Unofficial Portkey Archive

Wherein Harry gets a new guardian and a dressing down, a Quidditch match is played, Draco takes chances, Filch gets KOed, Harry receives post, Hagrid teaches, Ron's appetite gets him into trouble, as does Slughorn's thirst, Hermione thinks quickly, Valentine's night is celebrated, and Voldemort reverses himself.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes "fair use" as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, Mathiasgranger, Staples701, and new beta Smogonskarm.

Chapter 75 - The St. Valentine's Day Mess

"Depulso!" With a clatter, several piles of coloured wooden blocks skittered across the hard floor.

"Excellent, Seamus," Shak's praise carried a hint of self-satisfaction. "See, you're quite capable of cutting a spell five ways and hitting your targets."

Turning to the rest of the class, the DADA professor inquired, "I believe Seamus was our last. Have I missed anybody - has anyone not practised multiple spell cutting today?" Nobody raised a hand. "Very good. We're adjourned. Next session, be prepared to do it again - only silently. Oh, and Mister Potter, could I have word…?"

Noting Harry's wary expression, Shak reassured his star student. "Don't worry. Since I dismissed class early, you won't be late for Potions."

"Umm, okay," Harry responded tentatively. He glanced at Hermione, waiting by the door, her expression unreadable.

"Just you, this time, please," Shak added, indicating that her presence was not desired.

"See you in Potions, then," she said evenly and disappeared down the corridor. Harry knew she would expect a full report later.

Shak knew she would get one.

He led the way through the rear classroom door that led to his private office. That his office was really two storeys down and on the Castle's opposite side was irrelevant, as the magical doorway was a perk of teaching Defence.

Shak sat behind his desk and nodded towards a chair. Harry seated himself uncertainly. He had no idea what the professor's intent was.

Shak dispensed with prefatory small talk. "Well, Harry, have you found anyone else?"

"Who else, sir?" Harry floundered. "Why should I be looking for someone?"

"One reason would be that I asked you," Shak countered dryly, as Harry was being obtuse. "Time is short. Now that you've played the Minister for a fool, he's not likely to leave you without adult supervision much longer. Either you act, or I'm sure he'll select your guardian within a fortnight."

Harry had to confess. He had made zero progress on the guardian front since their last chat. Acceptable candidates did not exactly abound.

"Well, I considered Tonks, but I guess she's not a possibility for the same reason as Professor Lupin," Harry observed.

"That's true, but she wouldn't have qualified anyway," Shak frowned. "The operative phrase is `adult supervision.' She's a good Auror, but she's too young and flighty for such an ongoing responsibility. She'd never pass the Ministry's muster; certainly not now…."

"Then I guess you're the one … if you'll do it," Harry reiterated.

"I've pondered this quite a bit," Shak told the boy. "I'm still concerned about an appearance of impropriety, as I'm also your instructor. To make this work, I need you to sit for your Defence N.E.W.T. at the end of the term. The N.E.W.T. will independently corroborate the Outstanding you'll surely earn from me."

"I can do that?"

"Certainly. It's not encouraged, but allowed," Shak reassured. "I'll offer the option to everyone, but you're the only one really ready, save perhaps your ladyfriend. It's bloody obvious that you're well past N.E.W.T. level. That's one…."

"There's more?"

"For this to work, yes," Shak spoke decisively. "We need some ground rules. I can't be a guardian in the traditional sense, since you're of age in a few months. I'm not Bill - Merlin rest his soul. He didn't have much luck ordering you about, anyway. So I won't give you orders, and have things go all pear-shaped when you don't obey. Other than signing the necessary papers, I'm basically here to give you advice … when you need it."

"That sounds fair," Harry cautiously accepted. "People like Howe and McAllister can do much of the routine stuff. Advice sounds about right."

"I won't ask that you always accept my advice, either," Shak ploughed ahead. "Fair enough?"

"Sounds good," Harry replied. This arrangement seemed better than expected.

"But I expect, at minimum, for you to be honest and open with me. That's the only way I can offer you any advice in a timely fashion. After that, it's your call - fair enough?"

"Yeah, that should be okay," Harry nodded, although puzzled at Shak's rather stilted affect.

Shak veered from vague generalities to excruciatingly specifics. "I especially don't want to be blindsided by the type of stunt you pulled at the Order of Merlin ceremony. Granted, the gesture was smashing, but you need to consider the consequences of the Minister's public humiliation - not to mention alienating so many influential wizards. Now we're back to square one."

With Harry's assent to his guardianship in hand, Shak was determined to provide an earful of advice - albeit retroactive - before any paperwork was completed.

"We're not back to square one," Harry spluttered defensively. "The Ministry can never again pretend that house-elves can't fight for themselves."

"Never underestimate the Ministry's capacity for self-delusion," Shak cut across. "Last year should have made that crystal clear. Nothing will happen on that front unless and until Voldemort is defeated. You need to understand what's really going on…."

Harry bridled at being patronised. "All right, what is really going on?" he querulously echoed.

Shak ignored Harry's peevishness. "As I hope you're already aware, Voldemort's sympathisers have hamstrung the Ministry since … well, since before Voldemort returned in the flesh. One of the worst - and certainly the most highly placed - of Voldemort's fellow-travellers is Pius Thicknesse. We, that is the Order, have been trying to have him sacked from his command in the Auror Corps literally for years. Rufus had finally agreed to do it. The Aurors' lethargic New Years Eve performance clinched it…."

Harry knew what Shak's punch-line would be. "And then along we came and cocked all that up," he added resignedly.

"Too right," Shak continued without missing a beat. "With Thicknesse out, we could have reorganised the Auror Corps so it wasn't constantly working at cross-purposes. Now, we not only still have Thicknesse mucking things up, and no hope of Rufus doing us any favours, but you've alienated many of the most highly decorated Aurors. I've already heard rumbles that continued gridlock is better than courting house-elf rebellion."

"What?" protested Harry disbelievingly. "Who said anything about house-elf rebellion, even assuming they were so inclined, which they certainly aren't?"

Shak waved away his new ward's objections. "With your Muggle upbringing, Harry - you and her both - you simply don't realise how most wizards view house-elves."

"There, you're wrong," Harry retorted, stung by Shak's dismissive reference to `her'. "They treat them like slaves."

"Precisely," Shak intoned.

That wrong-footed Harry. "Precisely what?"

"Precisely why most wizards fear even the infinitesimal possibility of house-elf rebellion." Shak turned Harry's argument around. "Wizards aren't that stupid, Harry. Anybody who's owned elves for generations appreciates their powerful magic. Now imagine your own family living on some rural estate - say four or five wizards amongst four or five times as many elves. Were the elves ever to rebel, those wizards are dead in their beds, plain and simple. That's how slave rebellions, Muggle or magical, have always gone…. Anyway, your elf escapade stirred up fears…. Adding literacy training doesn't help."

"Bollocks," Harry angrily shot back. "None of that has anything to do with inciting rebellion. It was about Dobby's bravery receiving proper recognition."

Shak almost physically had to restrain his eyeballs from rolling. "Look, Harry…. Like I said, you don't have to take my advice. But I've worked with these people all my adult life, and I know how they think. Why else could you hear a Sickle drop during your speech? You scared them, Harry. I don't believe at all you meant to, but you did, and now we have to live with the consequences."

* * * *

Ron woke up with the sun (not that he awoke early, given Hogwarts' Highland location) on the fine winter's day of February 1, 1997. "All right!" he exclaimed loudly, seeing nary a cloud in the sky. Large icicles outside the window, and patches of bare ground mottling what had been featureless white, told him that the weather had warmed.

Close to perfect Quidditch weather.

Harry had already been up for several hours, Ron knew. Odds were Harry was somewhere with Hermione - probably revising rather than snogging. The mental discipline necessary to have that one as a girlfriend was beyond Ron, but seemed to suit his friend. Of course, with all Harry's responsibilities….

Ron had responsibilities, too, if altogether less earthshaking than Harry's. That reminded him…. He reached under his bed and grabbed his Christmas present from Harry. Ron regularly used his Quidditch strategy board to outline new plays for Gryffindor, but his intent today was different. Ron might not be particularly scrupulous in his studies, but Quidditch was different. He had read the strategy board's instruction scroll end to end - twice.

Thus, Ron knew that his strategy board featured both an Omniocular port and replay capability. Ron decided to record most of the upcoming match, whenever Hufflepuff had the Quaffle. Not only would he do this, but he recruited Harry, Luna and Dean to do the same from different perspectives. Before Gryffindor played Hufflepuff, Ron would re-enact the `Puffs' plays on his strategy board, and devise the best defensive formations to stop them.

Hufflepuff had emerged as the surprise challenger to Gryffindor Quidditch supremacy. Harry's Quidditch trust had scrambled the previous natural order of things. With broom power equalized amongst all House teams, Slytherin had been exposed for the talentless ponces (except for Moose) they were. Remove the advantage conferred by the best brooms money could buy, and the head ponce of all, Draco bloody Malfoy, quit altogether rather than face public embarrassment in a fair test of skill.

Sometimes Harry could be as brilliant as Hermione - in far more important subjects!

