight of
her. Harry almost found it amusing, especially as he thought that Ron didn't seem to know quite
what to do with all the attention. He seemed to be gluing himself to Hermione's side, whether
to fend off the blonde girl or for other reasons Harry was unsure - and he found he didn't like
it, but refused to dwell on it. Obscurely, he found himself suddenly grateful that he had gotten
her a normal present this time round, something that would draw no attention to either of them.

After all, Hermione was quite adept at handling herself. She was not particularly adept, it
turned out, at dancing, although remembering her quite creditable performance at the Yule Ball,
Harry was inclined to suspect that she had had slightly more Firewhiskey than was good for her, as
he laughed at her attempts to teach Neville and Ginny to “Do the Hippogriff”. He couldn't deny,
however, that it was nice to see her happy for a change, and quietly congratulated himself on his
pre-Christmas Christmas party.

Eventually Hermione was puffed out, and came to sit by Harry in the window seat. Ron had gone to
follow her, but had been pulled back into the dancers by Ginny, who had teasingly informed him
that, sister or not, he was going to do the decent brotherly thing and let her stomp all over his
feet. It became a game between them, seeing who could crush the other's toes most often, and
soon a laughing, cheering circle formed around them.

Hermione was fanning herself gratefully with the cold air, and tugged at the window, which
didn't seem to open. “D'you think they're fake, Harry?” she asked. “I can never make
out just where this room is - whether it is next to one of the outside walls or not.”

“Let me have a go,” Harry offered, and shoved firmly at the sash. It stuck fast for a second,
and then scraped up a couple of inches. Idly, he thought that the house-elves could stand to use
some grease on it, but he wasn't silly enough to say that out loud. Cold air seeped in, filling
the recess, and Hermione fanned herself gratefully. The room was extremely warm, and there were
small beads of sweat on her collarbone. Harry found himself staring at them, a little
light-headed.

It must be the Firewhiskey, he thought to himself, and quickly looked away, half-horrified at
his own thoughts. He could feel his cheeks flush, and quickly turned his face to the window. “It
was just a little stuck,” he said, vaguely noting the condensation on the glass, which reminded him
inescapably of what he had just seen. Cursing inwardly, he pulled his gaze back to Hermione - to
her *face*, he quickly reminded himself. “I guess I'm a little hot, too,” he muttered,
hoping that would excuse the colour of his own cheeks. To his amazement, Hermione's cheeks were
even pinker, and he suddenly wondered if he was the only one who was blushing.

*I hope she didn't see me stare at her*, Harry thought uncomfortably, his heart
pounding. And then, *Why would you even do a thing like that to begin with?*

“It's a wonderful party,” Hermione blurted suddenly, and then seemed to cringe slightly at
her own stilted outburst. Her confusion seemed to mirror his own, and oddly enough, it didn't
make Harry feel any better - just more nervous. “I mean…” Hermione's voice faltered slightly
and dropped, and Harry had to lean in to hear her better. “It's just, tomorrow's going to
be so strange, and I know that you wanted to try and make it better, and I appreciate it, I really
do, and it's nice to have someone who knows how it feels, I suppose, but, oh,
*Harry*!”

“Breathe, Hermione,” he joked weakly, and felt himself relax a little when she took in a
comically large breath. He could feel her exhalation, and it was *so* *close*, and he
suddenly, desperately wanted to make her happy, to touch her...

The kiss was light, a bare brushing of lips, and it surprised them both. Harry could hear, over
the beating of his heart, a soft sound of exclamation from her throat, and a faint pressure as she
leaned, ever so slightly, into his mouth for the briefest of moments. It seemed over before it
began, and Harry found himself staring at her - he was suddenly, belatedly afraid that he was
gaping like an idiot. His only, brief consolation was that he wasn't the only one gaping like
he'd just been hit with a Bubble-headed charm. Hermione was staring at him in shock, and
suddenly shot to her feet, glancing around her quickly, seeming half in panic.

It brought Harry to his senses, and he immediately looked at the others. Of all the places to
kiss someone! Luckily, it seemed that no-one had noticed, as the sound of the music and the
laughing of the circle of their friends washed over him in a rush. Hermione squeaked, and stumbled
over to the group, all the time hesitating and looking back at him and then turning away again.

Harry knew precisely how she felt. This was something that he hadn't expected to happen, and
he had no idea how to deal with it. Hermione was his best friend… how would this change things
between them? Would it? Did he even want it to?

Drawing in deep gulps of cold air, he turned to the window to hide his confusion and try and
settle his expression before returning to the party. What he saw jolted him back to reality. Far
below, a small group of familiar redheaded people, laden with baggage, were disembarking from a
carriage like the ones students arrived in every year, complete with Thestral. Harry immediately
realised that the Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had brought their family to Hogwarts for Christmas, come to
make sure that he didn't have to spend another one alone. He felt a sudden burst of gratitude
to them, for their willingness to take him into their family without reservation.

It seemed that the window was real, after all.

* * *

Although Harry, clad in a new green jumper (“Why does it always have to be *me* that gets
maroon?” Ron had groaned) felt himself to be buoyed by the presence of the Weasley family over
Christmas dinner (it stopped him from having to so obviously avoid making conversation with
Dumbledore), the expected awkwardness between him and the headmaster had merely been transferred to
Hermione. She had obviously been reluctant to sit by him at dinner, but the others had seated
themselves so fast that her only other choice was the seat next to Mrs. Weasley, and Hermione had
quickly plonked herself down next to Harry, staring fixedly at her plate. He knew that as confused
as she was around him (Harry was sure he was equally confused) Mrs. Weasley's well-meant
mothering would do nothing but remind Hermione of the mother that she no longer had.

Hermione was very quiet over the first course, simply refusing to look up from her plate, and
giving quiet monosyllabic answers to Mr. Weasley, who was sitting across from her and watching her
with sympathy that he was trying not to express. Harry noticed with gratitude that Mr. Weasley was
rambling on enough to her that it looked like she couldn't get a word in edgewise when in fact
no response was required, and his wife, although shooting anxious looks in Hermione's
direction, saw her husband talking with the “poor dear” and thus didn't feel it necessary to
overwhelm her with kindness. McGonagall was equally concerned, and halfway through the meal turfed
Fred out of his chair, taking the seat on the other side of Hermione on the pretext of dicussing
schoolwork and books. Hermione promptly perked up, and began to show some animation. Harry
wondered, a trifle grumpily but also partly relieved, whether or not the fact that she had to turn
her back to him to talk to their teacher was making the prospect of rehashing the fourteenth Goblin
War of 1777 more attractive.

Either way, it let him listen to Ron, who had thankfully started on Quidditch. Harry could
listen to him, and offer his own opinions, while being able to (mostly) ignore the pit in his
stomach at the thought of the girl next to him.

What had possessed him? It had become abundantly clear that Ron had his own feelings for
Hermione, despite his reaction to Luna. Harry wasn't stupid. He had noticed that Ron had been
overprotective of their best friend for years now, and he had a disturbing tendency to jealousy
around her. Until now, however, the thought of them developing a deeper relationship didn't
seem quite real. Now he was confronted with the possibility that Hermione might one day have a
relationship where he was not her primary object, and the thought was oddly disturbing.

Harry sighed. *Ron was going to kill him.* And from the looks that Mrs. Weasley was
shooting to him and Ginny, he wasn't going to be the only one. Harry was grateful that Ginny
seemed to be sturdily ignoring her mother's less than subtle hints (mistletoe was popping out
of odd places at embarrassing times, and Harry was sure that no one else but Mrs. Weasley would
hide it in the trifle - at least, he was sure after seeing the reactions of the twins finding it in
their bowls and giving each other a disgusted look). In fact, Ginny's only reaction was to talk
even louder to George about Dean Thomas. Harry devoutly hoped that her mother would get the hint.
Now that Ginny had gotten over her crush on him (he still cringed at the thought of `fresh-pickled
toads') and had begun to act as, Ron put her, “her usual annoying self” she was actually quite
pleasant to be around, and Harry liked spending time with her. However, she was still Ron's
little sister, and by extension his own. He didn't want to get involved with her.

He shook his head to himself again. “What?” said Ron, clearly noticing. “You think the Cannons
can't beat them?”

“That's not it,” said Harry automatically, and then internally cursed himself for not taking
the out when it was offered to him. He cast about, and settled on waving haplessly at the trifle.
“It's just that I, uh, think I swallowed some mistletoe.” He made a face, and Ron nodded in
understanding.

“She's gone completely barmy,” he said, under his breath. He nodded over at Ginny. “I'm
sure she's started wedding plans already.” Ron shot him a jaundiced look. “I hope you like
roses.”

Harry blanched, and tried to hide his choking in a deep draught of pumpkin juice. Ron belted him
on the back. “It wouldn't be so bad, you know,” he said. “I know that she's my little
sister and she can be a bloody nuisance sometimes, but-”

“No,” Harry hissed, trying to keep his voice down. He couldn't believe that Ron was doing
this to him now, over Christmas dinner of all things. He desperately hoped Hermione couldn't
hear this, but the set of her shoulders was slightly more tense than it had been all evening (and
that was saying something), and he rather suspected that she could.

“You'd be family,” Ron pointed out reasonably, and Harry couldn't help but remember the
train ride home at the end of fifth year, when Ron had encouraged his sister to choose someone
“better”. His eyes had flickered to Harry as he said it, though the other boy hadn't thought
anything about it at the time.

“*No*”, he said again, slightly more forcefully, and shot a weak smile at Mrs. Weasley, who
was glancing curiously in his direction. She had apparently noticed their discussion, but his smile
(fake as it felt) seemed to mollify her, and her attention shifted back to Dumbledore.

“What's wrong with her?” Ron asked, looking slightly offended. “She's not ugly. No
spots. Nose in the centre of her face, and all that. Plays Quidditch. What more could you
want?”

“Not interested, Ron,” Harry ground out in a pleasant tone, trying to convey with his eyes what
he couldn't with his voice at a table full of relatives of the girl he was, by proxy, turning
down. His glare seemed to get the message through, as Ron subsided slightly, with a look that was
clearly unconvinced. Harry couldn't help but wonder if Ron's desire to pair him off with
Ginny was genuine, or related to the fact that it cleared the way for Ron to get involved with
Hermione. In fact, Harry couldn't help but wonder if his own motives for not wanting to get
entangled with Ginny were all that dissimilar. He floundered, not wanting to give Ron cause for any
suspicion. He liked them all being on good terms again, too much to upset the apple-cart.

