Harry Potter and the Heretic's Vault

auser

Rating: R
Genres: Action & Adventure, Mystery
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 17/12/2007
Last Updated: 27/01/2008
Status: in_progress

Harry Potter is back for his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. With old enemies gathering and new challenges ahead, this year may prove to be Harry's darkest and most difficult yet. Action/Adventure - H/HR - AU Following OOTP

Chapters

1. The Dursleys' Attic

2. Here, There, and Everywhere

3. Correspondences

4. A Winter Wind

5. Unhappy Birthday

6. Old Haunts

7. Masquerade

8. The Toast

9. A Grim Discovery

10. The Funeral

11. Strength in Numbers

12. Vladimir and Goldilocks

13. A Changing Tune

14. The Sorting Hat's Warning

15. Friends and Enemies

16. Young Wicked

17. Obfirmo Occidere

18. Quidditch Tryouts

1. The Dursleys' Attic

HARRY POTTER AND THE HERETIC’S VAULT

by Auser

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters and locations are the property of JK Rowling. No infringement is intended.

Author’s Note:
This story does not follow any plot or timeline development from Half-Blood Prince or Deathly Hallows. The only canon it borrows is from the first five books – which means, there will be no horcruxes, no luck potions, and no conjured canaries. That doesn't mean there will be no plot, however. This story is meant as a replacement for the sixth book in its entirety and will follow JKR's formula – it will primarily be action/adventure.

There will be no R/Hr or H/G. This is an H/Hr story.

It is a work in progress, although I’ve already completed the first 23 chapters and 100,000+ words in an effort to maintain a significant buffer between what I write and what I post.

The ending has already been finished and the chapters plotted, so I can promise you it's going somewhere, at least. It is my intention to post the first ten chapters between now and Christmas Eve and then begin adding them at a more sedate pace.

I haven’t yet managed to find a beta by the time of this posting, so all the mistakes are mine, alone. Please feel free to point them out to me – I'll find it quite helpful.

For anyone who finds the first few pages familiar, the front three chapters were originally posted (before massive rewrites) on fanfic.net, but have since been removed as I wanted to complete more of the story before allowing it to see the light of day.

I apologize for the unnecessarily long author’s note. I’ll do my best to keep them out of further chapters.

-Auser

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Chapter 1: The Dursleys’ Attic

Late afternoon sunlight lazily poured through the open window in the attic of Number 4 Privet Drive. Despite the receding hour, the temperature in the large room was stiflingly hot, and Harry Potter swept his fingers over his scalp in another attempt to keep his damp hair out of his eyes. As soon as he pulled his hand away, it flopped back gracelessly and stuck to his forehead, just as it had all morning. Feeling surly and frustrated, he stood up and threw his wet sponge against the far wall of the room. The sponge stuck briefly to the wall with a moist suctioning noise before slowly sliding to the floor, leaving a clean, damp trail behind it.

Harry watched in vicious triumph before suddenly feeling childish. Sighing, he trudged over and picked up the sponge before dropping it back in his pail of water.

He supposed he should feel grateful that the Dursleys had conjured a seemingly insurmountable list of chores for him to complete this summer. Harry had spent the last two weeks mowing, painting, pruning, cleaning, and sawing – which meant that he hadn’t spent the last two weeks thinking about Sirius Black.

Or at least, not as much as he would have if he had been locked up alone in his room like usual.

A not unfamiliar feeling, like a hand slowly clenching around his heart, began to form in Harry’s chest at the sudden thought of his murdered godfather.

Harry squeezed his fingers tightly around the rim of the pail and thought seriously about throwing his sponge again.

Letting out a harsh breath through his mouth, he glanced down at the dirtied water in the pail. He set the sponge aside and grabbed the handle, heaving it up and hauling it down the ladder to the upstairs hallway.

Once he stepped off the final rung, he switched his grip on the heavy pail to his other hand and slowly made his way downstairs, being extra cautious not to spill. Aunt Petunia would not tolerate dirty water on her floors and he didn’t feel like enduring a shrieking lecture today. Besides assigning ridiculous chores, his relatives had left him mostly alone this summer, and he aimed to avoid them as much as possible.

Harry made his way outside and carefully dumped the water in the storm drain across the street. He had emptied and filled this pail six times today, and he looked up and down the street just as he had each time before to see if he could catch a glimpse of one of his minders. Harry had found over the previous weeks that he was becoming quite keen at spotting them. Their careless evidence was everywhere; a step onto a kerb revealing a sliver of a dark trouser leg from beneath an invisibility cloak… the softest scuffle of an old boot on the footwalk where there was clearly no one walking at all… the unfamiliar people dressed just a shade on the wrong side of normal, passing by his window one too many times…

Harry had observed these occurrences dispassionately, cataloguing them in his mind merely to give himself something to do. He had no interest in attempting to speak to any of them, and, so far, they not seemed likely to approach him, either.

But today there were no errant noises and no joggers in waistcoats – the only sign of life that Harry could see was a large orange and white cat who was watching him curiously from its perch on his neighbour’s fence.

Harry straightened and stared back at the cat stoically. He briefly considered the idea that perhaps the cat was really an animagus and at any moment a witch or wizard would appear in its place and announce that it was time for Harry to leave Privet Drive.

The cat returned his stare imperiously for a moment before it casually leaned back and began licking at its privates.

Harry rolled his eyes at his own stupidity before turning on his heel and following the footpath back to the house. He traipsed behind the neatly trimmed hedgerows and set the pail beneath the garden spigot, wrenching the stop valve with a bit more force than was necessary.

Of course no one was coming to get him out of here. Dumbledore had made it quite clear that Harry was going to remain at Privet Drive until at least July 31st, his 16th birthday. Ordinarily, such a pronouncement would have provoked Harry’s innate sense of rebellion, but lately it had seemed tempered and dulled – this year, his time with the Dursley’s seemed only to inspire mixed feelings.

Following his disastrous fourth year, Harry had spent his summer at Privet Drive alone and miserable, completely cut off from the wizarding world. He had been mutinous at the particular hell he’d had to endure – it had seemed the worst sort of betrayal at a time when he had needed guidance and support more than ever.

He had been angry at the Dursleys for their usual intolerance and mistreatment of him, angry at Dumbledore for forcing him to come here again with no explanation, and, most especially, angry at his friends for their useless letters that said nothing and meant nothing.

Harry remembered with a familiar ache how he had felt reading those ridiculous letters while he was locked away in his tiny, pitiable room like a prisoner. He had spent many summers at Privet Drive with only himself for company — he remembered the smell of the summer-heated wood in the cupboard quite distinctly — but he had never felt so completely alone as he had last year.

He was just as isolated as ever this summer, but his feelings of loneliness had changed. He had little desire for company, anymore. Mostly he just felt tired – like someone weary from walking miles and miles against a heavy wind, only to find that the place he had been hoping to get to no longer existed.

At the end of the school year, Dumbledore had finally shared with him the terrible secret of the Prophecy and the reasoning behind his continual sentence with the Dursleys. Although it did little to improve his situation here, having some explanation for being forced to grow up in this house dulled the sharp pain of it.

For so many years, he had silently wondered why his relatives, who quite obviously despised him, hadn’t simply left him at an orphanage. As he grew older and began to have a better understanding of such things, he had speculated that they must have found some sort of enjoyment in their cruelty, and resigned himself to it until he was old enough to leave.

But now he knew the truth. By bringing Harry into her home, Petunia Dursley had accepted a blood-pact with her deceased sister that created a protection against Voldemort. That blood protection had to be renewed each year, which was why he was returned to Privet Drive every summer despite the unhappy conditions of his existence there.

Privately, Harry felt the blood protection was a joke. He had been confronted by Voldemort four times since it had been fashioned. How effective could it be?

Water sloshed onto his trainer from the overfilled pail and Harry jerked in surprise. He cursed himself for getting lost in thought after shutting the water off. He picked up the pail and tipped a little of the excess water onto the lawn before carrying it back into the house.

Once he had lugged it back into the attic, he stopped to check over the work he had already finished.

The attic ran the entire length of the house, and was floored with old wood planks. Aunt Petunia had informed him that these were to be cleaned and shined over the course of several days, and before seeing the room, Harry had thought this to be a rather light sentence. Cleaning was never a particularly difficult chore at Number 4, since Aunt Petunia’s standards of cleanliness meant that all surfaces of the house were kept as sterile and immaculate as humanly possible at all times. Generally, a ‘cleaning’ chore meant that Harry would have to shine the Dursleys’ contemptibly pretentious tea settings or buff away any fingerprints that might have found their way onto the dark wood furniture in the lounge.

However, once Harry got a look at the attic — a place he had actually been quite curious to see, since he had never stepped inside it in all his years of living here — he realised that he had found the only room in the house that his Aunt’s fastidiousness had never applied to.

A thick blanket of dust coated every surface. All about the room, there were stacks of forgotten things — trinkets and picture frames; broken furniture and old clothing — that were covered in dull, grey sheets that Harry assumed must have been white in some previous decade.

His aunt had handed him a pail, a bottle of cleaning fluid and a sponge and made sure he understood that if she caught him pouring any filthy water down her spotless drains, he would not be given supper – and likely the next day’s breakfast, besides.

Harry had been at it for six hours already, and the room was only halfway finished. The rich brown of the wood on the portion he had already cleaned stood out in stark contrast to the thick, dull grime covering the remaining half.

He set his pail down and waved his hand in front of his face in a hopeless attempt to keep the dust that had stirred in the air away from his nose. Despite his efforts, his eyes began to water and he felt himself inhaling the filthy stuff.

Wheezing and coughing, Harry quickly pulled his threadbare t-shirt over his head and dunked it in the pail. He rang out the excess water before putting it back on. Once his arms were through their proper holes, he tugged the crew-collar of it up over his mouth and nose as an improvised face-mask.

Surveying the room through his red, watery eyes, Harry wished for the thousandth time that he was allowed to perform magic away from school.

“Scourgify,” he muttered under his breath as he uncapped the cleaning fluid and poured some into the pail.

Dunking his sponge into the now sudsy water, Harry stood up and pointed his dripping sponge at the floor like a wand. “Evanesco!”

The dripping water made dark blotches in the layer of dust near his feet, but there was no change otherwise. Harry sighed, feeling a little foolish for his game, and knelt down to start cleaning again. He was going to be here all night at this rate.

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The moon was halfway across the sky and Harry had emptied and refilled his pail four more times before he had made it to the skirting boards on the opposite side of the room. Aunt Petunia had poked her head in earlier to survey his progress and left him with a plate of dinner. He was only faintly surprised by the portions. There was a time he would have given his left arm for two slices from a joint of pork and a large serving of greens, but along with his increased workload this summer, his aunt had been suspiciously generous with his food.

He supposed someone in the Order had given her a talking to, but she never said anything one way or another. Whatever the reason for it, Harry had been grateful. He had been suffering a rather pronounced growth spurt since spring and it left him constantly hungry and aching.

Harry brushed his hair behind his ears again and rewet his sponge. He scrubbed it hard against the skirting board, switching hands to give his exhausted right arm a break. He could only hope that his aunt didn’t get it into her head that the basement needed cleaning tomorrow morning.

A soft, scuffling noise from outside startled him from his thoughts. The sponge froze beneath his hand, and Harry leaned back on his haunches, listening attentively. He waited, still and silent, wondering if he imagined the sound until he heard it again.

Harry scrambled up from his place on the floor as quietly as he could manage and pressed himself against the wall next to the open window. Cautiously, he leaned his head out and peered down towards the front of the house only to catch a glimpse of a dark figure slipping in through the front door.

Harry’s blood began to rush in his ears, and he moved smartly to his feet. Without thinking, he muttered “Nox,” and the yellow bulb above him shattered, leaving the half-full moon as the only source of light.

As quietly as possible, he stalked across the attic and slipped down the ladder into the upstairs hall. There were sounds coming from downstairs now — the soft rhythm of creeping footsteps — and Harry spared a glance at the closed door to his aunt and uncle’s bedroom. His uncle, he knew, kept a cricket bat beneath his bed for precisely this scenario, but he also slept like the dead and wouldn’t awaken for anything – except, perhaps, for the smell of cooking bangers.

And if the trespasser was a wizard – well… a cricket bat would hardly be of much use, anyway.

Aunt Petunia, however, slept lightly, and even now Harry could hear the soft creaking of her bed from behind their door. She was likely already rising to investigate and Harry was not keen on her getting in his way. He dug his wand from his trouser pocket and hastened to the top of the stairs.

The noises were louder now — Harry almost believed he could hear breathing — and he felt an irrational swell of anger. Where was the Order? What good was having trained wizards patrolling his neighbourhood if they were too thick to recognize when his house was being broken into?

Harry’s fist tightened around his wand and he began to descend the stairs.

With each step, Harry mentally recited from his growing list of curses and hexes. Whoever it was invading his home (Harry’s imagination conjured visions of Death Eaters, vampires, and petty thieves, alike), he would make certain they would come to wish they hadn’t.

When the hooded figure finally crept out of the kitchen with his wand lit for light, Harry was waiting for him in the dark at the base of the stairs. Startled in spite of himself at the sight of the wand, Harry grasped for the first curse that leapt to his mind.

“Reducto!” he roared, whipping his wand at the floor underneath the intruder. A massive hole erupted underneath the figure as the floor was blown clean out from under him.

The trespasser let out a terrified howl as he fell through the floor into the basement. He hit the cement floor with a dull smacking noise, and dust and debris rained down on his unconscious form as the light from his wand winked out.

Harry pivoted sharply when he heard a male voice curse in the lounge and start advancing towards his position. He ducked behind an end table and conjured a small mirror to see the hallway behind him without revealing himself. He knew he only had a limited time to confront whoever else was in the house. Even Vernon Dursley could not have slept through such a terrible racket, and Aunt Petunia was likely already putting on her dressing gown and slippers (there was no situation dire enough for her to be seen in public wearing only her nightclothes).

With the Dursleys certain to come storming down the stairs at any moment, blustering loudly and getting in his way, Harry struggled to think of what to do.

He glanced down at the mirror, and in it, Harry could see the other figure step cautiously into the foyer with a large canvas bag in one hand and his wand in the other. He was moving erratically — nervously — and something about the man seemed familiar.

“Mundungus?” Harry asked incredulously as he recognized him.

The figure stopped immediately and answered back, lowering his wand. “’Arry? What in the bloody wastes is ‘appening? You’re s’posed to be asleep!”

Harry rose up from his hiding place and took an uncertain step towards Dung just as the front door was blown off its hinges, sending splinters of wood hurtling into the foyer. Harry twisted at the waist, instinctively protecting his eyes with his forearm and knocking over the Dursleys’ coat stand with his elbow. Harry immediately dropped his arm and aimed his wand, but he hesitated in confusion when he recognized the blue, magical eye glowing brightly in the doorway.

Behind him, Mundungus Fletcher let out a rattling, terrified noise and jabbed out his own wand to cast a retaliatory spell towards whoever had razed down the door. With Harry between them, Mundungus and Moody could not see one another properly, and reacted to the unknown threat accordingly.

“Wait!” Harry sputtered and stepped swiftly between their wands, waving his arms wildly to get their attention. Moody stilled, but Dung was already stuttering a panicked, “Abscindo venas!” and Harry had only the briefest sliver of time to recognize the type of severing curse before it erupted from Mundungus’s wand.

Harry was frozen in shock as the spell shot towards him. There was no time for a shield charm… no time to duck… there was nothing to be done except brace for impact.

2. Here, There, and Everywhere

Chapter 2: Here, There, and Everywhere

Harry stood very still with his eyes closed tight. He felt nothing and he briefly wondered if the severing curse had sheared off all the nerve endings in his legs along with the limbs themselves. But it couldn’t be so, he thought. He was still standing up…

Cautiously opening his eyes, Harry was almost immediately overcome with a wave of exhaustion so fierce, he swayed on his feet. He blew out a troubled breath, thankful that he still had feet. A quick check proved that all of his visible limbs were still intact.

Sinking down to his knees, Harry lifted his head to make sure the curse hadn’t passed him and hit Moody. The clear, starry sky startled him and he scrambled back to his feet immediately. He was outside.

There was some sort of decrepit machine a few feet from Harry’s right, which he quickly identified as a cooler. He was standing on a dark, tarred surface that looked for all the world like the top of a roof. Harry blinked in confusion.

He could see a low wall about thirty feet in front of him. With his wand still in his hand, he crept forward quietly. He knelt down in front of it before peeking over the edge. Looking down, he could see a paved commons beneath him, with a jungle gym and a short football field roughly drawn in chalk.

Even with the scant light provided by the moon, Harry immediately recognized his location. It was a very long time ago, but Harry distinctly remembered being chased by Dudley and his friends at his old school before closing his eyes and finding himself inexplicably on the roof of the school kitchens. Looking over to his left, Harry saw the old brick chimney that he had appeared on at the time.

Standing up and lowering his wand, Harry wondered what was going on. Had he been knocked unconscious? Was he dreaming?

Peering back over the ledge, Harry estimated it was about a twenty-five foot drop. He remembered quite clearly that one of the teachers had to call the fire department last time he was up here since there was no way down without a ladder. Of course, he was twice the size now that he had been then, but a twenty-five foot drop onto pavement would still present a major problem.

He sighed and backed away from the ledge to think. When he was a young boy, he had been so surprised and confused to find himself up here. Now he understood that it must have been a burst of uncontrolled magic. He wondered whether he had somehow managed to apparate.

A soft hoot startled him, and he turned around to see his beautiful owl Hedwig land on the cooler and look at him curiously.

“Oh, Hedwig,” Harry said. He was terribly relieved to see his loyal friend. “How did you find me?”

Hedwig cocked her head as if his question was silly, and he grinned at her in response. “Right, sorry. I’m glad to see you, Hedwig.”

Puffing out her feathers, Hedwig lifted her wings and swept off her perch, alighting gently on his shoulder. Harry winced as her talons sunk into his muscle through his thin t-shirt.

Hedwig adjusted her position until she was firmly perched and Harry stroked her feathers absently as he considered what to do. “Do you reckon you could lift me and carry me down like Fawkes?” he asked her cheekily.

Hedwig didn’t seem to find this amusing and puffed her chest out imperiously.

“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered. A sudden thought occurred to him. “Did you come from the house? Is everyone all right? What’s happening?”

Hedwig hooted softly in response to his rapid-fire questions, but that did nothing to quell his sudden anxiety. He needed to get back to Privet Drive.

Harry strode back to the wall and peered down. He supposed he could try to levitate himself, but he had never done so before. He could levitate people, but controlling them was another issue altogether. Locomotor Mortis would levitate a person along behind the caster, but at a set height, and there would be no one to control where he was going if he was the one being levitated.

Different forms of Leviosa could levitate an object, and although he had never tested it, he imagined it would work on a person. But again, he would have no way to control his descent. He could banish himself over the wall, but if he attempted to banish himself to the ground, it was more than likely he would end up careening into the pavement face-first.

Harry considered conjuring a length of rope that he could tie to a pipe and then use to climb down, but his confidence in the strength of his conjured objects was not high. He would not risk his rope melting beneath his hands while he was halfway down.

After speculation, Harry decided a cushioning charm might be his best bet.

A sinking feeling began to curl around inside his stomach as another problem occurred to him. Even if he had the most perfect spell in the world to get himself down, he wouldn’t be allowed to cast it due to the underage magic restriction. The same restriction that he had broken earlier when he sent whoever it was in his kitchen crashing into the basement and then later conjured a mirror.

He wondered if he had a letter from Mafalda Hopkirk at the Improper Use of Magic Office waiting for him at the house. He hoped that the fact that he was defending his home would keep him from having his wand snapped, but he assumed that now that the danger had passed, the laws would be in effect as usual.

Harry sighed and settled down to sit with his back against the low wall. He stretched his legs out in front of himself and stared absently at the length of skin at his ankles where his trousers were too short to cover. His mind was racing with thoughts of what had happened. Harry could not fathom why Mundungus was in the house. Perhaps he had seen the Death Eater breaking in and had come to help? But thinking back now, he could not be sure that the figure he had seen was a Death Eater. Harry winced and hoped he hadn’t blown the floor out from under an Order member.

Once again, he began to smooth his fingers over Hedwig’s feathers while he thought. Turning his head sideways, he watched her preen out of the corner of his eye. It suddenly occurred to him that he could use her to send a message to someone for help.

He stood up so abruptly that she flew off his shoulder, startled, and landed on the wall. “Hedwig! Can you get a message to Dumbledore for me? I just need—oh, sod it! I don’t have anything to write with.”

Harry pressed the tops of his fists against his forehead in frustration. He could conjure a pen and parchment, but he would run into the same magic restriction that he would have with any other spell.

If there were Death Eaters at his house, he had to believe that the Order members would already be subduing them. However, this thought did little to settle his nerves. What if there were too many of them? What if there were more attacks taking place? Thoughts of Ron and Hermione’s homes being invaded swirled in his mind.

“Oh, bugger it all,” he muttered, making a decision. “Let them expel me.”

Harry leaned over the wall again and peered down. The moon provided plenty of light to see the ground below him, and he took careful aim with his wand. He concentrated hard to put as much power as possible into his spell. “Insolidus!”

The ground where his wand was pointed seemed to swell towards him for a moment before settling and looking just as it had before. Satisfied, Harry stepped up onto the ledge and jumped.

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With the ground rushing up the meet him, the 25-foot fall seemed to only take a fraction of a second. When his trainers hit the pavement, he felt the earth beneath him depress under his weight, and he sunk in nearly to his knees before the ground snapped back like a rubber band.

The force behind it expelled Harry nine feet back into the air and he wind-milled his arms wildly as he found himself flying forward. He landed with a heavy thump on his side and the wind was knocked out of him. His hands and chin scraped hard against the pavement, and his spectacles skittered out into the darkness.

Harry groaned as he pulled himself into a sitting position and worked to even his breathing. The potency behind his cushioning charm had obviously been a little much. He spared a moment of regret for not conjuring a rope.

Harry stood up and slapped at his trousers to free them of dirt before looking around for his spectacles. Seeing the moonlight reflecting off the lens behind him, he picked them up and set them back on his face. The thin, wire frames had been severely bent, and one lens was sitting considerably higher than the other. Sighing, he plucked them off again and held them in front of his wand before pausing. He imagined that he might be able to explain using the cushioning charm to the Ministry, but a Reparo would probably seem frivolous. Harry decided not to push his luck and he bent the frames back as best he could with his hands.

Replacing his spectacles, he looked up to see Hedwig on the jungle gym, staring at him in concern. “Go home,” he ordered. “I’ll meet you there.”

Harry jogged over to the front gate of the school and quickly scaled the bars, dropping down on the other side. He broke out running as soon as his feet hit the pavement.

Navigating his way through the empty streets at a dead run, Harry considered what he should do when he made it home. He had confidence that Moody, Dung, and whoever else had been on duty tonight had taken care of the problem, but there was always the possibility that returning to the house might be a trap. He supposed he would make up his mind about what to do when he got there.

His long stride ate up the distance between the school and Privet Drive a lot faster than he remembered from childhood. He paused at the corner of his quiet street and gripped his wand tighter.

“I’m thoroughly relieved to see you are all right, Harry.”

Harry started at the voice behind him and turned to see Dumbledore — wearing garish purple robes and a tall, thin hat — standing quite serenely in the center of Privet Drive.

“Your disappearance caused quite a stress on this old man’s heart,” he continued. His eyes squinted fractionally as he took in the state of Harry’s face. “But it appears you did not return from your ordeal unscathed.”

Dumbledore’s wand appeared in his hand and Harry stood mutely as his headmaster cleaned his face and fixed his spectacles with two simple flicks.

“Professor Dumbledore, what happened?” Harry asked anxiously. He glanced back over his shoulder at his house down the street, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. His wand was still clenched tight in his hand. “Was it Death Eaters?”

Dumbledore sighed and his face became grave. “You will be relieved to hear that it was not. I believe we both have a number of questions that need answering tonight. Perhaps we should return to your house to discuss them? There are others there who are anxious to see you, as well.”

Harry frowned at this response, but didn’t put up a protest. Dumbledore placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder and they walked quietly side-by-side back to Number 4. Harry’s stomach churned with confusing emotions at being so near his headmaster again after that fateful day in his office when the Prophecy was revealed. It seemed like ages ago.

When they reached the footwalk leading to his front door, Harry stopped and turned towards Dumbledore with a serious look. “Professor, I—,” he said haltingly before pausing. Looking up at the headmaster, Harry straightened his back. He wasn’t going to be made to feel like a misbehaving child over this. He continued in a stronger voice. “I’ve done magic. At least three spells tonight.”

Dumbledore regarded him with a sad smile. “Your use of magic this evening is understandable. I’m confident we will be able to smooth things over with the Ministry without much delay. Their position concerning you has changed greatly as of late.”

Harry nodded and the knots in his stomach uncurled slightly. Turning back towards the house, he discovered the door had already been returned to its hinges and looked as it always has.

Striding forward, Harry wrapped his hand around the doorknob and stepped inside.

A cacophony of noise greeted his entrance, and he was immediately set upon by Remus who looked as tired and anxious as Harry had ever seen him.

“Harry! Thank Merlin you’re all right,” Remus declared, gripping his shoulder tightly. “What in the world happened? Where have you been?”

Mrs. Weasley appeared out of nowhere and nearly suffocated him in a hug. Harry stared down at the top of her head awkwardly. “Oh, Harry dear! Oh, it’s so good to see you safe!” She nattered on with more soothing nonsense for a short while before stepping back and placing her hands gently on his cheeks. “Goodness! You look a fright! I’ll floo home and have one of the boys send over some salve for that scrape. You poor, poor dear!”

She gave Harry another fierce hug that he endured mutely before bustling off, presumably to use the floo.

Dumbledore stepped inside behind him and nodded towards the lounge. Taking the nonverbal cue, Harry followed Remus down the hall. He slowed when he reached the entryway to the kitchen where he had blown a massive hole in the floor earlier. There was not a single mark to betray that it had been a gaping, crumbling pit not an hour before.

Noticing his look, Dumbledore smiled down at Harry, his eyes twinkling madly. “Ah, magic is a wonderful thing, is it not? I must confess, this particular repair took a bit more exertion than usual.”

Looking past the pristine floor into the kitchen, Harry was surprised to see the pale, stony faces of his relatives. They were all sitting stiffly at the kitchen table in their nightclothes. Vernon’s face turned a bright purple when he saw his nephew and Dudley was fidgeting nervously. Harry turned his gaze towards his Aunt and found her staring back at him with an unnerving intensity.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was standing quietly in the corner with his arms crossed and his wand pressed against his bicep. He nodded at Harry silently.

Harry turned away and continued into the lounge. The lights were all on and Moody, Mr. Weasley, Arabella Figg, and Professor McGonagall were sitting anxiously on assorted pieces of furniture. He assumed some of the extra chairs must have been conjured.

Remus sat down on the couch and offered Harry a tired smile.

“Good to see you still have all your bits, lad,” Moody commented, standing and limping into the center of the room with his magical eye spinning strangely. “Thought he might’ve taken a chunk out of your hide.”

Harry blinked at the ex-auror. “I thought he might’ve, too.”

Moody nodded slowly. “Aye, the curse took out a bit of the foyer when you did your little disappearing trick,” he muttered. He seemed to be considering Harry very closely. “Good instincts, that. I don’t know exactly what you did, but it’s always best to avoid a curse altogether if you can. Shield spells don’t always work the way you expect!”

“Yes, it’s quite fortunate that you were not injured, Harry,” Dumbledore said, giving Moody an unreadable look. “A severing curse is a very dangerous spell. It is also fortunate that Alastor was able to conjure a shield for his own protection.”

Moody snorted in response, rolling his magical eye. “Fortunate, my arse.”

Dumbledore moved to the center of the room and conjured two velvet-backed chairs with a flick of his wand. He sat in one and gestured towards the other. “Please have a seat, Harry. I’m sure you must be tired and we still have much to discuss.”

Harry felt a flicker of annoyance at the subtle order, but it faded quickly. The rage he had felt at the headmaster that day in his office had drained away to a dull ache. He knew Dumbledore had been put in an awful situation and had tried to do the best he could. He had made mistakes — terrible mistakes — but so had Harry. The future was looking particularly bleak as of late, and he knew that he would need Dumbledore’s help in the coming months.

He sat down quietly and rubbed his palms against his trouser legs, careful not to aggravate his scrapes. He looked over to his right to see Mrs. Weasley kneeling in front of the fireplace fiddling with the electric controls in confusion.

Dumbledore followed his gaze. “Ah, Molly, the fireplace in this home is a modern version that runs on electricity. A most ingenious invention! Alas, it is also not connected to the floo network under ordinary circumstances due to security concerns. I’m afraid you will have to wait until we return to Arabella’s home before you can retrieve your salve.”

Mrs. Weasley did not seem pleased at this and pursed her lips. She looked as if she wanted desperately to run over to Mrs. Figg’s house immediately, but Mr. Weasley stood up and led her quietly to a loveseat where she sat down with obvious reluctance. She glared quite heatedly at Moody when she passed him, but he didn’t seem to take any notice.

Harry’s curiosity could no longer be contained. “Right… so what happened, then? Who was that man in the hood? And what was Dung doing here? Is he all right?”

“I should hope he isn’t!” Remus growled. Several other people nodded their heads in agreement.

Dumbledore sighed and rubbed his beard wearily. “I’m afraid that Mundungus and an… associate of his entered your house tonight during his watch in an attempt to relieve your relatives of some of their possessions. Nymphadora has taken them both to a secure location until I can speak with him.”

Harry could not believe what he was hearing. “Are you telling me that Dung and that hooded bloke broke in here to rob us?” he asked darkly.

“Yes, I believe that is indeed the case,” Dumbledore replied. “I assume he did not expect you to be awake at such a late hour.”

Mrs. Weasley looked as if she were about to fly into a rage and Mr. Weasley patted her hand awkwardly. “How could he even think of doing such a thing to Harry?” she blustered. “Oh! That horrible man! ”

Remus looked even angrier, if such a thing were possible. “How is it that thief is even still allowed anywhere near Harry, let alone on watch, Dumbledore? His incompetence last year nearly got Harry killed. And again tonight!”

Dumbledore looked pained and closed his eyes briefly before answering. “I believed Mundungus to be sincerely contrite over his actions last year. The Order has been stretched quite thin as of late, and I thought it wise to give him an opportunity to redeem himself. Obviously, I have made a grievous error.”

“An error?” Remus roared. Harry stared at him in shock. He had never seen the normally mild-mannered werewolf in such a state.

Dumbledore regarded him calmly. “Even I make mistakes, Remus.”

“What’s going to happen to him then?” Harry asked. “Is he going to be arrested by the Ministry?”

“I’m afraid that is not possible, Harry,” Dumbledore replied quietly. “Mundungus must remain amongst the Order.”

Remus shot to his feet. “You can’t be serious! Why do you insist on protecting that scum?”

“Remus, please! Calm down this instant!” Professor McGonagall snapped. “You’re not helping.”

Remus looked instantly contrite and sat down grudgingly. Harry bit back a smile. Professor McGonagall had a way of making you feel like a little boy no matter how old you were.

“Despite his unfavourable characteristics, Mundungus provides a service to the Order that no other member can offer,” Dumbledore explained. “He has contact with and conducts business amongst the less savoury element of the wizarding world. These contacts provide us with information directly relating to dark activity. This information has been invaluable on more than one occasion. I assure you he will no longer be permitted through the wards of this home and he will no longer be privy to any sensitive information. Additionally, I’ve instructed Severus to prepare Veritaserum for the purpose of discerning if he has already compromised any of our secrets in any way. I will administer the serum myself when I visit him tonight.”

“It might be wise to question all the members under Veritaserum every once in a while. Best to not take any chances this time around,” Moody put in. His magical eye swiveled around the room to examine everyone as if he were judging their trustworthiness himself.

“Honestly, Alastor. You are as paranoid as ever!” McGonagall retorted.

“Better paranoid than dead,” he muttered coolly.

“I do not believe that to be necessary, Alastor,” Dumbledore responded seriously. “The people in this room have proven themselves to be quite trustworthy. The possibility of betrayal weighs heavily on all of us, but we’ve taken a number of precautions this time around to prevent such a tragedy.”

“What sort of precautions?” Harry questioned crossly. He wasn’t feeling terribly confident in the Order after having a member attempt to steal off into the night with his Aunt and Uncle’s silverware earlier in the evening.

He thought briefly of Peter Pettigrew and clenched his fists. A quick glance at Remus showed that his former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was clearly thinking along the same lines.

Mr. Weasley decided to answer. “Many things have changed since we’ve reconvened, Harry. The people in this room are only a small part of the Order, one that Dumbledore has entrusted with the most – er, sensitive information concerning you and the Order’s goals. We all know where you live, for example, and we can all pass through the wards here. The majority of the Order works in the periphery, being given assignments without knowing exactly what their purpose is, or what anyone else in the Order is doing. It’s also a secret from each member exactly who else is in the Order. That way, if one of us is captured or betrays the group — Merlin forbid! — they will not be able to give away any truly harmful secrets.”

Dumbledore nodded politely in agreement. “There are a few other members who are able to pass through the wards here, and with whom you may trust sensitive information: Nymphadora Tonks, Bill and Charlie Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Severus Snape, Emmaline Vance, and, of course, Filius Flitwick, who cast many of these wards himself nearly 15 years ago.

