2. untitled

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

It was another typically beautiful Scottish spring day at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. White candy floss clouds gently danced in a bright azure sky on a breeze scented by heather and puffapod buds. The sun sparkled on the surface of the lake, where the Giant Squid made a rare appearance to bask in the warmth of its glow. Even the Whomping Willow seemed to be in a good mood.

Inside the castle, however, a crisis was brewing. Not a crisis involving the Petrification of students, escaped convicts on the loose or the resurfacing of You-Know-Who--it was much more serious than that. No, this latest bout of trouble concerned the plight of Hogwarts' most famous and arguably most beloved student, Harry Potter. It was deemed serious enough to warrant an impromptu conference between the school's Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress to determine what could possibly be done to rectify this most dire of situations.

For inside the Hogwarts' Hospital Wing, The Boy Who Lived lay prone and listless in a bed, moaning and writhing in a state of near-delirium. His mouth seemed as dry as parchment, his tongue lolling like a slug. His eyes appeared glassy and unfocussed, though curiously, they still retained their usual vibrant shade of green. Every so often he would shudder and whimper, as if he were trapped in one of his more horrific nightmares.

"Harry?" Professor Dumbledore called softly to his lifeless student. "Harry?"

Professor McGonagall removed her hand from Harry's forehead, careful to avoid his scar. "I don't think he has a temperature. But he says his stomach hurts and he's seeing dots."

Harry blinked slowly, as if his eyes were being weighed down by a pair of Bludgers and it was a tremendous effort to keep them open. Dumbledore peered down at him though his half-moon spectacles. "Most disconcerting."

Professor McGonagall wrung her hands together desperately. "What are we going to do, Albus? Poppy says she's never seen anything like it before. Feel his hands--they're so cold and clammy!"

The Headmaster gently took one of Harry's hands between his own. "Perhaps we should get in touch with St Mungo's," he said thoughtfully.

"He doesn't want us to," Professor McGonagall replied, shaking her head and pursing her lips in a disapproving manner.

"Is that true, Harry?" Dumbledore asked gently.

Harry sighed, his body convulsing slightly. He attempted to speak, but all that came out of his mouth was a raspy sort of wheeze. Panting profusely, he took a deep breath and tried again. "Please ... I'm really quite fine ... there's no need to make such a fuss. I can't miss History of Magic this morning. I'll get up." He made a half-hearted attempt to sit up, accompanied by much panting and wheezing.

Madam Pomfrey pushed through the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress and addressed her young charge. "You'll do no such thing. You'll stay right here until we can sort out what ails you."

For the past half-hour, the poor school nurse had been pouring over every page of 'Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions' as well as 'Magical Drafts and Potions' and 'Weird Wizarding Dilemmas and Their Solutions', trying to find a cure or antidote for Harry's sudden, mysterious affliction, to no avail.

"But we have a test today!" Harry protested weakly. "I have to take it. I want to do well in my studies this year, so I can pass my NEWTs and defeat Voldemort, and go on to lead a fruitful, productive life ..." He trailed off, obviously exhausted from the sheer effort of speaking.

"You are not attending any of your classes in this state," Professor McGonagall insisted. She turned to Dumbledore, her brow knit with worry. "Perhaps one of us should stay with him, Albus, while Poppy tries to determine what the nature of his illness is."

"No," Harry replied, rather firmly. "I'm fine. I feel perfectly ... ooohhh!" He let out a low moan and clutched his stomach, doubling over in his infirmary bed. At once, Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall rushed towards him, while Dumbledore stood back, looking thoughtful.

Their ministrations to Harry's discomfiture were interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. Dumbledore walked away from the cooing women to open the Hospital Wing door, only to find Draco Malfoy on the other side, cradling his left hand, which was holding his wand.

"Yes, Mr Malfoy?"

"Oh, good morning, Professor Dumbledore," Malfoy began in his treacliest voice and with his most dazzling smile. Always a good idea to butter up the Headmaster a bit, he reckoned, even if Malfoy personally thought Dumbledore was a soft old fool. "Is it possible to see Madam Pomfrey? I seem to have burnt my hand in Potions class, and I was hoping to have some of her wonderful healing paste for it."

The Headmaster stood aside to allow Malfoy into the hospital wing.

"Professor Snape was teaching us how to make a common housecleaning solution," Malfoy continued conversationally as they walked back towards Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall. "But if you ask me, I don't see the point--I mean, that's what house-elves are for."

Dumbledore remained silent as they reached Harry's bedside. The nurse and the Deputy Headmistress were still fussing over their patient, their backs turned to the two others.

"Excuse me, Madam Pomfrey?" Malfoy drawled in impeccably polite dulcet tones.

Several moments passed before Madam Pomfrey replied. "Mmm ... yes?" she asked distractedly, without bothering to turn around.

Malfoy frowned slightly, perturbed he wasn't getting the attention he felt he rightfully deserved. Who cared about whatever trifling problem this pathetic little waster in the bed had? He was a Malfoy, and therefore took top priority over all others.

"Er ... I've burnt my hand on some Bundimun secretion," he explained a tad less patiently than he had to his headmaster, "and I'm in quite a bit of pain, and I want something to fix it."

Madam Pomfrey stood up and turned around, allowing Malfoy a perfect view of the mystery patient. His face registered instant revulsion.

"Well? Let's see, then," she demanded.

"Potter?" Malfoy sneered. "What are you doing here?"

"That is none of your concern, Mr. Malfoy," Professor McGonagall reprimanded. "Mr Potter is feeling very poorly."

Malfoy rolled his eyes as a look of utter disgust came over his face. "Yeah, right," he muttered. "Dry that one out and you could use it in place of Mooncalf dung for fertilizer."

"That's enough, Mr Malfoy!" Madam Pomfrey spoke sharply.

Malfoy was chagrined. "You're not falling for this, are you?" he howled at Professor McGonagall, "Surely you're not falling for this!"

"Malfoy?" Harry whispered dramatically. "Is that you? Malfoy? My vision's starting to blur ... Malfoy? I--"

"Kiss my wand, scarhead!"

"Silence!" Dumbledore's authorative voice rang out throughout the room. He stared down at the boy from his great height and spoke in tones that brooked no argument. "Mr Malfoy. I believe you came here for a purpose?"

Sullenly, Malfoy threw his wand down next to Harry's on the bedside table and pushed back the left sleeve of his robe. He exposed a slightly reddened patch of skin half the size of a Knut on the back of his hand.

"That?" Madam Pomfrey squinted disdainfully at the small mark. "Merlin's Beard, If you hadn't said that was a burn, I would have thought it was a freckle," she sniffed. "Very well."

She Accioed a tiny tube, from which she squeezed a small dot of orange paste onto Malfoy's wound and rubbed it in, tut-tutting as she did. "Seems a shame to waste a remedy this expensive on something so trivial."

Almost instantly, the burn vanished, but Malfoy made no move to leave. He was rooted to the spot as if trapped in Devil's Snare, glaring evilly at Harry.

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," Dumbledore said, because he knew Malfoy would not. "Mr Malfoy, your business here is finished. You will return to your class at once before I deduct points from Slytherin."

"Professor Dumbledore, you can't--you're not really letting him stay here? This is an outrage!" declared Malfoy. He knew he was stomping rather heavily across several sacred boundaries by getting a bit stroppy with the Headmaster, but Malfoy didn't care (besides, he knew his family would make yet another sizeable donation to the school to offset any trouble he may have gotten himself into). Seeing Potter lying there so smugly with half the staff of Hogwarts wrapped around his skinny little fingers made his blood boil. "I could have Bubotuber pus oozing out of my eyeballs, and I'd still have to go to class!"

Harry gave his sworn enemy a treacly-sweet smile. "Please don't be upset with me, Draco. You should be thankful you have your health."

A tear glistened in Professor McGonagall's eyes as she looked down fondly at her favourite pupil. All three faculty members turned to face Malfoy expectantly.

"Makes me want to vomit," he muttered darkly as he snatched up his wand and stormed out of the hospital wing.

After Malfoy's exit, Professor McGonagall turned back to Harry, who was staring thoughtfully at the bedside table. "It's settled then, Potter. You will stay here and get your strength back while Madam Pomfrey searches for a remedy." He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a finger to stop him. "Ah! No arguments."

Harry conceded defeat with an air of weary serenity, as if he had struggled valiantly but finally succumbed from sheer exhaustion, knowing this outcome was inevitable, anyway.

"I'll be okay," he assured them, with a weak, pathetic-sounding cough. "I'll just take some Pepperup Potion and sleep it off."

"I shall be in a number of conferences at the Ministry in London today, but Madam Pomfrey will know where I am, should you require me," Dumbledore told Harry.

"I will also be available, if need be," Professor McGonagall echoed, patting Harry's hand.

"It's comforting to know I have such caring, supportive teachers," he told them both solemnly. "You're both very special to me ... almost like parents."

The tear that had glistened in Professor McGonagall's eye now softly coursed down her cheek.

"Right then, Professors, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave," Madam Pomfrey began, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I have a lot of research to do."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly as Professor McGonagall stole one last worried look at Harry. As Madam Pomfrey began shepherding the pair away from her young charge, Harry called after her.

"Excuse me, Madam Pomfrey?" The three adults turned around. "I was just wondering ... is that dragon pox they have?"

He gestured towards the other end of the room, where Millicent Bulstrode and Justin Finch-Fletchley lay peacefully under the effects of a Sleeping Draught, recuperating from the mini-epidemic of dragon pox which had invaded Hogwarts the past fortnight. They were dotted from head-to-toe with Gunhilda of Gorsemoor's dragon pox cure--a paste made from Abyssinian shrivelfig, powdered moonstone, fluxweed, dragon's blood, daisy roots and pomegranate juice. It was not an attractive look by far (although it was almost an improvement for Millicent from her regular appearance). Across from them, Terry Boot also slept under the influence of a Sleeping Draught while he waited for the Skele-Gro to regrow the bones in his left leg. It had been smashed to smithereens during a particularly nasty Ravenclaw-Slytherin Quidditch match the night before.

"Miss Bulstrode and Mr Finch-Fletchley have dragon pox, yes," the nurse confirmed. "Mr Boot doesn't, although, he had it in second year, so he's likely immune to it now."

"Oh." Harry managed to convey many things with that one syllable, the most pressing of which was an impending sense of doom.

"Why do you ask?" Professor McGonagall enquired, her brows furrowed in concern.

"It's just that ... I've never had dragon pox before," he confided.

Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall exchanged worried looks.

"Surely you were inoculated as a ch--" the professor began, then cut herself short as he shook his head gravely. Of course Harry's wretched Muggle relations wouldn't have dreamt to vaccinate him against common childhood wizarding diseases--they hadn't even told him he was a wizard to begin with! Professor McGonagall felt a small surge of anger well up inside her as it always did when she thought of how badly Harry's relatives had mistreated him over the years.

"Perhaps you should just send me back to my aunt and uncle's," Harry suggested, his voice barely above a whisper. "I wouldn't want to contaminate the others with whatever it is I have, or possibly worsen their conditions."

The deputy headmistress felt her eyes tear up again. It was so typical of Harry to selflessly think of others during his own time of need. But sending him back to those horrible Muggles--why, it was absolutely unthinkable!

"That is out of the question," Professor McGonagall sniffed. "You're in far more ... capable ... hands here."

Madam Pomfrey appraised her patient with a critical eye. "Perhaps it would be best if we began his convalescence elsewhere, Minerva--not just for the benefit of the other students, but for his own sake, too. Dragon pox is highly contagious, and if he hasn't had it yet ... well, there's no telling how it could affect him in such a weakened condition."

"What did you have in mind, Poppy?" Professor McGonagall asked as the three adults moved towards the door.

"Is Rubeus Hagrid still away at that Dragon Research and Restraint seminar in Swansea?" Madam Pomfrey enquired.

"Yes," Professor McGonagall nodded. "I believe that runs until Thursday." "I'd like to quarantine Mr Potter in his hut, if possible," the nurse requested. "I can pop over throughout the day to monitor his condition."

Both women turned to Dumbledore, who was looking back at Harry with an unreadable expression on his face. After a moment or two, the Headmaster turned back towards them.

"Very well, then."

"Excellent." Madam Pomfrey looked pleased. "I'll head over there now and begin preparing things."

Harry gave the gathered adults a tremulous smile--as if he were bravely drawing upon what was left of his inner strength to carry on existing solely for their benefit--then settled back against his pillow with the grace of a dying swan, closing his eyes and sighing softly.

The three staff members exited the Hospital Wing, their murmurings and footsteps echoing faintly as they disappeared down the hall. Several minutes passed in silence, the only sounds from within the room coming from the shallow rising and falling of its occupants' chests. Suddenly, one bright emerald green eye popped open, darting around to ensure the coast was absolutely clear.

"Brilliant," Harry said aloud. He flung off his bedcovers and sat up, a cheeky smile dancing across his lips. "They bought it."

3. Chapter 2

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Having just dismissed the seventh-year Slytherins and Gryffindors, Severus Snape stood alone at the front of the Potions dungeon, grinding up a mound of live scarab beetles with a large mortar and pestle--a task which gave him an inordinate amount of satisfaction. His enjoyment didn't last long, however, as an assortment of fourth-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws noisily began to enter the classroom, snippets of their inane chatter floating towards him.

"I heard You-Know-Who poisoned his Butterbeer!"

"Well, I heard he was attacked by a Nundu and left for dead!"

"Silence," Snape demanded irritably, but no one seemed to hear him.

"I heard he's on his deathbed after suffering the Cruciatus Curse!"

"I heard he got lost in the Forbidden Forest and was trampled by a herd of centaurs--he was barely alive when they found him!"

"Silence!" Snape ordered, raising his voice this time, but again, his command fell on deaf ears.

"I heard he was eaten by a Lethifold in his sleep last night!"

"Nah, it was the Dementor's Kiss that did him in--poor sod's in the Hospital Wing now, completely vacant and lifeless!"

"SILENCE!" the professor bellowed. Immediately, a hush fell over the class. "What is all this commotion about?" Several students shifted uncomfortably in their seats, eyes cast downward. "Well?" Still, no one volunteered any information.

"Miss Madley?" A Hufflepuff girl turned red and shrunk down in her seat. The Potions Master turned his eyes to the Ravenclaw boy sitting next to her.

"Mr Ackerley?" The student in question opened his mouth and closed it again, before shaking his head fiercely.

"If someone does not tell me what is going on this instant," Snape said, his voice soft but menacing, "I shall take 50 points from both your houses."

At the back of the dungeon, Eleanor Branstone timidly raised her hand. He regarded her coldly.

"Miss Branstone."

"Well ... everybody's saying ... I mean, is it true that"--she bit her lip, and the rest of the words rushed out in a torrent of emotion--"that Harry Potter mysteriously collapsed and is lying deathly ill in the Hospital Wing?"

Her question unleashed another cacophony of horrified gasps and whispers.

"SILENCE!" the professor's voice thundered for the second time in as many minutes. How very typical of Potter to disrupt his classroom without even being present, let alone incite the student body to a false state of agitation over his well-being. Potter had been in perfectly good health the previous evening, when the Potions Master had caught him, Weasley and Finnigan returning from a midnight snack in the kitchen and sentenced them to detention. Still, Potter hadn't shown up for seventh-year Potions class with the Slytherins this morning ... the wheels in Snape's mind began to turn.

"The rumours of Mr Potter's demise are, I'm sorry to say, greatly exaggerated." The students couldn't tell if he was disappointed or relieved by this news. "Miss Branstone. Ten points from Hufflepuff for evoking such hysteria. A further 20 points from both Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw for not only falling victim to idle gossip and rumour, but perpetuating it by participating in such a ridiculous outburst in my classroom. And a further 50 points from whomever dares to breathe the words 'Harry Potter' again during the remainder of this class. Do I make myself clear?" No one was brave enough to meet Snape's beady black eyes, let alone reply. "Now. You've wasted enough of my time--turn to page three hundred and ninety four and let us begin."

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Harry strode over to the window and threw back the white curtains. The window was open slightly and he took in a deep breath of the fresh spring air. "How could I possibly be expected to handle classes on a day like this?"

"This is the seventh day I've had off this term," he mused to himself. "Which sounds impressive, but really, it isn't. I mean, all the other times I haven't been in class, Dumbledore's had me secretly dealing with the Dark Arts in some shape or form: Secret meetings at Order headquarters ... private tutorials on advanced Dementor defences ... skirmishes with Death Eaters in Knockturn Alley ..." He sighed, his shoulders slumping forward. "It's enough to drive you barmy sometimes, knowing that you alone have been marked for death for the past 17 years by the most evil and sinister creature known to wizardkind, and that you alone have the power to stop him--and by means of murder, at that. So is it any wonder I want a bit of a break? Just one day where I can be a regular bloke living a normal life, instead of--well, you know."

He hopped down from the ledge and walked down towards the other end of the room, where Terry, Millicent and Justin were deep in sleep. "I know I could probably ask Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall for some time to myself away from all this madness, and they'd probably indulge me, as well--but they'd send Hagrid or Lupin along for protection, or worse, want to accompany me themselves. And that isn't much of a break, really. So I had no other choice than to take matters into my own hands. I hate lying to them--I do--but today, it was a bit of a necessary evil. I'm just bloody floored it actually worked."

Harry sat down on the bed next to Justin and picked up one of Justin's arms by the forearm. Justin's wrist flopped down limply. Harry smirked as he propped Justin's wrist up with his other hand.

"See, the key to conning your teachers is the clammy hands. It's a good non-specific symptom--I'm quite an advocate of it. Of course, a Skiving Snackbox works wonders, too--nothing beats a couple of Puking Pastilles or Fainting Fancies to convince Madam Pomfrey you're on your last legs--but if you don't have one of those at your immediate disposal, this will do in a pinch.

Now, many people may tell you that a good phony fever is a dead cert, but, eh ... you make Professor McGonagall too nervous, you could wind up at St Mungo's. That's worse than school." He shook his head. "So, you fake stomach cramps, and when you're doubled over, moaning and whinging, you lick your palms ... It's a bit dodgy, but then again, so is repeatedly taking on the Dark Lord when you're only a teenager."

Harry lowered Justin's arm down gently and patted him on the head. "Yeah, life moves rather quickly. If you don't stop and look about every so often, you could miss it."

He began walking back towards his own bed. "I do have a test coming up--that wasn't a load of bollocks. That it was today, or that I care about it was. It's on the Goblin Rebellion of 1612. I mean, really--what's the point? I'm not a goblin. I don't plan on being a goblin. So, who gives a toss if they rebelled? They could be bloody buggering Death Eaters, for all I care."

Reaching the bed, Harry sat on its edge and ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up like the spines on a hedgehog. "Not that I condone Death Eaters, or any form of Dark Arts worship for that matter. Blind devotion to false messiahs, in my opinion, is not good. A person should not believe in messiahs, he should believe in himself. I quote Gilderoy Lockhart: 'I don't believe in magic, I just believe in me.' A bit of a wanker, our Gilderoy, but he had a good point there. After all, he was a celebrity who lived off the hype surrounding his name. I could be a celebrity who lived off the hype surrounding his name--I'd still be responsible for carrying the weight of the entire wizarding world on my shoulders."

Just then, Harry heard footsteps approach from outside the hospital wing. He dived under the covers and closed his eyes just as Madam Pomfrey opened the door. She tiptoed to his bedside, where Harry appeared to be sleeping peacefully, the corners of his mouth faintly turned up in a tragic, waif-like smile.

"Poor little Puffskein," she cooed softly, smoothing down a wayward tuft of hair. She hated to wake a sleeping angel, but now that she had changed Hagrid's bed linens and started a cosy fire, it was time to move her favourite patient to his new quarters.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Professor Binns swept into the History of Magic classroom through the blackboard in his typically slow and placid fashion. An assortment of muttered epithets, moans and sighs greeted his arrival--it was no small secret his class was widely thought of as the dullest at Hogwarts. Ignoring the protestations, he opened a dusty tome and began to call the roll. He was the only teacher at the school who still engaged in this practice, but Professor Binns was a firm believer in upholding traditions (not to mention, he could never seem to remember the students' names).

"Brown?"

"Here."

"Finnigan?"

"Here."

"Granger?"

"Present."

"Longbottom?"

"Here."

"Patil?"

"Here."

"Potter?" Silence filled the room. Professor Binns continued to repeat himself, much like an antique gramophone with a stuck needle. "Potter? ... Potter? ... Potter?"

"Um, he's sick," Lavender piped up. "Parvati's sister Padma's boyfriend's brother's girlfriend heard from Dennis Creevey who knows this Hufflepuff Owen who's going out with this Ravenclaw Orla, who saw Harry pass out at Florean Fortescue's last night." Hermione looked down, rolling her eyes as Lavender continued. She exhaled, nodding very matter-of-factly. "I guess it's pretty serious."

"Thank you, Miss Black," Professor Binns droned.

Lavender beamed, ignoring his error, glad of the opportunity to pass along some useful gossip. "No problem whatsoever!"

In a dreary voice, Professor Binns continued to call the roll. "Thomas?"

Dean looked up sullenly from his parchment pad, where he was fully engrossed in drawing little figures of the members of West Ham Football Club. "Yeah?"

Professor Binns ignored him, moving down to the next name on the list.

"Weasley?" As with Harry's name, there was no response. "Weasley? ... Weasley?"

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

"Ron?" Harry's tousled head appeared in the fireplace in the lounge at the Burrow.

A pyjama-clad Ron Weasley lay on the couch, covered by three duvets and surrounded by an assortment of sweets, a pot of tea and various medicinal potions Molly Weasley had purchased from the Slug & Jiggers Apothecary in Diagon Alley. Open on his lap was the latest issue of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle.

"All right, Ron?" Harry grinned at the sight of the familiar redhead. "What's happening?"

"Very little," Ron deadpanned, adjusting the poultice on his head that his mother had prepared.

"How're you feeling?"

"Knackered."

"Is your mum home?" Harry asked.

Ron tore the wrapper off a Honeyduke's nougat bar and began devouring it. "No, she's at an Enchantments in Baking cooking class today. Where are you?"

"Hagrid's."

In spite of a foreboding feeling of regret, he was curious. "Why?"

"I'm skiving. So put some clothes on and Floo yourself over to Hogsmeade," Harry instructed.

"I can't," Ron sniffled. "I'm sick."

"Bollocks! That dragon pox was all in your head. Compared to how Millicent Bulstrode looked this morning, you're the picture of health."

"I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of centaurs, Harry. I'm in no fit state to go anywhere. Madam Pomfrey had to send me home to get better, remember?"

"Truly, Ron, that is a shame," his best friend began sympathetically. "But that was last week--you're well on the mend by now. So get dressed, grab some Floo powder and meet me in Hogsmeade!"

With that, he vanished.

"I'm dying," Ron muttered to himself. No sooner had he spoken the words when Harry's head appeared in the fireplace again.

"You're not dying," he chided. "You just can't think of anything better to do."

He vanished a second time, leaving Ron to mull things over. Ron lay back pitifully against a small mountain of pillows, feeling tremendously sorry for himself, not only for feeling so poorly, but for the additional misfortune of having a best friend who absolutely refused to give him any sympathy.

"When Ronald was in Potter's land, let my Ronald go," he wailed piteously to himself.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Back at Hagrid's hut, Harry leaned against the edge of an oversized wooden chair and ran a hand through his unkempt hair.

"Y'know, if anyone needs to skive off for a day, it's Ron. There are a lot of things that need sorting in that head of his before he leaves Hogwarts. He can't be this wound up if he goes to Uni--his dormmate'll murder him," Harry frowned. "Of course, I've come close to doing that myself on occasion, especially during fourth year. But I love the daft git, he's my best mate--besides Hermione, of course, but that's all together different."

He began rummaging through Hagrid's cupboards, looking for something to eat. All this coaxing and planning was hungry work.

"See, Ron's a bit easier to suss out when you know why he is the way he is," Harry continued, finding (and immediately discarding) a few mouldy stoat sandwiches. "He always feels like he has to prove himself--I suppose that's only to be expected, with five older brothers. Still, he can get a bit of a chip on his shoulder about it. I mean, pardon my Trollish, but Ron gets so wound up sometimes, that if you stuck a bezoar up his bum, in a fortnight you'd have the Philosopher's Stone."

He took a large bite out of a semi-stale rock cake, chewing vigorously as he spoke. "And then the poor sod would whinge that he'd owe taxes on it."

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

"Professor McGonagall."

The Transfiguration professor turned at the sound of her voice. She was about to enter her office, a stack of parchments in one hand, when Snape had called out to her from further down the first floor corridor. He was gripping a piece of parchment so tightly his knuckles had turned white. From the look on his face, his mood was sourer than usual, which she supposed could be attributed to any number of things--but there was usually only one thing--or person, actually--in particular that ever caused him to look this aggrieved.

"Oh, dear," she murmured to herself, then smiled contritely at him. "I am sorry, Severus. I completely forgot to let the faculty know."

His tone was unctuous, and almost accusatory. "Then you are aware Potter is not in class today?"

"Mr Potter is ill." It was a statement, not an explanation. "I meant to inform the rest of the staff, but I had to administer a test to the third-year Gryffindors and Slytherins first thing this morning, and it slipped my mind."

"Are you also aware, Professor McGonagall, that Potter does not have what I would consider to be an exemplary attendance record?"

She frowned at the aspersions being cast on her pet pupil. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"He has missed an unacceptable number of school days. In the opinion of this educator, Potter is not taking his wizarding studies and academic growth seriously. I examined his records this morning--if Mr Potter thinks he can just coast through this last month and still graduate, he is sorely mistaken. I have no reservations about making a recommendation to the Board of Governors that he be held back another year."

"Well, this is certainly news to me--"

"Yes, quite." He looked at her disparagingly, a cold smile twisting his lips into a sort of rictus. "This term alone, he has been absent seven times."

"Seven times?"

"Seven times," Snape repeated firmly, enjoying the look of incredulity dawning on the deputy Headmistress's face.

"I don't recall Mr Potter being ill seven times," Professor McGonagall pursed her lips in a thin line--but the scepticism in her voice was directed towards her colleague, not her student.

"That's because he wasn't ill--he was playing truant!" he sneered. "Wake up and smell the Gillywater, Minerva! You are living in a fool's paradise. Potter is just leading you down the puffapod path."

"I cannot believe this, Severus. Surely, there's been some mistake--"

"I have it right here in front of me," the Potions Master insisted, waving the piece of parchment. "Potter has missed seven days ..."

Except, that no longer appeared to be true. Before Snape's eyes, the ink on the parchment indicating the number of absences began to move, reshaping itself into the number six, then five, then four, three and two, before finally resettling in the shape of the number one.

(Back at Hagrid's, Harry grinned to himself as he completed a doctored version of a traditional Wand Writing spell. "I wanted a normal life--I got a scar and rare magical abilities," he shrugged. "Professor Trelawney always said I was born under a bad sign.")

Professor McGonagall drew herself up to her full height and stared at Snape with as haughty a look as she could muster. "I can give you every assurance, Severus, that Mr Potter is gravely ill. He is recovering in isolation at Hagrid's as we speak--in fact, I debated whether or not I should even admit him to St Mungo's. Now, I can appreciate that at this time of year, children are prone to playing truant. However, in Mr Potter's case, he is truly a very sick young man." She regarded him with an icy stare. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some essays to mark."

With that, Professor McGonagall entered her office and closed the door behind her, leaving an apoplectic Snape on the other side, still staring at the parchment in his hand in rage and disbelief.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

The members of Professor Binns' History of Magic class were almost numb with boredom. Dean Thomas, having now completed full sketches of the entire West Ham Football Team, had moved on to the Appleby Arrows' players, whilst Seamus and Neville were trading various Chocolate Frog cards back and forth. Lavender and Parvati giggled furiously over something in the latest issue of Witch Weekly. Even Hermione was fidgety and fought to keep her eyes open. She liked Professor Binns, and didn't even mind History of Magic that much, but even she had to admit the topics being covered in their double class today were deadly dull. The professor droned on in his flat, monotonous voice, oblivious to them all.