“Look,” he said eventually, hoping that Ron would take the hint and drop any idea of matching
Harry up with his sister, “I'm just not interested in going out with anyone now, you know?
Given, well, you know… I don't want to string anyone along, or put them in danger.” For a
moment, Harry felt quite proud of himself. He knew that Ron's brotherly instincts would go
along with anything that kept Ginny out of the way of Voldemort, even if she was only marginally
less capable than himself. But his moment of pride was truly only momentary, as Harry realised that
he had fallen into a new trap. The effect of his little speech was not what he intended.

The effects of this were two-fold, and he had only foreseen one of them. Ron did indeed nod his
head in resignation, and Harry was fairly confident that he would drop the matter, and privately
resolved to be more cautious about not doing anything that would bring it up again in future. On
the other hand, or more accurately, his other side, he felt Hermione stiffen even more than
ever.

Harry came to the inescapable conclusion that she had heard his and Ron's conversation. And
more than likely, that she also thought it applied to her - if she didn't go away with the
impression that something might have happened with Ginny under different circumstances. Harry
barely stifled a groan, and clamped his hands in his lap to prevent himself from covering his face
in horror.

What on earth had possessed him?

And why was he feeling guilty about it? It's not as if he wanted to get involved with
Hermione, after all, he told himself feverishly. One kiss didn't mean anything, surely? But the
stiffness of her back as she conversed with McGonagall let Harry know in no uncertain terms that
even if she was just as confused as he was, he had managed to upset her.

It wouldn't do, Harry thought grumpily, cursing his inexperience with girls. *It's not
fair that I'm so hopeless at this*, he thought, remembering Cho, and scowling at Charlie as
he flirted with the two Ravenclaw girls with what looked like a decent amount of success. *All
they want to do is cry on me - when I'm not managing to piss them off*.

Confused, he applied himself to a second helping of pudding (avoiding the trifle), when he
realised that he was not the only one who had noticed Hermione's sudden freezing of demeanour.
Mrs. Weasley had apparently picked up on the drop in temperature, and, assuming the worst, had
managed, in her well-meaning manner, to get Hermione's mind off Harry's unknown defection
and onto something even worse.

“I understand how you feel, dear,” she said compassionately, reaching over the table to pat
Hermione's hand. Stiffly, Hermione withdrew it and hid it under the table, and Mrs.
Weasley's smile faltered for an instant. “With Bill and Percy, well… Christmas just doesn't
seem the same without them. It doesn't seem right when family isn't all together- Oh
Arthur, *really*!”

For Mr. Weasley had managed to knock his flagon of beer all over the table, dousing the fruit
salad. Harry suspected that he had done it deliberately, although Mr. Weasley was being suitably
contrite. “So sorry, Molly, terribly clumsy of me. Perhaps you could help me mop it up?” And he
shot a worried look at Harry, while Mrs. Weasley tried to find her wand and rescue the remains of
the dessert.

Hermione was - again - staring blankly at her plate, and this time she was not even pretending
to pay much attention to McGonagall, who seemed unsure of what to say herself. Ron, having noticed
nothing, was chuntering away beside him, having given up on the topic of Ginny and having returned
to Quidditch. Harry could no longer bear it. His hand shot under the table and clamped on
Hermione's. Her fingers were wrapped tightly in the napkin in her lap, and he forced them open
before the material could rip. Hermione jumped slightly, and tried to yank her hand away, but she
was hampered by the fact that there wasn't a lot of space under the table and she couldn't
wrench herself away while being discreet.

After a few moments she gave up fighting and glared at him, her hand stiff in his. Harry,
knowing that she didn't want anyone at the table paying any attention to her at the moment,
merely returned his gaze to Ron and made as if her were listening to a blow by blow account of the
Chudley Cannons' Christmas Parade, nodding in all the right places but not really listening. He
just held on tight to Hermione's hand, and eventually her fingers relaxed in his, and then
tightened again. It felt to Harry as if she was holding on for dear life, and he wasn't about
to let go. Soon she began to talk to McGonagall again, and he could see the look of concern fade on
his teacher's face. Mr. Weasley nodded slightly at him and Harry smiled back tightly,
half-kicking himself.

What on earth had possessed him? Hadn't he just decided that it had all been a mistake?
Merlin only knew what impression he was giving to her now, and he didn't even want to think how
Ron would react. But he simply couldn't help himself…

Christmas dinner wound down without further incident, with the table cleared for mince pies and
nuts. Mrs. Weasley's attentions had been successfully diverted by some rather
*interesting* crackers provided by Fred and George, but Harry supposed that dinner with the
Weasley's wouldn't be the same without some small eruption. He rather admired the crackers,
himself, and poking at them with his free hand (somewhat gingerly, because one never knew what the
twins would spring on him) he was surprised to see his cracker bulge, with strange movements
beginning to be seen inside. A faint smell of gunpowder wafted from it, and Harry braced for the
explosion. There was a loud, sudden crash, and for a moment Harry was surprised to see the cracker
still intact, before a tug from Hermione's hand redirected his attention to the doors of the
Great Hall, which had been flung open.

A large, snowy shape lumbered in, and Harry automatically half-rose from his seat, alarmed. Then
the hood was thrown back, ice crackling, and a familiar face appeared.

“Hagrid!” he exclaimed, happily.

“Afternoon, all,” said Hagrid, beaming. “I don' suppose there's any chance o' Ron
there havin' left us somethin' to eat?” Fang appeared around his legs, barking joyously,
and Harry's cracker exploded in his face, showering him with pink, snapping feathers. Hermione
laughed up at him, and still hidden by the table, he felt her fingers squeeze his.

Harry's expectations for Christmas Day suddenly got a lot brighter.

-->



25. Chapter 25
--------------



Chapter Twenty-Five.

After a Christmas dinner that turned out to be far more cheerful than Harry had anticipated, and
a snowball fight in the grounds that Fred and George handily won (thanks to a charm that let them
use a snowball like a Bludger), Harry, Hermione, Ron, and most of the Weasley family retired to the
Gryffindor Common Room. Fred, George, and Charlie had received permission to stay the night there
(as it was the holidays there were plenty of empty beds) while Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were apparently
accommodated elsewhere.

Thanks to the twins, who had managed to wander back down to the kitchens while everyone else was
changing into dryer clothes after the snowball fight (the mutant snowballs resisted Hermione's
drying charm), they spent a noisy, food-filled evening completely ignoring Voldemort and anything
to do with him. By tacit agreement, neither Bill nor Percy were mentioned either, so as not to
bring sadness into the occasion.

Still, despite the good cheer, Harry couldn't help but be aware that Hermione was trying to
stay out of his way. She wasn't doing it particularly well - *subtlety had never been her
strong suit*, he thought in amusement. He had hoped that the struggle under the table at
Christmas dinner had put paid to that particular little problem, but he realised now that he was
being naïve. They were going to have to talk about it, and Harry was definitely in two minds about
that. On the one hand, he wasn't silly enough to think that it would be easy. He always seemed
to trip over his tongue when it came to girls. Most of the time all they seemed to want to do was
cry on him. But he wasn't prepared to spend the next term, or however long it was going to be,
in some extended state of awkwardness. He had enough to worry about without adding that on top of
it. It seemed that Hermione hadn't yet come to the same conclusion, which made him feel a
little bit better in that he had found something where he could be cleverer than her, and he
wasn't inclined to wait around until she caught him up.

If she wasn't going to face it, he was going to have to do it for them. And drag her along
with him.

He just hoped she wouldn't *cry*.

Catching her hand briefly as the group headed off to bed, he whispered “Can you come back down
in a few minutes? I think we need to talk.”

Hermione looked unconvinced. “I don't know, Harry,” she said, in a tone that was far too
bright. “I'm really rather tired at the moment…”

“Then I'll come down early in the morning and wait for you, and we can go for a walk,” Harry
offered immediately. “Look, I'm sorry, Hermione, but I'm not going to go around pretending
this didn't happen. I've got enough on my plate. This isn't going to go away, so you
might as well deal with it.”

She gave him a look, half-offended, half-pleading, and for one moment Harry felt like an
absolute bastard, but forced himself to go on with the one thing that he knew would get her
attention.

“I can always talk to Ron about it, if I can't talk to you,” he said, knowing that he was
playing dirty, and Hermione glared at him.

“*Alright*,” she snapped, under her breath, and made towards the stairs. “But it'll
have to wait a bit longer. Ginny's sleeping in my room tonight, and I'll have to wait until
she's asleep.”

“Fair enough,” said Harry, realising that he would have to do the same for Ron. Without another
word, he climbed up the staircase to his dormitory, and changed into his pyjamas, listening to Ron
mumble on happily about his present from Charlie - a signed Quidditch bat from the Slovakian team
(Charlie had spent a long weekend there recently on a break from his dragon-handling duties). Fred
and George, the beaters of the family, were disgusted that it hadn't gone to one of them, but
“I only have one,” Charlie had said, grinning, “and you know how you always complain if someone
makes you share a present.”

“Of course they're near the bottom of the European League,” said Ron happily, his voice
furry with tiredness. “But that new coach is going to put them right, and I think they've got a
real shot against Finland next month…”

A few minutes later he was snoring.

“Goodnight, Ron,” said Harry, under his breath, and slid quietly from his bed, wrapping his
dressing gown around him and searching for his slippers. Even with fires lit in the Common Room and
dormitories, it was still the middle of winter and the castle could get rather cold. He fussed with
the tie on his dressing gown for a few moments, and then gave himself a mental slap.

*It's not going to get any easier just standing here*, he thought. *You were the one
that pushed for this, so might as well get it over with.*

He tiptoed down the stairs and into the Common Room, and settled into an armchair by the fire.
It was nearly half an hour before Hermione came down, and she looked harassed.

“Sorry I'm late,” she said, “but I've just had to listen to Ginny go on and on about
Dean for the past forty minutes. It's really not pleasant. I tried to make her think that I was
asleep but I don't think she cared - she just likes the sound of her own voice.” Hermione's
tone took on a high-pitched, saccharine quality. “He's so *tall*, don't you think, all
dark and *handsome*…” She looked at Harry in disgust. “Doesn't it make you want to
vomit?”

“I think it's kind of sweet,” said Harry.

“You would,” Hermione replied scathingly. “As long as she's not drooling over *you* you
don't care who she's whittering on about.”