There are many other members in the Order who are risking their lives to help us achieve our goals, several of whom you had occasion to meet last year. Their duty and service is essential to our operation. However, it is only those whom I have named that are knowledgeable of our most guarded secrets. It is my sincere hope that these precautions will allow us to operate without such fear of duplicity.”

Harry looked rather ill at the prospect of Snape having access to his house, but he pushed that thought aside. “If only a select group of people are able to pass through the wards here, how did Dung manage it? Not to mention his friend? I’m assuming that he must be allowed through because he was one of my minders, but how did the other bloke get in? How exactly do the wards work?”

“Your ‘minders’? Dear me, is that the term you use for them, Harry?” Dumbledore asked softly. Harry favoured him with a long look and the headmaster sighed in response. “You are correct that Mundungus was given access through the wards so he would be able to reach you in the event that you needed assistance. The wards are quite intricate, with a complicated mechanism. If a Death Eater were to learn of your address, he could walk up and down this street for years without ever finding your house.”

“Like the Fidelius charm?” Harry interjected.

“It is a derivative of that charm, yes, but not exactly like it. Your mother’s research into the Fidelius Charm has been an extraordinary boon to us over the years, and a tribute to her legacy. But no, it doesn’t work exactly like a true Fidelius,” the headmaster explained. “You see, Harry, the circumstances of this home made it impossible to cast the charm in its normal manner. When it is erected, the house it is protecting vanishes from view. This is not a problem with a wizarding home, since only wizards and witches would care to enter, and even then, only those who were told of its location by a secret keeper.

“However, you live in a muggle home, and your relatives have lives that had to be taken into account. If your house disappeared from view, their friends and neighbours would never be able to call upon them. Any post they were sent would, of course, go undelivered. It would be unconscionable to ask it of them. Also, it was quite clear after observing them that they would respond to such an overtly magical intrusion in their lives by reneging on the blood-pact forged between your mother and your aunt. This, of course, would be unacceptable.

“Professor Flitwick and myself instead devised a series of layered wards which would not only hide you from the many who were searching quite relentlessly for your location to satisfy their own curiosity, but also protect you from witches or wizards who would wish to cause you harm. The blood protection created by your aunt and mother provided an excellent base for these wards. They have held exactly as we had hoped, and will continue to hold until your 17th birthday.”

Harry noticed that nearly everyone else in the room seemed as absorbed by this explanation as he was. Something niggled at him, however. “Wait…. you said the wards would protect me from witches or wizards who want to cause me harm. What about muggles?”

Dumbledore peered down at Harry through his spectacles with a surprised but pleased look. “Very perceptive, Harry. Yes, there is indeed a distinction between muggles and wizards pertaining to the wards. If a non-magical being wished you harm, they would not be deterred.”

Mrs. Weasley looked aghast at this. “How can that be allowed?”

“Our reasoning was such that a non-magical person would simply have no interest in Harry, and neither Voldemort nor his Death Eaters would ever seek to employ one.”

She looked rather unconvinced. “How can you be so certain of that?”

Harry answered before he could respond. “They don’t think of muggles as people, or even tools. They’re less than beasts to them. Dumbledore is right… I don’t think the idea would even occur to a Death Eater.”

“That is my thinking exactly, Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Despite this, we have maintained a watch on your home all of the years you have been here, as an extra precaution. Arabella was installed in a nearby house to monitor your safety, and her kneazles have been patrolling Privet Drive since you were an infant.”

“Her kneazles?” Harry murmured, looking over at Arabella Figg who was smiling at him affectionately. “So that’s how you knew what happened with the Dementors last year? You mentioned a ‘Mr. Tibbies’. That cat…?”

Mrs. Figg puffed up proudly and nodded. “That’s right! Mr. Tibbies is quite dedicated to his work! He warned me as soon as he spotted trouble.”

“Extraordinary creatures, kneazles!” Professor McGonagall added. “They are exceptionally intelligent. They are also usually overlooked due to their rather ordinary appearance. This makes them ideal spies.”

Harry wondered whether Professor McGonagall, whose animagus form was a cat, might be a bit biased towards the creatures. Then again, Crookshanks seemed to be that clever and then some.

“None of this explains how Dung’s friend got into the house, though,” Harry stated, getting back to his original topic. “He wasn’t a muggle. He had a wand.”

Dumbledore nodded and again stroked his fingers through his beard. “Yes, yes. When a person who is not allowed through the wards is accompanied by someone who is, the wards allow them to pass. It is how we were able to bring such a large guard contingent to your home last summer following the Dementor attack. Without their escort, those members who were not normally allowed through the wards would not be able to find this house, nor name its location, despite their having been here previously.”

“So because Dung was allowed, he only had to walk in with his friend for him to be admitted, too,” Harry stated.

Remus looked like he was about to start another rant. Harry was again surprised by his fury. He could not recall a single instance before this night that he had seen the werewolf truly lose his temper. “It is a disgrace he was not removed from the wards last year! How is it—”

“Professor Lupin—” Harry interrupted. He didn’t need people standing up for him when he was perfectly capable of doing so himself. “I can fight my own battles.”

Remus seemed startled by this and looked at Harry quite seriously for a long moment. “Yes. Yes, of course. Forgive me, Harry.”

Harry smiled at him tiredly and shook his head. “It’s all right, it’s just— we still have a lot to talk about.”

“You’re right,” he replied. His lip ticked up in an answering smile. “But please call me Remus from now on.”

Harry felt rather uncomfortable and made a small noise of protest. “Err…”

Moody stomped his wooden leg on the floor suddenly, and half the people in the room jumped at the unexpected sound. “That seems like asking for trouble to me, having a security hole that lets unknowns past the wards!”

“It relies on the people who are allowed through the wards knowing who should or should not enter. I’ve made it clear that no one is permitted to bring another person through these wards without my knowledge, except under the most extreme circumstances,” Dumbledore responded evenly. “I will reiterate this point with the utmost ardor during our next meeting. Now, I believe we should move on. We’ve established Mundungus’s unfortunate motive for being in the house. Harry, would you please detail from your own perspective what transpired this evening?”

Harry nodded and carefully described his cleaning of the attic, and the scraping noise that had alerted him. He talked about seeing the shadowed figure enter the house and his own belief that it was a Death Eater. When he recounted how he had blown the hole through the floor underneath the man, Moody interrupted him.

“An impressive bit of magic that was, lad! It takes a lot of power to blow a hole that size through a solid floor. A lot of power, indeed, and it certainly knocked the one out of the fight,” he stated before leveling Harry a dark look. “But where was your head? The noise brought the other one right to ya!”

Harry bristled at the criticism. “I didn’t realise there were two of them! I only saw the one.”

“Constant vigilance!” Moody barked immediately. Harry cringed, knowing he had walked right into that. “Where there’s one Death Eater, there’s bound to be more!”

Professor McGonagall rolled her eyes at the ex-auror’s histrionics. “There was a notation on your O.W.L. results that you were quite adept at stunning spells, Mr. Potter. Why did you decide not to use one in this instance?”

Harry was surprised to hear that his O.W.L.s had already been graded, and that his teachers had been made aware of his results. He wondered if he would be receiving them soon. Harry considered asking her how he had done, but decided to stick to the matter at hand… he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “It was dark and I didn’t want to miss. The floor seemed like an easier target.”

“Stunning spells don’t always get the job done, anyway,” Moody muttered. “If you only get to stunning people in a real combat situation, you’ll be dealing with the same enemies all night when they cast ennervate on one another.”

Harry remembered this exact same phenomenon happening during the disastrous raid on the Department of Mysteries and he nodded solemnly.

“Please continue, Harry,” Dumbledore instructed.

Harry dutifully recounted how he had heard the voice in the lounge and ducked behind the end table for cover. His description of the hand mirror that he had conjured to see the hallway without exposing himself earned a favourable nod from Moody. Finally, he detailed the ex-auror’s sudden appearance, and his stepping in between Dung and Moody in an effort to stop their spell casting.

Moody thumped his wooden leg against the ground again. “Foolish stunt you pulled there, lad! He nearly cut you in two! Never jump in front of a live wand!”

“It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t blown the door down and startled the both of us!” Harry defended heatedly. “Can’t your eye see through solid objects? Why didn’t you just look through the door at what was going on and then open it like a normal person?”

Moody regarded him silently for a moment. “Aye, that it does! And I knew Mundungus wasn’t supposed to be there, not to mention the unknown who was out cold in the basement! If someone is acting like a dark wizard, best to treat them like a dark wizard! And Mundungus was acting like a dark wizard!”

Harry worked to hold in his temper. He finished describing how he had seen the spell erupt from the wand, and how he knew they were too close together for him to have time to cast a shield spell. He trailed off with a vague explanation of how he had closed his eyes and when he opened them… found himself somewhere else.

Dumbledore looked quite thoughtful at this and slid his spectacles further up his nose with a push of his finger. “And what do you believe happened, Harry?”

Harry scratched at his chin in thought before wincing when he brushed one of his scrapes. “Well, it seemed like… I apparated,” he explained haltingly. “But Professor, I thought this house had anti-apparition wards placed?”

“There are indeed, Harry. The anti-apparition wards extend 150 feet in every direction from the house and prevent people from apparating either in or out,” Dumbledore stated. Harry noticed that behind his glasses, his eyes were twinkling madly again. “The wards here are tied to several instruments in my office, and when you cast your reductor spell, I received a warning and notified the other members. Alastor was the closest and the first to arrive at your home. I arrived only moments after, but you had already disappeared. When I questioned him, Alastor reported the events that had taken place. What he described did indeed sound like apparition… which I’m sure you can imagine, concerned me greatly. I took the initiative to test the anti-apparition wards immediately to verify that they were down. They were not, Harry.”

Harry sat back in his chair in confusion and noticed that the others in the room seemed to look as bewildered as he felt.

“What do you mean, they weren’t down? Then how did he apparate?” Mrs. Weasley questioned anxiously.

“An excellent question!” Dumbledore replied, beaming. “Harry, do you have any ideas?”

Harry stared at him blankly, quite confused why Dumbledore would think he had any clue what had happened.

“Harry, when searching for an answer to a problem, one needs simply to eliminate all the answers that cannot be true. The only one left when you’ve discarded all others must be the correct answer, no matter how unlikely,” the headmaster hinted gently.

Harry furrowed his brow in thought. “So, if the anti-apparition wards were functioning correctly but I was still able to pass through them, then I suppose it must mean that… I didn’t apparate.”

Dumbledore nodded at him brightly and looked very pleased. “Yes, Harry. That is the only conclusion we can arrive at.”

“But what did he do, then? He disappeared in one place and appeared in another. That is the very definition of apparition!” Professor McGonagall asked, staring at Harry in askance.

“Ah, but that is another question entirely and one I am afraid I have no answer for.”

Harry sat back dejectedly, not having noticed that he had been leaning forward in his seat in anticipation of hearing the headmaster’s response.

“Where did you go when you disappeared, Harry? And how did you injure yourself?” Remus asked suddenly.

Harry appeared slightly embarrassed. “I ended up on the roof of my old primary school. I misjudged the trip down a little. It’s just a few scrapes, though.”

Arabella Figg stared at him in surprise. “The school on Oak Drive? But… why? You had such an awful time there.”

“I’m not sure,” Harry answered slowly. “Actually, it happened to me once before.”

“What happened to you before, Harry?” Mr. Weasley asked.

“That I appeared on the roof of that school – it happened once before,” Harry stated. Everyone in the room appeared interested in this, so he elaborated reluctantly. “I was being chased by Dudley and his little gang when I was about eight. They ran me down a dead-end at the school and I closed my eyes, hoping they wouldn’t find me. When I opened them, I was on the roof.”

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips and muttered something about ‘the worst sort of muggles’. After a moment of thought, she straightened up and addressed the headmaster. “Albus, do you have any theories?”

Dumbledore smiled gently in response. “I always have theories, Minerva,” he stated mysteriously. “Harry, you and I might discuss this further another night. I think it would be best if we could meet once a week privately. During that time, we can converse with each other about whatever may be on our minds and continue your training and preparation. Would this be agreeable to you?”

Harry marveled internally at how much had changed. A year ago, he would have barely been able to contain his excitement at an offer like this. Being able to meet with Dumbledore would have allowed him to keep abreast of any news involving Voldemort or his Death Eaters and the prospect of new training outside of the normal — and generally disappointing — curriculum would also have been welcome. But now, he found that his excitement was tempered, at best. His seclusion from the wizarding world had been a welcome, if temporary, relief for once. He wasn’t sure how he felt about going back to it. His agreement was reluctant, but if Dumbledore noticed, he didn’t let on.

“Excellent! I will send Fawkes tomorrow with the details of our first meeting. Now, it is rather late and I believe it would be best to conclude. The events of this evening were certainly disturbing, but I’m sure we can all agree that they could have turned out much worse. And Harry, I must once again apologise for my oversight concerning Mundungus. I will be dealing with him tonight.”

Harry gave him a long look but said nothing.

Professor Dumbledore nodded as if expecting this non-response before standing up. “You conducted yourself quite admirably tonight, Harry. My confidence in you has only grown each day I am in your company.”

Harry coloured a little at the unexpected praise. The rest of the room followed the headmaster’s example and soon all the conjured chairs had disappeared and the group began making its way to the door. Harry was stopped along the way by a hand on his shoulder. He looked behind him to see Remus staring at him with an unreadable look.

“How are you really doing, Harry?” he asked quietly. “And I don’t just mean because of tonight.”

“Fine,” Harry answered automatically. He could see Remus was not satisfied with this, though, and his shoulders slumped. If anyone deserved to know the truth, it was Remus. “I miss Sirius. And I feel… foolish.”

Remus shook his head and his hand tightened on Harry’s shoulder. “I miss him, too. James and Sirius gone… I can hardly believe it. But you mustn’t feel foolish, Harry. You went there to save his life. There is no action more honourable than one in defense of a friend. He would be very proud of you, of that I am certain.”

Harry nodded glumly, but the familiar squeezing around his heart when he thought of Sirius didn’t dissipate. “Professor Lu—”

“Remus, Harry.”

“Sorry… Remus— Sirius was my godfather and I miss him more than I can say, but I’m well aware that he was also your best friend. You knew him a lot better and a lot longer than I did. I can’t imagine what you must be feeling now. I’m— you can’t know how sorry I am.”

Before he was aware of what was happening, Harry had been pulled into a tight, long hug. He stood frozen for a moment before wrapping his arms firmly around Remus’s shoulders and choking down the burning in his throat. His eyes watered and he squeezed them shut, angry at himself.

After a few minutes, they each pulled away and Harry didn’t comment on the wetness beneath his former Professor’s eyes. Remus nodded at him encouragingly and attempted a smile. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said firmly. He stared across at Harry for a long moment and grinned. “Merlin, Harry, you’re as tall as me now! Every time I see you, you seem a year older.”

Harry shook his head, trying to collect himself.

Remus nodded absently. “Well, it’s been a long night. I will write you soon. I feel I’ve quite neglected you in the past year, and I’m sure there’s a lot for us to talk about.”

Harry was genuinely happy to hear this and a true smile appeared on his face. “Thank you, Remus.”

“You won’t thank me when you’re feeling guilty about putting off writing me back, I suspect,” Remus stated knowingly. “I was a teenager once, too. Goodnight then, Harry.”

With a few short goodbyes to the others and a promise from Mrs. Weasley to send over the salve in the morning, Harry was soon left with only his relatives, who marched silently past him back to their rooms. They had obviously been ordered not to bother him and he was grateful for it.

Turning off the downstairs lights, Harry followed behind them a few minutes later and returned to his room. Hedwig was waiting for him on her perch and he placed a few treats for her before settling down and drifting to sleep.

3. Correspondences

Chapter 3: Correspondences

Honey-coloured light poured through the single window in the tower room. In this morning glow, Harry’s shadow cast long against the old, wood floor, creeping and bending across the lonely bed and the face of the sleeping woman. There were dust particles in the air — floating lazily — and the air was cool and moist. It was very high up, this tower room, and it seemed to Harry that he could see the whole of England spread out beneath him like a great, green tapestry framed in the old, stone window.

How at home he felt here! How familiar it all was! From the abandoned wooden desk that faced the closed door to the shelves of books and silver trinkets... and she, the apparition in her bed. Her face was obscured... a trick of the light... but her hands were pale with the thin, papery skin of someone very old. Beside her on the crooked bedstand were potions and cauldrons and complicated glass distillers... the detritus of the sick and dying.

A young woman wearing aged, white robes of a shapeless style opened the door behind him and crossed the room to take hold of the sleeping woman’s wrist. She placed it beneath the covers for warmth and then left… quietly... solemnly... and never did Harry’s presence arouse her notice.

A voice was speaking in his ear... or was it a chorus of voices, all with the same sound? “At last,” it seemed to say, but the words were dull and indistinct. Harry listened fervently and moved closer towards the bed. He only wished that he could see the sleeping woman's face...

“I'll come closer,” he whispered and began his measured steps—

“…Wake up, boy! Wake up!”

Harry gasped and sat up in his bed, nearly knocking foreheads with his aunt who was leaning over him with her hands on his shoulders. She looked rather displeased at the near collision.

“What do you think you’re doing? I’ve been trying to rouse you for ages!” she screeched at him.

Harry stared at her uncomprehending while forcing his ragged breathing to slow. Reaching up to his scar, he waited for the familiar searing pain to kick in, but he felt nothing. He rubbed at it absently in puzzlement. Was that one of those dreams, he wondered. Why didn’t his scar hurt?

“Aunt Petunia?” Harry mumbled, still feeling sleepy and unsettled. “What are you doing in here?”

She frowned at his question and stood up. “In case you’ve forgotten, this is my house you’re staying in. Come downstairs now. I need to speak to you.”

Harry grabbed his spectacles off the nightstand and put them on. He stared at her expectantly.

“Well? Why aren’t you getting up? You’ll come downstairs this instant!” Aunt Petunia groused impatiently.

“I’m not dressed!” Harry retorted acerbically. “Unless you want me to have this conversation with you wearing only my pants, you’ll just have to give me a minute.”

Aunt Petunia raised an eyebrow before making an unhappy noise and striding from the room. Once she was gone, Harry leapt from his bed — knocking over his desk chair — and shut the door behind her. He leaned his back against it and closed his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply. Even now, he felt the familiar desire… the swell of curiosity. He wanted to know more about the tower room, about the voice that had seemed to be speaking to him, and, most of all, about the old woman, alone in her bed with only a matron to check on her. It seemed like a lonely end to a life, and Harry could not help but pity her.

But Harry was not as foolish as he once was. After the terrors of last year, he knew better than to trust his dreams… and he knew better than to keep them to himself.

Righting his desk chair, Harry sat down and began a letter. Carefully, he described what he could remember of the room and its occupant, relating all the details in his memory. Once satisfied, he folded the parchment and addressed it to Dumbledore. He stood and presented it Hedwig, who looked quite grumpy to be woken up this early. After a little begging and cajoling, she took it into her beak and flew out the window.

Knowing his aunt was waiting for him, Harry pushed the dream from his mind and began to dress, tugging on a pair of his too-short school trousers and one of Dudley’s tent-sized t-shirts. He paused for a moment in front of his mirror and frowned. He looked like he was wearing high-waters and a tablecloth. Sighing, Harry pulled open the door and made his way downstairs.

He found his aunt standing in front of the stove, cooking eggs. Harry sat down at the table and helped himself to a glass of milk. He wasn’t looking forward to the upcoming conversation.

Hearing his chair scrape, Aunt Petunia turned from her cooking and peered at him in distaste. “You look like a hooligan.”

“In case you haven’t realised it yet, Dudley and I are, in fact, not the same size,” Harry growled. “If I had clothes that fit me, I assure you, I’d wear them.”

His aunt sniffed and turned back to the stove. “Don’t take that tone with me, boy.”

Harry rolled his eyes and gulped down the rest of his milk. His aunt walked over with the pan and pushed some eggs onto his plate. Again, the portions were surprisingly generous. Harry imagined that Moody must have threatened to transfigure her into a stick insect to inspire this sort of charity. “Thank you,” he said automatically.

She sniffed again and served herself before sitting down across from him. She stared at him shrewdly while he ate. “So?”

“So?” Harry parroted, unsure what she was getting at.

“So is it true?” she hissed. “And don’t lie! I’ll know if you’re lying!”

“What? Is what true? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Last night, when they were here,” she whispered harshly. “They said some of them were trying to rob us. Is it true?”

Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to answer that question. The Dursleys already hated magic with a terrible fanaticism. Admitting that two wizards had broken into their house and tried to make off with their belongings would not help endear them to it. He sighed. “Yes, it’s true.”

“And you were the one who put the hole in my floor? Using your—” Aunt Petunia trailed off and waved her hands vaguely.

“With magic, yes,” Harry stated, feeling annoyed that she was going to be upset with him about it. He had been hoping that the floor had been repaired before the Dursleys had made it downstairs. “It’s not like your floor is ruined or anything. It looks better than it did before, even.”

She didn’t seem to be listening to him. “And you put the hole in the floor to stop the one from coming upstairs?”

Harry was suddenly unsure where this was going. “Yes. He was coming into the entry way,” he explained slowly.

“And if more of them ever… come into the house, you’ll use your… that… against them?” she asked in a very serious tone of voice. Her face looked grave.

Harry was shocked at this unexpected turn in the conversation. In all of his years of living here, his aunt and uncle had gone out of their way to avoid the topic of magic. They never thought about it or talked about it, except to mention how unnatural it was. His aunt had surprised him last year with her knowledge of the Dementors. Harry suddenly wondered if perhaps she had been harboring fears of wizards or witches coming to do them harm… coming to finish what was started so long ago with her sister’s death.

“I’ll fight them if they ever come here,” Harry assured in a level voice. “I wouldn’t just let them come in.”

Aunt Petunia considered him and seemed to be carefully weighing her words. “I know you are strange even among your kind. I know there is something different about you. If they come here, you’ll do whatever it takes to stop them from hurting my son, my family. After all I have done for you… if they ever come… you had better make yourself useful.”

Harry seethed at this, and despite himself, felt stung at her deliberate choice of words: my son… my family… one that didn’t include him. He stood up and clenched his fists. “I’ve been making myself useful for nearly 15 years now! Making myself useful washing your clothes, cooking your food, cleaning your bathrooms and taking care of your lawn since I was old enough to walk. I’ve done all the menial, degrading work you’ve ever asked of me to make myself useful,” he snarled through his burning throat. A coffee mug began to shake and tremble on the table and Aunt Petunia swept it into her hand without comment. “And yes, I’ll make myself useful if they ever come here.”

She stared at him without expression for a moment before turning to gaze out the window. “Go finish the attic,” she said.

Harry’s arms and legs felt terribly heavy and all the air seemed to have left the room. His eyes felt hot. “Fine.”

He watched his aunt set the mug back on the table wordlessly before he turned and left the room.

~: --------------------------- :~

By the time he had made it back up to the attic, Harry’s thoughts were a churning mess. Besides his lingering disquiet from the conversation downstairs, he felt a fissure of anger curl inside his chest at the time and effort he had been forced to put into cleaning a room that would likely never see use. It seemed that the Dursleys would never fail to find some way to utterly incense him.

Harry fought to subdue his temper. If he had to stay here at Privet Drive, he would just keep his head down until his birthday. He would not be goaded by Uncle Vernon’s snide remarks or his aunt’s cattiness. He would complete his work and then quietly do the things he wanted to do. If nothing else, living in this house had taught him considerable self-discipline.

Resigned, Harry sighed and observed the room stoically. The attic was as he had left it last night. As he walked across the room to his bucket, he was surprised by the crunching of broken bits of glass beneath his trainers. He was unsure where it came from until he saw the filament and screw contact hanging from the empty light socket. He looked at it curiously, unable to recall how the bulb had broken.

Grabbing the bucket which was still mostly filled with the dirty water from last night, Harry hefted it and carried it downstairs and outside. Striding across the street, he poured it into the drain and looked up to see the same orange and white cat from yesterday watching him closely.

Harry straightened and stared right back. Now that he considered it, Harry could vaguely recall seeing this cat around the neighbourhood at various times in his life but he could not remember anyone ever saying whom it belonged to.

Harry glanced down the street self-consciously, checking that no one was looking at him. Mrs. Cravers, who lived two homes down in an ugly, yellow house, was watering her lawn lavishly in blatant contempt of the hosepipe ban. Other than her, the street was empty.

Setting down his bucket, Harry took a tentative step towards the cat. “Hullo, cat,” he said, feeling exceedingly stupid. He glanced quickly back over his shoulder to be sure no one was sneaking up on him with a camera. “You wouldn’t happen to be Mr. Tibbies, would you?”

The cat stood up and arched its back before sitting on its haunches and purring proudly. Harry glanced around one more time before walking forward and leaning against the short wall where the cat was observing him imperiously.

Harry smirked and held his hand out in offering. “Sorry for all the glancing about. I’m afraid the neighbours will think I’m a bit frothy if they catch me talking to a cat. Or a kneazle, I should say. So you are Mr. Tibbies, then?”

The kneazle pushed its head against Harry’s hand and let loose a stream of blissful purring. Harry threaded his long fingers through its fur and scratched him gently. The kneazle promptly flopped onto his back, exposing his soft, white belly. Harry laughed and rubbed it graciously. “You’re a friendly one. And I hear you’re dead clever, too. I reckon I owe you for looking out for me all this time.”

Mr. Tibbies tilted his head up and looked at him lazily through heavy-lidded eyes. He continued purring and his legs bicycled in the air for a moment, causing Harry to smirk again.

Harry took his hand away and lifted himself onto the wall before returning to his rubbing. The kneazle’s striped tail was swishing against his forearm and it tickled a little. “I suppose you must be able to understand everything people are saying,” Harry guessed, pausing to scratch under the kneazle’s chin. It looked up at him and favoured him with a long look before purring loudly and tilting its head to give him better access. “I wonder how you communicate with Mrs. Figg? Can she understand what you’re saying, too? I can talk to snakes, but most people think that’s dodgy. I imagine speaking to kneazles is a bit more acceptable.”

Harry provided Mr. Tibbies with a thorough rubdown before reluctantly dropping down from the wall. The kneazle straightened up immediately and watched him critically as he picked up his bucket. “I’ve got to finish this now. Thanks again for all your help,” Harry said, checking over his shoulder for eavesdroppers once last time. “I mean it. If Mrs. Figg hadn’t been able to testify for me after the whole Dementor episode last year, I might’ve had my wand snapped.”

Harry turned and headed back to the house to refill his bucket. Along the way, he stopped at the garage and picked up a broom and a dustpan. He figured he would need them for the glass. Supplies in hand, he made his way back up the stairs, being extra careful not to jam the handle of the broom into any walls.

With his final bucket of water, Harry made short work of the skirting board. Once he was finished, he dropped the sponge in the bucket and used the broom to clean up the broken glass. He would have to replace the light bulb later.

With his work complete, Harry pushed his things aside and surveyed the room. The old, wood floor looked like new and he couldn’t help the twinge of pride he felt at a job well done. He may not enjoy catering to his relatives every whim like an overgrown house elf, but he could appreciate his own hard work.

Now that it was clean, the attic appeared spacious and welcoming and Harry imagined himself sneaking up into this room with his textbooks to enjoy the solitude. As long as he never mentioned this to the Dursleys, he was certain he could get away with it. His relatives were far too concerned with propriety to be caught dead lounging in an attic, of all places.

After a few more minutes of admiring the room, Harry strode downstairs and returned the bucket, dustpan, and broom to the garage. His aunt had obviously assumed cleaning the attic would take longer than it had, and Harry had no other chores assigned for the time being. He raced up to his room and shut the door before she noticed.

Once he was inside, he pulled up short at the veritable flock of owls decorating his bedroom. He wondered why he suddenly had so much post. Sighing, Harry untied one of the letters and scanned its contents. He paled when he realised it was an official notice from the Improper Use of Magic Office.

Dear Mr. Potter,

We have detected the use of magic(s) within your residence at thirty-seven minutes past one in the morning on the 25th of June, 1996. The spell or spells used have been identified as: an unauthorised use of the Reductor Curse, an unauthorised conjuration of an unidentified object.

Additionally, we have received intelligence that you have performed an unidentified cushioning charm in a Muggle-inhabited area at fifty-six minutes past one in the morning on the 25th of June, 1996.

As you are aware, these spells are in breach of the Reasonable Restriction of Underaged Sorcery Decree. However, a petition has been filed indicating the magic in question was used in defense of one’s home and property and in defense of one’s person.

This petition has been authorized and has been placed in your permanent file. No further action is required.

Hoping you are well,

Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic

Harry read through the letter three times before feeling reasonably secure that the Ministry of Magic wasn’t going to be expelling him or destroying his wand anytime soon. Obviously, someone had smoothed the whole thing over just as Dumbledore had hinted at last night. He wondered why the same government who had worked so hard to try to get him thrown in Azkaban last year was suddenly brushing aside his offences like an indulgent grandparent.

Harry set the letter down and grabbed an empty cereal bowl from his desk. He walked into the bathroom to fill it with water before setting it on his bed for the grateful Ministry owl to sip from before flying out the window.

A tiny owl — who looked more like a ball of fluff than an actual bird — leapt up from its hiding place beside Hedwig’s cage and flitted crazily around the room before careening into the side of Harry’s skull and flopping onto the bed in a daze. “Pig!” Harry groaned. He rubbed the side of his head in annoyance and snatched the bird in his fist to retrieve his letter before setting it free. Pigwidgeon still seemed disoriented from the impact and flew into the wall next to the window before drunkenly making his way outside.

Turning over the parchment, Harry quickly identified the sloppy handwriting as belonging to Ron. He stretched out on his bed and read:

Harry –

Are you all right, mate? We got a floo call last night saying you were being attacked or something and my parents went barmy and disappeared for two hours. Life at your house is never dull, I guess! They said you were fine, but I figured I should check to make sure you haven’t snuffed it or anything. So you haven’t, right?

My mum said to leave it alone, but you’ve got to tell me what happened! Was it Death Eaters? If it was, I hope had a good hex waiting.

How has your summer been? Mine’s been awful. It’s so boring here.

Your friend,

Ron

Harry couldn’t help but grin at his friend’s rambling letter. Only Ron would write him to check that he â€˜hadn’t snuffed it’. He set the parchment down.

Another owl presented itself by alighting on his night table and stretching out its leg. This one had a small package wrapped in brown paper and Harry untied it gently. There was a short note attached to the package and Harry read through it to discover that this was the salve Mrs. Weasley had promised to send over. Harry set it aside, sure that the mystery goop was made of troll toenails or something equally disgusting, since all wizarding remedies appeared to be made of such things.

Harry grabbed the last letter from a fairly nondescript owl and found his name written out neatly in Hermione’s flowing script.

Dear Harry,

I heard from Ron that there was some sort of attack on your house last night! Oh Harry, I do hope you are all right! Please let me know how you are doing as soon as possible.

I really wish you would write to me more often. I know you don’t want to talk about Sirius or what happened at the Department of Mysteries and I’ve tried to be sensitive and avoid the subject, but Harry, you really must. If you don’t, it will only eat you up inside.

You have to know that what happened wasn’t your fault. You aren’t to blame for Sirius’s death. I’m sure you’ve heard this a thousand times by now, but that’s only because it’s true.

I wish so badly that you didn’t have to stay with those dreadful relatives of yours. It makes me so sad to think of you alone in that house with no one to talk to or ask how you’re doing. And now you’ve been attacked! Please, you must write me or I’ll simply go out of my mind with worry.

With love from,

Hermione

P.S. I’ve told the owl to stay with you and wait for your reply, just in case Hedwig is busy with other letters.

Sure enough, the owl who had delivered her letter was sitting patiently on the windowsill.

Harry read through the letter once more and felt a strange mixture of guilt, gratitude, and annoyance. He realised that his brief and infrequent letters to his friend were complete rubbish, but he hoped she would take the hint and stop asking about Sirius. He could not see what there was to gain from talking about it. Harry knew he had made the worst mistake of his life going to the Ministry – now he was paying for it. What else was there to say?

Worse still, Hermione herself had seemingly known that the situation was a trap and had tried her best to talk him out of going. But he had not listened to reason – his blood was up and he had found himself ruled by it just as always did. He had led her to the Ministry despite her misgivings and had nearly ended up getting her killed in the process. He wondered privately what she honestly must think of him now and he found his mood souring.

Taking a fresh sheet of parchment, Harry dashed off a half-hearted response despite the uncomfortable, guilty feeling welling in his chest. Reading through his own clipped sentences, Harry shook his head and hesitantly added a couple lines asking after her health. Was she doing better? Had she healed all right? Something squirmed inside him and he ended the letter abruptly.

Harry carefully folded the parchment and presented it to the waiting owl, which did not spare a moment before swooping out the open window. Still feeling somewhat unsettled, Harry moved to his trunk and began to dig out his textbooks. Thinking of Hermione had reminded him that he had a stack of summer assignments to complete. Harry figured he ought to start early... he would have to do better this year than he had in the past.

He placed a few of his fifth year books on the corner of his bed and was reaching for another one when a bright flash of light filled the room, startling him. Harry ducked behind his bed and drew his wand only to see Fawkes sitting on the back of his desk chair and observing him in amusement. The phoenix tilted its head back and trilled at Harry, displaying its beautiful red plumage.

Harry felt instantly calmed and wondered whether the effect was a sort of phoenix magic.

A folded piece of parchment appeared suddenly in the magical bird's beak and Fawkes held up it for Harry to take. Stashing his wand again, Harry retrieved the letter, assuming this was the message Dumbledore had mentioned last night. He thanked the phoenix politely and watched in amazement as it trilled once more before disappearing in a flash of flame. He couldn’t deny that it was an impressive display.

