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Harry Potter and the Black Society by carondelet
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Harry Potter and the Black Society

carondelet

Rating: R for language, imagery, emotional angst, fantasy violence/combat, and adult themes.

Title: Harry Potter and the Black Society

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.

The characters of Melora Lilasmorte, Petr Auct, Edmund Paisot, in addition to other original characters / members / creatures of Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, the Ministry of Magic, and the Muggle world, as presented in the story published herein, are the creation of M.L. Stone under the Portkey author name of carondelet. This story was authored by M.L. Stone and posted at Portkey under the author name of carondelet. Any reproduction without the express written consent of the author is strictly prohibited.

Spoiler Alert: This fic contains spoilers of varying degrees to Books 1-5. If you haven't read any of the books or have at least seen the films...move along, there's nothing to see here. Warning: this fic is H/Hr. It will be mostly fluff, when there is any, but it is H/Hr, even though you may not initially think so. There have been a few "squee" moments, with more to come, I assure you. Now that we've gotten the warnings et al in the open…

Summary: (It may or may not be considered AU; it does use elements that J.K. Rowling has only given cursory attention to in the novels.)

The Second Wizard War has since begun. After each new conflict, the barriers placed between the Wizarding world and the Muggle world yield just a little more. Forsaken pacts are made fresh and new allies are revealed as the war finally tears not only into the Muggle world, but into the sanctuary of Hogwarts itself. Harry Potter soon realizes that his wish for a life close to ordinary will take him as far away from normal as is magically or humanly possible...

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: Thanks to RONIN10 for being a human thesaurus and for helping me work out a portion that I didn't like the sound of (and arigatou gozaimasu for the advert in your story, "The Growing Darkness & the Fading Light"). Omataseshite sumimasen; I had to decide how long I wanted this chapter to be, since the opening is cleaved from the end of another. I cut it at a logical place and not necessarily a poetic one.

The two one-offs, one shots, what have you notwithstanding, this is still my first piece of Harry Potter fan fiction. And yes, gentle reader, this remains a long and therefore slow piece; meaning, it has been planned and time lined to be novel-length. Therefore it will feel at times that events are hardly moving at all. Though hinted at throughout, the H/Hr ship does not set sail until nearly the end. Beware the MacGuffins; they can tend to be cranky, so if you aren't one to put up with all of that, may I suggest a Crup or perhaps a Kneazle? They may be more to your liking.

Though it may not seem it initially, this chapter does pick up shortly after the close of Chapter Four, "Yesterday, Tomorrow". And, like "Yesterday, Tomorrow," it's another chapter that I am not very fond of. Gakkari suru. >.< Gomen-nasai.

Oh well. Time to sally forth.

__________________________________________________________________________

HARRY POTTER AND THE BLACK SOCIETY

[] CHAPTER FIVE: AT LEAST, BE HUMANE

__________________________________________________________________________

Black.

It was black.

With a start, Harry realized he was asleep. And within a nightmare. But not -

"Oh, no," he murmured.

A hollow laugh burst forth and greeted his exclamation, and it echoed through the void. "Oh, no, indeed, my dear Potter." His name was pronounced with great mockery.

Harry stared at what was probably the floor, considering his upright nature, and frowned. That voice...how could he hear him so clearly? Something had gone wrong. He was better able now to shut out Voldemort, particularly after what happened sixth year, but this voice... There was a peculiar strength to the voice, one that made him feel apprehensive. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so alarmed.

Harry took a few reluctant steps toward the source of the voice. "You...." He spun around in a circle to look at the black. "How are you here?" he asked of the darkness. "Why?"

He heard a sound not unlike someone sighing in exasperation. "Because you live." He heard the sound of a hand as it slammed against brick and mortar. "You can't protect them forever. I'm going to be free soon. You do realize that, don't you?"

"I'll only stop you again."

"I only want what's rightfully mine."

The disembodied voice punctuated the remark by a smash of a hand against the brick again. Harry listened in abject horror as chunks of mortar fell loose and hit the surface he was standing on. He knew that the voice spoke the truth. The brittle sound rattled through the darkness of his unconscious, ringing persistent in his ears.

"You can't have it back," he said, clenching his hands into fists. He screwed his eyes shut in defiance. "The matter has been settled. It's his now. We had to take it."

