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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.

Additional disclaimers may be found in Chapter Five, "At Least, Be Humane".

Spoiler Alert: This fic contains spoilers to Books 1-5. If you haven't read any of the books or have at least seen the films...close your eyes and start singing like no one is listening. Oh, by the way, this fic is H/Hr. It will be light and airy fluff, when there is any, but it is H/Hr, even though it just doesn't taste like it right now. There has been a smattering of "squee" moments, some whacks to the head for Harry, whatnot, with more to come. So, now that I have lost all of you prospective readers…

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 all of those who have read and stuck along for the dull ride (so, that's like, one person?) and especially to those who have reviewed. Extra special thanks to my favourite torture subject - erm, to RONIN10. ^.^' As always, gentle reader, this remains a long form piece; meaning, it has been planned and time lined to be novel-length. It will feel at times that events are moving v-e-r-y slowly. I will tell you that things will pick up shortly. The chapter after next, actually. Though hinted at in the early chapters, the H/Hr ship does not set sail until nearly the end. There is an infestation of MacGuffins; please exercise caution, as they have been known to bite.

Right. Enough of that then. By the way, this is a dead boring chapter. Not to be taken with other sleep aids. Oh, and I HATE it as well.

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HARRY POTTER AND THE BLACK SOCIETY

[] CHAPTER SIX: ARCHITECTURE IN HELSINKI

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Over the remainder of breakfast Harry found his mind wandering to the string of revelations that had marked the start of his final year at Hogwarts. As he reflected on such things, he cast occasional glances at Hermione. He breathed an internal sigh of relief at the fact that she was currently ensconced in a book. Harry didn't think that he could bear watching her eat or drink anything at the moment. Especially toast. Toast… Oh, that piece of toast…

Is it wrong to wish I were a piece of toast? It wouldn't matter if I were white or wheat. Wait. Perhaps it would. Does Hermione like white loaf? Or does she like wheat? Or does she prefer something exotic, like sourdough, or rye, or pumpernickel? What kind of toast was she eating? I think it was white. It could have been white. Wheat usually has those bits of leaf and twig on the crust. I think. White is a bit plain. I'm a bit plain. I could be toast. Grief. What in the bloody hell am I whinging on about? Toast? I'm after going potty. I can just hear Peeves now, wee Potty Potter, after wanting to be a piece of toast.

Oh, Merlin….

Why was it that his life couldn't be the uneventful sort? One filled with the ordinary, mundane routines of wholesome life? One where his greatest decision was Earl Grey or English Breakfast? Pumpkin or orange juice? Jelly or jam? Merlin, it wasn't fair. With everything else, to be unsettled at the site of Hermione eating…toasted bread… It just wasn't fair. His experiences so far had already taught him that lesson, among many others. Life is not fair. People die. Dreams are destroyed. Flowers are trampled on. The tea always gets cold. Life is a zero sum game and the rules always change, save for one: life is not fair.

Would it have thrown the Universe off balance if he caught a break ever so often? What would I do with one anyways? he wondered to himself. Why was it that Merlin, God, the Powers That Be, whomever was in charge of these things, thought it not only terribly amusing to set Riddle and his fan club after him, but this term also decided to make everyone either gape or tip the wink at him and also made Hermione very… soft…and pink… No, no, no, I can't think about that right now. There are too many things going on for me to fixate on the toast and the crumbs and her lips and her tongue and how I never in my life wanted to be a crumb so badly - dammit, Potter, you've got to get yourself to stop thinking about that bit of toast. Too many terrible things had happened too quickly, so very rapidly, that he even had difficulty in recalling those events with absolute confidence. And now he was on the verge of being distracted completely by the way in which Hermione ate her breakfast. Harry reckoned that he was desperately in need of a rest. Someone Upside Down Or Sideways Somewhere owed him that much. He only needed to find a time and a place where he wasn't likely to stumble onto a conspiracy of some fashion, like someone nicking the Philosopher's Stone or trying to kill off the Muggle-borns or kill him, again and again and again, for that matter.

In all likelihood, that was as probable as Draco Malfoy giving the Death Eaters the fingers, joining the Ministry of Magic as an Auror, and marrying, hell, marrying Ginny Weasley or something. Things like that just don't happen.

It didn't help matters that Harry was of the feeling that, despite his best efforts, he was inexorably headed into a great deal of trouble. He always had the uncanny knack of knowing when something was wrong.