Sitting back down on his bed, Harry broke the wax crest on the parchment and began to read:

Dear Harry,

Thank you for your prompt message this morning concerning your dream. It did sound rather mysterious, but I do not think that it was connected to Voldemort. The room you described was not immediately familiar to me, but something about it has tugged at my memory. I will say that you should trust your judgment, but be wary of things you do not understand. You are capable now of recognizing that dreams and visions can be dangerous in a way that the waking world cannot.

Despite this, I’m afraid that it is of absolute necessity that you return to the study of Occlumency as soon as possible. Now that you have been made aware of the full contents of the Prophecy, it is more crucial than ever that you learn to guard your mind from external penetration.

I will explain in more detail when we have our first meeting. I believe tomorrow morning at nine o’clock will be an excellent time to convene. If this is acceptable to you, please arrive at Arabella Figg’s house at said time. We will use her floo connection to travel to my office, where we will be free to discuss important matters securely.

I hope you are well and I look forward to our discussion with the utmost enthusiasm.

Yours sincerely,

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

Headmaster of HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards

Harry couldn’t help but sigh at the thought of continuing his Occlumency study. He knew it was necessary — especially now that he had witnessed firsthand the terrible results of having Voldemort running around in his head and sending him subliminal messages — but he wasn’t looking forward to it. Harry had made a promise to himself, though, and he would do whatever was necessary to keep from making the same mistakes again… even continuing his tutelage in Occlumency. However, he would not allow himself to be taught by Snape. If Dumbledore suggested it, he would refuse until another tutor was recommended. The Potions Professor might be a master of Occlumency, but Harry would not subject himself to any more nights of reliving all of his worst humiliations with his most hated teacher mocking him gleefully at every opportunity.

With that settled in his mind, Harry piled all of his letters on his desk and stretched out on his bed to review his textbooks, but despite his best efforts, his mind kept drifting back to the old woman, alone in her bed. He could only hope that Dumbledore’s faith in his ability to manage his dreams was not misplaced…

4. A Winter Wind

Chapter 4: A Winter Wind

At promptly nine the next morning, Harry rang the doorbell at Mrs. Figg’s house. She appeared almost immediately, bustling Harry inside and greeting him warmly. “Oh, it’s so lovely to have you here,” she said, directing him into the lounge. “The last time you were over you were just a little sprog. Why, you weren’t half the size then that you are now! Growing up so fast…”

The familiar, musky smell of too many cats contained in too small an area assaulted Harry’s nose and he grimaced. He remembered all too well being forced to stay here as a child while his relatives enjoyed vacations and parties. He could hardly believe it when Mrs. Figg confessed to being a squib last year. The change in her behaviour towards him after he had been made aware of exactly who she was still astonished him. He had never had the slightest idea that she might have been something more than she appeared in all of those years of knowing her. Harry imagined it must have been very difficult to pretend to be something she was not for such a very long time.

“I heard you and Mr. Tibbies had a wonderful visit yesterday!” she bubbled while waving him towards a blue upholstered chair. She disappeared into the kitchen as soon as he sat down. The moment he had settled himself, three overgrown cats climbed up next to him and flopped down on his lap. He stroked them awkwardly while he listened to Mrs. Figg bustling in the kitchen.

“How do you take your tea, Harry?” she shouted.

“Plain, I reckon,” Harry answered.

Mrs. Figg emerged from with a tea tray and set it on a low table in the centre of her lounge. She served Harry and then herself before settling down on the couch opposite him. Harry surreptitiously plucked a cat hair out of his tea while she was adding milk to her own. He knew better than to drink anything here without checking it for foreign objects first.

“Are all of these cats actually kneazles, Mrs. Figg?”

“Yes, the whole bunch. There are a couple of alley cats who make their way in here around feeding time, but all of the permanent residents are kneazles. They live longer than normal cats, so many of them have been here watching you since you first came to live with your relatives.”

Harry couldn’t help but feel mildly uncomfortable with the idea of trained cats watching his every move. “How is it that you’re able to understand them? Can you talk to kneazles?”

“That’s right! Well, it’s more that I can understand what they’re telling me without words. I suppose it’s my gift. Merlin knows I couldn’t cast the simplest charm if my life depended on it, but I have a rare talent with kneazles. It seems about fair to me. It’s also allowed me to make a decent living – breeding and selling them. But demand for kneazles hasn’t been quite what it used to be… everyone wants an owl these days,” she sighed. She took a sip of her tea and her expression brightened. “Of course, the Order offered me a salary to watch over you, but I told them to put that right where the sun didn’t shine! I know what you’ve done for us. Besides, I’ve always taken quite a bit of pride in my position. Who would have thought, a mere squib looking after the Boy Who Lived!”

For some reason, this idea seemed very fitting to Harry, but before he could say so, the fire in the hearth swelled and turned a bright green. Albus Dumbledore stepped out a moment later. “Ah, Harry! I’m pleased you could make it,” he said and vanished the soot from his robes. “I apologise for my tardiness. I’ve been interviewing candidates to fill the vacant Defense Against the Dark Arts position.”

Harry was curious in spite of himself. “Have you found someone, then?”

Dumbledore smiled serenely and accepted a cup of tea that Mrs. Figg had hurried to prepare upon his entrance. “Alas, no. The search has been a remarkable failure thus far.”

Harry rubbed his trouser leg and resigned himself mentally to another year of useless Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons. “Just as long as it isn’t anyone evil this time.”

“I shall do my best,” the headmaster replied cheerily. He took a long sip of his tea before setting it back down on the tray. “Thank you for the tea, Arabella, and also for allowing us the use of your floo. It’s quite gracious of you. I’m afraid we must be rude and take our leave immediately, however. Harry and I have much to discuss.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Mrs. Figg replied. “You’re always welcome here. Please take care.”

Not long after, Harry was stumbling out of the fireplace in the headmaster’s office at Hogwarts. Dumbledore gestured to one of the high-backed chairs that sat facing his desk and Harry took the proffered seat. He was only mildly surprised when the headmaster took the other one instead of the rather throne-like chair behind the desk.

“It’s been a difficult year for you, Harry,” Dumbledore began. “I hope that the summer holiday is allowing you at least a small chance for respite.”

Harry stared at him blankly. “I’m with the Dursleys. It’s not terribly conductive to respite. You know that as well as anyone.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” the headmaster sighed. He was about to speak again, but Harry interrupted him.

“Wait. I’ve wanted to— well, I’ve wanted to ask you something since you’ve told me about why I’ve had to stay with them, but I’ve never had the chance yet. And I’m just going to wonder about it forever if I don’t ask, so I’d like to be able to now.”

Dumbledore peered at him intently. “Go on, Harry. You are free to ask any question you wish.”

“You’ve admitted that you had people watching my house, watching me since the day I went to live with the Dursleys. Obviously, you must have known how it was for me there. But yet, nothing was ever done about it. I suppose I don’t understand why.”

“That is a difficult question for me to answer,” Dumbledore sighed. “Or rather, a difficult question for my conscience. When the nature of the blood protection became known to us, it was apparent that this would provide the greatest defense for you we could possibly endow. As the conditions of your life there became obvious, my first instinct was to immediately set upon the Dursleys and demand an improvement in your care. I could not bring myself to do so, however, because of a great fear I harbored. You see, if your aunt ever decided, even in her mind, that the blood protection should no longer exist, it would immediately cease to be. Once it is lost, it can never be restored. It was my fear that if I were to confront her about your care, she would no longer tolerate you in her home and the protection would be lost. I have struggled with the choice between your safety and your well-being for the last fifteen years.”

Harry considered this silently for a moment. “It just seems like you were taking quite a risk, leaving me to fend for myself in that place. This is terrible to say, but in some ways, I understand how Riddle could have grown up to be so angry. Not having a home is awful, Professor. And in some ways — a lot of ways — coming to Hogwarts has made it so much worse. Before I met my friends, before I had people who genuinely cared about me… I hadn’t known what I was missing. But now I look back at that time — ten years — and I can hardly bear to think of it. I’ll never get that time back. And with the way my life is going, time is becoming more precious to me by the day.”

When Harry had finished, Dumbledore removed his spectacles and folded them, placing them in his lap. His blue eyes seemed dull and cloudy, and suddenly Dumbledore did not seem like the greatest wizard of the age. Instead, he seemed tired and old… as if the weight of all of his choices was now bearing down on him. When he began speaking, his voice was grave.

“When one finds oneself in a position of power, he or she is often called upon to make decisions of terrible importance. These decisions can have far-reaching consequences that even the very wise cannot always foresee. Often, one decides a course of action that seems ideal… one that appears to satisfy all ends. A plan is set in motion and soon it becomes like a living thing, changing and twisting with time. As it follows its course, it can become unrecognizable; something entirely divorced from your original intention.

“Since the night I bore witness to the Prophecy, I have been making such decisions concerning you. In my attempts at ensuring your safety, I have instead thrust you into dire peril. By trying to allow you to enjoy a normal life, I have stripped you of the chance at one. And yet, you are still alive today to speak to me. Even more remarkably, you have become a young man of such virtue, compassion and strength that I cannot help but stand in awe of all you have accomplished and all you have become. I am humbled each day in your acquaintance.

“If I had made another decision that night, I do not know who would be sitting before me today, or even if anyone would. No, Harry. My regret at the horrors you’ve endured, at the tragedies and injustices in your life, and most especially my part in capacitating them cannot be articulated. But if I had the same choices to make again, I do not know if I would choose differently. You see, I cannot regret the outcome, Harry. And for that I am truly sorry.”

Harry had nothing to say to this, so instead he turned his head and stared into the fire. A few minutes passed in silence before Dumbledore replaced his spectacles and began to speak again.

“You will always be at liberty to ask questions while you are here in this office. I am certain that, as we continue to meet, you will have many more to ask me. For today, though, we have much to discuss and a limited time to do so. Shall we go on?”

Harry turned back to his headmaster and nodded. He would deal with his feelings later. “I want to learn Occlumency.”

“I am very pleased to hear you say that, Harry,” the headmaster said. “It is of the utmost importance. I apologise again for not explaining my reasons for this last year. It was a terrible failure on my part and we are now reaping the rotten seeds I have sown. You understand, now, why you must master this discipline?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Harry answered anyway. “I don’t want him in my head. And you mentioned protecting the Prophecy in your letter.”

“Yes. The final lines are a great weapon we may wield against Voldemort, and he must never uncover them. Since his plot to lure you into the Department of Mysteries in an effort to obtain the Prophecy failed quite spectacularly, I believe he will only become more and more obsessed with learning its contents. You see, Harry, Voldemort fears the Prophecy above all things. When he confronted you as an infant, your turning his own curse against him only leant weight to his belief that you were his fated adversary – that it was you who were destined to bring about his downfall.

“Indeed, since that night so long ago you have inspired a terror in Voldemort that has become your armour against him. He does not understand how you defeated him so many years ago. He does not understand how you evade him still. And in his madness over all these things he does not understand, he cannot help but wonder if finally defeating you will bring about his ultimate end. What if by killing you, he is destroyed as well? What if by not killing you, you grow more and more powerful until one day it is but a trifle for you to smite him down? He is sick with not knowing.

“We, of course, know the Prophecy does not answer these questions and that the ending is, in fact, quite ambiguous. As long as he does not discover this, he will continue to be at a great disadvantage.”

Harry had never considered the Prophecy in such a manner and his thoughts raced after this explanation. When he had first been told what it contained, he had found it terribly frustrating. His whole life to this point had been dictated by five simple sentences, and yet they didn’t really tell him anything. They described a power he supposedly had — a ‘power the Dark Lord knows not’ — but they didn’t say what it was. They had stated that either he or Voldemort must die at the hands of the other, but this only raised more questions in Harry’s mind. Did that mean that nothing else could kill him? Did it mean that he and Voldemort would both be destroyed if one killed the other? If not, would the victor become immortal? The idea of living forever, much less Voldemort living forever, did not appeal to him.

But now he realized how much more frustrating it must be to know there was a prophecy stating there was someone with the power to destroy you, and yet to not know exactly what it said. Harry considered this for a long time.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to master Occlumency,” Harry stated at last. “But I won’t learn it from Snape. There has to be someone else who can teach me.”

“I agree, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “To force you to continue your lessons with Severus would be folly. I will teach you myself.”

Harry nodded and he agreed this would be the best solution. Between them, they worked out a schedule to meet twice a week – one day for lessons, and another for discussions.

“In the meantime, I have collected several books on the subject. I would like for you to begin reading through them,” Dumbledore instructed. He pulled a small stack of books from his bookshelf and handed them to Harry, who glanced through them quietly. “It is my understanding that in your previous lessons, you have experienced a number of legilimency attacks. You should therefore be familiar with how the legilimencer is seeking answers to specific questions within your mind during the course of their attack. A successful attempt means they have found the answers they seek. If they do not, then their attempt was unsuccessful.

“Occlumency is not nearly so straightforward. Instead, it is divided into two distinct disciplines that are best used in tandem. The first is preventing access to one’s mind altogether. The occlumencer deflects the attack, either consciously or unconsciously, and the legilimencer is turned aside, receiving nothing from their attempt except, as is often the case, a terrible headache. The second discipline is far more difficult. It involves willingly allowing the legililmencer into the mind for the purposes of deception. The occlumencer appears to offer no defense and answers are presented to the legilimencer’s questions. However, these are not the true answers, but instead detailed fabrications crafted by the occlumencer to present a false reality. In this way, the legilimencer believes they were successful, and will act on the unknowingly false information presented to them.”

Harry felt a familiar ire creep up inside him. He had spent nearly a six months at Occlumency lessons and yet this was the first time he had heard such an explanation. How difficult would it have been for Snape to set aside his childish grudge against his father for five minutes to have taught him this? “I know how an attack feels. Everything else you just described is new to me.”

Dumbledore sighed and shook his head. “Then it is as I feared. In all honesty, I could not understand why you were having such difficulty learning this skill last year. Occlumency is, at its most basic, an application of will. You proved your will to be stronger than Voldemort’s when you forced the echoes from his wand during the Priori Incantatem that night in the graveyard. I suspect that, with the proper training, you will master the discipline quickly.”

“Why is it that Snape didn’t teach me correctly? I don’t understand him…”

“I cannot say for sure, Harry,” Dumbledore intoned sadly. “Severus has spent so much of his life holding grudges, I believe even he does not understand the depth of their influence on his behaviour.”

“It just seems so unfair that I have to keep paying for the actions of my father,” Harry said lowly.

The headmaster smiled sadly. “As I’m sure you’ve long discovered, life is not always fair. Our time today is drawing short, Harry. I’m pleased with how much we’ve covered, however I feel it would be best to delay the conversation about your passing through the anti-apparition wards until the next session. Was there anything else you wanted to know until then?”

Harry straightened in his chair, curling his fingers around his new books. “Yes, actually. The Dursleys haven’t been bothering me about not watching the telly or listening to the radio after I’ve finished my chores, so I’ve been trying to keep up with the news. I haven’t heard anything unusual all summer, though. Has anything happened?”

“Nothing of note has happened concerning Voldemort, but there has been a lot of activity in the Ministry. There was a great deal of public outcry over your treatment last year now that it has come to light that Voldemort has indeed returned, and Cornelius has lost much of the support he previously enjoyed. Many of the departments are scrambling now to undo the mistakes of last year. You will also find that the public’s perception of you has also changed. Much has been written about what took place at the Department of Mysteries that night, and your role in the capture of so many high-profile Death Eaters has been much publicized.”

Harry looked incredulous. “My role in their capture? You’ve got to be joking.”

Dumbledore leveled him with a most serious look. “Whatever mistakes may have led up to or resulted from that night, a great deal of good has come out of it. The importance of now having the public at large accept that Voldemort has returned cannot be overemphasized. We could not possibly have begun to mount a true defense while simultaneously fighting the Ministry and the Wizengamot. Additionally, the loss of so many of Voldemort’s most trusted followers will be a terrible blow to him. It will also engender a feeling of hope among the population and that is a most powerful advantage.”

“I can’t take pride in the very thing that caused Sirius’s death,” Harry stated coldly.

“Sirius died so that others may live,” Dumbledore said softly. “The best way you can honour his sacrifice is by accepting that his death was not without meaning.”

Little else was said after this, and Harry left soon after to return to Privet Drive. That night, he lay awake in his small bedroom for a very long time, thinking about his godfather, Voldemort, and the Prophecy. When sleep finally overtook him, his dreams were filled with a dimly lit tower and a timeless voice that called to him...

~: --------------------------- :~

When Harry informed his aunt that he would be leaving the house several times a week to attend lessons with Dumbledore, he was unprepared for her reaction. There had been no shouting… no shrieking… no outrage at all. She had merely waved her spindly fingers at him in a meaningless gesture before turning to stare out the window. Harry was beginning to feel like he did not know who this woman was – this stranger with a familiar face who knew of magic but could not seem to manage the vigour necessary to hate it.

Even several days later, when Harry arrived at his first true Occlumency lesson, he found it difficult to hide how unsettled he was. But if the headmaster picked up on his uncertainty — and Harry was not nearly confident enough in his Occlumency ability to believe that he hadn’t — he did not mention it.

“Calm your mind, Harry,” Dumbledore instructed quietly. “Imagine your thoughts like liquid pouring from a flask. A simple barrier, like a rubber stopper, will prevent them from escaping far more effectively than any exertion of force. Concentrate on the image of your thoughts slowing to a trickle and then stopping altogether.”

Harry nodded stiffly, but he was finding it difficult to curtail his natural instinct to tense up each time he felt the legilimens intrusion. Dumbledore’s methods were far less sadistic than Snape’s, however, and the thoughts they were mutually experiencing were not painful childhood humiliations, but instead moments of calm and peacefulness.

Harry expelled a deep breath of air and waited until the disorientation from the constant flow of memories dissipated before concentrating on the feeling of his thoughts flowing between his mind and Dumbledore’s. He picked one thought out of the tide of images — a memory of walking across the grounds of Hogwarts after a snowstorm and seeing the fields of white stretched before him as far as the eye could see — and concentrated on it exclusively. He tried pulling it back to him to block it, but instead, the image seemed grow stronger in his mind and all the other thoughts faded away.

“Well done, Harry!” Dumbledore praised suddenly. “This is a most intriguing development.”

The intrusion in his mind ceased and Harry opened his eyes in confusion. “What? I know I wasn’t doing it right.”

The headmaster shook his head, still smiling. “It is true that you did not succeed in blocking your mind from me, but I was not expecting you to accomplish that feat after only one lesson. However, what you did do was much more impressive… you concentrated on a single memory and presented it to me, preventing me from receiving any others. That is the exact process that is used when tendering false memories in response to a legilimens attack. It is much more difficult to accomplish than a simple blocking of the mind. It is quite curious that you can achieve this, but you have not yet been successful in bluntly turning aside attacks altogether.”

Harry blinked, surprised that his mental fumbling could be considered a success of any sort.

“Let us try one more exercise before we end today’s lesson,” Dumbledore said, raising his wand again and smiling. “This time, I will be searching for memories of when you were physically warm. Once you feel my intrusion, I want you to concentrate on the memory of that snowy day just as you showed me before. This thought will not be brought to the surface in my attack, so you must will it into your mind. Picture it exactly as it was: the crisp feeling of winter… the deep footprints you left in the snow behind you… your breath crystallizing in the air… legilimens.”

At once, a rush of memories assaulted him, and in his mind, Harry watched his younger self shifting uncomfortably in the hot cupboard, twisting wildly in a series of complicated manoeuvres on his broom to dodge a blast of flame from the Hungarian Horntail, and brushing his hair back from his sticky forehead as he cleaned the attic not one week before. Harry shook off the familiar disorientation and closed his eyes, forcing the image of that wintry day into his mind. It seemed much more difficult to focus on this time, but Harry put all of his effort into willing the scene to the forefront of his consciousness. He thought of the wonderful cold, of the beautiful grey sky, and of his heavy cloak with the trim wet from dragging in the snow. As he concentrated harder, the memory became more and more distinct until the other thoughts once again faded away.

When he opened his eyes, he found that he was shivering and his cheeks and ears were stinging as if he had been fighting against a blustery wind. When he let out a slow breath, it fogged in the air in front of him before drifting away.

Dumbledore was grinning at him madly. “I must say, Harry, you are proving to be a most interesting pupil.”

Harry was less enthused. “What just happened?”

“You succeeded once again in stopping the flow of thoughts and instead presented a single memory. You seem to have some natural skill in Occlumency – with continued training, your mastery of the discipline may be formidable, indeed."

Harry could not help but feel slightly gratified to hear this. There was a small part of him that had been afraid that he was going to be as miserable at Occlumency as he seemed to be last year, regardless of who was teaching him. But it wasn’t really what he had been asking. “I meant— did you feel that? It’s freezing in here. Is that a result of the Occlumency?”

“No, Harry, Occlumency is a type of mind-magic and does not affect the physical world,” Dumbledore explained, still looking quite pleased with himself. “It was your will that caused the change in temperature. And this makes an excellent segue to our discussion about your unexplained displacement when Mundungus’s curse was about to strike you.”

“Are you saying the two are related somehow?”

“They are two separate and distinct applications of magic, but they were both caused by your determination to achieve something… whether that determination was conscious or otherwise.”

“You’re saying that I unconsciously willed myself through the wards because I wanted to get out of the way of the curse?” Harry asked sceptically. “But, if that’s true, why did I send myself to my old school? I hated that place and I certainly wasn’t thinking about it at the time. Wouldn’t it have been more logical to send myself out onto the lawn or something?”

“I believe you answered that question yourself during the discussion with the other members of the Order,” Dumbledore hinted gently.

“What do you mean? I didn’t…” Harry trailed off and tried to think back on all that was said that night. He sorted through that part of the conversation in his mind, trying to remember his own words… and suddenly, it came to him. “I had already done it. I had already disappeared and reappeared on the roof of the school, so, subconsciously, I must have known it was possible. It’s like with my Patronus – I couldn’t cast it correctly until I realized I had already done so with the time-turner.”

“Wonderful, Harry! I was prepared to have you think on the possibilities for a homework assignment until our next meeting, but it seems I underestimated your perceptiveness,” Dumbledore said, smiling and combing his fingers through his long beard. “Yes, I do believe that is the answer. You unconsciously remembered accomplishing this feat and your magic was therefore able to reproduce its effects. I suspect that now that you aware you can do this, with practice you will be able to wield this ability consciously.”

Harry’s mind was racing. “Are you saying that I’ll be able to pop myself through wards?”

“Likely not, although the limitations of this ability will only become clear with practice, as is the case with most forms of unusual magic. I believe that the wards on Privet Drive are uniquely affected by your magic, due to their being based on your own blood. You may not have the same success with other locations. Regardless, I must caution you not to use this ability carelessly,” Dumbledore stated firmly. “Wards are powerful magicks. I do not believe it would be arrogant for me to say that I am a rather capable wizard… but even I would not attempt to circumvent warding measures without serious consideration.”

Harry could appreciate the wisdom in this and he nodded. “I understand.”

“Good,” Dumbledore replied, nodding. “If you wish to practice this ability, I would recommend attempting to travel from one room in your house to another. Perhaps with Mrs. Figg’s permission, you may try to pass through your wards again and arrive in her home. Do not forget that you must not use this ability anywhere that you are likely to be seen by muggles. It will certainly attract Ministry attention if a group of non-magical witnesses claim to have seen a human being appear out of thin air.”

“Do you mean that I can practice this during the summer? What about the underaged sorcery restriction?”

“The Ministry cannot track apparition, Harry – it can only respond when it is presented with information that someone had attempted it and failed, leaving splinched legs or arms where unsuspecting muggles might find them,” Dumbledore stated in his most unconcerned voice. “Your ability should be similarly beneath their notice, as long as you take care not to leave behind any obvious body parts.”

“But how do I practice this? I’m not even sure how I did it in the first place.”

“You must will it to be so, Harry… just as you did during our Occlumency lesson when you managed to cool the air around you by concentrating on the picture of your snowy memory,” Dumbledore instructed simply. “Visualize yourself in a place familiar to you, and take care to recall all that you can about your chosen location. It will come alive in your mind and then it is a simple matter of commanding your magic to take you there. I imagine the process is not too far removed from traditional apparition.”

Harry didn’t think this sounded at all like a ‘simple matter’.

Dumbledore must have noticed his slightly sceptical look, and he leaned forward in his chair. “Remember, Harry, that you have already accomplished this. And as your Occlumency ability continues to grow, you will find it much easier to achieve the desired concentration. With practice, you will be able to do this almost instantaneously, just as you will be able to organize and present false memories in response to a legilimency attack before any of your true thoughts are able to come forward. Do not allow yourself to become discouraged.”

Harry nodded with a bit more confidence. “I’ll start practicing as soon as I get home.”

Dumbledore stood up and patted Harry on the shoulder before moving to the chair behind his desk. “I believe we have covered enough for today. Our next meeting will be on Thursday. I look forward to hearing about the results of your practices, but do not forget to continue your review of the Occlumency texts I gave you. Good day to you, Harry.”

“Goodbye, Professor. And thanks.”

~: --------------------------- :~

Harry sat on the edge of his bed with his forearms resting on his knees and focused on the thought of disappearing and reappearing somewhere else. He had been practicing for two days, but he hadn’t yet managed to displace himself again – clearly Dumbledore’s assertion that this would be ‘simple’ had been too optimistic. Harry’s frustration was beginning to get the better of him, and he felt like his blood was too warm by several degrees. Uncomfortably stiff and with his mood darkening, Harry furrowed his brow and tried one last time.

In his mind, he focused on the image of the downstairs lounge and tried to imagine himself appearing there. He concentrated fiercely and closed his eyes. He thought hard on displacement, on the feeling of disappearing and reappearing as he had before…

Without warning, the bed Harry was sitting on vanished and Harry tumbled to the ground in an ungainly sprawl. He lay there dazed for a moment, wincing at the hard impact, before he realized what had happened. Launching himself to his feet, Harry grinned and raised his fists in triumph. He was about to let out an excited whoop when he noticed the decrepit cooler next to him.

He was on the roof of his old school.

“Sod it, not again,” he muttered, sliding his palm across his face in frustration. Looking up, Harry squinted as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight and the feeling of disappointment began to fade. Whether he had ended up exactly where he had meant to or not, he had still displaced himself. His grin reappeared and he jogged lightly over to the edge of the roof, feeling energized by his success. When he glanced over the side, Harry froze for a moment before dropping down quickly behind the low wall. The commons were filled with summer-school students lounging around and waiting for their parents to pick them up. Harry hoped none of them had spotted him.

He listened quietly for anyone yelling about a crazy suicide jumper on the roof but heard nothing but the low mumble of bored conversation. Harry kept his body low to the ground and moved quickly back towards the centre of the roof. He knelt down near the cooler and pondered what to do. He couldn’t use magic again, especially not with so many muggles around. He could call for help, but Harry’s pride vetoed that idea as quickly as it came – he would rather fling himself onto the pavement below than suffer another visit with the fire department. He would have to displace himself again.

Harry stood up, determined to get it right this time. Closing his eyes, Harry began to organize his scattered mind and thought hard on his house at Number 4 Privet Drive. He focused on the memory of the impromptu Order meeting ten days before. He recalled the electric fireplace that had befuddled Mrs. Weasley, the grey, bland carpet that Moody had thumped his wooden leg against, and the image of all the Order members sitting quietly on the furniture while listening to his story. He imagined the room just as it had been that night and the picture in his mind became clear and vivid. He concentrated hard on this image and waited for the familiar swooping feeling of displacement…

Harry cracked his eyes open, noting he was still on the roof with a sigh. Screwing his eyes shut once more, Harry tried again and again without success.

Several hours passed and Harry’s impatience mounted. He was beginning to think that his skill was quite useless. Once, he had felt himself being displaced but when he opened his eyes in elation, he found that he was not in the lounge at the Dursley’s house as he had expected. Instead, he was still on the roof… he had only moved several yards over to the spot near the old cooler where he had first arrived earlier that day.

By now, the chattering noise of the people below had died away and the sky was turning pink with the coming dusk. Feeling rather foolish and not at all like a powerful wizard, Harry resigned himself to finding another way down. Not wanting to risk magic again, he skulked around the edge of the building until he found an exposed drainpipe and used it to awkwardly climb to the ground.

He had scraped his knuckles quite severely during his descent and he blew on them uselessly before turning to go. His hands may have ached, but it was his battered pride that he nursed the entire walk home.

5. Unhappy Birthday

Chapter 5: Unhappy Birthday

The next morning Harry asked Mrs. Figg if she would mind if he used her home to practice displacement. She seemed to like the idea very much and showed Harry one of the upstairs guestrooms where he would be able to appear and disappear without causing any fuss should she have company. She promised she would keep the door closed at all times. Harry smiled weakly when she mentioned this. Considering his earlier lack of success, he could not imagine that he would be putting the room to much good… it felt like taking advantage to have a perfectly nice room closed off for his use when it seemed increasingly likely that he would not be displacing himself anywhere besides a dirty school roof.

Despite his poor mood, Harry spent a few minutes sitting on the bed and looking closely around the room, taking in all the details he could. He knew he would have to form a clear memory to travel here and he did the best he could in the short amount of time before his meeting with Professor Dumbledore. When the hour arrived, Harry went downstairs and grabbed a handful of floo powder. He thanked Mrs. Figg again and then disappeared in a rush of green flames.

Dumbledore was waiting for him in his usual chair. “Hello, Harry. It is a pleasure to see you again. I trust you are well?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered while seating himself. “How are you, Professor? Still having trouble finding a decent Defense teacher?”

The headmaster smiled and replied, “Ah, that is an endeavour that appears determined not to bear fruit. We will find someone, however, when the time is right. And how are your practices coming? Have you had any success?”

Harry sighed and glanced around the room. “I did manage to displace myself one more time.”

“Wonderful, Harry! I was certain you would but nevertheless, I am pleased to hear it,” Dumbledore praised, taking a lemon drop from a small tin box on his desk. He offered one to Harry, who declined with a shake of his head. “I can’t help noticing that you don’t seem to be very enthusiastic about your success.”

“Well, it wasn’t really a success,” Harry hedged. “I did displace myself, like I said, but I didn’t end up where I wanted to go.”

Dumbledore smiled at this. “I see. Can I wager a guess as to where you arrived?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s not like it’s a mystery.”

“If you did indeed end up once more on the roof of your school, then I cannot see how this would not be categorized as a success,” the headmaster stated. He gave Harry a pointed look. “Your magic has a way of… rising to the occasion, shall we say? When it is of complete necessity for you to produce extreme or powerful magic, you seem to do so without fail. Your Patronus is a good example of this. While your training with the charm allowed you to achieve moderate success, it is only when faced with a terrible threat to your life — and the lives of your friends — that you were able to produce a corporeal Patronus. To say it is unusual that your first Patronus would be one powerful enough to repel a hundred Dementors would be a severe understatement. It is reasonable to deduce that your compulsion to escape the severing curse inspired your displacement in much the same way. However, unlike with the Patronus Charm, you did not receive any training that would help you master this skill. Recreating its effects without any knowledge on how to do so cannot be easy.”

Harry chewed his lip as he contemplated this. “So, how should I learn, then?”

“You should continue to practice at your leisure. With experience comes proficiency,” Dumbledore instructed sagely. “I would also suggest a study of apparition. Since the disciplines are so similar, I would predict that mastering one would benefit the other. I will send along some books to help you with this, and I shall alter the anti-apparition wards on Privet Drive to allow you — and only you — to pass through them.”

Harry could not help but feel excited at the prospect of learning apparition. He remembered feeling envious last summer watching Fred and George crack around Grimmauld Place and he was anxious to try it himself.

“Are you ready to begin our lesson?” Dumbledore asked. At Harry’s nod, the headmaster folded his hands in his lap serenely. “Very well. Today we will be discussing magical history.”

Harry could not keep his face from falling.

“I see this does not interest you as much as — perhaps — another subject might?” Dumbledore asked mildly. “History is one of the most important subjects you will ever study, Harry. Do not make the mistake that so many before you have made by presuming to ignore the past. Magic is an old discipline… far older than the records we keep on it. It is quite foolhardy to believe that the lessons of our predecessors have no application to our modern lives.”

Harry felt somewhat chastised, but he kept it from showing on his face. “I suppose I don’t really like to think about the past.”

Dumbledore peered at him closely behind his half-moon glasses. “And what of the future, Harry?”

A familiar stir of rebellion began to uncoil in Harry’s stomach and his voice roughened involuntarily. “I can’t say I particularly like to think of that, either.”

“Hm. So the sum of your existence relates only to the present?” questioned Dumbledore in a serious tone. Harry did not respond. “Everything that is happening in the world around us today is a direct result of our actions in the past. And, as it goes, all that will happen in our futures will be determined by our actions today.”

“When I think about the past, I only see things I wish I had changed,” Harry admitted. “And when I think about the future, I only see things I can’t change.”

“Then you see nothing,” Dumbledore responded gently. “Your position is understandable, Harry. But, in time, you must come to terms with your role as a steward of history. There is a muggle saying you may be familiar with: ‘those whom forget to learn from the past are doomed to repeat it’. I know you wish it were not so, but this applies to you far more than most.”

Harry considered this silently and when it became clear he had no response, Dumbledore nodded absently and continued. “I will be choosing subjects for your history research that I believe you will find interesting. I will ask you not to dismiss what you are learning. Although their application may not be obvious, your discovery of the past will perhaps provide some light for your future.”