Replacing Galleon-based brooms with competition based on genuine talent brought Ravenclaw, and especially Hufflepuff, to the fore. It turned out that the `Puffs were damn good. The Ravens probably could not keep pace, since they were left with a rookie Seeker.

That bloody Thing Chang had been banned from Quidditch.

Ron would have preferred that the Thing be consigned to Azkaban where she belonged. For reasons he and Hermione could debate all week, that had not happened. Still, Ron found some vindication in Dumbledore's activities ban. At least his ordeal had achieved something….

…Two things, actually. Putting Chang aside (as he sincerely intended to keep doing), the horrible recurrent nightmares caused by his stupid brain encounter at the Ministry were gone. Since his New Year's Eve close brush with death, Ron had not experienced a single one. Before then, they had haunted him almost nightly.

Ron wandered to the Great Hall for breakfast. Eventually Harry and Hermione appeared. Sure enough - they had been in the Room of Requirement. Sure enough - they had been revising, not snogging. Mostly.

Harry's regimen included work outs, what with too much snow about to permit morning outdoor runs. `Why run unless necessary?' Ron thought. Anyway, that was Harry. He had also revised his Charms project on tunneling and practised some of Dumbledore's Occlumency techniques.

Hermione was shiftier, but Ron gathered that she, too, was heavily invested in advanced training. No surprise, really. Hermione's extra work, however, went beyond Healing to include mysterious Defence and Transfiguration techniques that she was unwilling to discuss with anyone save Harry.

Ron's long-held suspicion about them keeping secrets from him was fact. Yet, he did not fret much about it, leaving such emoting behind. Their secrets had saved his life once, and probably would again.

What now mattered was the fast approaching Quidditch match. Yes, Harry had brought his Omnioculars without having to be reminded. He would mark the Seekers, since it takes one to know one. Ron would follow the action around the Slytherin goals. Dean would do the same for the `Puffs' hoops.

Ron had weighed having Harry ask Hermione to be a fourth watcher - what with the "Trio" tradition. Even though her Quidditch enthusiasm was conspicuous by its absence … and like the Half-Blood Prince she might consider his scheme cheating … she would do it for Harry. But hand-in-hand with Hermione's lukewarm attitude went a lack of appreciation for the finer points of the game. She would not anticipate the play, and the viewing would suffer.

Ron also doubted that Hermione would suffer sitting through a Quidditch match that did not feature Harry. She never had before.

No; best to have Luna do it.

Soon they all trooped to the Hogwarts Pitch.

For the first time ever, Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts justified their existence. He had used them to clear a decent path through the remaining snow.

Bundled against the cold and blinking in the low, bright sunlight, Ron was practically skipping. It was nearly time for Quidditch. Even if only spectating, he was helping the team he co-captained.

Who knows? Maybe Luna would let him have a go with that new oversized badger bonnet she had worn to breakfast. It was brilliant. She had enchanted it to growl in time with everybody else's cheering.

Who could possibly not like Quidditch?

* * * *

Who indeed?

The cheers accompanying the team introductions were a faint whisper in the Castle's second storey. With a creak even less audible than the sounds of the match outside, the door to a little-used broom closet opened.

It closed again - as nobody entered.

In dreary half-light, Draco Malfoy's image shimmered into view as he shed an Invisibility Cloak. His pointy face sneered. He turned up his nose at the all-too-familiar odours of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess-Remover, Wizard Blizzard Wipes, Pesternomi Pest Preclusion Potion, Self-Bleaching Mops, and other assorted cleaning materials. If he never saw that bloody Squib Filch again, it would be too soon.

Since receiving his latest orders from the Dark Lord, Draco had planned for this moment - plotting to complete the next step of a fiendishly complex task he still did not fully understand.

As part of his plan, he brought his broom - the same Nimbus he once used for Quidditch.

Malfoy deliberately wore his shabbiest robes - the same set he used whilst suffering two weeks of humiliating but necessary detentions with Mr. Filch.

From within them he withdrew a monogrammed 3-ounce sterling silver hip flask. He tried not to contemplate the flavour of its contents. The other day he had filled the flask with something having both the light-brown mottled colour and goopy consistency of week-old sewage sludge - appropriate, considering the source.

A wretched grimace marred Draco's face as, hoping not to vomit; he tipped the flask back and, with a groan, swallowed the stuff in one huge gulp.

Essence of Filch tasted as foul as the original's appearance suggested.

The disgusting aftertaste had barely registered before a noxious churning sensation unsettled his stomach. Radiating outward, it felt worse than anything Draco had previously experienced. Overpowering discomfort forced him to sit before he fell down. The agony must have lasted ten minutes.

But it was worth it - in a manner of speaking.

His nausea subsiding, Draco viewed his reflection on the side of the silver flask. Staring back was a perfect replica of … Argus Filch.

Gathering miscellaneous cleaning equipment, he exited the closet and quickly crossed the corridor to the loo on the side opposite. Grinning, he Spellotaped a borrowed "Closed for Cleaning" sign in Filch's scrawl to the door.

`No magic,' he reminded himself. `Filch is a sorry Squib.'

He entered a gloomy, depressing girls' lavatory. After reconfirming his Filch transformation in a cracked and blotched mirror, Draco looked around. Not spotting anything - or anyone - Draco noisily discarded his burden of buckets and mops.

Nothing happened.

"Obnoxious dead things," he rasped in Filch's wheezing voice. "Why can't they leave us alone for everybody's good?"

Loudly he banged on a couple of worn stall doors whilst shrieking his annoyance.

The commotion eventually had the desired effect. Fluttering from a pipe-filled crawl space beneath the stalls, a pellucid Moaning Myrtle appeared.

"Why are you here again?" she asked grumpily.

A few days earlier, Draco had served a detention cleaning this very loo under Filch's watchful eye. Filch had unrelentingly insulted the resident ghost until she made herself scarce. Then he had gloated that Draco could "clean out the rest of the filth in peace."

Filch was no fonder of students' ghosts than of the Castle's living and breathing students.

Draco had taken due note.

"There's been a complaint," he lied, "about bespectacled dead things cavorting with vermin. Now I have to do it all over. Why don't you flush yourself down a toilet?"

Immediately offended at being reminded she was dead, Myrtle huffed, "Why don't you?"

"Because I live here, and you don't," Draco deliberately insulted her again. "Now shoo. There's some dinny Quidditch match. How about botherin' them?"

Myrtle started sniffling. "Is … is Harry Potter playing?" she asked.

"Don't know and don't care," Draco spat, maintaining his Filch impersonation. He needed to drive her away quickly. "Besides he's got a girlfriend - a live one - who's even uglier than you are dead…."

That did it. Moaning Myrtle burst into tears. Miserably, she shot into the u-bend of the nearest toilet, screaming, "You horrible, horrible person." All the toilets erupted in unison as she exited, sending a sheet of water spreading across the floor.

For good measure, Draco flushed the toilet through which Myrtle had vanished. With any luck, she would haunt the Giant Squid for a while. Before the gurgling ceased, he hustled to the door, peered out, and confirmed that the corridor was vacant.

A distant roar indicated that something had happened in the Quidditch match. Fortunately, it was neither loud enough nor long enough to be somebody catching the Snitch.

Not bothering with his Invisibility Cloak, Draco rushed across the hall and retrieved his broom. Returning, he jammed the doorstop under the bathroom door from the inside. He would have preferred Colloportus but was not about to give himself away using magic.

Stepping to the set of old, chipped porcelain sinks that dominated the centre of the rundown lavatory, he examined the taps, as his instructions specified. On the third one, he found an etching of a tiny centimetre-long snake.

Draco activated the Parseltongue Translator the Dark Lord had sent him the first - and, he hoped, not the last - time he had successfully used the Vanishing Cabinet. Originally, it had been a security measure. The Translator enabled the Dark Lord to send Draco instructions in Parseltongue, which practically nobody could understand.

But the Translator worked both ways - as the Dark Lord informed Draco when recent developments required modification of their plans.

After that near disaster in the Room of Requirement, the Dark Lord issued new instructions that informed Draco of another place with plenty of space for storage and use of the Vanishing Cabinet, now that the Room was too dangerous (and clean) to use.

Draco performed a spell that reversed the Parseltongue Translator's neutron polarity. "Open for the Heir of Slytherin," he repeated the phrase dictated by Lord Voldemort.

Glowing Slytherin green, the tap responded with an answering hiss. Then, as Draco watched, it rotated seven times. He jumped back as a low grating noise overwhelmed the hiss. Stone scraped against stone as first the basin sank out of sight, and then the entire floor-to-almost-ceiling bathroom fixture folded upon itself and retreated.

It reminded Draco of the bricks falling away at the Leaky Cauldron entrance to Diagon Alley.

When the movement ceased, Draco found himself staring into the gaping end of a great pipe - an abyss that according to the Dark Lord's directions led ultimately to Salazar Slytherin's own Chamber of Secrets.

However, the Chamber itself might be unsafe. Potter and his acolytes had occupied it after Dumbledore had built a new, more usable entrance.

The old tunnel into the Chamber was another matter.