His words echoed through the darkness as if they were a mantra.

"It wasn't supposed to be this way and you know it." Harry swore that he could hear the voice smile. "No one consulted me, the one who mattered most in all of this, the one who lost it all. Who'd have thought, after all, Potter?" Again, the word was spat out with derision.

"If I could set you free I would. But you would destroy us all."

There was a pause that weighed heavily on his heart.

"So you would kill me again, and they would help you?"

It was more a statement than a question.

Harry hung his head wearily. "I would do what I have to."

The voice giggled and startled him. "Well, it is far more difficult to murder a phantom than a reality." The voice giggled again. "Oh, I'm sorry; did I offend your ears?"

Harry shook his head and steeled his reserve. "No." He stepped forward and stared at the blackness around him. "But I'm afraid that you will be the end of us all."

He could imagine the owner of the disembodied voice grinning now. "Oh, really? Excuse me? Are you certain? Tut, tut, Potter." The voice laughed. "The next time you're by a mirror, you shouldn't open your eyes; you won't like what you see."

"Why, would your face be staring back?"

"Hah! Very good! Come to think of it, I might settle for less...but I will always hold you accountable, Potter. I always have. And now, thanks to the Dark Lord, I'm able to add you on to my list."

Harry closed his eyes in disgust. "You are still the same. Still ignorant, still arrogant, still convinced of your own bloody moral righteousness. You haven't learned. Not even death taught you. You have no idea of what was at stake, what might have been lost forever. You don't understand." He set his jaw and began to walk away from the sound of the voice. "All of this discussion is dead.

"Much the way you and he believed me to be, isn't that right, Potter?"

Harry stopped in his tracks. His emerald eyes stared into the darkness. They were full of pain.

"It was never meant it to be this way."

The voice started laughing, a thin, hysterical laugh, one that filled the void. The laughter seemed to cover the floor, rise to his ankles, to his knees, to his waist. The insane laughter threatened to drown him. To drown him in the sound of Rodolphus Lestrange's deranged, dead cackling.

Harry shut his eyes tightly, clenched his hands into fists, and willed himself away from the sound, willed himself deeper into his own unconscious, before the sound of the laughter caused him to join Lestrange in hell.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Godric's Hollow never looked so peaceful.

Harry knew then that he could only be having a dream.

He glanced around him and squinted against the brilliance of the moonlight. The moon was immense, dazzling silver filling the midnight sky. He closed his eyes and took in the sweetness of the night breeze. He hadn't thought of Godric's Hollow in a long time.

"Perhaps there is a reason for that."

The voice sounded the way swallowing broken glass would feel.

Harry turned to face the speaker. It was a woman dressed in the flowing gauzy white of what he knew to be an Edwardian wedding gown. Her face was featureless, but was the colour and texture of the finest white porcelain. Despite the lack of physical features, Harry had the distinct impression that the White Lady was smiling.

"You must be disappointed," he replied coolly, as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I don't rake myself through these coals as often as I used to."

The White Lady tilted her head, and again Harry was of the suggestion that she was smiling. "On the contrary, you have been doing quite well. Particularly well, regarding recent events."

"But those events have made me happy," he countered, his response on the defensive. "Aunt Petunia told me that she loves me. I got to knock Malfoy down on the train. There's a teacher at Hogwarts who knew my father."

"And there is the sweetest thrill of confusion for these very same events and more." She strode closer to Harry, and turned her featureless alabaster face to the stars. Harry could almost see the moon reflected in the cold facade. He instinctively took a step away from her. The void of a countenance followed his movement. "We are not strangers, you and I. I do not see the reason for your...apprehension."

Harry bit his lip and directed his attention to the heavens overhead. "You can't exactly call us friends."

The White Lady turned to again face the remembered sky. "Acquaintances, then. You have always provided well for me."

Harry felt an ironic smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "As you have provided for me." He took a look round at their surroundings. They were standing in the middle of the street on which his parents' had lived. Though he didn't dare to look, Harry was sure that their house was behind him.

And he was equally as certain that this night…it was the Dark Night.

"Remembering something?"