“I — yes, all right,” Harry reluctantly agreed. He shifted awkwardly in his chair. “Professor, I was hoping that we might—”

“You were hoping,” Dumbledore interrupted gently, “that we might enjoy a more practical study? Again, I ask that you do not dismiss the past. You will find that learning through the trials and errors of others will also improve your magical repertoire. Magic is very old, Harry, and much of it has been lost to crumbling books. I’m sure you can understand what a benefit it might be to remember what others have forgotten.”

Harry’s thoughts drifted to his mother and her study of the Fidelius Charm. Had she learned that from crumbling books? Had she even known what she was looking for when she found it? His heart ached to think of his mother searching desperately for a way to protect her newborn son. Perhaps the past was more relevant than he first thought.

Harry offered no further protest and the lesson began soon after.

~: --------------------------- :~

The weeks following Harry’s first history lesson passed uneventfully. The books that he had been given to study had been a mixture of fascinating accounts of battles and rebellions which he absorbed with relish, and painfully boring expositions on changes in magical society. He imagined that Hermione would be terribly jealous of his reading material, even if he could not always appreciate it.

His Occlumency tutelage was a similar bag of mixed results. His ability to present chosen memories had improved by leaps and bounds and Professor Dumbledore had seemed delighted in both his progress and the occasional bizarre side-effects of his magical focus. However, Harry seemed no more capable of simply blocking his mind to an attack than he ever had. The harder he tried and the more intense his concentration, the worse he seemed to do. For whatever reason, Dumbledore did not seem to find this nearly as frustrating as he did.

Displacement, on the other hand, continued to be a dismal failure. Harry had managed to appear on the roof of his old school four more times before he began to get sick of his seemingly useless skill. His practices waned and he soon turned his attention towards apparition.

True to his word, Dumbledore had provided a short Ministry handbook on the theory and practice of apparition. Harry had studied this with unusual enthusiasm and had quickly memorized the many rules and regulations that would appear on his written test when he was old enough to apply for his apparition license. Privately, Harry thought most of these were rubbish and planned on ignoring them. The ‘recommended safe apparating distance’ in particular seemed unforgivably short. He knew he would go as far as his power would take him, even if he had to splinch himself once or twice to determine how far that might be.

The time to put that to the test was well into the future, however. Harry was still underage and would be until the following summer. Splinching himself would only alert the Ministry to his illegal practicing, so he decided to err on the side of caution for once in his life. Harry studied the theory and the mechanics of apparition with diligence, but he patiently held off on his first attempt until he felt confident would not be leaving any fingers behind – he only had ten and was rather attached to each of them.

After days of study, Harry finally decided that the morning of his birthday would serve for his first attempt at apparition. His birthdays were typically unheralded affairs that were neither mentioned nor enjoyed, and Harry thought it would be a nice change of pace to have something exciting planned for it.

He told Dumbledore of his decision the day before his first attempt just to see what his reaction might be, but the headmaster offered no resistance to the idea. If he had any private thoughts on Harry’s plans, he kept them to himself, sharing only an unreadable smile.

So it was that on the morning of July 31st, Harry was in the Dursleys’ attic, mentally recalling everything he knew about apparition. As he recited the mechanics of the act in his mind, Harry concentrated fervently and allowed his magic to spill over him.

There was a strange, sickening feeling of being sucked through a tube and Harry grimaced before a loud shriek broke him from his concentration. Harry stared uncomprehendingly at his cousin, who was looking back at him in shock and jumping from one foot to the other as if he might soon need to use the loo. The wretched screeching was issuing from him.

“Y-you aren’t allowed!” he cried, his beady eyes wide and afraid. “You can’t use m-m-ma— you aren’t allowed!”

Harry ignored him entirely and looked around the lounge in wonder. A rising sense of accomplishment nearly overwhelmed him. He had done it! He had arrived exactly where he meant to. The corners of his lips turned up in a surprised smile.

Dudley was in a terrible state, and he had moved one of his hands to cover his mouth and the other to hold fretfully onto his buttocks. “How did you—?” he sputtered, but his words were muffled by his palm. “B-but you’re not allowed!”

Harry realised that he must have appeared out of thin air in front of his enormous cousin. In Harry’s opinion, this happy accident made his first success with apparition all the sweeter. He fashioned Dudley with a thoughtful look. “Well, they decided I should be able to practice some things over the summer after what happened with that wizard who broke in. Right now I’m supposed to be learning how to turn people into sausages, but I haven’t found anyone to test it on yet,” Harry stated as blandly as he could manage. He paused afterward and peered at Dudley with sudden interest. “Say…”

His cousin didn’t wait for him to finish his question before he ran from the room screaming, still holding onto his buttocks as if her were desperately afraid a pig’s tail would spring from them at any moment.

Harry felt a brief moment of vindication before he heard his aunt’s shrill voice from the room above him. Obviously, Dudley hadn’t been amused. Aunt Petunia stormed downstairs a moment later and pointed her finger accusingly at Harry.

“What is the meaning of this?” she shrieked, waving her finger. “How dare you use your… unnaturalness… against my son!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I haven’t used any unnaturalness against Dudley. I used magic to travel into the room and he went barmy. I didn’t even know he was there.”

“Apparition?” she asked him stiffly.

Harry stared at her incredulously. “How do you know about apparition? You know an awful lot about magic for someone who hates it so much.”

She straightened and looked at him in disdain. “You’ll not do it in my house.”

“Yes, actually I will,” Harry countered. “I need to practice. If you don’t like it, you’ll have to take it up with Dumbledore.”

Aunt Petunia’s nostrils flared before she turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen. Harry stared after her for a moment, surprised she hadn’t put up more of a fight. He decided not to wait and see if his luck would hold and went quickly upstairs to his room.

Harry practiced apparating himself for the rest of the afternoon with a fair amount of success. He had managed to move from his room to the kitchen and from the kitchen to behind the rose bushes in the garden. After gathering a bit of courage, he even apparated into the closed-off room at Mrs. Figg’s house, nearly knocking over a brass lamp when he arrived. He caught it as it was falling and righted it with a swift motion, feeling thrilled with his success. If only displacement was so easy!

In the wake of his accomplishment, Harry glanced around at the empty room and his spirits seemed to wilt. He was suddenly overcome with a feeling of wanting to share his success with someone else, but of course, he was alone. He briefly thought of the short, strange weeks at Hogwarts after Sirius died, and how he had felt both unspeakably lonely and simultaneously suffocated by all the people around him. Why was it that he always felt like he wanted to be alone except when he actually was?

~: --------------------------- :~

Feeling lonely and melancholy, Harry decided to chance a conversation with Mrs. Figg and spent the remainder of the afternoon serving as a pillow for several oversized cats while Arabella regaled him with tales of her youth. She seemed to take sincere delight in his presence. Harry had again been struck by how different she seemed now that she was no longer acting the part of a reclusive and bitter old woman. It was as if she had taken a great, heavy weight and laid it down after years of dragging it behind her. She seemed younger, more vibrant, and full of a lively bustle that reminded Harry keenly of Mrs. Weasley.

As he listened to her describe her formerly adventurous life in the Order, Harry wondered whether she didn’t secretly resent him, even a little.

When the sun set and Harry could find no excuses to linger, he slowly made his way home, choosing to walk instead of apparate. A look from his aunt set him to work peeling potatoes and soon he and the Dursleys were sitting down to another stony, silent meal. No mention was made of his birthday, but Harry had not expected one. He ate quickly and left as soon as he could, taking the stairs three at a time to get back to his room before any nasty comments could be sent his way. No words followed him, though, and he shut the door behind him without incident.

Inside, Pig was fluttering about drunkenly with a small tin dangling from his leg and Hedwig was waiting for him on his windowsill. Harry pushed his hair out of his eyes and walked across the room to lean against the window frame. He stroked Hedwig’s feathers gently before taking the letter from her beak. He had forgotten that his friends would have likely sent him something for his birthday.

He had expected Hermione’s familiar handwriting, but to his surprise, he instead found a neatly scrawled letter from Remus Lupin. He ignored this when he noticed there was a second piece of parchment affixed to the back, and Harry could see even from this cursory glance that it was a map. His heart raced and he wondered whether Remus had sent him a newer version of the Marauder’s Map, but a thorough look at the hand-drawn document proved this to be false. Instead of the halls of Hogwarts, the map listed towns with strange, Welsh names with too few vowels. And near the middle — printed in bright, scarlet ink — were the words ‘Godric’s Hallow’.

Harry slumped onto his bed and felt something lodge in his throat. He set the map down and turned to the letter. Remus explained that the map was, indeed, to the town in which Harry had been born and provided instructions on how to find the house his parents had lived in. Remus went on to say that he understood completely if Harry never decided to return to Godric’s Hallow, but he felt that he had the right to know where it was in case he ever wished to. The letter ended with brief but sincere congratulations on Harry’s sixteenth birthday and Remus’s now-familiar signature.

Harry picked up the map again and traced the roads and rivers with his fingers before refolding it along with the letter and placing them both in his trunk.

Plucking Pig out of the air with a seeker-trained hand, Harry relieved him of his tin and let the little owl free. Pig seemed to fly a lot straighter without the added weight and zoomed out the window without delay. Harry snapped off the string holding the tin together and inside he found a short note from Ron, (“Happy birthday, Harry! Hope you can come to the Burrow soon!”), a rambling letter from Ginny, and three bags of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans.

Inspecting the bags, Harry tore open the corner of one and plucked out an innocuous-looking green jelly bean. He popped it in his mouth and choked it down awkwardly when he realised it tasted like wet grass.

He set the jelly beans on his desk and felt a surge of pleasure that he had been remembered. He wrote three quick thank you notes (he struggled with the one for Remus before settling on something that sounded as mature and stoic as he could fake) and sent them off with Hedwig. When he was alone in the room again, he fidgeted for a moment and wondered whether Hermione was angry at him for his useless letters. She had stopped writing him a week ago and it seemed she was now going to ignore his birthday.

That proved untrue when he was called down by his aunt some time later to find her glaring at him and holding the lounge phone as if it were a writhing snake.

“It’s for you,” she sneered.

Harry was so shocked that he stood there mutely for a moment. This obviously tried his aunt’s patience and he could see storm clouds building in her eyes. He reached for the phone before she decided to be vindictive and hang up, but she pulled it away before he could take it.

“I’ll not have your little friends ringing you here at all hours, tying up our phone,” she stated darkly in a near-whisper. “Vernon gets important calls from work and Dudley is very popular around the neighbourhood.”

Harry worked to keep his face straight at this laughable pronouncement. The only person in their neighbourhood less popular than Dudley was Harry, himself, and that was only because all of his neighbours believed he was a street thug who attended St. Brutus’s Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys.

He nodded to appease her and she handed him the phone with a look of pure disdain before disappearing into the kitchen.

“Hullo?”

“Harry! I’m so pleased I got through! I wasn’t sure your aunt was going to let you talk to me – she really was quite rude – but here you are! Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice!”

Harry recognised Hermione’s happy voice at once. He felt something like relief swell inside his chest. She certainly didn’t sound like she was angry at him.

“Hermione!” he cut her off, amused at her enthusiasm. “Hullo, then.”

“Hello!” she repeated with a laugh. “I’m sorry. It’s so strange speaking to you over the phone.”

“It is,” he agreed. “How did you get this number?”

“I asked Ron for it. I remembered you saying he tried to ring you once and it ended up a disaster, but I thought I might have better luck.”

“Well, you’re not screaming into the mouthpiece, so that’s already a huge improvement.”

Hermione laughed and he heard rustling on her end. “Yes, of course. Oh, Harry, how have you been? Your letters have been so… well—”

Harry felt a familiar squirm of guilt. “I’ve been… all right.”

“That was a silly question,” she sighed. “I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. And now you’re stuck in that awful house…”

She trailed off and Harry leaned back against the wall, uncomfortable. “It’s not— well, I mean, yeah, it is a bit rubbish here. But how have you been? How’s your summer?”

There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the phone and Harry wasn’t sure whether she hadn’t hung up. “Are you still there?” he asked hesitantly.

“Oh, Harry, I wish you didn’t live with those dreadful people,” she finally responded. Her voice was very soft and he had to work to hear her. “And I’m sure my summer has been much better than yours.”

Harry couldn’t help but feel awkward with this line of conversation. He grasped for a new topic. “So… are you going on vacation with your family this year?”

He heard a chair leg scrape and he imagined her sitting down in her parents’ kitchen. “Yes. My parents are taking me to Greece.”

“Greece! I reckon that will be excellent. All those museums – I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”

“Let’s not talk about that. Oh! I can’t believe I haven’t said happy birthday yet. That’s why I called you today. I— I thought it might be nice.”

“It was nice,” Harry agreed. “Thank you.”

“And I wasn’t sure whether I would be able to get an owl to you in time. I thought I might have to rent one from Diagon Alley,” she continued to explain. “Oh, have you heard? About Errol?”

“Errol? No. Did something happen?”

“Oh, Harry, I’m afraid he passed away. Mrs. Weasley sent Pig over with a note about it the day before yesterday. The poor thing…”

Harry didn’t know what to say to this. “Oh.”

“Yes. He was just so old. He must have been very tired… he was still delivering letters up until last week. And now Pig has been working doubly hard to try to deliver all of the Weasley’s post without Errol to help him and I didn’t feel right asking to borrow him to send you your present, so I thought I might try ringing you this year.”

“You didn’t have to,” Harry said.

“Oh, of course I did! It’s your sixteenth birthday,” Hermione retorted as if it were the most obvious thing. “And I have my present for you up in my room. I’ll send it before we leave.”

“When are you going?”

“Well, our plane leaves the same day you’re going to Grimmauld Place...”

Harry froze and his heart felt as if it had dropped down into the vicinity of his trainers. “Grimmauld Place?”

“Harry,” she began, clearly hesitant, “hadn’t you heard?”

“Heard what? That I’m going to Grimmauld Place? No, actually, I hadn’t,” Harry responded stonily. Why was it that everyone else always knew his schedule before he did? And why did he have to go there? He would have hardly believed it, but the idea of going to Sirius’s old home was even less appealing to him than staying with the Dursleys.

“Harry, I’m so sorry,” Hermione said breathily. “I only heard – well, Mrs. Weasley said that’s where you’re going. She could be wrong—”

“No. Right. It makes sense,” Harry stated, cutting off whatever she was saying. He rubbed his chin with his free hand and breathed hard through his nose. His eyes felt itchy. “Very safe there, and all that. Listen — I just remembered — I was supposed to finish up something for Aunt Petunia. I really need to be going, but it was very nice to speak with you.”

“Harry—”

“Got to be off, then. Have a good time in Greece, Hermione. I’ll see you on the train.”

Harry hung up the phone.

Feeling sick with himself, he stalked up to his room before his aunt could question him about who had bothered to ring him.

Upon entering, he noticed a long, thin package wrapped in green paper sitting innocently in the middle of his bed. He glanced around the room but saw no hint of where the package might have come from. There were no owls except Hedwig and she was sitting in the exact spot he had left her, seemingly dozing.

Hermione couldn’t have sent her present here this fast — not unless she was messing about with time-turners again — and Harry couldn’t imagine that she would be in much of a hurry to send him anything now. Not after how he treated her on the phone. And yet, he could not think of anyone else who might have reason to send him something.

Wondering what it could be, Harry picked up the oddly shaped package. He was startled by how heavy it was. Careful not to drop it, Harry turned it over and began to tear away the paper it was wrapped in. Inside was a long, wooden box with a cream-coloured card. Harry removed it and read:

Dear Harry,

I purchased this as a very young man and have enjoyed its simple entertainment for many years.

I have long wished to pass it on to someone I cared for and I’m very pleased that it will now find itself in your possession.

Happy birthday.

Yours sincerely,

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

Curious, Harry set the letter down and opened the brass catch on the wooden box. Inside, there was a long, silver cylinder and an empty, old fashioned bottle. For a strange moment, Harry thought his headmaster might have given him a cocktail mixer.

Unsure, Harry removed the clear bottle and turned it over in his hands. It was, as far as he could tell, completely unremarkable. He set the bottle down and lifted the cylinder to examine it. Clearly, this was where the weight of the box came from – it was heavy and solid in his hands.

It looked a bit like an unusual telescope, only there was no glass and no obvious eye-piece. It was solid metal on one end and the other had a hole about the size of a ten pence. Harry pressed his eye to the hole, but it was perfectly black inside and he could see nothing.

Stumped, Harry stared at the odd contraption before picking up the bottle again. He noticed that the neck of the bottle was about the same size as the hole in the cylinder and he began to wonder if perhaps his original assumption about a drink mixer wasn’t too far off.

Feeling a bit silly, Harry pressed the bottle to the opening. Sure enough, the neck of the bottle fitted quite exactly into the hole and a simple twist held it in place. The moment this was done, there was a strange suctioning noise and Harry nearly dropped the thing as a thick, purple mist poured into the bottle from the opening in the cylinder.

Harry watched in surprise and interest as the bottle was filled with the colourful mist. When it seemed the bottle could hold no more, he waited for something else to happen, but nothing seemed forthcoming. Carefully, Harry unlatched the bottle and as soon as it was no longer attached to the cylinder, the mist inside it began to swirl and dissipate into a thin cloud, and then that, too, disappeared. When it did, Harry was shocked to see that the bottle was no longer empty.

A tiny ship — some sort of old-time, wooden sailing corsair — floated and bobbed on an invisible sea in the middle of the bottle. Its miniature sails fluttered and billowed in an imaginary wind and the red and white of the English flag rippled atop its highest mast. Harry could even see the tiny ship wheel adjusting with the movement of the rudder.

It was so intricate, so perfect in every way, that Harry could hardly believe what he was looking at wasn’t a real ship, shrunken and stored in the bottle for safe keeping.

“Brilliant,” he murmured, turning the bottle this way and that to view all the different sides.

He had never seen anything like it. He was reminded of the Quidditch World Cup and his first exposure to the animated models and toys of the magical world. They had amazed him when he first saw them, but they were nothing compared to this.

Harry watched the little ship for a long while, feeling strangely happy that — after all this time — magic could still surprise and delight him. When he began to grow tired, he reluctantly returned the bottle and cylinder to its box and hid it in his trunk before making his way across the hall to the bathroom to ready himself for bed.

~: --------------------------- :~

Just as Hermione had said, the next day Harry received a short note from Mr. Weasley explaining that he would be picked up the following morning and brought to Grimmauld Place. Harry felt a flare of anger that Dumbledore had not delivered this news himself, but it cooled as the day wore on. Instead, he spent most of his final afternoon at Number 4 Privet Drive feeling anxious and resigned.

He could not imagine Grimmauld Place without Sirius and he was certain that the memory of his deceased godfather would haunt every room of that cold, dreary house.

Harry already felt ill thinking about it.

He occupied himself with small tasks for the remainder of the day and tried to put Grimmauld Place out of his mind. He had one final visit with Mrs. Figg in which she hugged him about the shoulders, shocking him rigid before he mumbled a goodbye and made his exit. After that, he finished off the few chores that he had been assigned but not yet completed (Aunt Petunia watched him through the window as he mowed the lawn as if to verify that he was doing it correctly). And last, he began three separate letters to Hermione, all of which he threw away in disgust.

When night fell and he sat down for dinner with the Dursleys, Harry announced that he would be leaving the next day. As he expected, this was met with little resistance except a few cutting remarks from Vernon, who had never been able to let an opportunity to sneer at his nephew pass without taking full advantage of it. Harry felt quite pleased with himself for not rising to these insults. He kept his temper in check and instead sat quietly chewing his meal as if he could not hear his uncle at all. The last thing he needed was to blow up his relatives’ kitchen the night before he was leaving.

After dinner was over and the washing up completed, Harry set off upstairs without a word. When he was alone in his room, he pulled out Dumbledore’s gift and again found himself studying the little ship. He wasn’t sure whether or not it was his imagination, but it seemed to him that it was moving slightly slower today. Perhaps it needed to be recharged with that mist every once in a while?

Harry had been so intent that he did not notice that his door was now open and his aunt was standing in the entryway until she startled him by speaking.

“When you leave, is the house still protected?”

Harry looked at her in some surprise. “What do you mean?”

“You come here every summer and then you leave. Dumbledore said it’s for protection,” she said stiffly. “When you leave, are we still protected?”

Harry set down his ship. He had not failed to notice that her concern for the protection did not extend to him. “Yes. Well… I believe so, yes.”

“How can I be sure that this protection works?” she asked coldly.

“Do you think it’s a trick?” Harry responded just as coolly. “It’s a poor one, if that. Why would I come back to this place every year if I didn’t have to?”

She raised a thinly-plucked eyebrow. “We could have left you in an orphanage. We could have left you in the street!”

“I wish you would have done!” Harry growled.

“How does the protection work?” she asked swiftly, completely ignoring his outburst. “If they come in the house like before and you’re not here to—” at this she stopped and waved her hand vaguely. “What does the protection do?”

“They can’t come in the house. That’s part of the protection.”

“Do you think I’m simple?” Aunt Petunia shrieked, stepping fully into the room and shutting the door behind her. “There was one in our house not a month ago! Did you think I would forget? That because I don’t have magic, I would be too stupid to recall?”

“Are you mad? I never said anything like that!” Harry defended fiercely. “And last month was a one off thing... it won’t happen again.”

“Oh?” she sneered, her voice dropping into a deathly whisper. “If one can get in, so can others. He was in our house. He was among my family.”

Harry struggled for a response to this. He felt a headache forming behind his eyes. “Look. I can’t really explain what happened then, but the people who killed my mother – they can’t get in. The protection stops them.”

“Don’t mention her name to me!”

“I didn’t mention her name!” Harry snarled. “But she’s still my mother! She was your sister! She did exist!”

“She’s dead! She is dead and rotting in a grave somewhere because of you and your kind!” Petunia shrilled. She was nearly shaking with some buried emotion. “You people with your magic – you walk into peoples’ homes and you kill them. You kill them because we are nothing to you. Because you think you’re better than us.”

“I’m not one of them,” Harry spat. His voice was a cold rumble. “We’re not all the same. Do you think I don’t hate them? Do you think I don’t want them dead for what they did to me – to my parents?”

The air seemed to crackle with energy and Harry’s things began to shake and rattle. He breathed deeply through his nose to calm himself while his aunt watched him wordlessly.

“Someday, I’ll find them,” he continued after a long moment. “Or maybe they’ll find me. And when it happens, you’ll see exactly how different we are. But it won’t be here. The protection stops them from finding this house. So if that’s what you’re so concerned about… you can get over it.”

Petunia said nothing and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

6. Old Haunts

Chapter 6: Old Haunts

Harry awoke to a sound from downstairs. It was very dark in his room and a sleepy glance at his bed-side clock revealed the time to be a quarter to four in the morning. He was alert immediately. None of the Dursleys would be up at this hour and there was no reasonable explanation for sounds from downstairs. He quickly dressed, grabbed his wand, and crept from his bedroom into the hall.

Light from the full moon poured in from the windows and Harry found he could see quite clearly. He hunched over and made his way silently to the top of the stairs before he heard a familiar, feminine voice cursing violent oaths from below.

Harry stood up to his full height and lowered his wand. At the base of the stairs, Nymphadora Tonks appeared to be wrestling with the Dursleys’ coat stand. He watched her curiously for a moment before she seemed to free herself and stepped back, banging into the wall behind her.

“Bloody, buggery, effing-eff-eff!” she swore before looking up and catching sight of Harry. “Wotcher, Harry! Sorry about the language.”

“What language? ‘Effing-eff-eff’?”

Tonks smirked and jerked her thumb back at a wizard who was standing in the shadows behind her. Harry hadn’t noticed him before, still as he was, but he now recognised the tall form of Kingsley Shacklebolt. “Got to watch myself around this one,” Tonks joked.

Kingsley greeted him with a nod just as he had done the night of the fiasco with Mundungus. Harry returned it with some confusion and walked down the stairs to join them. “What are you two doing here?” he asked. “It’s three in the morning... did something happen?”

“Come to take you to Grimmauld, of course!” Tonks answered cheerfully. “You’re looking tall! Get hit with a stretching jinx, did you?”

“No,” Harry said dumbly and she grinned at the odd look on his face.

With a shake of her head, her hair changed from the neon blue it had previously been into a pure, inky black that matched his shade exactly. Then it began to lengthen from its short, spiky style until the fringe of it was just falling over her eyes, which had morphed to a shocking green. Harry blinked at her and she laughed before changing back.

“Sorry, Harry – couldn’t help myself,” she said jauntily.

A light switched on upstairs and Harry could hear the Dursleys beginning to move around. They had obviously heard something and were getting ready to make a snit.

Kingsley swept past him and disappeared up the stairs and the light promptly went out. Harry felt relieved – he had no desire to deal with his aunt again. He hadn’t spoken to her since their confrontation earlier and he hoped to avoid her until he left.

“Let’s get your stuff together,” Tonks said and followed him upstairs to his room.

“Why are you here so early?” Harry asked as he began to quickly arrange his linens and pillow into some semblance of neatness.

“Dumbledore’s orders,” she replied swiftly, looking around his room. “He wants us to fly while it’s still dark.”

Harry stood up and faced her. “Fly? I haven’t a broom anymore. Umbridge,” he spat the name as if it were a curse, “confiscated mine last year and I haven’t seen it since.”

“No problem! Got your stick right here!” Tonks announced and stuck her hand into the front pocket of her battered Auror’s robes. She pulled out what was clearly a tiny broomstick and pointed her wand at it. “Engorgio!”

The broom rapidly enlarged until it was back to its normal size and Harry felt a thrill go through him at seeing his Firebolt again. It had been a present from Sirius, and it meant more to him now than perhaps it ever had. He took it from her carefully and ran his fingers over the polished wood handle.

“Thank you,” he breathed. “I— well, I really thought I had seen the last of it. Sirius gave it to me, and I… I’m glad to have it back.”

She had a sort of far-away look on her face, but she nodded to show she understood. “Listen – it’s been a bit of a rotten time of it for you, I know. Hasn’t been much better for us Aurors, either. Lots of plonkers keep sending in reports that they’ve just seen You-Know-Who in the women’s loo at Hickum and Twisp’s. It’s a nightmare, really!” she declared. “But it’s better now that everyone knows he’s back, even if people think he’s taken to haunting toilets.”

“Do you like being an Auror?” Harry asked suddenly. “I’ve thought that I might want to be one… after I graduate.”

“Yeah! It’s a lot of revising to make the scores to get in—,” she began and Harry must have made a face because she sent him a commiserating look, “yeah, less than fun, I know — but it’s a rugged job! Hey, maybe I’ll be your boss someday, Harry? Order you around a bit? That’d be a laugh!”

Harry smiled at her and began collecting his books. Tonks waved him aside and cast the same packing spell that she had done last year. All of his things promptly seated themselves in his trunk. It wasn’t neat — he knew he would probably have to repack it before he went to Hogwarts — but it was certainly efficient and Harry looked on with interest. Once everything was inside, she shut the clasp of the trunk, gave a flick of her wand and said, “Deminuo!”

Instantly, the trunk shrunk down until it could easily fit in the palm of Harry’s hand. He tucked it into his pocket and made a mental note to remember that particular incantation.

Once Hedwig was set free and her cage was shrunk and settled in his pocket, Harry tugged on his trainers and looked at Tonks expectantly.

“Ready to go?” she asked as she surveyed the room one final time to be sure they hadn’t missed anything

He nodded and together they made their way downstairs and out onto the lawn where Kingsley was waiting patiently. He held two broomsticks, one of which he handed to Tonks.

Harry looked around the empty street and wondered whether there were other wizards nearby, watching them. “Are we waiting for some sort of signal?”

Tonks made a scoffing noise and shook her head. “Nah, Moody isn’t here, this time. No fancy signal-sparks, no doubling back – thank Merlin for it, too. I nearly froze solid last time. My arse was pink for days!”

She mounted her broom and promptly kicked off into the air.

Kingsley stepped in front of Harry and offered him an enigmatic smile before instructing him to hold still and tapping him on the top of his head with his wand. Harry immediately felt the familiar cold, dripping sensation of a disillusionment charm being placed on him and watched in fascination as his skin and clothes began to mimic the colours and textures of the street around him.

“Nice one, Kingsley!” Tonks complimented from where she was hovering above them. “I nearly forgot!”

Kingsley nodded once more at Harry before mounting his own broom and rising smoothly beside her.

Harry’s Firebolt seemed to hum in his hand and he took one last look at the Dursleys’ house before he too was in the air, and soon the three figures were mere specks on the horizon and Privet Drive was quiet once more.

~: --------------------------- :~

Harry grinned and leaned forward on his broom handle, hurtling across the sky above London. They had been flying for close to an hour now and were making much better time than their previous trip.

Looking down, he could see the twinkling whites and yellows of the city lights spread out like a vast spider’s web beneath him. The air was clear tonight, and with no clouds to spoil it, Harry savoured a view he knew few would ever see.

He cocked his head and glanced back at Tonks and Kingsley to see they were struggling to keep up. With a quick tug on the handle, Harry manoeuvred his broom in a sharp, twisting loop that brought him neatly behind his escorts.

Tonks looked back to grin at him and pointed to a spot on the ground far below. “That’s the place! Get ready to descend!” she shouted over the rush of the wind. “And don’t faff about – we don’t want any muggles to see!”

Harry shifted his weight and, for a brief moment, all he could see was the moon and stars above him before he flipped backward and began a sharp dive. The air seemed to part around him as he plunged towards the ground. As the pavement rushed up to meet him, Harry braced his feet on their pegs and pulled hard on the very tip of his broom. With not a foot to spare, he leveled out and shot forward along the empty street before coming to a languid stop just in front of Number 11 Grimmauld Place.

Feeling exhilarated from the flight, Harry stepped off his broom and slung it over his shoulder. His hands were numb from the biting wind of the dive. Harry clenched them into fists and watched impassively as the dour façade of Number 12 appeared in front of him, pushing apart the two rotting houses to either side of it.

The old stone steps, the silver doorknocker… it was all exactly as he remembered. But the house’s master was dead, and Harry knew the ‘Most Ancient and Noble House of Black’ was now nothing more than words and history.

The ill feeling from earlier made itself at home again somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach.

“Bugger me, Harry! Where’d you learn to fly like that?” Tonks asked as she landed beside him. “Thought you were trying to off yourself for a minute there!”

Kingsley landed silently on Harry’s other side and his wand was in his hand before he had even stepped off his broom. He seemed to peer up and down the street as if checking if there were any Death Eaters lurking around before he straightened up and cancelled Harry’s disillusionment charm.

Through their windows, Harry could see muggles moving around inside their houses, and without the charm, he knew they could see him, too, if they cared to look.

“Should we go in, then?” Harry asked. He congratulated himself mentally on how even and undisturbed his voice had sounded. He wanted desperately not to make a fool of himself here. He couldn’t deal with anyone’s pity. “Best do – it’s pretty bright out here. I think the sun’s coming up soon.”

Tonks gave him a queer look before she tucked her broom under her arm and nodded. “Right. Let’s go.”

Harry followed her silently up the stone steps and onto the porch with Kingsley trailing behind them. She stopped in front of the black-painted door and nodded her head towards it. “Well, give it a tap, then.”

Harry looked at her in confusion. “What?”

“The door, Harry. Give it a tap with your wand,” she instructed, rearranging her broom in her arms. “Remus is inside — he can still get in just fine, it turns out — but Dumbledore thinks you might be able to open it, too. Thought it best if you give it a try.”

Harry felt something inside of him squirm and the ill feeling intensified. Had Sirius keyed him into the wards?

Summoning his reserve, Harry pulled his wand from his pocket and jabbed it at the silver, serpent-faced doorknocker a bit harder than necessary. Sure enough, several loud, metallic clicks sounded behind the door and it swung open with an agonizing creak.

A cold, rush of air swept past them, and, if anything, the house seemed even less welcoming now than it had when the door was closed.

“Guess it worked,” Tonks mumbled. She fidgeted with her broom again and it suddenly occurred to Harry that she probably didn’t want to be there any more than he did. Sirius had been her cousin. They may not have known each other well, but Harry could not honestly say he had known Sirius well, either – and he knew better than most that blood could be a powerful tie.

At that moment, he felt like he wanted to say something to her — to apologise, maybe — but the only thing that he could get past his lips was a subdued, “All right there?”

She looked startled for a moment, before quirking a half-hearted smirk. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? Come on – let’s get inside.”

The three of them stepped over the threshold and the sweet, damp smell of rotting wood immediately assaulted them. As they walked through the narrow hall, the gas lamps that hung from their sconces sputtered to life and sent shadows dancing across the walls.

Besides their footsteps — which sounded strange and muted on the timeworn carpet — the house was silent.

They stopped in the kitchen, which, as far as Harry could tell in the dim light, was a bit warmer and cleaner than the entry hall. He would even go as far as to say that it looked moderately lived in. Tonks stepped up behind him and stuck out her hand.

“Give your things here,” she said. “I’ll put ‘em back to the right size.”

Harry fished out his trunk and Hedwig’s cage from his pocket and dutifully handed them over. Tonks set them on the floor and restored them to their proper size before returning her wand to her robe pocket. She swept a cobweb off her shoulder and gave a significant look towards the closed door in the corner of the kitchen. It was reinforced with a heavy, wooden slat – clearly a new addition.

“Remus is down in the basement,” she announced, nodding at the door. “That time of month, you know, so steer clear. If I were you, I’d head upstairs and have a kip. Nothing else to do here at the moment.”