The Dark Lord's instructions revealed that this tunnel, Salazar's own, was unknown to the Castle's security wards and charms. Only Parseltongue speakers had access. Draco personally knew that Potter had that ability, but for obvious reasons Potter preferred Dumbledore's alternate route to the Chamber. The old tunnel was safe for Draco to store and use the Vanishing Cabinet.

Today's task was to do precisely that.

Mounting his Nimbus, he flew into the pipe's throat.

Everything was pitch black, something the Dark Lord had not mentioned, and Draco had not anticipated. Almost immediately he flew hard into the pipe's side with a stinging bump to his face. He gave up flying and simply slid instead. The pipe descended steeply, so it was easy enough - until the side of the pipe suddenly fell away where Draco had been bracing himself. He tipped sidewise with the sudden loss of support.

The gap was merely the joining of another pipe, which Draco slid quickly by. His shoulder smacked painfully into the joint corner, and the impact spun him completely around.

Blindly hurtling backwards down the pipe, Draco flailed about vainly seeking purchase. That only made things worse. Soon he was tumbling arse over tit through the Stygian pipe, tangled up in his robes.

"Auuuuuuurrrgh!!" he screamed as he banged this way and that, using his hands to shield his face. Draco's abject terror ended only when he bounced out the end of the pipe and sprawled to a stop on a muddy stone floor. Moments later, his Nimbus clattered to a halt next to him.

When he ceased hyperventilating, Draco reached for his wand. Thankfully, it remained snugly in the little wand-pocket inside his robes.

"Lumos!" his shaky voice - Filch's voice - echoed down the tunnel, dripping water being the only other sound. He was far below even the Castle's deepest dungeons. He reckoned he must be beyond the range of its magic detectors.

Equally thankfully, his broom had survived his extended pratfall intact. Without it, Draco would have to chance Dumbledore's gargoyle to leave. If the Headmaster's stone guardian required an exit password, Draco had no idea what it might be.

Still, Draco held his breath until verifying that the shrunken Vanishing Cabinet remained undamaged, nestled in a customized cushioned case. If he failed the Dark Lord, he would certainly lose everything, up to and including his life.

Somewhat dizzy and not trusting his flying skills in the confined space, Draco walked. In the cold, humid atmosphere his breath fogged his wandlight. He picked his way through the deathly quiet and totally deserted tunnel. Shallow puddles covering most of the rough stone floor almost changed his mind about flying. Water soaked through his shoes and socks, chilling his feet.

The farther Draco walked, the more he ached. His misadventure in the pipe had doubtless inflicted an impressive array of bruises, but his self-Healing skills were rudimentary.

He came upon remnants of a huge shed snake's skin. `What the Hell is that?' He shuddered.

But Draco continued, more fearful of the Dark Lord's wrath.

He passed a point where the ceiling had partially collapsed. Someone - or something - had cleared a gap through the rockfall, so he could proceed. Just past the remaining rubble, a tipped-over slab from the wall had fallen in a way that created a level space elevated well above the tunnel's wet floor.

Here was as good a place as any to set up shop.

Draco gently placed the shrunken Vanishing Cabinet on the raised stone.

"Finite!"

Almost instantly, the large, black, oddly-shaped armoire ballooned to its full, two-metre height.

"Shite," Draco grumbled. The cabinet was turned backwards with its entrance facing the wall. He painstakingly Levitated and rotated it. Quickly, he opened the double doors.

Just as carefully Draco removed an emerald velveteen drawstring pouch from his robes. Usually used to carry Draco's Galleons, what the pouch now held was far more valuable than any currency….

He removed the Ravenclaw Medal. He had filched it from under Filch's nose - Draco chuckled at the unintentional pun - a bit more than a week earlier.

The Dark Lord demanded it. Who knows why? Draco knew better than to ask such questions.

Gingerly he placed the Medal, and a Parseltongue recording for the Dark Lord, in the cabinet and closed the door. He activated the cabinet and waited.

Minutes passed.

Draco was getting jumpy. He only had a half-an-hour or so left in his Polyjuiced incarnation as Argus Filch.

Finally, he heard a soft scraping noise. The Vanishing Cabinet's C-shaped lock, previously opening to the left, now opened to the right.

Draco had received his return post. He could not fathom the Dark Lord's fixation on Mudblooded Granger and her romance with Scarhead Potter, but his Master's interest was undeniably real. Draco's role was to obey and not ask questions. Whatever Draco requested to further his plot to end that relationship, Lord Voldemort provided

This was no exception.

He rolled one of the objects in his hand. It resembled a Remembrall - but with a twist. It was inflatable and could be Charmed to stimulate specific memories.

It and a new set of Parseltongue instructions went into his pouch.

Now to get out of here before either his disguise or the Quidditch match ended.

"Minimise!"

Draco shrank the Vanishing Cabinet to its prior diminutive size. He briefly considered caching it in the rockfall, but that would commit him to return the next time he had to use it. Draco did not want to foreclose his options. He returned the shrunken cabinet to its protective case and stashed the package inside his robes.

He Scourgified himself and his robes. The assorted grime and slime he had accumulated was excessive, even for Filch.

With time trickling away, Draco had no choice. Mounting his Nimbus, he cried "Lumos maximus!" and flew carefully back to the pipe entrance that was his escape from this eerie, unsettling place. He slowed as he entered the mouth of the pipe, but with his wand brightly lit, Draco could fly through it, albeit slowly.

This time he saw the pipe's twists and turns, and smaller pipes splitting off in various directions. He traversed a particularly large junction near what he hoped was the upper end of the pipe. That, he supposed, had caused his accident on the way down.

Finally, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel! Draco released a great sigh of relief as he left the ever more constricting tube. The dingy lavatory had never looked so good….

Until Draco saw someone he had no desire to see … ever again.

The real Argus Filch.

Water from Moaning Myrtle's demonstrative exit had overflowed onto the tile floor. Eventually some of it seeped under the door and into the hallway, where it attracted the attention of Mrs. Norris, Filch's cat, and thus Filch himself.

The Squib immediately knew something was amiss. The sign on the door was his, but he had not stuck it there. The door would not open. That could mean magic, but Filch noticed the door jamb's protruding tip. Kicking at the jamb and putting his shoulder to the door, Filch worked it open.

He burst through, expecting to find student-initiated perfidy within.

At first he saw only a nonsensical collection of random cleaning materials, and no miscreants - until encountering something completely beyond his experience…. The entire group of sinks that occupied the centre of the lavatory…. They were … flattened … like an accordion….

Before Filch could react, a broom rider burst from the depths where the sinks normally stood. Startled, he did not get a good look at the culprit until….

Merlin's balls! Draco could not believe his bad luck. Of anybody in the Castle, he had to meet the one whose appearance he had borrowed - the only person who would know absolutely that he was an imposter (aside from Filch's inability to fly a broom).

But he had come prepared.

Filch started to shriek imprecations as Draco dug into an inside pocket, turned, and gave the annoying Squib a snoot full of…

Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.

It worked, but before the disguised Slytherin could to settle on his next move the blinded Hogwarts caretaker stumbled into the wide open pipe leading to the Chamber and dropped from sight. The man's howls gradually faded as he descended.

Exasperated, Draco landed his Nimbus with a splash on the sodden floor. He needed to think. The last minute's completely unanticipated events had tossed a Bludger in the works. He had been so close to complete success. Now, this accidental encounter with that stupid Squib threatened everything.

He briefly toyed with the simply closing up the passage.

That option, whilst satisfying, was too dangerous.

Squib or no, Filch going missing would raise a stink that dwarfed the death of a lowly elf. Dumbledore would surely call in the Aurors if the long-time Hogwarts caretaker disappeared.

No, he had to retrieve Filch, however unpleasant that task undoubtedly would be.

Fortunately he had maintained magical silence. Draco had never ended the bright Illuminating Charm that helped him fly through the pipe.

Cursing his wretched luck, Draco hopped back on his Nimbus. Back down the pipe he flew as fast as possible short of outrunning his strongest wandlight.

Filch lay slumped in the muck, groaning, near the end of the pipe. Draco had determined exactly what to do.

"Confundo!" he roared. The spell struck the crumpled Squib squarely. Filch flopped forward, face first in ooze. Draco grabbed him firmly by the collar of his ancient brown tweed coat.

The old man was filthy mess - proper payback for all those detentions. But Draco knew better than to leave such incriminating evidence. Reluctantly, he Scourgified Filch.

The next minutes passed very slowly indeed, as Draco dragged the man relatively gently up the seemingly endless pipe.

Finally, that was over.

Dumping the softly moaning Filch in a stall, Draco hurriedly dismounted and extinguished his wand. Through his Translator, he commanded the pipe to close.

As the fixtures restored themselves to their normal decrepitude, he half dragged, half carried the semi-conscious Filch out of the stall.

Looking down, Draco was horrified to see his own manicured fingers.

The Polyjuice was wearing off.

He hefted the Squib near one of the sinks, and viciously slammed the side of Filch's head into the corner of the porcelain. Draco let him drop to the floor, bleeding and unconscious. He drew his wand and ended the Confundus Charm.

It looked like an accident. Unfortunately, Filch had simply slipped in the water and bashed his head.

As his last act, Draco he filled a couple of buckets with water and spilt them to cover his tracks.