"... Throughout the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the dawn of an era of Muggle civilization known as the ... anyone? Anyone? ... The Renaissance, began a period of scientific enlightenment throughout the world. This caused a schism between the Muggle and Wizarding cultures. Does anyone know why? Anyone? ... Because the Muggles were relying more and more on this new methodology to explain phenomena and occurrences previously subscribed to magical entities. As the fifteenth century came to a close, it became increasingly necessary to ... anyone? Anyone? To secret the existence of all magical elements from the Muggle community. Does anyone know why this was necessary? Class? ... It was necessary for two reasons: one, because of the record number of Muggle persecutions of magical folk, and two, because of the exploitation of magical power to further Muggles' own gain ..."

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Malfoy hadn't bothered to go back to Potions class after he left the Hospital Wing. Instead, he stormed into the Slytherin common room in a fit of pique, coming dangerously close to kicking Medusa, Blaise Zabini's Siamese cat, for accidentally straying into his path. Potter, the odious worm, had somehow managed to convince Pomfrey, McGonagall and Dumbledore that he was on his deathbed, when Malfoy knew--he knew!--the mingy little twat was perfectly fine and up to something. But what? He hurled himself down into an overstuffed green velvet wing chair to contemplate the possibilities.

A short while later, Crabbe and Goyle lumbered into the room.

"Did you hear?" Goyle asked.

"About?" Malfoy snapped.

"Potter," replied Crabbe. "He's really sick."

Small crimson spots began to burn on Malfoy's cheeks. "Really," he said dryly. "And where, pray tell, did you hear this?"

"The entire Great Hall was talking about it during breakfast," answered Goyle.

"They said he's on the verge of death," Crabbe added helpfully, unable to comprehend why such news didn't delight Malfoy. Instead, he was staring at the pair of them, flames from the nearby fireplace reflected in his eyes.

"Pansy said she overheard some Hufflepuff girl in her Arithmancy class say that if Potter dies, he's giving all his fortune to St Mungo's to find a cure for Longbottom's parents' insanity," Goyle explained.

"She made him sound like he was going to get the Order of Merlin or something," Crabbe noted.

At that, Malfoy leapt up, his Peruvian Vipertooth dragonskin boot connecting with the first solid object it could find--which, unfortunately, was Medusa. As the poor creature sailed across the long room, barely missing a round, green lamp that hung from a chain from the ceiling, Malfoy uttered a Jarvey-like string of curses and rude words that caused even Crabbe and Goyle to blush.

4. Chapter 3

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

In the classrooms and corridors of Hogwarts, news of Harry's mystery illness spread like wildfire, thanks, in part, to Harry himself. In order to keep the likes of Snape and Malfoy off his back and rally support from his classmates (not to mention compassion from his teachers), he deemed it necessary to drop a few pertinent details about his critical condition to a few of the more gullible members of the student body.

"Please--do not pull my wand," a Hufflepuff by the name of Jeremy Thackeray said very seriously into a fireplace in an alcove off a second-floor corridor, where Harry's head had (much to Jeremy's surprise) appeared a couple of minutes before. "How desperate is the situation?"

"Well, have you ever seen a flesh-eating slug attack a decaying corpse? It kind of feels like that." First years, Harry snickered to himself.

"Son of a witch!" breathed Jeremy in disbelief. "Wait--are you having me on?"

"Of course I'm not having you on," Harry replied weakly. Out of sight from Jeremy, he briskly flicked his wand to and fro like an orchestra conductor--only, instead of musical notes, a symphony of ominous-sounding groans, coughs, wheezes and hacks were produced. "Do I sound like I'm having you on?"

"Son of a witch!" Jeremy exhaled.

"Who are you speaking to?" Theodore Creevey asked, approaching his friend near the fireplace.

"Harry Potter," Jeremy replied, shaking his head in astonishment, both from speaking to The Boy Who Lived, and from learning that said Boy was apparently dying.

"Really?" Theodore hopped up and down with a sort of reverential admiration and excitement that would have put his two older brothers to shame. "He's getting me out of remedial Potions!"

Just then, the bell rang, signalling the beginning of the next class. The remaining students in the corridor scurried either down the stairs or into a nearby classroom.

"Thanks for letting us know how you're doing, Harry," Jeremy spoke into the fireplace. "We've got to fly--but chin up, eh?"

"Crap. I hope he doesn't die," Theodore moaned to a portrait on the wall of two witches drinking tea. "I can't hack any more Snape." The witches in the picture nodded sympathetically.

"Oh," Harry wheezed pathetically. "Right. Put me on to someone else, then, would you?"

"Sure," Jeremy said, eager to comply with the wishes of a seventh year--especially one this famous and popular. "Hang on."

He looked around the near-empty corridor for another student. Just then, a girl with long, straggly, dirty blonde hair drifted by, her wand firmly tucked behind her left ear for safekeeping. She looked lost in her own little world and uncertain as to which direction she should be heading in, or how she even came to be walking down the corridor in the first place.

Jeremy called out to her, gesturing towards the fireplace. "Ever seen a flesh-eating slug in action?" he grinned, hoping to unnerve her, but the girl merely blinked, her large protuberant eyes peering at him.

"Yes, actually," she replied thoughtfully. "Daddy and I went to Kenya on safari last summer, and I saw one attack a Blibbering Humdinger carcass." She shuddered. "It was horrible."

Jeremy looked at her strangely, then tugged on Theodore's robe and quickly pulled him away towards the marble staircase.

Unfazed by their sudden departure, Luna Lovegood turned and peered into the fireplace. "Hello?" she called out. Harry's face peered back at her. She greeted him calmly, as though this were an everyday occurrence. "Oh. Hello, Harry."

"Oh, er ... hi, Luna," he replied, unable to look her in the eyes. After Luna had joined in the fight against the Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries at the end of fifth year, Harry had come to think of her as something of a friend. Not to mention her strange but enduring fixation with Ron, which both Harry and Hermione had come to find endearing over the years. Ron, however, was completely unused to such female admiration--particularly from a female as unusual as Luna--and so tended to be more flustered around her than impressed.

As if reading his mind, Luna enquired after his best friend. "How is Ronald, Harry? He must be very ill, he was sent home last week. I do hope he wasn't bitten by a Nargle. I did warn him to stay away from them."

"No," Harry replied vaguely, "not a Nargle bite. Just ..." He thought a moment. If he let Luna in on what was going on, Ron would throw a wobbly and he was wound up enough as it was. Besides, the more people who knew, the greater the risk of being caught. Probably best to say nothing, Harry figured. "... just dragon pox. He's still pretty sick."

"You will tell him I enquired after him, won't you?" Luna asked eagerly.

"Erm ... of course," he smiled weakly, trying to swallow his guilt. "Of course I will."

"And what is the matter with you, Harry? I heard you were dying," she said very matter-of-factly. "Is it serious?"

"I don't know ... I hope not." He sighed dramatically. "I think I may need a kidney transplant."

Luna nodded at him solemnly, as if this was perfectly within the realm of reality.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Snape paced the length of the large, panelled staff room, a black storm cloud almost visible over his head. At a nearby table Sibyl Trelawney sat on a dark wooden chair, demurely sipping a cup of nettle tea. He had been startled to see her, as she very rarely descended from the North Tower, but when she began an explanation of her presence (something about a mishap involving too much incense and not enough ventilation in the Divination classroom), his interest quickly waned and refocused on the bane of his existence at Hogwarts.

"I don't trust Potter any further than I can throw him!" Snape spat, each word louder than the last.

"Well, with your bad knee, Severus, you really shouldn't be throwing anybody," Professor Trelawney noted, her spindly fingers popping a piece of Ginger Newt into her mouth. Snape coldly fixed his beady black eyes on her. "It's true," she smiled serenely.

When he finally spoke, each word was clipped and slowly enunciated through gritted teeth. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with either of my knees, Professor Trelawney."

"Well, of course not," she agreed breathily. "Not yet. But my crystal ball indicates you should be particularly careful around the dungeon staircase on the nineteenth of this month."

The Potions Master's eyes glittered an almost malevolent shade of black. He spoke in low tones, but there was no mistaking the venom in his voice.

"Harry Potter is a dangerous influence on the other students. He breaks and bends the rules as he sees fit, continually thumbing his nose at authority. His arrogance is worse than his father's, if that's possible. Moreover, he is never punished and never suffers the consequences of his actions. He gives the rest of the students very bad ideas."

Professor Trelawney sighed unhappily. "According to my predictions, I'm afraid your concern over Mr Potter's behaviour may very well be all for naught, anyway."

Snape ignored her, continuing his rant. It was no small secret he had aspirations to Dumbledore's post when the elderly wizard eventually retired, but right now, he considered the young Mr Potter to be a major impediment in achieving that goal. After all, Snape fumed to himself, if he couldn't keep the likes of Potter in line, how would he be deemed fit to run an entire school?

"The last thing I need at this juncture in my career are hundreds of Harry Potter disciples running around Hogwarts, carrying on like he's the second coming of Merlin! He jeopardizes my ability to effectively assist in the governance of the student body."

"Makes you look like a bit of a Mountain Troll is what he does," Professor Trelawney nodded knowingly. Snape's eyes narrowed even further in an icy fury. "Well, he is very popular, Severus," the Divination professor continued. "Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, prefects, pure-bloods, Muggle-borns, Squibs, ghosts, staff members, house-elves, portrait-dwellers, suits of armour, owls, even Moaning Myrtle ... they all adore him. They think he's a wicked wizard."

Snape's ordinarily sallow complexion turned a particularly violent shade of purple, causing his face to resemble a particularly nasty bruise. "That's why I have to catch him this time," he hissed, slamming his hand against a large wardrobe for emphasis. "To show the rest of the students the example he sets is a first class ticket to Azkaban!"

Professor Trelawney drew her spangled black shawl around her shoulders a little more tightly. "Why Severus," she drawled mistily. "You sounded like Cornelius Fudge just then!"

Momentarily taken aback, he blinked at her blankly, but a note of something almost resembling pleasure unmistakably crept into his voice.

"Really?"

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

"I'm serious, Ron, this is ridiculous," Harry fumed. "Making me hang about waiting for you!"

From his sickbed in the Weasley living room, Harry's best friend groaned at the head that had re-appeared in the Burrow's fireplace yet again. "Why can't you let me just rot in peace?"

"Ron, d'you realise what it is I'm doing here?" Harry was growing increasingly exasperated. "Snape has it in for me, not to mention Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins. If any of them catch me, I'm done for. And if Dumbledore, or McGonagall or any of the rest of the staff catch me, I'm also done for--probably even more so. I'm not doing this for me, I'm doing it for you."

"Chuh!" the lanky redhead scoffed. "As if."

"Look, just--be a man!" Harry shouted at him. "Take some Pepperup Potion, get dressed, and get yourself to Hogsmeade! I'm tired of this." But before Ron could open his mouth to protest, out of the corner of his eye Harry noticed the flames on the other side of Hagrid's fireplace begin to change to a green colour. "Crap--hang on a minute, someone else is coming through."

Harry pulled his head out of the fire and glanced at the wand in his hand nervously. Pointing it at the spot where he had been speaking to Ron, he exclaimed "Reducio Silencus!" The green flames on the left side of the fireplace dulled and shrank, while those on the right side continued to glow even brighter. Sprinting across the room, he dived under the covers of Hagrid's giant bed and scrambled to shove his wand underneath the massive goosedown pillow, just as Dumbledore's head appeared in the right side of the fireplace.

"H-hello?" Harry panted.

"Harry?" The headmaster frowned slightly. "You sound dreadful."

"Really?" Harry replied through a wheeze. "I thought I was improving."

"Were you resting?"

"I was trying to catch up on my Divination homework. I'm worried about falling behind." He managed a series of weak coughs. "Professor Dumbledore, would you excuse me a moment, please?"

"Of course." The headmaster paused, looking at Harry peculiarly. "Are you quite sure you're all right, Harry?"

"Oh, yes. Quite all right. I think I just need to catch my breath. Excuse me." He fished the ebony-wood wand out from underneath the pillow and pointed it at the Headmaster's head as respectfully as possibly.

"Reducio Silencus."

Dumbledore's head and the surrounding green flames dulled and shrank until they almost disappeared to the naked eye. Harry took a deep breath, hopped out of bed and walked over to the fireplace, where he cast the opposite spells at the small ball of green fire on the other side.

"Engorgio Sonorus!"

The flames burned brightly once again, filling up the entire left side of the fireplace. Harry stuck his head in quickly. "Ron? It's Dumbledore."

"Oh, nice one, Harry. Bloody marvellous!" Ron sounded panicked. "Leave me out of it."

"If you're not at Hogsmeade within the hour, you can find yourself a new best friend!"

Ron snorted and rolled his eyes. "You've been saying that since first year."

Harry glared at him, then pulled his head out of the flames, which returned to their normal orange colour. He returned to Hagrid's bed before casting a quick "Engorgio Sonorus" at the tiny flickering green flame that had become Dumbledore.

"Sorry about that," he smiled weakly when the Headmaster had reappeared. "All this talking has made me feel a bit faint. I think perhaps I should lie down for a while."

"Indeed. Stoke up the fire, pour yourself a glass of pumpkin juice and get some rest," the long-haired elderly wizard replied, watching Harry through twinkling blue eyes. "You should take full advantage of a day like today."

"Er, yes, Professor Dumbledore." Now it was Harry's turn to frown slightly at his headmaster's cryptic comment, or perhaps it was just his guilt gnawing away at him. "Well, er ... g'bye."

Dumbledore nodded, then his head disappeared with a soft pop. Harry leaned back against Hagrid's headboard and exhaled deeply, his eyes closed. He thanked Merlin and all his lucky stars for having escaped such a close call.

A moment later, he sat up, swinging his legs around to the ground. Harry redressed quickly, then grabbed the wand again and tapped it against the pillows on the bed, muttering an improvised incantation. Slowly, the pillows reformed themselves into a rough-hewn, Harry-shaped dummy. He glanced about the hut, his eyes settling on the straw that lined Fang's massive basket. Perfect! Except for the small matter of Fang himself, sleeping contentedly on top of it. Harry crept over to the basket and gently scratched under the giant dog's drooping chin. Fang made a contented whimpering noise and shifted position slightly. Harry quickly grabbed a handful of straw and tried another Transfiguration spell. He was rewarded with a mop of black yarn. Shrugging, he tucked the wand behind his right ear then placed the yarn carefully on top of the dummy's head, pulling the heavy patchwork quilt up to its neck. Another tap of his wand and his blue-and-white striped pyjamas transformed into a pair of black jeans, a white t-shirt and a bottle-green jumper. On his feet, where his slippers previously had been, were a pair of black Doc Martens.

Quickly, Harry searched the hut and found a small mirror in a rough-hewn wooden frame. He held it up to himself, peering at his reflection. The same unmistakable messy hair, green eyes and lightning-bolt scar stared back. With his other hand, Harry traced the path of his scar with a fingertip. Grabbing the wand from behind his ear, he gently touched its tip to his scar. He whispered a Vanishing Spell and his scar dulled from a vivid scarlet to a silvery pink. He repeated the incantation and the scar faded further, this time colouring a silvery white. Once more ought to do it, he thought, and tapped the wand to his forehead again. Harry blinked and pushed a tuft of hair out of the way, revealing smooth, pale, unblemished skin where his scar had been. He stared at his new reflection in the mirror for several moments, mesmerized.

The next part would prove to be a bit more difficult. Harry opened Hagrid's back door and crept along the short path to his pumpkin patch. He bent down, crawling around on his hands and knees until he found what he was looking for--a tiny grey field mouse. Scooping the creature up, he carried it back into the hut and placed it down gently on the bedside table. He had to think a few moments before remembering the proper charm to cast to bewitch the mouse into a peaceful, deep sleep. Once he was satisfied it was resting contentedly, he carefully aimed his wand at the small creature.

"Sonorus," he whispered. Immediately, the almost inaudible noise the mouse made when sleeping increased until it sounded like the soft snores of a child.

No, that would never do, Harry frowned. He shook the wand rapidly, as if trying to get the kinks out, then tried again.

"Sonorus!"

The snoring grew louder and louder until it mimicked the sounds of a 17-year-old boy. Perfect. Next, Harry filled a small crimson sack with Floo powder from Hagrid's fireplace, which he tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. Walking over to Hagrid's back door, he rested a hand against the doorknob and surveyed his handiwork.

"I'm so disappointed in Ron," Harry lamented, glancing over at the clock on the wall with a sigh as he opened the door. "Twenty Sickles says he's sitting in front of his fireplace, deciding whether or not to Floo to Hogsmeade."

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Indeed, at the Burrow, Ron sat in front of his fireplace for the next 15 minutes, his eyes tightly shut, his right hand gripping a flowerpot containing Floo powder.

"He'll keep showing up ... He'll keep showing up until I go over. He'll make me feel guilty ... This is ridiculous!" Ron banged the flowerpot down on the hearth. "Okay, I'll go. I'll go, I'll go, I'll go, I'll go--crap!"

Dejected, Ron picked up a handful of glittering Floo powder. Just as he was about to toss it into the fireplace, there was a sudden noise, and a pair of well-worn Doc Martens, followed a figure clad in black and green came tumbling out of the flames. Harry stood up, brushing the soot out of his sooty-coloured hair.

"Y'know, no matter how many times I do that, I still can't get bloody used to it," he mused, polishing his glasses with his shirttail, as Ron looked on, completely gobsmacked.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

"... Into the next century, there were a series of summits in the wizarding world to find a solution to this problem. Does anyone know what the result of this was? Anyone? Anyone? ... The result was the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, passed in? Anyone? Anyone know the year it was passed? ... It was passed in 1692, and placed the responsibility for maintaining the secrecy of the wizarding world ... where did it place this responsibility? Class? Does anyone know? ... The responsibility was placed squarely on the heads of the Ministry ..."

Without Harry and Ron around to cause mischief, the class was even longer and more dull than usual. Hermione had long since given up trying to pay attention to Professor Binns. Out of sheer curiosity, she had read up on the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy back in second year, and was more than well-versed in its various treatises and acts. She was currently passing the time by doodling "Mrs Hermione Jane Granger-Potter" over and over again (in invisible ink, naturally, lest anyone see) on a scrap piece of parchment.

Just then, Madam Pomfrey appeared at the door, looking anxious. As Professor Binns beckoned her in, Hermione's mood instantly lifted. While the teacher and the nurse conferred in hushed tones at the front of the class, Hermione began shoving her quill, parchment and History of Magic textbook into her satchel and flashed a knowing smile at Lavender and Parvati.

"Miss Granger?" Hermione looked suitably startled as Madam Pomfrey called her name. "May I have a word with you, please?"

The rest of the class stopped their various activities and watched with great interest as Hermione nodded gravely and stood up, adjusting her robes. She whispered confidently under her breath to her dormmates, without actually looking in their direction. "Dead Gran."

Outside the classroom, Madam Pomfrey's usual abrupt manner and reserve seemed to melt away a little as she took one of Hermione's hands in her own.

"I'm so very sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, dear, but your father just sent word ... your grandmother has just passed away."

Hermione swallowed the smile that was twitching at the corner of her mouth. Mistaking the girl's quivering lips for the onset of tears, Madam Pomfrey clutched Hermione to her rather ample bosom and patted her on the head. "There, there, now ... it's perfectly fine. Let it all out ... that's it, dear ..."

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Meanwhile, across the staff room table, Snape arched an eyebrow at Professor Trelawney. "A dead grandmother?"

She nodded in affirmation. "That's what I heard. Poppy Pomfrey notified Miss Granger. I had a strong feeling something like this was going to hap--"

"As did I, though for profoundly different reasons," the Potions Master interrupted with a dark glare. The Knut had just dropped for him, and his look of mere scepticism now morphed into one of the utmost suspicion. "Hermione Granger."

Professor Trelawney frowned. "Well ... yes. Of course."

"Potter's ... associate."

"Goodness, Severus--is that what the children are calling it these days?" He flinched as the tinkling sound of her laughter echoed off the room's stone walls. "Apparently Sir Nicholas caught them doing quite a bit of 'associating' last week in the Prefects' Bathroom--though I daresay you needn't be blessed with an Inner Eye to have seen that coming a mile awa--"

Snape almost winced in pain as he held up a hand to stop the Divination Professor from delving further into that particular subject and the imagery associated with it. Curiously, he turned to face an old oak wardrobe against the wall on the other side of the room, staring at it in deep thought. He addressed his colleague in a low, almost dangerous tone. "Get me Mr Granger's contact information from Professor McGonagall's office immediately."

Professor Trelawney blinked in startled surprise. She was about to take him to task for his rudeness, but judging by the mutinous look on his face, thought better of it. As she rose from the table, the flames from one of the two large fireplaces which flanked either end of the room coloured an acid green hue.

"Hello?" she trilled to the fireplace, where the face of a middle-aged man had just popped into view and was looking around uncertainly. "This is the Hogwarts staff room ... who's there, please?"

The man had a narrow but pleasant-looking face topped by thinning salt-and-pepper hair. He cleared his throat and spoke with a rather posh accent. "This is Mr Granger, Hermione Granger's father."

"Oh! Fancy that, Severus--it's Mr Granger!" Professor Trelawney exclaimed. "Would you still like his contact information?"

Snape gave her a withering glare, then fixed his beady-eyed gaze on the head in the fireplace. "Severus Snape."

"Oh, Professor Snape. How do you do?" Mr Granger began. "I'm so relieved I finally got through--I'm at a public fireplace in that Diagon-whatsit place and wasn't sure I had followed the instructions for this blasted thing properly. Wasn't even sure it would work, to tell the truth, but there you go. I've been trying to reach the Headmaster or Headmistress, but neither seem to be available at present."

"Indeed." His voice oozed sympathy laced with poison. "And how are you today, sir?"

"Well, we had a spot of rotten luck late last night, as you may have heard."

"Yes. Most unfortunate ... my heart simply bleeds for you."

Mr Granger blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Er, well, we've--we've got a lot of family issues to sort out, and the funeral's today, so if you wouldn't mind excusing Hermione, I'd be most appreciative."

"My pleasure." The corners of Snape's mouth twisted into a smirk. "Just produce the corpse, and I'll see to it Miss Granger is available. I'm afraid I shall need to see this dead grandmother for myself."

"Severus!" Professor Trelawney stared at her colleague, outraged. Clearly, her sixth sense hadn't seen that coming.

He stepped away from the fireplace and spoke to her conspiratorially. "There is no cause for alarm, Professor Trelawney--this is Harry Potter, the unctuous little twit. Do you really think Muggles can use the Floo Network to make calls? I'm setting a trap, and he's going to fall straight in."

From the fireplace, Mr Granger frowned in confusion. "Er, sorry--did-did you say you wanted to see the body?"

"Indeed," Snape replied coolly, turning back towards him. "You dig up the old bat, and I'll dig up your daughter. That's Hogwarts' policy."

Hermione's father seemed stunned. "Oh ... right."

Snape was beginning to enjoy himself--this was better than taking points from Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff combined. "Tell me, was this your mother?"

"No ... no--my wife's mother."

Just then, a bright flash of green from the other fireplace distracted Professor Trelawney. Excusing herself, she walked to the opposite end of the room addressed the flames.

"Hogwarts staff room."

A familiar face materialised in the fireplace. "Oh, good morning, Professor Trelawney. I'm looking for Professor Snape. Do you happen to know where he is, please?"

For the second time in as many minutes, Sibyl Trelawney felt like she'd ingested one too many Alihotsy leaves, such was her hysteria. She blanched, babbling at Harry's head in disbelief. "But-but-but ... how-how ... er--just a moment!"

Racing back towards Snape, she arrived just in time to hear him bellow, "Tell you what, Muggle, if you don't like it, why don't you shove the pointy end of my wand up your--"

"SEVERUS!" Professor Trelawney shouted, gesturing frantically in a futile attempt to silence him.

"What!" he hissed.

She pointed dramatically to the far end of the room. "Harry Potter!"

Severus Snape froze. Slowly, his eyes turned towards the other fireplace, followed by his head and eventually, his body. Like a Dementor, he drifted towards the head in the fireplace in an almost trance-like state--only, when he reached it, instead of sealing Harry's fate with a Kiss, he merely stared at him with an expression of mute horror.

"Er, hallo, Professor Snape. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm feeling rather poorly today and I was wondering if it would be possible for one of my dormmates to bring me any Potions assignments I may have missed from this morning's class? Thank you."

Harry's face disappeared with a soft "pop". Snape felt as if the entire room had been hit by an Impedimenta Curse as everything seemed to go into slow motion and his whole world suddenly ground to a crushing halt. Cold beads of perspiration ran down his spine as his pulse quickened in his throat. His waxy pallor faded to the colour of sour buttermilk. The distance from one end of the room to the other felt like it had tripled in length as he began to walk back to the other fireplace, like a prisoner being led to the gallows. Hermione's father regarded him expectantly, wearing a thunderous expression.

"Mr Granger?" Snape's voice rose about half an octave on the last syllable. He swallowed, then continued in a voice that was barely above a whisper. "Er ... I-I-I think I owe you an apol-apology, uh, sir."

"Well, I should say you do!" Mr Granger fumed.

"I-I'm deeply sorry for--"

"I should think you'd be sorry, for Chrissake!" Hermione's father was full of righteous indignation. "My mother-in-law dies, I spend half the morning trying to remember how to find this bloody Diagon-whatsits place so I can try and reach my daughter, risking life and limb to try and use this blasted thing, and then you start slagging off my family in our time of grief? What in the devil are you playing at?"

Snape struggled to explain himself, his normally icy veneer dissolving faster than a glacier hit by a Melting Spell. "I-I-I ... I really don't know, sir--I didn't think--I didn't think I was speaking to you--I thought I was speaking to someone else! I would never intentionally address you in that manner--I cannot begin to convey how deeply embarrassed I am--"

"Pardon my French, but you are a complete arsehole!"

"Absolutely," he yammered, an acute sense of self-preservation overtaking any pangs of humiliation he might have felt. "You are absolutely correct!"

"This is far from finished, do you hear me?"

"In-Indeed I do, Mr Granger!" Snape cursed the fact that his wand was currently lying atop his desk in his office in the dungeons. He would have gladly given every Galleon he owned to have it in his possession at that moment, in order to cast a Memory Charm on the man--wizarding ethics be damned.

"Call me sir, you vile little worm!"

"Yes-yes-yes sir!" Snape gulped. "Yessir!"

"You just mind your p's and q's, mate, and remember who you're dealing with!"

Having just left the fireplace in Molly and Arthur Weasley's bedroom, a figure descended the stairs at the Burrow just in time to overhear "Mr Granger's" last remark.

"Potter," he smirked in his best impersonation of a certain intrepid spy and master strategist. "Harry Potter."

Ron dodged out of view from the fireplace in the living room and stared at his best friend blankly. Harry sighed. "Never mind, it's a Mugg--"

"I'm a bit scared, Harry," he interrupted in a whisper, running a hand through his newly-greyed hair, "this is more than a bit over the top. What if he recognises my voice?"

"Impossible!" Harry grinned as he sat down on the floor in the corridor. "That tiny drop of Aging Potion you took on top of everything else worked wonders. You're doing brilliantly!"

"You reckon?" Ron grinned back, then motioned for his best friend to be quiet as he stepped back in front of the fireplace. "Snape! I don't have all day to row with you, so I shall make this perfectly clear: I want my daughter outside Hogsmeade train station within the hour, by herself. I don't want anybody--"

From below Snape's viewpoint, Harry yanked hard on Ron's trouserleg. "It's too dodgy--he'll think something's up! Cover it!"

A mild panic washed over Ron's face as he ducked down to Harry's level. "You!"

"Talk!"

"You!"

"Talk!" Harry shook his head. "No!"

"Snape!" Ron barked up into the fireplace, scrambling to come up with a new plan. "Listen here, man--I've had a change of mind! I want you out in front of that train station with Hermione--I'd like to have a few words with you, by God!"