“Harry,” Kingsley addressed. “We will leave you here now. Nymphadora and I—” Tonks made a strangled noise in the back of her throat at the use of her given name, “—must return to the Ministry. We are due to begin our work very soon. Dumbledore has asked me to tell you that you must remain within this house. He will provide you with more information soon.”

“You’re going?” Harry asked sharply. “Is there anyone else here besides Remus?”

Tonks gave him a sympathetic look. “Afraid not, Harry. I don’t blame you for wanting company, either. This place gives me the creeps. Cor, I almost forgot! You have to remember to open that door for Remus after the sun rises. He can’t get out otherwise. He’ll have you shut him in again once it gets close to sunset. We’ll see you soon!”

She gave him a jaunty salute with her wand before she and Kingsley disappeared back into the hallway and out of the house.

Harry stood quietly in the empty kitchen as he listened to them go. He could not help but feel abandoned and melancholy. Angry at himself for letting the situation get to him, Harry crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall behind him. He idly wondered how he would possibly make it through the rest of the summer here without going mad.

~: --------------------------- :~

The sun’s rising at Number 12 Grimmauld Place was not easily noticed. None of the windows in the decrepit house faced east and the light that managed to trickle through them was muted and discoloured from the decades of grime and dirt.

In the dim light, Harry felt like a burglar.

He had spent the first hour after he had arrived quietly stalking up and down stairs, opening and closing doors, and leaving his fingerprints on the dusty furniture. The feeling of being somewhere he didn’t belong — of intrusion — had settled coldly inside of him. It reminded him keenly of looking out from his cupboard at a home and a family that he knew he did not belong to.

Worst of all, Sirius was everywhere. He was leaning back in his chair in the dining room… he was peeling off sheets of rotting wallpaper in the foyer… he was drawing pale fingers across ancient tapestries. Harry did his best to ignore these flashes of memory, but they were always there, waiting on the edges of his mind.

Harry made his way back to the kitchen. His trunk and Hedwig’s cage were still on the floor near the table and he decided he ought to put them away before opening the basement door for Remus.

He gripped the handle of his trunk and hauled it up onto his back, leaning forward to help support the weight, and began the arduous trek up to the second floor landing. He was careful to be as quiet as possible when he passed the covered portrait of Mrs. Black, but beneath her curtains, he could hear her muttering, “Creepers creeping inside my house, creepers are creeping where they ought not be…”

When he reached the door to the bedroom Ron and he had shared last summer, he paused and adjusted his grip on the trunk handle. Mrs. Black’s grumbling had reminded him that another portrait hung on the wall just inside this door, this one of the old Hogwarts headmaster, Phineas Nigellus. Harry hesitated before moving on. He made his way up one more floor where he found several old bedrooms with their doors swung wide. After checking each for unwanted portraits, he settled on one and set his trunk down inside.

Every step Harry took left a dark footprint on the dusty, wood floor. It was clear that no one had been in here for ages. The walls were decorated in faded green wallpaper printed with drawings of great beasts and the bed was made with a matching duvet. The bed itself was of a rich, dark wood and there was a canopy over it, but the curtains had been removed.

On the far side of the room, a wooden shutter covered a tall, thin window and Harry moved to open it. He found it jammed and tried a little more force, but instead of the shutter opening, the slat he had been gripping broke off in his hand, revealing a narrow shaft of light. Harry clenched his fist around the broken piece of wood. He peered at it guiltily for a moment before using it as a jimmy to prise the shutter. When it came free with a squealing creak, he forced open the window behind it with a hard rap from his knuckles. The room was immediately bathed in the pale, bluish light of very early morning.

The light altered the very character of the room and the oppressive, moody atmosphere seemed to dissipate. On a whim, Harry stuck his head out the window and breathed deeply before heading back downstairs to retrieve his broom and cage.

When he returned with them a short while later, his owl was waiting for him on the windowsill.

“Hedwig!” Harry called, immensely relieved to see her. He set down his things and went to stroke her feathers. “You made it.”

After a few minutes of this attention, Harry attended to her food and water before returning downstairs reluctantly. It was past time to open the basement door.

He felt anxious about seeing Remus within the confines of Grimmauld Place, but he was smart enough to realise that Remus would likely be feeling the same way.

It took a bit of arm strength to lift the wooden slat from its brace, but Harry managed without much difficulty and set it aside. Standing at the door, he wondered whether he should knock or call out before going inside. Harry finally decided on doing both, but he received no response and began to feel uneasy. He knocked again, louder this time from using the bottom of his fist, but still there was no answer.

Harry began to feel genuinely concerned and he pulled open the door warily. Light from the kitchen spilt into the narrow stairwell in front of him, but even so, Harry could not see to the bottom through the darkness. He took his wand in his hand and was about to cast a Lumos spell before he remembered that he shouldn’t. Instead, he stepped back out into the kitchen and grabbed one of the flickering oil lamps from its sconce on the wall.

Lamp in hand, Harry made his way down the stairs. They emptied into a narrow, cluttered room that seemed to run the length of the house. Old furniture, portraits, boxes, and bottles were scattered across the rotting floor and in the yellow light from the lamp, Harry could see that nearly everything was smashed beyond repair.

He took a step forward and something crunched loudly beneath his trainer. A quick glance down revealed that the floor was littered with the small, yellowed skeletons of rats.

“Harry?” a voice called out from further down and Harry held his lamp up to see.

“It’s me, Professor,” Harry replied. “Are you all right?”

Harry could hear footsteps approaching and soon Remus Lupin appeared at the edge of the lamplight. His face was badly scratched and his threadbare robes were partially shredded. He looked tired and very thin.

“Yes, of course. I’m so glad you made it here safely,” Remus greeted. His gaze shifted towards the floor and the piles of small bones. “You didn’t have to come down here, Harry… I didn’t mean for you to see this.”

“I know you’re a werewolf, Professor,” Harry stated bluntly. “It doesn’t bother me.”

Remus smiled and gripped Harry’s shoulder in gratitude. “Well – I suppose we should head back upstairs. I could certainly do with some breakfast.”

Harry’s stomach rumbled in agreement. He had not eaten since the previous day.

They walked up the stairs together and Harry replaced the lamp in its sconce. Despite the time of day, the kitchen was still dreary and dark and the extra light was welcome.

Remus waved off Harry’s attempts at help with the cooking and soon the two were sitting down to a meal of warm eggs and toast.

“Professor, I called down earlier but there wasn’t a response,” Harry asked in between bites. “Did you not hear me?”

“Into the basement, you mean?” Remus clarified. “There are silencing spells all over the room. I’m afraid I can kick up an awful racket when the change is on me.”

Harry frowned at this. “But Professor – what if something happens? If you hurt yourself or something goes wrong? How would I know to come downstairs and help?”

A very serious expression settled on Remus’s face. “Harry, you must never go into the basement during a full moon. Not under any circumstances. I’m perfectly safe down there.”

Harry rolled his shoulder in a non-response and went back to eating his eggs.

When they were finished, Harry made short work of the dishes and, in silent agreement, the two moved into the drawing room. The Black Family tapestry seemed to draw Harry’s eyes against his will and he stared at it solemnly.

“I know it pains you to be here, Harry,” Remus began gently. “But, I must confess, I was very much looking forward to your company. And Sirius… before he… well—”

“Before he was killed,” Harry supplied dully. The low sound of his own voice seemed to startle him and he pulled his gaze away from the tapestry.

Remus, too, seemed slightly startled, but he nodded and continued as if Harry hadn’t spoken. “Before he died, he talked with me often. He had so many plans for you and this house. He wanted to tear the whole thing down and start from scratch, you see. He had hoped you might help him. And when the home was finished, he had planned on bequeathing it to you. Harry, in his will, Sirius left you—”

“Don’t!” Harry interrupted fiercely. “Please don’t. I don’t want this house. I couldn’t stand it if he gave it to me.”

Remus tried to place a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder, but Harry shook him off and stood up. He paced the room and Remus watched him sadly. “Harry, he wanted you to have it. What happened wasn’t your fault.”

Harry stopped pacing and stood quietly in front of the tapestry. He seemed to take a moment to collect himself before he spoke again. “What was he like?”

Remus looked surprised by this question. “Sirius? You knew him, Harry. I think you knew him well.”

“I’m not so sure,” Harry murmured. “I feel like I wasted so much time talking to him about useless things instead of asking him important questions or thoughtful questions. And now I feel like I hardly knew him at all.”

Remus stood up and this time there was no resistance when he placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Harry, you knew the important things. You knew his character. You knew his passion and the depth of his caring. You knew his loyalty to his friends and his bravery in the face of his enemies. Those are the things that made Sirius the person he was.”

Harry felt like something might break inside of him and he could not bear to stay in that room another minute. He gave an awkward, stilted excuse about needing to unpack before he turned and disappeared up the stairs.

7. Masquerade

Chapter 7: Masquerade

Harry whiled away the morning in his room. He read a few pages in each of his books, although little of what he read stuck in his mind. He jotted down a few sentences for some of his essays, but could not find the motivation to finish them. Mostly, he shuffled through the things in his trunk and rearranged them into neat piles.

Several hours passed before he emerged again. By then, the sun was dipping into mid afternoon and his clothes were grey from the dust that covered the floor of his room.

Harry felt much more himself for the time spent alone.

He could hear Remus moving around at the end of the hall and Harry followed the sound quietly. When he arrived at the room where the noises were originating, he knocked softly and was promptly invited in.

“I was hoping you might come and find me,” Remus said kindly. He was standing in front of an open closet and there were clothes and boxes stacked at his feet. He offered Harry an understanding smile and waved him closer. “Come in, come in. I’m just going through some of Sirius’s old things.”

Harry looked around the unremarkable room in surprise. There was a wide bed, a desk and two chairs, but no other furniture. The only decoration was a rather bland painting of a lagoon at nighttime that hung above the bed. “This is Sirius’s room, Professor?”

“Yes, Harry, it was,” Remus confirmed before giving him a look. “And how many times must I ask you to call me Remus?”

Harry closed one eye and shrugged. “I’ll try to remember.”

Remus smiled as if he had expected this sort of answer. “Well, perhaps in the future, then.”

Harry toed a pile of woolen, black garments. “Was all of this stuff his?”

“Yes. I remember him wearing a lot of these things when we were in Hogwarts together,” Remus explained fondly. “He was always a bit of a clothes horse. He didn’t much care for having to wear the school uniforms. He’d add patches to them just to be different.”

Harry could imagine this and the corner of his lip turned up. “Sounds like Sirius.”

“Yes, yes. Ah! I was looking for these,” Remus announced, pulling something from the floor of the closet and spelling the dust off with his wand. “He used to wear them everywhere he went.”

Remus’s fingers were curled around the tall uppers of a pair of soft, leather boots. They looked to Harry like the kind worn by regiment soldiers in the nineteenth century.

“Why is it that wizards are always wearing clothes that went out of style a century ago?” Harry blurted.

Remus looked between him and the boots in honest confusion. “What are you talking about, Harry? These are quite sophisticated and are certainly still in fashion. Perhaps you should try them on?”

“I can’t wear those,” Harry stated dubiously. “I’d look like I was half-dressed for a Queen’s polo match.”

Remus eyed Harry’s current outfit — battered, holey jeans coated with dust and a hand-me-down T-shirt three sizes too large — and raised a sceptical eyebrow. Harry flushed at the obvious implication.

“I’m not sure what a ‘polo match’ is, but I do think you could benefit from wearing clothes that are tailored a bit better. Perhaps it is muggles that wear clothes that are out of fashion – not wizards and witches? It’s all a matter of perspective, I suppose,” Remus said.

“I don’t dress like a regular muggle,” Harry explained. “Well… that’s not technically true. Muggles wear clothes like I do, but they’re usually much nicer. Everything I own once belonged to Dudley.”

Understanding seemed to flare in Remus’s eyes, but there was no pity there. Harry supposed he knew better than most about the concept of hand-me-downs. “I see. Well, that’s all the more reason why you should try these on. Sirius was a much closer match to your frame than your cousin.”

Remus held out the boots again and Harry took them reluctantly. He rubbed his fingers over them. The leather felt supple and well-cared for. “Remus, I’m not sure—”

“Harry,” Remus interrupted gently. “Don’t think on it. Sirius would have loved this, of that I am certain.”

Harry shifted and sat down on the bed. He toed off his ratty trainers and carefully tugged on the boots. His jeans were large enough that they fell over the uppers without issue, but the leather felt strange on the bare skin of his legs.

“They’re really supposed to go on the outside of your trousers, but I suppose that might be impossible with the ones you’re wearing,” Remus said warmly. “Well, go on then, Harry. Stand up and let’s see.”

Harry did as he asked and paced the length of the room under Remus’s watchful eye. The boots were comfortable and certainly fit better than his old trainers. However, even without looking in a mirror, Harry was certain that the boots looked absurdly out-of-date. “I’m telling you, no muggles wear anything like this anymore,” Harry reiterated.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re a wizard then, because they’re very fine on you,” Remus declared before turning back towards the closet. “Let’s see if we can’t find a few more things you might like.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Harry said uncomfortably. He looked critically at Remus’s own threadbare robes. “And what about you, Professor? Wouldn’t Sirius like you to have some of these things?”

Remus poked his head back and smiled. “He tried many times. I’ve taken a few of the plainer robes and will have them altered to fit me, but Sirius’s colouring and my own are very different. I’m afraid black makes me look quite pale and gaunt. You, on the other hand, nearly match him exactly.”

“Remus, why are you doing this?” Harry asked suddenly.

Remus turned around to give him his full attention. He seemed to consider his answer for a moment before speaking. “Sirius always hated you being in the care of your relatives. He was constantly in Dumbledore’s ear about letting you come live with him. I believe — and Harry, I say this with all the love I have for him — but I believe he sometimes confused you with James. For you to live in that house reminded him fiercely of his own situation here with his mother. Your father took him in and gave him a refuge from this place. That Sirius could not provide you with the same seemed to him like a personal failing against his best friend.

“I was here with him for much of last year while completing my duties with the Order and Sirius and I spoke often. He had all these grand ideas for you… he wanted to take you to his favourite pub… he wanted to teach you how to ride a motorbike… he wanted to show you all the places he’d been and all the things he’d seen. And more than anything, he wanted to bring you here and induct you into the Order so you could fight together, as partners and friends.

“Everything he had, he wanted to share with you – just as your father had done for him. I suppose that a part of me wants to honour his memory by following through on some of his wishes.

“And — if I were to be perfectly honest with myself — I think I might be guilty of the same sin that he was. Harry, you remind me of your father, but you perhaps remind me of Sirius even more. And your mother — ah, Harry — there’s so much of her in you. I see her every time I look into your eyes. Lily… she would have been heartsick to see that things have turned out this way…”

Remus trailed off and then shook his head as if to clear it. “Yes, I do believe I am also guilty,” he finally continued. “I want your life to be better than it is, and Sirius wanted you to have these things. There’s no reason to feel bad for taking them.”

Harry contemplated this in silence. He was feeling so many things that it was hard for him to pin them down. He managed a nod but could not think of anything to say.

Remus smiled at him softly and stepped back into the closet. He emerged a few moments later with his arms full of clothes and laid them out neatly on the bed. Harry peered at them doubtfully. “I believe you skipped lunch and it’s already getting close to supper. I think I’ll head downstairs and whip something up—”

“I can help,” Harry cut in, hoping to get out of trying on clothes. “I’m actually a fair cook.”

“No, that’s quite all right, Harry,” Remus dismissed. He gestured to the clothes. “I’ll just leave these here. Why don’t you have a look through and see if you can’t find something to match your taste? When you’re finished, just come down and we’ll eat.”

~: --------------------------- :~

When Harry appeared downstairs some time later, Remus nearly dropped his spoon. He looked so much like Sirius when he was younger – it was remarkable.

“Wonderful, Harry!” Remus declared. “A vast improvement, I have to say.”

Harry fidgeted with the cuff on his sleeve. He felt ridiculous and fancy, but didn’t have the heart to say so when he saw Remus’s shining face. “I didn’t take much. Just a few trousers and shirts.”

“And a coat, I hope. Sirius would never set foot outside without a long coat if he could help it.”

Harry looked sceptical. “Bit warm for a coat, isn’t it?”

Remus laughed. “Trust me – that never stopped him. Well, you can pick one out after supper. I hope you’re hungry. I made extra.”

Harry rolled his sleeves up his forearms and sat down obediently. Remus served him a bowl of thick stew and a glass of pumpkin juice before sitting down to his own meal. He smiled to himself every once in a while as he ate and Harry peered at him curiously.

“You seem awfully pleased about something,” Harry noted.

Remus looked up and nodded amicably. “I am, Harry. Sirius would have loved to see this. And personally, I’m quite happy to see you out of those tattered clothes. You’re going to be a full-grown wizard soon – best you start to dress the part.”

They ate in silence for a while before Harry set down his spoon.

“Professor, I’ve been thinking,” he announced. His face was very serious. “I’d like you to have the house. If Sirius did leave it to me… well, I’d rather it were yours.”

Remus cleared his throat. “That’s very kind of you, Harry, but— ”

“No, please listen,” Harry interrupted. “I think it would be best. You’re the last of the Marauders – it seems right.”

“Harry, there’s more to this house than just walls and foundation,” Remus explained softly. “This is the ancestral home of the Blacks – and Sirius was the last of his line. You, too, are the last of yours. By living here — by accepting what Sirius has left you — you are also accepting a mantle.

“Sirius wanted the house of Black to continue with you. He could think of nothing more fitting than Harry Potter — a great symbol of the fight against darkness — taking hold of the house of a line of dark wizards as old as London itself.

“No, Harry. Your offer is generous and I’m moved by it, but I can’t accept. Perhaps, though — for the time being — you might allow me to continue living here while I complete my work for the Order? I have to confess that the basement is very convenient.”

Harry frowned. “Remus, you don’t have to ask that.”

“I didn’t think you would kick me out, but it’s always best to err on the side of courtesy,” Remus informed jovially. He cocked his head as if hearing something from a great distance and traced a finger along the edge of his bowl. “The sun will be going down soon. When I go downstairs, you must remember to reinforce the door behind me.”

“Don’t you have your potion?”

Remus shook his head and sent his dishes to the sink with a wave of his wand. “I’m afraid Severus has not had the opportunity to brew any yet.”

Harry scowled at the mention of his Potions professor and stood to clear his own dishes. When everything was squared away, Remus clapped Harry on the shoulder and smiled tiredly. “Today was a good day, Harry. I’m glad we talked.”

Harry agreed and they bid each other goodnight before Remus retired to the basement.

~: --------------------------- :~

Harry spent the next few hours spread out in front of the drawing room fireplace, working through his charms essay. Grimmauld Place, for all its downsides, was a rather excellent spot for completing homework, mostly because there was nothing else to do there. Unless, of course, you were fascinated by cleaning or listening to unknown creatures scuttle behind the skirting boards.

Harry was very tired and every so often he would accidentally poke his quill into the fireplace rug instead of his ink pot. He was used to surviving on little sleep — his strange dreams and churning thoughts saw to that — but even for him, waking up at four in the morning was a bit much.

So it’s no surprise that Harry thought he must have fallen asleep for a moment when he heard a metallic pounding coming from the front of the house. He listened for a full minute, hearing nothing but the crackling of the fire, before turning back to his essay. When the sound came again, Harry realised that he had not imagined it and his wand was in his hand at once.

Harry leapt onto his feet and moved across the room into the kitchen. The sound came again, louder this time, and Harry glanced towards the door to the basement. It was obviously not the source of the noise. The sound came a fourth time and Harry held his wand straight out in front of him and stalked down the entry hall towards its source.

When he arrived at the front door, he realised someone was using the silver doorknocker. Harry hesitated. Remus had not mentioned anyone else arriving tonight. There was no way to ask him now, either.

Harry knew the house was hidden by the Fidelius Charm. Only those who already knew where it was located could find it. Clearly, whoever was at the door had been here before. Harry took hold of the handle in one hand and moved so the door was between him and the person outside. He carefully aimed his wand and hoped that it was not Moody on the other side, ready to berate him for opening the door to ‘unknowns’.

Harry turned the handle and the familiar mechanical sounds of the door locks disengaging echoed in the hallway. Slowly, carefully, Harry inched the door open. As soon as he did, he was assaulted by the sounds from outside. It was pouring rain and a muggle car alarm was blaring down the street.

Even more surprising, Hermione Granger was standing on the front porch, soaking wet.

“Hermione!” Harry cried and lowered his wand immediately.

“Harry! I’m so glad you’re here!” she greeted happily. She was holding Crookshanks’s carrier in one hand and fought to push her wet hair out of her face with the other. It was a thick, soggy mess on her head. “I wasn’t certain, but I thought you must be. May I come in?”

Harry pulled the door wide immediately. “Right, of course,” he said. She reached behind her for her trunk but Harry waved her off. “Let me get that. Come inside, you must be freezing.”

She grinned at him and politely wiped her shoes before stepping past the threshold. Harry hauled her trunk up onto his back and couldn’t keep the answering grin off his face. Setting down her familiar’s carrier, Hermione laughed for no reason at all and hugged him tightly around the waist. Harry froze for a moment before wrapping his free arm lightly about her thin shoulders. She squeezed him once and let go.

“Harry, I’m so happy to see you! And look at you – you’re so tall now!”

“Hermione, what are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be in Greece?”

She flushed pink. “Oh, well… I was, but I— I just have so much reading to catch up on. So I thought it would be best to stay home this year.”

Harry looked at her in surprise. “But Hermione, you would have loved Greece. There’s so much history there.”

If anything, she seemed to turn pinker. “I’m sure Greece is perfectly lovely, but I just know I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate there. So it’s better that I’m here. And I remembered where you were staying and thought you might like some company. I hope you don’t mind… maybe I should have owled first?”

Harry could not conceive of how she might think he would mind. Grimmauld Place was lonely even with Remus around. She could not be more welcome. “Don’t be daft, Hermione. Listen— you’re soaking wet. You should get dried off. I’ve got a fire going in the drawing room.”

“Just a moment,” she said and opened the door to Crookshanks’s carrier. The furry, orange cat darted out immediately and disappeared down the lamp lit hall. He obviously did not appreciate being towed around in the rain.

Harry adjusted his grip on Hermione’s trunk and led her through the kitchen into the drawing room. The fire looked warm and inviting compared to the unsettling gloom that permeated the rest of Grimmauld Place.

“Go on, then,” Harry instructed. “You’d best warm up or you might get sick.”

“Harry, people don’t get sick from being cold,” Hermione corrected automatically. She did as he asked, anyway, and settled in front of the fire with her knees pulled up beside her.

Harry switched hands on Hermione’s trunk handle and glanced up the stairs. “Are you staying, then?” he asked. “Should I put this away for you?”

“Oh, Harry, honestly. You can just set it anywhere for now. Sit down, will you?”

Harry obeyed and pushed his homework into a messy pile to make room. She looked at it in interest. “Are you working on your essay? Which lesson?”

“Charms,” Harry answered.

“I’ve finished that one. Maybe— would you like some help with it later?”

Harry raised his eyebrows at this generous offer. “Yeah. Thanks, Hermione. How did you get here, anyway? You didn’t fly, did you?”

She blanched and shook her head. “Of course not. Actually, I took the Knight Bus, like last Christmas.”

“I’d forgotten you knew about the Knight Bus. So how was it?”

“It’s perfectly awful!” Hermione declared. “I remembered you talking about it in third year – you made it sound like it might be fun, but I’m surprised they’re even allowed to stay in business! The beds inside roll every which way and they drive so fast – it’s absurd, really. But there’s no other option for me to get all the way from my house to London besides riding on a broom, and that’s certainly not going to happen.”

Harry smiled disarmingly. “Well – I rather liked it.”

“You would,” Hermione muttered but she smiled as she did so.

They sat in silence for a moment before the fire hissed loudly, startling them both. Harry leaned forward to add another log. When he finished and sat back, Hermione was peering at him intently.

“Where did you get those clothes, Harry?” she asked.

Harry looked down at himself in surprise. He had forgotten he was wearing them. “They used to belong to Sirius. Remus… well, he thought I might want them. They’re a bit off, I know.”

Hermione’s eyes softened in the firelight. “They’re not off, Harry. I think they suit you very well.”

Harry smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt. “They’re old fashioned.”

“They seem like proper wizarding clothes. Honestly, Harry, you look very handsome.”

“Do you ever feel like you’re wearing a costume? With all the robes and cloaks and the like? Or is it just me?”

“Oh! Yes,” Hermione agreed and laughed. “The first time I put on my Hogwarts robes, I thought it was so funny. And some of the fashions! They’re so bizarrely Victorian. To be honest, I kind of like it. It’s sort of like living in a period novel.”

“Remus asked how I knew it was wizards who were out of fashion and not muggles. He said it was just a matter of perspective,” Harry recalled absently. “I suppose he’s right.”

Hermione’s smile seemed to fade and her face grew serious. “How is Remus?” she asked quietly. “And how are you, Harry? I’ve been so worried.”

“I’m fine,” Harry answered automatically. “Remus… he’s actually down in the basement right now because of the full moon. He’s tired, but otherwise he seems okay.”

Hermione bit her lip and inched her hand closer to his on the floor. “Harry, are you sure you’re all right?” she asked hesitantly. “If you need someone to talk to…”

“I— yeah. What about you? You didn’t really answer my letter. Did you… are you all healed now?”

Hermione sighed. “Harry, I’m perfectly fine. I was taken off my potions some time ago,” she said firmly. “I won’t ask you about it again tonight, but I want you to know… I’ll always be here for you. If you want to talk, or— or even if you just want to sit and have company. All you have to do is ask.”

Harry picked at a thread on the rug and stared into the fire. He was silent for a long time, but true to her word, she did not press. “I’ll be glad for the company, to be honest,” he said at last. “I don’t much care to be here.”

Hermione’s hand closed the short distance between them and settled on top of his. He started to pull his away, but she wrapped her fingers around it lightly and he stilled. “I know,” she whispered and nothing more was said.

~: --------------------------- :~

With a careful hand, the matron slipped a spoonful of potion between the woman’s lips. Harry squinted against the dim light, but their faces were lost in the darkness. What a sad tableau, he thought, this woman with only her matron for company. Where were all the people — the hangers-on — who would have given all they owned for but a moment of her counsel when she had been young and her flesh in bloom? Once they had her fill of her, they left her to die in quiet... she was a thing used up and then forgotten.

“At last,” the voice murmured from a thousand miles in the distance. “At last, at last.”

Harry stepped towards the bed but his feet sank into the floorboards...

Harry jerked awake and sucked in a great breath as if he had been underwater for a very long time. Beside him, the small, warm body of Crookshanks hissed and stretched as his sleep was disturbed. His small claws dug themselves into the mattress.

“Crookshanks,” Harry mumbled, rubbing his hand over his scar absently. He let his head drop back heavily onto the pillow, causing a cloud of dust to billow into the air. Harry sat up immediately and coughed in disgust.

Crookshanks seemed to agree and leapt off the bed with his tail in the air and a displeased look on his squashed face. He marched out the door as haughtily as a cat was able.

Harry slid from the bed and walked across the room to look out the window. It was still quite dark outside. A quick glance at the ancient wizarding clock on his bedside table revealed the time to be ‘Last Call for Vampires’. Harry rolled his eyes at this useless information and strode to his wardrobe. He knew he would not be able to fall back asleep — he never could once he awakened — so he grabbed a pair of Sirius’s trousers and a shirt and slipped across the hall into the bath.

There were no showers at Grimmauld Place. Harry had long decided that this was simply further proof that the Blacks were as mad as Sirius had always claimed. What sane person would eschew modern plumbing for ancient, claw-footed tubs that always smelled a bit like rust?

Harry cleaned himself as best and as quickly as he could (he hated baths and always endeavored to make them as short as possible). When he was finished, he dressed quietly, rubbed a towel over his wet hair, and went into the hall.

He made his way silently to the room nearest the stairs and paused. The door was left partially open, which Harry knew was for Crookshanks’s benefit. This had been the room Hermione had shared with Ginny last summer and he had helped her settle in here again last night. Harry slid his hand down the doorway moulding and listened for any noises coming from inside. He heard nothing to indicate that Hermione wasn’t sleeping peacefully and, satisfied, he turned and left her to rest.

Harry stopped in his own room one last time to check on Hedwig and pull on his boots before heading downstairs.

It was still too early to safely open the basement door, so he occupied himself with buffing the crystal glass chimneys on the kitchen oil lamps with an old rag he found in the pantry. They were sooty and black from years of use without proper care, and it took a bit of elbow grease to clean them. When he was finished with all of them, he was pleased to see that the kitchen seemed brighter for the extra light that could now shine through.

Harry tossed the rag aside and washed his hands before deciding to start breakfast. A peek into the drawing room revealed the light was beginning to change with the rising of the sun and he didn’t want Remus to feel like he had to cook again after what was certainly a long, exhausting night.

It took some searching to find the icebox (it was, unexplainably, inside the china cabinet) and when Harry opened it, he was surprised to find an actual block of ice inside. Harry supposed it must have had some sort of cooling charm cast on it to keep it from melting. It was nearly dry to the touch, and exceedingly cold.

He pulled out some eggs, butter, and vegetables and prepared to make an omelette. Harry was quite skilled at making omelettes, and this would have been a simple task except he could not for the life of him figure out how to operate the cooker. There were no knobs or switches – not even one of the fancy digital controls that his aunt Petunia was so covetous of.

He was just about to punch the thing (which was often the only way to start the Dursley’s clothes dryer) when Hermione appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning, Harry,” she greeted cheerfully. “You’re up early. What are you doing?”

Harry straightened from where he was hunched over the cooktop and paced over to Hermione. He stopped a bit closer than he had consciously meant to. She seemed surprised by his invasion of her personal space but didn’t move away.

“Hullo, Hermione,” Harry said softly. Seeing her in the doorway reminded him of how grateful he was that she was here.

“Hello,” Hermione answered slowly, tilting her head back a little to look up at his face. After a moment, she touched his arm gently and he stepped away, moving back over to the other side of the kitchen.

She looked a bit startled by the exchange and watched silently while he began to fiddle with the cooker again. “How long have you been awake?” she finally asked.

Harry waved the question off. “Hermione, do you know how to turn this on?” he asked, gesturing towards the cooker.

Hermione walked over to peer at it and frowned at the lack of knobs. “It must be magical,” she murmured, looking it over. “It probably turns on with a spell of some sort.”

Harry sighed. “It’s a bad job neither of us can use magic, then. I was going to make breakfast.”

Hermione smiled in approval. “That’s thoughtful of you, Harry. We’ll just have to ask Remus later,” she said. She peered at him critically and must have noticed the dark circles under eyes. “You look tired."

“I didn’t sleep well,” Harry said vaguely.

Hermione frowned. “Harry, you need the rest. Have you – have you been having… dreams… again?”

Harry’s eyes flickered and Hermione must have seen something in them. “Harry! You have to tell Professor Dumbledore straight away.”

“They’re not those sorts of dreams, Hermione,” Harry clarified hastily. “Nothing to do with Voldemort, at least. They’re just… dreams.”

Hermione didn’t look convinced.

“Hermione, I do know the difference now,” he assured and his voice was so strong that she believed him at once. “And I have told Dumbledore. He trusts that I can handle them – and I will. It’s nothing.”

Hermione bit her lip and her face was awash in concern. She seemed to be caught between wanting to say something and not wanting to push.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Hermione,” Harry said after a moment of watching her struggle.

She sighed and shook her head. “I can’t help it, Harry. You’ll just have to get used to it, because I’ll not stop.”

Harry seemed to accept this. “We ought to open the door for Remus,” he said after a brief hesitation. “The sun must be up now.”

He lifted the wood slat from its brace and pulled open the door. Hermione appeared at his shoulder and moved to step inside, but Harry caught her by the upper arm and pulled her back towards him. “I don’t think he really wants us to see him down there,” he said quietly in her ear. “Let’s just call him up.”

Hermione looked at him for a long moment and nodded. She made a small gesture with her head which Harry understood to mean that he should do it.

He let go of her arm and went down a few steps to get past the basement’s silencing spells. “Remus?” Harry shouted into the darkness. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, yes,” came the answering reply and Harry could hear footsteps at the base of the stairs. “I’ll be up in a moment.”

Harry stepped back into the kitchen and Remus followed him soon after. When he caught sight of Hermione, he smiled widely, which brightened his tired face considerably.

“Hermione, what a pleasant surprise! When did you arrive?”

“Last night, Professor,” Hermione answered. “I hope you don’t mind my being here.”

“Nonsense, it’s wonderful that you’re here,” Remus declared. “I’m certain Harry will be thrilled with the company. I’m afraid I’ll be quite busy in the coming days. I’ll feel much more at ease knowing that you’re around to keep him out of trouble.”

“She stirs up her own share of trouble,” Harry asserted. “She’s just too clever to get caught the way I do.”

“Oh, hush,” Hermione chastised. Her grin gave her away.

Remus pulled out a handkerchief from a pocket in his robes and patted his face. Looking at him now, Harry could see that he seemed even more tired than before. Fortunately, there was only one more night where the moon was full enough to invoke the change. Harry knew the break could not come soon enough for his former DADA professor.

“Remus, I was going to make breakfast this morning, but I couldn’t figure out the cooker. D’you need magic to use it?” Harry asked.

“That’s very kind of you, Harry. And you just need a wand. Give it a tap on the hob ring to heat it and another to turn if off.”

“What about controlling the temperature?”

“I’m afraid that requires using actual cooking spells. You’ll have to make due with a standard flame while you’re underage, Harry.”