Though it had been almost a year since their last meeting, Harry could not forget the White Lady's predilection for causing him suffering. He had been longing for sleep, had wanted to dream, but not like this. Not like this. Damn her. "Yes. Bringing me back here…you could at least be humane," he snarled, his patience lost to the Dark Night.

"This night…it was a rather…agreeable night for me." The White Lady sighed; Harry thought the sound would literally cut into him. Her voice sliced through the night air like long knives.

"I'm sure that it was." Harry's voice held onto the bitter edge that it had gained. It was his only immediate form of resistance. "Why are you here?"

"I've a fondness for this place."

He grit his teeth at that. "I meant my mind, my dream."

"As did I." She effortlessly moved before him and her plain white face seemed to regard him. Harry had to fight to suppress a shudder. "We all need our champions, you know," she explained, her tone one of amusement.

The mention of the subject made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Back to this tired old argument. Didn't she get it when we had this conversation a year ago? I don't want to be any kind of damned champion. To anyone. Bad enough I am the Boy-Who-Lived. "So, am I to be your champion then?" He said this with heavy sarcasm.

The voice smiled as the White Lady spoke. "Would you decline the position?"

Harry drew in a ragged breath as he wearily closed his eyes. It wasn't his to turn down. But… "Would I have a choice?" he asked.

"Not really."

"I didn't think so." Harry rubbed the back of his neck absently. He stared up into the sky, stared past the stars. He had known that this time might come. He had hoped, given the horrible events of sixth year, that her appetite for his…misery would have been sated. It appeared that she would never find her fill of his anguish. Well, then, he would do now what he should have done sixth year. "If I am to be your champion," he began in a dull voice, "you would not mind doing me a courtesy."

"What would that be?"

The White Lady's voice sounded faintly amused.

Harry faced the White Lady, and met the shining porcelain face with his dark green eyes. "I want you to spare my friends most of their torment."

Pain laughed and threw her head back as she did so. "Spare your friends?" she echoed. The White Lady shook her head and her platinum hair gleamed in the moonlight. "They have all carried my favour of their own free will on many occasions."

"For me. Never for you. And none of them are your champion," countered Harry, biting off each word. "The dealings that…she had with you do not affect my friends. As you've already said, I am your champion. My friends have carried my torment for long enough. It's not theirs to bear; it never was."

Pain shrugged. "Does that really matter?"

"Yes, it does," answered another voice. This time the voice was soft and soothing, euphonious in its musicality. "For one of them is my champion, and I should think that you would no sooner tamper with my champion than I with yours, little sister."

An exquisitely beautiful young woman stepped from the shadows of a large oak tree. Her face was smooth and without blemish, her almond-shaped eyes were like sparkling amethysts, and her lips were of a perfect form and an expertly tinted shade of cranberry. Her skin was so pale as to be incandescent, and her face was benevolent as well as resplendent. She wore the black, beaded outfit of a flapper from London in the 1920's.

Time walked past Harry and stood next to her younger sister Pain.

"Aren't we still one short?" Harry muttered sarcastically.

The flapper smiled. She used a perfect finger to smooth a strand of shiny ebony hair behind an impeccably shaped ear. "The youngest will be arriving shortly."

Harry's eyes flickered to the moon above. "He's got a champion in all this?' the young man murmured with a frown, not pleased at the apparent prospect.

Time and Pain glanced at one another. It was Pain who answered.

"Yes, he does." The White Lady turned her alabaster face toward the distance. "And he would have been my champion, if my brother had not claimed him first."

"So I've come in second. Hurrah for me,' Harry muttered under his breath.

"Do not allow my sister to taunt you. She would have claimed my champion for herself if I had permitted it," the flapper explained to him, a sympathetic smile appearing on the flawless visage.

Harry stared into the milky china of the White Lady's countenance, as his eyes darkened. "Why are you fixated on me?" he asked. His voice quavered with his anger and his false bravado.

Another voice interrupted with the answer to his question. "Because you have served all of us so well."

The newest voice was cacophonous, as if all the instruments in an orchestra strained against each other in discordant, minor keys, but it wasn't unpleasant. It was maddeningly and frighteningly exquisite.