Harry howled in disbelief and swiftly connected his foot with Ron's bottom. "On second thought--I don't have time to speak with you right now, we'll meet up soon for tea!"

Ron quickly pulled his head out of the fireplace and abruptly disconnected the conversation, then whirled around to face Harry. "What the bloody hell is wrong with you?"

"Have you gone mad?"

"Why'd you kick me?"

"Have you gone mad?"

"Why'd you kick me?"

"Have you gone mad?"

"I asked you first!"

"How on earth are we supposed to get to Hogsmeade that quickly? Above and beyond the fact that Hermione's father is a Muggle and wouldn't have the first clue what Hogsmeade is, let alone how to even get there from Diagon Alley!" Harry huffed. "It's a 15 minute walk from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade. And we're stuck all the way down here in Ottery-St-bloody-Catchpole, in the South of England, and we're supposed to magically get back up to the Scottish Highlands in a matter of minutes? Without Apparating licences? Even I'm not that bloody good, Ron!"

"Well, you got down here in a matter of minutes from all the way up there," Ron sulked.

"I took the tunnel under the Whomping Willow to the Shrieking Shack, then Flooed here from Hogsmeade," Harry conceded. "But we can't just Floo back there and pick up Hermione--how are we supposed to do that if Snape is there with her? He's expecting her father--her Muggle father--to show up!"

Ron exhaled angrily. "I said she should be there alone, and you went berserk."

Faced with this truth, Harry instantly went into defence mode. "I didn't--I didn't kick you. I ... lightly tapped you with my foot."

"You kicked me," Ron corrected. "Look, don't ask me to take part in your ruddy crap if you don't like the way I do it, all right?"

An angry silence followed, which Ron eventually broke by reeling off a list of Harry's myriad transgressions. "You make me get out of my sickbed, you make me nick some of Fred and George's secret stash of Polyjuice Potion and raid their hair strand collection, you make me turn into some random stranger that looks nothing like Hermione's dad, you make me make a phony fire call to Severus Snape--the man could grind my goolies into oblivion!--and then you deliberately hurt my feelings."

"I didn't deliberately hurt your feelings," Harry responded contritely.

"Really." Ron's face was almost as red as his hair, which had begun to return to its normal colour. He snatched up the flowerpot full of Floo powder and shoved it at his best friend.

"What--"

Ron folded his arms across his chest. "Go and get bent, Harry--I want you to leave." With that, he turned sharply on his heels and angrily stalked away.

"Oh no, Ron--Ron, no!" Harry set the Floo powder down on a nearby table and chased after him. "Aw, mate, don't do that!"

"Bugger off," Ron muttered, as he kept walking down the corridor.

"Ron--steady on! Ron!" Harry caught up to him and grabbed his arm. "I didn't mean to lose my rag. I'm sorry. I was out of order."

Ron considered him a moment, the wrinkles and lines on his face beginning to slowly melt away. "Are you serious?"

"Of course. But ... you did bugger it up though, right?" Ron opened his mouth to protest, but Harry quickly cut him off. "Not that it was completely your fault."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"

"Well," Harry winced, already dreading the inevitable battle he knew the next words out of his mouth would spark, "to get this sorted, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask for a bit of a favour."

5. Chapter 4

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Snape stormed down the long corridor, his black robes swirling out behind him like raven's wings. Every time he approached a classroom, however, he would slow his gait down to a lazy sort of ambling whilst in open view of the pupils within, then continue his frantic flight unseen until the next doorway. Finally, after swooping around a corner and down a flight of moving stairs, he reached his destination.

Outside the History of Magic classroom, Hermione was still trapped against Madam Pomfrey in a vise-like hug. The school nurse was doing her utmost to try and offer her some sort of consolation, interpreting her great gulping breaths of laughter as great gulping sobs of mourning. At one point, Hermione thought she might laugh so hard she actually would cry.

Snape approached the pair, a patented scowl on his face.

"Miss Granger."

The steely sound of his voice was enough to silence both laughter and tears (had there been any). Hermione jerked her head away from Madam Pomfrey's chest to meet the professor's eyes, which were as black and cold as two lumps of coal. Immediately, she cast her eyes downward, not wanting to give him the opportunity to use Legilimency and find out the truth.

He addressed her without a trace of sympathy. "Your father will be meeting you shortly in Hogsmeade by the train station."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. It was one thing to play truant, but it was quite another to lie to a professor--to Snape!--to his face. Blanching, she trembled a little, hoping he would mistake her fear and lack of composure for grief.

"I-I'd best be off, then." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Thank you, Professor Snape, for letting me know." She turned and began to quickly walk away.

"Not so fast."

Hermione froze, slowly turning around. Her heart thumped so loudly in her chest, she was positive he could hear it. She snuck a quick glance at him, but the Potions Master's face was completely unreadable--which only served to frightened her more.

"He specifically requested I accompany you there and wait with you until he arrives," Snape announced darkly.

"Oh ... right," she smiled weakly, staring at the floor. "Of-of course."

Hermione prayed her eyes didn't give away the bewilderment she felt as she followed his brisk strides down the corridor.

Harry, what on earth are you playing at?

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

"Aloh--!"

Harry pointed his wand at the Weasley family's garage and began to utter a familiar spell, but Ron (who looked fully like himself again now) grabbed his arm and pulled it down violently.

"Have you gone mad?" he howled. "Harry, you can't use your wand to perform magic outside of Hogwarts--not again! You barely got away with it the last two times, and you had legitimate reasons then! The Ministry will have sent a warning owl before you finish the bloody spell!"

"Ron! Will you relax? There's nothing to worry about," Harry grinned cheekily, twirling the wand back and forth in his right hand like a Muggle baton.

"Nothing to worry about? Nothing to worry about?" he spluttered furiously. "Have you forgotten my father works for the Ministry? It's all fine and well flying during a game of recreational Quidditch over summer hols, or Flooing, or perhaps even drinking pre-mixed Polyjuice Potion, but the minute you wave that thing--"

"I told you, there's nothing to worry about." He waved the wand under Ron's nose, a twinkle in his eyes. "Notice anything different?

Ron frowned. "Harry--"

"This is an 11-inch wand made out of ebony," he interrupted impatiently.

"Yeah, so? What, you bought a new wand? So? Congratulations. I don't see--"

"Ron," Harry sighed. "I use an 11-inch wand made out of holly."

Ron blinked uncomprehendingly. "So whose ..."

Harry smirked. "Malfoy's."

"Malfoy? How di--"

"He came to the hospital wing this morning when I was there, whinging about some stupid burn he suffered in Potions, and he threw such a strop when he saw me that he took the wrong wand on his way out," Harry explained.

"Hang about," Ron's brow furrowed in displeasure. "What if he tries something on today using your wand? You'd be right buggered."

"What if he does?" Harry shrugged. "Anything out of the ordinary using my wand today couldn't possibly have been performed by little old me. I'm at death's door at Hagrid's right now, remember? Iron-clad alibi, mate. However"--he began to twirl Malfoy's wand like a baton--"any magic performed with this wand today will be ..."

"... traced back to Malfoy," Ron finished, breaking into a grin. "You know, this is going to be a truly fantastic day."

"Have I not been saying that from the beginning?" Harry grinned back. "It's going to be absolutely perfect. Now, where was I?" And before Ron could stop him, he pointed the wand at the tumbledown garage again. "Alohomora!"

Immediately, the large wooden double doors sprang open, revealing a small, shiny red automobile.

"The 1965 Austin Mini Cooper 850 Super Deluxe Cabriolet," Ron whispered in a reverential tone. "There are less than a thousand in all of Britain. It has a market value of 925 Galleons. Dad found it in an abandoned Muggle scrap yard near Grimmauld Place in fifth year--he's spent the past two years restoring it. It is his love, it is his passion--"

"It is his fault he didn't use a strong enough room-sealing spell," Harry replied firmly, running a finger along the glossy red bonnet.

"Harry, what are you on about? My father loves this car more than life itself," Ron told him, his eyes growing wide with alarm.

"A man whose priorities are so far out of order doesn't deserve such a fine automobile." He struck a pose alongside the driver's door and gave Ron a toothy grin.

"No, no," Ron shook his head, starting to almost hyperventilate. "Apparently, you didn't quite hear me, Harry. He never drives it--he just rubs it down with one of Percy's old dress robes!" Ignoring his best friend, Harry continued to examine the car from all angles. "Remember how he went round the bend when I broke my wand in second year? That was just a tiny, second-hand piece of wood--this is a bloody cabriolet!"

"Ron, I'm sorry," Harry frowned at his best friend, exasperated. "But what else are we supposed to do? We can't exactly fly into Hogsmeade and pick Hermione up on our broomsticks!"

"Why not?" Ron whimpered desperately.

"Ron, Hermione's parents are Muggles," Harry explained patiently. "It only makes sense that her father would pick her up from Hogsmeade in a Muggle car. Look, I'm sorry--there's nothing else we can do."

Harry opened the door on the driver's side, but Ron grabbed him by the arm to stop him. "He knows the mileage, Harry. He has it bewitched on his wrist in invisible ink."

"He doesn't trust you?"

Ron shook his head fiercely. "Not after the Ford Anglia."

"All right," Harry sighed, holding up his hands. "Look--this is dead easy. Whatever miles we put on, we'll just take off."

"How?"

Harry grinned at Ron and hopped into the driver's seat. "We'll drive back to the Burrow in reverse."

"No!" Ron was adamant. "You'll just have to think of something else! I'm putting my foot down! We could take a Portkey? Maybe conjure up a couple of Thestrals? What about the Knight Bus? I'll even spring for hot chocolate!" He was getting increasingly desperate.

Tapping Malfoy's wand against the ignition, Harry started the car and Ron's protests were quickly drowned out by the roar of the engine. Harry tossed the wand to Ron, then revved the accelerator a few times for good measure.

"You don't even know how to drive!" Ron howled.

"I've watched my uncle in his car enough to get the gist of it, and besides--I can ride a broomstick," Harry replied confidently as he fingered the various buttons and devices on the dashboard, eyeing one marked 'Triple Speed Turbo Boost' with glee. "How different can it be?"

"You're off your head, Harry! No! You'll have to come up with something else!" Ron spluttered. "You're not the one who had to live with him after the Whomping Willow incident! Not to mention my mother, and I don't need another Howler, thanks all the same! I'm sorry, but you can't ju--"

The squealing of tyres interrupted him. Ron jumped out of the way just in time to avoid his toes being run over as the car tore out of the garage. The Mini leapt forward like a giant red grasshopper, coming to an abrupt halt several metres away.

"OI! STOPPIT! YOU'RE KILLING THE CAR!" Ron shouted, closing the distance between them in a few long strides. "I thought you said you knew what you were doing!"

Harry stuck his head out the driver's window. "Er ... I do. Except that this is a manual, and Uncle Vernon has an automatic. But really, once I get it up in the air, how different can it be?"

"You keep saying that, and yet strangely, I'm not comforted by it," Ron groaned, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Okay, fine. You win. Unlock the other door. Though I think you should at least conjure up Learner plates."

Harry grinned at him. "This'll be deadly!"

"That's what I'm afraid of," Ron muttered.

As he held on for dear life, the car lurched down the long driveway in a jerky fashion. "What made you change your mind?" Harry asked.

"The fact that you're going to do this whether I say you can or not, and the hope that you'll find a way to get us killed so it won't matter, anyway," he replied gloomily, as they taxied down the dusty lane and swooped up into the sky, fading from view as they sailed on towards Hogsmeade.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Hermione and Snape walked out the front doors of the Hogsmeade train station and were instantly bathed in glorious spring sunshine--although it may as well have been a gloomy day in November, as it felt like grey storm clouds were hanging over both their heads, though for completely different reasons.

For her part, Hermione was deathly afraid of being caught. Certainly, she had broken school rules and even missed classes before, but there was always a justifiable reason--like researching the latest plan of attack against Voldemort, or being petrified. This ... this was breaking rules and missing classes purely for enjoyment's sake. Which was wrong. Indisputably, indubitably, categorically wrong. She was Head Girl! She had an example to set! Most importantly, she had N.E.W.T.s coming up in less than a month! She should be studying! And yet, the idea of a stolen, perfect day shared with Harry and Ron, where they could just enjoy being 17 years old for once in their lives, without the stresses of exams or the fears of Dark Magic or the threat of the looming war or the uncertainty of what would happen after graduation ... it was too irresistible to pass up. She just hoped the exploits and schemes Harry had planned for today didn't get them killed. Or worse, expelled.

Snape, meanwhile, was deep in thought. If Dumbledore got word of what had transpired between himself and Granger's father, he would be reduced to teaching Potions via Kwikspell correspondence courses faster than he could say "Asphodel". The mere thought of it made him shudder. He hadn't worked this hard for this long to have it all disintegrate at the hands of an irate Muggle parent (especially one he initially thought was Potter). Much as it greatly pained him, he thought it prudent to attempt some sort of amends with the girl--strictly for the sake of his future career.

Straightening his robes, he cleared his throat and addressed Hermione in a stilted, formal voice. "I am ... sorry ... to hear of your loss."

Forgetting the threat of Legilimency for a moment, she stared at the Potions professor in perplexity, not quite believing what she had just heard. "Par-pardon?"

"I had a grandmother once," he continued absently, warming to his subject as if she weren't even there. "Two, actually--a crone and a hag."

Hermione looked completely astonished by this seemingly random admission. "Oh ... right."

"Man that is borne of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower. He fleeth also as a shadow, and never continueth in one stay." Snape paused on the stairs they were descending to the street, and turned to face her. "Between and grief and nothing, I'll take grief."

The passage stirred some sort of vague memory within Hermione that she couldn't quite place, until she remembered the vicar at her parents' Anglican church reading similar words during her real Gran's funeral the previous summer. But coming out of Snape's mouth, it all seemed quite mad.

"Erm, how ... em ... lovely ..."

Hermione felt like she had consumed several gallons of Confusing Concoction--none of this made any sort of sense. Why had Harry asked Snape to come with her to Hogsmeade in the first place? And more over, what in the world had possessed Snape to recite passages from the Muggle Bible?

Just then, a crimson Austin Mini drove up from the far end of the street, interrupting her thoughts. The car, which looked vaguely familiar to Hermione, stopped about 50 feet away from them, and a tall figure emerged from the driver's side. He was wearing a dark blue Mackintosh and a black fedora pulled down far over his brow, and called over to her in an eerie replica of her father's voice.

"Oh, Hermione, love!"

She gawked at the gleaming cabriolet in utter disbelief, her eyes as large as Professor Trelawney's crystal balls. What on earth--

Her 'father' motioned for her to join him. "Come along now!"

Barely suppressing a fit of the giggles over the accuracy (and sheer nerve) of the impersonation, Hermione turned to bid Snape a hasty farewell. Mustering all her self-control, she spoke in what she hoped sounded like solemn tones.

"Well, I suppose that's my father. I'd best be off. Professor Snape,"--feeling suddenly cheeky, she fleetingly considered addressing him as 'Severus' but decided not to press her luck--"thank you for your ... your warmth, and compassion." She gave him a brief smile with as much sincerity as she could manage, then turned and walked towards the waiting car as quickly as she could without arousing suspicion.

Harry smirked at her mischievously as she approached him, the fedora perched at a rakish angle over one twinkling emerald eye. "Do you have a kiss for Daddy?" he quietly sing-songed.

"Are you kidding?" Hermione grinned back, flushed with a giddy rush of excitement, partly from the sheer absurdity of their situation and partly because Harry (even in the guise of her father) always made her feel like that when he looked at her that way. That particular grin of his had always been her undoing, ever since he had used it to charm her into not reporting him during his illegal trip to Hogsmeade in third year.

Snape watched with narrowed eyes as father and daughter embraced in a lingering and decidedly most unplatonic manner. "So that's how it is in Muggle families," he frowned. Still, there was something about the entire situation that he found rather unsettling. He just couldn't put his finger on what.

Harry held Hermione's door open for her, then turned to acknowledge Snape with a brief nod before getting into the car himself. Hermione looked over her shoulder to where a lump protruded from the collapsed canvas roof of the cabriolet.

"Hallo, Ron. Comfortable back there?"

"Hi, Hermione," responded a muffled, disembodied voice. "No."

Hermione turned back towards Harry. There was a rare twinkle of mischief in her eyes, no doubt a sign of the adrenaline high she was currently coasting on from their narrow escape. "So ... what are we going to do?"

"The question isn't what are we going to do--the question is, what aren't we going to do?" he replied.

"Please don't say we're not going to take the car back," Ron muttered from somewhere behind them. "Please don't say we're not going to take the car back, please don�t say--"

Harry cast a sideways glance at Hermione. "If you had access to a car like this, would you take it back straight away?" The corners of her mouth turned up very slightly, then she looked away, watching the Potions Master ascend the stairs leading to the train station entrance. Harry nodded solemnly as he pressed the Triple Speed Turbo Boost button. "Neither would I."

As the squeal of tyres met his ears, Snape flinched then whirled around, only to catch the tail end of the Austin Mini race down the road amid great whoops of laughter that were clearly neither grievous nor mournful in nature. Comprehension dawned a moment too late, and his usually sallow face turned purple with rage.

"POTTER!"

6. Chapter 5

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Draco Malfoy was still in a foul mood. He stalked down the Charms corridor in the opposite direction of Professor Flitwick's lesson, where he would be expected in a few minutes. His inky black robes billowed out behind him as he slammed against the other students who were scurrying to and fro, on their way to their next class. As he pushed through the dense crowd, he could see a large cluster of people at the other end of the hallway, gathered around a figure holding a small black object in an outstretched hand.

Suspiciously, Malfoy turned and cut through the throng like a shark gliding through water and honing in on its prey. A hush met his arrival at the centre, where Colin Creevey stood, gingerly holding out a very small cauldron which had Save Harry written across the front in tiny glowing gold letters.

"Uh ... hi, M-M-Mal-Malfoy," Colin swallowed nervously. "We're-we're, um, collecting money to, er ... to buy Harry Potter a new kidney?" he squeaked, not intending the words to come out as a question, but Malfoy's steely cold glare had rattled him.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed to icy grey slits. His silence was ominous, almost predatory. It unnerved Colin so much that he continued to babble, just to fill up the void.

"Pa-Parvati Patil heard Harry was bitten by a Ch-Chizpurfle flea--probably from his owl--and its venom attacked his kidney ... they, uh, they cost about-about three thousand Galleons, but we're hoping to raise enough for the ingredients for a dialysis potion, at least ... the, um, Swiss Graphorn powder is pretty rare, so it-it runs several hundred Galleons an ounce ... I-I-I don't suppose you'd be willing to ..."

His voice trailed off as he saw the look on Malfoy's face. The two dark crimson spots had reappeared in the centre of his cheeks, mottling the usual alabaster marble of his skin as they slowly spread upwards and outwards towards his downy hairline.

"... No," Colin finished in a near-whisper. "No, I suppose ... not ..."

"Go piss up a broomstick," Malfoy hissed.

Colin blinked, his hand quivering around the cauldron's handle. "I-I-I'm sorry?"

"You will be," Malfoy drawled venomously.

He drew his wand out of its holster, raising it upwards, but stopped suddenly, staring at it in horror. Comprehension dawned on his face and enraged, he hurled Harry's wand down the corridor with all his might, where it bounced off Neville Longbottom's back and landed with a clatter on the floor. Neville turned around, oblivious to what had happened, and spotted the wand lying at his feet. He blinked at it curiously a couple of times, then recognised it as Harry's. Figuring his friend must have dropped it on his way to the Hospital Wing, Neville picked the wand up for safekeeping and continued on his way.

Malfoy had already turned back towards Colin. With the same precision and intensity a Beater would use to hammer a Bludger on the Quidditch pitch, he viciously struck the tiny cauldron. A shower of Knuts, Sickles and even the odd Galleon rained down on the students, as Malfoy stalked away (stepping on more than a few fingers of the students who had scrambled to pick up the coins as he did).

"Hey!" Colin yelped, diving to recover the lost money. "Hey! Y'know, some day, Malfoy ... some day, you might need a favour from Harry Potter! And then where will you be?" He ensured Malfoy had fully disappeared from view before continuing his diatribe. "You heartless, smarmy little tosser!"

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Harry sat alone in the Mini on a quiet road just off the M25 London orbital motorway, on the northern outskirts of London. They had been making fantastic time since leaving Hogsmeade, flying invisibly up amongst the clouds for most of the journey. However, wanting to avoid another fiasco like the one in second year where several Muggles had seen Ron and Harry fly off in the Ford Anglia, Harry thought it prudent to land the car in the middle of a field in Middlesex and drive the rest of the way into the city, like Muggles did.

At first Ron had objected strenuously to the idea, fearing for his safety with Harry behind the wheel in Muggle traffic. But then Harry had quite rightly pointed out that if a vintage Austin Mini had suddenly appeared in the skies over King's Cross Station once again, Ron would have much more to worry about than just his safety. Glumly, Ron had conceded the point.

Ironically, the field they had landed in was part of a town called Potters Bar, which Hermione insisted was a good omen. Harry smiled at her, his heart full of love, as he watched her and Ron disappear into the red Muggle telephone booth on the other side of the road. Earlier, he had convinced himself that this stolen day was for the benefit of both Ron and himself, but he had neglected the fact that it was just as important for Hermione, too. Ron had his own problems and insecurities to escape from, and Harry was attempting to forget the pressures of an unknown future and an inevitable date with destiny he had been putting off for the past 16 years, but Hermione ... Hermione also had issues she needed to leave behind for the day. Namely, an overwhelming anxiety that she wouldn't pass her N.E.W.T.s with flying colours (she would be top of the seventh year class, he was certain) or be accepted into the post-Hogwarts educational institution of her choice (the Faculty of Magical Law at the University of Stonehenge, which, Harry was sure, they would be begging her to attend).

Beyond that, though, Harry knew Hermione harboured another secret fear--it was the same one all three carried in each of their hearts. The fear that after graduation, the once tightly-knit trio would drift apart--or worse. It had already started a little bit during their fifth year, but they had decided to put the dreadful events and anxieties of that year behind them, where they belonged, and just focus on the future instead. But the worry still lingered--the fear that in spite of their best efforts to stay in touch or be a part of each other's lives, forces beyond their control would one day rip those very lives apart.

Harry couldn't imagine his life without Hermione in it, or Ron either, for that matter. They were as much a part of him as the oxygen that filtered through his lungs, the blood that flowed through his veins. They were family. He vowed to himself right there and then, on his parents' and Sirius's honour, that there was no way he would ever let Voldemort take anyone else he loved away.

His thoughts were interrupted by Hermione and Ron's eternal bickering as they headed back to the car. Some things, it would seem, never changed.

"You were completely over the top!" Ron hooted. "He'd have to be daft to not recognise you!"

"Well, you were hardly subtle yourself," Hermione fumed, opening the passenger door. "It took us four tries alone just to get you to stop shouting."

"I told you," he replied as he scrambled into the back, "I've only ever used one of those things once before, when I called Harry the summer before third year."

"Yes," she sniffed, climbing into the car, "That much is evident."

Harry chuckled as he started the engine, using a Chocolate Frog card he had found in his wallet and Transfigured into a key. "Everything all right?"

"Everything's fine," Hermione smiled, dropping some leftover Muggle coins into his hand. "I changed the message on my parents' answerphone at home, then had Ron record a new message for my mobile. I have to leave it at home during the school year anyway, as it's electrical."

"Won't your parents wonder why there's a new message, though?"

"No," she replied. "They won't even hear it. They're at their practice all day. I'll be sure to change it back to the old one later, though. It was my voice on there to begin with, so it shouldn't be any bother."

"Aces," Harry nodded. "Oh, one last thing. I don't reckon you want to be parading around London in your Hogwarts uniform, do you?"

Hermione blushed as she glanced down at her Gryffindor robe, cream-coloured shirt and black skirt. "Er, no, not really. But I thought if I just kept my cloak buttoned up, no one would--"

"Here." Harry passed her Malfoy's wand. She stared at it, then at Harry, then at the wand again. "Go on, take it. It isn't mine, it's Malfoy's."

"Malfoy's? How on Merlin's earth did you get--"

"It's a bit of a story, actually, I'll explain later. But the short of it is that any magic we perform today will be traced back to the owner of that particular wand." Harry smirked. "Mafalda Hopkirk is going to have a field day."

Ron and Hermione looked at him blankly. "Who?"

"Never mind," Harry said, shaking his head. "If you're ready, Hermione?"

"Oh! Yes ... uh ..." She swept the wand over her uniform. "Vestitus Transformare!" Hermione could feel the fabric's molecules rearrange themselves against her skin, and a moment later found herself wearing a crimson-coloured cotton hoodie with a cream tank top underneath and a pair of faded black jeans.

"Not bad," Harry grinned broadly at her, then at Ron. "Well, we're off then. And I promise you both, this is going to be a day to remember for the rest of our lives."

Hermione grinned back and even Ron managed a tentative but genuine smile as Harry pulled onto the road and headed for the motorway.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Snape stormed through the front doors of Hogwarts, only to find an anxious-looking Professor Trelawney hovering in the main corridor.

"Oh, Severus!" she exclaimed breathily, wringing her hands together. "Severus, something happened, didn't it? Ever since you left with Miss Granger, I've had a cold feeling inside--an ominous foreboding of doom!" He stared at her in cold fury, his eyes more menacing and dangerous than a Basilisk's. "It was her father, wasn't it?" Professor Trelawney continued, trailing after him down the corridor to the staff room. "He met with some sinister misfortune on his way to meet her--an accidental beheading, perhaps? I had a feeling about him, so I did an emergency casting, and the runes indicat--"

"No," he hissed icily. "As a matter of fact, he didn't meet with any sort of misfortune. But mark my words--he will. When I find him again, he's going to wish he had never been born. Death via accidental beheading would be a merciful alternative."

They entered the staff room, and Snape slammed the door behind him. "Harry Potter is behind this--there's not a doubt in my mind," the Potions Master hissed to himself. "And now he's coerced Hermione Granger into participating in his nefarious little scheme."

"Her grandmother, too," Professor Trelawney nodded primly.

Snape blinked, her voice snapping him out of his vengeful reverie. "Charlatan," he muttered.

Then, much to Professor Trelawney's surprise, he plucked her wand out of its holster around her neck and swept past her to an ancient-looking wardrobe. A jet of sparks arced through the air from the tip of the wand to the wardrobe as Snape mumbled "Alohomora." With a loud creak, one of the two wardrobe doors opened ajar. "I did not achieve this position in my academic career by having some upstart renegade leave my wand out in the wind!" he declared.

Shoving the wand into her hand, Snape yanked the door open the rest of the way and began to dig rapidly through the wardrobe's contents. A number of old-fashioned Muggle devices--including an obsolete Underwood typewriter whose keys were merrily clacking away, an antiquated Edison phonograph which was quietly playing the Charleston and an early-edition Singer sewing machine that whirred noisily--were flung out of the wardrobe over his shoulder. Professor Trelawney hastily cast a quick Cushioning Charm on the various artefacts as they came sailing overhead, in order to prevent them smashing against the stone floor.

"A-ha!"

Finally, Snape emerged, triumphantly holding an ancient black candlestick-style telephone. He thrust it at Professor Trelawney.

"But Severus," she began, looking most perplexed, "What are you going to do with this ... this fellytone thing?"

"Telephone," he corrected sternly. "Surely your ignorance of the Muggle world isn't so vast that you are unfamiliar with the terminology for one of their most common communication devices?"

"Well, no, but--"

"And surely as Hogwarts has a large number of students with Muggle parents, you are aware we keep a few of these 'things', as you call them, on hand to facilitate any such communication?"

"Well, yes, but--"

"Excellent. Your powers of comprehension are dazzling." Chastised, Professor Trelawney looked away meekly as he continued. "The Headmaster and Professor McGonagall each have a telephone in their office. I imagine that is how news of Miss Granger's grandmother's most unfortunate demise first reached us. Usage of these two telephones is strictly controlled--they are protected by charms to avoid both security breaches and potential misuse by wayward students.