“All right,” Harry conceded. “Why don’t you sit down in the dining room? I’ll bring it out when it’s finished.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that, Harry,” Remus agreed tiredly. “After breakfast, I’ll need my rest, I’m afraid. Will you two be able to occupy yourselves?”

“Of course, Professor,” Hermione assured. “You needn’t worry. I’ve told Harry I’ll help him with his Charms essay and I really should update my astronomy charts for the new school year.”

Remus nodded amicably and left them in the kitchen. Harry felt a tug of nerves as he whisked the egg mixture. He had never updated his astronomy charts in all his years at Hogwarts and he wondered whether he was he supposed to have done so.

While Harry cooked, Hermione busied herself pouring glasses of pumpkin juice and making a plate of toast. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry watched her spread jam over what was clearly his piece – she kept the jam thin, but it covered the bread from crust-to-crust, just as he liked it.

Harry flipped the omelette and he felt a sudden surge of affection for her. He really was glad she came.

***

A/N: Special thanks to witowsmp for a bit of canon assistance in this chapter.

8. The Toast

Chapter 8: The Toast

After a lively breakfast that had Remus and Hermione chattering on about a rather unpleasant-sounding cure for the Conjuctivitus Curse, of all things, Harry had submitted to Hermione’s prompting and was now working quietly on his Charms essay.

While waiting for him to finish, Hermione looked over the Occlumency books Dumbledore had leant him. She had been nearly beside herself with glee when he had pulled them out and had rattled on for quite some time about how pleased she was that he was continuing his lessons.

“I had no idea Occlumency was such a complicated discipline,” she piped, flicking through the pages. She tapped her finger on a passage that he could not see from where he was sitting and read aloud, “‘The tendering of false memories is an intoxicating and empowering ascension of the mind to create and command a masquerade of the imagination.’ Oh, it must be wonderful to learn this! I’m envious of you, Harry.”

“It’s not nearly so wonderful as all that,” Harry muttered darkly. “Having someone mucking about in your head – it’s awful.”

Hermione blanched at once and closed the book on her lap. “Oh… that was a foolish thing to say,” she admitted, giving him an apologetic look. She seemed to think on what he said for a moment before nodding to herself. “You’re right. I don’t think I would want anyone else knowing my innermost thoughts – not even Dumbledore. I can’t imagine what it must have been like with Professor Snape. I know he can be unreasonably hard on you.”

“That foul git,” Harry dutifully slandered, but it was half-hearted at best. His thoughts were not on Snape’s lessons, as unpleasant as they had been. Instead, he remembered what it had been like to feel Voldemort inside of him… to have his very body betray him and respond to commands that were not his own… to see things that Voldemort was seeing – and worse, to feel all the ruthless joy in cruelty and human misery that Voldemort himself so enjoyed.

Harry was startled by the tip of his quill breaking off noisily against his parchment. He had been pressing it too hard while lost in his thoughts. He noticed Hermione give him a searching look and reddened slightly.

“You’re not thinking about Snape,” she said softly after a moment of penetrating silence. Harry was surprised by her insight.

Before he could respond, a dark shape glided past the drawing room window, startling them both. A great, brown owl had landed on the windowsill and it tapped its beak impatiently against the glass.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look. It was clear neither were expecting any post.

“Best find out what it wants,” Harry said at last and stood up to see if he could get the window open. If possible, it was even dingier than the one in his bedroom and Harry had to push his shoulder into it with some force to finally prise it loose. The bird made a squawking noise in protest as it fluttered back to narrowly avoid being knocked off the sill before looping inside and alighting on the fireplace mantle. It dropped its cargo — two letters with wax seals — before promptly flying out the window again without so much as stopping for a drink of water.

“Rather impatient,” Harry said absently, fetching the letters. One had his name on it, and the other, Hermione’s. He went to hand it to her when he noticed the look on her face. She was wide-eyed and pale. Harry was on guard at once and glanced down at the letter. What about it could be upsetting her so? “Hermione? What is it?”

“Oh, Harry, those must be our O.W.L. results,” she whispered haltingly. She pushed a few of her fingers against her mouth in nervous apprehension.

Harry’s stomach dropped. He was certain Hermione had nothing to worry about — she was the smartest witch he knew, after all — but he was much less secure about his own results. Whatever was in this letter could make or break his chances to become an Auror.

He sat down heavily on the drawing room couch and Hermione dropped down next to him. He held out her letter again and this time she accepted it. “No time like the present. We’re Gryffindors, after all,” Harry joked weakly.

To back up his words, he tore the end off his envelope and tapped it against his palm, coaxing the letter to slide out onto his lap.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Hermione trying desperately not to look at his results and allow him his privacy. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her skirt and pretended to be terribly interested in the ceiling. Harry sighed. “You can look, you know,” he said, and she smiled at him guiltily.

Harry unfolded the paper and held it open for them both to see. He was still reading the introductory paragraph (a dry recitation on the importance of O.W.L.s and information on contacting the examination authority with questions) when Hermione let out a great squeal and nearly tackled him.

“Hermione!” Harry exclaimed and had to turn his head to keep her hair out of his mouth.

“Oh, Harry, I knew it! I knew you’d do well!”

With his arm crushed between them, Harry awkwardly held the letter where he could finish reading it, not daring to hope. He skipped down to his scores anxiously.

His mouth dropped open. He had scored an ‘O’ in Potions. Potions! He read it three times before he could believe what he was seeing. A quick glance through his other scores revealed that he had completely pantsed History of Magic, Astronomy, and Divination (which he was altogether unsurprised by), but that he had more than acquitted himself in his other exams. There was even a small notation next to his Defense Against the Dark Arts score – he had rated the highest mark in the year.

He would be able to continue to all the N.E.W.T. level courses he needed to become an Auror.

“Potions…” he murmured and refolded his letter absently. He was so relieved he was hardly aware of what he was doing.

Hermione let go of him and plucked the letter from his limp fingers. She read through it again, making pleased noises and shooting him smiling looks. He hardly noticed, overwhelmed as he was.

Finally, Harry seemed to come back to himself and turned to Hermione with an expectant look. “Well?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to open yours?”

Hermione’s anxious look returned, but she seemed to take some courage from Harry’s results, and she tore hers open. She hadn’t given Harry the same permission to read her own letter, so he dutifully stared down at his boots.

No excited squeals seemed forthcoming and Harry began to grow anxious. He chanced a look at her to find that she was somehow managing to worry her lip in her teeth and smile at the same time. He grinned at the picture she made. “Break all the records at Hogwarts, did you?”

She flushed, but her smile, if anything, grew. “Oh, of course not, Harry. I did well, but – oh, that mistranslated rune!”

“May I see?” Harry asked and she handed him her scores. He read through her results – she had scored an ‘O’ in each lesson except DADA and Ancient Runes, which both had E’s. Her Charms, Muggle Studies, and Arithmancy scores all had the notation for highest mark in the year.

“Hermione, you were brilliant! You got even more O.W.L.s than Percy.”

Hermione pinked adorably and took her results back. “Thank you, Harry, but – I’m sure I could have done better! I knew that rune was incorrect the moment I walked out of the exam – I should have concentrated more. And that silly boggart! I— I don’t know why I have so much trouble with them.”

“Hermione, your scores are smashing,” Harry sighed. “But how did you get an O.W.L. in Muggle Studies? I thought you dropped it after third year.”

“You can sit for any exam you like, Harry. I thought I might try it since I didn’t have much trouble with the actual class. I remembered that a lot of the careers in those pamphlets we were given last year required a Muggle Studies O.W.L.”

Harry looked bemused. “I reckon you just want to beat out Padma Patil for Head Girl.”

“Harry!” Hermione laughed. “I’m hardly in a competition with Padma.”

“Too right, you aren’t – I’m sure they’re already engraving your badge. Even overlooking your marks, who else has done more for the school than you?”

“You?” Hermione said, the corner of her eyes crinkling.

“Well, I hardly think I’m in the running for Head Girl.”

Hermione smirked and refolded her results. “Would you mind terribly if I borrowed Hedwig later? I’d like to write to my parents – I think I might have been driving them a little mad going on and on about exams all summer. They would probably like to hear how I did.”

“No. She’s upstairs – she’d probably enjoy the fresh air.”

Unable to help himself, Harry read through his results one more time, as if to verify that he hadn’t imagined them. He paused again on his Potions mark and wondered how on earth he had managed it.

“We should celebrate,” Harry decided and stood up from the couch. “I bet there’s some firewhiskey stashed around here somewhere. Sirius was always pouring a bit into his tea.”

“We’ll not be having firewhiskey, Harry,” Hermione said primly, “but I think celebrating is a wonderful idea. Oh! I nearly forgot! I have your birthday present in my trunk! Let me go get it.”

She stood and bustled up the stairs. Harry tossed his results on a dusty cabriolet table and strode into the kitchen to grab two bottles of butterbeer from the icebox. Hermione had not yet returned when he reentered the drawing room, so he set the bottles down and decided he might try to get the old victrola working. Some music might be nice.

He blew into the horn, releasing a great mass of dust, and reasoned that the machine was likely operated with a wand the same as the cooker had been. Harry searched a nearby claw-foot cabinet before finding a neat arrangement of phonograph records. He pulled one from its sleeve. There was no title on it – in fact, there was no writing whatsoever. Harry set it aside and reached for another, but found that one to be similarly unmarked.

“What are you doing, Harry?” Hermione asked from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see that she had a small, wrapped package in her arms.

“I thought I might see if the phonograph works.”

“Good idea! What records do they have?”

“They don’t seem to have any titles,” Harry said, holding out one of the records for her to take. She looked at it curiously and shrugged.

She stepped away and placed the record on the victrola. She set the needle on it and then looked at it in confusion when no sound began to play. Harry shot her a look and she seemed to catch on immediately. “Oh, of course. It’s magical,” she said, more to herself than him. She tapped it with her wand and immediately the room was filled with dour-sounding chanting and a mournful noise that sounded suspiciously like an animal wailing.

“What the bloody hell is that?” Harry muttered. Hermione looked so disturbed by the music that she didn’t comment on his language.

Harry plucked the record off and put on a new one. This one was slightly better – it was a piano playing a sonata that he didn’t recognise. However, it was so depressing that he immediately took that one off, too. The next record he tried was nothing but the screeching of bats.

Hermione started laughing and Harry glanced at her in confusion. “It’s just funny, how ridiculous it is,” she explained.

Harry quirked an eyebrow at her before tapping his wand on the victrola and ending the horrible sound. “Let’s skip the music.”

Hermione smiled and held out her present. Harry took it, feeling a bit embarrassed, and turned it over to examine. It was about the size of a paperback novel, but it was soft and flexible. Not a book, then.

Curious, Harry tore the paper away, revealing a pair of woolly, black fingerless gloves. He rubbed his thumb over them, feeling the soft material.

“I know it’s July and this is just about the least sensible gift I could give you right now… I started them before Christmas but so many things were happening, I didn’t have a chance to finish them until a few weeks ago,” Hermione explained. She looked a bit apprehensive about his reaction. “Do you like them?”

“Hermione, did you make these?” Harry asked in surprise. They looked as well-made as any he had seen in a store. Better, even.

Her face shone with something halfway between pride and pleasure and she babbled, “I’ve been getting better, I think, but those were quite difficult. The finger openings – they were a bit tricky and I had to start over a few times. I know you like your gloves not to have fingers because you sometimes wear them when you play Quidditch, so that’s how I wanted to make them. I even sewed a little piece of leather onto the palm to make them easier to grip with, do you see?”

Harry turned over one of the gloves and, sure enough, there was a thin strip of black leather sewn neatly onto the heel of the palm. “Hermione, they’re brilliant,” he said. And they really were. They were exactly the sort of style he would have picked himself –simple and mutely coloured.

She smiled in relief. “Oh, I’m so glad. I wasn’t sure – they’re a bit practical for a birthday gift, but your gloves are so worn, and, honestly Harry, they don’t fit you anymore. You’ve been growing so much. Goodness, I hope these fit! You should — could you try them on?”

Harry dropped the torn paper onto the couch beside them and tugged them on, one at a time. They felt great, if not a bit snug around the palm and thumb.

“Oh no,” Hermione moaned, grabbing his hand and examining it closely. “I can’t believe it! They’re too small.”

“No they aren’t,” Harry assured hastily, tugging his hand away as if to prevent her from taking back the gloves. “They’re much better than my last pair.”

She looked at him in dismay. “I appreciate you trying to spare my feelings, but they’re clearly too small. I’ll have to pull the stitches out on the palm.”

Harry felt awful. “Can’t we just get Remus to magic them bigger?”

“Harry, you know transfiguration isn’t permanent,” Hermione sighed impatiently. “Eventually they’ll just go back to being too small again. It’s fine. I’ll re-knit them – it will give me something to do until school starts. I’m sorry, Harry…”

Harry stared at her incredulously. “Sorry for what? They’re the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me.”

“Oh,” she said, caught between hopeful pleasure and being taken aback. “I— I’m relieved you like them. I wasn’t sure…” she admitted softly. “Well, it won’t take me long to fix them. I’m much better at it now, really.”

“All right,” Harry agreed reluctantly. He tugged off the gloves and handed them over. “Thank you, Hermione.”

“You’re welcome, Harry. Now – is one of these for me?” Hermione picked up one of the bottles of butterbeer and held it up for him to see. Harry nodded and took the other, thumbing off the cap and lifting it to his lips.

“Wait,” Hermione instructed, touching his arm. “Why don’t we have a toast? Since we’re celebrating and all…”

Harry did not have much experience toasting and he was certain he would not be able to come up with anything good to say. “You do it, then.”

Hermione nodded and held up her bottle. “To… best friends,” she pronounced after a moment of thought. “May we always stay together – no matter what happens.”

Harry shifted his weight and a shadow passed through his eyes. For some reason, Hermione’s toast unsettled him. He lifted his bottle somewhat hesitantly and clinked it against hers. “No matter what,” he murmured. The words tasted like sand in his mouth.

~: --------------------------- :~

Despite their accord to celebrate the completion of their O.W.L.s, the late afternoon found Harry and Hermione cleaning the linens from his bed in the claw-foot tub. Crookshanks supervised with a discerning eye from his position on the vanity, flicking his tail back and forth.

“I can’t believe you actually slept in these last night,” Hermione huffed as she dunked a pillowcase in the soapy water.

Harry didn’t bother glancing up from his work scrubbing a brick of soap on his sodden sheet. “I was too tired to go looking for a clean set,” he explained. “Not that there’s likely a clean set anywhere in this hell-hole.”

“Harry,” Hermione chided for his language.

“Sorry,” he said, but didn’t particularly sound it. “Aren’t your bedclothes disgusting, as well?”

“They are, but not nearly as bad as these. They were laundered last year when we stayed here over Christmas. I’m not sure when these were last cleaned…”

“The Queen mum’s first birthday, I reckon. It was a special occasion.”

Hermione tried not to look like she found this funny, but her lips twitched despite herself.

Harry was about to rinse the soap off by dropping the sheet back in the tub, but thought better of it. The water was probably less clean than the sheet was now. He rolled his sleeve further up his arm with wet fingers before reaching in to pull the drain plug. The grey, murky water began to empty, leaving a nearly black ring around the ancient tub. When all the water was gone, Harry replaced the plug and coaxed the tap back on with a rap from his wand.

As the tub refilled, Hermione wet the pillowcase once more before lifting it out and squeezing some of the water from it. When it was no longer dripping all over the bathroom floor, she stood up and hung it from the silver towel rack.

“What are you going to do about the duvet?” she asked as she smoothed the wrinkles from the pillowcase. “You’ll ruin it if you try to clean it this way – it’s made of down.”

“I’ll ask Remus later – maybe he can clean it with his wand,” Harry muttered absently. He pulled the sheet from the water and climbed to his feet to look at it critically. Despite all his hard work, it was still a bit grey. Aggravated, he dropped it back in the tub with a plop. “I don’t understand how things can get this filthy. I’m convinced Kreacher must smuggle in bags of dirt at night and sprinkle them in all the beds.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Harry froze. His fingers twitched into an involuntary fist and he jerked his head to look at Hermione. Her eyes were wide, and she was standing as still as he was. They stared at one another, hardly breathing, and it was clear they were sharing the same thought: where was Kreacher?

“Have you… have you seen him since you came here?” Hermione asked hesitantly. Her voice was quiet and Harry almost didn’t hear her through the pounding of blood in his ears.

How could he have forgotten Kreacher? What if he was somewhere in this house right now… watching them? He was a house-elf, Harry remembered. He was bound magically to Grimmauld Place – he had to be there.

Harry ignored Hermione’s question and stalked out of the bathroom.

“Harry!” Hermione shouted after him. “Harry, wait!”

One by one, Harry ripped open the doors in the hallway, striding inside and shoving old furniture and piles of junk out of his way as he searched each room. Hermione hovered in the doorways, watching anxiously, but for whatever reason, she did not try to stop him.

On this floor, only Remus’s door was left unopened, and that took a monumental effort of will.

Harry went downstairs and continued his search. He threw open door after door, sending great clouds of dust drifting into the air. He could vaguely hear some portraits grumbling at him for making so much noise, but nothing they said really registered. There was still no trace of Kreacher.

Hermione was waiting for him on the landing, looking at him sadly. He strode past her and down to the next floor.

Again, he turned over each room, lifting furniture to look underneath and tearing open cabinet doors to peer inside. Finally, he ripped back the moth-eaten curtains in the study, sending a colony of doxies screeching and scattering into the air. He was certain one of them bit him – he could feel the venom creep through his blood and he began to feel woozy. The doxies fluttered madly about his head and he swung at them angrily, striking nothing but air, but somehow sending the lot of them careening against the wall on the far side of the room. They struck with force and dropped to the ground, injured or disoriented, and Harry staggered backwards from the fuzziness in his head.

Something took hold of his bicep and he turned his face to see that Hermione had wrapped herself around his arm and was looking at him in considerable alarm.

“Harry, please!” she cried. “You’ve been bitten! I need to get you the anti-venom!”

“How could I have been so careless?” he growled. He could feel beads of sweat appearing on his forehead and he began to feel very cold. “He could be anywhere! Who knows what he’s done to this house – he could have set up traps, he could have poisoned our food… who knows what that twisted creature could have thought up! Who knows who he’s been communicating with!”

“Harry, let’s go!” she pleaded, tugging at him with all her strength. He didn’t budge. Her face swam strangely in his vision and he stared at her uncomprehendingly. She glanced anxiously at the doxies, some of which were beginning to stir, flapping their beetle-like wings against the floor. She dropped Harry’s arm and took his face in her hands.

“Harry!” she commanded and her voice was strong and agitated. “You will come with me this instant!”

Harry’s eyes seemed to focus for a moment, and this time he didn’t resist when she began to tug him into the hall. She pushed him against the wall beside the doorway and tried to hold him there with her shoulder while she tugged the door closed behind them. She let out a little shriek when his knees began to give out – his weight was clearly too much for her. She took two handfuls of his shirt and tried to hold him up, but he dropped like a stone, pulling her down next to him.

“Harry!” Hermione shrilled and clamoured to her knees. She put her hands on his face, feeling his clammy skin, and pushed his hair back off his forehead. She hovered over him, blocking his view of the ceiling with her face and hair. “Harry, I’ll be right back! I know we have anti-venom somewhere! Please stay awake!”

Harry vaguely heard her take off down the hallway in a great rush, then a strange clattering, and then he heard nothing at all.

9. A Grim Discovery

Chapter 9: A Grim Discovery

Harry awoke to a slight weight on his chest. He blinked in confusion, unsure of where he was or how he had gotten there, and then sat up abruptly. The weight on his chest fell away and he could now see the blurry figure of Hermione sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. She pulled her hand back slowly and he realised that must have been the weight he had felt.

"Harry?" she asked softly. "How are you feeling?"

Harry could feel some sort of damp fabric tied around his neck and he reached up remove it, but Hermione stilled his hand with her own. "It's soaked in anti-venom. You have to leave it on for a little while longer," she explained.

Harry stared at her for a moment, slowly remembering the events of the afternoon. His wild search for Kreacher… the bite from the doxies… and then Hermione’s panicked face…

"Why is everything blurry?" he asked thickly. There was an awful pressure behind his forehead and he felt disoriented and slow.

She plucked his spectacles off the bedside table and pressed them into his palm. He slid them back on and immediately the room around him returned to focus. “Thanks,” he said.

“How are you feeling?” Hermione repeated.

“A bit embarrassed that I was brought down by doxies,” he muttered.

Hermione’s worried frown gave way to an exasperated look. “Harry, you know doxies can be incredibly dangerous, especially when their territory is disturbed. You’re lucky we had anti-venom in the house, or you would have had to go to St. Mungo’s for treatment,” she declared. After a moment, her face became pensive and she peered at him curiously. “Harry, when those doxies attacked, you… did something. You knocked them away, somehow. Do you remember?”

Harry stared at her blankly, wondering what she was on about. “I don’t really remember much after I was bitten.”

Hermione was still giving him a strange look as if she wanted to question him further, but then she looked down at her lap and seemed to let it go. “Never mind,” she sighed. “Here — you should drink some water.”

She handed him a glass decanter that had been sitting on the bedside table and he drank from it greedily. When he had swallowed the whole thing, she took it back from him and something in her face softened. “Do you want some more? I can go get some.”

She moved to stand, but Harry’s hand snapped out and encircled her wrist, tugging her back down beside him. “We need to find Kreacher,” Harry stated. His voice was low and hard.

“Harry…” Hermione began hesitantly, “if you find Kreacher, what do you intend to do?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead yet,” Harry admitted. “I just know we need to find him.”

“Harry, I know what he did was unforgivable, and what happened to Sirius was so— so horrifying, and I’m very angry at Kreacher, too,” Hermione breathed out in a rush, “but he didn’t know better, did he? He was raised in this awful house, and enslaved, too… and I’m not excusing what he did, Harry, so please don’t think that, but you mustn’t act rashly if you find him, because—”

Harry tightened his fingers on her wrist and she stilled immediately. “Hermione, you don’t know how angry I am at Kreacher for the role he played in Sirius’s murder,” Harry said quietly. “But I’m not looking for him to punish him, or— or to get revenge. I want to find him because he’s working against us. He could be plotting anything, and he’s already found a way to get past the enchantment preventing house elves from harming their masters, so that’s clearly no obstacle. Not only that, but he must have somehow known Voldemort’s plan for me. How else could he have played his part so perfectly? Someone must be in his ear – and it’s not someone friendly to us.”

At his words, Hermione’s eyes widened in growing alarm. “I— I hadn’t really thought about that, but oh, Harry, you’re right. You must be right. How could he have known…?”

“We have to search this house from top to bottom until we find him,” Harry instructed gravely.

“Professor Lupin is looking right now, actually,” Hermione revealed. She glanced towards the closed door of the room. “I had to wake him up when you— when you passed out. You were much too heavy for me to move on my own, so he brought you up here to his room. When he asked what happened, I told him what you were doing, and Harry, he looked murderous. He’s been making a horrible racket searching for him. I had to shut the door so you could rest.”

Harry could not help but feel slightly relieved to hear this information. Despite his words to Hermione, he wasn’t sure what he might be capable of if he found the treacherous house-elf. Harry didn’t know if he wanted to find out – it was probably better all around if Remus were to find Kreacher first.

Harry moved to slide out of bed, but Hermione pressed her free hand down on the centre of his chest. “Harry, you really should rest some more,” Hermione implored. “The anti-venom needs time to work through your system. It’s only been four hours—”

“Four hours?” Harry parroted incredulously. “I’ve been out for four hours? It’s going to be nightfall soon! Remus needs to be locked in the basement and then he won’t be able to keep searching.”

“Harry!” Hermione snapped. “Please calm down. I’ll find Remus and I’ll help him into the basement. Then I can look for Kreacher.”

“If you think I’m going to let you search for him on your own, you’ve gone round the twist,” Harry said darkly.

Hermione looked halfway between pleased and offended. “I’m perfectly capable—”

“Hermione, I know you’re capable,” Harry interjected. “You’re the most capable witch I know. But I still wouldn’t let you do something like this on your own. It’s too dangerous. House elves are powerful creatures – I’ve seen Dobby knock Lucius Malfoy clear across a hallway without much effort.”

Hermione was staring at Harry’s hand still wrapped around her wrist. Her cheeks were slightly pink. “Then we’ll just have to postpone the search until you’re well again so we can look together.”

“Hermione, I can’t lay here in bed when Kreacher could be lurking around doing who knows what. I’m perfectly fine, anyway. You obviously took good care of me.” To prove his point, Harry let go of her wrist and stood up smoothly beside the bed. He rapped his fist against the centre of his chest as if to demonstrate his health. “See?” he said.

“Harry,” Hermione sighed and stood up, as well. She caught his eye and gave him a stern look. “If you start to feel light-headed, you have to promise you’ll tell me. I mean it.”

Harry nodded. “All right. Let’s go find Remus.”

This did not prove difficult. The moment Hermione opened the bedroom door they were able to hear a muffled clattering from the floor below them. They turned together and tracked the sound down the stairs into a small room just off the landing. Inside, there were piles of old things covered in patterned sheets to protect them from dust. On the far side of the room, Remus took hold of a sheet and ripped it into the air like a magician revealing his trick. When he saw there was nothing but an old lamp underneath, he dropped it carelessly and moved on to another.

“Professor Lupin,” Hermione called gently.

The werewolf jerked his head up and, for a moment, Harry saw a strange, mad look in his eye. But that quickly vanished when he realised who was speaking.

“Oh. Hermione,” Remus said and straightened to look at them, “and Harry, too, I see. Good to see you up and about. You frightened poor Hermione here out of her wits.”

Harry turned to see Hermione flushing slightly. “I didn’t mean to,” he apologised, feeling a bit guilty that he had not noticed.

“Well… I don’t blame you for your single-mindedness,” Remus confessed stonily. “I’m ashamed that I haven’t put any thought into Kreacher’s whereabouts before now. After everything that’s happened— my thoughts have been so scattered lately.”

Harry understood this feeling quite well. He nodded his agreement. “Remus, have you had any luck? I checked most of these rooms already, but I was— well, I probably wasn’t too thorough.”

A scowl passed over Remus’s face and he lifted another sheet to check underneath. “I haven’t seen the slightest trace of that foul creature,” he growled. “But he must be here somewhere, Harry. You are the house’s master now. He cannot leave without your permission – very powerful magic prevents it.”

Hermione looked deeply surprised by Remus’s casual assertion that Harry owned Grimmauld Place, and she pinned Harry with a look that clearly wondered when he might have shared this with her. Harry winced slightly.

“Have you tried the attic, yet?” he asked, turning back to Remus. “I haven’t been in there. Or the library either, now that I think on it.”

“Or the basement,” Hermione reminded significantly. “Professor, the sun will be going down soon. You need to get ready.”

Remus looked shocked and stilled as if he were sensing how near it was to rising of the moon. “I— yes, you’re right. I lost track of time… I’d best go right now.”

Quietly, the three made their way down to the kitchen. Remus looked unsettled.

“Professor, Hermione and I will keep looking for Kreacher,” Harry assured as he lifted the slat off its brace and opened the door for him.

For a moment, it looked like Remus might protest this course of action, but he must have seen something in Harry’s eyes that stopped him. Instead, he nodded grimly. “Be careful. Both of you.”

With that warning, he turned and disappeared down the stairs. Harry closed and barred the door behind him.

When he turned to face Hermione, she was staring into space with a thoughtful look on her face.

“So where do you reckon we should start?” Harry wondered, raking his hand through his hair. “Library, maybe?”

“Harry, do you remember last year, at Christmas?” Hermione asked suddenly. “Sirius told us about Kreacher’s den, under the boiler?”

Harry stared at her, shocked that he hadn’t thought to look in such an obvious place. “Do you think he might still be there?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but it would be a good place to start, don’t you think?”

“It’s brilliant, Hermione,” Harry assured. “I can’t believe I forgot about it.”

Together, they walked into the hall just outside the kitchen and hesitated just outside of the cupboard door. Hermione reached down to turn the door handle, but Harry stopped her with a hand on the back of her neck.

"Wands out before we go in," Harry ordered.

"Harry, we aren't allowed to use magic!" Hermione protested. At his look, she coloured slightly and sighed. "Oh, all right."

They drew their wands and went inside.

The cupboard was exactly as they remembered — dark and filthy — with the only light coming from a hint of flame licking around inside the softly-whistling boiler. A terrible stench permeated the room.

“What smells so bloody awful?” Harry muttered, scrunching up his nose as the horrible odour assaulted his senses.

“It’s too dark to see,” Hermione complained and Harry ducked outside to grab an oil lamp from one of the sconces in the hall. Hermione smiled gratefully when he returned with it, and the flickering light spilt over the room.

Harry strode forward with his wand in one hand and the lamp in the other and knelt in front of the small space beneath the boiler where Kreacher had made his nest. The old, torn blankets were still there, as were the pilfered knick-knacks and the small crumbs of mouldy food. There was one new addition, though – Harry could see maggots writhing and undulating among the filthy rags.

Hermione made a soft noise of disgust and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a long time,” Harry observed. He poked listlessly at the pile with his wand, wondering where else they could look.

Hermione squeezed his shoulder with some urgency. “Harry, give me the lamp.”

Harry turned his head to look up at her before holding the oil lamp out for her to take. “What is it?” he asked. “Do you see something?”

With the lamp in hand, Hermione moved over towards the massive pantry shelf that loomed in the corner of the room. It was littered with various bottles and sacks, but nothing that appeared out of the ordinary at Harry’s first glance.

Hermione knelt down near the far side of the shelf and seemed to be peering at something on the ground. Harry stood up to join her.

“Harry, look!” she whispered fervently. “There are scratches all along the floor here. I think this shelf has been moved recently.”

In the lamp light, Harry could clearly see deep grooves in the dusty floor that lined up perfectly with the edges of the shelf. They continued along the wall a good four feet before stopping. He rubbed his long fingers along the scratches and stared up at the wooden shelf sceptically. It was truly immense and looked very heavy. “You think Kreacher might have moved this? How? I’m not even sure I can do it.”

Hermione bit her lip. “There’s no way to know for sure that Kreacher was the one that moved this, Harry,” she pointed out. “But if it was him, then he must have been using magic.”

“Of course there’s a way to know for sure,” Harry countered. “We’ll just have to move it ourselves.”

“Harry, we really should wait for Professor Lupin!” Hermione protested. “It looks really heavy!”

Harry gave her a look that clearly suggested he would not be waiting until morning. She sighed and held the light higher to make it easier to see.

“I can get some leverage if I could somehow get in between the shelf and the side wall. Then I’ll be able to use my legs to push it back – it’s just moving it away far enough to do that that’s going to be a challenge,” Harry explained. He ran his hand over the shelf absently. “Let’s take everything off of it before we try to move the thing.”

Hermione nodded and they began to empty the shelves methodically, moving everything onto the floor on the far side of the room. When they were done, Hermione set the lamp down near her feet. “We should get some more light,” she said and walked into the hall. When she came back, she had three more oil lamps in her arms and she placed them around the room.

“Good thinking. Let’s try it, then,” Harry said. He positioned himself on the side of the shelf where the grooves were and took a firm grip on the wood. He hunched over so he was low to the ground and began to pull with all of his might.

Hermione hurried over to help him and slowly they inched the shelf across the floor. When it was about a foot from the side wall, Harry let go and dropped onto his back on the floor, breathing hard through his nose. His bite-wound was throbbing angrily under his bandage. Hermione sat down next to him, rubbing her aching hands.

Harry turned his head to glance at her in the lamp light. “All right there, Hermione?” he asked quietly.

“Just tired,” she confirmed. “Harry, do you think there’s a door behind the shelf?”

Harry looked contemplative. “I don’t know. It seems logical, though. All these wizarding houses probably have secret passages and the like.”

“If Kreacher is back there, what are we going to do?” Hermione whispered.

Harry’s eyes flashed. “I want to find out why he did what he did. And we have to know who he’s been talking to.”

Hermione worried her lip, but said nothing. Harry climbed to his feet and offered her a hand. She looked at it for a moment before taking it and he pulled her up smoothly.

“Let’s keep going,” he said. He moved to the other side of the shelf — the side that had previously been pressed into the corner — and slipped in between it and the wall. He pressed his back against the shelf and slid down until he was somewhat hunched over before pushing against the wall in front of him with his feet. The shelf jerked forward and Harry kept pushing until it was four feet down the wall from its original position.

Hermione gasped and Harry jerked his head to see what she was looking at.

Behind the shelf, there had been no doors or secret passages. Instead, there was a hole. Pieces of broken wood lined the opening liked jagged teeth, and bits of plaster and mouldy wallpaper peeled away from it like skin from a wound.

Inside the hole was another nest of rags and on top of the nest was Kreacher. He was dead — decapitated — and his head rested near the feet of his rotting body. This was the source of the awful smell.

Hermione moaned pitifully and Harry went to her, hesitating a long moment before enfolding her in his arms. Over her shoulder, he stared at the macabre sight. Whatever fury he had been gripped with earlier that day died away at once.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione cried into his shirt. “How could he? It’s just not right!”

Harry briefly wondered what she was talking about before he noticed the long, shaving razor that had fallen onto the nest beside Kreacher’s body. Brown blood stained its surface. This had clearly been the instrument of the house elf’s death.

Kreacher had killed himself.

“How could he?” Hermione whimpered again and her voice was so soft he could barely hear her. “It’s so awful I can hardly stand it.”