More often than not.

He could always tell when there was something wrong (when it wasn't directly related to Voldemort. Such trouble always set the lovely token of his esteem made in the shape of a lightning bolt to burning). It only took him seven years to understand what the symptoms meant is all. With all that he had been through, Harry supposed he deserved a bit of a learning curve. Harry wasn't certain of what to call it - intuition, perception, clairvoyance (Trelawney would have loved that), a wrenching in the gut, or a portentous pain in the knee. There was a ticklish sensation in the back of his mind, a tingle in his senses, an awareness that an event was on the verge of transpiration. If it were something really terrible on the horizon, his stomach would tighten. He would almost unconsciously clench and unclench his hands. He would gnash his teeth. All of his senses would heighten to a preternatural high. It all bore a remarkable resemblance to the sense of dread that foreshadowed a bellowed summons to Professor McGonagall's office.

After six years at Hogwarts, he had finally learned that there was something that was essentially fundamental to the works of life, so rudimentary to the make-up of every species in the Wizarding and Muggle world (most notably with the humanoid species) that it gave a precognitive indication as to the where and when of the bludger, or bolt, or Unforgivable Curse which had one's name fixed upon it. One would realize through some magic of physiology and design when some unfortunate circumstance was about to occur, although not necessarily at the right time, nor the right place, but almost always in advance of the occurrence.

And so, it was on the first day of his year, while at breakfast, that Harry concluded that life, for lack of a better term, sucked.

He dimly noticed that breakfast had drawn to a close. Ron and their roommates continued to argue over the successes and failures of the Cannons and the rest of the league and Hermione was still immersed in the Quidditch Almanac. Harry had never thought that he would see the day that Hermione would be reading up on Quidditch; apparently the mention of Professor Lilasmorte had piqued her interest in the sport at last. He and his classmates began to shuffle out of the Great Hall to their first classes of the term.

As they walked, Harry found his mind returning to his previous line of thought. He sighed heavily and felt the smooth surface of his textbooks beneath his fingertips, and secured his thoughts through the reality of touch. Actually, if anything, Harry felt that the events of sixth year had heightened his sense of right and wrong. He allowed himself a brief smile. He could attribute the balance to one Hermione Jane Granger. She had a wonderful moral sensibility to her, a very pragmatic way of viewing the battle between good and evil. The…skirmish…between the Death Eaters and the Order last term had something to do with it as well. The remembrance saddened him and brought back the uncomfortable feeling that something was very wrong. An unfamiliar sense of dislocation and confusion welled up within him. Things aren't always what they seem, he thought to himself warily. He had made that mistake many times before, and was now afraid to do so again.

Harry uneasily admitted to himself that he was afraid of a lot of things, which included him on occasion.

Harry collected his thoughts and stared down at the stone floor. He knew he had to find a way to clear his mind. He couldn't dwell on the past once more, he couldn't afford to mire his soul in his guilt and regret. That was something that he had promised himself he would no longer do. And yet, all of his anxieties were beginning to wear on him yet again. He decided to try his best not to think about it.

Naturally, Harry found himself right back in the middle of his mental funk.

He redirected his attentions outwards and made a concerted effort to focus in on the conversation Ron and his mates were having on their way to class.

Advanced Muggle Studies, or, Muggle 201 as many of the seventh years had taken to calling it, was located on the fourth floor of Hogwarts. Harry reckoned that its location would prove to be convenient as the Gryffindor Common Room was also located on the same floor. He found himself wondering precisely where the classroom would be located - short of being in a forbidden area, there wasn't any available space left on the fourth floor. Dumbledore hadn't made mention of opening up parts of the fourth floor during Announcements.

Since the proud discovery of Professor Lilasmorte's professional Quidditch past by Seamus, his circle of friends had discussed the finding and its implications on the season. Everyone had joined in the conversation…everyone save for Hermione. As she seemed to have some idea of where the Muggle 201 classroom might be located (which, as Harry thought, made sense as this was Hermione and she was Head Girl), she was walking in the lead. Ron and Harry were close behind her, with their roommates gathered round them.

They walked to class in that closely-knit group, excitedly discussing the possibilities.

"D'you think she'll help out the Ravenclaw team?" Dean asked. "Along the lines of an academic advisor or other?"

Seamus made a noise and hung his head. "Ach, no, that wouldn't be fair now, would it?" He shook his head slowly. "We're buggered if she is some sort of academic advisor. The Prides are decent, yeh know."