Outside, Draco crossed Mrs. Norris' path and received a piercing feline gaze.

Ignoring the cat, Draco mounted his broom. Reprising the Potterless Conspiracy, he concealed himself beneath his Invisibility Cloak, and fled.

Mission accomplished - barely.

* * * *

Hufflepuff prevailed over a scrappy Slytherin squad by an uninspiring 410-240 score. Vaisey played an outstanding match for the Snakes, whilst Cadwallader had an off day for the `Puffs. For a three-plus hour game, the score was relatively low, and the play unusually ragged. The continuing ineptitude of Slytherin's rookie Seeker ruined the green and silver's chances. Less than an hour into the match he muffed an easy, game-winning chance for the Snitch that, in Harry's expert opinion, even Malfoy would have made. Unlike the Gryffindor blowout, the rest of the team had kept Slytherin in the game.

When word circulated that a bathroom sink had knocked Filch unconscious, most students were ready to award the sink a medal for special services to the school. Moaning Myrtle agreed. Responding to Professor McGonagall's inquiry if the ghost had noticed anything amiss, Myrtle burst into a nearly ten-minute tirade against Filch's rudeness.

Everything from Filch's injuries diagnosed by Madam Pomfrey, to the cleaning equipment left in the bathroom, to the origin of the mess - gleefully recounted by Myrtle - supported Filch being the victim of an unfortunate accident. His ravings about seeing himself flying about the loo on a broom were easily discounted. They were a figment of Filch's head injury, combined with his loathing his Squib status.

Still, given the incident's location and Filch's claim of a large hole, Dumbledore took no chances. Professor McGonagall was even more insistent. Together, they spent hours checking every nook and cranny of the Chamber of Secrets for any sort of disturbance, finding none. The Headmaster could do little about Myrtle's bathroom. Once Harry lost the ability, nobody in the Castle could speak Parseltongue.

At least Dumbledore knew of none.

Just in case, the Headmaster took certain steps. Parseltongue could neither be faked nor taught. Either someone had that natural ability, or not.

The Slytherin Head of House came puffing into Dumbledore's tower office. "Horace," Dumbledore greeted him warmly. "How went the inquiry?"

"About as well, or as poorly, as could be expected," Professor Slughorn wearily replied. Unbidden, he helped himself to several lemon drops from the crystal bowl on the Headmaster's desk. "He knew exactly what my tests were intended to reveal."

"Whatever else he may be, young Mister Malfoy is hardly stupid," Dumbledore mused. "I take it the results were negative?"

"Utterly and completely," Slughorn confirmed. "Whatever else he may be, Draco is no Parselmouth. His arrogance remains, however, so the negative results did not forestall his unsolicited advice on the subject."

"Which was?"

"His quite snide opinion was that I was wasting both my time and his…. That if I wanted someone with Parseltongue ability, I should test Harry Potter. Is that true, Albus?"

"It was," Dumbledore explained. "In his second year, I am told that Mister Potter used Parseltongue to great effect whilst duelling Mister Malfoy. Recently, though, his ability seems to have vanished - a good thing, I believe."

"Agreed," Slughorn concurred. "Regardless, I informed Draco that Mister Potter was none of his, or our, concern. Potter was conspicuously present throughout the Quidditch match, whereas Draco was not."

"Did that elicit any response?"

"None suggesting anything mendacious in his version of events. Attendance at Quidditch matches is certainly not mandatory."

"Very well," Dumbledore dismissed Professor Slughorn with a resigned wave of his good hand. "Everything seems to points to Argus having had an accident."

* * * *

By Valentine's Day almost all the remaining snow had fallen victim to an extended stretch of raw, cold rain. Even more than a metre of snow, unremitting blustery dankness made being outdoors unpleasant.

Magic was little help. Students lacked enthusiasm for rainball fights - except once. Despite a steady grey drizzle, Hagrid dragooned his fifth years into taking his latest collection of Blast-Ended Skrewts for a walk. Hagrid's fourth year class had rebelled and refused to have anything to do with the Skrewts. Ron found that conclusive evidence that the current fourth years had more gumption (and common sense) than his own year.

This judgmental deficiency persisted. Harry and the rest of the advanced class did the job - and finished soaked and covered in mud. The Skrewts had walked them, not the other way around. Hence, a spontaneous rainball fight, improving both the class' mood and appearance.

Later, Harry and Hermione were again rather upset at Ron over - no surprise - more of what they considered cheating during Potions. Rather than follow the rules during an exercise brewing antidotes, Ron had simply handed Slughorn a bezoar as the class ended. To their surprise, Slughorn found Ron's latest antics amusing and awarded him ten House Points. Going "by the book," neither Harry nor Hermione had even finished.

They did not appreciate Ron's shortcut. Ron had not appreciated their criticism. Consequently, Ron had kept more or less to himself for the past several days.

Today was Valentine's Day - that evening Harry and Hermione had ninety reserved minutes of prime private time in the Prefect's Bathroom.

The day might have begun with a morning quickie, but being serious students (at least Hermione - Harry was distractible), they postponed pleasure until after completing their early morning training.

Which was too late.

The door to the Room of Requirement opened and in strode Kingsley Shacklebolt. "I thought I might find you here, since you certainly weren't at breakfast."

Harry remained somewhat sceptical about how Shak would handle being his guardian. "Why, were you looking for me?" he asked suspiciously.

"Frankly, no," Shak unhesitatingly replied. "Merlin knows the last thing I'm inclined to meddle with is your sex life…."

Hermione blushed furiously as Harry stood open-mouthed.

"…but with your defence group and the like, far too many people know about this Room nowadays. We have to maintain the Hogwarts rules, so one staff member was delegated to watch this place at all times today."

"Oh well," Hermione shrugged. "We were just about done here, anyway."

Shak regarded them knowingly. "I repeat - you're not my concern. You've earned the right to be treated as adults. But if you're truly finished, make sure not to skip breakfast."

For a second time Shak had gone out of his way to mention the meal currently being served in the Great Hall.

"Why?" both asked in unison.

Shak hesitated. "Nothing bad, but you'd best see for yourselves - it's something of a surprise."

Needless to say, they would have Apparated to the Great Hall, had that been possible. They made their way down at a fast trot, taking advantage of hidden passageways learnt from the Map - even though they did not have it with them.

After their detour, Harry and Hermione arrived not at the Great Hall's main doors, but at the back foyer. The same route - in reverse - had been their escape from the Masked Ball.

The curious, largely female crowd at the end of the Gryffindor table did not notice the pair until they were practically upon them.

"Hi, what's going on?" Harry asked innocently enough.

The crowd drew back, leaving Harry with a clear path to … oh my!

Boxes of Valentine candy were stacked almost a metre high. Some boxes were elaborately wrapped, changing colour or shape. Others were plain and rectangular, mostly in white, red, or pink. One particularly bawdy package had a blinking, quite graphic, "Eat me" sign that rotated anti-clockwise around its edges.

The presents appeared to be mostly chocolates: Chocoballs, cocoa cashews, charlottes with various magical and non-magical stuffings, Fudge Flies, Whistling Covertures, Talking Truffles, blackberry coffee creams, walnut marzipans, Færie Florentines, and candied cherries vermicelli.

Harry took notice because he certainly had a sweet tooth; not as insatiable as Ron's, but definitely set off by the confectionary assortment awaiting him.

Whilst Harry drooled, Hermione's approach was more practical.

Grabbing his near hand to ensure it did not venture too near the delectable spread, she directed, "Harry, don't touch anything until we find out what's going on." Addressing the assorted bystanders, she demanded, "Where did all of this come from?"

"You should have seen it, it was impressive," Demelza Robbins piped up.

"Teen Witch Weekly had a contest," Lavender informed them.

"Scores of owls," Patty Stimson added.

"All bringing Valentine's sweets for Harry," Lisa Turpin explained what this all had to do with the pile of boxes on the table.

"Oh, Merlin…."

Harry's hand went to his forehead. "Just like my bloody birthday," he groaned.

"…Sweets from every witch in Britain I haven't put off, I suppose," Hermione growled, looking territorial. Suspiciously, she regarded the mass of Valentine's candy.

"Oh, there's more," Luna commented airily. "Once that stack was started, quite a few classmates decided to take advantage…."

"Luna, that was not advisable," Hermione lectured. "You should have stopped them. Consuming any of this, before thorough testing, was foolhardy, if not downright dangerous. You know what the Twins have been…."

Luna started giggling even before Hermione paused. "Oh, no, I don't mean they ate anything; I meant they contributed…."

"She's right, you know," Daphne Greengrass drawled as she slithered forward. Without hesitation, she plucked a round pink box decorated with a lighted minute hand proceeding clockwise. "Those of us in the other Houses took advantage - not knowing what else to do…. Raspberry cream filled truffles, here."

Daphne started to hand the box to Harry, but at the last moment, turned and instead presented it to Hermione, with an exaggerated bow. "You'll be testing them for Love Potions I'm sure. I assure you it's Muggle - completely clean."

Surprised, Hermione instinctively accepted the proffered box. She watched the slinky Slytherin blonde as she retreated with the walk women use when they want the opposite sex to stare after them.