“That's not true,” Harry said hotly. “I'd have something to say about it if she was
going on about Malfoy, for instance. But Dean's a good bloke. Besides, you're changing the
subject.”

“I wasn't aware that we were *on* any subject, Harry,” said Hermione with dignity,
although her cheeks were turning pink. He gave her a glare, and she visibly wilted. “Oh, all
*right*. But what do you want me to say?”

“I don't know,” said Harry in sudden consternation. He felt a bit foolish, and as if he
should have expected something like this to happen.

“You were the one who insisted on this,” said Hermione glacially, voicing his own thoughts.
Harry was about to make a rather impolite reply when he noticed that her hands were wedged into a
tight grip on her dressing gown. It appeared that she was as nervous and as upset about the whole
thing as he was, and, oddly enough, it made him feel better. It made his irritation die down, and
he opened and shut his mouth a few times. *Oh, just get on with it*, he thought in sudden
disgust. *You're supposed to be a bloody Gryffindor, aren't you?*

“I thought it was a mistake,” he said abruptly. Hermione's mouth dropped open, and her
expression, after a few stunned moments, seemed to Harry to be equal parts relief, hurt, and
sadness. He could have kicked himself for not coming up with a better opening line - any more like
that and he was going to make her cry!

“That didn't quite come out the way that I meant it,” he said, stumbling over the words in
his hurry to get them out. “Look, I'm not good at this. Let's just agree to that and move
on, shall we? I didn't mean for it to happen. I'm sorry if you hate me!”

“I don't hate you, Harry,” said Hermione slowly. “I'm just… I don't know…”

“Surprised? Confused? Quietly freaking out and hoping not to get a Howler from Mrs. Weasley, or
page time in the *Daily Prophet*?” Harry quipped nervously. The palms of his hands were damp,
but he held them in as relaxed a position as he possibly could, trying not to seem as nervous as
she was. He was relieved to see Hermione's hands relax a little on her dressing gown, and hear
a small attempt at a laugh. *That* *was better*, he thought. *Now try not to act like
an idiot!*

“How about all of the above,” she said.

A further wave of relief swept through Harry, and it must have shown on his face.

“There's no need to look so happy about it,” said Hermione, frowning slightly.

“I'm just glad it's not just me,” Harry blurted, then cringed. Of all the times not to
keep his mouth shut! But Hermione looked more relaxed than before, and he supposed that he
wasn't the only one relieved to be in the same boat. Taking a deep breath, he tried again.

“I didn't mean for it to happen,” he said slowly, “and today at lunch, I was thinking that
it would be better if it never happened again. It's just… complicated,” he trailed off lamely,
not able to bring himself to look at her. “But then I started wondering if it really was…”

“It definitely is,” Hermione interrupted him, nodding. He knew that they were both thinking
about Ron - and Voldemort, of course.

“Could you not do that, please,” said Harry quickly. “Interrupt, I mean. I'm trying to do
this right and you're not helping.” He gave her a quick glare, and turning even pinker,
Hermione promptly shut up. “Ah. Alright then. I, ah… you're my best friend, Hermione, and I
don't wan to lose that, but - I can't deal with this at the moment. It's too much. I
can't concentrate on Voldemort while trying to keep a girlfriend happy.”

“I'm not Cho, Harry,” Hermione pointed out briskly. Her face was still pink. “Don't tell
me not to interrupt, this is important. I know what you're up against - she didn't. I
don't need to be entertained, or coddled. She did - don't forget the poor girl was dealing
with Cedric's death at the time.” Harry winced, and she shot him an apologetic look. “Sorry. It
wasn't your fault, Harry - but it wasn't hers either.”

“Yeah. I suppose.” Harry never liked to be reminded of Cedric - a boy not so very much older
than him, who had lost any chance at a future, thanks to Voldemort. The memory of Mr. Diggory's
anguished cries over his son's body was something that Harry would never forget. Eventually,
however, he became consciousness of another realisation.

“D'you mean you'd be willing to try?” he said, hesitantly. Hermione had, after all, just
given him to understand that she was in a better position than Cho to cope with the difficulties of
being involved with the Boy Who Lived.

Hermione's cheeks immediately flooded scarlet. “Um,” she said hesitantly. “I don't know.
Maybe?”

Harry gaped at her for a moment, floored, before being overwhelmed by a sudden gust of
uproarious laughter. Hermione glared at him, her face turning harder. “Keep it down!” she whispered
violently at him. Harry thought she was about to sock him with a pillow, she looked so enraged. He
tried to gulp down his laughter, and gave a small sweep of his hand towards her.

“I'm sorry,” he wheezed. “I am. But we're so *pathetic* at this - could it get any
worse?”

Hermione's mouth began to twitch, and Harry was relieved to see her drop the pillow onto the
floor. “I guess not,” she said. Her hair, Harry had to admit, was a horribly tangled mess, her face
was shiny from being rigorously scrubbed, and she was wearing what had to be the most hideous
dressing gown know to man. With pink fluffy rabbit slippers. And yet…

“You're pretty,” he said, without thinking. “You're pretty and my best friend and I
think I might like to do this - but I still can't. It's just too much.”

Then he shot bolt upright.

“Please don't cry!”

“I'm not crying” wailed Hermione, as quietly as she could manage - but Harry could swear
there were big fat tears rolling down her cheeks, and cringed inwardly. After a few minutes in
which he sat glued to his chair, frozen in position for fear of doing anything to set her off
again, Hermione improved to sniffles.

“I actually agree with you,” she said, almost normally, and Harry's jaw dropped open again.
“*Honestly*, Harry. You're going to have to fight Voldemort sooner than either of us would
like. You have to train, and study, and, and…”

“Not spending all my time snogging by the lake?” said Harry, and there was a little twinge of
regret in his voice. Hermione beamed at him.

“Exactly.”

“I know,” he sighed - the decided to push his luck. “But afterwards? Hermione…?” And felt his
heart jump in his chest when she smiled at him, shyly.

“After would be nice.”

Suddenly he was grinning like an idiot, and stumbling over to her, tripping over the pillow, and
cracking his knee on a side table. “Ouch.” Hermione giggled at him, and he had to clear his throat
before he could get his voice to work properly again.

“I don't suppose we could have a test run? Just this once…” he said. “You know, make sure it
wasn't the Firewhiskey?”

It wasn't the Firewhiskey.

* * *

Hagrid continued to stolidly chew on one of his rock cakes, breaking off a great chunk and
chucking it to Fang. Harry looked at Ron and Hermione doubtfully. Hagrid had never ignored them
before. He tugged on his arm, and spoke a little louder - and was promptly knocked onto his
backside when the half-giant turned, swinging out one arm in surprise.

There was a moment of silence, before Harry was pulled to his feet. Hagrid looked mortified, and
was dusting him off with his great shovels of hands, nearly knocking him back to the floor
again.

“I am sorry, Harry,” he said, giving him one last buffet. “I didn't see you three
there.”

“How you could have missed Ron's bellowing at the door I don't know,” Hermione
commented, rolling her eyes in amusement at Ron's scowl. At Hagrid's guilty expression, she
sobered. “Is everything alright, Hagrid?” she asked.

“Of fine, fine,” said Hagrid dismissively, waving his hand. “It's just I had a wee bit of an
argument with one o' the other giants, you see. She caught me a great wallop on the side of the
head, and I'm afraid my hearing hasn't quite come right yet.” He swivelled round to the
side. “Better make sure you speak into this ear from now on,” he said. “Rock cake?”

They took one each to be polite, and Hermione even nibbled on hers politely. *It was alright
for her*, Harry thought, staring a bit distractedly at her mouth. *With dentists for parents
she**'s got* *teeth like steel gates.* He was a bit afraid of eating Hagrid's
cooking at the best of times, so settled for trying to crumble it in his hand in hope that he could
slip some under the table to the dog. “We want to know how you got on with the Giants.”

Hagrid started to mutter a protest, but it wavered out under three pairs of gimlet eyes. “I
don' know how you three get all your information, I really don'”, he said gruffly, but
there was an undercurrent of amusement in his voice.

“We're very clever,” said Ron, straight-faced.

“Lupin told us,” Hermione said fairly. “Well, he told Harry, anyway. Did you go with Madame
Maxime? Did you have a nice time?”

“Did you leave Grawp behind?” said Ron, under his breath. There was a hopeful look on his
face.

“Never mind all that,” said Harry, trying not to laugh. Hermione made a small face at him, but
Harry was much more inclined to agree with Ron on the subject. Grawp made him distinctly uneasy,
and was almost completely out of control. He wasn't too thrilled with the idea of being roped,
once again, into English lessons. “Did you manage to convince any of them that Dumbledore was
right?

“Well, to tell yer the truth, Harry,” said Hagrid, “I don' think they were too impressed.
Most of them seemed to think that they'd be better off under You-Know-Who. I tried to tell
them, but…” He trailed off, staring hard at Harry. “You don't seem to be too surprised, if yer
don' mind my saying so.”

“Oh, it's becoming a habit,” said Harry, in an offhand a manner as he could muster. “Giants,
Centaurs, Goblins… I'm getting quite used to it. I don't suppose there's much you could
have done to stop it, Hagrid. These things happen, after all.” He wondered if he was being just a
bit too flip in brushing it off in this way, but truthfully, Harry hadn't expected anything
else, and Harry was in a good mood at present. The Giants were always going to be distinctly
unhelpful, and the fact that there were none in Britain (apart from Hagrid and Grawp, of course,
and Madame Maxime when she was on a break) meant that even if they had agreed, it was going to be
difficult to use them. He supposed that was Voldemort's problem now - as was organising them at
all. Even the greatest Dark Wizard of all time was going to have a problem getting a group of
Giants to do his bidding (they were strongly resistant to any sort of magic), and Harry, while
disappointed that yet another possible ally had gone down the tubes, wasn't sorry to have to
give up the prospect of dealing with this particular batch. The Centaurs and Goblins at least could
be reasoned with.