Ron directed a severe "How Dare You Name A Team Other Than The Cannons" look at him. Harry knew that look well. Seamus pulled an apologetic face and moved to put Longbottom between him and the Gryffindor Keeper.

"M-maybe we can get Professor Auct to help the Gryffindor team," offered Neville, cringing in anticipation. Judging by the look on his face, Harry guessed that Neville knew that he was being used as Finnegan's human shield.

Now it was Ron's turn to make a noise. "Auct? That's all well and good, but he wasn't a professional was he?" He shook his head. "No, no, no, this is not good. This is not good at all. If Ravenclaw gets help from a pro…"

"Listen, Ron, you know McGonagall will make sure that Ravenclaw doesn't have an unfair advantage. I doubt she'd let a pro consult for an opposing House's team," Harry said to him. "Just don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about it, he says. Don't worry about it. Bloody Ravenclaw's got a pro on their team and he tells me not to worry about it."

At this, Hermione made her one and only contribution to the conversation. "Honestly, Ronald, it's not as though she can even play on the team."

Weasley made a face and snorted loudly. "I still don't like it, Hermione. It's just not right, having a pro in around Ravenclaw. I don't like it one bit."

Harry could just hear Hermione say softly, "Neither do I, Ron."

He wanted very much to say something to her at that moment, but thought against it. Not now. After class. Alone. As he'd originally planned.

It wasn't until they rounded the corner that Harry realized where their new Advanced Muggle Studies classroom was. It was in the room that once housed the Mirror of Erised. He filed into the corridor with the rest of the class, trying to keep the surprise from registering on his features. Of all rooms, why this one? The room where he first saw his parents…

He and his friends stepped into the hallway at the same time as Malfoy and his entourage did. Upon (in some cases literally) running into the Gryffindors, Malfoy and his lot all snorted in perfect unison. The ridiculous notion came to Harry that it was as though they practised this sort of thing in their Common Room late at night. Okay, everyone, this is for the honour of Slytherin House, now, on three, one, two, three, ~SNORK~. If it were any more flawless the concert snort would have been in four-part harmony as well. Harry had not thought it to be something he'd ever hear, nor, for that matter, be anything he should want to hear.

"Potter," the blonde sneered at him by way of greeting. Something in the way that Malfoy said his name made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand on end.

"Malfoy," he bit off in return, giving him a brusque nod. He tried to shake the strange feeling off. He did not want to give Malfoy any more ammunition that he already had. And there was still the little matter of him using the Separatus charm on Malfoy on the train…

Malfoy stared at him for a long moment, the cool argent eyes spitefully searching his face for something. A sign of frailty. A sign of anxiety. A sign of guilt. Anything. Harry was straight away reminded of a thirsty crow pecking at a face for tears. The image threatened to send a shiver through him, so he forced his body to remain steady. He returned the hard gaze in kind. They held for a moment, Slytherin facing Gryffindor, and then the tense atmosphere buckled under its own weight.

Evidently far from satisfied, Malfoy tipped his head toward the classroom. The Slytherin contingent pushed their way ahead of the Gryffindors, Malfoy walking in the midst of them, Parkinson at her usual place, draped around his shoulders. The prefect took the opportunity to loll her head back over her shoulder. She lazily offered Hermione a rather nasty look, one of her more patronizing ones, Harry thought. Hermione's upper lip curled and she practically snarled in return. Harry made it a point to get between the two before they took to duelling in the hall.

Apparently, Ron had the very same thought as he also moved to stand between Hermione and Pansy. "Head Girl, Head Girl," he muttered, his eyebrows raised.

Hermione actually scowled at him. "You weren't this cautious on the train, Ron."

"Yeah, well, that was the train. You do the very thing you meant to do on the train here, and it's your career as a Head Girl. You don't want that over with the first day of the term, do you?"

Hermione glowered after the departing prefect. "She's a miserable little wench." Ron and Harry traded glances at that comment. It appeared that the events of sixth year were still fresh in Hermione's mind. She shook her head and waved a hand before her, almost as if she were physically dismissing the thought. "No, you're right, Ronald. It's not the time now. You're right." She drew in a deep breath and calmly walked into class.

Ron mouthed to Harry, "I'm right?" and then followed her in, his eyes wide at the prospect.