Snapping out it, Hermione turned to look at Harry. She was relieved to find his eyes solely upon her. "Umm … what now? They do look good enough to eat."

"Daphne's right, they should be tested," Hermione responded, blinking. "But there's no time now. We've got Care in only twenty minutes, and I don't want to miss it. Hagrid will want to atone for the last class' fiasco."

"We can stash them in my dorm room, for a little bit," suggested Harry. "We have two free periods after Care to suss all this out."

"Good idea. Wingardium Leviosa!" Hermione levitated the entire batch of Valentine's sweets, and they set out for Gryffindor Tower, ignoring the crowd of classmates. Some complained that the pair refused to share goodies they could not possibly consume themselves. Others muttered that Harry did not thank them personally for their gifts.

As soon as they were out of anyone's earshot, Harry asked, "You know spells to detect Love Potions?"

"The junk Fred and George sell, of course," Hermione answered disdainfully. "They even sell detection instructions themselves - separately and for an additional fee, of course. I'm no fool. I of all people know how fanciable you truly are."

Harry's mirthful response seemed forced and short-lived. "But, you heard them. I don't think my admirers are a bunch of Fourth Year Romildas. What if somebody dosed these with something like Amortentia?"

"Amortentia's hardly undetectable," Hermione sniffed. "The necessary spells are toward the back of our current Potions book. But if you'd rather, I wouldn't object to binning the lot," she offered.

Harry stopped to give it some thought. "Nah, seems like a bloody waste. I can almost taste those Færie Florentines."

"Well, then let's hurry, or we'll be late for class."

Short of time, they haphazardly left the boxes of sweets beside Harry's bed. Several other tins of chocolates were already there. One was from Ginny. Another was from Romilda Vane.

"Make a point of checking that one," Harry joked.

"I absolutely intend to check them all," Hermione responded, not joking one iota.

"Should I lock the door?" Harry queried on the way out. Despite their hurry, they were almost certainly late for class. Almost mocking their tardiness, the common room was entirely deserted.

"I doubt your dorm mates would appreciate being locked out," Hermione reminded him.

As they suspected, Interesting Magical Creatures was outstanding. Although not admitting anything, Hagrid plainly had thought better of his last lesson featuring Blast-Ended Skrewts and mud. As awful as that that class had been, this one was just as splendid. It was outdoors - like all of Hagrid's upper level sessions - but a large canvas tarpaulin protected everyone from the elements.

This lesson concerned phoenixes. Hagrid had collected four different species. Harry and Hermione instantly recognised a bright red bird like Fawkes, but the Fire Phoenix was not alone. Successive perches displayed an ice blue Water Phoenix, an iridescent green Earth Phoenix, and rarest of all, a glittering white Air Phoenix. Hagrid's instruction about the four elemental phoenixes was fascinating, and the class positively whizzed by. In no time the hour - 55 minutes, since they were a bit late - was over.

Harry and Hermione spent fifteen minutes afterwards chatting with Hagrid and helping him feed the phoenixes, which would be flying away before the sun set. Hagrid confessed to pulling some significant strings, with Dumbledore's help, to get four different phoenixes to agree to spend even one day at Hogwarts.

Hagrid was flabbergasted, and Hermione embarrassed, when the Fire Phoenix hopped onto her shoulder and started nuzzling her hair. She almost told the half-giant how Dumbledore had saved her life, but decided that, if the Headmaster had not mentioned it, confidentiality was best - Hagrid was not very adept at keeping secrets.

Returning to Hogwarts, their breath puffing tiny white clouds, they chatted. "Too bad Ron had to miss that," Harry remarked. "Where do you think he was, anyway?"

"No idea," Hermione snipped. "After that bezoar business I hardly care. I mean, with Cho he was misled, but his cheating in Potions is deliberate."

"Well, I must admit, he does study that book," Harry pointed out more charitably. "We have Potions this afternoon, so he might have skived off to revise with the Prince."

Hermione shot Harry one of her best "not bloody likely" looks but said nothing. Ron was his friend - and hers too if she thought about it - and that was not about to change.

It did not.

They returned to the Gryffindor common room. Hermione was dead set upon casting the spells that would determine which of Harry's sweets were spiked with Love Potions. Harry hoped she would hurry up. He was hungry for some of those scrumptious items.

Hermione felt rather inadequate. Here she was, his fiancée, and she had not given him any Valentine's sweets at all. She was a dentists' daughter, and such potentially teeth-rotting delights were beyond her experience.

Of course, tonight she would give him plenty else. She did not have a Samson's Option owl order catalogue, but the Château Blackwalls staff - at least someone Hermione trusted - had been happy to make a discreet purchasing trip to Hogsmeade on her behalf.

Their first inkling of a problem was when they ran into Dean on the dormitory stairs.

That is, they almost literally ran into him.

Dean was distracted, looking backwards over his shoulder.

"Oof…"

"Sorry."

"Umm, excuse me!"

"Oh, Harry … Hermione. Be careful up there … he's in a right state."

"Who's in a right state?" Hermione had the presence of mind to ask.

Dean stared at them as if they were the world's densest people. "Why, I mean Ron. I think he's run mental. You of all people should know better than to leave that many sweets where he could find them."

"Oh, shite!"

Ignoring Dean's smirk, Harry bolted up the stairs. Hermione followed close behind.

They burst into the room and came face to face with Ron - although not exactly.

Face to arse was more like it.

Muttering incoherently, Ron was crawling about on all fours. Boxes of chocolates were scattered across the floor. Most were uneaten, but enough had been consumed that little crinkly wrappers dotted the carpet.

"I can't stand it," Ron yowled. On hands and knees, he lurched hard to his right, lost his balance, and fell face first into a box of what looked like chocolate truffles.

"Aaarrrghhh!" Ron pushed himself up. With his left hand he stuffed a handful of caramels from another box into his mouth.

"Ron!" Hermione shrieked. "Stop, please!"

Harry echoed, "Ron, you've got to lay off. Some of those are doubtless potioned. We haven't checked them yet."

"Harry, Hermione," Ron mumbled. "I don't believe it."

"We're here," Hermione jumped in. "We're ready to help."

Ron flopped onto his back; a grotesque imitation of a stranded turtle, except his face was more ashen than scaly.

"Nothing can help," Ron moaned. "She doesn't even know I exist."

With considerable trepidation Hermione followed up. "Who doesn't know you exist?"

Harry knelt by his friend, looking into Ron's unfocussed eyes. "Ron, you've got to realise…."

"I'm in love with Desiderata Coterel," he wailed. "She doesn't even know who I am…. No, wait…."

Harry looked to Hermione with questioning eyes. She shrugged, resigned to whatever happened next.

Abruptly, Ron rolled over and stuffed his right hand into an open box of mint white chocolate bark. In one motion he crammed the fistful into his mouth. "No, I'm in lub wid M'chelle Glamorgan!" Ron gurgled through very nasty looking teeth.

"Ron, stop eating this stuff," Harry demanded. "We think a lot of it's doused with Love Potions."

"Oh Merlin, I'm in love with Megan Jones…."

Harry and Hermione stiffened. Someone they knew. Hermione's eyes narrowed as Harry received a warning glance, should he be tempted. His skittish reaction promised nothing would happen.

Ron continued, his rants about various ladies interrupted by mouthfuls of suspicious sweets. `What can we do, Harry?' Hermione Legilimenced. `He's under the influence of conflicting Love Potions. I haven't covered this in Healing, but it can't be a good thing.'

"Ron, for the last time, stop!" Harry raised his voice - to no avail. Ron groaned something about Romilda Vane. Whilst confirming one of Harry's suspicions, it hardly improved the immediate situation.

In the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione drawing her wand. Her determined expression he knew only too well - her "I wish I didn't have to do this" look.

`No, don't,' Harry silently dissuaded. `Let me. I don't want him angry with you again.'

`Well, do something quickly,' she warned. `What if Ginny gave you a dosed batch?'

`Eew, I don't think….' He paused. He doubted Ginny would, even in jest. But that incident at the ball introduced an element of doubt.

Whilst Hermione waited for Harry to act, Ron went careening for another box….

Harry flicked out his wand. "Nauseo!" he spelled grimly.

Ron immediately vomited. The choking tang of half digested chocolates filled the air - and the carpet - almost instantly.

`I would have just stunned him,' Hermione commented mentally.

`Probably a better idea,' Harry agreed. `But at least some of it won't affect him - better out than in.'

"No, just…. Oh, bother…. Purify." Hermione fixed the most immediate issue.

The odour, at least, vanished. But Ron still retched - and he had nothing left to expel.

"We need help," Hermione stated the obvious. She pointed her wand towards the door. "Expecto Patronum!" Her phoenix Patronus streaked out the door. "We have to get Ron to a professional." From her eyes, Harry knew Hermione was preparing to take charge.

"How'd you do that?" Harry gawked.

"Long story," Hermione responded. "I'll tell you later. Let's deal with Ron."

Speaking of which.

The none-too-happy redhead was trying to stand, whilst mumbling alternatively, "Why'd you do that?" and "Got to find Angie…."

Whoever Angie was.