"That telephone," he gestured to the device Professor Trelawney was holding, "along with the other items in the wardrobe, is non-functional. It is non-electrical, as are the other devices, all of which are used purely for demonstrative purposes in fourth-year Muggle Studies class. As such, there is no protective charm cast upon it. There is, however, a little-known incantation which will render it to be in working order. As I don't have my wand at my immediate disposal, it will be up to you to cast the spell."

"But I don't--"

"No, of course you don't, you dim-witted old bat, but I do. The only thing missing is the Grangers' telephone number. You will need to summon it."

"But I don't--"

Snape exhaled in disgust. What was left of his already-limited patience had been worn parchment-thin. "It's in the girl's file, in the Headmaster's office."

"But--but wouldn't the file be guarded with privacy shields and confidentiality charms?" Professor Trelawney asked.

"It is guarded," he confirmed, "against other students. But as we are both staff members and have, ostensibly, a legitimate reason to require access to the file, that will not be a cause for concern."

Professor Trelawney opened and closed her mouth several times. Finally, she spoke, in whispered tones. "Severus, I'm not getting very good vibes from all this--"

"Professor Trelawney," he began impatiently, then paused, tempering himself. "Sibyl. Something untoward is going on here, and I intend to find out what it is. Are you prepared to sit idly by whilst Harry Potter flagrantly mocks the very foundations of discipline, respect and truth this institution was built on?"

A thick silence punctuated the staff room, during which Snape fixed his colleague with an unsettling gaze. "I think you will find all the tea leaves, crystal balls and runes you could ever want to examine would tell you it is only the proper thing to do in order to maintain order in this school, and ensure one student does not continue to make a laughingstock of us all."

Finally, the Divination professor timidly raised her wand. "Acc-Accio Granger file!"

Moments later, a thick purple file whizzed through an open window and landed with a dull thud on the table before them. Snape tore through it, casting aside pieces of parchment detailing Hermione's O.W.L. results, congratulatory letters from Professor McGonagall informing her of her prefectship and Head Girl duties and numerous glowing letters of recommendation directed towards post-Hogwarts educational institutions. Finally, he found a small sheet with Hermione's family's contact information and pushed it across the table towards her.

"Now, tap the telephone with your wand and repeat after me," he demanded. "Ennervate communicare!"

The Divination professor did as she was told, and immediately dropped her wand in fright when the telephone gave two short, shrill rings. Snape looked pained by her ignorance, but held his tongue. Professor Trelawney picked up her wand and stared at the telephone unblinkingly, then looked up towards her colleague with gimlet eyes. He sighed and prodded the parchment with the contact information.

"I presume you understand how to dial a telephone number, Professor Trelawney?"

She glared at him, making quite an ostentatious display of examining the parchment to locate the telephone number, then painstakingly dialling it, all the time praying it wasn't too apparent she, in fact, hadn't ever done this before. A strange double ringing tone followed by intermittent periods of silence met her ears, and, relieved, she quickly held the receiver out to Snape.

"The Granger home," she announced triumphantly. "And I'd strongly advise you mind yourself this time, Severus."

With a glare, Snape snatched the receiver from her hand just in time to hear a female's sobbing recorded voice at the other end say, "... can't answer your call at the moment--we've had a ... a death in the family. If you need to reach us, we'll be at the following number ..."

More sobbing followed, but Snape was still able to discern a series of digits through the wailing. This time, he dialled himself, viciously hooking an index finger around the rotary dial with each number. It rang once, then a deep, sepulchral male voice came through.

"This is Barry Croaker of the Coffin Brothers Mortuary. We are gravely sorry we are unable to speak with you, but if you leave your name and number, we will ring you back as soon as is humanly possible ..."

Snape slammed the bell-shaped receiver down into the cradle so hard, the entire telephone toppled over.

"I'm going to catch that whelp of hell if it's the last thing I do, and I'm going to put a massive dent in his future!" he howled. "Fifteen years from now, when he looks back on the shambles his life has become, he is going to remember Severus Snape!"

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Harry managed to manoeuvre the cabriolet expertly through the various road works, zebra crossings, roundabouts, stop lights and, most of all, wretched traffic that comprised Muggle London. He loved driving. Now that he'd gotten the hang of it, it felt almost as natural as flying.

For his part (and despite his initial hesitancy), Ron was now hanging over the side of the car, agape at all the different sights, sounds and smells of the city. His father had taken the family to London once before, but only as pedestrians. Hyde Park ... Marble Arch ... Oxford Street ... Piccadilly Circus ... watching everything from the backseat of a cabriolet was an entirely different experience.

Neatly dodging around a double decker ("Cor! It's just like the Knight Bus, only smaller!" Ron had marvelled) and cutting through a diversion on Charing Cross Road, Harry finally turned right into a multi-storey car park. He pulled in to a drop-off spot near the entrance, shifted the Mini into park, and gave Hermione a cheeky little grin. She grinned back, her face flushed full of exhilaration and anticipation.

"Nuh-huh!" Ron shook his head vehemently, interrupting their private moment. His good mood had dissipated so quickly, it was as if a Vanishing Spell had been cast. "Wrong!"

Halfway through opening the driver's door already, Harry paused and turned back towards his friend. "What?"

"Not here. We're not leaving the car here," Ron insisted emphatically. Harry sighed and continued to get out of the car.

"Why ever not?" asked Hermione.

"Because we're not." Ron folded his arms across his chest. "I want the Mini back at The Burrow where it belongs, right now. Let's go."

"Honestly, Ron, what's going to happen to it?" Hermione sighed as Harry opened the door for her. "It's in a car park."

"It's in a Muggle car park!" he howled.

"Well, yes, of course it is," Hermione replied in exasperation, as if trying to explain the correct pronunciation of 'Wingardium Leviosa' to a first year. "Wizards don't normally have cars, so it would be sort of difficult to find a wizard car park to leave it in, wouldn't it?"

"What are you so afraid of?" Harry echoed, tipping Hermione's seat forward and leaning in towards him.

"It could get wrecked, burgled, pranged, breathed on wrong ... an owl could crap on it--who bloody knows?" Ron lamented, refusing to budge from the back seat.

"Would you calm down, please?" Harry withdrew a black dragonhide wallet from his pocket and dangled it in front of Ron. "Look, I've got a bit of Muggle money left--I'll give the bloke a fiver to look after it, all right?"

"What bloke?" Ron asked a moment too late.

Several feet away from them stood a tiny, rather grotty-looking kiosk, with peeling grey paint and a dirty, cracked window. A tall, burly skinhead wearing 20-eyelet Doc Martens, tatty jeans with the bottoms rolled up to the tips of his boots, a white vest and black braces leant against the outside of the kiosk. He regarded the trio curiously, a toothpick hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

"He looks like the distant cousin of a Mountain Troll," Ron whispered in horror as the skinhead lumbered over towards them, eyeing the cabriolet with a covetous look.

"Shut it," Harry hissed, then turned to address the attendant. "Er, hiyeh ... how do you do," he began. The skinhead grinned, revealing a mouthful of missing teeth. "Do you--do you speak English?"

He frowned, somewhat put out by the question. "Er, wot country d'yeh fink this is, mate?"

Harry considered that a moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay." He pointed to the Mini. "Listen, I want you to take extra special care of that vehicle, all right?" Harry pressed a five pound note into one of the attendant's meaty hands, along with the Transfigured key.

"No worries." The attendant ran a proprietary finger alongside the driver's door, then opened it to allow Ron to exit. He executed a little bow, almost like a liveried footman. "Awroight, Guv'?"

Harry extended an arm for Ron to brace himself against as he climbed out from the back seat, but his friend swatted it away, scowling at him as he reluctantly emerged from the car.

"Yeh lads 'ave nuffink ta worry 'bout, yeah?" the skinhead remarked, easing into the driver's seat. He hooked his thumbs behind his braces, pulling them away from his barrel chest, and spoke with great pride. "I'm a ruddy profess'nal, I am."

After handing Harry a receipt, he started the engine and revved it up a few times for good measure, then drove off into the bowels of the car park.

"Professional what?" Ron muttered gloomily, still staring after the attendant with naked suspicion.

"Ron, it'll be fine. A fiver can do wonders to a bloke's attitude," Harry sighed, as he and Hermione each gripped an arm and chivvied Ron down the road.

Not a moment later, the Mini emerged from the car park exit, the skinhead behind the wheel and his companion, sporting an electric-blue mohawk, happily ensconced in the passenger's seat. They tore off in the opposite direction to the trio, tyres squealing and the unmistakable smell of burnt rubber permeating the air.

7. Chapter 6

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Minerva McGonagall looked up from the pile of Transfiguration essays she had been attempting to grade. It was an exercise in futility--she had been reading and rereading Malcolm Baddock's introductory paragraph about how to turn a Moke into a bar of soap for the past 20 minutes. Snape's words had etched themselves in her head with indelible ink since their encounter earlier that morning. Frowning, she put down her quill. Surely Harry Potter--Head Boy, darling of the Gryffindor Quidditch team since his first year and her favourite student to boot--surely he couldn't be capable of the degree of truancy Snape had accused him of?

Still, Severus had seemed so firm in his convictions, so absolutely positive Potter was playing them all for fools. She sighed. Poppy certainly had her hands full with the dragon pox outbreak, so who knew how often she would have the opportunity to tend to her quarantined charge? Perhaps it would be wise to look in on the dear boy--just to see how he was faring, of course, and if there was anything he might need. But if she was completely honest with herself, Professor McGonagall knew the real reason for the visit was the opportunity to set Severus straight, once and for all. Good then, she smiled thinly to herself. It was settled.

A short while later, the deputy headmistress found herself on Hagrid's front porch. Her hand was halfway to the massive brass doorknocker when she reconsidered, not really wanting to wake Harry up. Instead, she knocked softly on the wooden door, then, after getting no response tried again a little more firmly. When still no reply came from within the hut, Professor McGonagall bit her bottom lip in worry. What if something had happened? What if the poor boy was lying unconscious, or was too ravaged and weakened from fever to answer? Hesitantly, she took out her wand, not wanting to invade his privacy, but at the same time, fearful for his well-being. Maternal instincts overrode all other feelings (including, she shamefully admitted, the tiniest of niggling suspicions that perhaps Severus could possibly be correct in his assumptions), and she quickly uttered "Alohomora."

Hagrid's giant oak door swung open on silent hinges before her. The darkened room was still and silent, save for the sound of deep snoring coming from the bedroom and the occasional whimper from Fang's basket. The waves of relief that hit Professor McGonagall were almost tangible, though they didn't quite drown out the guilt she felt for having doubted Harry in the first place. Tiptoeing towards the bedroom and through the door, which had been left open ajar, she watched the silhouette of the sleeping form with moist eyes.

"Bless him," she murmured affectionately, then retreated back to the front door and closed it gently behind her. Her hand hadn't yet left the knob when she heard Severus Snape's oily voice: "Seven times!"

Cursing him for planting a seed of doubt in her mind, Professor McGonagall hesitated a few moments then turned the knob again, almost afraid of what she might find. But there he was, still nestled under the patchwork quilt in Hagrid's bed, still sound asleep. Why, if it weren't for the snoring, she would have thought he was under a Bewitched Sleep spell, he was so still and unmoving.

Not wanting to disturb him any further, the Deputy Headmistress smiled maternally and gently closed the front door behind her a second time. Feeling acute pangs of guilt for even marginally doubting Harry's innocence, she cast several extra wards over the door so he could continue to sleep in uninterrupted peace. She would just pop by the Hospital Wing on her way back to let Madam Pomfrey know, and to see if she had come any closer to finding out what the matter was, if she had even found time to do so amid the dragon pox outbreak. Grimly, Minerva McGonagall also thought she would have more than a few choice words for Severus Snape the next time she saw him, too.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Harry, Hermione and Ron had gone straight to Diagon Alley from the car park, and paid an immediate visit to Gringotts, where Harry paid a quick visit to Vault 687 to finance their day of adventure. If the Gringotts goblins realised young Mr Potter and his friends were playing truant, they said nothing of it. Discretion was a pre-requisite in their vocation, and Mr Potter one of their wealthiest clients.

Ron and Hermione waited for Harry in the main chamber, where dozens of very formal-looking goblins counted and weighed coins in a most serious manner. Ron tried to reconcile the rigid, business-like surroundings with his long-haired, earring-clad brother Bill and his aristocratic and glamourous fianc�e, Fleur. He said as much to Hermione, who smiled at the idea of tall, laid-back Bill Weasley and delicate Fleur Delacour working amongst the diminutive, stiffly ceremonial goblins.

They were still chuckling when Harry rejoined them, escorted by Griphook, the same goblin who had taken Harry and Hagrid to his vault for the very first time, all those years ago.

"What are you two laughing at, then?" Harry asked with a smile.

"Nothing really," Hermione replied. "Just trying to picture Fleur and Bill in the middle of all ... this." She gestured around the chamber with a hand.

"That's right, I'd forgotten," Harry said, turning to Griphook. "My friend Ron here, his brother works for Gringotts. Bill Weasley. He used to be a curse-breaker in Egypt, but he transferred back here a couple of years ago."

Griphook nodded sagely and gave Ron a little bow. Ron's eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he managed a weak smile and nodded back.

Suddenly, Harry had an idea. "I don't suppose you could do us a favour?" he asked Griphook. "Seeing as Ron's brother is a colleague of yours?"

"Harry ..." Ron began warningly, but Hermione silenced him by placing her hand on his arm.

The little goblin peered at Harry expectantly. "Yes?"

"I don't suppose you'd let us up to the Observation Platform, would you?" he asked politely. "It's just that Bill's always going on about how the view from the Observation Platform in the Trading Tower is the best in all of London, and, well, we'd love to see it."

Griphook blinked and considered Harry very thoughtfully, then walked away to confer with two other goblins.

"What are you on about?" Ron asked the minute he was out of earshot. "Bill's never said any such--"

"All right, so it wasn't Bill," Harry admitted. "It was Malfoy. I overheard him talking to Pansy a couple of months ago about how his father had once arranged for him to have a private tour of Gringotts. Apparently old Lucius fancies Malfoy has a future as a wizarding stockbroker--"

"--If he's not too busy studying to become a Death Eater first," Hermione interjected with disgust.

"Well, yeah," Harry agreed. "But even Death Eaters have day jobs. Anyway, Malfoy was going on and on about how you could see all of London from the Observation Platform at Gringotts, and I thought seeing as we're here, we should take the opportunity to see it for ourselves."

Just then, Griphook rejoined them. Wearing a wintry smile, he nodded and gestured towards a wrought-iron and stone staircase against the far wall of the chamber.

"Brilliant!" Harry grinned. "Thanks ever so much!"

With Harry leading, the three of them made their way to the staircase and began the steep climb to the very top of the Trading Tower. Several minutes later, the staircase opened out on to the WISE (Wizarding International Stock Exchange) Trading Chamber, where hundreds of goblins were buzzing around in a state of organised chaos. Wizarding currencies and shares of companies from around the world--including Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes--were being bought and sold with the flick of a wand, and an enormous blackboard that took up one entire wall kept erasing itself and rewriting prices, shares and costs over and over.

The trio stood agape for a moment, taking in all the hustle and bustle. At the far end of the chamber was an annex with a gilded sign over the arch which served as its entranceway that read Observation Platform. Harry nudged Ron and Hermione then strode purposefully towards the smaller room, cutting straight through the jostling masses of goblins on the trading chamber floor as if he had every right to be there. Ron gave Hermione a dubious look, but she merely shrugged and set off after Harry.

Inside the annex, Harry stopped to read an informational plaque on the wall about the Observation Platform. Another winding staircase led the three friends up to a spacious chamber with floor-to-ceiling glass walls on all sides. London--both magical, and beyond it, Muggle--stretched out as far as the eye could see in every directions.

Harry marvelled at the spectacular view. For once in his life, Malfoy was right. The cityscape which surrounded them was truly magnificent. The horizon was dotted with numerous Muggle and wizarding landmarks--everything from Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament to the domed roof of the Museum of Magic and a massive statue of Elfrida Clagg, Chieftainess of the Wizard's Council during the fourteenth century.

"Hey, Harry ... do you reckon the car's okay?" Ron asked anxiously.

"Sure," Harry replied smoothly. "This is the tallest tower in the British wizarding world," he informed Ron and Hermione.

"Harry, my stomach's a bit dodgy," Ron muttered. "Can we leave soon?"

A brass foot rail ran around the circumference of the chamber. "Here--climb up on this," Harry suggested, offering a hand to Hermione. "Come on, Ron."

Ron reluctantly stepped up onto the foot rail. "Right, now lean forward against the glass like this," he instructed, tilting forward and placing his forehead on the glass. His arms remained by his side and his feet balanced on the foot rail.

"Oh!" Hermione followed suit, squealing in delight.

Harry grinned. "Brilliant, isn't it?"

"I think I see my dad," Ron muttered softly to himself.

"Diagon Alley looks so peaceful from up here," Hermione murmured.

"Anything is peaceful from 1,234 feet," Harry noted.

"He's down there somewhere," Ron sighed, his voice full of weary anxiety. He stepped down from the footrest and slumped against the wall, his lanky body slowly sliding down to the floor, legs stretched out before him.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a knowing look and followed suit. Hermione sat in front of Harry and curled her legs up under her, settling back comfortably against his chest. All three soon became lost in their own thoughts, watching silently as witches and wizards flitted about like Lacewing flies on the streets of magical London below.

Propped up against the massive glass window for all the world to see, Ron felt naked and exposed, and wondered if his father could see him from his office window at the Ministry of Magic. He doubted it, but he found himself wishing he had Harry's Invisibility Cloak handy, all the same. Absently, he began to twirl Malfoy's wand to and fro in random configurations. Every so often, silver or green sparks would shoot out, or it would emit a small noise reminiscent of an Augrey's cry, and Ron would smile in satisfaction, knowing each outburst would mean more trouble for Malfoy from the Ministry.

Hermione, meanwhile, was busy appraising the numerous historical landmarks and places of interest with a scholar's keen eye, making a mental list for future sightseeing excursions and further study.

As for Harry, he took in the vast, sprawling city before him and felt both freedom and dread. One day--on the rare occasions he allowed himself to think that far in the future--he wanted to believe there would be a place out there just for him. Somewhere free of the Dursleys and his painful childhood, even free from the bittersweet memories of Hogwarts, that he could truly call his own. His home. Though Harry had never really given much thought to what it would look like, or where it would be, or whom he would share it with, because deep in his heart he knew it would probably never exist. It somehow hurt less to miss it as an abstract concept rather than a place he had breathed life into in his mind. Yet if he really dared to let himself dream, tucked away in the secret corners of his soul he his knew his home would be a cosy, comfortable, Burrow-like place, filled to the rafters with children and warmth and happiness and laughter and love, and all the other things that seemed to come so easily to everyone else.

Then reality set in, and a dull ache stabbed at his heart as he realised yet again that none of those things could ever be his when Voldemort was still alive and lurking in the shadows. He was beginning to wonder if it would ever end--they had battled so many times, and every time Voldemort had come back even more resilient; in fact, he seemed to be almost invincible. Harry knew their next duel would be their last, and the prophecy Dumbledore had told him about in fifth year would finally be fulfilled--he would either kill Voldemort, or be killed by him. Although, they were both such extraordinarily powerful wizards, it was also quite possible neither would survive. His heart felt heavy as he remembered once again that his odds of survival were a bleak one-in-three. A home and family of his own had never seemed more remote.

A flash of anger instantly surged up and washed over Harry just then, like a wave crashing against a shore. He had already been cheated out of his family once; he would be damned if he let history repeat itself. Perhaps the real way to defeat Voldemort was to go ahead and seize his future in spite of him. To lay claim to the things he desperately wanted, the things he knew he deserved. To show the Dark Lord that he was resilient and invincible, too.

Harry absently wound one of Hermione's unruly curls around his finger.

"D'you reckon we should get married?"

Hermione broke out of her excursion-planning reverie and turned to face him, her eyes wide and unblinking. "Sorry?"

"Married," he repeated softly. "D'you reckon we should get ... married."

"Ma-married?" she stammered, her eyes and mouth forming perfect little circles of shock. She felt more than a little awkward discussing the matter in front of Ron. He was her other best friend and she loved him dearly, so she had chosen to be wilfully oblivious of the obvious but completely unrequited crush he had developed on her over the past few years. "Er ... sure ... one day ..."

Flushing with embarrassment, Hermione looked down at the floor. Though she had often dreamt she and Harry would have a long, happy life together, it was quite another thing to express this hope out loud. That made it more real somehow, and knowing what the future most probably held, Hermione, like Harry, wouldn't allow herself to get caught up in heartbreaking impossibilities.

His voice was soft but firm, and almost hopeful. "Today?"

Hermione began to laugh nervously, but stopped when she realised Harry hadn't joined her. His piercing green eyes were fixed on hers, and at that moment, he had never been more certain of anything in his life.

"I'm serious."

"Harry!" she exclaimed incredulously. "Are you mad? We can't get married today!"

He shrugged impassively. "Why not?"

"What do you mean, why not?" Hermione spluttered. "Honestly!"

"Besides being a bit youngish, having no place to live and you feeling a little bit awkward about being the only seventh-year with a husband, give me one good reason why not?" he replied, breaking into a grin.

"Well, apart from that," Ron piped up, pointing Malfoy's wand at Harry's unkempt locks, "and that,"--the wand now swung over to Hermione's ever-bushy tresses--"and the fact that your sprogs would have hair so bloody disastrous, no amount of Sleekeazy's could con--"

"Hey!" Hermione interjected indignantly.

"--trol it," Ron continued, unfazed by the interruption, "I'll give you two good reasons why not: your mother and your father. They got married and then, they died."

The full weight of his words, and all the history and prophecy associated with them, sank in the silence that followed. Hermione glared at Ron darkly for his usual lack of tact, but it was Harry who eventually replied.

"So?"

"So ... you're their son, Harry." He spoke softly and sadly, without any trace of jealousy or malice. "It isn't over yet, mate."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a forlorn look as the mournful cry of an Augrey sprang forth from Malfoy's wand.

8. Chapter 7

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Shortly thereafter, the trio left Gringotts and the Observation Platform and headed out into the various wizarding streets and roads that intersected the high street of Diagon Alley like a labyrinthe. (They took great care to avoid Psycho Path, Sor Row and En Trail, all of which bordered Knockturn Alley.)

"Where are we off to in such a hurry?" Hermione laughed, as Harry raced down the cobblestone mews of Goinga Way, dragging his two friends behind him.

Harry stood for a moment at an intersection, trying to get his bearings. He turned left, then after two blocks cut through a path and raced up towards a back alley. Finally, he stopped on a large boulevard in front of the ornate wrought-iron doors of Chez Camelot, a very posh restaurant frequented by the most well-to-do and well-known in the wizarding world.

He turned to them with a smile. "Dinner."

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look which embodied the best parts of disbelief and apprehension before following Harry up the marble steps, through the double oversized oak doors (held open by a domesticated River Troll in a smart doorman's uniform, no less) and into Chez Camelot's main foyer, where a large fire burned cosily in a gilded fireplace. The restaurant was upholstered in jewel-tone shades of plush velvet, with massive tapestries hanging on the walls woven from golden and silver threads. Instead of chairs at the large, round polished mahogany tables, there were oversized thrones. Best of all, like the Great Hall at Hogwarts during a feast, hundreds of tiny flickering candles hung suspended from the ceiling in little white globes, bathing the room with a soft golden glow.

"Blimey," Hermione breathed, drinking in the opulence.

Ron stood beside her mutely, his slack jaw, wide eyes and red hair creating an impressive impersonation of a goldfish. Harry, on the other hand, drew himself up to his full five feet, eleven-and-a-half inches, and held himself almost regally--as though he was used to eating at Chez Camelot every day of his life.

A lilac-robed maitre'd stood with his back to them, bidding a sycophantic farewell to an elderly pair of wizards who were leaving the restaurant after a business luncheon. He turned around to greet the newcomers, and Harry, Hermione and Ron gasped in unison when they saw his face.

"Prof--Mr--er ... Lockhart?"

Sure enough, the trio's former Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher stood before them, in all his splendour. He greeted them with the same dazzling smile they remembered all-too-well, although the familiar twinkle in his eye had been replaced with a faintly vacant, glazed-over look.

"Ha-llo!" he beamed with a toothy grin, taking in the triple expressions of shock plastered across their faces. "No, no--no need to look so starstruck ... I assure you, it really is me, and I really am as modest and humble as you've no doubt heard ... I suppose you'll be wanting an autograph?"

"Er, no ..." Ron stammered, "just a table for lunch, actually. Bloody hell," he muttered to Hermione under his breath, "how'd he manage to escape from St Mungo's?"

"Shut up, Ron!" she hissed back, elbowing him hard in the ribs.

Harry cleared his throat. "Er ... Prof--um--Lock--uh, it's me ... Harry Potter."

Not a flicker of recognition crossed Gilderoy Lockhart's face. In fact, he scowled at his former student rather suspiciously.

"Is something the matter?" Harry asked.

Lockhart crossed his arms in front of his chest contemptuously. "You're Harry Potter?"

"That's right," he said patiently.

"The Boy Who Lived?"

Harry sighed. When would people stop using that tired expression? "Yes, that's me. You taught me at Hogwarts in my second year."

"Perhaps that Memory Charm hasn't entirely worn off yet," Ron muttered to Hermione, and she elbowed him again, scowling.

Lockhart's eyes flickered up to Harry's forehead and frowned. Hermione and Ron followed his gaze, stifling twin gasps of shock at the sight of Harry's smooth, unscarred forehead peeking back at them from under an inky black tuft of hair.

"Your sca--" Hermione began in disbelief, but Ron quickly shushed her.

"Listen here, young man," Lockhart sniffed disdainfully. "Entre nous, I'm very busy at the moment. We have a Ministry of Magic banquet to set up in the Lancelot Room, and Celestina Warbeck's entourage should be arriving any moment now for her private luncheon with Aidan Lynch--you know, the Seeker from the Irish National Quidditch Team?" He spoke loudly and sounded like his usual pompous self for a moment, waving cheerily to a pair of dowager-esque witches who were looking on with interest from the dining room, then fixed his eyes back on Harry coldly. "So why don't you and your chums go back to the nursery, hmm?"

Harry frowned. "Are you suggesting I'm not who I say I am?"

"I'm suggesting you leave before I get stroppy!"

"Stroppy?"

"Shirty!"

"Shirty?"

Ron tugged at Harry's shirtsleeve. "Right, Harry, let's go."

"No! I'm not going anywhere," Harry declared, jerking away from his friend. "We'd like to be seated!"

Lockhart pursed his lips and pointed to the exit. "See here, either you take the field trip outside, or I'm going to have to ring the Ministry!"

"The Min--you're going to ring the Ministry of Magic about me?" Harry said incredulously.

"Indeed," Lockhart sniffed.

Harry was outraged. He didn't care if Lockhart couldn't remember his own name--after everything the man had put them through in second year, Harry would be damned if he gave in to him now.

"Fine. In fact, I'll ring them myself," Harry insisted, gesturing to the fireplace in the foyer with a deliberate flick of Malfoy's wand. He muttered an incantation under his breath and the flames started to turn a pale green colour. Lockhart, his gaze darting around in fury to see which patrons were bearing witness to such insolence, failed to notice.

"Oh yes, do ring the Ministry, indeed," he sneered. "That would be smashing!"

Ron and Hermione looked on, mortified, as Harry pulled a small crimson velvet pouch out of his back pocket and removed a small handful of glittering powder. As he prepared to fling it into the fire, Lockhart suddenly noticed the now acid green-coloured flames and moved between Harry and the fireplace.

"See here--step aside--we've someone else coming through," Lockhart demanded. He made a grab for Harry's hand, but Harry quickly moved his arm away.

"No!"

"I've had quite enough of your shenanigans!" Lockhart fumed, making another swipe at Harry. "Step aside!"