Harry stood in the hallway, watching the rest of the class trickle in. The shiver he had been fighting finally realised itself, and he shuddered violently, goose pimples on his skin. He suddenly felt very dizzy, and almost a bit ill. He gulped down air, fighting the sensation. "Something's wrong here," he whispered, clutching his books tightly. "Something is not right." He stared at the entryway to the classroom, fighting the surge of dread he felt filling his stomach. He took in several deep breaths, steadying himself. He couldn't…be like this, not with…her teaching the class. He slowly walked into the classroom, hoping to abandon the feeling in the hallway behind him.

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

Hermione had saved him a seat next to her. Ron was on the other side of the aisle. They both seemed unaware of the fact that he had spent the last few minutes in the hallway hyperventilating. The disquieting sensation was still with him, but at least he would have his friends to either side. That helped to balance Harry some.

As he settled in, he happened onto the fact that they didn't appear to have a professor.

"She's never late?" Hermione murmured to him scandalously.

Ron rolled his eyes as leaned across the aisle. He offered her a shrug. "First day and all. Perhaps she can't find the class."

"This wasn't a classroom before," Harry added quietly.

"What was it?" Hermione asked him.

Harry paused a moment before saying, "Some sort of store room." He didn't know why he skipped over the detail of it being the room where the Mirror of Erised had been kept. It just…didn't come out of his mouth. He was thankful when Ron didn't make mention of the mirror. He likely didn't remember exactly where it was originally their first year.

He was distracted by the sound of shuffling feet and quills being tapped against wood. The Slytherins were starting to get anxious. Never to be confused with someone possessing patience, Draco Malfoy was fidgeting at his desk, his foot tapping loudly against the stone floor. "Honestly," he scowled. "She's a Ravenclaw. You'd think she'd have to good grace to be here on time."

His eyes narrowed and Harry leaned over his desktop to glare at Malfoy. "Shut it, Malfoy." Something about the other boy's comment rankled him greatly.

Malfoy adopted an expression of astonishment. 'What was that, Potter?"

"You heard me the first time." He said that very casually.

The other boy snarled and moved forward in his seat. "How dare you," he spat.

"I dare just fine and well, thank you. So, you can shut it at anytime now." Harry busied himself with setting up his parchment and quill. If he couldn't shake the morose feelings and the prickling in his thumbs, he could at least take the mick with Malfoy. Harry did his best to look completely unruffled.

He could feel Hermione's and Ron's eyes upon him, the entire class, actually. They must think I'm off the trolley, he mused. Perhaps I am. At any rate, I'm going to have my spot of fun with it.

"Do you have any idea of what you are doing, Potter?" The tone was ice cold and the words were practically bitten off instead of spoken. He knew that he was getting at Malfoy.

Harry leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his robes. "For some reason, I am still hearing your voice, Malfoy." He indolently slanted his head at him. "Do you not know what 'shut it' means?"

Something inside of him was pushing him on despite the fact that Harry knew that he was treading dangerous waters. The knowledge was proved when Malfoy's face drained of emotion. He slowly got to his feet, levelling a particularly foul gaze at Harry. "Care to finish what you started on the train, Potter?" Slowly, deliberately, he parted his robes, announcing in a dramatic fashion his intention to reach for his wand.

Harry gave him a very lazy look, slid down in his seat, stretched out his legs, and did a panto of a yawn. "If I remember correctly, I was finished with you on the train…I distinctly remember knocking you on your arse. Hmm, yes, I should rather think that was a fitting end."

He saw Hermione's eyes widen at him. She was surprised at his cavalier change in attitude. He was surprised, he came to realise, but he figured that it was loads better than feeling sick to his stomach with trepidation.

Malfoy snarled and began to reach into his robes. In a single movement, Harry swiftly produced his wand and moved to stand on top of his seat, putting Hermione out of the line of fire and giving Malfoy a different targeting angle.

Then they heard a polite cough from the rear of the classroom.

The entire class turned as one to look at the source.

Professor Lilasmorte was sitting on the top of a long table in the back of the classroom. Her legs were crossed and she wore a satisfied look on her face. Harry immediately thought that she must have witnessed the entire exchange. She cocked her head at the two nascent duellists, deftly launched herself off of the table, and strode to the front of the class via the aisle between Harry's and Draco's desks.

"Down, boys," she sighed, raising her hands. She gave a subtle wave and the two prefects literally dropped back into their seats, eyes wide, mouths slack from shock, Harry's rear end, at least, smarting from the fall.