Hermione tried manœuvring Ron to a chair, explaining in her gentlest tone of voice (ordinarily reserved for Harry) that he was in thrall of incompatible potions and that they would take him to Professor Slughorn right away.

Then a red-faced Neville Longbottom charged into the room. On his heels followed an equally out of breath Ginny Weasley.

"What's going on?" the first newcomer immediately asked.

"What did dear brother do now?" the other snarked.

Hermione, who had called for Neville, was surprised to see Ginny. "Neville, we need your help to take Ron…" She continued trying to wrestle the much larger boy into the chair. "…to see Professor Slughorn right away. He's suffering from potion-induced polycharmancy and is in a bad way….."

"I need to tell Valerie I love her…," Ron rasped in the background.

"Ginny … umm … while we … could you clean up this mess?"

"I've got to tell Roxanne I need her…."

"Oh no…," Ginny growled furiously. "I'll do plenty lots for dear Ronald, but I'm not cleaning up a boy's dormitory full of vomit and toxic chocolates…."

Her protests did not set well with Hermione. She in full "take charge" mode, and had not sent for the youngest Weasley in the first place.

"Ginny, I hardly think…."

"No, Hermione, that's fine," Neville defused things. "I let slip that your message concerned Ron. She can go. I'll tidy up here. It's better that way."

Before Neville had finished, Ginny was at Ron's side. "Come on, Ron. Get up. We've got to get you to…."

She turned to Hermione. "Where do we take him?"

"Since it's a Potions problem, I was thinking Professor Slughorn," Hermione replied. She would have preferred not saying anything out loud, given Ron's state.

"I don't want to see Slughorn!" Ron bellowed. Belligerently, he pushed Ginny aside. She slipped, stumbled on one end of her shawl, and took a spill that scattered more Valentine's sweets across the floor. "I just want to tell Amanda I love her…." Ron swayed uneasily on his feet.

Furious, Ginny rose with her wand drawn, but Hermione was quicker.

"Mobilicorpus Inverso!" she incanted. Instantly, Ron was jolted upwards, dangling arse over tit in midair by his left foot.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" Ron screeched. "Put me down!"

"Get a grip, Ron!" Harry yelled. "What the hell were you thinking, getting into my Valentine's stuff? I cached them up here for a reason, you know!"

"I wanna give some to Desiderata," Ron moaned.

"I don't think…."

"She's in Professor Slughorn's office," Hermione cut across, "waiting for you."

"Hermione…."

"Really?" Ron gasped, a demented smile cracking his face - looking like an equally demented frown, as he was upside down.

"Yes, Professor Slughorn offers special classes for former Slug Club members on Fridays," Hermione lied effortlessly.

"D'you think Michelle will be there?" Ron asked hopefully.

"I don't know where else she'd be," Hermione answered sweetly.

Neville had to pinch himself to keep from bursting out laughing.

"Well, let's go then. Time's a wasting," Harry chimed in.

"Valerie'll be there, too," added Ginny, getting into the swing of things.

"Cool," Ron murmured, much more relaxed. "Umm … Hermione, you'll have to let me down."

Dumping Ron on his head would only aggravate matters. Resisting temptation, Hermione ended the Inverso before lowering him gently to the floor.

Ron took three giant steps towards the exit. He regarded his reflection warily in the full-length mirror on the inside of the dormitory door. Brownish remnants of smashed Valentine's chocolates streaked and blotched his robes. His hands were coated with an unholy mix of Turkish Delight, coconut clusters, creamy caramels and other indistinguishable sweetness. Thin streams of goo dribbled from his mouth in various directions.

"Umm … do I look okay?" Ron asked uncertainly.

"I think you're just smashing," Ginny replied evilly. "We all know that girls just love chocolate on Valentine's Day…."

Hermione was not so malicious. "I don't think so," she intervened. "Scourgify!"

`Harry, make sure the way is clear,' she Legilimenced.

Harry stepped in front and shooed away any and all suspicious female occupants of the common room - including, especially, Romilda Vane.

His task was informative. Harry announced to everyone that Ron had gotten into his Valentine's gifts and had run raving mad. Whoever made herself scarce, instead of watching the show, immediately became a suspect.

Harry ran interference all the way to Slughorn's office. "Out of way! Out of the way! Make way for the heir of chocolate. Seriously besotted wizard coming through!"

He had learnt something from the Twins.

Reaching the stone stairway leading to the Potions dungeon, Harry raced ahead. He burst into Professor Slughorn's private office. It looked unchanged from his last visit, when he had cajoled the portly professor into turning over his Horcrux notes. Fortunately, the incumbent was present, fortifying himself for his upcoming classes with a cut glass goblet of some light amber liquid.

The mustachioed man greeted Harry slightly less jovially than usual. "Ah, Harry, m'boy. What can … what brings you here?"

"Professor, it's Ron. He needs help," Harry spoke breathlessly.

"Oh ho! I highly doubt that," Slughorn retorted. "Excellent work he's been doing. I hardly think…."

"No, Professor, it's not that," Harry explained. "By mistake he got into … er … some Valentine's chocolates dosed with Love Potions. I'd take him to Madame Pomfrey, but I'd like to avoid … well, you know, the stuff's supposed to be banned…."

"Surely for Ronald, being an exemplary potioneer, it would be child's play to…."

Harry could hear Ron's voice down the hall - getting louder, "Where's Megan? Where's Amanda?"

Slughorn also heard. "Oh, dear, multiple love potions, eh?" he said knowingly. "How many?"

"Er … dunno," Harry answered quietly. "From the all the names, I'd say at least a half dozen. Umm … to get him here, I had to lie … that you were teaching those girls extra Potions."

"Do you know who the ladies are?" Slughorn asked quickly. He grabbed a black bag and his key to the potions ingredient cabinet. "Love Potions can have synergistic effects, you know. The more different strains, the greater the disorientation…."

Harry thought that explained a lot. He could hear Hermione and Ginny struggling to restrain Ron as they entered the Potions class room.

"Let me see Michelle…! Where's he hiding Valerie!?"

"The only two I recognize are Megan Jones and Romilda Vane," Harry reported, eyeing the door that led to the Potions classroom. "A lot of sweets came by owl this morning."

"Make sure he stays out there, then," a suddenly serious Professor Slughorn told Harry. "I need to fetch a couple more things. I'll be out in a few seconds."

Harry heard a crash as one of the potions tables overturned.

"Where are they, Harry?" Ron cried drunkenly. "You promised!"

"Umm … Professor Slughorn's getting Desiderata ready," Harry played for time. "This was rather sudden, after all."

"I can't help it, I'm in luuurrrvvv!" Ron moaned rapturously.

Harry relaxed visibly as he heard, "Ah, Ronald, m'boy," from behind him. "Let's get you ready, now."

Ronald's head wobbled as conflicting love potions sought dominance in his mind. "Michelle, Roxanne … Romilda!"

Ron spun around and escaped from Hermione's and Ginny's grasp. "Oh!" He stepped into a collapsible cauldron, which promptly collapsed. Ron took a purler but, feeling no pain, popped back to his feet.

"She didn't see that, did she?"

"No, no, no," Professor Slughorn reassured him. "They're tidying themselves up - Potions can be a messy business, you know."

"Umm … okay."

"Speaking of messy business, you could use some freshening yourself," Slughorn continued unctuously. "Please drink this." He handed Ron a particoloured potion. "You want to look your best, you know."

"Umm … right-o." Asking no further questions, Ron tipped back the oddly-hued potion and drank it down.

"Oo-oo-oh," he moaned deeply. Ron's normally blue eyes looked like a kaleidoscope.

"And now this one," Slughorn handed Ron a second potion that could have been distilled water - except for white tendrils floating over the surface. "It's a special brew of Wit-Sharpening Potion…."

"Great!" Before the professor had even finished, Ron gulped it down in one swallow.

"And finally…." Professor Slughorn displayed a solid black potion, with the hue and consistency of molten liquorice. The professor gave Ron an appraising look. From his potions bag, Slughorn selected a couple of pinches of a sparkling gold powder and sprinkled them into the phial. He swirled it to and fro until the particles were thoroughly mixed and the potion looked like liquefied cat's eye.

"There, that should do it," Slughorn pronounced. "As soon as you're done, I'll see whether the girls are ready."

"Aaaahhhh…." Ron took it greedily and practically sucked the phial dry. Professor Slughorn gave a "be ready" signal to the others.

"That was…." Ron's eyes suddenly spun white in their sockets, and his body went bonelessly limp. Harry and Hermione, alerted, caught him before hit the ground.

"Quick! Get him in here," Slughorn directed, the social climber's voice replaced by a professional's tone. Harry and Hermione began dragging Ron by the shoulders into the professor's office.

"Honestly, you are wizards," Ginny smirked. "Mobilicorpus."

She floated Ron onto a large ottoman in Professor Slughorn's inner office.

"He should be fine. This takes about five minutes," the professor declared. "It counteracts all standard-grade Love Potions, provided it's administered within twenty-four hours."

It did indeed.

Soon Ron began stirring. He belched loudly. "Aaaahh, I needed that…." He looked about and saw Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and Professor Slughorn - all regarding him with great interest. "Oh, Merlin." Ron looked confused. Then he looked embarrassed. Finally, he looked downright horrified.