"You touch me, and I yell Niffler!" Harry hissed. "There's another fireplace around here somewhere--find it!"

Lockhart opened his mouth to reply, but caught several elegantly-robed wizards in the nearby dining room peering in dismay at the scene unfolding in the foyer. He closed his mouth and frowned, casting a disparaging once-over at Ron and Hermione, who were standing adjacent to Harry, utterly dumbfounded.

"I weep for the future."

With that, he stormed off down the corridor, his silky lilac robes trailing behind.

"Harry, can we just let it go now, please?" Ron urged. "Come on, let's just go to a pub and grab a bite to ea--"

"Harry, stop messing about!" Hermione pleaded. "You've gone completely over the top!"

Harry shook his head. "A, you can never go completely over the top. B, if I'm going to get done in, it is not going to be by that jumped-up ponce. After what he put us through in the Chamber of Secrets?"

Before Hermione had a chance to protest, Harry quickly cast a Severing Charm on her hair--it instantly shrank to a length just below her chin. Next, he conjured up a pair of dark sunglasses and slipped them upon her nose. Casting what was left of the powder clenched in his hand into the flames, Harry gently manoeuvred her towards the fireplace.

"Ask for Harry Potter," he instructed, ducking out of sight as Hermione gingerly placed her face into the green fire.

A moment later, Hermione was greeted by Lockhart's toothy grin. From what she could see of the room he was in, it looked like a small administrative office. He called out jovially to the face that appeared in his fireplace.

"Hal-lo! Chez Camelot!"

"May I speak to Harry Potter?" Hermione asked in a slightly strained voice. "The Boy Who Lived?"

"Let me see if that's possible," Lockhart answered pleasantly. "Could you describe him for me, please?"

"Er ..." Hermione glanced over at where Harry was standing beside Ron. "Green jumper ... white t-shirt ... black jeans ... He's rather fit," she added. Harry had the good graces to blush demurely, while Ron rolled his eyes.

Lockhart suddenly looked like he had been hit with a Confundus Charm. "Ah ... could you hold a moment, please, madam?"

"Yes, thank you," Hermione smiled wanly. She pulled out of the fire and turned to Harry, a worried expression on her face. "I think he's gone to look for you."

"Perfect," Harry nodded. "Quick--cast one of your portable fire thingamabobs," he urged, shoving Malfoy's wand into her hand.

"Har--"

"Quickly!" Seeing the apprehensive look on her face, Harry smiled at her apologetically. "Please?"

Flustered, Hermione took a deep breath and waved the wand about while mumbling the proper charm. A small ball of flame the size of a dinner plate immediately sprang up in the air before her. She looked at him expectantly.

He nodded in approval, then seized the wand back from her and pointed it at Ron's chin. "Auctio Barbus!"

A long beard reminiscent of Dumbledore's, except ginger in colour, sprouted from Ron's face. Harry then conjured a tall navy blue wizard's hat and reached up to cram it down on top of Ron's head, where it partially obscured his eyes from view.

Quickly, Harry grabbed another small handful of powder from the crimson pouch and threw it onto the ball of fire. It turned the flames the same acid green hue as the ones in the fireplace. He tapped Malfoy's wand to fire and the tip went up in flames.

"What on earth are you--"

Ignoring Ron, Harry turned to the fireplace and dipped the flame-tipped wand into the fire, so the flames from the two sources blended together. After a few moments, he pulled Malfoy's wand out of the fire and blew out the flame at its tip as if it were a large birthday candle.

"I hope you made a wish, mate, because--"

"It'll do in a pinch," Harry interrupted. "If this works, the portable flames should be temporarily connected to the Floo Network." He gripped Ron by the shoulders and pushed his face into the portable fire. "You know what to do, mate--just like this morning."

Ron opened his mouth to complain, but suddenly the restaurant office came into view. Gilderoy Lockhart sat on a magenta-coloured pouffe adjacent to the fire. He addressed the newcomer with a cordial "Hal-lo! Chez Camelot," but his voice notably lacked its previous enthusiasm, as if he were preoccupied with other thoughts. From the look on his face, Ron had the distinct impression Lockhart's addled brain was struggling to piece something together that was just outside his realm of comprehension.

Perhaps I can make it a bit clearer for him, Ron grinned inwardly. Clearing his throat, he affected the posh voice he had used on Snape back at the Burrow. "Mr Lockhart? This is Mr Granger, Department of Magical Law Enforcement ..."

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

A few minutes later, Harry, a long-haired Hermione and a beardless Ron had been seated at the restaurant's best table. Lockhart personally bestowed a complimentary bottle of vintage mead on them, apologising profusely for their earlier troubles.

"Again, my sincerest apologies for our little faux pas back there, Mr Potter," Lockhart gushed. "I've only just returned to the working world part-time after a rather extended er ... holiday, and I'm afraid my memory for faces and names isn't quite what it used to be. I do appreciate your understanding," he simpered, bowing deeply to Harry.

"Not at all," Harry smiled jovially, "It's understanding that makes it possible for people like us to tolerate a person like yourself."

Lockhart looked puzzled for a moment, then broke out into a great beaming grin. "Why, thank you!"

Harry waved him off with a hand. "Don't mention it."

After a final bow, Lockhart left, and Harry turned to Hermione.

"Darling, you were brilliant," he cooed, toasting her with a golden goblet full of elderflower wine.

She blushed modestly, and Harry turned to his other best friend.

"And Ron--you thought we wouldn't have any fun today, he chided softly. "Shame on you."

Ron rolled his eyes and disappeared behind the enormous leather-bound parchment menu.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Back at Hogwarts, Malfoy paced up and down a deserted fourth floor corridor like a caged Manticore.

Perhaps I'm over-reacting, he thought to himself. Perhaps Potter isn't as sad as I think he is. After all, I have enough money to bankrupt Gringotts plus stunning, male-model good looks, and he's a middle-class-at-best, Mudblood-shagging, scrawny, speccy little orphaned git. Still, why should he get to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants? Why should everything always work out for him? What makes him so bloody special?

His eyes narrowed to little grey slits, the colour of storm clouds.

"Bugger him."

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Harry emerged from one of the two cubicles in the men's toilet at Chez Camelot and made his way over to the sinks, where he began to wash his hands from a large bronze sink with taps shaped like Lobalugs.

"I used to think I was the only person I knew who grew up without the support of his parents," he mused to himself, as a blue-and-gold robed attendant waited patiently to hand him a towel. "That used to depress me," he continued. "Then I thought about how Ron's parents carry on towards him. His home life is a bit sad. That's why he whinges all the time. I think it really bothers him. He's the only guy I know who feels better when he whinges. If I were him, I'd probably whinge too."

"Thank you." Harry took the towel from the attendant and began to dry his hands, continuing his monologue. "The Burrow is bit like a three-ring circus--it's very chaotic and very jovial, and there's applause and praise heaped all around ... as long as you perform well. Don't get me wrong, I love Molly and Arthur, and they treat me like one of their own--better than one of their own, actually, because Ron may as well be invisible to them. With siblings like that, how could he possibly compete?"

He folded the towel neatly and placed it in a large wicker basket on the floor, then turned his attention to the vast collection of complimentary potions, moisturisers, elixirs, pomades, lotions and balms neatly arranged on the countertop.

"There's Bill, former Head Boy, successful banker and first-born, who is dead cool, and now engaged to Fleur, Ron's former crush," Harry began, as he squirted a dab of hair care potion into the palm of his hand. He did a double-take at the label. Gilderoy Lockhart's Lock-Taming Pomade For Stressed Tresses. "Well, I'll be a Kappa's uncle," he murmured. "Would you look at that--he did it. Huh." Harry worked the potion through his hair, but his stubborn black locks refused to yield to its effects. "Typical," he sighed.

"Anyway, then there's Charlie, former Quidditch Captain, brilliant Seeker and internationally renown dragon-tamer. Percy, another Head Boy and possibly the only person I know who could give Hermione a run for her money as far as academics is concerned. Not to mention, he's worked his way up into a fairly respectable position at the Ministry of Magic, after having made peace with the Weasleys following all that rubbish with Fudge a couple of years ago."

Giving up on his hair, Harry wiped his hands on his trousers and picked up a flask of Fresh Breath Elixir. He poured a small amount into a cut-crystal glass and knocked it back as if it were a shot of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. "Then there's Fred and George, who have managed to turn Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes into one of the most profitable businesses in wizarding Britain--and they've only just turned 20. And Ginny, a straight-O student, popular, prefect and probable Head Girl next year, not to mention a possible recruit for Puddlemere United--I heard a rumour they sent a scout to Gryffindor's last Quidditch match just to watch her play Chaser."

Harry picked up several glass phials, carefully scrutinising the labels until he found the ginger and honey Skin Softening Solution he was looking for. "Hermione uses this, it's the best," he said approvingly, rubbing a healthy dollop into his hands.

"Arthur and Molly have produced all these brilliant children, and then there's ... Ron. Can you imagine what it must have been like for him to grow up with that lot? Three older over-achieving brothers, for starters, then being sandwiched in between Fred and George, who undoubtedly demanded a lot of attention and energy, and Ginny, who was fussed over because she was the baby and only girl. Ron got lost in the shuffle. Not to mention five generations of hand-me-downs. The poor bugger never stood a chance.

"He's never really excelled at anything, bless him--a mediocre student at best, a lousy prefect and a spotty record as Gryffindor's Keeper for the past few years. Not to mention, he only got the prefect and Quidditch gigs by default, which he's rather sensitive about. He's probably best known for being my best friend, which is completely unfair to him. He has no clue what he wants to do when he leaves Hogwarts, he's useless with girls--Luna's been dying to go out with him for ages but he's too bloody daft to do anything about it--and he generally can't be arsed with most things."

Harry brushed a few wrinkles out of his robe and stared at himself in the mirror, momentarily caught off-guard by the lack of an angry red jagged slash across his forehead.

"You're a very handsome young man," the mirror cooed to him, its fawning voice jarring him out of his reverie. Harry took a deep breath before continuing his rant.

"None of this translates very well with his parents, as you can well imagine. They're at their wits' end. They don't know what to do with him, so they just leave him to his own devices. I suppose it's a natural progression: he was--unintentionally, perhaps--neglected as a kid, now he's ignored as a teenager. At this rate, they'll probably disown him as an adult," he sighed. "But I reckon it's their fault Ron is the way he is to begin with. The Weasleys expected him to do as well as his siblings, but it wouldn't be a big deal even if he did, because the others did it first. His parents didn't really have time for him, so they never encouraged him in school or sport or anything else. And as a result, he grew complacent and apathetic, which caused them to pay even less attention to him. It's a vicious cycle."

He picked up a glass phial marked Pheromone Phantasy Potion and uncorked it. After sniffing the contents and grimacing, he quickly recorked and replaced it on the countertop.

"When Ron stumbled into the prefect gig, his parents were over the moon, because he'd finally achieved something at par with his siblings' accomplishments. So you can imagine how mental they went when it was taken away from him in sixth year due to what McGonagall termed 'incompetency and ineffectiveness.' Arthur went spare, and Molly--well, she sent him a Howler that made the one in second year look like a love letter. That was the straw that broke the Nundu's back--he's officially been in their bad books ever since. He doesn't talk much about it, but I can tell it really gets to him. One day he's going to completely do his nut, and it won't be pretty.

"So having said that, I'm actually amazed I got the Mini out of the garage. I caught Ron digging the ride once or twice. It's good for him. It teaches him to manage his anger and resentment. Plus--and I must be honest here--I love driving it. It is so brill. If you have the dosh, I highly recommend picking one up." Harry tossed a Galleon into a pewter dish beside the attendant. "Thank you."

The wizard nodded smartly. "Yes, sir."

Harry eyed another small dish on the countertop amid the various jars and bottles. "Ooh, peppermint humbugs!"

Scooping a few of the sweets into one of his pockets, he nodded genially to the attendant and walked out, a fraction of a second before Albus Dumbledore emerged from the other cubicle.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Malfoy leapt down the stairs to the Potions dungeon two at a time and yanked open the large oak door violently, only to find the classroom empty. Frowning, he strode through the maze of cauldrons, mortars, pestles and phials to Snape's office, almost knocking over several large jars of porcupine quills in his hurry. The door was ajar, so he pushed his way through. To his great surprise, Professor Snape was nowhere to be found and it was Professor Trelawney who sat behind his desk instead. She peered up at him myopically from behind her thick glasses as he entered the small chamber.

"Well, hello, Mr Malfoy--who's bothering you now?" she began with forced cordiality.

Already irritated, he ignored the slight. "Is Professor Snape in?"

"No, I'm sorry, he isn't. He asked me to mind his office in his absence--may I help you?"

"I highly doubt that," Malfoy said disdainfully. "When will he be returning?"

Professor Trelawney shrugged impassively. Draco Malfoy was not one of her favourite students, due to his incessant mocking of her Merlin-given talents and abilities. "I'm afraid I don't know," she replied in clipped tones.

"And you call yourself a Seer?" he muttered under his breath.

She frowned, her large eyes narrowing noticeably but still overpowering her thin face. "He's away from Hogwarts on personal business."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Malfoy sneered.

"Well," Professor Trelawney replied coolly, "I imagine it means it's personal, and it's none of your business, young man."

Malfoy shook his head and snorted contemptuously. "Charming."

He was halfway out the door when he heard her voice calling after him. "Isn't Professor Flitwick expecting you in Charms class?"

He glared at her from over his shoulder before slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind him. "Probably."

"What a little gobshite," Sibyl Trelawney muttered to herself, and anxiously resumed flipping through a copy of Witch Weekly while she waited to hear from Snape.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

"Cuthbert, you simply must consider a summit."

"It won't work."

"If we want them on our side, we must be willing to forge a collaborative union--a true brotherhood--and give them the respect to voice their concerns. It's as simple as that."

The authorative voice of Albus Dumbledore drifted up from the cobblestone pavement beside the stone stairs leading up to Chez Camelot's entrance. At the top of the stairs, Harry, Hermione and Ron wore identical expressions of horror as they watched the scene unfolding below. Fortunately, their headmaster and the two magisterial-looking wizards who accompanied him were so deeply engrossed in their argument they were paying little heed to their surroundings.

"Four thousand restaurants in the vicinity of Diagon Alley, I pick the one Dumbledore goes to," Harry muttered.

"We're buggered for sure," Ron said gloomily.

"No way, Ron," Harry replied, already calculating an escape route. "Only the meek get buggered--the bold survive." He pulled Malfoy's wand out of his pocket and tapped it quickly against his glasses. Immediately, the lenses darkened until they were black in colour. Harry quickly conjured up two pairs of Muggle sunglasses and Banished them to Hermione and Ron respectively. "Let's go."

"Let's surrender," Ron whimpered as the glasses landed squarely on his long nose.

"Never."

Harry raced down the stairs towards a row of horse-drawn carriages that were waiting adjacent to the kerb, Hermione and Ron hot on his heels. He was hoping to slip into the nearest one, literally behind Dumbledore's back, counting on his headmaster's continued absorption in his conversation to shield them from detection.

"I am well aware it may sound like I am flogging a dead Hippogriff," Dumbledore declared, trying to placate his colleagues, "but I assure you this is not the case."

The carriages were much like the ones that took them to and from Hogsmeade station at the beginning and end of the school year, only instead of Thestrals, these ones were being pulled by very visible Clydesdale horses of every hue and shade. Harry's hand closed around the door handle of the nearest carriage as if it were a Snitch. But to his great alarm, Dumbledore chose that exact moment to hail a carriage of his own. As his headmaster half-turned around to face him, Harry silently froze and took a large but clumsy step backwards, nearly knocking over Hermione and Ron in the process.

"Albus, though I admire your principles, I assure you ... it won't work."

The words were enough to jar Dumbledore from his valet duties. Much to Harry's great relief, his headmaster turned back to face his colleagues.

"Cuthbert, you're one of the brightest wizards at the Ministry!" he said beseechingly. "Surely you must know it's going to take an alliance with the goblins to secure victory. We've made substantial progress with the giants, and even the centaurs ... the goblins are our last line of resistance--"

The chair of the Goblin Liaison Office shook his head stubbornly. "They're still mistrustful after that dreadful business with Bagman a few years back. It simply will not work!"

With lightning-fast reflexes borne of years on the Quidditch pitch, Harry wasted no time in ushering in Hermione and Ron into the carriage. Not a moment later, the purple-coated Clydesdale that pulled it began to trot briskly down the road, as an identical vehicle, pulled by a bright orange horse, moved up in the queue to replace it. Seemingly unaware of the switch, Dumbledore opened the door of the new carriage and gestured to his colleagues to get in.

"Gentlemen, why don't we continue this discussion back at the Ministry?"

"It won't--" Cuthbert began, but the rest of his words were lost in a muffle as Dumbledore gallantly guided him into the carriage.

"I very much assure you, Cuthbert, it will work. You just have to try." Dumbledore closed the door behind him and sighed as he walked around to the other side. "Merlin, give me patience."

9. Chapter 8

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Snape entered The Leaky Cauldron and nodded briskly to Tom the bartender, who gave him a gummy smile in return. Trade was brisk for early afternoon, but Snape knew exactly what--or whom--he was looking for as he began to weave his way through the maze of tables and chairs crowding the shabby, dimly-lit room.

Suddenly, the back of an all-too-familiar head caught his beady eye. The figure was sitting alone at a table tucked in a dark corner. Short ebony hair stuck up in all directions, and Snape could even make out the back of a pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses hooked around the figure's ears.

"Potter."

It was beautiful. It was better than Slytherin winning the Quidditch and House Cups, and a promotion to Defence Against the Dark Arts professor all rolled into one. Finally, after seven long years, he, Severus Snape, had caught the great Harry Potter red-handed. And no Invisibility Cloak or secret map--not even Albus Dumbledore himself could save the little bastard now.

"Le jeux est fini." The figure raised its head, clearly having heard Snape's oily voice. "Translation: The game is up. Your hide is mine."

Slowly, the figure stood up, and Snape felt his heart swell with victory as Potter turned around to face him. Only, it wasn't Potter. The figure that stood before him had the same scruffy black hair and the same wire-rimmed eyeglasses--even the same black robes and the same slight frame. Except he was a she, and Severus Snape had never laid eyes on her before in his life.

The young witch glared at Snape contemptuously, taking a long, slow pull on her Butterbeer, right down to the dregs of the bottle. The joy drained from Snape's face and he winced, knowing what was coming next and yet finding himself physically incapable of preventing it. Her eyes narrowed and a millisecond later she spat her Butterbeer at him forcefully, smirking with satisfaction as she watched the golden liquid drip from his hooked nose. Wordlessly, she turned around again and sat back down at the table.

Shaking with humiliation and rage Snape made his way over to the bar, where Tom was busy polishing a pewter tankard, his eyes and ears engrossed in a Quidditch match being broadcast over the Wizarding Wireless.

"--Wadcock in possession of the Quaffle--ooh, and a nice dodge there, avoiding the Bludger sent her way by Jenkins--Wadcock looks around for a team mate--is she going to try the Porskoff Ploy?--but wait, there's the Snitch! Ladies and gentlemen, would you look at that! The Snitch has been caught by a spectator in the stands! Unbelievable! This is a first! The whistle blows as the referee calls a quick time out, and ... do we have a decision ... it looks like he's indicating ... yes, he's indicating to play on! A new Snitch has been released, and the match continues--"

"What's the score?" Snape muttered, busying himself with a Scouring Charm to clean his soiled robes and face, whilst thanking Merlin he had the foresight to pick his wand up from his desk before leaving Hogwarts.

"Nil-nil," Tom replied, his eyes not moving from the Wireless.

"Who's winning?" Snape asked absently.

Tom glanced over at him, frowning. "Puddlemere."

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

At the Puddlemere United Arena in London's West End, Harry, Hermione and Ron sat high up in the stands, Harry's outstretched hand still clasped tightly around the Snitch. He flashed the squirming golden ball in a few directions as the crowd roared its approval, then sat down as the match resumed play. Much to Ron's delight, Puddlemere's opponents that afternoon were none other than the Chudley Cannons and he wasted no opportunity to proclaim his loyalty loudly, for all to hear.

"Hey, beater-beater-beater-beater, swiiinng, beater!" Ron bellowed at the Puddlemere player, who was hovering on her broomstick several feet away from them. He nudged Harry. "Come on."

Laughing, they shouted together. "Hey, beater-beater-beater-beater, swiiinng beater!"

Harry grinned at Hermione, who rolled her eyes and shook her head, but smiled back nevertheless before returning her attention to her copy of Yet More New Theories of Numerology.

"Hey, Ron," Harry said through a mouthful of Chocolate Frog, "D'you realise if we were at Hogwarts right now, we'd be in Divination?" They both cackled as Ron cupped his hands around his mouth and gleefully continued the chant.

"She-can't-hit-she-can't-hit-she-can't-hit-she-can't-hit-she-can't-hit, swiiing beat-er!" Behind them, high atop the stands stood a gigantic blackboard, similar to the one Harry, Hermione and Ron had seen at the Quidditch World Cup just before fourth year. In gold sparkling writing, it bore a two-word plea: Save Harry!

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Malfoy stomped across the entrance hall and yanked open one of the oak front doors of the castle so violently, it caused the twin suits of armour that flanked them to rattle. He stopped for a moment, glaring into the sparkling May sunshine. Potter was out there somewhere.

"I loathe him," Malfoy muttered to himself.

For seven years, he had suffered through the unabashed favouritism Potter had been shown from almost every member of the faculty and student body. For seven years, every attempt he had made to expose Potter's rule-breaking and trouble-making had been foiled--nay, had even backfired--spectacularly. For seven years, he had lived in the shadow of the great Harry Potter, who could do no wrong. Well, no more, Malfoy vowed. No more. Today he would find Potter and expose him for the conniving, mealy-mouthed, wretched little runt that he was. Today, Potter would finally get his comeuppance.

Malfoy began to walk purposefully down the steps, then stopped suddenly when he reached the bottom. The only problem with his plan was that he didn't quite know where Potter was. He had returned to the Hospital Wing earlier, under the guise of getting some more paste for his burn, only to discover Potter was no longer a patient. When Malfoy had enquired about Potter's whereabouts, he had been met with the frosty response that "dear Harry" had been moved into isolation so he could continue with his convalescence in peace. Malfoy sneered. More like continue with his skiving ...

Malfoy had then paid a quick visit to Professor Snape, his only oasis of sanity in the Potter-induced hysteria that had bewitched Hogwarts for the past seven years. Except the Potions Master hadn't been in his office, and in his stead, seemed to have left that ridiculous woman in charge, for reasons Malfoy could not begin to fathom. He exhaled in disgust and frustration. It didn't matter. He would find Potter, help or no help, and he would wipe that smirk off his face for good.

A knot of passing First Years on their way up the steps jostled Malfoy out of his reverie.

"Did you hear?" Moira Quirke said breathlessly to Jeremy Thackeray and Theodore Creevey. "Harry Potter was admitted to the Janus Thickey Ward at St Mungo's last night! I heard the Minister for Magic herself is keeping a bedside vigil!"

"He wasn't," Jeremy replied authoratively, eager to brag about his connection to The Boy Who Lived, however tenuous it was. "I know, because I spoke to him this morning just before Herbology."

Malfoy's ears pricked up.

"That's right--he appeared in a fireplace in a corridor on the second floor," Theodore added helpfully.

"Said he was at death's door, and that Madam Pomfrey put him under strict quarantine in Professor Hagrid's Hut," Jeremy continued. "He's so contagious, he's not allowed to have visitors or anything!"

"Dumbledore's even on standby to administer the last rites!" Theodore insisted, not wanting to be outdone.

Their voices faded out of range as a thin, cold smile ghosted across Malfoy's lips. No visitors, eh? We'll see about that. One thing's for certain, though--Potter's going to need the last rites by the time I'm through with him ...

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

After Portkeying back to Hogwarts after the incident at the Leaky Cauldron, Snape found himself in a fouler mood than usual (if that was possible). Potter had not only managed to thwart him thus far, but make him look like a fool in public to boot. There would be hell to pay when he caught the boy, Snape rued, but catch him, he would. Where was it Minerva had said Potter was allegedly convalescing? A moment's thought gave him the answer: Rubeus Hagrid's hut.

"We'll see about that," Snape muttered darkly, and set off across the grounds towards the groundskeeper's home.

A few minutes later, the Potions Master found himself in front of Hagrid's ramshackle abode. His face contorted in distaste as he pushed aside a few half-plucked pheasants that were hanging from the little porch outside the front door. Snape gripped the massive doorknob and attempted to turn it. It wouldn't budge. He rattled the knob violently, throwing his full weight against the door. Nothing happened, save for a loud round of barking from within. Seething with anger, Snape whipped out his wand and pointed it at the heavy oak door.

"Alohomora!"

The door stubbornly refused to open.

"Colloportus Terminus! Finite Incantatum!" he bellowed, but the door remained shut.

Enraged, Snape finally picked up the enormous brass doorknocker and slammed it against the door with a loud thud. Immediately, a disembodied voice called out to him over Fang's continued barking.

"Who's there?"

"Potter, open this door!" Snape commanded.

Harry's voice replied, in a tone that suggested he was on the verge of death. "Oh, I'm frightfully sorry, but I can't answer the door right now ... I'm afraid that in my weakened condition, I could take a nasty spill whilst getting out of bed and subject myself to further absences from class."

"Silence, Potter! Open the door!"

"Should you wish to know more about my condition," the voice continued, "you can contact Headmaster Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall. Thank you for stopping by. I do appreciate your concern for my well-being."

"I am not leaving, Potter, until you Open. The. Door."

"Have a nice day!"

"Open this door at ONCE!" Snape hissed into the silence that followed. "Potter! POTTER!" He hammered on the doorknocker several times in rapid succession, unknowingly re-triggering the Voculae Iterationis spell Harry had placed on it before leaving for the Burrow.

A moment later, Harry's voice greeted him again. "Who's there?"

"You know bloody well who this is, Potter--if you do not open the door this INSTANT, I shall break it down!"

"Oh, I'm frightfully sorry, but I can't answer the door right now ..." Harry's voice parroted as Snape's face morphed from anger to confusion to comprehension to fury in the blink of an eye. He hurled himself against the door one more time, but it still would not give. Apoplectic with rage, Snape stalked around to the back of Hagrid's Hut, while Harry's voice continued to drone on from inside.

"... I'm afraid that in my weakened condition, I could take a nasty spill whilst getting out of bed and subject myself to further absences from class ..."

Snape looked around wildly for something that would help him gain entrance. Three small wooden crates were stacked neatly beside the back door. He wasted no time in attempting to climb them in order to see in through a tiny curtained window that was open a crack, high up in Hagrid's bedroom wall. The crates groaned under the Potions Master's weight, and a moment later, Snape found himself tumbling to the ground, where his fall was broken by a large patch of muddy brown earth.

"... Should you wish to know more about my condition, you can contact Headmaster Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall. Thank you for stopping by. I do appreciate your concern for my well-being ..."

Snape wrinkled his nose in disgust at the unmistakable smell of Thestral manure--a pungent combination of dung and blood. The mud made a squelching noise beneath him as he staggered to his feet and attempted to walk back to the door. But as soon as he took the first step, his shoe became stuck in the mud, causing him to lose his balance and topple over again. Cursing Merlin, Circe and every prominent witch and wizard known to the magical world, Snape fumbled about for his lost shoe, eventually extracting the stinking, manure-covered object and unsteadily rising to his feet. After slipping and sliding a few more times, he eventually made it back to Hagrid's back doorstep just in time to hear Harry's voice conclude from the front of the Hut, "Have a nice day!"

Snape shook the manure off his filthy shoe as best he could, and was just about to cast a Scouring Charm on his robes for the second time that day, when he noticed a small rubber flap in the bottom of Hagrid's back door. His eyes lit up with unbridled glee as he got down on his hands and knees and pushed against it. The flap moved inward, and he was able to stick his head and a shoulder inside.

"POTTER!" he bellowed, peering around in the darkness. "Potter, come here this INSTANT!"