Hagrid looked at him suspiciously, and Harry decided to gnaw on his rock cake, trying to look as
innocent as possible. After a long moment, Hagrid's shoulders slumped. “Ah well,” he said,
`that's as good a way as any of lookin' at it, I suppose. Still, I'm sorry I
couldn't bring yer' any more help, Harry. A kid like you shouldn't have to do it on his
own…”

“I'm not on my own,” Harry said, and felt a distinct shiver of pleasure at the words,
because he knew that they were true. “I've got a lot of people helping me. There's you, and
Ron and Hermione, and a lot of people you don't know yet…”

“And Grawp,” said Ron, under his breath, in a distinctly unconvinced tone. He pasted a smile on
his face at Hagrid's glance in his direction. “He'll be a load of help, he will! Just make
sure to get Hermione to ask whenever you want something done, Harry,” he smirked, and narrowly
missed the swipe she sent to the back of his head. “Got to be faster than that,” he said
cheerfully.

“One day I'll hex you when you're not looking,” snapped Hermione, but she was smiling
nonetheless.

“Promises, promises,” said Ron airily, and Harry couldn't help but grin. He remembered
briefly how he had felt when discovering the fact that the other species weren't lining up to
help him, and the sick, empty feeling it had left in the pit of his stomach. He didn't have
that now. *Friends ma**k**e all the difference*, he thought - the knowledge that
even now there were people standing with him and working for him (the memory of the Hufflepuffs
setting off for their Christmas holidays, laden down with what Hermione had called “a little light
reading” - she had made the lists of what needed to be researched, and Susan had parcelled the
books out according to interest and ability, as she knew her fellow Hufflepuffs better than the
other girls did) made it difficult for him to feel hopeless about anything. Even the youngest
Hufflepuffs had their books to read, as Luna had carefully picked out the easiest topics and the
simplest books for the youngest readers. The look of pride on their small faces had warmed
Harry's heart, and he had made sure to stop and thank each of them personally - behind closed
doors, of course.

“It'll be alright, Hagrid,” he said. “You did your best, that's all that anyone can ask.
You can't blame them really - things have just gone too far.”

“Yer say that now,” said Hagrid grimly, “but I think yer'll find them goin' a lot
further in the future.”

There was a slight pause. Then, “Cheers, Hagrid,” said Ron. “Really makes us feel better, that
does.”

Hagrid just looked miserable.

“He's right, though,” said Hermione hurriedly, obviously trying to smooth things over and
make Hagrid feel better. She shot an exasperated look at Ron and Harry, who shot a quick
*what-did-I-do?* look back at her. Her face softened slightly, before she turned back to the
half-giant. “Hagrid, Harry's right - you shouldn't blame yourself, you've done your
best. But - and don't take this the wrong way, I don't mean to imply that you didn't do
it well enough - but are you *sure* that the other Giants realised what they were risking by
not helping us? It's not like Voldemort won't turn on them once he gets the chance. Once he
doesn't need them anymore.”

*Once we're all dead* echoed silently through the hut.

“They're all like that, though, aren't they?” said Ron, in a surprisingly reasonable
tone, Harry thought. The business with Bill had seen Ron's opinion of his fellow magical
creatures do a slow but steady turn-around. Although Harry thought it was dreadful of him to find
the situation a little bit funny, he couldn't help but have a private laugh over the fact that
Bill had accomplished in a very few moves what Hermione had not been able to get to sink in with
several years of nagging about SPEW. It wasn't really surprising, Harry thought, given the near
hero-worship that Ron had always had for his oldest brother. He knew how much their friend valued
Hermione, but even Harry had to admit that she wasn't cool like Bill was. At least, he amended
silently to himself, not cool in the same way. He didn't think that Ron wanted to grow up to be
like an older version of Hermione, for example.

“I mean, think about it,” Ron was continuing on. “Goblins, Giants, Centaurs, all that lot - I
don't mean it like that, Hermione, so stop giving me that look - they're all being a bit
thick, really. Every time we ask them to help us, they don't, and alright, maybe I'm
getting to understand *why* they don't, but they're not helping themselves at the same
time either. Do they expect that we'll do all the work for them?”

“I think they're hoping that they'll be the only ones left standing, Ron,” Hermione
pointed out loftily, and her tone was a trifle snide. Ron reddened slightly, but opened his mouth
to carry on, when Harry interrupted him.

“No, he's got a point,” Harry said, and both Ron and Hermione stared at him in surprise. “I
mean, Hermione's right when she says that they're probably hoping for us all to lose so
that they can win - if that makes any sense - but I think…” he trailed off slightly, trying to
catch the train of thought that had rushed through his brain at Ron's words.

“I mean,” he said slowly, “do we *know* that they're expecting the other sides to help
us? Not the wizards and witches, but - do the Goblins think that the Centaurs will help us? Do the
Werewolves expect the House-elves to? We've been going along thinking about how they're
dealing with us, but *how are they dealing with each other?*”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and Hermione fell back in her chair, looking ashamed. “I
didn't even *think* of that,” she half-wailed. “I'm so sorry, Harry! I've just
been spending so much time thinking about how they might help you, that I-”

“Didn't see the bigger picture?” Ron chimed in, a little smugly. Harry kept out of it,
thinking that Ron had earned that one.

Hermione shot him a glance, her cheeks turning pink. “I *am* sorry, Ron. It was a good idea
of yours, it was. Really clever.”

Ron seemed to swell with pride in front of her. “Well,” he said magnanimously, “I suppose I
could have put it a bit better. Can't expect you to know what I'm thinking all the time
now, can I?”

“I expect not,” said Hermione primly, and Harry stifled a grin. He was almost certain she was
trying not to laugh and insult their friend again.

He turned to Hagrid. “D'you know anything about this? Have any of the other races tried to
contact you at all?”

“It's not exactly somethin' I splash around, Harry,” Hagrid replied. “Bein'
half-giant isn't exactly fit for company, if yer know what I mean.”

“We know, Hagrid, we do,” said Hermione feelingly, coming over to squeeze his arm. “But ever
since that *horrible* woman…” she seemed to inflate with rage, and couldn't go on.

“She means Rita Skeeter,” Ron pointed out. He winked at Hermione. “Just because you can't
read minds doesn't mean that I can't.” He turned back to Hagrid, poker-faced. “There's
some sort of grudge there. I wouldn't get in the way if I were you.”

“*Honestly*, Ronald,” Hermione began, but Harry cut her off.

“We know that Rita Skeeter plastered it all over the *Daily Prophet*, Hagrid,” he said. “We
were there, remember?”

“Evil cow,” Hermione muttered under her breath, but just loud enough to be heard.

“Yeah, she is,” Harry agreed, “but that's not the point.” He looked back at Hagrid. “Have
you heard anything from any of the other species? D'you know if they've been talking to
each other?”

“No,” said Hagrid, suddenly looking a bit brighter. “I don'. But I reckon I could find out
for yer, Harry.”

-->



26. Chapter 26
--------------



Chapter Twenty Six.

There was a murmur of delight around the common room. Even those who Harry would have thought
had no chance of getting selected were excited. The students had been warned at the beginning of
the year that the usual work placement for sixth year students was in danger of being cancelled,
due to the dangerous times. It seemed, however, that Dumbledore was allowing it to go ahead, under
very limited circumstances. Of course, the usual placement restriction applied - it was usually a
privilege reserved for the best students, the ones who would reflect well on Hogwarts. (It was why
Harry didn't remember Fred or George having gone. Intelligent as they were, even a Headmaster
as lax as Dumbledore wouldn't have wanted them representing Hogwarts in any sort of official
capacity, as the best of studenthood. And he had never paid much attention to Percy, although he
assumed he had gone, and Ron confirmed it for him.)

“Dad got him a place at the Ministry for a few weeks, pushing paper,” Ron whispered scornfully,
trying to keep out of the way of McGonagall's beady eye, though Harry didn't know why. She
had obviously realised that there was no hope of strict attention from anyone other than Hermione,
who was looking both excited at the news and annoyed at the surrounding distraction. Harry and Ron
couldn't help but exchange an amused glance as they noticed her very visibly restrain herself
from rolling her eyes at Lavender Brown's excited squeak:

“Ooh, could I go to *Witch Weekly*, Professor McGonagall? They've got an astrology
column which is just fantastic, and I've been working really hard this year with Professor
Trelawney…”

The exchanged glance became two smothered chuckles when McGonagall didn't restrain herself
at all, her reaction nearly identical to Hermione's, and the younger witch suddenly looked
supremely smug.

“Of all the stupid places to want to go,” she whispered to Harry and Ron scornfully, temporarily
abandoning her pose of respectful attention. “She's probably more interested in getting free
shampoo samples…”

“She'll probably get them,” said Ron. “You know what Trelawney's like. Any sign of
interest and she's all over you, poor old bat. She'll sign Lavender's form like a
shot.” For a moment he looked a little envious, clearly wondering which teacher would sponsor him.
McGonagall had told them that they anyone wishing to take advantage of this opportunity would have
to get a recommendation from their most relevant teacher, and that their behaviour had better be
good, because the recommendations weren't going to be given out lightly.

“Many sixth years won't get them at all,” she advised. “It happens each year, so try not to
be disappointed if it happens to you.”

At this Hermione *did* roll her eyes. “Honestly!” she said. “How could we *not* be?”
Like Ron, she was looking a trifle jealous of Lavender, proof positive that she also believed that
Trelawney would sponsor the other girl. Considering Hermione's opinion of the Divination
teacher, though, Harry thought, she wouldn't put anything past her - even if Lavender was
clearly the silliest girl in the whole of Gryffindor Tower.

“Don't look so worried,” he said, nudging her. “There isn't a teacher in the whole of
Hogwarts who wouldn't sign off on you.”

“Except Trelawney,” prompted Ron cheerfully. “And probably Snape.”

“Thank-you, Ronald,” said Hermione, a trifle frostily, and Ron, noticing the danger signals,
hurried to change the subject.

“So where are you going to try for?” he asked.

“Auror Headquarters,” said Harry promptly, then abruptly kicked himself when he saw the look on
Ron's face.

There was a small moment of silence, before the other boy said heroically, in a voice that was
somehow too off-hand, “That'd suit you down to the ground, it would, and Lupin will help you. I
bet you'll do a really great job.”

“Thanks, mate,” said Harry, touched, and saw Ron's ears go pink - although he suspected that
Ron was reacting more to the sudden beam that Hermione sent his way more than anything else. “What
about you two?” he asked.

“I don't know yet,” said Hermione, looking slightly crestfallen. “It's so important,
after all. You do realise that it's like choosing a career path, don't you? A good
placement will give us all an advantage when we're interviewing for positions after our
NEWTS.”