"Feeling normal again?" Harry asked him, behind a knowing grin. "Let that be a lesson about eating unknown sweets, then."

"I-I … didn't do anything … did I?" Ron groaned. He put his face in his hands.

"Aside from puking your guts all over the dormitory floor, you mean?" Ginny replied waspishly.

"No, we kept you from anyone who might have sent those potioned chocolates."

Ron was still shaking. "Merlin, it could have been Chang!" He never used Cho's first name anymore.

"I highly doubt that," Hermione snapped. "Her deal to avoid Azkaban requires her to stay well away from all of us - especially you."

"Relax, relax," Professor Slughorn soothed. "You've all been through a harrowing experience, especially my prodigy Ronald here…."

`Hermione, please don't,' Harry Legilimenced.

Hermione's face reddened, but she said nothing.

"…You need something to take the edge off." Professor Slughorn rose and waddled to a nearby oak and glass cabinet. Its upper doors opened of their own accord as he approached. "Harry, m'boy, I know you don't imbibe, so how about pure pineapple juice - fresh crushed?"

"Sounds good, sir," Harry quite happily agreed.

The professor produced an impressive silver carafe - pre-chilled, judging by the visible condensation. He measured out a healthy serving of the yellow, pulpy liquid, poured into fancy, ornamented crystal stemware.

"Miss Weasley, I'm constrained to offer you only something non-alcoholic…."

"Ice water will be fine, please," she specified. Even though she would have refused, it was insulting not to have the choice.

"Miss Granger, could I interest you in Château Blackwalls oak-matured mead?"

"No, thank you, sir," Hermione demurred. "Not with your class coming up. I'll have what he's having," she replied with a pointed glance in Harry's direction.

"Very well," Slughorn readily acceded. He measured out an identical second serving of pineapple juice into a second gold-lipped goblet. "But you, Ronald m'boy, deserve something a bit stronger, given what you've been through…."

They heard glass bottles clinking. "Some of this oak-matured mead will do your nerves a world of good. I just received it the other day - tribute from a Slug Club member, no doubt…."

Ron looked perplexed at the professor's generosity. "Sure … but you don't mind that we have your class this afternoon?"

"Think nothing of it," Slughorn answered jovially as he Levitated two more identical glasses from the lower cabinet. "I shan't call on you unless you raise your hand - but in return you should be able to handle an extra assignment…."

Ron blanched. Hermione looked smug.

"…Yes, I think a three-footer on Love Potions and their antidotes is the ticket."

That Professor Slughorn was still pouring was a good thing - he missed the aggravated glare Ron shot his way.

Ron's face returned to studied neutrality by the time the professor finished. A stack of parchment shifted itself aside to make room for a Hogwarts gold tray bearing five identical goblets.

"A toast … to success, in all its forms!" Professor Slughorn proposed. "Cheers!"

With an obligatory clink of their glasses, they all partook deeply of their chosen beverages.

Convinced that oak-matured mead - especially as cured by the elves at Château Blackwalls - was not to be trifled with, Hermione tried to end the celebration. "Well, I do think we need to be going to lunch. Good to get some food into…. Oh, sweet Circe…!"

Something was terribly wrong - far worse than anything Ron had previously endured.

Crashes of shattered crystal announced the immediate plight of Ron and the professor. As if felled by Unforgivables, both slumped to the floor within seconds, convulsing uncontrollably.

"Oh, my God, do something!" Ginny screamed. "They're dying!"

Ginny was right.

With their eyes rolled back in their heads, spittle drooling from grotesquely misshapen lips, and faces turning an inhuman shade of greyish blue, neither appeared long for this world.

Harry leapt blindly into action, ripping apart Professor Slughorn's potions bag looking for something … anything. "Dammit, isn't there any antidote…?"

Hermione remembered something. "Ginny, is that the shawl Harry gave you?"

"Yes, but who cares?" Ginny's panic threatened to become contagious. "Help them, please!"

Hermione lunged, bumping the shrieking redhead aside as she grabbed both ends of her shawl at the same time. With her dominant right hand, Hermione tore off one of the baubles and jammed it down Ron's throat.

Left-handed she was less successful. All she accomplished was stuffing a goodly portion of Ginny's shawl into Professor Slughorn's gaping mouth. Growling in frustration, Hermione yanked it out. She sawed off one of the baubles using the professor's own teeth. As soon as it fell free, she shoved it down his throat.

Both men's symptoms began abating.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked, gawking.

Panting, Hermione replied, "I helped you buy that shawl, remember? These embroidered little baubles are Bezoars."

Briefly surprised, Ginny quickly recovered her composure. She tossed some of Professor Slughorn's Floo powder into his office fireplace. "Madam Pomfrey!" she called.

Needless to say, that afternoon's Advanced Potions lesson was cancelled.

* * * *

The door to the deserted fifth floor classroom opened cautiously and … nothing emerged.

One nothing whispered to the other all along the corridor. "Harry, we don't have to use the Cloak for this?" a light-hearted female voice trilled. "We're not only before curfew, but also I'm a Prefect, if you've forgotten."

"Believe me, I haven't forgotten," the male companion voice purred. "It's just … I like the intrigue. Better to have it when nobody's looking ... when we're on the run a bit…."

"Well, I can do without so much daily drama," she smirked. "Tonight, for once, we don't have to look over our shoulders. See…." She pointed to the doorknob. "…Silver, just like it's supposed to be. Because those two wanted to see an Order induction, we've an hour and a half of prime time - on Valentine's night, no less."

"Time to get going, then."

They slipped inside, and Hermione performed the Silver and Gold Charm.

"Circe, I can't believe we've gone over two weeks," Hermione panted. "If you're not as randy as I am, I'm afraid I'll have to start without you." Her school robes puddled on the floor.

Harry smiled. "Not a chance. Thinking about this carried me through that never-ending interview about what happened with Slughorn. That's the thing with plans. Whenever you make them…."

"…Something unexpected comes along to upset them," Hermione finished his thought. "Von Moltke said something similar over a century ago. He was…."

"Not now," Harry whispered as he, too, started to undress.

"Don't jinx anything," Hermione gave a sly wink. Very deliberately she lowered her beaded bag, bent over, opened it, and began rummaging. She positioned herself so that Harry had a glorious view of her … assets.

She held Harry's entire interest. He sidled over, lifted her classroom-issue blue skirt and ran his hands over her plain white cotton panty covered fanny.

"Hhmmmm," she hummed in pleasure. "Don't distract me too much…," she breathed in what she hoped was a sultry undertone. "Sorry. No time to change before, with all the excitement…."

Harry carried on more intently, raising goosepimples tracing the outlines of her knickers with his fingernails. "I'm fine," he tried for his own bedroom voice. "I've what I…."

"There - finally!" Hermione yipped. She yanked a large Samson's Option sack from her bag. It flopped out and landed on the mosaic, ceramic tiled floor. Simultaneously, a harsh clattering sound startled them. Something white and cylindrical rolled across the floor.

Harry Summoned it. "What's this?" he asked. After examining it, he added, "Or should that be, when did you start taking the same calcium supplements I do?"

Hermione sighed at the inopportune interruption. "Actually, those are yours, Harry. Ginny bought them, and gave them to me earlier today, but I wanted to check them first."

"But if they're from Ginny, why'd she give them to you?" Harry wondered.

"She thought I'd be paranoid … after what happened … if she gave them to you, and she's right. Let me check them, please?"

Hermione seemed on edge, so Harry acquiesced. "Sure, whatever you want…."

Finally, he could kiss her. They started easily enough, but when Harry heard the calcium tablets rattle across the floor again, he knew he had her undivided attention.

Her arms draped about his neck as she lazed against him, her breath mixing with his. Harry' responded by burying his hands in her hair. As their kiss deepened, his fingers drifted lower, undoing the fastenings of, first, her blouse, and then her skirt until he had her pressed against him.

"Umm … Harry" she moaned, leaning away just a bit. "If we go much longer, I won't have the wits about me to change…."

"Who says I want you to change?"

"I do," she murmured enticingly. "I know what's in that bag, and you don't." Bending back, Hermione twisted herself, lifting her breasts upwards so they presented Harry with a most pleasing target.

His right hand trailed upwards, across her flat midriff, his fingers trailing goosepimples as his they brushed the skin beneath her now loosely hanging jumper. She felt the elastic release as he popped open her bra.

His lips interfered again with Hermione's plans. The way Harry kissed her made her just want to give in and not think about anything.

But thinking was Hermione's second nature. She tried one last time to follow the scenario she had plotted methodically for a week. As Harry began removing her remaining clothing - except, oddly, her shoes and cable-knit knee socks - Hermione reached into her goody bag and displayed a couple of lingerie outfits still on hangers.

Flirtatiously, she directed, "Take a look at these, Harry."

He goggled.

An extremely sheer silver and … rainbow … camisole-fringe-skirt contraption hung from Hermione's right hand. The dazzling outfit consisted entirely of fiery rutile bits maybe a half-centimetre across. Each was faceted so the slightest light produced brilliant prismatic effects. Criss-crossing strands of silvery metal held together the teddy- if that was the verb. Strings of more flashing rutiles passed for a matching mid-thigh "skirt," except each strand hung freely from a silvery elastic waistband.