From the shadows within the hut, Snape could hear a scuffling noise and heavy breathing, almost like panting.

"There is no need to continue your silly play-acting," he reprimanded harshly. "You may think you have fooled the Headmaster with this imaginary illness of yours, but I will not have it!"

Two eyes peered at Snape from the blackness.

"That's right, Potter." He spoke softly, but his tone was chilling. "You cannot hide any more. Come here. Come here and face the punishment you so richly deserve."

A low, guttural growl came from within the hut. A moment later, Fang's large black face came into view, eyes shining brightly and saliva dripping from his bared teeth.

Snape's shock and fear were almost palpable. "Stay," he ordered. Fang growled in response and trotted towards him. "Stay!" Snape repeated more urgently. "I command you to stay where you are!"

But staying put seemed to be the last thing on Fang's mind. Before Snape could even raise his wand, the enormous boarhound suddenly charged towards him and through the flap. Shrieking in a most unSnapelike manner, Snape dropped his filthy, dung-covered shoe, scrambled to his feet and began to run.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

On the outskirts of Muggle London, a certain 1965 Austin Mini Cooper 850 Super Deluxe Cabriolet was being taken on the ride of its life by its skinhead and mohawked passengers. Meanwhile, in the Museum of Magic, just off Trafalgar Square, Harry, Hermione and Ron inserted themselves into a hand-held chain of giggling, green-and-gold robed six-year-old witches and wizards from the Tír na nOg Primary School in County Clare, Ireland, who had Portkeyed in for the day.

The trio echoed the stance of the sculpture Portrait of Pierre Bonaccord (first Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards) specially commissioned by the Muggle-born sculptor Rodin, then moved along to three large, square pieces by Picasso, the greatest wizard painter of all--so famous, in fact, the Muggle world had embraced him as their own and he was celebrated as much in their culture as the wizarding one. Hermione gazed thoughtfully at The Red Throne, whilst next to her, Harry studied Portrait of Morgana Le Fay (who was rumoured to be an ancestor of Salazar Slytherin). Beside them, Ron took in Seated Witch, scrutinising the asymmetrical lines and dimensions.

Harry and Hermione leisurely strolled around the gallery hand in hand, stopping to sit in front of a moody blue-hued composition entitled Wizarding Windows. A feeling of tranquillity washed over them both as Harry wrapped his arm snugly around Hermione's shoulder and she sighed gently. Neither spoke, but the penetrating gaze of Harry's emerald eyes told Hermione all she needed to know. She smiled up at him adoringly and he bent slightly to give her a soft, lingering kiss, twining her arms around his neck.

Later, they found Ron transfixed in front of an enormous painting entitled Sunday Afternoon on Llangynidr Moors by the renown wizard painter Georges Seurat. The little description beside the painting said Seurat had had much crossover success in the Muggle world during the nineteenth century. As was common in all wizard paintings, the small clusters of witches and wizards moved about the tall grasses and hills of their landscape. But as Ron squinted and concentrated on the painting more, he could see the wizards and witches were not comprised of brushstrokes, but tiny, precise coloured dots and it was the dots themselves that were moving. Ron blinked, his eyes sliding in and out of focus, as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. He shook his head and refocused on the miniscule moving dots. The sensation reminded him vaguely of the time he and Harry ate some of those dodgy mushroom-flavoured Bertie Botts beans Fred and George gave them the summer after fifth year.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Traffic in wizarding London had just as bad a reputation as its Muggle counterpart. The carriage that housed Harry, Hermione and Ron had come to a complete stop in the middle of Solstice Square, in order to let swarms of witches and wizards past on their way to a parade in honour of Beltane. Sated and contented, Harry and Hermione were sprawled lazily across the back seat, whilst Ron sat ramrod straight beside them. Harry leant over to give his girlfriend a kiss, but was interrupted by the agitated sound of his best friend's voice.

"It's getting on, Harry--we'd best get the car back to the Burrow." Harry glanced down at his watch. "Don't be daft, Ron, we have a few hours--we have at least until classes let out, around half-past five."

"I'm sorry," Ron said in a huff, "I mean, I know you don't care, but it's my arse on the line."

"You think I don't care?"

"I know you don't care."

Harry gasped theatrically. "Oh, that hurts!" He pretended to clutch at his heart with his hands. "Ron, what have you seen today?

"Nothing decent," he muttered.

"Nothing de--nothing decent?" Harry spluttered. "What are you on about, 'nothing decent'? We've seen everything decent--we've seen the whole of wizarding London today!" he howled. "We went to the Museum of Magic--we saw priceless works of art, we ate--we ate haggis, we saw the Cannons kick Pud--" Harry trailed off when he saw the panicked expression on his Ron face. He was staring out the window behind Harry, his face drained of all colour and frozen in a mask of disbelief and horror. "What--what's the matter?"

"Look. Over. There," Ron hissed through clenched teeth.

Harry turned to look over his shoulder. Immediately to his right, in the backseat of an identical carriage, was Dumbledore, reading the Daily Prophet and humming to himself.

In a flash, Harry and Ron dived to the floor of the carriage. Harry pointed Malfoy's wand at Hermione, and an instant later, she found herself wearing a pair of dark sunglasses, her bushy hair shrunk to chin length again. Timidly, she glanced over at Dumbledore's carriage, thanking Merlin for the dark glasses that shielded her from the Headmaster's formidable Legilimency skills. Dumbledore matched her gaze, held it for a moment, his blue eyes twinkling like sapphires, then returned to his newspaper. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.

"What's he doing?" Harry asked. Beside him, Ron vigorously rubbed the small talisman he used as a keychain and sent up prayers to every deity, Muggle and magical, that he could think of.

Hermione grinned down at them cheekily. "He's winking at me and making rude gestures with his wand."

"WHAT?" Harry and Ron exchanged horrified looks on the floor of the carriage. Realising she was having them on, they both lunged for Hermione's legs and began to tickle her mercilessly. She shrieked with glee, momentarily drawing Dumbledore's attention a second time, before he refocused on the Prophet, where a headline on the back cover screamed: Is The Boy Who Lived Going To Die? Wizarding World Rallies Around Ailing Harry Potter.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Snape's mood was so black, it almost visibly emanated from him. He stalked back to the rear of Hagrid's hut, taking cover behind a Flutterby Bush adjacent to the gamekeeper's pumpkin patch. From this vantage point, he had an unencumbered view of Fang gnawing on his dung-covered shoe as happily as if it were a juicy dragon bone. Outraged, Snape drew himself up to his full height and took a step towards the giant dog, only to find himself being chased off the property by the charging, snarling canine for the second time in as many hours.

10. Chapter 9

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews! I know I said I'd upload all the remaining chapters of the story tonight, but I've spent the day assisting my friend in the birth of her son, and I'm kind of exhausted right now, so I'm going to postpone that til tomorrow. However, I didn't want to break my promise entirely, so I'm posting one chapter tonight. This chapter is my absolute favourite in the whole story, and I hope I've done it justice. Cheers, Arachne.

ps: Oh, and in case it isn't entirely clear to some people ... this is an AU fic, so yes, the characters will be slightly out of character!

"Don't be daft, Ron! He didn't leave, he's probably just off doing something."

Hermione and Ron struggled to make their way through the burgeoning throngs of witches and wizards gathering on the fringes of Solstice Square for the Beltane parade. The atmosphere was noisy, colourful and jubilant. Music and singing surrounded them and everywhere they turned, people were dancing, eating and drinking. Some took turns jumping over a small bonfire that had been lit in a corner of the square. Morris Dancers, Jack-in-Greens and Faerie Queens dotted the crowd, while young witches and wizards cheered and waved brightly-coloured ribbons, their parents draped in fragrant, vivid boughs and garlands of flowers. At the back of the square, a May Queen sat on a raised dais, flanked by parade officials. She surveyed the scene before her, a beatific smile on her face.

"He bloody drives me mad!" Ron fumed.

"Look, he didn't leave, all right? He's here." Hermione glanced around, narrowly avoiding being knocked over by a young witch dancing around a Maypole. "Somewhere."

"For all we know, he probably went back to Hogwarts," Ron said flatly.

Hermione's eyes widened incredulously. "He would not go back to Hogwarts!"

"Yes he would! He'd do it just to wind me up!"

"Oh, honestly, Ronald! It's not always all about you!"

"Drives me mad," he muttered, kicking at an empty can of pumpkin juice lying in the gutter.

Just then, a familiar voice called out over the crowd behind them.

"Ladies and gents, you're such a wonderful crowd, we'd like to play a little tune for you. It's one of my personal favourites and I'd like to dedicate it to a young man who doesn't reckon he's seen anything decent today. Ronald Bilius Weasley, this one's for you ..."

Hermione and Ron slowed, then stopped dead in their tracks and whirled around only to see, to their shock and horror, Harry posing atop a flower-and-ribbon-encrusted float (that was quite literally floating above the ground) entitled Wanton Wytches for Walpurgis. He was surrounded by half a dozen plump, lusty, middle-aged witches in tight, bright, low cut dress robes, some holding musical instruments. They were all barefoot and wore garlands around their necks and crowns of flowers in their long, flowing hair.

"Danke schoen, darling, danke schoen, thank you for all the joy and pain ... Puddifoot's for tea was the place we'd meet, window seat, go dutch treat, you were sweet ..."

"Oh, dear Merlin!" Hermione gasped, as Harry playfully squeezed the shoulder of the fleshy witch accompanying him on the lyre. She blushed, looking up at him coyly from underneath her lashes. "Harry! Harry, get off the float!"

Ron was doing a most impressive impersonation of a goldfish. "What is he like! What are you like?" he shouted at Harry, who gave him a cheesy grin as he waved back. "What are you doing?!"

"Harry, get off the float! Have you lost your mind?" Hermione shrieked, though she was trying very hard not to laugh.

"You're bloody barking!"

They made a mad dash for the float as it drifted lazily along the square, only to be stopped and escorted back to the sidelines by a burly watchwizard in navy robes. Meanwhile, as flustered parade officials double-checked their parchments detailing the afternoon's events, Harry continued to croon and serenade the cheering crowd.

"Danke schoen, darling, danke schoen, save those lies, darling, don't explain ... I recall Hogsmeade High Street in fall, how you tore your cloak, what a joke ..."

Hermione and Ron began to walk along the parade route in companionable silence, each inwardly marvelling at Harry's sheer outrageousness. But while Hermione's thoughts were tempered with exasperation (stemming from the fear that news of this latest stunt of Harry's would make it back to Hogwarts faster than they would), Ron's were mixed with equal parts awe and envy.

"You know, I grew up hearing and reading about the legend of Harry Potter, and I thought he could do everything," he eventually mused out loud. "Then I met him on the Hogwarts Express, and I realised it was true. As long as I've known him, everything has a way of working out for him. There's nothing he can't manage. I can't manage anything. School, Quidditch, fighting evil, getting the girl ... Harry can do anything." Hermione smiled at him sympathetically. "I don't even know what I'm going to do after I leave Hogwarts."

"Uni?" she shrugged. "The Ministry?"

"Yeah, but to do what?"

"Well, what are you interested in?"

"Nothing," he sighed deeply. "You?"

"Everything."

Ron laughed good-naturedly, reaching out to ruffle her hair. "Watch out, Wizengamot, Hermione Granger's coming to kick arse and take names."

Hermione grinned, but it faded as easily as it appeared, and she stared at the ground lost in thought again.

"What do you think will happen to Harry?" she asked timidly several moments later.

"Him? He's going to be a house-elf for the Malfoys," Ron grinned, then bellowed at their best friend, still prancing around atop the float in the distance behind them. "You're bloody buggering mad, you know that?!"

Ron slung a brotherly arm around her shoulder as they continued to walk. "Chin up, Hermione," he smiled, giving her a comforting squeeze. "He's going to save the world."

Before the tears that had suddenly gathered in Hermione's eyes could begin to fall, the song Harry had been singing came to an end. As the crowd cheered enthusiastically, Ron and Hermione smiled at each other in relief, but it soon turned to disbelief as the Wanton Wytches for Walpurgis struck up the opening chords of their next number--and Harry showed no signs of stepping down.

Ron looked bemused. "Is that ..."

"It couldn't be ..." Hermione frowned.

But it was. The Wytches launched into what was possibly the most cherished and beloved popular song in all of wizardom, "Swish 'n' Flick", by its biggest and most popular band, the Beetles. The crowd went absolutely wild, roaring its approval. And there, amid the cheering and clapping and whistling, was Harry, belting out the lyrics as if he were born to do so.

"Well, bewitch me, oh, baby, now (Bewitch me, oh, baby),
Swish and flick (Swish and flick)!
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, baby, now (Come on, baby),
C'mon and work your magic (Work your magic)!"

He danced, pranced, grooved and sang his way along the length of the float, the Wytches by his side at every step. A number of participants on other floats picked up their musical instruments and began to play along, creating a wall of sound that was nearly deafening.

"Well, work your magic, honey (Work your magic),
You know you look so good (Look so good)!
You know you cast a spell on me (Cast a spell),
Just like I knew you would (Like I knew you would)! Oooooh!"

Witches and wizards of every age were dancing and singing along on the sidelines, whipping themselves up into a frenzy. High amid the skies at the nearby Museum of Magic, a constructionwizard restoring the museum's resplendent gold-plated dome even twisted along on his scaffolding, waving his wand in appreciation. The ranks of musicians from other participants in the parade continued to swell, as they hopped down from their floats and danced along beside Harry's, happily bleating away on their instruments. For his part, Harry continued to twist and shout, the Wytches waving their arms and screaming in delight beside him.

"Well, bewitch me, oh, baby, now (Bewitch me, oh, baby),
Swish and flick (Swish and flick)!
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, baby now (Come on, baby),
C'mon and work your magic (Work your magic)!"

The crowd could no longer contain their excitement and enthusiasm. They spilled out from the sidelines on to the parade route, where they danced unabashedly in the cobblestone street. Several large clusters of witches and wizards even broke out into impromptu group dances, clapping and shaking and twisting along together in perfect unison. Harry fed off their energy, and the Wytches fed off him (quite literally, it would seem, if they could have).

"You know you swish your little wand (Swish your little wand),
You know you swish it so fine (Swish it so fine)!
C'mon and swish it a little closer, now (Swish it a little closer),
And let me know that you're mine (Let me know you're mine)!"

The Wytches showed their appreciation to Harry by performing flips, twirls, jumps and kicks in the air (and, in one case, the splits) with unbridled glee. Their passion was only matched by that of the ever-growing crowd, many of whom had now rushed several of the floats and danced brazenly upon them, their bottoms shaking wildly and their arms twisting in the air. In the background, an elderly wizard did a back flip over several of the members of the T�r na nOg Primary School, as a baby witch in her pushchair happily wiggled to the beat and clapped her hands in approval. Nearby, Ron grinned at Hermione as he unselfconsciously waved his arms and stomped his feet in his own strange approximation of dancing. A little ways down from them, a short wizard in a tall hat rattled his head up and down in rapid succession, like a Muggle jackhammer, while across the street, a window washer outside the second storey of Flourish & Blotts wriggled his harness-clad bottom in tune to the beat. Beneath him, identical triplet wizards in deep purple business robes did a sort of robotic chain dance, and a short distance away, a rotund witch performed a series of moves that would not have looked out of place in a Muggle disco circa 1978. A pair of Ministry officials and an elderly, wizened wizard who bore a suspicious resemblance to Dumbledore discreetly tapped their feet beneath their robes from their vantage point atop the Observation Platform in the Gringotts' Trading Tower. Even the parade officials were getting into the groove of things, clapping their hands and swaying to and fro in spite of themselves.

"Ahhh ... Ahhh ... Ahhh ... AHHHH!!!!!"

Harry shouted the refrain as loudly as he could, raising his hands and urging the massive crowd to join in. They did not disappoint. It suddenly felt like the entire district of Diagon Alley had been filled with a deafening roar of song--one melody, some 10,000 voices strong.

"Well, bewitch me, oh, baby, now (Bewitch me, oh, baby),
Swish and flick (Swish and flick!)
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, baby, now (Come on, baby),
C'mon and work your magic (Work your magic)!"

Pandemonium reigned as what little sense of decorum left in the crowd vanished, leaving nothing but a sonic wave of hooting, hollering, clapping, cheering and raucous laughter in its wake. Ribbons, streamers and confetti rained down everywhere, and from the doorway of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, Fred and George spontaneously set off boxes of Wild-Fire Whiz-Bangs high into the sky. A sea of witches and wizards as far as the eye could see stormed the parade route, dancing and singing like there was no tomorrow, fighting to be heard amongst the swell of hundreds of musical instruments. And there, in the centre of it all, in his element, was Harry, giving the performance of a lifetime.

By now, the Wytches were literally throwing themselves at Harry, their ample bosoms heaving and straining in their tightly laced gowns, their dancing so frenzied it would put Veela to shame. In the near distance, he glimpsed Hermione twisting along to the beat, her hair flying around her like a thick curtain. He caught her eye for a millisecond amid the melee and they shared a private, lascivious grin.

"Well, bewitch me, witch me, witch me, oh, baby now (Bewitch me, oh, baby)!
Well, bewitch me, witch me, witch me, oh, baby now (Bewitch me, oh, baby)!
Well, bewitch me, witch me, witch me, oh, baby now (Bewitch me, oh, baby)!"

The dancing, screaming, singing, squealing, fevered crowd writhed in mounting anticipation, led, of course, by the Wytches, who twirled around Harry like half a dozen dervishes, lifting their robes up as high as they could without risking impropriety.

"Ahhh ... Ahhh ... AHHHH ... AHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

The climax of the final refrain was deafening. It seemed like every witch and wizard within a 100 mile radius had joined in. Surely the festive atmosphere stretched that far--the air was thick with flags and balloons and fireworks and confetti and ribbons and streamers, not to mention the clapping, shouting and unbridled emotion radiating from the crowd. Strangers hugged and kissed each other like old friends and long-lost family, their cheers and laughter blending together in a cacophony of joy.

As the last note finally died out, an exhausted Harry fell backwards into the eager and waiting arms of the Wytches. The crowd roared for a full five minutes, and after he finally broke free (his neck adorned with two garlands, his jumper torn in several places, his hair more tousled than usual and his entire face and glasses covered by lipstick prints), Harry took bow after bow, grinning, waving and raising his fist in victory to his adoring public.

11. Chapter 10

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Severus Snape stood outside Hagrid's hut, his arms folded and brow furrowed, contemplating his next move. Gaining entry through the back was definitely out, thanks to that slobbering overgrown fleabag, so he decided to revisit the front, where he was presently staring at the impenetrable oak door as if it could unlock all the secrets of the universe. He was so deep in thought, in fact, he didn't even hear the swooshing noise of a broom pulling up behind him, nor the dull thud of its rider's feet hitting the ground.

A uniformed wizard with Fenella's Flora and Fauna embroidered on the lapel of his robes double-checked a piece of parchment, then walked the short distance to Snape, whom he gently tapped on the shoulder. The Potions Master whirled around, but before he could open his mouth to speak, the deliverywizard thrust a large cellophane-wrapped arrangement into his arms. Mounting his broom, he cheerily waved as he flew off back to Hogsmeade. He was rewarded with a particularly obscene gesture for his troubles.

Snape looked down sourly at the enormous cluster of bright yellow and cream Honking Daffodils, tastefully styled amidst an array of knotgrass and pussy willow in a heavy marble vase. He savagely ripped the accompanying card from the cellophane and read it through narrowed eyes. Best wishes for a speedy recovery. It was signed, The Order, Hogwarts Faculty and Staff.

Seething, he hurled the tiny scrap of parchment to the ground as Fang began to bark loudly in the distance. Suddenly, Snape's mutinous expression gave way to a decidedly malevolent smile. He crept back to the rear of the hut, where Fang continued to bark as he prowled up and down Hagrid's pumpkin patch, and hid behind the same Flutterby Bush that had shielded him earlier.

"Look at what I have," he said softly, "Just look at what I have for you here, you repulsive, evil little beast."

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Malfoy hurried across the lawn towards Hagrid's hut. The thought of well and truly nailing Potter caused him to break out into a sprint, but then he remembered he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys never ran anywhere, for anything, under any circumstances. He stopped abruptly, pretending to catch his breath, then nonchalantly looked around to see if anyone had borne witness to his undignified exertion. Out of the corner of his eye, a large barn owl flew past, carrying a massive banner in its beak that declared Save Harry! in giant twinkling red letters.

He ran the rest of the way.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Coiled like a cobra waiting to strike, Snape clutched the floral arrangement to his chest. Indeed, this was a much better idea than attempting to hit the loathsome creature with a Stunning Spell--its incessant movement made that difficult at best (nor did he want the brightly-coloured jet of light that would emanate from his wand to draw undue attention to his activities). He heard the loud thumping of paws coming towards him from across the garden; smelt the animal's fetid breath as it reached the Flutterby Bush. Not a moment later Snape sprang up and smashed the vase down on top of the boarhound's head, knocking him into a state of unconsciousness the Draught of Living Death would be hard pressed to rival.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Breathlessly, Malfoy reached Hagrid's front door only moments after his Head of House had left it. He tried the doorknob once, finding it locked, then a second time, throwing his weight against the door for leverage. When that, too, failed, he began to reach for his wand, only to remember he didn't have it and had thrown away the only other wand in his possession earlier in the day. Frowning, he looked around desperately. He had not come this far to leave now, not when he was mere moments away from catching Potter in the biggest scam he had ever pulled. His eyes darted to the large leaded window adjacent to the door, heavy drapes drawn shut against it from the inside. Malfoy gripped the glass pane and began to push. It glided upwards in one smooth motion, making a dull thudding noise as it reached the top of the frame. He looked at the open window a moment in surprise, then shrugged and quickly climbed through.

His eyes had a hard time adjusting to the lack of light, the darkness causing him to stumble around clumsily. Arms stretched out before him, Malfoy made his way towards Hagrid's bedroom. Once he reached the open doorway, however, he stopped dead in his tracks. He had fully expected the bed to be empty, or possibly--he shuddered at the thought--to catch Potter and Granger shagging each other rotten. Instead, to his complete astonishment, he made out the silhouette of a figure, snoring deeply.

Malfoy reached the bed in two long strides and tore off the coverlet. The pillow dummy lay exposed before him, its tuft of black yarn hair falling to the ground at his feet like a fuzzy spider.

"I knew it!"

Malfoy kicked the dummy from the bed in a fit of pique, then rushed into the living room and snatched a jug of Floo Powder from the mantelpiece. Throwing a handful into the fireplace, he bellowed, "Professor Snape's office!"

A moment later, Professor Trelawney's head appeared in the fire, much to his chagrin.

"I need to speak with Professor Snape, immediately!"

Professor Trelawney blinked at him, taken aback. "I told you earlier, Mr Malfoy, he's not here at present."

Malfoy exhaled in disgust. "Then get me Dumbledore. This is an emergency!"

The Divination Professor remained unfazed. Draco Malfoy was a bad sort--she didn't need a star chart, tea leaves or a crystal ball to tell her that--and as such, she was disinclined to be of any particular assistance to him (not to mention, her Inner Eye told her he wasn't really in any kind of danger). "I'm afraid the Headmaster isn't here, either."

"What about Professor McGonagall?" Malfoy demanded.

"I believe she's stepped away for a bit," she replied calmly.

"Well, do know where she is?" Professor Trelawney simply shook her head. "Do you know when she'll be back?" She shrugged. "Do you know anything?" Malfoy said scathingly.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

After putting Fang to sleep (so to speak), Snape began to make his move towards the back door when he was stopped in his tracks by a dull thudding noise coming from the front of the hut. Wand at the ready, he stealthily crept back around, only to discover the front door still as obstinately locked as he had left it several minutes earlier. Snape frowned in perplexity, then his line of vision drifted across to the open window. His eyes widened in a mixture of rage, disbelief and frustration. Snarling under his breath like a rabid Crup, he stalked towards the window and struggled to push his tall, cloak-clad frame through the small opening.

Malfoy pulled his head out of the fire and turned towards the noise coming from the window. In the darkness, he made out a pair of legs in dark trousers and the bottom part of a black cloak entering the hut. Smirking triumphantly, he stole back into the shadows, hiding beside Hagrid's giant rocking chair. Several moments passed in what felt like an eternity. When he could bear it no longer, he allowed himself a furtive glance over the edge of the chair. The figure was creeping across the room, his face obscured by the hood of his cloak. Malfoy's smile was almost blissful. A cloak won't save you now. Oh no, you can't hide from me, Potter. Not anymore. This was finally it.

Snape was slowly but steadily moving towards the bedroom when a creak of the floorboards caught his ear. He stopped, turning his eyes, then his head and, finally, his body towards his right. Hagrid's rocking chair moved back and forth almost infinitesimally, but it was enough to set off warning bells in the Potions Master's mind. A wintry smile cracked his sallow face. Seven years ... seven years, and it all comes down to this. Oh, yes, he thought, this is going to make it all seem almost worthwhile.

Malfoy leapt out from the darkness at the same time Snape darted towards the rocking chair.

"Potter!" they shouted simultaneously.

Malfoy's expression turned from triumph to horror in a split second. His eyes widened like Galleons at the sight of the cloaked, mud-covered intruder standing before him, who looked as if he had just been newly risen from the grave, his partially shadowed face flickering sinisterly in the firelight. A vampire! Malfoy shrieked like a first-year witch, too petrified to register the other wizard's matching look of terror or the familiarity of his features.

Snape gasped and recoiled in shock, his wand clattering to the floor. With Seeker-fast reflexes Malfoy swiftly Accioed it, pointing it at the figure before him. "Stupefy!"

Snape flew backwards, hitting his head against the stone wall and slithering to the floor like a slain Basilisk. Malfoy sprinted to Hagrid's bedroom without a backwards glance, slamming the door behind him and sealing it with a Colloportus spell for good measure. He crawled into a corner and began to whimper, clutching the dummy to him like a security blanket.

12. Chapter 11

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

"You're mad! You are! You are absolutely barking!" Ron hooted. "I can't believe you did that--I can't believe you got on a bloody buggering Beltane parade float!"

He, Harry and Hermione were waiting at the entrance of the multi-storey car park to pick up the cabriolet. It had taken a trip to the Gringotts Trading Tower Observational Platform, a posh lunch, a Quidditch match, a jaunt to the Museum of Magic and a raucous parade, but Ron was finally starting to loosen up a little.

"And this!" Dropping his voice an octave, Ron began an affected, smarmy-sounding send-up of Harry on the float. "Ladies and gents, you're such a wonderful crowd, we'd like to play a little tune for you. It's one of my personal favourites .." Harry and Hermione laughed appreciatively. "You're off your head!" Ron continued. "D'you realise how many people saw you? You're done for!"

"No, I'm not," Harry playfully swatted away the accusation with a wave of his hand.

"You are--you're done for!" Ron insisted.

"You are positively done for!" Hermione echoed.

"Who's going to believe I was in a Beltane parade?" Ron put his hand up, and Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Besides, anyone who would want to do me in wouldn't have been there. Who do I know that would go to a parade? Malfoy? Snape? Voldemort? Hardly."

"My mum would."

"I'm not that bothered about Molly Weasley," Harry scoffed.

If the trio had been looking through the grimy windows of the attendant's kiosk just then, they would have seen the Austin Mini enter through the exit to Charing Cross Road on the other side the car park. The skinhead at the wheel screeched to a halt, allowing his blue mohawked passenger to hop out, then slowly drove around to Harry, Hermione and Ron, tooting the horn softly as he pulled up next to them.

"That was fast," Hermione said, surprised.

The skinhead shut off the engine and got out of the car. He made much ado of polishing his fingerprints from the door with a rag, then turned to the trio and doffed his tweed cap.

"Wotcha!"

Harry smiled in response. Circling the car carefully, he nodded his satisfaction at his friends after completing a full circuit. "I reckon this looks all right, Ron."

"Looks great," he shrugged nonchalantly, climbing over the door and settling himself in the tiny space behind the seats. "Let's get a move on!"