"What…" began Malfoy.

"How…" started Harry.

"Indeed," said Professor Lilasmorte. She walked to her desk at the head of the classroom and turned to face the students. "Good morning," she said to them, a bright smile on her face.

The students blinked at her in return.

Professor Lilasmorte arched an eyebrow and looked over the assembly of bewildered Gryffindors and Slytherins. "Hmm. Well. Shall I order us some pots of coffee from the kitchens then?"

"Pardon?" Harry turned to see Seamus had a baffled frown on his face, much the same as the frown he was currently sporting. "Coffee, Professor?" Seamus continued.

"Or tea. Whatever it will take to wake you all up," she said dryly. She walked over to the lectern and clasped the edges firmly with her hands. "Let's try this again, shall we? Once more, with feeling. Good morning."

"Good morning," the class murmured in response.

Lilasmorte audibly sighed. "Brilliant. I am hoping…though I must admit said hope is rapidly diminishing…that all of you received my note regarding the books you will need for this class?"

There was a general hum from the class. Harry, still in disbelief from Lilasmorte's display of wandless magic, could only nod. She had very easily set him and Malfoy down in their seats, nonchalantly so. He slid a glance over at Malfoy. He appeared as stunned as he felt. Malfoy must have sensed Harry's eyes upon him, for he met his glance. His argent eyes flickered over to their new professor, and then back to Harry.

Harry focussed his interest on the front of the classroom. Before him, he saw Neville slowly raise his hand into the air. Lilasmorte smiled and nodded to him. "Ma'am," he said nervously, "I wasn't able to get all of the books on the list."

She smiled and nodded again and addressed the rest of the class. "Was anyone else unable to get all of the books?" Harry and his friends took a quick inventory. Quite a few hands went into the air, some of them tentatively. He wasn't surprised to see that many of the hands belonged to Slytherins, Malfoy included. He would certainly never stoop to enter a Muggle bookshop. "I take it that it was the Muggle books you had trouble obtaining, correct?" There was a murmur that sounded vaguely in the affirmative to Harry. It apparently sounded the same to Professor Lilasmorte as she moved to her desk, opened a drawer, and began stacking books onto the desk's surface. "As my note said, books will be provided to those who were unable to obtain them. I'll have you all sorted."

"But, ma'am…I don't have any money with me. I mean, not enough to buy books with right now. Just enough for the trip to Hogsmeade. I'll have to owe you," Neville explained. He hid his face in embarrassment.

Malfoy and his cronies snickered at Neville. Harry felt a wave of anger wash over him, and he knew that his friends did as well, as they all glared at Malfoy.

Lilasmorte cast a glance at scowling students, and stepped over to Neville's desk, several books in her hand. She gently placed the books on his desk and crouched in the aisle. This put her on an even level with Neville. Harry was impressed by the action and then was almost staggered by what she said next. "You don't owe me a thing, Mr. Longbottom. I said that the books would be provided to those who were unable to obtain them. And I meant that."

Neville gaped at her. "But, Professor, I couldn't -"

She shook her head and patted the books with a gloved hand. "You can and you will. You owe me nothing more than your time during class and during study. No more, no less." She stood and returned to her desk. "And that's all." She made a wave of her hand and then walked to the lectern. "Now, then, let's get started."

"But, Professor, the rest of the books," said Theodore Nott. That it was his voice astounded all of the students, especially the ones in Slytherin.

"Your desk, Mr. Nott," she told him. He peered down at his desk and noticeably boggled.

As did everyone else who had been missing the Muggle psychology books.

Harry could scarcely believe it. Professor Lilasmorte had…moved, transported, something, she had somehow placed the needed books at the desks of every student lacking them.

"How in Merlin's name did she do that?" Hermione whispered. She looked around the classroom in abject disbelief. "Did you see her do it? I…she just…how did she do that?"

Harry looked over to Ron, who simply regarded him with wide eyes. "If Hermione doesn't know, mate," he said slowly. Harry nodded and turned in his seat and stared down at the desktop. If Hermione didn't know how Lilasmorte got the books from her desk…if Lilasmorte was able to drop him and Malfoy without batting an eye…if Lilasmorte had followed him and wasn't a member of the Order or an Auror…who exactly was teaching this class…?

"Now, who can tell me the definition of psychology?"