“Bloody hell,” Hermione,” Ron said, his face returning to its normal colour. “You're not
going to start on that again, are you? It's a temporary placement, only for a bit, not a
lifetime commitment.” The look he shot Harry clearly indicated that he was afraid of being lectured
on the importance of study and future plans. Harry, remembering a certain gift of Christmas past,
specifically the most annoying homework planner on the face of the planet (he had yet to let
Hermione know that he had eventually torn it up to use as litter for Hedwig's cage, and that
Ron had long ago amused himself making spit balls from its pages to fire at Ginny) was inclined to
agree.

“Besides,” he said, trying to be helpful, “You might decide you hate it, whatever it is. At
least then you'll know soon enough to change your mind.”

It didn't garner the reaction he was hoping for, however. Hermione looked simply horrified.
“But what a waste of an opportunity!” and ran off to talk to Professor McGonagall.

“That went well,” Ron commented, and Harry shot him a look. “At least she's not bothering us
with it,” the other boy continued philosophically. “If you're not careful we'll both end up
holding lists so she can compare. “The advantages and disadvantages of being a scientific
experiment for the Department of Magical Medical Testing. Pro: multiple colour changes and all the
pain killers you can swallow. Con: possible painful and permanent death.” Oh Harry, *Harry*,
which shall I choose?” he mimicked.

“Shut up, Ron,” said Harry but he was grinning (and very grateful that she couldn't hear
him, being enmeshed in what looked like a three-way conversation between her, McGonagall, and
Neville Longbottom). “I bet she's got some ideas, and that's more than what I've heard
from you.”

“Don't have anything yet,” said Ron gloomily, but then his face lit up. “D'you suppose
the Cannons need any help?”

Harry didn't like to say, but having seen the latest results of their away game in the most
recent edition of *The Daily Prophet*, he thought that the Chudley Cannons could use all the
help they could get.

* * *

After Defence Against the Dark Arts, Harry stayed behind to try to get Lupin to sign his form.
He hoped that his teacher wasn't going to refuse on the grounds that it was too dangerous for
Harry to be off the school grounds, but he had to try, at least. For a moment, it looked pretty
hopeless, as when Lupin saw him hanging behind, clutching his form, he rolled his eyes and sank
back heavily into his chair.

“I've got a feeling that I know what this is about,” he said neutrally, holding out his
hand. Harry passed him the piece of parchment and shifted from foot to foot while Lupin read it,
trying to dredge up a good enough argument to convince him to sign it. He was fairly certain that
McGonagall would have done it for him, as the only good thing Umbridge had ever done, to
Harry's mind, was to motivate the Gryffindor Head to give him all the help he needed to become
an Auror, but McGonagall taught Transfiguration. He might as well apply for an internship to train
security trolls with a stunningly good recommendation of his ability to prune a fanged
geranium.

Given Harry's belief that no teacher would willingly let him out of their sight - let alone
off school grounds on anything like a regular basis - he was surprised to see Lupin sign the
parchment without a murmur.

`Oh! Um… thanks…” he said, a trifle sceptically, and Lupin quirked an eyebrow at him. Harry
could have sworn that his teacher was smothering a grin.

“Didn't expect that, did you?” said Lupin, rather sensibly.

“Not really,” said Harry, deciding to be perfectly honest. “I thought you'd tell me that it
was a mistake. You know, too dangerous…”

“You considered that before asking, though, I take it?” said Lupin.

“Of course!” said Harry, a trifle indignantly. It still made him feel stupid, admitting that he
was in the position to be the great wizarding hero of his generation, but whether he liked it or
not (and he didn't) it seemed he was condemned that way anyway, so he wasn't about to start
taking idiotic risks that would end up leaving the way open for Voldemort. “I spoke to McGonagall,
and she said that I'd be transporting by Floo directly from Hogwarts to the Ministry, and with
the Aurors watching over that, it's not something that could be easily tampered with,
considering that the Floo Board is at the Ministry, and…” he tapered off, feeling stupid again.

“And Kingsley Shacklebolt would be standing over them making sure that they didn't dare put
a foot wrong when it came to the Boy Who Lived,” Lupin finished. There was still a tiny smirk on
his face, one that grew momentarily broader at the mention of Shacklebolt, and it made Harry feel a
bit uneasy. He had the sinking feeling that Lupin knew something that he didn't.

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “And I'd be with them all the time anyway, even when we left the
Ministry, so the risks…” he tailed off, seeing Lupin give a sudden grin. “What?” he said, a trifle
grumpily.

Lupin laughed to himself for a moment. “I'm sorry, Harry,” he said, “but didn't you
think it was a bit too easy?” He waved him to a chair, and, after briefly digging through his desk
drawers, excavated a jar of biscuits. Harry took a Ginger Newt, and leaned back comfortably. He
tended to enjoy his sessions with Lupin, as uncomfortable and as plain *annoying* as they
often were. It was rather odd, really.

“I think you may have an exaggerated view of what you'll get to be doing at the Auror
Headquarters,” said Lupin kindly. “I would suggest you talk to Kingsley Shacklebolt if you want
more information - he did his placement there as well when he was your age. Complained a lot, as I
recall. They didn't let him go out in the field at all - no student is taken out, it's just
too risky. They haven't been trained, and are more likely to get themselves into trouble than
not.”

“I've got a lot more experience than your average student,” Harry argued, but he felt his
stomach sink slightly.

“Yes, and you've *never* gotten into trouble because of it,” said Lupin,
straight-faced, and Harry was forced to laugh grudgingly, and concede the point.

“It sounds romantic, I know,” Lupin continued, “and really your biggest perk will be the effect
it has on the girls at Hogwarts. But really, Harry - if they take you, you'll be spending your
placement in the office, fetching tea for anyone who asks for it and doing an awful lot of filing.
And research.”

“*Research*,” said Harry gloomily. His visions of escorting captured prisoners to trial and
Azkaban were disintegrating in front of his face. Belatedly, he realised that with the defection of
the Dementors from Azkaban, there wouldn't *be* any guards at the wizard prison, and thus
no point escorting captured Death Eaters there. He had to admit to himself that as pleasant as his
fantasies were, they weren't very well though-out.

Lupin smiled at him. “Yes, research,” he said. “It won't kill you. It's not as if it
will be the sort of thing you're expected to do at Hogwarts. It will be things that every Auror
candidate needs to know - legal procedures, the rights of the accused, what can and can't be
done when building a case against them. The sort of stuff you'll have to pass before you
graduate from Auror training. Oh, it's not all of it, of course,” he continued, waving his hand
at Harry, whom he had noticed looking a little disillusioned. “There's lots of physical stuff
in training too - defensive spells, and that sort of thing. But you've got to have a thorough
knowledge of the way the legal system works as well. Still, if you do still want to go - and
it's not too late to change your mind and apply for another placement - you'll get a leg-up
if you still want to go to Auror training later on. Be ahead of the rest of the competition, as it
were.”

“I guess,” said Harry, but he still felt a little disappointed. “Then there'd be no chance
of me-”

“None whatsoever,” Lupin interrupted firmly. “You'll get treated the same as every other
student on placement, and if Kingsley thinks you've got other ideas he'll soon disabuse
you.”

Harry thought for a few moments. One the one hand, it wasn't nearly as exciting as he had
hoped, and remembering what Tonks had said about Bates, the fussy overseer of the Aurors, he was
fairly certain that it was going to be even more dull and irritating than he was picturing even
now. On the other hand, he'd spent an awful lot of time wanting to be treated like everyone
else - first with the Dursleys, and then with all the baggage relating to being the Boy Who Lived.
And it was undeniable that he'd have to learn the stuff anyway, so he might as well get it over
with.

*Besides*, a little voice chimed in his head, *if you tell Hermione how organised and
responsible you're being (and rub in the fact that special treatment is Wrong* *and you
don't want any**) then you might get a snog out of it.*

The thought made him feel immeasurably cheered.

“I'd have to do it anyway, right?” he said to Lupin. “Might as well start now.”

Lupin beamed, handing him over the signed parchment. “I'm really impressed with how well
you're taking this, Harry,” he said. “It shows real maturity, and I'm proud of you.”

“Er, yeah,” said Harry, flushing both with the pleasure of being praised by one of the people he
most admire (one of his father's oldest friends, to boot), and with the realisation that he
really didn't want said oldest friend to know what it was that had really influenced him.

He barely restrained himself from snatching the parchment away and doing a runner, certain that
it would make him look guilty of something or other. Still, his exit was a little faster than
usual. “Thanks,” he called back, before accelerating down the corridor.

* * *

That night, Harry was woken by a scratching at his window. Fumbling for his glasses, he reached
over and managed to get the window catch open. Even well into January, the snows from Christmas
were still about, and it was too cold to leave the windows open all night. Even with Seamus
Finnegan's shoes stinking up the room (apparently even the House Elves didn't have magic
enough to fix that).

A barn owl that looked suspiciously like one of the school owls (and thus available for anyone
to use) was sitting on the window-sill, giving him a foul look. Harry expected that he had taken
rather longer than usual to wake up. Blearily, he untied what looked like a short note from the
owl's leg, and wondered, somewhat dimly, if he was expected to give it an owl treat. If someone
had sent it from the owlery at Hogwarts, it would only have needed to fly for about thirty seconds
before arriving at Gryffindor Tower - and Harry's supply of owl treats were somewhere at the
bottom of his trunk. But the owl continued to glare at him, and heaving a sigh, he began to fumble
for them.

“Here,” said Ron's voice, sounding very sleepy. An owl treat was shoved into his hand, and
Harry hastily gave it to the messenger, feeling very grateful that he had Hedwig, who was a lot
more personable than that one.

“Thanks,” he said to Ron quietly. “Didn't mean to wake you.”

“I think I was sort of half-awake anyway,” muttered Ron, through an enormous yawn. “What's
that, then? Fan-mail from some poor deluded third year?”

“Your sense of humour doesn't get any better, you know,” said Harry, trying not to shudder
at the thought. At least this time he could be sure it wasn't Ginny. The memory of her
Valentine's Day song was one of his most embarrassing at Hogwarts. He opened the letter, and
scanning through it, suddenly felt much more awake.

“It's Hagrid,” he said, remembering to keep his voice down so as not to wake the other boys.
“He wants us to come out to the Forest.” Ron blanched, and Harry shot him a sympathetic look.
“Apparently there's some sort of meeting between the other magical creatures on tonight…”

“Couldn't they have picked a nicer location?” Ron complained, but he was already reaching
for some clothes.