The last of the three siblings stepped from the shadows and into the vivid moonlight. The youngest of the triad was elegant, but not in the pure and sincere way that the flapper was, or in the cold and cruel way the White Lady was. His face was familiar, yet elusive at the same time. Harry closed his eyes for a moment and the impression of the young man's features disappeared from memory. When he looked back, the newcomer was still as striking and still as familiar. He was dressed, rather morosely, in the fashion of a Victorian gentleman. He was wearing a top hat that was vaguely reminiscent of…Professor Lilasmorte's.

Death joined his sisters under the midnight sky.

"You needn't fear for your friends," he said with a smile. "My sister will protect her champion, as her champion will protect her."

Harry couldn't help but to smile dryly in return. "And what would your older sister do for her champion?"

The White Lady leaned her head in the manner which made Harry think she smiled and replied, "I will do as you ask. I will spare your friends most of their pain." The White Lady arched her vacant face at him again. "But I will only keep from them the pain which they refuse to bear. No more. And for as long as you are my champion."

Harry looked toward the trees and stared into the branches. He could just see the silhouette of the moon through the silvery leaves. "And how long is that?"

"As long as you are needed," came the reply.

"The same is true for all of our champions," explained Time, as she cast a glance at her sister's alabaster face.

"Although the moment draws near that you will all be needed to champion us," added the newcomer. He absently picked flecks of dust from his coat.

"Who is your champion?" Harry asked of Death, though he had a very good feeling he already knew the answer.

The pallid figure of the young man dressed as an undertaker fixed upon him with black eyes, the irises so dark that the pupils were swallowed by the surrounding blackness. Then Death smiled, with perfect white teeth, and answered, "Someone you might know. Let me just say that I believe he will make a far better champion than his predecessor."

"Pettigrew served you as well as his greedy heart would allow, brother," murmured the White Lady.

The undertaker smiled again. "Yes, that is true. He served me better than he could have ever imagined." Death flicked another designing smile at his older sister. "If I remember correctly, he also provided for you."

"Ah, yes, you are correct."

Time regarded her younger siblings. "Do not allow their deliberate attempts to disturb you have the desired effect, Harry," she reassured in a gentle tone. "The moment will arrive in which you will understand all of this."

"Provided that I survive your champion, I take it?" Harry asked of the undertaker.

The grimly clothed figure gave an elegant shrug. "The moment for the fulfilment of the prophecy is soon approaching."

The White Lady gathered her flowing white dress about her. "You will understand quickly enough."

The young wizard stared at a nearby oak, his mind reeling from the information that his ultimate confrontation with Voldemort was indeed coming, sooner than any had anticipated. He wondered if he would be ready to meet the challenge...especially if Death had a champion of his own. And especially if that champion was…he directed a look at the White Lady. "And how am I to champion your cause?" Harry laughed ironically, without mirth, and stole another glance at the moon. He found looking at the threesome hard to bear.

"That is for you to decide."

Harry turned to face the three siblings but they had gone.

He was alone in the bright moonlight, with the night wind. It blew strands of his black hair across his forehead, across his scar. The one that had been granted to him on this night, the night of his parents' murder.

Harry shuddered against the breeze and closed his eyes. Then his mind left the discomforting familiarity of Godric's Hollow and slipped deeper into his unconscious.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He awoke with a start. He had been dreaming again. It wasn't one of Voldemort's dreams…it was different. Familiar, but, not the same as one of Voldemort's old presents. It felt like perhaps it was more than one dream. Harry sat up in bed and ran a hand through his hair. He looked toward one of the leaded windows. The sun was only just starting to rise; there was the faintest hint of pink to the sky outside. It was just as well that he woke up now; he would probably have to get up soon anyways, it being his first morning as a prefect.

He pulled on his glasses and slowly climbed out bed. Harry quietly gathered his kit, slipped on his trainers, and shuffled off toward the showers. He gave Ron a brief glance before heading downstairs. It was too early yet. He'd get ready first, and then come back up and wake Weasley. Let him sleep. Over the years, over the course of our friendship, I owe him at least that much.

As he descended the stairs, he wondered about the dreams and how or who had directed them. He knew that he'd had more than one dream, but he couldn't remember much in the way of details. He did have a vague sense of his parents. I could have dreamt about them. Or something to do with them. He had the warm sensation of the memory of his parents definitely in his mind. There was another presence in his mind…no, two…both familiar in some fashion. One was unsettling; the other, strangely comfortable.