"Superb," Harry said to the skinhead. He tucked another fiver in behind one of his braces to match the one he'd given him when they had dropped the car off, and patted the skinhead on the chest. "Cheers, mate!"

As the skinhead fished an ancient-looking wallet from the end of a chain that disappeared into his back pocket, a tall, thin, blue-mohawked youth approached the group and leant against the wall next to him. Over his black jeans and long-sleeved black t-shirt, he wore a short-sleeved, light blue polyester shirt with the car park insignia stitched over one breast pocket and the name "Clive" stitched over the other. The skinhead exchanged a covert look with his co-worker as he added the five pound note to the one Harry had given him when they dropped off the car. "Yer a very gen'rous individual, Guv. Come back any time, yeah?"

Hermione made a move towards the passenger door but was cut off by the blue-mohawked attendant.

"If you please, Miss, allow me."

He opened the door for her and gestured towards the seat with a sweep of his arm, as a wide-eyed Hermione allowed him to help her in. Gently closing the door behind her, he then dashed across to the driver's side and opened the door for Harry. Harry smiled awkwardly and nodded at him politely. He held on to the windscreen for balance as he got in, only to have the skinhead swat at his hand with the rag. As Harry adjusted the mirrors and put on his seatbelt, the skinhead rubbed at the marks on the windscreen with vigour, fussing and tutting at him under his breath for leaving fingerprints on the glass.

Harry turned the key and fired up the engine--which, to his surprise, started with a loud rumble--and slowly drove towards the exit to Charing Cross Road, as the skinhead and his blue-mohawked co-worker grinned and waved madly at them, in a send-off fit for royalty. Puzzled, Harry watched them from the rear-view mirror, clapping, cheering and jubilantly slapping each other's hands.

Crikey, he thought bemusedly, two fivers go a long way these days.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Malfoy meekly poked his head out of Hagrid's bedroom door. Across the dimly-lit room, he could make out the shape of the unmoving creature, crumpled in a heap. He watched for a few minutes to ensure the vampire was truly unconscious, then crawled towards the fireplace on his hands and knees. A moment later, he was speaking to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

"Look, I'm not having you on, all right? I'm calling from Hogwarts--There is an intruder--a vampire, possibly evil, certainly creepy--in the groundskeeper's hut ... I don't know! It must have come from the Forbidden Forest or something ... M-my-my-my name is Mal-Malfoy ... yeah, I'm dead chuffed you hope Potter is feeling better, but I'm in danger, all right? I am very fit, I am very alone and I am very protective of my body. I do not want it punctured or violated or turned into an undead creature, all right? I need help! Oi! Do you bloody speak English? WANKER!"

Enraged, he pulled his head out of the fire and quickly crawled back to the bedroom. Malfoy thought a moment, then addressed the vampire through the closed door.

"If you can hear me, you should know I've just Flooed the Ministry. So if you've any sense at all, you'll get your arse out of here immediately before I stake you with this wand. You should also know my father has some rather powerful friends and I've got a scorching case of scrofungulus."

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

With Harry at the helm of the car, the trio soared high above the South of England on their way back to the Burrow. It was a shame they were invisible, he mused as they passed over Surrey, as the sight of their abnormal nephew and his freaky friends flying a vintage Austin Mini over Privet Drive would have surely sent the Dursleys into fits (and give their nosey neighbours at number two something to talk about).

Over Wiltshire, Hermione regaled the boys with details of a fascinating series of books about crop circles she had read over Easter break. She would never change, Harry smiled wryly to himself, but then again, he would never have her any other way. As they drifted into Dorset his ears and thoughts shifted to Ron, who was babbling happily about the day's events. Harry's smile expanded into a self-congratulatory grin. He knew Ron would have a good time once he let himself go a little, and as Harry had predicted, the day had been absolutely perfect. Putting his feet up against the dashboard, he laced his fingers behind his head and let the autopilot take over, enjoying the breeze as it ruffled his hair. They had enjoyed an array of interesting and exciting adventures (without threat of an evil psychopath plotting their death), they had given their minders the slip, and best of all, they hadn't aroused any suspicion nor gotten caught. Nothing had gone wrong. Yes, it had been a perfect day indeed.

"I feel pretty good," Ron grinned. "Actually, I feel bloody brilliant! Those Muggles--those Muggles at the car park were all right, eh Harry? The baldy fella seemed a bit dodgy at first, but they turned out to be a harmless pair of geezers, eh?"

As he nodded his agreement in tune with an old Hobgoblins song on the radio, Harry's eyes happened to sweep across the odometre. Immediately, his head stopped bobbing. He felt the smile slide off his face as he lowered his legs to the floor and leant in for a closer look. Frowning, Harry began to count silently on his fingers. After several seconds, he shook his head and began to count again. This time, it only took a moment for him to trail off.

"Er, Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"How many miles did you say this thing had on it when we left the Burrow?"

"One hundred and twenty-six, and halfway between three and four tenths."

Harry's heart sank faster than a dropped Bludger.

"Why," Ron continued, a frisson of fear creeping up his spine, "how many miles are on it now?"

He leant in over Harry's shoulder to look at the odometre. The little numbers on the dial now read seventeen hundred and one and seven-tenths.

Harry winced. "Here's where Ron goes berserk."

Ron emitted a sound that was unlike anything Harry had ever heard in his life. Part bellow, part wail, it was delivered with such force and volume, Harry was positive Snape had been rendered deaf all the way back at Hogwarts. The last note finally died out almost a full minute later, only to give way to a frenzied sort of hyperventilating.

Hermione cast a worried glance over her shoulder at him, then did a double-take at the expression of shock compounded with terror etched on his ashen face.

"Ron? Ron? Are you all right? Ron? Ron! Steady on!"

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Malfoy timidly peeked out his head from under Hagrid's patchwork quilt when he heard the sound of the doorknocker. Ignoring the sound of Harry's recorded greeting echoing throughout the hut, he flung off the covers and made a mad dash for the front door, not even noticing he was now alone in the hut. He yanked the door open, relief tangible on his face.

"Thank Merlin for the Ministry!"

But instead of a Hit Wizard, an Auror, or even a member of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, he was greeted by the deliverywizard from Fenella's Flora and Fauna (this time, carrying a large basket of Puffapods), a plump, jolly-looking witch (carrying a gigantic bouquet of balloons, all charmed to flash the inscription "Get Well, Harry!" on and off) and a bleach-blonde witch in very tight, low cut, lime green Healer's robes. On seeing Malfoy, she immediately burst into song, performing a series of theatrical gestures and movements that displayed her ample assets to their fullest potential.

"I heard that you were feeling ill,
headache, fever and a chill,
I'm here to lift spirits that sag,
'cause I'm the Healer who likes to--"

Utterly disgusted, Malfoy slammed the door in her face.

13. Chapter 12

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Author's note: Again, many thanks to those who have taken the time to review. I appreciate it! This chapter deviates somewhat from the film; in the film, Ferris and Sloane sneak into the hot tub of some random person's house whilst Cameron sits catatonically on the deck. I couldn't see Harry and Hermione doing that to Ron, somehow; nor could I see the Weasleys having a pool in their back garden. So I compromised, and added in an explanation from Hermione as to why they should go for a swim in the first place. Hopefully it works ...

Back at the Burrow, Harry and Hermione tended to a catatonic Ron. They used a Levitation spell to get him out of the car and over to the Weasleys' back garden, where he lay on the soft, sandy bank adjacent to the pond at the edge of the property. Hermione propped up his head in her lap and massaged his temples whilst Harry paced back and forth a short distance away.

"This may very well be for real," he said, a line of worry creasing his forehead where his scar normally was. "I think Ron may well and truly be off his head this time. He's always been a little wound up. All I wanted to do was give him a good day. We're going to graduate next month and then we'll have the summer. If we're lucky, I'll get to spend a fortnight at the Burrow towards the end, then he'll go to work in some random desk job in the Ministry that his father got him and I'll be off to Auror Training College in some undisclosed location until it's time for ... well, You-Know-What." He sighed, sitting down on the dewy grass. "Hermione's a bigger problem--she's off to Stonehenge in September. How am I meant to deal with that? I was completely serious when I said I would marry her. I would."

Hermione's voice broke into his thoughts. "Ronald? Ron? Can you hear me? Ron? Blink if you understand me."

Harry studied the two of them a moment. "Ron has never been in love, and he's too bloody blind to see Luna's in love with him. If things don't change for him, he's going to marry the first witch he shags, and she's going to treat him like crap, because she will have given him, what he has built up in his mind as the be-all and end-all of magical existence. She won't respect him. Because you can't respect somebody who kisses your arse. It's just not on."

"Harry," Hermione called anxiously, "we'd best try something else. This isn't working."

He stood up and walked the short distance to them. "What do you suggest?"

"I--I don't know," she admitted. "I thought about a Cheering Charm, but as we don't know what's wrong with him, I'm afraid it might do more harm than good, especially if we have to use Malfoy's wand."

"I bet his wand can't even do Cheering Charms," Harry muttered. "It's probably rigged to perform Hostility Hexes instead." He looked at her with eyes full of guilt. "Perhaps we should just admit defeat and take him to St Mungo's."

Hermione swallowed. "Do you really want to do that?"

"No," he replied, running a hand through his hair, "but I'm at a loss as to what to do next."

She squeezed his hand. "We'll think of something."

They sat side by side in silence for a while, listening to the birds chirping overhead and the hypnotic, rhythmic sound of the waves from the pond lapping up against the bank.

"That's it!" Hermione suddenly exclaimed.

"Er, what is?"

She turned to him. "I read this Muggle book once that discussed using water therapy for victims of post traumatic stress disorder. Something about immersing people in water being reminiscent of the womb."

Harry stared at her as if she had spoken in Gobbledegook. "You what?"

"The womb! You know, the--oh, never mind! The point is, water can be used to calm people who have had a nasty shock and help set them right again."

He frowned. "Are you suggesting we give Ron a bath? Because I've got to say, that's--"

"No, you great pillock! Not a bath!" She nodded towards the pond. "A swim."

A few minutes later, Harry and Hermione had divested themselves of most of their clothing and were swimming around in the warm water like a pair of Ramoras. Ron sat atop a large boulder jutting out of the water, dressed in only his Cannons t-shirt and a pair of grey boxer shorts. Although the waves lapped over his feet, he appeared to remain mute and unseeing.

"Are you feeling any better, Ron?" Harry asked.

"Ron? Why don't you come in here? The water's really lovely," Hermione said encouragingly. "It's all right, you know. I could go a bit barmy very easily, too. Sooner or later, everybody goes a little mad. We'll find a way to sort this, I swear."

She glanced at Harry, who felt the beginnings of a cold, hard lump form in the pit of his stomach. "Maybe he isn't messing about, Hermione. Maybe he's well and truly gone to bits. This is all my fault--"

Just then, a loud splashing noise interrupted him as Ron suddenly and silently fell head over feet into the water. Hermione gasped and Harry cursed, then frantically dived below the surface. He immediately spotted Ron at the bottom of the pond and swam towards him with powerful strokes, reaching him in no time. Harry swatted away a curious Plimpy that had begun to nibble on a strand of Ron's hair, which gently waved back and forth in the water like ginger-coloured seaweed. Hooking an arm around Ron's midsection, he began to swim back to the surface. A few moments later they broke through the water, Harry spluttering and Ron unmoving. Hermione gasped again and swam towards them, helping Harry drag Ron towards the bank. Harry alternated between pounding Ron's chest and slapping his cheeks as a worried Hermione crouched beside him, water from her hair dripping on to Ron's face.

"Ron--Ron! Oh, bugger, Ron--come on! Wake up! Ron, wake up!

As if by magic, Ron's eyelids began to flutter. A moment later, his cornflower blue eyes opened and he looked up at his friends, grinning slyly from ear-to-ear like a Clabbert.

"Harry Potter, you're my hero."

Harry's eyes narrowed, then widened in comprehension. "You were--you were having us on? You're all right?"

"Tip-top," Ron guffawed loudly. "Though I must say that was rather impressive, mate--"

Half-angered, half-relieved, Harry shoved him playfully as Hermione rolled her eyes and exhaled in disgust.

"Oh, oh--you son of a witch! You're dead, Weasley!" He pulled Ron towards him and dunked his head under the water. Ron laughed as he resurfaced, splashing water at Harry's Snitch-patterned boxers.

"--even better than the Triwizard Tournament, I reckon!"

The two boys continued to thrash around, while Hermione shrieked with laughter as they flung water her way. Sand dusted her legs, arms and hair, and her cream-coloured camisole and knickers, though entirely modest, were soaked through. With a lecherous grin and a glint in his eye, Harry rose out of the water towards her like a sea creature from the deep. He picked her up in one fell swoop, flung her over his shoulder and waded back out to Ron. Depositing Hermione in the water unceremoniously, he dived on top of her as the trio's shouts and cackles of glee echoed around them in the warm afternoon sunlight.

15. Chapter 14

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

After administering a few Drying Charms, the trio donned their outerwear again and walked over to the Weasleys' garage.

"You know, that whole time, I was just mulling things over. Kind of ... meditating," Ron mused, almost to himself. Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance. "Then I sort of watched myself from the inside," he continued softly. "I realised it was ridiculous, being afraid. Worrying about everything ... getting caught today, graduating, my parents, the war ... all that crap. I'm tired of it. This was the best day of my life." He gave them a wistful smile. "I'm going to miss you next year."

"It isn't like our friendship will suddenly cease to exist after Hogwarts," Hermione chided gently. "It'll be different, of course, but we'll always have each other. Harry and I will always be there for you."

"It won't be the same," Ron sighed. "We won't see each other every day. You'll be off to Uni, Harry'll be off to Auror College and I'll be stuck living here and working in some dead-end Ministry job my father pulled strings to get me."

"We already don't see each other every day during the summer but somehow our friendship magically stays intact," Hermione pointed out with a smile. "We'll manage. And when we can't be there in person, all you need do is think of us and it'll make you feel better--like warding off a Dementor. Just think of a happy memory involving me, or Harry, and I guarantee it'll help keep your pecker up."

Suddenly, Ron's eyes grew wide and he paled, save for two faint spots of colour in the middle of his cheeks.

Hermione frowned. "What's wrong?"

"No-no-nothing," he stammered, clearing his throat. "Nothing."

Harry looked from his best friend to his girlfriend, then back to his best friend again, studying him for a few moments. "Ron, can I ask you a question?"

Ron winced in anticipation as Hermione watched them, bemused. "Okay ..."

"Did you see Hermione change her clothes in the garden?"

Hermione's head snapped towards Ron. "Did you?" she demanded. He hesitated, but the deep blush that now spread across his cheeks answered for him as he stifled a sheepish grin. "You saw me?" Unable to contain himself any longer, Ron began to snicker. Hermione folded her arms across her chest and arched an eyebrow. "I thought you were catatonic?"

"Er ... I'd best go and have a look at the mileage," he muttered, the tips of his ears glowing a bright pink as he jogged ahead to the garage.

"RONALD WEASLEY!"

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Inside the garage, the Austin Mini had been Hover Charmed a short distance above the ground, in order to let the wheels move backwards freely (as per the High-Speed Reversal Charm Harry had placed on them). Ron took one look at the odometre and felt a cold sweat break out along his spine.

"Hey, Harry! HARRY!"

Outside, Harry continued to amble towards the garage at a leisurely pace. "Yeah?"

Ron met him at the entrance, breathless. "It's not working--the miles aren't coming off going in reverse."

Harry ran over to the car, Ron and Hermione hot on his heels.

"I told you that wouldn't work," she muttered.

"Huh," Harry said, bending down to examine the odometre. "I thought that might be a problem." He took out Malfoy's wand. "No worries, we'll just cast a Severing Spell to crack open the odometre, then roll it back by hand."

Ron snatched the wand out of Harry's hand and shook his head. "No. Forget it."

Harry looked take aback. "What do you mean, 'forget it'? Give me back the wand. It's not too late to salvage thi--"

"No," he replied, more forcefully. "I've got to take a stand." Ron stuck the wand in his pocket and walked to the front of the car, spreading his hands across the bonnet. The Mini bobbed a little under his weight, the wheels still spinning backwards in mid-air.

"I'm rubbish. I put up with everything. Happy-go-lucky Ron, the pathetic little waster who can't do anything right. I'm not the first-born or the baby; I'm not cool or brave or clever or funny. I'm nothing. My parents don't give a damn about me, and I never say anything. Well, they're not the problem--I'm the problem!" He looked up at Harry and Hermione, his eyes tortured. "I've got to take a stand. I am not going to sit on my arse as the events that affect me unfold to determine the course of my life. I'm going to take a stand and I'm going to defend it. Right or wrong, I'm going to defend it!"

He slammed a fist into the centre of the bonnet, where it made an impressive dent. Hermione gasped and took a step towards him, but Harry held her back.

Ron walked slowly to the passenger's side of the car. "I am so sick of this crap! I can't stand it, and I can't stand this effing car!" Each sentence was punctuated with a violent kick to the door, causing the Mini to list more and more to the driver's side with every blow. "Who do you love? The car, damnit! You love the bloody car!" His voice broke and Hermione turned away, aghast, tears in her eyes.

The last echoes of crunching metal reverberated throughout the garage, leaving only the sound of Ron panting and the hum of the wheels turning.

"Bloody hell ... I dented the crap out of it." He stared down at the Mini as if having an out-of-body experience, then seemed to recover himself. "Good. My mum and dad will come home, they'll see what I did--"

"We can cast a--"

"No." Ron held up a hand to silence Harry. "They'll come home, they'll see what I did and, for once, they'll have to deal with me." He shook his head. "I don't care. I really don't. I'm just tired of being invisible. To hell with them. I can't wait to see the look on their faces."

Without thinking, he rested his foot on the elevated passenger-side corner of the bumper. The driver's side of the car already dipped precariously close to the ground from Ron's repeated kicks, and his weight on the passenger's side now brought it down, too--too far. A second later, the Mini's wheels slammed down on the earthen floor of the garage. Tyres still spinning wildly, the small car catapulted backwards, crashing through the wooden wall of the garage in a cloud of blue smoke.

Harry and Hermione ran to the back of the garage just in time to see the Mini careen down the end of the garden and into the pond. The car's short journey came to an abrupt halt after it impaled itself upon a cluster of large rocks, its front wheels still spinning madly in the air.

"What did I do?"

Harry slowly turned to face Ron, Hermione echoing him a moment later.

"What did I do?" he demanded again.

"You killed the car."

Slowly, Ron walked over to the gaping Mini-shaped hole in the wall. Harry and Hermione moved aside to let him look.

"Bloody hell."

"This is all my fault," Harry gulped. "I'll take the stick. We'll just wait for your father to come home and when he gets here, we'll tell him I did it. It might not be so bad--he likes me--"

"No." Ron shook his head calmly. "I'll take it."

"No ... Ron, you don't want this much stick. Trust me--this is going to make my upcoming date with little Tommy Riddle look like a picnic in the park!"

"No," he insisted. "I want it. If I didn't want it, I wouldn't have let you take the car out this morning."

"I made you take the car out this morning!"

"I could have stopped you. It is possible to stop the great Harry Potter, you know." Ron gave his best friend a cheeky grin, but it faded fast. "No. I want it, I'm going to take it. That's all there is to it. When Arthur and Molly come home, they and I will just have a little ... chat." He smiled, wearing a look of resolved determination. "It's cool. Thanks all the same."

Wordlessly, Hermione burst into tears and flung herself into his arms, hugging him as tightly as she could. Ron awkwardly patted her on the back, then looked over at Harry, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again ... mental, this one."

Harry laughed and slapped Ron heartily on the back, joining in on the hug.

17. Chapter 16

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Harry and Hermione tumbled out of the fireplace in the empty back parlour of the Three Broomsticks, where they had Flooed to from the Burrow.

"I still don't think this is a very good idea," Hermione said as Harry helped her to her feet. "What if we're seen?"

Just then, Madam Rosmerta entered the parlour, Levitating a tray of dirty pint glasses in front of her. "Seen? By whom? Surely not by me--why, I don't see anyone in here." The curvaceous proprietor winked at Harry before continuing on her way to the kitchen. "Just like your father, you are."

Harry turned towards Hermione with an angelic smile. She rolled her eyes good naturedly and they both laughed.

"I had a great time today," she smiled. "In spite of myself."

"Yeah," he grinned. "I suppose it was all right."

Hermione bit her lip anxiously. "Do you think Ron's going to be all right?"

"Oh, definitely. For the first time in his life, I reckon he's going to be just fine." Harry planted a kiss on the top of her head, and hugged her to him tightly. "I meant what I said earlier, at the Observation Platform. You do know that, don't you?" She pulled back and looked up at him wistfully. "One day ... I vow to you right here that one day, I will marry you."

She couldn't stop the smirk from spreading across her face. "You knew what you were doing when you woke up this morning, didn't you?"

"Me?" he smirked back. "Never."

Harry leant in and captured her lips with his own, framing her face gently with his hands. She smiled against him, deepening the kiss, and cradled the back of his head with one hand, the other tightly fisted in his jumper. Their hearts and minds and senses were completely consumed by each other, and it was only when the sound of distant bells tolled the hour broke that they broke apart.

"Bugger--it's six o'clock," Harry said as the last chime rang out. "I have to go--I'll see you later!"

He turned to leave, but she grabbed his wrist. "I still don't understand why you want to go back to Hogwarts from here--why don't you just Floo back with me?"

"It's too risky," he replied. "There are too many people who might see me. It's best if I go back the way I came--I'll take the tunnel in the Shrieking Shack to the Whomping Willow, then head for Hagrid's. Wish I'd thought to bring my Invisibility Cloak today, though, it would have made things a bit easier."

"You will be careful, won't you?"

"Aren't I always?" He gave her a quick peck on the lips. "You be careful, too--if Snape or Trelawney sees you, they'll have your head."

"They won't," she insisted confidently. "No one will. I'm Flooing back when everyone's at dinner, and I plan to barricade myself in my room all night until I return to class tomorrow. Besides, neither Snape nor Trelawney would ever set foot in Gryffindor Tower, never mind the Head Girl's bedroom."

"Snape had better bloody not set foot in your bedroom, if he knows what's good for him," Harry said grimly, and she laughed. He pulled her closer to him and nuzzled her neck, snaking a hand underneath the hem of her hoodie, where it began climbing upwards. "It's a shame, you know, that you'll be locked up all alone in your room tonight, and I'll be locked up all alone at Hagrid's ..."

Hermione laughed again and swatted his hand away playfully. "We'll see. Now go, before both of us are locked up in the dungeons until we graduate!"

Harry laughed too, then his tone grew serious. "This really was one of the best days of my life, Hermione. I'll never forget it, even when I'm old and wrinkled and grey."

Caressing her cheek with his hand, he gave her one last kiss and reluctantly released her. His last sentence echoed in her mind as she watched him walk away, and it suddenly dawned on Hermione that it was the first time she had ever heard Harry speak of growing old--of a life beyond Voldemort. His courage in turn gave her courage to do something she had never done before. Her eyes welling up with tears, she called after his retreating form.

"I love you!"

Harry looked back over his shoulder and smiled at her in awe before vanishing through the back door of the pub. "I love you, too!"

"He's going to marry me," Hermione said softly to herself as she stepped back into the fireplace and headed back to the Gryffindor common room.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

"Do you have any idea what it is like to be owled in the middle of a Transfiguration class to pick up a student from the Ministry of Magic?" McGonagall demanded of her young charge.

"No," Malfoy said sullenly. Then, as an afterthought, he muttered, "Sorry."

The two of them were walking up a side road leading to Hogsmeade High Street, towards Hogwarts. Fuelled by anger, McGonagall strode several paces ahead of Malfoy whilst he straggled behind, loath to catch up with the furious Deputy Headmistress.

"I've been busy enough trying to keep up with classes and administrative work in light of Professor Dumbledore's absence today, but thanks to your insouciance and sheer foolishness, I have also neglected my duties in properly taking care of Mr Potter, whom, as you know, is very, very ill!" she fumed. "Goodness only knows what sort of trouble he might have found himself in this afternoon, and I wasn't there to attend to it!"

As if by fate, the back door of the Three Broomsticks opened just then, as Malfoy trudged past. The black haired, green eyed wizard who emerged had the misfortune to be looking over his shoulder and speaking to someone inside the pub instead of looking ahead and watching where he was going. For not a moment after Harry's declaration of love to Hermione left his lips, he collided with one of the very last people he had ever hoped (or expected) to see.

In a tangle of limbs, Malfoy and Harry fell to the ground as McGonagall marched on, still lecturing Malfoy about his truancy and completely unaware of the scene behind her. Harry leapt to his feet. His wide eyes locked with Malfoy's narrowed ones for an instant, then he turned and bolted up an alleyway adjacent to the pub.

Hoping to cut him off at the pass, Malfoy sprinted around to the front of the pub. As he passed McGonagall, he grabbed at her wrist and tried to drag her along with him, but she resisted, swatting his hand away with her other hand, which held a heavy tartan carpetbag.

"Mr Malfoy! What in the devil are you doing? Mr Malfoy!"

In desperation, he let go of her wrist and continued to run towards the other end of the alleyway, confident she would follow him and see for herself what her precious, "bedridden" Potter had really been up to. But the force with which he let go of her toppled McGonagall to the ground. Her carpetbag broke open and a pile of third-year Transfiguration tests tumbled out, the wind scattering the parchments up and down the street.

"Malfoy!" she screeched after his retreating back. "Come back here this instant and pick these parchments up before I have you expelled!"

Malfoy stopped, torn. He didn't seem to know which way to turn, his head whipping back and forth between the entrance to the alleyway and McGonagall several times.

McGonagall bent to pick up a clump of errant parchments nestled in the gutter. "Look at this mess--parchment all over the place! I'll never get this sorted properly again!" She continued to gather the remaining stray parchments, her back to him. "Fifty points from Slytherin and a week's detention! And I suggest you come back here right now unless you want either of those doubled!"

Malfoy hesitated for a split second, then mentally cursed her and took a step in her direction. At the same time, out of the corner of his eye he saw a black and green blur whiz out of the alleyway and take off down the street in the opposite direction to them--and Hogwarts. Throwing caution to the wind, Malfoy did an immediate about-face and raced after Harry.

"MALFOY!"

Ignoring the various witches and wizards who gawked at him from the kerbside, Malfoy sprinted as fast as he could down Hogsmeade High Street. The street had turned into an obstacle path, forcing him to dodge and weave through stacks of crates and barrels outside various stores, window-shopping pedestrians and even the odd Kneazle or Crup that wandered across his path. He could distantly hear McGonagall demanding his return, but it was far too late for that now. Besides, he was already facing stiff house point deductions, multiple detentions, suspension and possible expulsion, anyway--he figured it wasn't possible to get in any more trouble than he already was.

Harry was running so fast he thought his lungs would burst. He chanced a quick glance over his shoulder, where he could see Malfoy gaining with every step--and was that McGonagall in the distance behind him? This would never do. He was well past the road leading to the Shrieking Shack now, which had been his only hope of escape. There was no other way back, unless--That's it! he thought. Honeyduke's! Although taking the secret passageway in the cellar would be risky, as it led straight back to Hogwarts, getting caught by Malfoy or McGonagall would be sheer suicide. He decided to chance it, and headed straight for the sweet shop.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Albus Dumbledore was tired. It had been a long, somewhat difficult day, thanks largely in part to Cuthbert Mockridge's idiocy. Still, he was confident cooler heads would eventually prevail, and a union with the Goblins was within reach.

Rather than Portkey from the Ministry to his office, Dumbledore had decided to Portkey to Hogsmeade instead, and take advantage of what was left of the fine spring day by enjoying a leisurely stroll back to Hogwarts. The fresh air and sunshine were a welcome tonic after the stuffy Goblin Liaison Office boardroom. Dumbledore almost pitied Mockridge and his colleagues--no one should have to be cooped up inside on a day like today.