“It probably is nice, for them,” said Harry. “The Centaurs live there, after all.” He yanked his
newest Weasley jumper over his head. “I wonder why Hagrid didn't come get me himself,
though?”

Ron snorted. “Hagrid? Through the portrait hole? *That's* something I'd like to
see.” They sneaked out of the dormitory and down the stairs, still pulling on clothes, Harry
remembering at the last minute to take his Invisibility Cloak. “You might want to let Hermione
know,” Ron continued. “She'll murder us if we don't let her in on it.”

“Right. I'll get her,” said Harry, as he finished tying his shoe. Hoping that none of the
steps would creak, he began to sneak his way up the stairs to the girls' dormitories. He
hadn't gotten more than a few feet when there was a quiet shriek, and the steps turned into a
steep slide. He lost his footing, and was bowled back to the bottom of the stairs.

“Not having a particularly good day, are you?” said Ron, trying unsuccessfully to hide a
grin.

“Shut up,” Harry grumbled at him. He felt a bit silly. *Still*, he reasoned, considering
his decidedly inelegant prat-fall, *at least it wasn't in front of anybody but Ron.*
Belatedly, he remembered when the other boy had tried the same thing, and had also been dumped on
his arse. “This is just stupid,” he said, getting to his feet, and was about to complain again when
the door to the Gryffindor common room swung open.

He and Ron froze, and for a short, horrifying moment, Harry had a vision of Professor McGonagall
marching in and demanding why he was trying to sneak into the girls' dormitories. He didn't
think that she would believe that he wanted to take Hermione for a nice walk.

But it seemed that no-one was coming through. Harry had relaxed momentarily before wondering
just *why* the door was opening for no good reason (surely he had the only Invisibility Cloak
in Gryffindor?) when the answer came at him, full-bore.

“And just what do you think *you're* doing?” the Fat Lady snapped at him, hands on her
hips, pink lace bulk wobbling gently like an enormous jelly. “Don't think that I didn't
hear that! Boys aren't allowed up there!”

“Oh, he knows,” said Ron, trying to hide a grin and look innocent at the same time. He seemed to
be enjoying himself immensely. “I've tried to tell him, but what can you do? It's the Boy
Who Lived, and all that. Thinks the rules aren't for him.”

“I don't!” stuttered Harry, glaring at Ron and trying to devise a decent excuse and a tactic
for revenge at the same time, and failing at both. The Fat Lady was looking at him sceptically. “I
*don't!*” he repeated more frantically, we aware that he was looking guilty and thus
feeling even guiltier.

“Then what *did* you think you were doing?” the Fat Lady demanded again. One foot was
tapping, and she looked as if she was about to run out of patience.

“I just… I needed to talk to Hermione,” he said.

“There you go, then,” said Ron, in satisfaction. His grin widened, and Harry was suddenly
reminded inescapably of the twins. “It's only Hermione. Not as if he was going up to ravish `em
all in their beds or something.”

“*Ron*,” Harry hissed, turning scarlet at both the implication and the picture it put into
his head, “Shut *up*.”

The Fat Lady looked half-convinced, and it didn't bode well for him. “Do I need to call
Professor McGonagall?” she asked.

“No!” yelped Ron and Harry together, and Ron looked suddenly shame-faced. “I didn't mean
it,” he said to the Fat Lady. “Sorry. It's just… we really do need to see Hermione. We've
got a Transfiguration paper due in tomorrow, and we're not actually done yet…”

*Surprise me*, said the look on the Fat Lady's face.

“…and so we need a bit of help,” finished Ron. “And Hermione finished hers *weeks* ago, and
we really, really don't need McGonagall finding out that we're not finished.”

Harry silently prayed that the Fat Lady was unaware of the fact that Ron didn't study
Transfiguration.

“You should have studied harder,” sniffed the Fat Lady, apparently oblivious. “And I'm
afraid you'll have to wait until morning. Just because you don't need your sleep
doesn't mean that other people don't!”

“Yeah, I um… didn't think of that,” said Harry, trying to look abashed and kick Ron at the
same time without the Fat Lady noticing. “You're right, I should be more considerate.” The Fat
Lady gaped at him slightly, before a look of obvious approval came over her face.

“You're a nice boy really, aren't you,” she said. “I knew that you'd see it that way
if you just stopped to think.” She glared at Ron. “It's that other one. A bad influence if ever
I saw one!”

“Me!” said Ron, looking surprised, and Harry had to bite back a smirk.

“Yes, you,” said the Fat Lady. “Don't think I don't remember your brothers…” her door
began to swing close. “Go ahead, give him a kick, don't mind on my account” her voice floated
back to Harry, and she dissolved into giggles. “Ravishing them in their beds...” they heard float
quietly out, as the portrait hole closed.

Ron looked slightly put out. “It's not fair always being compared to Fred and George,” he
complained, but there was amusement on his face, and Harry took the opportunity to take the Fat
Lady's advice. “It's not fair having to fight with a girl,” Ron sighed heavily.

“It's not fair being dropped in it by your best mate,” said Harry, trying not to laugh,
although inside he felt as put out as Ron had looked before. It was bad enough for the Hogwarts
teachers to think he was sneaking into the girls' dormitories for, well, *that*, but it
was worse to have them *laugh* about it. And alright, the Fat Lady wasn't actually a
teacher, but she was on staff, Harry thought. Sort of. But did she think he couldn't if he
wanted to?

“What are you going to do, then?” said Ron. “Can't leave her out of this, she'd never
forgive you.”

“Too right,” said Harry. That wasn't a fate he was willing to put up with - he'd never
be kissed again. He didn't tell Ron that, though. Instead he took a deep breath and remembered
kissing, and the happy memory sent his Patronus galloping up the stairs towards the
dormitories.

“Nice,” said Ron approvingly, watching it turn the corner with no loss of speed.

“Should have thought to do that in the first place.”

“You don't think she'll scream, do you?” Ron commented happily. “That girl's got a
pair of lungs on her…”

“Bollocks,” said Harry bitterly. “I didn't think of that.” He squinted up the stairs, but
couldn't hear a sound. He didn't want the whole tower waking up.

Ron shrugged philosophically. “There'll be other times,” he said. “Fred and George have got
a new Bellowing Biscuit - we could try it out on her.”

“Are you sure it's safe?” Harry demanded. “I'm not having them testing stuff on the
students again.”

“Oh, don't worry about it,” said Ron. “They actually tested it on Mum, just before
Christmas. It was a bit hard to tell the difference, really.” He grinned at Harry. “Well, to be
fair, *you* try organising five kids and Dad and getting them to the other side of the country
on Christmas Eve. It's not easy, you know!”

“You didn't make it easy, you mean,” said Harry, laughing. “There are times I really feel
sorry for your Mum.”

“Fred and George were rather difficult children, it's true,” Ron commented sagely.

“Good thing the rest of you were such angels, then, wasn't it?” Harry commented, managing to
keep a straight face.

Ten minutes later the three of them (Hermione still trying to lace up one of her shoes) were
wedged in underneath Harry's Invisibility Cloak.

“This is getting more difficult every year,” Hermione wheezed, after being accidentally socked
in the stomach by one of Ron's elbows. Unfortunately, she knew as well as the rest of them that
it was the only way of escaping Gryffindor Tower without the Fat Lady alerting the staff to the
fact that students were absconding (and it wasn't just the Fat Lady - Peeves was certain to
take great pleasure in doing the same, should he catch them out of bed after hours).

“You better make Head Girl next year, then,” Ron grunted. “That way you can wander about
whenever you want, and we don't have to try and fit under here with a midget.”

Hermione promptly stepped hard on one of his foot. “Oops, sorry,” she said sweetly.
“Accident.”

Clumsily, shushing each other (and making more noise than they would have had they just shut up,
Harry thought), the three of them managed to sneak out of the Castle. Once in the shadow of the
greenhouses, they were able to get out from under the Cloak, which was a great relief.

“I think I've put my back out,” groaned Ron. The tallest of the three, he had to walk
hunched over so that the Cloak would still cover them all. Harry showed no sympathy, but hustled
both his friends away from the castle and towards the Forbidden Forest. Privately, he thought
Ron's groans were as much for their direction as his back, and he couldn't blame him.
Whenever Harry was forced to go into the Forest it had never ended well. Aragog, Dementors,
Voldemort - and that wasn't even considering the Centaurs, who Harry felt were fast losing
patience with any human interference. Once more he cursed Umbridge. It seemed she had a habit of
doing things that made his life as difficult as possible. *But it's not just your life*,
he thought to himself. *The Centaurs have it worse than you do*. He flinched as a trailing
branch hit him in the face, gouging at his eye. *Probably*. Behind him, Ron whimpered
slightly.

A giant shape loomed out at them, and Harry back-pedalled quickly, slipping and fumbling for his
wand. He kicked himself for not having it out in the first place. In the resulting light, however,
and in the warm tongue slobbering over his fingers, he felt himself relax.

“Bloody *hell*, Hagrid,” squeaked Ron, “can you not *do* that?”

“Do wha'?” said Hagrid, oblivious. “Glad to see you all got down here alright. Get out of
it, Fang! This way, Harry.”

“*Do* *what*?” Ron mimicked under his breath. “Just jump out at us in the middle of
the bloody night in the middle of the bloody *Forest*, that's what…” He would have
chuntered on, but Hermione hushed him and Harry couldn't help but smile, tense as he was.
Having the two of them there with him made him feel a lot better about what he was going to have to
face. And at least with Hagrid with them, their chances of surviving an encounter with a horde of
man-eating spiders had gone right up. He

hoped.

-->



27. Chapter 27
--------------



I know, I know. So late. I *suck*. :(

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Every day for the week after the meeting in the Forest, Harry sprang out of bed early in the
morning and sprinted to Great Hall, terrified that he'd missed the owl mail delivery. He never
did, and each morning passed with no messages for him at all.

One morning, as the last owl flew away (from a second-year at the Ravenclaw table), Ron noticed
him looking particularly disconsolate. “I could have told you it was a waste of time, mate,” he
said, reaching for his third kipper. “They seem to hate each other as much as they hate us. I tell
you, you're getting up horribly early each morning for nothing.” The last was said in a
slightly peevish tone - that morning Harry had tripped over one of Ron's shoes on the way out
of the dormitory and the resulting crash had woken everyone else up. As none of the boys were
morning people, he had been buffeted with pillows as he fumbled, apologising, out of the door.
Ron's bright orange Chudley Cannons pillow had hit him the hardest, and Harry had seriously
considered leaving it on the floor and making Ron go to the effort of fetching it, before realising
that permanently transfiguring it to show Malfoy's face would be a greater punishment.