It came to him after he had showered and dressed. On his way back up the tower to his dorm room, the image came to him, quite plainly. In his mind's eye he saw a small, pale face, framed by dark hair, seen through bars or slats. A face with grey eyes.

Harry froze in place, a hand on the poster to Ron's bed, and stared at nothing. "Who…" he whispered. "Who…are you…?" He shut his eyes tightly and tried to picture every detail. But the memory had started to fade. There was little left for him to focus upon. Nothing more than the grey eyes staring back at him. "Who…"

"Oi," grumbled a voice. Harry's eyes snapped open and he looked down. Ron had woken and was rubbing the sleep off of his face. "Is it time already?" he groaned.

"Um, yeah, Ron, we have to round up the, um, first years," Harry replied jerkily. His eyes darted around the dorm room as he attempted to hide his worry from his best mate.

It appeared that he wasn't successful. Ron sat bolt upright in his bed and gave Harry a serious look. "You all right?"

Harry managed a small shrug and nodded. "Yeah. Just a rough night."

At this Weasley frowned. "You had a nightmare. Harry, it wasn't -"

"No, Ron, it wasn't him."

His face brightened and he climbed out of bed. "Good then." Ron stretched and started to head for the showers. "You know, Harry, sometimes a dream is just a dream," he yawned over his shoulder, "despite what Trelawney says. She's full of rubbish anyways. But don't tell Lavender or Parvati I said that; I'd never hear the end of it from them. They'd probably bung their dream books at me."

"Yeah," he replied feebly. Harry felt suddenly weak and he quickly sat on the edge of Ron's bed. He clasped onto the poster, white-knuckled, and looked blankly at the stone floor. Just a dream, he thought. Just a dream, a simple dream, nothing more. Nothing meaningful. Just some strange dreams. "Sometimes a dream is just a dream," he repeated. "Sometimes…" He sucked in a deep breath and slowly got to his feet. He couldn't think about a stupid dream now. He had first years to tend to. It was time to put it all out of his mind and to get on with it.

Stop thinking about it, Potter. It was nothing. Nothing at all. You can't even remember what you dreamed about.

Harry put on the bravest face he could muster and headed for the Common Room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry hadn't really thought about the consequences (or, rather, the lack thereof) until Hermione made mention of it that morning during breakfast.

While he and Ron tried their best to keep the Gryffindor first years in the tower and on schedule, Harry tried his best not to think about his dreams, let alone anything else. The first years proved to be a fine distraction for him, as he didn't have much opportunity to think at all, thanks to them. It occurred to him at one point that his being a Seeker and Ron being a Keeper was fairly good practise for being a prefect.

He and Ron had finished their rounds and just had herded the first years into the Great Hall. ("Bloody hell, were we this obnoxious?" Ron had muttered to him more than once). After much chivvying along, much question answering, and more chivvying along, they were finally able to settle down at the Gryffindor table. Shortly afterward, once she finished with her Head Girl duties, Hermione joined them.

While Harry and Ron loaded the food onto their plates amidst a flurry of robed arms, battling Dean and Neville, she poured a cup of coffee and picked up a piece of toast. She slowly nibbled on one end of it, a frown gradually spreading across her brow. As he tucked in, Harry cast the occasional glance at her over the top of his glasses. He didn't usually eat much breakfast, but after running the first years out of bed, into the showers, into their uniforms and robes, and then all over Hogwarts, he had worked up a bit of an appetite. He watched her as he ate, and noted that she was absently looking at the table's surface. She was thinking about something. Harry wondered what she would make of the dreams that he thought he'd had. Thought he'd had since he didn't remember any details, just sensations. He would have to figure out a time where he could speak to her in private. With his being a prefect and her being the Head Girl, their free time was limited this term. A loud sound to his left distracted him from his considerations.

It was his best mate, eating. Ron, as usual, was raking in as much food as possible. Having been raised with five older brothers would do that to a bloke, Harry mused. Rooming and sharing meals with Dean, Seamus, and Neville could only reinforce it.

He took a sip of the coffee, and that's when Hermione said it.

"Don't you find it strange, Harry," she began, "that neither you nor Ron were given detention, let alone spoken to, about what happened on the train?"