He smiled and nodded in greeting to several passers-by outside Madam Puddifoot's, then continued on his way down the side street towards the High Street. As he turned right onto the main thoroughfare, the golden-lettered sign above Honeyduke's beckoned to him in the distance. Dumbledore sighed to himself happily. Well, I am almost out of sherbert lemons ...

At the other end of the street, Malfoy was still in hot pursuit of Harry. He could hear McGonagall shouting from somewhere behind him and quickly looked over his shoulder to gauge her proximity. With shock, he saw that she had begun to run after him--he hadn't thought the old bat would be so spry, let alone able to--

THUD!

His body connected with something solid and soft and large, and for a fraction of a second, he ecstatically thought he had finally caught up to Potter. Then he turned and looked up, and the thrill of triumph that shot through him immediately dissolved into a cold, leaden lump of dread. A uniformed Magical Law Enforcement Squad officer stared down at him suspiciously, arms folded across his barrel-like chest.

"Allo, allo, allo--what's all this, then?"

18. Chapter 17

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Oblivious to Malfoy's brush with the law a short distance away, Dumbledore paused to admire a pyramid of Nose-Biting Teacups in the front window of Zonko's. He fondly remembered the time when, as a student at Hogwarts so many years ago, he had bought one from this very same shop as a Christmas "present" for his Divination teacher. Ah, the folly of youth, he thought with a small chuckle and renewed appreciation that his own Headmaster hadn't seen fit to punish him for the indiscretion.

Moving on from Zonko's, Dumbledore found himself stuck behind a tiny, dawdling, blue-haired old witch. He wondered if perhaps she had imbibed one too many Gillywaters (it seemed to be a favourite with elderly witches), for she meandered to and fro across the cobblestoned street in a tipsy sort of way. Bemused, Dumbledore attempted to get around her by walking to her left, but she wandered into his path. He then tried to step to the right of her, but once again, she drifted over and got in his way. Finally, in exasperation, he Apparated in front of her and continued on towards Honeyduke's.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Harry pulled Honeyduke's front door open with a violent yank. He silently cursed the bells that greeted his arrival--the last thing he wanted was attention. The fragrant scent of homemade fudge filled his nostrils, but Harry had no time for that now. Trying to avoid the shopkeeper's eye, he ducked around the candy floss machine and hid himself amongst a cluster of customers browsing the endless rows of sweets. The door to the cellar that housed the trapdoor leading to Hogwarts was in the small room at the back of the shop, and Harry began to slowly (and he hoped, discreetly) inch himself down the aisle towards it.

Easy does it, Potter, he coaxed himself. Just a few more steps ... almost there ... steady on ... yes! His fingers had just grazed the doorknob when the bells rang out again, cheerily announcing another new customer.

"Professor Dumbledore!" boomed the voice of Horace, the shopkeeper. "A pleasure! What can I do for you today?"

Harry froze. Oh, NO. Oh, no no no no no no no ...

His shoulders tensed; he was certain he could feel the Headmaster's gaze on his back. He would have sold his soul to Voldemort in exchange for his Invisibility Cloak at that moment--death at the hands of the Dark Lord would be preferable to the disappointment Harry knew he would surely see in Albus Dumbledore's eyes.

"Sherbert lemons?" Horace's disembodied voice reached his ears again. "Ooh, I think we're all out. Let me just have a look in our stores in the cellar--"

Bugger! Harry gulped audibly. This is it--I'm well and truly done for now--

Just then, a young female voice cut across his thoughts.

"Excuse me, how much for a half-pound of Fizzing Whizzbees?"

It was all the chance Harry needed. He thought fast--the precious few seconds the interruption had bought him wouldn't be nearly enough time to get down the cellar ahead of the shopkeeper and open the trapdoor undetected. Desperately, he glanced at the only other door in the small room. He had no idea where it led, but other than turning around and facing Dumbledore, he had no other option.

As casually and calmly as he could, Harry walked over to the door and quietly opened it, hoping the owner wouldn't notice and Dumbledore, if he did notice, would think he was just an employee. With tremendous relief, Harry discovered the door exited to the rear of the shop--but instead of leading to an alleyway, as the Three Broomsticks did, it led to a small garden. He was puzzled at first, but then remembered someone--Hermione, Ron, possibly Fred or George, even--telling him the owners of Honeyduke's lived in a flat over the shop, so this must have been their back garden. Still, there wasn't the time to linger over their impressive row of Flitterbloom bushes, he thought as he raced towards the low stone wall at the end of the garden; he was in a race against time and there wasn't a moment to lose.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Following recent reports of trouble at the Hog's Head and several incidences of shoplifting at Gladrags Wizardwear, Magical Law Enforcement Squad Officer Bobby Plod had been assigned to daily patrols of Hogsmeade High Street to keep a look out for anything suspicious. So when Draco Malfoy crashed into him like a runaway Firebolt, Office Plod's hackles went up. He was a trained professional; he instinctually knew these things. And there was something very suspect indeed about the struggling teenager he was presently attempting to subdue.

"Where's the fire, son?"

"Let go of me!" Malfoy demanded, trying to wrench himself from the officer's meaty hands.

"Now, why should I do that, eh?" Officer Plod prodded. "Seems a bit dodgy to me that you should be doing a runner down the middle of the High Street like that. Who're you running from?"

"No one," Malfoy hissed. It was true--at least in his mind it was. As he saw it, he wasn't running away from McGonagall as much as he was running to catch up with Potter. And now that little wanker is going to have a massive head start, thanks to me being stuck here with this fat bastard.

"Oh, really? Then why the rush?"

"You ... wouldn't ... under ... stand," he ground out, still violently struggling to break free.

"Try me. I think you'll find I'm very understanding. For example, I understand there was some aggro outside the Hog's Head last weekend--underage wizards getting legless and terrorising the locals--making idle threats about You-Know-Who, that sort of thing." He shook Malfoy for good measure. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

As it turned out, Malfoy did know about that--he had warned Crabbe and Goyle against the idea in the first place, but they hadn't listened to him. Of course, he wasn't about to share that particular pearl of wisdom with the thicko in front of him--Malfoy would admit to being many things, but a nark was not one of them.

The officer pressed on. "Perhaps you know something about the clothing that's been nicked from Gladrags then, yeah?"

Suggesting he was a follower of the Dark Lord was one thing, but this time, the accusation cut too deeply.

"Oh, please," he sneered in sheer disgust. "I'm a Malfoy--I have no need to steal, for starters, and even if I did, it certainly wouldn't be from a place like that. They don't even carry couture, for Circe's sak--"

"MR MALFOY!" An out-of-breath McGonagall had finally caught up to him, and stared in utter disbelief at the scene before her.

Officer Plod gave Malfoy another terse shake. "Thought you said you weren't running from anyone, eh Sunshine? Who's this then, your Gran?" He turned to McGonagall and adopted a sympathetic, albeit condescending, air. "Little bleeder nick your handbag, did he, Madam?"

McGonagall drew herself up to her full height, not caring for the officer's lofty tone and assumptions. "It's Professor, actually. Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and this is one of my students. And it should be perfectly obvious he didn't do any such thing, on account of the fact that I am still carrying it," she replied coldly, brandishing her carpetbag like a weapon. "Now, what is the meaning of this?"

"Er ..." Suddenly, Officer Plod was at a loss. It appeared the now smug-looking youth had someone to vouch for his character--someone official, someone who, the officer didn't mind admitting to himself, was more than a little intimidating. "He was running ... up the street ..." he began feebly.

McGonagall fixed her beady eyes on the officer in a disapproving stare. Really, she had had quite enough of the Ministry and its red tape today to last a lifetime, and her patience, both with Malfoy and the keystone cop before her, was stretched thin.

"I see. And that is a crime how, exactly? Amelia Bones neglected to mention it as such during our meeting this afternoon," she remarked pointedly.

Officer Plod hesitated, shifting from foot to foot and clearing his throat. "Ah ... no, no ... I just thought ..."

"Yes. Quite. Officer"--McGonagall squinted at the brass badge affixed to the front of his navy blue robes--"Plod, it has been rather a long day, and if there is nothing further, I shall be escorting Mr Malfoy back to the castle now."

"Er, yes. Of course. Carry on, then."

Gingerly, the officer released his hold on Malfoy, who rounded on him like an angry cockatrice. "You'll be hearing from my solicitor, you jumped-up little Troll--"

"Mr Malfoy!" McGonagall hissed, reining him in by the arm. Her voice was steely. "You are in quite enough trouble as it is; I do not suggest digging the hole any deeper. I do not want to hear another word out of you until we are back at Hogwarts and you are explaining your behaviour today to Professor Dumbledore. Do I make myself clear? Not. another. word. Now," she began to strong-arm him back in the westernly direction from whence they had come, "this way, if you please."

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Harry vaulted over the low stone wall at the end of Honeyduke's back garden. The ground on the other side of the wall sloped downward, causing him to almost lose his balance. He found himself in another back garden, this time leading to a small thatched cottage. Harry ran around to the front, only to discover several other similar cottages dotting the landscape. Choosing one at random, he hurried across the street and disappeared behind it.

This time, the end of the back garden overlooked a sharp incline leading down to the railway track that ran along the northeastern edge of town. Harry knew he could follow the track west to where it passed the Shrieking Shack on its way to Hogsmeade station, but he was feeling sufficiently paranoid after his close call with Dumbledore--not to mention Malfoy and McGonagall--to not want to tempt Fate again.

He thought a moment. If he followed the track east instead of west, it should take him up to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. From there, it would be a quick--and more importantly, inconspicuous--run to Hagrid's. Harry looked at his watch. If he hurried, he just might make it.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Malfoy was incensed. After all the indignities he had already suffered, being accused of petty thievery from a shop as common, as naff as bloody Gladrags was truly the straw that broke the Nundu's back. Oh, Potter would pay for this. He would see to that. His skirmish with the long arm of the law may have forced him to change tactics (and directions), but he had decided if he couldn't go in the back door, then he would simply go in the front--literally. Malfoy glanced down at his wrist to check the time on his watch. If he hurried, he just might beat the bastard back to that half-wit's Hut, after all.

Beside him, McGonagall was banging on about responsibility and respect and other such nonsense--he had long since tuned her out. She had been frog-marching him back up the High Street and towards the road that led to Hogwarts, but temporarily relinquished her hold on his arm to gesticulate a point. Malfoy seized the opportunity. He began walking quickly, just a few steps ahead at first, then he began to jog, then several moments later he broke out into a full-fledged run. The distant echoes of McGonagall's shouting were swallowed by the wind behind him.

Many, many yards away, Dumbledore emerged from Honeyduke's, happily crunching his way through a large paper bag's worth of sherbert lemons.

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

Harry tore along a row of back gardens like a hurricane, trampling across overgrown grass, hurdling over hedges and diving through bushes. His eyes never lost sight of the train track at the bottom of the ravine to his left, however; it was like a metal lifeline leading him back to safety.

He passed a group of elderly wizards playing Wizard's Chess around a circular stone table in one garden, and four little witches having a tea party in their mothers' dress robes in another. He burst through a small grove of trees a few gardens over, startling a wizard barbecuing on a grill over a large stone pit. The wizard, who wore a 'Hot Stuff!' apron over his robes, held a bottle of Butterbeer in one hand and his wand in the other, which he had been using to flip the fish on the grill. The unmistakable odour of Shrake steak was in the air, and it made Harry's mouth water. He snatched the Butterbeer as he raced past, silently apologising as the wizard spluttered his protestations. Harry took a few gulps of the creamy, cold liquid as he ran, then flung the bottle into a dustbin the next garden over.

In the last garden, a couple of pretty witches hanging robes and jumpers out to dry on a clothesline smiled at Harry flirtatiously as he sped towards them. He slowed down long enough to give them a once-over, a grin and a wink, then tore up the side of the house, accidentally flattening a vine of still-green tomatoes in a small vegetable patch in his wake, and out on to the street. He passed two older witches, laden with bags of shopping, gossiping at the corner, then turned left, picking up steam as he ran down a hill towards the bottom of the ravine. Harry had thought once he reached the bottom, he would simply be able to jump on to the track and follow it around to the Forest, but a long row of homes, bordering each other by means of imposing wrought iron fences, blocked his path.

In desperation, he ran up to one of the front doors and pulled Malfoy's wand from his pocket.

"Alohomora!"

The front door flew open and Harry sprinted inside. The noise roused a wizard dozing in a squashy armchair in the sitting room.

"Oi!"

"No, don't bother to get up!" Harry shouted as he ran down the corridor to the back of the house, where a large pot of something was bubbling away merrily on an ancient-looking wood stove in the kitchen. "Smells scrummy!"

He opened the back door and ran out on to a small cobblestone patio, where the wizard's wife and young daughter were rocking gently on a porch swing, reading a pop-up book together.

"Dinner's on!" Harry proclaimed, hurtling past them and down the length of the long garden, where he disappeared into a small thicket of trees. Beyond them lay the spike-tipped wrought iron fence that separated the property from the railway track. The fence was at least ten feet high, with closely-spaced posts, and Harry felt his heart sink as he stared up at it. Attempting to climb it or squeeze through the posts would be next to impossible. He looked around for something--anything--to help him, and in the distance spotted a tiny garden shed about three feet tall. Hope bubbled up within him as he dashed over and pulled open the little wooden door, but it was soon extinguished when he surveyed the contents.

It wasn't a garden shed at all. It was a Wendy House, full to the brim of the little witch's dolls, Chocolate Frog cards, teddy bears, Gobstones, books and other assorted toys. Harry ran a hand through his hair in frustration. There had to be something here he could use. Then he spied it, propped up against a tiny cauldron in the corner--was it--it couldn't be--it was! A toy broomstick!

Harry gave a short burst of laughter, then ducked inside and crawled over to the broom. It was a lurid pink colour, covered in glitter and stickers and about a third the size of what he was used to, but it would do. He snatched it up and quickly crawled outside and ran over to the fence. As he threw his leg over the tiny pink broomstick, Harry thanked Merlin Malfoy--or worse, Ron--wasn't there to bear witness. Still, if it did the job and carried him over the fence, Harry would be so relieved, he wouldn't care if he had to ride the broom in front of the entire school at the next Gryffindor Quidditch match.

Slowly and shakily, he rose up in the air, the little broom wobbling under his weight. Two feet at first ... then four ... five ... seven ... eight ... almost there ... then the broom plummeted downwards until his feet scraped the ground. Bollocks! He tried again, willing the broom to rise, even though he knew it probably wasn't designed for such heights. It teetered precariously a few feet in the air, then slowly began to rise and rise, defying gravity until it had just barely hovered over the fence's spiky tips.

Oh, please Merlin, don't let me fall now, Harry prayed as he glanced down, otherwise the likelihood of me ever becoming a father will be rendered an impossibility ...

To his astonishment, Harry cleared the fence. He hung there in the air for a split second, the broomstick vibrating furiously as if it were being held there against its will, then suddenly crashed to the ground, where he landed in a patch of wildflowers. Grinning with triumph, Harry stood up and dusted himself off, raising the broomstick victoriously above his head as if he had just caught a Snitch. After carefully pushing it back through the narrow space in between two of the fence posts, he turned and jogged the remainder of the way to the railway track. From there, it was just a short distance east until he reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest, which Harry entered with a sense of tremendous relief, oblivious to the eerie sounds and luminescent eyes that blinked at him in the semi-darkness.

19. Chapter 18

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Breathlessly, Malfoy reached the Hogwarts front entrance. He raced past the pillared statues of winged boars on either side of the gate and took off like a Firebolt up the narrow cobblestone road towards the castle.

"Malfoy!" Professor McGonagall panted as she reached the entrance behind him. "I demand you stop THIS INSTANT!"

"Whatever's the matter, Minerva?"

She whirled around to find Dumbledore strolling up to the main entrance, peering at her curiously.

"Everything!" the Deputy Headmistress fumed. "I have just returned from the Ministry of Magic, where Mr Malfoy was detained for forty-seven violations of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery! In addition to playing truant and flagrantly using magic at various locations all over the country today, it would appear his choice of alibi involved breaking into Hagrid's home--no doubt to torment poor Mr Potter--and making a false Floo call to the Ministry, claiming to have been attacked by a vampire! And as if all that weren't enough, Albus, I have just had to intervene on Mr Malfoy's behalf to persuade a Magical Law Enforcement Squad Officer not to charge him with grievous bodily harm!"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled like twin blue stars. "I think we should permit Mr Filch to string him up by the ankles in his office."

^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^ ^*^

At the same moment that Malfoy reached the castle's front entrance and veered to the right, heading straight for Hagrid's front door, Harry tore across the last stretch of the Forbidden Forest. He resurfaced a few minutes later at the edge of Hagrid's property, and weaved his way through the pumpkin patch to the back door of the hut, where he sank down on the ground, wheezing and gasping for breath.

Suddenly, a badly mauled black shoe entered his line of vision. In silent horror, Harry's eyes slowly trailed up the torn, dirty trouser leg to which the shoe was attached, past the mud-caked, ripped cloak, to the sallow, triumphant face of Severus Snape.

"Potter."

Mutely, Harry's eyes widened. He could hear his own heartbeat pulsing in his throat, taste the acrid tang of fear in his mouth, feel his blood run cold. His terror was palpable, and he knew Snape could sense it, too, judging by the sadistic smile on his face.

"I have dreamt of this moment for seven years," Snape said in a soft, dangerous voice. "How does another year of Hogwarts sit with you? With a special emphasis on Potions, Legilimency and Defence Against the Dark Arts, all under my close, personal supervision."

The weight of his words and their implications was suffocating. Harry was unable to speak, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to do anything except frozenly stare back at the Potions Master. This was it. The game was truly up. He found himself wishing that Voldemort or one of his minions would suddenly appear and put him out of his misery.

Just then, the back door opened to reveal none other than Draco Malfoy. He surveyed the scene before him with a mixture of satisfaction, superiority and something Harry would later recall as being akin to ... pity?

"Hi." Malfoy nodded briefly to Snape, then turned his attention to Harry. "Thank Merlin you're all right. Everyone's been worried sick about you."

Harry stared at his arch-nemesis (at Hogwarts, anyway), eyes agog. Snape's expression morphed from victorious to bewildered to outright disbelief in less than a nanosecond. Such was the depth of his shock over the unexpected and seemingly ruinous arrival of--and even more so, betrayal by--his star pupil, he found himself rendered incapable of uttering any sort of speech.

"Thank you for escorting him back, Professor Snape," Malfoy continued politely. He glanced at Harry, his eyes flashing a warning. "You'd best get back to bed, Potter--Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall will be in to see you in a moment."

For his part, Harry wasn't sure whether Malfoy had been hit on the head with a Bludger, accidentally swallowed a vat of Confusing Concoction or had been the victim of a Confundus Charm, but regardless, he wasn't about to look a gift unicorn in the mouth. Bemusement now replacing the shock in his own eyes, Harry stood up slowly, affected a stooped posture, gave a pathetic wheeze and shuffled pitifully into Hagrid's Hut.

"Can you imagine someone as ill as Potter trying to get himself home from St Mungo's?" Malfoy shook his head and gave a short trill of laughter. "Gryffindors!"

His expression changed then, and he withdrew an object from the pocket of his robes, an object he had seen many, many times over the past seven years. When Malfoy opened the door, he had been all set to gleefully expose Potter's truancy and clear his own name in the process, until a little red-headed voice had cut into his conscience. "You ought to spend a little more time sorting your priorities out, and a little less time worrying about what this other bloke does."

On reflection, Malfoy reckoned his priorities were a) getting out of the mess he had somehow managed to find himself mired in, and, b) (and more importantly) spending some quality time snogging the stuffing out of one Ginny Weasley. His devious Slytherin mind quickly concocted a way to do both. He deduced that the trouble he had gotten into for Flooing the Ministry was entirely his Head of House's fault--after all, he wouldn't have had to make the call in the first place if Snape hadn't barged in on him at Hagrid's like that. Not that Snape was meant to be breaking into Hagrid's and spying on students, either--oh no, neither Dumbledore nor the Hogwarts Board of Directors (on which Narcissa Malfoy now sat, in lieu of her husband) would be pleased to hear about that, he thought with a self-satisfied little smirk. Indeed, Snape could kiss his ambition to succeed Dumbledore good-bye if this little indiscretion ever found its way out into the open.

Malfoy reckoned the object he had discovered on the floor of the groundskeeper's hut would come in rather handy for extortion purposes. Not only would it force Snape to vouch for Malfoy's vampire story or risk being implicated himself, Malfoy also planned to use it to manipulate Snape into devising a cover story for the Slytherin's whereabouts during the day. Although Malfoy knew damn well he hadn't left the grounds, let alone violated the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery almost fifty times, it appeared Dumbledore, McGonagall and the Ministry were still very much under this mistaken impression. A personal endorsement and alibi from his Head of House would go a long way towards righting this injustice and restoring Malfoy's good name.

Of course, blackmailing Snape meant rescuing Potter by default, and whilst it greatly pained Malfoy to do so, he knew it would indubitably put him in good steed with one Ginevra Weasley, thus all but guaranteeing numerous future trysts atop the Astronomy Tower. It would also serve a perfect dual purpose by placing Potter in his debt--all the better to torment the runty little scarhead. All in all, it was a failsafe plan.

Malfoy gave his Head of House a cold smile as he held up the object in his hand.

"By the way, Professor Snape? You dropped your wand on Hagrid's floor."

He threw the wand like a javelin into the pumpkin patch, then slammed the door shut. It bounced off a small pumpkin and landed on Fang's head, rousing the boarhound from his stupor. Immediately, the dog lunged for Snape, growling and barking and baring his fangs.

Inside the hut, Harry and Malfoy listened to the sounds of their Potions Master being attacked.

"Almost like music to your ears, isn't it?" Malfoy said cheerily, then frowned as he cocked an ear towards Hagrid's bedroom. "Except for the snoring, that is. Incidentally, what the devil is that, Potter? Did you record Longbott--"

"I don't understand," Harry interrupted. "Why would you, of all people--"

Malfoy held up a hand. "No time to explain now--Dumbledore and McGonagall will be here in a minute. Suffice it to say, rescuing you wasn't done entirely out of the goodness of my own heart." He crossed over to Hagrid's fireplace and poured out a handful of Floo powder from a jug on the mantelpiece. "Just, ah, put in a good word for me with the Weaselette, eh?"

Harry looked at him, puzzled, but before he could open his mouth to speak, Malfoy threw the Floo powder into the fire and jumped into the green flames.

"Slytherin common room!" he bellowed, and vanished an instant later.

Harry shook his head, trying to make sense of what had just happened, when he heard an unmistakable Scottish burr approaching from outside.

"... and to top it all off, I cannot find Severus anywhere!"

"Bollocks!" he exclaimed, and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He kicked off his shoes, almost tripping over the dummy he had fashioned that morning, which now lay at his feet thanks to Malfoy's earlier temper tantrum. Harry shoved it under the bed, along with his shoes, then jumped under the thick coverlet and pulled it up to his chin so it would hide his Muggle clothing.

McGonagall's voice echoed from the front porch. "Finite Incantatum!" A moment later, Harry heard a squelching sound as the front door acknowledged her voice and was freed from its wards, permitting McGonagall and Dumbledore to enter the hut.

Harry lay back against the pillow, feigning sleep, only to be distracted by the continuing snores of the little field mouse, deep in slumber on Hagrid's bedside table.

"All those gifts on the porch," McGonagall exclaimed, her voice growing closer with every word. "Why, I never knew Potter had so many admirers!"

In a panic, Harry extracted the still-squirming Snitch he caught at the Puddlemere match from his back pocket. With his other hand, he picked the sleeping field mouse up from the table and gently draped it over the Snitch, then released the tiny golden ball into the air.

The bedroom doorknob began to turn.

The Snitch soared up to the ceiling, fluttered there a moment, then carried its tiny passenger out the small window high up in the wall ...

... just as the bedroom door opened.

Harry lay still in Hagrid's bed, his breathing shallow and rapid. His skin was flushed, and a sheen of perspiration visible on his face. The papery skin of Professor McGonagall's hand pressed gently against his forehead.

"He's still awfully warm, Albus. I'm afraid he doesn't seem to have improved at all since this morning."

"Mr Potter?" Dumbledore peered down at him. "How are you feeling?"

Harry's eyes fluttered open and he gazed up at the Headmaster with what he hoped was a serene expression, as he tried hard to remember everything he learnt from Snape's botched Occlumency lessons in fifth year. "One hundred and fifty per cent better, thank you, sir."

Professor McGonagall gave Dumbledore a beady-eyed look and continued to hover over Harry with deep concern.

"I'm much better, really," he insisted. "Please, don't make me miss class again. I want to go to school. I have to graduate next month and ..."

"Potter, you're ill," she chided gently. "There's no reason to push yourself and make it worse."

Harry gave a deep sigh. "Perhaps you're right, Professor McGonagall."

"Quite." She tucked Hagrid's patchwork quilt in around him and he made contented noises, snuggling down under its warmth. "Now, I have some rather pressing matters to discuss with the Headmaster, but I'll see to it Dobby brings you a nice bowl of Mulligatawny soup. Madam Pomfrey was unable to tend to you properly today as she has her hands full with the dragon pox outbreak, but I'll have Miss Granger check in on you later this evening to see if you need anything. I just received an owl from her on my way here. You may not have heard, Potter, but Miss Granger was absent from classes today on account of her Grandmother's funeral. However, she decided to return to Hogwarts early as not to fall behind in revisions for her NEWTs. I daresay she will not mind taking a quick study break to ensure your welfare."

Harry didn't trust himself not to cry out with glee if he opened his mouth, so he settled for nodding at the Deputy Headmistress as solemnly as he could manage instead. Then he made the mistake of glancing at Dumbledore, who peered down at him intently from behind his half-moon spectacles. But instead of meeting Harry's eyes, Harry was horrified to realise the Headmaster's gaze lingered higher--on his forehead. Instantly, he paled, and the euphoria he had been feeling disintegrated into cold pinpricks of dread that tingled up and down his spine. I forgot to reverse the Glamour Charm ...

Harry's heart sank as the Headmaster's eyes slowly travelled down to meet his own. Dumbledore looked at him expectantly, his light blue eyes twinkling mischievously, and if Harry didn't know better, he would swear that the old wizard was barely suppressing a smile. "Well, I suspect the ... spring fever ... that overtook Mr Potter has almost been wholly excised from his system. In fact, something tells me today is likely the only time he shall ever experience such an affliction. Wouldn't you agree, Mr Potter?"

Harry tried to cover the small gasp that inadvertently escaped his lips by clearing his throat. "Er, yes--yes, Professor Dumbledore," he managed to mumble.

"Well, then," Dumbledore gently guided Professor McGonagall to the door. "It's time we were off, Minerva. Mr Potter looks exhausted, and I imagine he could do with some rest."

"Indeed, Albus. Sleep well, Potter."

"Good night," the Headmaster said in a singsong voice, with a wave and a little smile. He gave his favourite student a discreet wink before shutting the bedroom door quietly behind him.

Harry couldn't believe his luck--perhaps Trelawney was wrong, and he wasn't born under a bad sign after all. All he knew was that between escaping Snape's clutches, Dumbledore letting him off the hook and Malfoy actually helping him, today had been truly surreal--never mind the actual events of the day itself.

"Yeah," he sighed, interlocking his hands behind his head as he lay back on the pillow, "I said it before and I'll say it again--life moves rather quickly. If you don't stop and look about every so often ... you could miss it."

The grin he wore stretched from ear to ear and for the first time in his life, Harry was filled with hope, and the belief that when the end finally came, Voldemort wouldn't stand a chance.

Harry Potter's Day Off

1. Author's notes

2. untitled

3. Chapter 2

4. Chapter 3

5. Chapter 4

6. Chapter 5

7. Chapter 6

8. Chapter 7

9. Chapter 8

10. Chapter 9

11. Chapter 10

12. Chapter 11

13. Chapter 12

14. Chapter 13

15. Chapter 14

16. Chapter 15

17. Chapter 16

18. Chapter 17

19. Chapter 18

20. Epilogue