She was crying in earnest now and Harry did not know what to do. Awkwardly, he rubbed the space between her delicate shoulder blades and pressed his cheek against the top of her head. “Hermione,” he murmured, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Eventually, her crying subsided and the two stood quietly in each other’s arms in the flickering light. When he felt it was safe to, Harry took hold of her shoulders and gently moved her away from him so he could look at her face.

“He killed himself,” Hermione said dully. “He was always talking about being ‘properly beheaded’ like his ancestors. I— I know what he did was terrible, but he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t know any better.”

Harry nodded wordlessly and took her wrist to lead her from the room.

~: --------------------------- :~

In the relatively bright light of the kitchen, Harry and Hermione began to discuss what they had seen.

“But why would he kill himself?” Harry wondered. He traced a stain on the kitchen table with his finger and sighed. “With Sirius dead, he had the house to himself – isn’t that what he wanted?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” Hermione admitted. “I’ve done a lot of research on house elves. The enchantments we’ve used to enslave them are very powerful. If they disobey their masters, the magic compels them to punish themselves, and usually brutally. Maybe— maybe by taking part in Sirius’s death, the enchantment somehow forced him to take his own life?”

Harry looked appalled. “That’s horrible. How did we even enslave them in the first place? They seem pretty powerful when they put their minds to it.”

“Well, there’s a lot of debate about that in the books I’ve read on the subject,” Hermione said. “After the Goblin Wars, a lot of magical races were envious of the successes Goblins had had fighting against wizards and the improvement in their station in magical society after our treaty. In the end, Goblins were given control of our entire financial sector and were left to basically govern themselves – it really is an enormous amount of power for a race that most witches and wizards consider ‘inferior’ to our own.

“For a few dozen years following the Goblin Wars, many other magical races decided to orchestrate their own rebellions, with varying degrees of success. Merpeople, for instance, posed enough of a threat that wizards allowed them to completely divorce themselves from magical society, and they’ve been independent ever since. Other races weren’t so lucky – like House Elves. The elves had their own rebellion, but somehow… we subdued them. And as punishment for their rebellion, we enslaved them. No one knows exactly how, anymore.”

Harry brooded over this and rubbed absently at his bandage. “But if the enchantment is that powerful that it forced him to kill himself, it should have kept him from leaving the house, shouldn’t it have?”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “I think so.”

“So how did Kreacher know of Voldemort’s plan at the Department of Mysteries, then? If he couldn’t leave the house, how did he communicate with whoever tipped him off?”

Hermione frowned and her brows scrunched in thought. “I’m not sure…”

“It just doesn’t make any sense. Only members of the Order can get into this house, and none of them could have possibly known Voldemort’s plan,” Harry murmured, more to himself than Hermione. “Except… maybe Snape?”

But Harry did not seriously consider this. Snape had looked genuinely surprised when Harry had tried to tip him off about the situation while he was in Umbridge’s office. And the Potions professor must have alerted Dumbledore – why else had the Order shown up so quickly?

“No, not him, either,” Harry muttered. “But who else could it be? Kreacher never talked to anyone outside the house – we never had visitors. And he never really talked to anyone inside the house, either, to be honest. Well, no one except… except… hang on.”

“What?” Hermione questioned anxiously. “What have you thought of?”

“That portrait!” Harry growled, leaping to his feet. “That portrait of Mrs. Black! He called it his mistress and was always skulking about, talking to it. And we know that she’s not loyal to us. I bet she’s been commanding Kreacher to spy on us this whole time!”

The blood seemed to drain from Hermione’s face. “Harry, it’s still here! We couldn’t get it down, remember? It even stumped Professor Dumbledore.”

“There has to be a way,” Harry declared, pushing away from the table and striding into the drawing room. Hermione jumped up to run after him.

Harry looked around the room for a moment before his eyes settled on the iron fireplace poker. He ripped it out of its stand and stalked up the stairs to the landing.

“Harry, wait!” Hermione shouted after him. “That’s not going to work!”

But it was too late. Harry ripped open the curtains covering Mrs. Black’s portrait and took a mighty swing. The moment the iron rod touched the portrait, a great burst of energy erupted around it, knocking Harry clear off his feet and slamming him into the wall behind him.

“Harry!” Hermione cried and stumbled to her knees next to him, sliding her hand behind his head and into his hair. A terrible lump was already beginning to form. The bandage around his neck began to stain red – his bite wound was starting to bleed again. “Harry, are you all right?”

“Sodding hell,” he groaned, tipping his head forward so his chin rested between his knees. He felt like he might pass out.

Horrible, shrieking laughter drew their attention. Mrs. Black was watching them from her portrait, her yellowed eyes rolling wildly. “Putrid boy and his mudblood whore! Perversions of my home! Get out! GET OUT!”

Harry slumped forward and shakily climbed to his feet. “Shut up,” he rumbled coldly.

Hermione’s arm wrapped around his chest, leaning him against her to help support him. “Harry, come on,” she implored, and together they stumbled down the stairs, the high laughter following after them.

Harry leaned against the wall to get his bearings back and Hermione watched him worriedly. “Harry, you mustn’t always rush into things without thinking – you could have been seriously hurt.”

“She’s spying on us,” Harry muttered. His head ached fiercely and he closed his eyes. “She’s been spying on us the whole time. We have to do something.”

“As long as she’s in that portrait, we can’t touch her. There’s extremely powerful magic warding that frame.”

Harry said nothing and leaned his face against the wall. The cool plaster felt refreshing against his skin. Hermione bit her lip and moved to rub his back when she stopped cold. On the wall next to Harry, a manic-looking woodsman stared crazily out from a portrait of a dark forest.

She turned her head and saw two other portraits – one of a hard-faced man wearing a neck ruff and the other of a young black-haired woman who was sneering at them in disdain. In the kitchen, she knew, there were two more paintings, both landscapes. And nearly all the bedrooms upstairs had at least one.

There were portraits everywhere in Grimmauld Place.

“Harry,” she whispered urgently. “Harry, I think I have an idea.”

He cracked one eye open and then the other, looking at her in curiosity. “Tell me.”

“It’s the frame that’s protected, Harry – the actual physical portrait. Not Mrs. Black herself,” Hermione explained. “If we could somehow coax her out of her frame, we could trap her in another one and then get rid of her!”

Harry looked at her intensely. “How?” he asked. “She must have another portrait somewhere outside of this house – that’s how she’s passing along and receiving information. If she leaves this portrait, won’t she just go to that one?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Well, she could… but those two portraits are connected. Whatever she sees or hears in this one, she sees and hears in that one. So if we did something awful enough, she would move to another portrait in this house instead, just to get away.”

Harry looked at her in surprise and dawning hope. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Hermione assured. “I know all about magical portraits. I read about them in—”

“Hogwarts: A History,” Harry cut in. “Keep going.”

Hermione looked mildly affronted. “Harry! Do you think I've only read that one book? No, it was in The Sorcerer's Paintbrush. I checked it out in third year after the Fat Lady was attacked. I wondered about it, you see — how she moved into the other portraits to hide? Do you remember?”

Harry motioned for her to continue impatiently.

“Well, I remembered reading about this. As long as a portrait is hung on a wall, its occupant can move to any other portrait in the house. But only in the same house, and only if the portrait she's moving to is also on the wall,” she informed. “Subjects with more than one portrait can move between those, too, no matter how far away they are. But those portraits are always connected, like I explained.”

Harry stared at her for a moment after she finished. “So all we need to do is lure her into another portrait and then take it off the wall to trap her?” he said finally. “Hermione, you really are brilliant, you know.”

She flushed rather prettily. “Well, we still have to think of something that will be obnoxious enough for her to leave the portrait.”

Harry considered for a moment. “Go get your earmuffs,” he instructed. “The ones you use for potting mandrakes in Herbology. And get mine, too. They’re in my trunk. Hurry!”

Hermione only spared a momentary look of confusion before racing up the stairs to do as he asked. Harry marched back into the drawing room. He grabbed the old victrola and lifted it off its cabinet. He hauled it carefully up the stairs and set it down casually in front of the screeching portrait of Mrs. Black. When she saw what he was doing, she stopped cursing and looked at him warily. “What are you doing, you loathsome boil?” she asked him snidely.

Harry said nothing and stared back at her darkly.

Hermione appeared on the end of the landing, huffing and holding a stitch in her side from running. She held the earmuffs up for Harry to see before noticing the victrola. Comprehension dawned in her eyes and she grinned.

They both tugged on their earmuffs and Harry tapped the victrola with his wand. Instantly, Mrs. Black’s shrill voice was drowned out by the sound of thousands of bats screeching. Harry drew his wand against the volume adjustment until the sound was loud enough to vibrate the walls, sending clouds of powdery dust falling from the ceiling. Soon after, the crystal chimneys of the oil lamps began to burst in showers of glass.

Harry and Hermione heard nothing beneath their magical earmuffs, but they could see Mrs. Black with her mouth open in a horrified scream. Her hands were clapped over her ears and she bent and huddled, cowering from the noise, until finally she disappeared off the edge of the portrait. Instantly, Harry and Hermione raced down the hall in the direction she went.

They stopped at each portrait they came to, but they did not see Mrs. Black. Harry motioned to Hermione that he wanted to say something to her, but she shook her head and pointed to her earmuffs. Taking him by the arm, she dragged him up to her room and fished a stack of parchment and a quill from her trunk. She held them out and Harry took them and began to write.

How will we find her? There must be dozens of portraits here, and she can keep moving between them, can’t she?

Hermione frowned and grabbed the quill.

We can start taking the portraits she’s not in off the walls. That will stop her from moving to them.

Harry read this and nodded. He re-inked the quill before writing again.

Let’s start with the ones closest to the victrola. She’s likely gone as far away from the noise as she can, so she won’t be in any of those.

Hermione signaled her agreement and they took off back towards Mrs. Black’s empty portrait. One by one they began to pull the portraits down from the wall. When they finished with the landing, they moved to each bedroom, checking every painting before pulling it to the floor. Once, they just glimpsed Mrs. Black stepping out of a portrait of a grizzled sea captain just as they entered a room, but they were too slow to trap her. They ripped that portrait down, too.

They continued through the house in this manner, spotting her twice more, but they were always too slow to pull down the painting she was in.

Finally, they spotted her stepping out of the side of a portrait in a room three doors down from Harry’s, and he turned on his heel without waiting for Hermione to remove it from the wall and dashed into the hallway. He ripped one of the oil lamps from its sconce as he ran and kicked open the next door.

This was Sirius’s old room, and just above the bed, Mrs. Black stepped into the painting of the lagoon. She saw Harry at once, and turned to move out again, but he was already in motion. He drew his arm back and hurled the lamp like a quaffle, sending it across the room with its flame trailing behind it like a comet. It struck the painting with dead-on accuracy, knocking it from its nail and dropping it onto the bed. The still-lit lamp fell beside it and not a moment later, the bedclothes were aflame.

Harry stared at the flames in shock. A hand fisted in the sleeve of his shirt, and he turned to see Hermione standing beside him with her other hand over her mouth.

The painting began to sizzle and spark, as it, too, began to burn. The sea in the lagoon reflected the orange flames harshly, and Mrs. Black waded into the water in panic, shaking and yelling and waving her spindly arms.

Together, Harry and Hermione watched as the painting was engulfed in the fire before the flames began to lick at the wall behind the bed. Shocked out of his stupor by the reality of this sight, Harry took hold of Hermione’s arm and dragged her from the room.

He let go of her promptly and dashed down the hall into the bathroom where they had been cleaning his linens just this morning. His sheets and pillowcases were as they had left them, floating in the stale water. His filthy duvet was folded up on the floor. Harry grabbed it and threw it into the claw-foot tub before rapping his wand sharply on the tap. Water rushed out and began dousing the fabric just as Hermione appeared in the doorway. Getting the idea, she held the sheets under the water, turning her head to stare into Harry’s eyes anxiously.

After a moment, they pulled their soaking bedclothes from the bath and raced back into Sirius’s room. The wallpaper above the bed was bubbling and peeling away from the heat, and Harry knew that soon it would catch fire.

He tossed the duvet over the centre of the bed, crushing it down with his hands and smothering the flames. He could feel the intense heat of the fire on his face and his earlier dizziness began to return.

Hermione threw her wet sheet down next to him and slapped at it with her hands in a panic.

Under this onslaught, the flames began to die, before finally they were drowned entirely. When he was sure it was safe to, Harry rolled off the side of the bed to slump to the floor. Hermione stumbled to her knees beside him. They stared at each other mutely, both in shock over what they had just done.

Harry felt some strange mirth bubbling inside him. He began to laugh, his shoulders shaking, and Hermione watched him in confusion for a moment, before she, too, began to shake with silent laughter. They grabbed each other’s forearms and laughed and grinned, hearing nothing through their earmuffs but the pounding of their own blood.

When their laughter began to die away, they looked into each other’s eyes and both could read what the other was thinking as clearly as if it had been spoken out loud: Can you believe what just happened?

10. The Funeral

Chapter 10: The Funeral

When the euphoria of their strange success had faded, Harry and Hermione were faced with the sobering reality of the day.

Sirius’s former room was a ghastly sight. When Harry peeled away his sodden duvet, the ruins of what lay beneath startled them. The bed was a charred and smoking mess and the burned wood portrait sat crumbling into charcoal in its centre.

Smoke had blackened the ceiling and much of the wallpaper, and the harsh odour of melted fabric lingered over the room.

They returned to the bathroom to collect some water to pour over the smouldering remains. When they arrived, they realised that they had left the tap running in their haste and the tub was now overflowing, flooding the bathroom floor and leaking out into the hall. Harry’s boots made soft sucking noises as he strode across the wet tile to shut it off.

They filled tin rubbish bins with water from the tub and returned to Sirius’s room to pour them carefully over the blackened remains of the bed. Twice they did this, until both were satisfied that the threat of fire had passed.

Together, they made their way back downstairs to the landing, stepping carefully around the shards of broken glass that littered the hallway. On the walls around them, the oil lamps flickered with a naked flame without their crystal chimneys to protect them. Harry and Hermione shared an uneasy look.

The old victrola was still playing – even through their magical earmuffs, they could hear the faintest screeching as the neared it. Harry turned the volume down and then tapped his wand on the needle to end the sound entirely. They both slid off their earmuffs as soon as this was done.

Before them, the former portrait of Mrs. Black stood empty. She was well and truly gone.

Harry lifted his hand onto the back of his head to prod gently at his injury. The lump had swelled to the size of a toddler’s fist. The touch of his fingers was painful and he dropped his hand and leaned against the wall behind him. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed.

“Let me take a look at that,” Hermione said, moving around next to him and sliding her hand between the wall and the back of his head. She carefully felt around the lump, examining its size, and frowned. “Well, it’s not bleeding, but – it’s quite bad, Harry. It must really be painful.”

Exhaustion was creeping up fast now that Harry’s adrenaline had burned itself out, and there was a fuzziness to his vision that he didn’t care for. He pushed away from the wall and gestured to the portrait with his head. “Who do you reckon has the other portrait? Voldemort himself? Or one of his followers?”

Hermione’s lip twitched at the casual mention of Voldemort, but Harry was pleased to see that she was well past the stage of wincing. “I don’t know,” she admitted. The question seemed to have troubled her. “She’s been in this house for so long – whoever owns the other portrait must have received huge amounts of information. About the Order, about Sirius, and — oh, I can hardly bear to think on it — but they must have been gathering information about you, too, Harry. This is really very serious!”

Harry’s face was a brooding mask. “They must know all about you and Ron, now. And the twins and Ginny, too.”

Hermione frowned. “Harry, it’s not like it’s a secret that we’re friends. Everyone at Hogwarts must know. I’m sure Malfoy has already told his father everything he knows about us. And he would have told V-Voldemort – at least before he was captured at the Ministry.”

Harry stepped away from her, his temper flaring. “Don’t say it so casually! If he knows about you, he’ll use you against me!”

“Nothing has changed, Harry,” Hermione said evenly in the face of his bluster. “He doesn’t know anything more about us than a single conversation with one of the students at school couldn’t have told him. It’s not like we ever did anything particularly secretive here – you were so distraught last year… well, you mostly kept to yourself. So there was little for him to gain from spying on you then, anyway. And the only thing different today than yesterday is that he no longer has access to our secrets.”

Harry’s anger flickered out like a candle flame in the face of this logic and he scratched at his bandage uncomfortably. “He knew about Sirius… he knew how I felt about Sirius. And look what happened.”

Hermione’s face softened and she swept her arms around him at once. Harry stiffened in her embrace and did not return it, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Oh, Harry, you mustn’t think that way. Nothing is going to happen to us,” she implored. “What happened with Sirius won’t happen again. You said yourself – you know the difference now.”

Harry did not quite share her confidence, but he kept his thoughts to himself. After a moment, Hermione let him go and stepped back to look at him. Harry was surprised to see that her eyes were moist. “Come on, then. Let’s go into the kitchen. I need to change your bandage – you’re bleeding again. And we should get some ice for that lump.”

She turned and led him downstairs, picking through the portraits they had leaned haphazardly against the walls. They passed through the drawing room and Hermione stopped abruptly in the doorway to the kitchen. Harry had to pull up short to keep from walking straight into her back.

It was immediately clear why she had stopped. Harry froze as he looked over her shoulder into the kitchen beyond. Albus Dumbledore was sitting at the table, observing them silently.

“Please sit down, Harry, Miss Granger,” he asked politely, but this was clearly not a request to be ignored. Harry and Hermione shared a quick glance before moving towards the table. Harry pulled out a chair and sat down promptly, but Hermione hesitated behind hers.

“Please, sir,” she said after a moment. “Harry has a rather bad lump on his head. I’d like to get him some ice first.”

Dumbledore peered through his half-moon glasses at Harry as if to verify this diagnosis before inclining his head. “Of course, Miss Granger.”

She turned and bustled to the icebox, hunting around inside it for a few moments before reappearing with a bottle of butterbeer. Harry looked at it strangely and she shrugged. “I couldn’t break any of the ice off. It must be charmed. This is the only thing in there that’s cold enough.”

She handed it to him and Harry dutifully pressed it against the back of his head before Hermione slid into her chair beside him.

“Well, I must say, it looks like you two have had something of an adventure tonight,” Dumbledore stated calmly. “Would you care to explain?”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other as if unsure where to begin.

Dumbledore nodded absently and continued. “Perhaps it would be best if I were to start? Earlier this evening, Phineas informed me that the portraits in this house were near to riot from panic, and that he went to investigate but found his progress severely hampered. Most of the paintings in this home had, inexplicably, been removed from the walls, preventing him from entering them or communicating with their occupants. The ones he could visit were nearly unendurable – he complained of a terrible noise that nearly drove him mad. He was quite put out by all this and asked for me to come here to discover the reason behind your… impromptu redecorating.”

“We found Kreacher earlier,” Harry said bluntly. “He’s dead.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose marginally at this declaration. “I see. This is a tragedy, but one that I can admit I anticipated might happen. Was his death self-inflicted?”

“He killed himself, yes,” Harry confirmed.

“And how did this terrible discovery lead to your removal of the portraits?” Dumbledore prodded.

“Professor Dumbledore, sir,” Hermione began to answer. “When we were looking for Kreacher, we wondered about – well, we were remembering when Harry flooed here right before… what happened… at the Department of Mysteries. Kreacher seemed to confirm that Sirius had been taken there and that he was in danger. We all acted on that information, and that’s why we ended up going.”

Dumbledore’s face seemed to darken with each word out of her mouth, until it was a stony, unreadable mask. “I was not aware that you flooed here before attempting your rescue, Harry. This is grave news, indeed. If Kreacher knew of Voldemort’s plans—”

“Then Kreacher must have been in communication with someone from Voldemort’s camp, if not Voldemort, himself,” Harry cut in. “That’s the conclusion we came to, as well.”

Hermione looked mildly shocked that Harry had interrupted the headmaster, but the old wizard seemed to take no offense.

“Why did you not tell me this before?” Dumbledore asked after a moment of silence.

Harry shifted guiltily under his look. “After everything that happened… I had forgotten all about Kreacher, to be honest.”

The headmaster leaned back and began to comb his fingers through his beard. “Continue, Harry.”

Harry began to describe the events of the night, leaving nothing out. He detailed their search for Kreacher and Hermione’s discovery of the moved shelf. He spoke haltingly of finding the house elf’s body and then their discussion in the kitchen about Kreacher’s activities. When Harry described his revelation about Mrs. Black’s portrait, something in Dumbledore’s eyes flashed in sudden comprehension about where the story was leading.

Harry ended his account with the burning of the portrait and Hermione nodded her approval at his description of the events.

Dumbledore pushed his chair back and stood to his full height. “You must take me to this portrait at once.”

Harry and Hermione lead him upstairs past the landing where the headmaster stopped to observe the empty painting that Mrs. Black had previously occupied. He waved his hand over the frame slowly, as if sensing the wards, before motioning that they should continue on.

As they passed through the hall, Dumbledore’s wand appeared in his hand, and a single flick had the piles of broken glass leaping into the air and fusing back together into the glass chimneys they previously were. Another flick and all the abandoned portraits reseated themselves on the walls.

They continued upstairs and across the wet floors of the hallway into Sirius’s room. Harry and Hermione stepped aside to allow Dumbledore to examine the bed. Again, he held his hand over the remains of the portrait, seemingly deep in thought, before stepping back, satisfied.

“She is gone,” he confirmed. “Even magic cannot return things that have been burned to their previous state.”

Dumbledore plucked his spectacles off his face and cleaned them absently with the hem of his robes before turning back to favour Harry and Hermione with a strange, little smile.

“Well, Harry, it seems you have foiled Riddle’s plans once again. And you, Miss Granger – your method for her capture was indeed ingenious,” he said with a touch of pride in his voice. “However, much damage has already been done. I will have to inform the Order about this immediately. We must determine how much information could have already been passed on. I’m afraid I will have to send for Remus once the sun has risen. I trust you will find ways to occupy yourselves in the coming days.”

“Yes, Professor,” they both said dutifully.

“Very well, then. Harry, I’m afraid this news will likely delay our next meeting.”

“You’ve never told me when the next meeting was going to be,” Harry informed.

Dumbledore looked surprised. “Dear me – old age is indeed creeping up. Well, I will be sure to send Fawkes when I have secured a time.”

The three exchanged brief goodbyes before the headmaster bowed his head and disapparated without a sound.

“I wish he had cleaned the water in the hallway,” Harry said after he had left. “I reckon we’re going to have to do it ourselves later, or the floorboards will start to mould.”

“The only thing you’re doing for the rest of the night is resting, Harry,” Hermione asserted. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that your dizziness is back. You probably still have traces of doxy venom in your system, and that head injury can’t be helping.”

“It’s not that bad,” Harry protested mechanically, but his heart wasn’t really in it. Truthfully, he was exhausted and the pounding behind his eyes had not lessened as the evening went on. Sleep sounded very attractive.

“We’ll put you up in Remus’s room tonight,” Hermione continued as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “Since all of your linens have been… well—”

“Melted?”

Hermione’s lip twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Well, yes. Tomorrow we’ll take the bedclothes off another bed and wash them for you, but this should be fine for tonight. Why don’t you get ready and I’ll meet you in Remus’s room? I need to get another bandage.”

Harry accepted this without comment and walked down the hall into the flooded lavatory. He cleaned the soot and dust off himself with a washrag and soap before brushing his teeth and carefully undoing the knot on his bandage. It was a relief to take it off – the cloth was filthy by now and the skin of his neck itched terribly beneath it.

Harry lifted his chin up and examined the bite wound in the mirror. It was not large — doxies were only slightly bigger than common bats — but it was red and angry from the venom and there was dried blood clotted around it. He cleaned this away as best he could, but it was painful and his ministrations caused the scab to break and blood to leak through again. He clapped some bath tissue over it and left the room.

Hermione was waiting for him in Remus’s room with a tray of various bottles and flasks. She had him sit on the edge of the bed and tilt his head back before carefully peeling away the tissue and examining the wound. She made a small displeased noise before she tipped some potion onto a cotton ball and warned him that it would sting fiercely. Harry did his best to hold still as she gently dabbed it on the bite. When she was finished, she soaked another fabric bandage in a jar of anti-venom and then tied it around his neck.

Harry brushed the edge of the fabric with his fingers. The bandage was not nearly as uncomfortable when it was clean.

“You should leave this on overnight,” Hermione said. “The venom should have worked its way out of your blood stream by the morning. You’ll feel a lot better then.”

“Hermione, where did you learn all this? We’ve never had any sort of healing lessons at Hogwarts.”

Hermione looked thoughtful and sat down next to him on the bed. “Books, of course. And Harry, please don’t tease.”

Harry frowned at her. “Why would I tease you about that? You’ve been dead useful today.”

Hermione slid her hand into the back of Harry’s hair and he jerked forward a little in surprise. “May I?” she asked. He didn’t reply and she must have taken this as assent, because her fingers continued their search for the lump on the back of his skull. When she found it, she carefully felt its dimensions and then dropped her hand back into her lap. “It’s still very swollen. I wish I knew a numbing charm.”

“It’s fine,” Harry reassured.

“What did you do with the bottle I gave you?”

Harry had the good sense to look sheepish. “I left it on the kitchen table.”

Hermione sighed and stood up. “Well, you’ll probably regret not icing it more in the morning. And don’t take that bandage off when I leave.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself.”

They wished one another goodnight and Hermione blew out the lamp before she disappeared out the door.

~: --------------------------- :~

Harry awoke the next morning to find Crookshanks settled against his stomach. His careful attempt to slide out of bed without the cat noticing was not as successful as he would have liked, and one little paw full of sharp claws dug itself into his abdomen.

He winced and carefully extracted himself. Crookshanks slit his eyes at him before licking the fur on his leg and pretending Harry didn’t exist. Obviously, he was a bit ornery today. Harry wondered if this behaviour was some sort of revenge for the terrible noise they had made last night getting rid of the portrait. He reminded himself to check on Hedwig – she was probably as displeased as Crookshanks was.

Harry climbed out of bed and raked his hand through his hair before sliding it over the bump on the back of his head. It was still swollen, but much improved from yesterday. He grabbed his boots, trousers, and shirt from where he had laid them last night and went out into the hallway. There was still a fair amount of water around and the unpleasant smell of old, damp wood assaulted his nostrils. He avoided the mess as best he could and went into his room. He dressed with clean clothes and spent a few minutes bribing himself back into Hedwig’s good graces with owl treats.

After a quick stop in the loo to bathe and rid himself of his unfortunately patchy facial hair, Harry checked on Hermione (he could see nothing above her bedcovers except a great mass of bushy, brown hair, but that was enough to assure him she was neither dead nor ill) and then made his way downstairs.

The victrola was still on the floor of the landing and Harry took that downstairs with him. After replacing it on its cabinet in the drawing room, Harry hesitated a moment before picking up his O.W.L. scores from the cabriolet table and reading through them again. It was hard to believe it was only yesterday that he had received them – it seemed like a week ago after everything that happened.

Feeling somewhat heartened by the reminder that he was one step closer to possibly becoming an Auror, he set his results back down and went into the kitchen. He was terribly hungry –Hermione, Remus, and he had all skipped dinner the previous night in their haste to find Kreacher.

The reminder of the house elf was sobering. Kreacher’s body was still in the cupboard off the kitchen, and the thought unsettled him. Something would have to be done.

“Brooding again, I see,” Hermione teased gently from the doorway. Harry looked up at her from where he had been staring at the floor, lost in thought. It was obvious she had made an attempt to tame her hair with a brush, but she was otherwise clearly fresh from bed and was still wearing her dressing gown. Harry was startled to see her this way, and it must have shown in his face because Hermione hesitated a moment before blushing and sliding into a chair at the table.

“Sorry,” Harry said, unsure of what exactly he was apologizing for.

“What were you thinking about?” Hermione asked after an awkward silence.

Harry leaned back against the counter and rubbed his arm. “Kreacher,” he admitted. “We can’t leave his body in the cupboard.”

Hermione chewed her lip and she had that look on her face that Harry was slowly becoming familiar with – the look that meant she had something to say to him that he probably wouldn’t like. “Harry,” she began, folding her hands in her lap, “I was thinking — well, I thought that we should have a funeral. For Kreacher, I mean.”

“A funeral?” Harry asked sceptically. “I thought we might just bury him somewhere in the back garden.”

“Oh. Well,” Hermione replied, looking at him in some surprise, “actually, I think that’s a good idea. To lay him to rest near his home, I mean. But I think we should have some sort of service to— to honour his memory.”

“Like a memorial service?” Harry asked, frowning. “Hermione, we didn’t even have one of those for Sirius.”

All the colour seemed to leave her face. “Oh! Oh, Harry,” she breathed, “I hadn’t even thought— I mean, I didn’t realise… oh. Would you— would you like to have one?”

“No,” Harry said at once.

She looked startled by his abrupt answer and seemed to be warring with herself between questioning him about it and respecting his wishes. After a moment of this struggle, she gave him a sad look and nodded. “Okay. But Harry – if you ever change your mind, you know I’ll help you with anything you need.”

“We should get Remus,” Harry said after a moment. “The sun must be up.”

He pulled the slat off its brace and opened the door to call down into the basement without waiting for a response from Hermione. The werewolf appeared in the kitchen shortly after, looking even more tired than before, if possible. The short trek up the stairs seemed to have nearly sapped him of his breath. However, despite his obvious exhaustion, his eyes were sharp and intense.

“Did you find him?” he asked immediately.

Harry and Hermione exchanged looks and Hermione launched into a detailed account of the night. When she finished, Remus sat back in his chair in shock. “Mrs. Black! I can’t believe we didn’t think that she might have another portrait somewhere! It’s fortunate this house is protected by the Fidelius Charm or she would have been able to lead them right to us.”

Remus seemed lost in thought after this and Harry announced he was going to make breakfast. They were sitting down to a plate of bangers and muffins soon after.

“Professor, I was telling Harry – I think we should have a funeral for Kreacher,” Hermione said after a sip of pumpkin juice. “To honour his memory.”

Remus’s fork froze on the way to his mouth. His face turned hard. “Why in Merlin’s name would you want to honour that little beast’s memory?”

Hermione looked absolutely bewildered by this response. She had clearly not expected Remus to disagree with her and she fumbled with a response. “Professor! He didn’t know any better! Kreacher couldn’t help how he was raised and how he was taught to think. I thought you, of all people, would—”

Remus’s eyes flashed and even Harry was startled by his reaction. “You thought because I am a werewolf, I would sympathize with his plight? Well, I assure you, I have a great deal of sympathy for creatures that are forced to endure the exceedingly foolish and malicious prejudices of wizards. I also believe your empathy towards house elves speaks highly of your character. But what you are suggesting disappoints me utterly.

“I am a werewolf — a so-called ‘dark creature’ — and have had to tolerate more indignities because of that fact than you can possibly imagine. And yet, I am still able to differentiate between right and wrong. That basic choice – the decision all beings have to value life or to not – is what separates us from animals. Kreacher was a house elf and his life here was pitiable. But to absolve his pleasure in the destruction of Sirius’s life just because of what he was is to dishonour all those house elves that struggle under similar conditions but are somehow able to resist succumbing to depravity.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the kitchen and Hermione looked positively ashen. Harry felt an urge to say something — to defend her, maybe — but in his heart, he agreed with Remus.

The remainder of breakfast was a silent, awkward affair.

Soon after, Fawkes arrived with Dumbledore’s summons. Harry walked Remus to the drawing room fireplace where the werewolf provided a few instructions on how to contact him in the event of an emergency before vanishing in a rush of green flames.

When Harry returned to the kitchen, Hermione was still sitting at the table. She looked terribly upset and Harry felt something heavy settle in his chest. He pulled out the chair next to her and sat down quietly. He couldn’t think of anything useful to say, so instead he just sat with her in silence, keeping her company.

After a few minutes, Hermione heaved a shaky breath and tilted her head forward so her face disappeared in a fall of brown hair. Harry hoped desperately that she wasn’t crying.

“Do you think he’s right?” she asked quietly.

Harry did not want to answer this question. She seemed to take his hesitance to respond as a ‘yes’.

“He is right,” she said after a few moments, still hiding her face behind her hair. “But I can’t help it – I still feel sorry for Kreacher.”

“That hardly makes you an awful person, Hermione.”

Hermione looked up and Harry was relieved to see that her eyes were dry. He placed his forearms on the table and turned towards her. “Maybe we should still have that funeral,” he suggested. “But instead of having it to honour Kreacher’s memory, we could honour— well, we could remember that his life was sad, and that maybe things could have gone differently.”

Harry wasn’t sure whether this was the right thing to say, but Hermione began to nod and a small smile appeared on her face. “I— yes. Yes, that sounds like a good idea.”

Harry sat back in his chair, feeling a bit surprised by his own diplomacy. “We can do it after we clean up breakfast. I’d rather not put it off. I don’t really like the idea of his corpse being in the next room over.”

Hermione’s lips pursed at this blunt statement.

Harry stood and began to collect the dishes. He went to bring them to the sink, but a small hand on his arm stopped him. He glanced down questioningly at Hermione.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“…Thank you.”

~: --------------------------- :~

An hour later they were ready. Hermione had dressed and procured an old blanket from a linen cupboard. Harry was carrying an oil lamp and a rusty shovel that he had found in a crumbling shed in the back garden.

They opened the door to Kreacher’s cupboard and were again nearly overwhelmed by the smell. Hermione clutched the folded blanket it front of her. She glanced at the decapitated body once quickly, before looking away.