Harry held the coffee in his mouth for a moment. It had not occurred to him previously. With the polar shift in Aunt Petunia's attitude, the trust of Marauder photos, the subsequent events during Announcements, and his restless night, it had simply escaped him. He swallowed the coffee with a loud gulp. No one had said anything to him. He was fairly certain that nothing had been said to Ron or Hermione; they would have mentioned it. He had actually attacked two prefects on the Hogwarts Express (albeit in the course of breaking up their fight), and the cramped passageway and neighbouring compartments held plenty of witnesses. Yet no one had said a word, not Headmaster Dumbledore, not Professor McGonagall. Not even Snape and he would certainly have reason to complain as it involved a Slytherin, even if it was Malfoy. Parkinson, drama queen that she was, would have absolutely played up the scene to Snape as well, crocodile tears and all.

Harry stared at his plate for a beat and then looked up at Hermione. "I hadn't thought about it until just now, Hermione." He looked over to Ron, who, while still eating, was regarding the both of them seriously. "Anyone say anything to you?"

Ron paused. He chewed on a piece of bacon and slowly shook his head. "Nah, mate," he said. 'I would've told you. 'Sides, I should think you'd be spoken to first. You did knock us apart."

A look of concern appeared on Hermione's face. She still held the toast between her fingers, and started to tap the crust against her bottom lip. Harry soon found himself staring at the toast. Tap, tap, tap. It was ever so gently bouncing off of her bottom lip. Her lips were very pink, he decided. Her skin was a soft, milky peach in contrast. She paused, the tip of her tongue darting out to lick a few crumbs from her bottom lip. Harry's eyes widened. Her tongue was very pink as well. Bloody hell, did she just have to do that? Now she's back to tapping that piece of toast against her lip. She's going to have to do…it…again, isn't she? Grief, I don't think I could handle it. For some reason a bloody piece of toast is about to give me a wobbly. Then he realised that he was being spoken to.

"WHAT?" he said a little more loudly than he had intended.

Both Ron and Hermione traded odd glances and then looked back at Harry. "I was saying, Harry, that it seems very strange indeed that nothing's been done about what happened on the train. Although you had the right intentions, you did technically attack two prefects, among scores of witnesses. I was there and no one's asked me about the incident." Hermione cocked her head to one side and asked, "Are you feeling all right, Harry?"

He nodded hurriedly and took a quick drink of pumpkin juice. "Yeah. Just didn't get much sleep last night." He saw the briefest of smiles flicker onto Hermione's face. "And what happened on the train…there being no punishment…I guess that is bothering me in a way." He took the fork he was holding and loudly hit his plate with it. "Bloody well better not be showing me any favouritism," he muttered, lending his words a conviction he didn't quite feel.

Ron gave him an elbow to his ribs. "Harry, c'mon now, you did the right thing. If anyone should have been given detention or anything, it would be me. I was the one tussling with Malfoy. You did your job as a prefect, really." He took a large, wolfish bite out of the muffin.

Hermione looked suitably impressed. "Ronald, that is very mature of you. I'm…surprised, really."

Around a mouthful of pumpkin spice muffin, Ron mumbled, "Wahy, danks, Her-my-bon-nee."

She sighed exaggeratedly and rolled her eyes upwards. Ron tipped the wink to Harry and continued to devour the muffin. Harry decided to hide in his cup of coffee, to keep the grin on his face from Hermione. As amusing as it was to see Ron and Hermione have a go at it, Harry knew her well enough to recognize that she was deeply bothered by the fact that there were no repercussions from the incident on the train.

"Why do you think that nothing's happened to us, Hermione?" he asked, finally moving from behind his cup.

She put down the piece of toast and scrunched her nose in such a way that it made Harry's foot tap a parariddle on the stone floor. She pursed her lips together as she began to twirl a strand of hair between her fingers. Harry knew from experience that she was giving his question serious thought. "It could well be that, given the witnesses, it was determined that you weren't in the wrong, Harry. As Ron noted -" at this the red-head grinned around a mouthful of sausage "- you were doing your duty as a prefect. And, as Ron has told us, he didn't start it. Malfoy initiated the fight." Hermione seemed to be thinking aloud. "We have a number of new professors this term. It's…entirely possible that they were witness to some, if not all, of what happened."