Harry snapped his head upwards at the sound of her voice. The rest of the class simply blinked at Professor Lilasmorte.

"Perhaps I should reconsider ordering that coffee," she murmured. "Anyone? The definition of psychology?" Hermione, with an uncharacteristic sluggishness that concerned Harry, raised her hand. Lilasmorte chuckled and shook her head in a negative. "My apologies, Miss Granger, I really should rephrase my question. Would anyone who hasn't had experience with the Muggle world please define psychology?"

There was a palatable silence. It was broken by a petite cough, and then a girl's voice said, "It's the study of…why we do what we do, isn't it?" All of the students turned in their seats to look at the speaker. It was Lavender Brown, who visibly shrunk beneath the class' gaze.

'Very good, Miss Brown, that is a start. Now, Miss Granger, I should like to hear your take on it."

Harry could feel the tension radiate from Hermione as the class shifted its attention from Lavender to her. Hermione seemed strangely flustered and it was becoming something of a concern to him. "Well…strictly speaking…it would be the science of behaviour and mental processes."

Lilasmorte seemed pleased with that. "Well done, Miss Granger. With the start provided to us by Miss Brown and Miss Granger, we can begin. As you have all been through Muggle Studies, I should like to offer you another point of view on Muggles and our study of them. We have our definition of psychology. Let us examine psychology's perspectives." Professor Lilasmorte turned toward the chalkboard set up behind her, but was interrupted by a loud and familiar snort. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy," she said over her shoulder.

Harry had the definite impression that Lilasmorte was smiling.

"Why do we need a class on Advanced Muggle Studies?" Draco elegantly draped his legs over the corner of his desk and crossed his arms. "We've been though the regular old Muggle Studies class. Fat lot of good that did. Why Advanced Muggle Studies?" He snorted again and Harry was convinced that the boy practised in front of the mirror every morning. "This is about as useful as studying the architecture in Helsinki would be."

At that Lilasmorte spun round and regarded Malfoy quizzically. "What a peculiar turn of phrase," she observed. She hesitated, appearing to seriously consider his comment, and then continued. "As to your question, Mr. Malfoy, why Advanced Muggle Studies" - at that she performed an admirable impersonation of his voice, earning a measure of respect from Harry - "I'm sure that you've heard that there's a war on?" The corner of her mouth curled into a smile. "As with most wars, this one is neither gracious nor subtle." Her smile quickly faded and Harry found himself wondering how much of the war she had experienced. "There have been losses in both the Wizarding and the Muggle world. Terrible losses, as if a loss could be described as anything other. It is perhaps only a short matter of time before we are exposed to the Muggle world fully. We have already incurred liabilities and are only just managing to suppress full knowledge of our existence. The Ministry of Magic is taxed beyond its means to erase all evidence of our domestic battles. The longer and the fiercer the war wages, the closer we come to being exposed in full. When that time does come, you will all need to be prepared for it. The best manner in which we may prepare you is to educate you. Granted, this course is entitled Advanced Muggle Studies, but I assure you, what you learn here will do you well in the Wizarding world.

"Though psychology is considered a Muggle discipline, it is applicable to wizards and witches as it deals with how we process internal and external influences. How we perceive ourselves and how we perceive others. How much of our perceptions are the result of inheritance or instruction. It is my job to offer you the tools by which you may better understand yourselves. Once you understand who and why you are, you will be better able to understand those around you."

She paused and considered the students before her. "Understanding goes a long way, Mr. Malfoy. A little bit of understanding could well save our world." Her face clouded for an instant and then she flicked a smile at them before turning back to the chalkboard. "The perspectives of psychology," she said in a loud voice, writing the phrase on the black surface with a bit of enchanted chalk.

The students slowly took their quills in hand and began copying Professor Lilasmorte's notes from the board. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances. He could tell from the look in her eyes that she had the very same thought that he'd had. The war was not going well. They were losing.

…The Ministry of Magic is taxed beyond its means to erase all evidence of our domestic battles…

They were failing in their ability to keep the Wizarding world a secret. It was spiralling out of control, well out of the control of the Ministry. They were losing. The class wasn't just to prepare them for dealings with Muggles or with each other; it was to prepare them for life amongst the Muggles. With a twist of his stomach, Harry knew this thought to be the desperate truth: the children of those who stood against Voldemort were being readied to be hidden as Muggles.

They were being readied to become orphans.