“There's no guarantee that anything will come at breakfast, Harry,” Hermione reminded him.
“You can send owls at other times, you know - Hagrid sent you the owl telling you about the meeting
in the Forest in the middle of the night, remember?” She shot a glance at Ron, clearly considering
whether she should say anything else, but went on, “Besides, it wasn't as if anything was
decided then and there. You've got to give them all time to think about it.”

Ron snorted. “They hate each other. Let's not pretend they don't, Hermione.” He waved a
fork at her. “I know that you agree with me.”

“There's nothing wrong with trying to be *positive*, Ronald,” said Hermione, a trifle
frostily. She would have gone on, but saw Neville, a few places down the table, finish his
breakfast and get up to leave. Hastily, she put down her own fork and dropped her napkin on the
table. “Look, I have to go. We can talk about this later, alright, Harry?”

He nodded absently, and Ron snorted again, but under his breath. This particular disagreement
had gone on for the last week, and Harry wasn't disappointed not to have to sit through it
again. For once, he though, Hermione *did* agree with Ron (who, admittedly, wasn't as
convinced of his argument as he would have been otherwise), but the two of them had such a habit of
fighting that they couldn't help themselves. Harry was certain that they actually enjoyed their
squabbling. As much as it annoyed him sometimes (there were certain arguments he could have
repeated in his sleep) he had to admit that it did help to pass the time. And at least this way, he
was sure to hear both sides of things.

Ron's eyes followed Hermione as she left the Great Hall with Neville. “They're up to
something,” he said philosophically. “Wonder what it is?”

“Um, she said something about going to see Professor Sprout,” said Harry absently, and Ron
nodded.

“Probably after more homework,” he said. “Mad, they are. I mean, Herbology's okay, but
it's nothing special.” He grinned hugely around a mouthful of fried potato. “Besides, it means
she doesn't have to spend the rest of breakfast looking at me and knowing that for once,
*I'm right*. They hate each other.”

Unfortunately, Harry suspected that Ron was right.

The meeting in the Forbidden Forest had not gone well at all. Harry had hoped that when the
representatives of the non-wizard magical community got together, their unanimous dislike of the
*status quo* would be enough to bind them together into a sort of alliance. He had no
illusions that he would be able to lead such a thing (in fact he was quite hoping that he
wouldn't have to, given his complete lack of ideas on how to deal with Voldemort), but the
thought of a common bond had been keeping him optimistic.

Sadly, dislike of the *status quo* was about the *only* thing that the other races had
in common, and it didn't look like it was going to be enough. The goblins disliked the
centaurs, because the latter had no use for gold and the circuitous nature of the half-human,
half-horse breed left the more practical goblins incandescent with impatient rage. (Harry could
sympathise, having been on the end of their puzzling announcements before.) In return, the centaurs
tried extremely hard *not* to look at the goblins as if they were dirtying their hands and
intellect in trade, but even Ron picked up on it. No-one trusted Lupin, as representing the
werewolves - or rather, they trusted *Lupin*, but refused to extend that to his fellows. “How
many do you speak for?” was a constant refrain. No-one wanted a bar of the Giants (except the
werewolves, and that was probably only because Lupin felt he couldn't say anything else with
Hagrid at the meeting), no-one was game to trust the vampires (except the Goblins - they had a lot
of gold invested in expensive evening wear), no-one could agree on what other species they should
consider as part of an alliance - if one were to even take place - the complications and petty
arguments made Harry's head spin.

*And, oh!* He remembered. *Everyone has nothing but contempt for the House Elves.*
That was one of the absolute consistencies - Lupin disagreed, but even he wasn't foolish enough
to pretend that his fellow werewolves wouldn't stomp all over them if they had the chance.
“Anyone who lets themselves be walked on the way that the Elves do *deserves* to be
subjugated,” Griphook had snapped. “No sense of self-respect at all.” It didn't help the Dobby
- free as he was - couldn't disguise the fact that he thought the Goblins insufficiently
servile to wizards in general, and Harry in particular.

At Griphook's words, Hermione had gone red and expansive with rage, and Harry and Ron had
promptly dragged her a few feet back into the Forest, and Ron had silenced her with an extremely
well-cast mute spell, forming a bubble around her head and preventing her from being heard. “Grow
up with as many in the family as I did, and you learn that one right off the bat,” he had said,
philosophically, wincing as Hermione snatched her own wand to undo the spell.

“Think a bit less of the Goblins now, don't you?” he had continued quickly, before Hermione
could draw enough breath to scream at him.

“I suppose that you think *more* of them now,” Hermione had returned nastily.

“Face it, Hermione,” said Ron, with heavy patience, “They *are* a bit pathetic. I don't
mean Dobby, of course,” he hastily added, turning to Harry. “But I can understand why the Goblins
don't think much of them. They're… very different, aren't they?”

“It's not their *fault*, Ron!” Hermione had gone on, waving her finger in his face. It
didn't help that Ron was at least a foot taller than she was, and Harry hastily wiped a smirk
off his face. “They're conditioned to it, they can't help it! How would you like to have
spent all your life as a slave? Think you would know better, do you?”

“Harry did,” said Ron simply. “Growing up with those awful Muggles. Locked in a cupboard, doing
all the chores all the time while that fat pig of a cousin sat on his gigantic arse. Yet you
don't see him fawning over people who treat him like dirt because of it.”

“Don't bring me into this,” Harry said, a trifle uneasily.

“That's *different*, Ronald,” Hermione snapped.

“Oh yeah?” said Ron. “How? Dobby got over it - well, around most people anyway - so the rest of
`em can do it too. You won't help them by treating them like kids, Hermione. If they're
bound and determined to be treated like slaves, then that's their own stupid choice.” He
stumped off back to the edge of the meeting, where the different races could still be heard
arguing, with pockets of ominous silence. “Never catch Goblins being so wet…” they heard him
grumble.

“Well!” huffed Hermione. “I…. I never… that just proves he's completely missed the point!”
she said, rounding on Harry, who hastily raised his hands and backed away. Hermione's eyes
narrowed at him. “He's only siding with the Goblins because of Bill.”

“Yeah, probably,” Harry said. “But - and you know how I feel about Dobby - he might have a point
- just a *tiny* one,” he hurriedly added. “I have to say, I kind of thought that they'd
get on better, but they're all so *different*. I mean, I can see why the Goblins and the
House Elves don't get on. Can't you?”

“I suppose so,” she admitted grudgingly. “But that doesn't mean I have to like it.”

“Not a lot to like here tonight,” agreed Harry, and stretched out his hand. “C'mon, we
better get back before we miss any more. Can you, um…”

“Oh, don't worry,” Hermione said. “I *can* keep my mouth shut, you know. No fighting
with the Goblins tonight.”

“Just close your eyes and think of the books they sent you,” Harry advised. “If you're
really nice to them, they might send more.”

“Harry Potter, are you implying that I can be bought?” Hermione said, poking him in the side.
She gave him a frown that he knew was much less serious than it appeared - if only because her eyes
had lit up at the prospect of any possible additions to her (already enormous) personal
library.

The thought of doing anything that would deprive herself of more books kept Hermione (mostly)
quiet for the rest of the evening, although the not-quite-argument with Ron went on as usual.

“She's going to have to admit I'm right one day,” Ron said with satisfaction, scraping
his last bit of toast over his plate. “C'mon, Harry, it's Care of Magical Creatures this
morning. Like we haven't had enough of *that* lately,” he finished, with a big grin.

* * *

Hermione was in a much better mood over lunch.

“All sorted with Professor Sprout?” asked Harry, curiously. Hermione always went above and
beyond in Herbology (as she did in all her subjects) but she had never paid this much attention to
Sprout before - unlike Neville - and it was unusual to see her spend so much time visiting that
professor.

“Got enough homework?” said Ron, his mouth full, and Hermione wrinkled her nose at him in
disgust, forbearing to comment and turning to Harry instead.

“Yes,” she said, beaming. She fished a piece of parchment out of her pocket and waved it in
front of him. Although he couldn't make it out perfectly, it looked like the work placement
permission slip, with Sprout's signature scrawled across the bottom (along with a couple of
smudges of dirt). “She signed my slip, and Neville's too! It's going to be so much
fun…”

“So you're going, then,” Ron said, swallowing suddenly and looking as if something disagreed
with him. It only lasted a moment, before he pasted a smile on his face. “I mean, that's great,
Hermione. I'm sure it'll be really fun for you.” He stabbed at a pasty with extra
vigour.

“Hang on a minute,” Harry interjected. “Sprout? What's she got to do with anything? Have you
finally decided where you want to go, then?” It wasn't a great surprise to him that Hermione
had gotten her recommendation - any teacher in Hogwarts would have give it to her, bar Snape and
Trelawney - but he had expected that she would have gone to either McGonagall or Vector, given that
Transfiguration and Arithmancy were her favourite subjects.

Hermione nodded decisively. “I'm going to St. Mungo's. Healing sounds very interesting,
you see, and you get to use lots of different skills, so I would get practise in all the others as
well. Even Arithmancy is useful in deciding doses! And I'd very much like to work with
different magical species… do you think I could do that?”

“You can do anything you put your mind to, that's what Mum always says,” interjected Ron
heartily, over mashed pasty. “I still say it doesn't really matter where you go, but you'll
do fine, Hermione. You always do.”

Harry really didn't want to burst her bubble, but something in him very strongly doubted
that any wizard hospital would have a ward for house elves, or centaurs, or any other non-human
creature. Still, she looked enthusiastic and he wasn't about to squash that. Ron hadn't
gotten anything organised yet, and didn't know if his marks were good enough to get a
recommendation at all, but *he* was still managing to be encouraging about it. “Um, maybe…” He
saw her eyes narrow and quickly moved to change the subject. “I think you'd do really well in
that, Hermione. When did you think it up?”

“Well,” she started (completely missing Harry's sigh of relief), “I was talking to Neville -
he's going there too, you know - and it was actually his idea. He's not interested in being
a Healer, and he couldn't anyway - doesn't study Transfiguration, you know - but apparently
they've got some of the biggest wizarding greenhouses and plant study areas in the whole of
Britain! You know what Neville is like with plants-”

“I think he might be even better than you,” Harry pointed out helpfully, and Hermione gave him a
tiny glare.