"But we didn't see any profs out in the corridor, Hermione," countered Ron.

"There were people in the compartment right in front of where the fight took place," offered Harry. Hermione's eyes fixed on him, and he felt his mouth run dry. "I-I heard them after the fight ended, when we were walking away." He quickly reached for his pumpkin juice. "I didn't think they were professors, though," he added.

"Why's that, Harry?" She was still looking at him very intently. It was beginning to nerve Harry. In his mind, a pattern was starting to take shape. Everyone seemed to be either staring or winking at him this term.

"From what I heard," Harry explained, "someone said that the fight was 'right wicked' and then that person was shushed…and I think ribbed."

"Eh?" Ron's mouth opened and a bite of scrambled egg tumbled out.

Hermione's face immediately twisted into a moue of distaste. "Ronald! That's disgusting."

To that, Ron opened his mouth even further, revealing the partially chewed contents to the Head Girl. She twisted her face again, broke off a piece of the toast she had been eating, and threw it at Ron. He expertly caught it in his mouth. "Can't get one past the Keeper, Hermione," he said as he chewed the toast.

By the look on Hermione's face, it appeared as though she was prepared to issue a very sharp retort. Harry prepared himself to intervene, but, at that moment, much to him relief, Seamus came running to the table, book in hand.

He slammed the book down on the wooden surface and announced, triumphantly, "I did research."

Ron, Harry, Hermione, and everyone else at the table, and at the nearby Ravenclaw table, and the nearby Hufflepuff table, and even at the Slytherin table, boggled.

"Are you feeling all right?" asked Neville, a look of worry on his face. Harry couldn't blame him for worrying; it was the start of term and they had yet to sit in class, so there was no need to do any research, not unless you were Hermione. And, this was Seamus Finnegan after all, someone not known for swotting, let alone raiding the Hogwarts library.

"I am brilliant," Seamus pronounced with a grin.

Hermione arched an eyebrow at Ron and Harry. "Right. You're brilliant, Seamus. Let's have it, then. Why have you been researching and what have you found?"

Seamus flashed another grin, took a seat next to Hermione, and slid the book over. Harry read the cover aloud. "Quidditch Illustrated Almanac, 1985-1995." He frowned at his roommate. "Why'd you pull this?"

"Because, mate, it's been botherin' me. After yesterday, with what Hermione told us and all, and with what happened to yeh durin' Announcements, a name was stuck in me head. It took me a fair bit, but I finally remembered wherefrom I might've heard the name. So, I spent the early part of the mornin' sussin' it out." Seamus folded his arms across his chest and nodded. "And I was."

Harry and his friends moved in closer to Seamus. Harry noticed a young Ravenclaw girl looking over at them. When she met his look, she smiled in an awkward sort of way, one that made him think that he had caught her at something, and then she quickly spun round. He shrugged it off and turned his attention to the book, which Seamus had opened and was flipping through.

"What did you find out?" asked Dean, who had moved to stand behind Seamus.

He found the page he was seeking and pointed a finger at it. "Here. Feast yer eyes on this."

They crushed in even closer and had a look.

"The Pride of Portree? What about them?" Ron pulled a face. "Purple pansies." Harry smirked at his friend's annoyance. In Ron's estimation, there was no other professional Quidditch team other than the long-suffering Chudley Cannons. The Pride of Portree, despite winning the League championship in the 1960's, might as well have been a group of rank amateurs (despite the fact that Ron's beloved Cannons hadn't won a championship since the 1890's).

Neville started to read the entry. "In 1994, the Pride of Portree recruited who would soon prove to be one of the best seekers in the club's history. A recent graduate of Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and categorised as the best seeker in Ravenclaw House's history, Melora Lilasmorte-" at this Harry's eyes widened and murmurs started amongst them "-has already substantiated her Hogwarts' reputation with a stellar rookie season with the Prides." Neville stopped reading and looked round the group of friends. "She was a seeker?" he wondered.

"Never mind that, she was a professional?" Weasley looked fittingly impressed, even though she had played for a team other than the Cannons.