Her other selection was the polar opposite. The hanger in Hermione's left hand bore jet black cami-knickers, combining see-through mesh with strategically placed bits of black satin. Equally black faux fur decorated the seams - save one. A double lining of pillar-box red fur emphasised the opening of her most erogenous location.

Starkers above the knees, Hermione held the two hangers close on either side, the better for him to imagine her wearing them. "Which do you like best, Harry?" she asked breathlessly.

Harry recovered from momentary speechlessness. "Umm … the middle one, only saddle shoes won't do for the bath."

"Harry … I'm trying to be sexy here."

"And doing a smashing job of it, believe me."

Hermione's arms drooped, and the lingerie brushed the tiled floor. "Are you serious?"

"Very," he affirmed. "We haven't been together in two bloody weeks. All that other stuff's nice, and I'm sure we'll use it eventually. But right now, all I want is you."

Harry slipped off his trousers and pants, providing visual confirmation of his veracity.

She tossed the outfits back in the bag. "Oh, Harry, I love you…."

He closed the distance between them. "Same here, but I'm so lousy with words I'd rather show you."

For the rest of their allotted time, he did.

* * * *

All was in readiness. The Dark Lord tasked his Death Eaters with various missions that occupied them until he was done - save three: Walden Macnair, Lucius Malfoy, and the slippery but currently indispensable Severus Snape. Also in attendance were Bella and her nursemaid Candace.

Every time Lord Voldemort had visited Bella since the Stonehenge disaster, two questions came to mind: first, had his form really been so awful when he was similarly afflicted and, second, how could he restore Bella, as much as possible?

First things first. Stonehenge had also exposed the Dark Lord's weakness, at least to himself. Relying upon ancient and vague instructions, he had sliced his soul one time too many. Before he could try resurrecting her, he had to fortify himself.

Today, Lord Voldemort would do just that.

He had researched everything minutely. The spell for reversing a Horcrux's avulsion of the soul absent true remorse was only obscure due to European arrogance. Unlike his Dark - or light - predecessors, Lord Voldemort had not limited his studies to South and East Asian magicks. Had he been so blinkered, dear departed Dolohov would never have learnt that Tibetan spell he once used so effectively.

Other important magicks included that of Turkic peoples of Central Asia, for one. Whilst still a mere Riddle of a man, he had travelled to Transoxiania and steeped himself in its abstruse, but powerful, magical tradition.

The Serindian magicks were firmly rooted in the bloody history of the region. To save their skins, the mages of Khorasan conjured the Donation of Timur in deference to a mighty Muggle ruler. One of the Donation's incantations effected a spiritual reconstitution of the caster's essence upon the caster's solemn promise to spare the life of someone he had previously intended to kill.

Lord Voldemort had translated and modified this Transoxianian thaumaturgy and now intended to use it to rejoin the eighth part of his soul to his body.

"None of you may enter for the next hour and a half," the Dark Lord instructed his skeleton crew. "Once time has expired, if I have not issued new instructions, then you, Severus, alone shall enter. You will find my orders for you upon my desk."

The Dark Lord shut the door in their faces and magically sealed it. He moved about the shrouded chamber positioning various talismans in precisely the reverse order from the creation of the soon-to-be-merged Horcrux - the ankh to the north, the omega to the east, the pentacle to the south, and the taijitu to the west….

One minor loose end remained.

Actually, as loose ends go, it was hardly minor.

Lord Voldemort was running a great risk to restore his power. The quid pro quo for his anticipated karmic reunion remained unresolved. From casting the spell, he had precisely seven months, seven days, and seven hours to consummate the transaction by sparing the life of a person he currently intended to kill.

Should the incantation's requirements not be fulfilled within the allotted time, the joining would forcibly lapse. The opposing magicks' internal force would propel both remaining soul fragments from his body.

Should that happen, he would die - notwithstanding all the other Horcruxes.

The Dark Lord pondered his choice as he uttered the magic that brought the joining into being….

"Animus, dominus, reliquat…."

To ensure compatibility with his prior Horcruxes, Voldemort had rendered the spell's original Turkic incantations into Latin.

Who must he let live?

Absolutely not Potter. The prophecy precluded that. Necessarily, one must die at the hand of the other. The entire point of the exercise was to ensure that Potter died and he survived.

Dumbledore?

Hardly. To spare him at this juncture would only confirm the old man's undeserved reputation as the only wizard he, Lord Voldemort, actually feared. He agreed with Snape that Dumbledore was the puppeteer to Potter's puppet. The scheme to end the Headmaster's tenure on this earth would be pursued to its conclusion.

The Minister?

Rufus Scrimgeour was proving altogether too much an obstacle to the Dark Lord's plans in various ways, both large and small. His drive to rid the Ministry of Death Eater influence had signed that fool's death warrant. If he survived the inevitable takeover, Scrimgeour would become the opposition's prime rallying point.

The Mudblood?

Muggle spawn was ordinarily too insignificant to warrant his attention, but her importance to Potter mandated death, the sooner the better - killing her would demoralise him. The alternative interpretation of the Reading also figured…. Finally, Mudblood or no, the power she had accessed at Stonehenge was alarming.

The Sidekick?

Weasley had been but an opportunistic target. After Stonehenge, his death was of no consequence. He could be dispensed with, but sparing this one carried unique risks. The Donation required nullification of present intent to kill. Did that boy even qualify, given the Dark Lord's present ambivalence?

Others?

He had unsuccessfully ordered assassination of the goblin ruler. But did a subhuman count? The same applied to the werewolf. The Dark Lord had no specific intent to kill any of his followers - even Snape. Aurors? Moody was dead. Any others would be collateral damage. Shacklebolt? A mere soldier in a transient role. Longbottom? Nothing but a pawn. Long ago he had marked Potter, not that sorry excuse for a pure-blood wizard.

The Dark Lord's dilemma persisted as he lay on the dais he had prepared for himself. He opened his robes and hefted the same bejewelled rondel he had used to create his first two Horcruxes. With a steady hand he pierced his own skin and made a shallow cut from the top of his sternum almost to his navel.

Done with the rondel, Voldemort he removed the extra Horcrux from a dragonhide pouch. His industrious servant had retrieved it from Hogwarts. Drawing his wand, he conjured a tiny black fragment of cosmic void using the Khorasan spell. He nudged this point of darkness directly over the bleeding wound on his otherwise alabaster chest.

Another incantation and the edges of the inky fissure he had rent in the time-space continuum crackled with an orange, crackling flame.

The prefatory magic complete, the Dark Lord seized the Ravenclaw Medal that had held one of his Horcruxes for all these years. He would cast it into the eternal void, where it would disintegrate and release his soul fragment to rejoin and merge with that remaining within him.

As Voldemort clutched the medal, he could not help but read its inscription: "Hermione Granger, 1996, 104.6, All Time Best."

That reminder at first enraged the Dark Lord. He uttered a demonic growl and drew his arm back to heave the disc into infinity - to be rid of it forever. Then he caught himself.

On second thought….

His mouth broke into a hideous parody of a grin.

Could he kill two birds with one stone? He - a half-blood - had, prior to the inscribed event, been the all time best. Could he wreak vengeance for this historic slight whilst also solving his other pressing problem?

A new plot forming in his malevolent mind, Lord Voldemort lobbed the medal into nihility's awaiting maw.

* * * *

Author's notes: Canon does not mention accelerated N.E.W.T.s, but I see no inherent problem doing so

The Thicknesse discussion is a reminder that all actions, however justified, have consequences

The feared house-elf rebellion relies on what commonly happened when slaves rebelled

The prospective cure for Ron's nightmares was discussed in Ch. 21

"Reversed the neutron polarity" is a variant of a Dr. Who phrase

Lumos maximus was introduced in Ch. 49

The Potterless Conspiracy culminated with Harry's kidnapping in Ch. 27

"Mission accomplished" was George Bush's infamous phrase about Iraq

Harry noticed his lost Parseltongue ability in Ch. 38

"Eat me" is, among other things, a Lewis Carrol reference

Desiderata was Charlemagne's first wife; Coterel is an old British name, associated with a gang of highwaymen who may have been the source of the Robin Hood legend

Glamorgan is a Welsh county

Other miscellaneous female names are from song titles: Michelle (Beatles), Angie (Rolling Stones), Valerie (Winwood), Roxanne (Police), and Amanda (Boston)

Better out than in is from Shrek

Polycharmancy = polypharmacy, the influence of multiple drugs

Cat's eye is a semiprecious stone, black with gold filigrees

"I'll have what he's having" is a play on a line from "When Harry Met Sally"

The Bezoars knitted into Ginny's shawl were mentioned in Ch. 66

"Better … looking … on the run," a modified line from "Bootleg" by Creedence Clearwater Revival

The system by which they use the Prefects' Bathroom is described in Ch. 54

Helmuth Von Moltke, a Prussian general, remarked that no battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy

Rutiles are extremely light refractive

Transoxiania is the area between two now largely diverted rivers that once fed into the Aral Sea; almost all the water is now used for irrigation; the associated names and places are accurate

57

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