“Yes, well. Anyway, it's a good place for research and experimenting with plants - poisons,
allergies…”

“Cures,” said Harry quietly, and the three of them shared a sympathetic look.

“Yes,” said Hermione under her breath. “I don't think that there's anything that can be
done for his parents, but there are other people in there who could use the help. It's not as
though I haven't had some practice, with making the Wolfsbane potion and all. Trying to,
anyway. And,” she shot Harry a jaundiced look, “there *is* very little that Neville
doesn't know about plants.”

Harry smirked at her, and she hurried on: “So, he wanted to go there, and was telling me about
the facilities, and, you know, I realised that I'd never really considered Healing before. I
think the research side of it could be very interesting…”

“And I expect,” said Harry, “that you weren't too thrilled at the idea of Neville going
there every day by himself.” He squeezed her hand under the table, and felt unaccountably pleased
as she turned pink.

“There was that,” Hermione admitted. “He's been a good friend to us, and Ron's right,
you know - the placement itself doesn't matter as much as all that.”

“Twice in one day!” Ron cried, raising his arms above his head in mock victory. “I don't
think I've ever heard you say “Ron's right” as often before.”

“Cost you an effort to say that, didn't it?” Harry grinned, and Hermione's cheeks turned
pink again.

“Shut up, Harry,” she said composedly.

“Say it again, Hermione,” Ron interjected, a trifle smugly.

“Shut *up*, Ronald.”

* * *

Later that afternoon, Harry was dawdling down one of Hogwarts' long corridors, content in
the knowledge that he had a free period while Ron was at Muggle Studies, and Hermione was off at
History of Magic class. He was torn between going out to have a quick flying practise before dinner
and reluctantly heading off to the library to do some research for Potions. Quidditch was winning
out, but when Harry ambled round a corner he realised pretty quickly that he wouldn't be doing
either.

Long-faced Professor Sinistra was marching along the hallway, mumbling under her breath, with
her eyes rolled up so far back in her head that Harry was surprised she could even see where she
was going. By one long, skinny arm, she dragged a girl with an enormous, orange lion hat stuck over
what had to be her own head.

Luna.

Professor Sinistra's eyes swivelled into an approximately normal position, as she came to a
halt in front of Harry. Luna promptly walked smack into her from behind, and Harry realised that
she couldn't actually see where she was going. Before either of them could say anything, Harry
held up his hands in self-defence.

“Free period, Professor,” he said, knowing that he'd get detention with any other excuse for
wandering the halls during class time. “I was just on my way to the, um, the library.”

“The library is in the other direction, Mr. Potter,” said Professor Sinistra, a trifle frostily.
“But seeing as you're here, if you could please escort Miss Lovegood to the Hospital Wing?
I'm afraid she can't quite get there on her own, and I have enough to do.”

“Sure,” said Harry, figuring that it beat researching the use of Bandersnatch venom. “This way,
Luna,” he said, taking her arm and trying to steer her away from walking into the wall.

“Thanks, Harry,” came a dim echo from inside the hat. “And sorry for being so much trouble,
Professor!”

Her only answer was an aggrieved sniff, as the older witch marched back the way that she had
come.

“Not very friendly, is she?” Harry commented under his breath, towing Luna behind him.

“Oh, she's quite nice really,” said Luna from inside the hat. “She's a very good Head of
House, you know. I just caught her at a bad moment, and she doesn't like Ravenclaws looking
stupid in front of the rest of the school.”

“I suppose. I know that McGonagall just about throws a fit when Gryffindor is playing up.
I'm surprised the rest of the school can't hear her screech! Steps here, step up,
Luna.”

“Who says we can't hear her?” said Luna, tripping anyway. A slight giggle echoed from the
lion's open jaws.

Harry briefly wondered if she'd been at the Firewhiskey, and then gave up, deciding it was
probably just Luna. Besides, he wasn't a Prefect. If the junior students had been at the grog,
it wasn't up to him to do anything about it. He just hoped Hermione didn't find out about
it.

The passed a couple of girls in the corridor, both of whom stared at Luna and began to giggle.
Harry shot them a hard glance, and they stopped suddenly and walked away, moving somewhat quicker
than normal. He supposed he couldn't blame them for finding it funny, but they didn't have
to laugh at her, no matter what had happened - whatever it was. He gestured at her head before
realising she couldn't see him do it, and dropped his arm helplessly. “Er… so, what happened,
anyway?”

“Oh. Well, I was trying to make it roar in time to `Weasley is Our King', but when I added
in the bubbles, everything went wrong. The bubbles made the hat belch, and then it sort of gulped
down my head. Then I think the soap got in its eyes and they sort of swelled shut. It's most
irritating. But sort of fun, don't you think?”

Harry gaped at her, mentally trying out questions in his head, before deciding on one that
seemed harmless and that didn't sound like he was accusing Luna of being a freak. He knew she
got enough of that as it was.

“Bubbles?” he managed weakly.

The orange head nodded. “Big ones. I like bubbles. They're bubbly.”

Harry tried again, manoeuvring her around corners as he went. “Why make a lion hat blow bubbles,
Luna?”

She stopped suddenly, and the great heavy head swung around to look at him, blind swollen eyes
leaking soapy bubbles. “But Harry,” Luna's voice echoed seriously from somewhere behind the
snout, “why *not?*”

A bubble popped in his face, shattering his concentration and reminding him that laughter
probably wasn't the appropriate response. “No reason, I suppose,” said Harry. He led her
through the infirmary door and sat her on the nearest bed. “Won't be long, Luna. I'm sure
Madam Pomfrey can get it off.” *She probably can't do anything about the rest*, he
thought.

Madam Pomfrey was indeed able to wrench off the hat by pouring sand in one giant orange ear (“It
damps down the bubbles”). When Luna emerged, looking pathetically dishevelled with sand all through
her hair, the healer had apparently taken pity on her, and offered to keep the hat in the infirmary
until the lion's eyes healed up. “I'm sure I've got a lotion for that somewhere…” she
was heard muttering, as the two students tucked into their dinner, perched on one of the hospital
beds. Luna had had to stay for an extra hour while Madam Pomfrey re-grew the skin over her ears,
and Harry had offered to stay with her so she didn't have to eat alone, or with Madam Pomfrey
standing over her.

“That was nice of her,” Luna said happily, shaking her head and leaving a sandy trail over the
blankets.

“I think she's just glad that it wasn't me for once,” Harry admitted honestly.

“You do tend to end up rather damaged an awful lot,” agreed Luna, her eyes bulging protuberantly
at him.

“It's not my fault!” Harry protested. “It's not like I go looking for trouble. It just
seems to find me.”

“Maybe you attract it,” said Luna seriously, sprinkling some sugar on her boiled cabbage. Harry
tried not to look. “It happens sometimes, you know. Have you been putting anything strange in your
socks recently? Redcaps can come after you for that, you know.”

“Nothing but my feet, Luna,” said Harry, as seriously as he could. He was beginning to
understand why Ron and Ginny enjoyed spending time with the younger girl. “And I'm not all that
worried about Redcaps, to tell you the truth.”

“I can see your point,” said Luna. “I don't suppose Voldemort will try and gnaw off your
toes, after all.”

Harry swallowed his tea convulsively, feeling said toes curl within his shoes. “I really, really
hope not,” he said, hoping that she would change the subject. But Luna was looking at him with
dreamy, unfocused eyes and he was beginning to feel like the Inquisition was back on again. At
least this time Hermione and Susan Bones weren't there as well. The three of them together were
just too much for Harry to handle. *Besides*, he reasoned, *Luna can't be feeling very
well with that s**tuff slathered all over her ears**. I'm sure she's not
interested in digging through things right now.*

“Have you thought any more about why Voldemort would want your blood?” she asked, dropping her
tone when Harry choked on a mouthful of tea and flapped his hands at her in horror, worried that
Madam Pomfrey would hear. There was a dim clattering in a far-off store cupboard, so he was fairly
sure that they were safe, but Luna understood him and they spoke in whispers from then on, between
big bites of healthier food than Harry usually ate. He fished the lettuce from off his plate and
gave it to Luna, who stuffed it into her cheeks like a rabbit.

“I can see that him taking my blood neutralises our wands,” Harry said, “Or my wand, anyway. And
when it comes down to power, he's stronger than I am. I might have won before, but I think
that's just been a fluke.” He chewed meditatively on his sandwich. “What I can't figure out
is why Dumbledore would be so happy about him taking it.”

“Maybe it puts you on more of a level playing field,” said Luna. “Before, you were protected by
your mother” - Harry was grateful that she didn't give him the pitying look that anybody else
would have - “without that, even if it causes problems with the wands, you're more the
same.”

“And that's good *how*, exactly?” said Harry.

“I made my hat blow bubbles,” said Luna, dreamily.

Harry just stared at her, completely confused, and she leaned over and patted him on the head
like he was a very small child.

“I don't think I'll do that again,” she said. “The hat seems to be allergic, poor
thing.” She was silent for several moments, leaving Harry trying to decide whether she'd
finished or not. “But I might be able to decorate it another way,” Luna finally went on. “Maybe
with something *better* than bubbles. If there is such a thing.”

“Better than bubbles?” said Harry weakly.

“Your mother's love couldn't have protected you forever, Harry,” said Luna quietly.
“It's nice having a mother, but when they're gone you have to learn to live without them
looking after you eventually. It's not that bad, and I have enjoyed learning to cook
Daddy's favourite currant cake, but even if my mother had lived, I would have learned to do
that eventually. But you…” and she looked at him, a trace of lettuce hanging from one cheek, “maybe
you can learn too. Voldemort changed you to be like him. He didn't mean to, but he did.” Harry
reached unconsciously for his scar. “But you weren't really equal, because you had something
that he didn't.”

“Mum…” said Harry, slowly, and Luna nodded.

“So this time he changed himself to be like you. To make you really equal this time. But now…”
and Luna took her last bite of shepherd's pie, “maybe because of that, this time it's got
to be you who makes the change, you who decides what you're going to be. So your wands
won't be the same any more.”

“I *like* my wand,” said Harry defensively. “We *fit*. I wouldn't do as well with
another.”

“Not as you are now, no,” said Luna. “But if you have to change to something that Voldemort
can't follow you into, maybe it'll change too.”

She reached over, and patted his hand. “It'll be your currant cake, Harry,” she said.

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