Harry stared at the entry and at the accompanying photo. It was a group shot of the Pride of Portree. He could make out Lilasmorte, in the front row of the team, wearing the trademark purple robes with the large gold star on the front, leaning against her broom. She was wearing sunglasses. He felt another tug at his memory. There was something about the photo…something that nagged at him…but what?

"She looks familiar," Hermione said slowly.

Ron snorted and scrunched his nose at her. "Did you not have enough coffee this morning? We saw her yesterday, Hermione," he laughed.

"Besides that, Ronald," she snapped at him. She tapped on the team photo with her index finger. "This…is familiar. But I don't know how."

Harry stared at the photo again, and at the face of their new professor. She was smiling, but it wasn't a great toothy grin like the other members of the team. The dark sunglasses were an interesting touch. She wasn't quite standing with the team, he noticed. She was slightly ahead of them, closer to the camera, and not standing immediately next to a team-mate. Although Lilasmorte was surrounded by the Pride of Portree, she looked amazingly alone.

I know what that can feel like…

"What's this all mean, though?" wondered Neville.

"It means that one of our profs plays Quidditch. Kind of makes her a bit more normal, doesn't it?" offered Dean, taking a drink of orange juice. "Maybe you were right, Nev, maybe she is nice."

Harry nodded mutely. "Oh, she's not the only one to play Quidditch, though. Auct was on the Gryffindor team. He was a chaser."

Ron's eyes lit up at that. "Really? Brilliant! Maybe he's not so bad."

"You couldn't even look at him yesterday," snickered Harry.

Ron made a face at him and sat back down to finish his breakfast. "Quidditch is Quidditch, mate. At least it makes him a bit more normal, like Dean said. Even though he's got those…purple eyes." His enthusiasm visibly waned at the remembrance.

"In the very least, we do know a bit more about Professor Lilasmorte. Thanks, Seamus," Hermione said with a smile.

Finnegan beamed proudly, well chuffed at her words. He nodded his head and said, "Anytime, Hermione, anytime."

Harry had to smile in return. Hermione looked to be amused and surprised that Seamus had actually gone into the library for him. "Thanks, mate," he said to him, clapping him on the back. Seamus gave him a nod and sat down between Dean and Neville and started to load a plate for himself. Ron leaned over and the foursome started talking about Quidditch and how it was that Seamus had even heard of Lilasmorte's name previously. Harry smiled again. Quidditch…Auct and Lilasmorte played Quidditch. Auct with his father during their school days and Lilasmorte while at school and professionally - and she was a seeker on top of that. The knowledge made him feel a bit better, made him feel steadier. Quidditch…they had that in common. He would ask her about it at the end of class, he decided. He added that to his growing mental list of things to do on the day. Advanced Muggle Studies was their first class; after that was Advanced Transfigurations. The morning break between should give him enough time to speak to both Lilasmorte and Hermione.

He noticed that Hermione was looking at him, and he met her gaze. "Are you all right, Harry?"

He nodded and grinned. "Yeah, actually. Yeah. Quidditch…first Auct, and now Lilasmorte. Funny, the things that you can find in common with a person," he said softly.

"That doesn't mean that you trust her now, do you? Not after what happened?" she frowned. It was obvious to him that Hermione did not seem to care for Professor Lilasmorte. He felt a spasm of insecurity at that, one that he did not know the source of. Why didn't Hermione like the professor? Nothing had happened. And Hermione didn't seem too bothered on the bridge.

"Hermione, I…" he began, and then stopped. He weighed the words in his mind and then started. "I don't know enough about her to say. She told me that what happened during Announcements was inadvertent. And you said yourself that Dumbledore would never let anything happen to me at Hogwarts."

She chewed on her bottom lip, a habit that Harry found disconcerting and endearing, and sighed loudly. "I did say that."

He smiled at her and motioned toward her toast. "It's settled, then. I'm going to ask both Professors Lilasmorte and Auct about Quidditch after classes. We'll have to leave soon for Muggle 201, so you ought to finish your breakfast."

She stuck her tongue out at him and dutifully filled her coffee mug. "All right then. But I am going to be close by while you talk to her, just in case. And I expect a full report when you are done."

"Yes, ma'am." He crooked a grin at her and nodded, all thoughts of his unsettling dreams lost in the warmth of his friends.