“Harry, I’m sorry, but—” she tried to explain. “I just can’t.”

Harry nodded wordlessly and took the blanket from her arms. He handed her the shovel and the lamp and she smiled at him weakly.

Harry took the blanket and laid it out in front of the hole in the wall. In the dim light, he could see several rats scurrying away from the nest, hiding from his looming presence. Gathering his courage, he carefully lifted the body of the house-elf and deposited it onto the blanket. The movement disturbed the head and it rolled a half-turn on the blanket. Harry grimaced and then placed that in the blanket, as well.

Quickly — more so he wouldn’t have to look at the grisly sight than because of any actual urgency to his task — he rolled the body in the blanket and lifted it into his arms.

Hermione led the way through the house towards the heavy door to the back garden. Holding the shovel under her arm, she held the door open for Harry, and together they slipped outside.

It was still relatively early in the morning, and the garden was painted with long shadows. Like everything else at Grimmauld Place, it was a monument of neglect, overgrown with thorny plants and clinging vines. As they picked their way through this forest of disuse, some of the vines reached out and tried to wrap slyly around their arms and legs. Hermione batted at them with her shovel, but her swings were clumsy and had little effect.

“Just keep going,” Harry instructed. “They’ll snap off.”

They pushed forward until at last they came to a small patch of ground that was not overrun with strange plants. There was grass here, and although it was thick and in desperate need of cutting, it was still the most welcoming area of the garden they had seen yet. There would be no better spot for what they planned.

Harry carefully laid down his bundle and took the shovel from Hermione. He estimated the size of the hole that would be necessary and began to dig. Harry was quite used to digging holes — he had planted each and every hedgerow at Number 4 Privet Drive — and he finished this task quickly.

Once done, he climbed out of the hole and set down the shovel. Hermione nodded in approval of his work.

“Do we—,” Harry began, feeling unsure of what was expected. Despite all the people he knew who had died, he could not recall ever attending an actual funeral. “Should I put the body in?”

Hermione, too, seemed slightly unsure. “Yes. I think so.”

Harry carefully lifted the bundle and stepped back down into the hole. He arranged it lengthwise before straightening and staring at what he had done. The rolled blanket looked so innocuous that it was hard to believe there was a decapitated body inside. An unpleasant feeling coiled in his stomach and he climbed out of the hole.

He went to stand next to Hermione and together they looked down into their make-shift grave. After several seconds, Hermione’s fingers reached out and curled against his. He turned his wrist to take her hand fully in his own and she squeezed it gratefully. He was somewhat relieved to know that she felt as unsettled as he did.

Long minutes passed and neither moved. A strange atmosphere had settled over them and seemed to strip them of their desire to speak. Harry found that he was no longer thinking of Kreacher at all, but other things… and other people…

It was some time later before Harry wordlessly took the shovel and began to fill in the hole. Nothing had been said — no words of remembrance for Kreacher, no wishes for goodbye — but what had taken place seemed all the more poignant for the silence. When Harry was finished, the mound of dirt lay like a black scar in the grass.

Hermione gathered her lamp and retook his hand, and they returned to the house without a word.

11. Strength in Numbers

Chapter 11: Strength in Numbers

The following days passed uneventfully. Harry and Hermione settled into a routine, and their time was divided between cleaning, reading, playing parlour games, and revising for the new term. Under Hermione’s watchful eye, Harry completed the last of his essays and he felt better prepared for the start of the school year than perhaps he ever had.

At first, Harry had been unsure about being alone in the house with Hermione. He knew his mercurial nature often made him difficult to be around — he could seemingly shift at random between wanting company and wanting to be alone with his thoughts — but Hermione proved unusually savvy when it came to his moods. She seemed to know when to talk to him and when to sit quietly, entertaining herself with books or knitting. Harry appreciated the peacefulness after the first few chaotic days in the house.

“Oh my! Harry, come look at this," Hermione gasped, folding her copy of the Daily Prophet to get a better look at the front page.

Harry looked up from where he was laying on his back in front of the fire. There was a book lying open on his chest, but he hadn’t been reading – the warmth from the fire had coaxed him into dozing some time ago. One of his hands rested on the book’s spine, and the other behind his head.

“Can’t I see it from down here?” he asked.

Hermione made a huffing noise and creased the paper. “No. If you want to see it, you’ll have to come up on the couch with me.”

Harry tossed his book aside and turned onto his stomach. He did a press up to get to his feet and then moved to sit beside Hermione. “What is it?”

She held the newspaper so he could see the headline, which proclaimed:

DISSENT IN THE MINISTRY!

Beneath this bold text, there was a smaller abstract which read:

Minister Fudge faces inquiry after accusations are raised concerning an alleged smear campaign against the current head of the Wizengamot, ALBUS DUMBLEDORE, and his protégé, HARRY POTTER!

Harry frowned and bent the corner of the paper in annoyance. “Since when am I Dumbledore’s protégé?”

“Oh, Harry, that’s hardly important! This is really big news! If it comes out that Fudge’s office was pressuring the newspaper agencies to write those awful articles about you last year, the Wizengamot might call for a vote of no confidence.”

“So? All’s the better, in my opinion.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “Well, I agree that he hasn’t been the most effective Minister,” she conceded, “but if Fudge is removed, it will cause a lot of upheaval at the Ministry. Everyone is already so nervous because of… Voldemort…being back. This would only exacerbate things.”

“Everyone should be nervous. They should have been nervous a year ago,” Harry said darkly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any sympathy for that git.”

“I suppose I don’t blame you. Those articles – heavens! They were entirely ridiculous,” she sniffed. “I’m glad you’ve been getting much better press lately.”

Harry looked at her warily. “Whatever they’re saying, I don’t want to hear it. Good or bad. Everything they write is bollocks, anyway. I suspect that in six months, they’ll go back to thinking I’m a lunatic again.”

Hermione poked him in the side for his language and he shifted away from the tickling sensation. “Well, it’s all quite positive right now. But if you don’t want to know, I won’t force you to read it.”

“I don’t,” Harry affirmed. “But if you ever see any news about Voldemort or Death Eaters, tell me.”

Hermione assured him she would and turned the page to continue reading. Harry tilted his head back to rest against the top of the couch. The fire was still blazing merrily and he felt quite comfortable there with Hermione. He hoped he might be able to doze a bit again. He was still having trouble sleeping and the rest would be welcome.

“Oh, Harry, don’t sleep like that. You’ll get an awful crick in your neck,” Hermione chided gently.

Harry cracked one eye open to see her peering at him in concern. He turned and lay against the arm rest, stretching his long legs onto the ancient ottoman in front of the couch. “Better?” he asked, somewhat cheekily.

“Much,” she replied, smiling a little. She turned back to her reading and Harry let his eyes drift closed. An indeterminate period of time passed in that half-awake state before he heard Hermione fold her paper back up and set it aside. She seemed to sense that he wasn’t sleeping and asked very quietly if the sound would bother him if she knit. He shook his head and soon he could hear her rustling through the basket of yarn and needles that she kept near the mantle.

The couch dipped a bit as Hermione settled herself again. Harry removed his spectacles and held them blindly in her direction. “Could you—”

She took them before he could even finish his question and set them on the end table. “Thanks,” he mumbled tiredly.

The crackling of the fire punctuated with the soft clicking of Hermione’s knitting served as a particularly effective lullaby and he fell asleep soon after.

~: --------------------------- :~

When Harry awoke, the fire had been reduced to little more than a few glowing embers. He felt disoriented and strange – he had dreamed of the Tower Room again. He was starting to become concerned over his own curiosity. With each dream of the old and dying woman, he found himself more and more preoccupied with wondering who she might be. It reminded him distinctly of his desire to find out what was behind the unusual door he had dreamt about last year and his similar feelings were unsettling.

Harry rubbed his palm over his face and glanced about the room. The slight chill of the very early morning was kept out by a thin quilt that had been laid over him sometime during the night. He worried the hem of it with his fingers, surprised by Hermione’s thoughtfulness.

A loud, persistent tapping sound drew his eyes to the drawing room window. There was a bird sitting on the sill looking in at him, but it was clearly no owl. It looked to be a sort of pelican or some other sea bird, with a bright orange beak and glassy, bulbous eyes. It was a hideous creature and Harry felt a little sorry for it.

If he were not a wizard, the sight of this bird on his windowsill in the middle of London might have given him pause. As it were, though, Harry opened the window without much hesitation and let the pelican inside. The bird flapped around its great wings and made a terrible racket, banging into things and emitting an awful noise. Harry glared at it uselessly as it flopped around the drawing room.

Finally, the bird settled unsteadily on a curio cabinet and made a strange sound in its throat before it seemed to regurgitate a small box and a folded parchment onto the floor. Harry stared at it in disbelief. Did someone actually expect him to pick that up and read it?

With its task done, the bird stared at Harry with rolling eyes, waiting for its reward. Harry had no idea what to give a pelican as a treat — he could not imagine owl pellets would appeal to it — so he went into the kitchen to fish around in the ice box. There was nothing there that immediately leapt to mind as sea-bird-friendly, so after a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed a piece of bread and a bowl of water. He returned to the drawing room and set these things on the floor and the bird leapt down with an ungainly flap of its great wings. It pushed the bowl around the floor comically as it drank and when it had finished, it swallowed the bread in one gulp. It bleated at Harry pathetically after this and opened its beak as if expecting more.

Frowning, Harry returned to the kitchen and grabbed the entire loaf of bread. When he turned around, he found the bird had followed him and was now looking up at him from the entryway. Harry took a slice from the bread and tossed it at the bird. This one it caught in the air and gobbled down. Another slice, and another – still it wanted more.

“Greedy little bugger, aren’t you?” Harry muttered before finally growing exasperated and dropping the remainder of the bread onto the kitchen floor. The bird sucked this up in a single gulp, then emitted a loud squawk and took a running leap into the air. It flapped its huge wings three times and disappeared out the window.

Harry returned to the drawing room and looked at the damp parchment on the floor in distaste. Sighing, he picked it up by the tips of his fingers and unfolded it. He recognised Hagrid’s huge, messy letters at once.

Dear Harry,

Happy birthday! I’m sorry I missed it. I couldn’t find a ruddy bird to send it with until now. I’ve been doing work for Dumbeldoor trying to find the you-know-whats again. My brother is with me! He’s doing much better. Just wait until you see! I can’t wait to see you again, Harry. Here is your present!

Your friend,

Hagrid

Harry smiled at the gamekeeper’s cheerful letter. He set it on the table and then glanced down at the small box warily. He hoped there was nothing inside that might bite him.

With the utmost care, he opened the side of the box and held it at arm’s length before tipping the contents out over the rug. Something small thumped onto the floor, but there were no ominous hissing, chomping, or scratching sounds. Curious, Harry looked down to see a small, black velvet pouch. He bent to pick this up at once, caution abandoned.

Inside was a thin chain that appeared to be made of silver. There was a circular piece about an inch in diameter attached to one end and a sturdy-looking clasp on the other. Harry turned it between his fingers in bewilderment.

Harry dug around inside the pouch to see if he had missed anything and found a printed piece of card stock. On its face were the words, ‘Salamen and Shomille: Fine Jewelers’, and in smaller typeface, ‘Wizard’s Wallet Chain’.

Harry grimaced. He knew exactly what Hagrid had in mind when purchasing this. Last year at Christmas, the gamekeeper had given him a furry, brown wallet encrusted with fangs which would bite anyone who tried to open it. Harry glanced down at his hand and ran his thumb over a small, silvery scar just beneath the much larger one that formed the words, ‘I will not tell lies’. Being bit by one’s own wallet was somewhat embarrassing and he rubbed the mark absently.

Harry sighed before clipping the chain to a belt loop on his trousers and heading upstairs to search through his trunk. He found his wallet where he had left it – inside an old biscuit tin that he had closed securely. He removed the lid and moved hesitantly to take hold of the wallet, but pulled his hand back when it nearly snapped one of his fingers off. Harry glared at the wallet uselessly before digging around among his things until he found a small box of bands that were used to hold rolled parchments. He slid two of the bands onto his wrist before having another go at the wallet.

This time, he snatched hold of it with the same quick move he usually employed for catching the snitch and held it firmly to keep it from opening its jaws. After a few moments of struggling, the wallet seemed to calm down a little and Harry slid the two bands around it, keeping its fangs firmly closed. With this, the wallet began struggling anew, but it calmed again a few moments later. Harry looked at it curiously before clipping it to his new chain and stuffing it in his pocket. He stood up again and seemed to take a moment to consider before a sick look came over his features. Nervously, he slid his hand down the front of his trousers towards one of his pant legs and adjusted himself before unclipping his chain and moving the wallet quickly to the other pocket. He wasn’t going to take any chances of being bitten in any sensitive areas.

Harry stood stiffly as if expecting the wallet to sink its fangs into his leg at any moment, but it sat innocuously in his pocket without moving. Once he felt sure he wasn’t about to lose a chunk of his thigh, Harry looked towards his parchments and considered writing Hagrid a thank-you note. He dismissed the idea quickly. Hagrid was surely somewhere dangerous and should not be distracted by owls. Hedwig, too, would be in danger if he sent her, and he could not bear that. He would wait to thank the gamekeeper when they returned to school.

With that decided, Harry went back downstairs and into the kitchen. Unsure of when Hermione might awaken and not wanting to waste food, he made himself a simple breakfast of toast and a ripe orange.

By the time he finished, Hermione had still not come downstairs, so he decided he ought to check on her. He cleaned up his mess and then made his way to her room. He stopped outside her door, placing his hand on the moulding and listened quietly. There was a rustling of covers inside and he frowned. He wondered if she was having a nightmare.

With the tips of his fingers, he gently pushed the door open slightly more than already it was, giving him a better view of the bed. It creaked a little and he winced at the sound. The rustling of the covers stilled and Hermione’s head peeked out from beneath them. She seemed startled to see him in the doorway and stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“Er, sorry,” Harry said lamely, folding his arms over his chest in an attempt to fake dignity. “I was just checking on you. It sounded like you might be having a nightmare.”

Hermione’s look softened and she gripped the edge of her bedclothes in her small hands, pulling them tight to her chin. She gave him an unsteady smile and ran her fingers through her bushy, messy hair self-consciously. “My hair is always a fright in the morning,” she said inanely.

“I’m sure mine is, too,” Harry assured hastily. “And I’m still wearing the clothes I fell asleep in last night. Thank you for the quilt, by the way.”

“Your hair always looks like you just got out of bed,” Hermione said, and her voice was fond. “Although – Harry, are you shaving now?”

“What?” Harry asked before realizing what she had noticed. His chin felt a bit prickly. “Oh. Well, yeah. It’s all patchy, though.”

Hermione smiled and they stared at each other without a word for almost a minute before Harry dragged his eyes away from her small form nestled among the covers. “I’ll let you get back to sleep,” he said, pulling the door closed behind him until it was only open enough for Crookshanks to come and go.

He strode down the hall to his room, clenching and unclenching his hands. He felt slightly bewildered by seeing Hermione in her bed.

He shook off this strange thought and looked for Hedwig, but she seemed to be out hunting somewhere. Her hours had become increasingly strange as of late – she was much more likely to sleep at night and be awake during the day than she ever had before.

He made sure her food and water were both well-stocked before gathering the parchment bands he had removed earlier and returning them to his trunk. As he placed them inside, he saw his gift from Dumbledore and could not resist pulling it out. To his surprise, the ship inside the bottle was no longer moving and even seemed to be flickering a little. He assumed his guess about needing to recharge it with the silver cylinder was correct. He attached the bottle to it again and did so.

To his surprise, when the purple mist dissipated, the rugged corsair had been replaced with a narrow sloop with delicate rigging and a single, triangular sail. Harry was as amazed by this ship as he was by the first and spent a long time examining it. He wondered if the mist provided a new type of sailing vessel every time it was used.

After a while, he reluctantly set the bottle down. Instead of returning it to his trunk, he placed it on his bedside table, and the little, moving ship seemed to give the room a bit of character. Harry looked at it for a moment more before grabbing a fresh set of clothes from his wardrobe and heading down the hall to the bath.

~: --------------------------- :~

Freshly soaped and with dark hair falling wetly onto the tops of his cheekbones, Harry returned downstairs. He found Hedwig perched on the end of balustrade and she swiveled her head to look at him balefully.

“What is it?” Harry asked. She gave a soft hoot and swiveled her head again, staring into the drawing room enigmatically. He frowned and moved passed her so he could see into the room.

There was a soft light emanating from no discernable source and it lit the room in a warm, yellow glow. It was not unlike sunlight from an eastern window, but Harry knew Grimmauld Place had no eastern windows, and what little sunlight it did receive was always muted and dull. He drew his wand warily.

A sudden high-pitched keening sound scared him out of his wits and Harry had to fight not to jump at the noise. When he whirled around to face the source, he found Fawkes beside Hedwig on the balustrade, observing him with depthless eyes. For her part, Hedwig stared at the Phoenix disdainfully before leaping into the air with her typical grace and swooping up the stairs and out of sight.

Fawkes didn’t seem to take offense and trilled a few notes of phoenix song before disappearing in a flash of flame, leaving behind an elegantly addressed envelope. Harry retrieved it with a strange mix of sadness and anticipation. He knew this would be the summons from Dumbledore to continue his lessons. He was looking forward to them, but a small part of him longed for the peace of the last few days to last until the end of summer.

Harry tried to push these thoughts aside and tore the wax seal on the envelope.

Dear Harry,

I am pleased to inform you that steps have been made to reduce any potential damages caused by the ‘problem’ you and Miss Granger discovered.

As you have likely already guessed, this letter is to inform you that I am now in possession of enough free time to continue our lessons. If this is still agreeable to you, please use the Grimmauld Place fire to floo to my office this afternoon at 4 o’clock. You must say, ‘Hogwarts’ Headmaster’s Office’ when flooing. The connection will be open to you – and you alone.

Yours sincerely,

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

Headmaster of HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards

Harry read the letter twice to be certain of the time before tossing it into the drawing room fire. He was glad to hear that Dumbledore seemed to believe that Mrs. Black’s spying would not have widespread consequences. He wondered if the Order’s decision to meet in the basement in an attempt to keep Hermione, Ron, the twins, Ginny, and himself from listening in might have ended up preventing Mrs. Black from receiving any sensitive information. All the portraits in the basement were nearly shredded – and none were on the walls. She would have had no eyes in that room.

After a glance at the clock, Harry decided he should look over his Occlumency textbook. He had avoided opening it the last few days and he knew he should be farther in it than he was. Dumbledore would likely ask him about it at their upcoming lesson and Harry didn’t want to say that he had accomplished nothing. He fished it from the pile of books on the floor near his mantle and settled down to read.

~: --------------------------- :~

After a short explanation to Hermione that he would be attending a lesson with Dumbledore (which was met with a look that was equal parts envy and sympathy), Harry flooed to the headmaster’s office at promptly 4 o’clock.

Dumbledore was seated behind his desk in his throne-like chair reading over a ridiculously long roll of parchment. Upon Harry’s entrance, the headmaster stood up at once and moved to greet him.

“Ah, Harry, you’re right on time,” Dumbledore announced cheerfully. “I’m pleased to see that punctuality is not a lost art.”

“Hello, Professor,” Harry responded.

Dumbledore gestured to the chairs in front of his desk and they each sat down. “And how are you, Harry? I trust that the past few days have been somewhat less… taxing than the day I last saw you?”

“I’ve been all right,” Harry said. He paused a moment before adding, “It hasn’t been as horrible there as I was afraid it might be.”

“I am very relieved to hear you say that,” Dumbledore admitted. “I had laboured over my decision to send you there, but in the end, it seemed the best possible solution. I could not in good conscience ask you to remain at Privet Drive for the entirety of the summer, but sending you to the Burrow may have tempted Voldemort or his more enthusiastic supporters to attempt to seek you out. Grimmauld Place, with its Fidelius protection, was the only option I could come to. However, I am not so insensitive that I did not foresee this location might cause you grief.”

Harry shifted in his chair. “It’s been… strange being there without him. Sometimes I feel like a ghost — stalking around his house, wearing his clothes — but it doesn’t seem as oppressive there as it did last year. And Hermione is with me… it’s nice to have company.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled oddly at this. “Being close to one’s dearest friends is always a balm for the soul,” he agreed. “Yes, I do believe I made the correct decision now.”

“Professor,” Harry began, “what you said about the Burrow— do you really think they’ll come after me again this year? I thought Voldemort might lay low for a while and regroup after losing so many of his Death Eaters.”

“I suspect you are correct for the time being. Voldemort has likely sent out spies in an effort to obtain the location of their imprisonment. If that fails — and it shall, I assure you — he will need to recruit new members to replenish his forces. Unfortunately, I don’t believe he will find this too difficult. Times are indeed dark. Many will join him out of fear,” Dumbledore explained quietly.

“That may be true, but whatever new recruits he finds can’t possibly be as useful to him as the ones he lost,” Harry protested. “Where is he going to find another Malfoy to run around the Ministry and whisper in Fudge’s ear?”

“That is an astute observation. As the former Finance Director, Lucius Malfoy will not be easily replaced. However, it would be foolish for us to believe that Voldemort does not have other emissaries within the Ministry. And you must also remember, Harry, that sometimes sheer numbers can accomplish what a single, skilled agent cannot,” Dumbledore clarified. “Despite his setback, it is my belief that Voldemort will still consider uncovering the Prophecy his most urgent objective. He knows that I am aware of its contents, and now, he must assume the same of you. He will come. He or his followers.”

Harry’s nodded grimly. Voldemort coming after him was nothing new, after all.

“And that, of course, brings us to our lesson today,” the headmaster segued. He drew his wand from the folds of his robes and held it lightly in front of him. “I’ve been very pleased with your progress in Occlumency. It is becoming quite difficult for me to discern when I am seeing a true answer to my questing or when you are presenting an answer that you would like me to see.”

“But I still can’t block an attack altogether.”

“Ah, but to simply turn aside an attack is to use your mind only as a blunt object. You have prevented the attacker from achieving his goals, but you have not achieved any of your own,” Dumbledore asserted. “Allow your attacker to believe he has succeeded and he thus becomes the victim. What is that lovely muggle saying – you catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”

“Professor, if I can do this — if I’m able to present false memories, which is supposedly so much more difficult — then why can’t I block attacks? Why can I perform the harder task, but not the easier?”

Dumbledore stroked his beard and seemed entirely unconcerned. “I could only offer speculation, Harry. Our individual skills in magic all have inherent strengths and weaknesses. However, I do not believe this is a weakness – rather, I suspect that your talent for that particular skill is meant to drive you to use it. You’ll find that magic itself often provides the answers to our questions – usually when we are not looking for them.”

This answer did not really satisfy Harry, but he did not question the headmaster further.

“Shall we begin, then?” Dumbledore asked after allowing Harry a moment to ponder what had been said.

Harry nodded to show that he was ready and they began their lesson soon after. The exercises were more complex than their previous attempts and Harry found himself near exhaustion by the time the meeting came to an end. Dumbledore praised his efforts and was all twinkling eyes and smiles as they scheduled their next meeting and bid each other goodbye.

When Harry stepped through the floo back to Grimmauld Place, he found Hermione hunched over a massive tome on the couch in front of the fire. A brief glance at the page she was reading revealed complex equations and diagrams of magical triangles – Arithmancy. Harry was certain she would be in good spirits. Hermione loved Arithmancy.

“Hullo, there,” Harry greeted softly. He strode from the fireplace to just beside her knees. She looked up at him and her face was lit with a warm smile.

“Harry! How was your lesson?” she asked, marking her place and closing her book. Harry quirked an eyebrow. Hermione usually had to be dragged away from her Arithmancy texts.

“Tiring,” he replied. “I see you’re cheating on your Ancient Runes essay with Arithmancy.”

Hermione had been assigned a foot of parchment for Ancient Runes, but she had already completed well over three-and-a-quarter feet and showed no signs of concluding.

“Oh, well, Ancient Runes is wonderful, but—”

“—But your heart beats only for Arithmancy?”

“Oh, hush,” Hermione scolded, but Harry could tell from her smiling eyes that he had amused her. Pleased with this small accomplishment, Harry dropped down onto the couch beside her and fought to hold in a yawn. Hermione turned to peer at him. “If you’re tired, you should go to bed early tonight. I know you haven’t been sleeping well…”

“It’s only 7 o’clock, Hermione,” Harry dismissed. He glanced down at her thick book and tapped the cover with his finger. “So, I’ve always wondered – what’s this Arithmancy, then? It looks a bit like geometry.”

“Oh, Harry, it’s amazing! It really is the best lesson – you’re missing out by not taking it,” Hermione enthused. “It’s not really like geometry – it’s more like numerology, only with facts and quantifiable figures. It’s so fascinating! Numbers can be very powerful – you have a number, too, Harry. It’s seven – I’ve researched it. It’s quite a coincidence that your Quidditch jersey number is seven, too…”

“And born as the seventh month dies,” Harry murmured.

Hermione looked at him quizzically. “Born as the seventh month dies?”

Harry didn’t understand what she was asking for a moment, but then he remembered that Hermione had never heard the Prophecy. He felt his heart thump wildly in his chest in shock at his own carelessness. “Er, July, I mean,” he stammered. “I was born at the end of July. The seventh month…?”

Hermione looked at him strangely. Worse, she seemed to have that expression on her face that Harry knew all too well – the one that revealed her curiosity had been aroused. “Of course. It’s just… you worded it so strangely,” she noted, and her voice trailed off as if hinting that she understood something important had been said that she didn’t quite understand. “But yes, July is the seventh month – a very powerful magical month. Seven is the most powerful magical number there is, actually. It makes sense that you’re a seven.”

Harry latched onto this topic in an attempt to get her mind away from his unfortunate slip of the tongue. “How can numbers be powerful? And isn’t numerology sort of a, well, woolly subject? How is it different from Divination?”

Hermione looked deeply affronted by this question. “Of course not! Arithmancy is nothing like muggle numerology – there aren’t any silly attempts at reading the future or tips for the lottery. It’s the study of how numbers and number patterns affect magic.

“Like with Remus and his potion – the Wolfsbane Potion? He has to take it every day for seven days before his transformation. This is because the seventh dose is the most potent, and that is the dose that is taken the actual day of the change. That extra bit of potency is what allows the potion to overcome the power of the full moon on the werewolf’s mind. If Remus took the potion just on the day of his transformation, it would only be the first dose – and it wouldn’t be powerful enough, even though the potion itself is exactly the same.”

Harry was quite surprised to hear this. “Really?”

“Oh, yes!” Hermione beamed. “And there are certain days of the year where all magic is more powerful. Those are usually the days when the most complex wards are cast. I’m certain that the Fidelius Charm on this house had to have been cast on one of these dates.”

Harry pondered this. Had his mother cast her Fidelius charm on one of the days Hermione was referring to? Had she studied Arithmancy like Hermione?

“—and your birthday is one of the four most powerful magical days of the year! It’s called Lughnasadh. It begins on July 31st at sundown – magic is really strong on that day,” Hermione babbled on, unaware that Harry had been too lost in his thoughts to pay her much attention. “I asked Professor Vector to verify my findings when I researched your number. She really is brilliant. And she’s an excellent professor. I’ve learned loads from her! Oh, it really is too bad that you aren’t taking the course, Harry.”

Harry snapped out of his daze and nodded. “So what are the four days, then? Just so I know when to apply for my apparition license.”

“Knowing you, you’ll hardly need a magical sabbat to ace your apparition test,” Hermione teased. “And you have to be seventeen to apply, anyway – so you’ll have to wait for your birthday.”

“Right convenient it’s one of the days,” Harry said.

“Yes, I suppose it is. The others are February 2nd, April 30th, and… October 31st,” Hermione revealed hesitantly.

Harry froze. “Halloween? But that’s…?”

Hermione’s face was somber and she nodded. “That’s the day Voldemort attacked you and your parents,” she whispered. “I’ve thought of that, too. I’ve often wondered whether he chose that day specifically because he would have been at his most powerful. But – I still haven’t figured out why he would single you out in that manner.”

Harry felt a cool touch of guilt curling around his stomach. He knew perfectly well why Voldemort had singled him out. But he knew he could not reveal the answer to Hermione – no one was supposed to know the Prophecy except Dumbledore and himself. Telling her its contents would serve no purpose except to place her in extreme danger. He did not like keeping such an important secret from her, but that was infinitely preferable to getting her killed.

He pushed his feelings of guilt aside and began to wonder about his mother’s blood protection. Had the power of that specific night aided her? Voldemort had described what she had done as ‘old magic’. Would it have worked if she had been called to draw from it on any other day?

His mind raced with questions and musings, and he could see that Hermione, too, was lost in contemplation. Harry grew uncomfortable with their mutual thoughts and decided a new topic was in order.

He deftly turned the conversation away from the attack, and before long, he was listening to Hermione discuss the various virtues of Arithmancy as it applied to charms creation before his exhaustion began to creep up on him. As his eyelids started to droop, Hermione placed her hand on his back and gave him a concerned look. “You really should try to go to sleep, Harry.”

Harry instinctively wanted to protest but he clenched his jaw to stop the impulse. “Maybe you’re right,” he conceded. “I think I probably will.”

Hermione smiled at his surrender and nodded her head in approval. “Goodnight then, Harry. I hope you sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Hermione. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He stood up and touched her gently on the shoulder before trudging up the stairs to his room.

12. Vladimir and Goldilocks

Chapter 12: Vladimir and Goldilocks

The days turned into weeks and soon the start of the new term at Hogwarts was imminent. Harry and Hermione had received their letters detailing the required texts and materials for the school year. Remus has stopped in briefly to discuss their plans to acquire them and a day was chosen when Harry and Hermione would be escorted to Diagon Alley.

Harry had been thrilled by this – it had been some time since he had last been allowed to visit there. Even the thought of being escorted around like a criminal could not dampen his spirits. He loved Diagon Alley too much to be put off his good mood. There was something purely magical about the place and he would always remember it fondly as his first glimpse into this spectacular world.

So when Remus arrived with a flagon full of rancid Polyjuice Potion and an apologetic look, Harry’s scowl was mostly perfunctory and he drank the disgusting goop without much grumbling. The potion began its work at once and Harry stumbled back as the familiar and unpleasant shifting of his flesh began to take place. His hair shortened and lightened until it was nearly blonde and he felt his body compress unpleasantly, reducing his height and breadth. When the process was complete, he glanced into the hallway mirror and frowned at his reflection – his green eyes were now grey and his jaw was softer, less defined, but with a strangely pointy chin. He looked familiar, somehow…

“Please tell me I didn’t just drink essence of Malfoy,” Harry sighed.

Remus was looking into the mirror with him over his shoulder. He grimaced at Harry’s comment. “I don’t believe so. Moody provided it. I— well, to be honest, I have no idea who it’s from,” he admitted.

“Great,” Harry muttered, running his hands through his shorter hair in distaste.

“His clothes don’t really fit him anymore, Professor,” Hermione pointed out.

Harry looked down his front to see that Sirius’s shirt and trousers hung from him loosely. They didn’t seem too bad to him, but he supposed he was quite used to wearing ill-fitting clothes.

“I thought he might wear his Hogwarts robe and uniform. The one from last year?” Remus replied, glancing up the stairs as if expecting the robe to walk down by itself. “They should fit and it will help him blend in.”

Hermione nodded as if this were a satisfactory plan.

“I’ll just summon them then,” Remus said and pulled out his wand to prepare to do so.

Harry stilled him with a shake of his head. “You can’t. They’re in my trunk, and the latch is closed. I’ll just run up and change.”

“I’ll get my robe, too,” Hermione stated. “It still fits.”

A few minutes later, Harry and Hermione were situated in their robes and lined up in front of the fireplace in the drawing room. Remus gave them each a handful of floo powder.

“Aren’t you coming?” Harry asked him suspiciously, noticing that he took no powder for himself.

“I’m afraid not, Harry. Your escort will be waiting for you on the other side,” Remus admitted. “Off you go, then.”

Harry frowned. Beside him, Hermione stepped into the fireplace and shouted, “Diagon Alley!” before throwing down her floo powder and disappearing into the flames.

Harry gave Remus one last searching look before following her.

~: --------------------------- :~

When Harry stumbled out of the other end of the fireplace, Hermione and an unusually attractive woman with blonde hair were waiting for him. Harry glanced at Hermione in askance as he brushed the soot off his robe, as if asking who this person was.

“Wotcher Harry!” the blonde woman greeted, grinning youthfully in a way that belied her coolly sophisticated appearance.

“Tonks?” Harry asked incredulously. Her metamorphmagus abilities were truly impressive.

“That’s right! But keep it down, will you? I’m in disguise,” she said, waggling her eyebrows humourously.

“What’s with the getup?”

Tonks stuck out her chest and gave him a faux coquettish look. “Do you like it? Men usually go for this. I tell you, it’s kind of a drag, really. I never get this sort of reaction when I go around as myself.”

“You look like Narcissa Malfoy,” Harry said bluntly. “Really not my taste.”

“Oh, bugger, do I really?” Tonks gasped, obviously horrified. “Well, I’m supposed to be your mother, so who does that make you?”

“Don’t even say it,” Harry commanded darkly.

Hermione hid a laugh behind her hand at this exchange. Tonks stuck her tongue out at her.

“Here, Harry. You’ll need this,” Tonks said, reaching into her stylish robes and removing a flask. She handed it to him and he took it warily. “It’s enough for two more doses of that Polyjuice. I’ve cast a spell on it – it’ll warm up when it gets close to when you need to take some.”

Harry tucked it into his trouser pocket. “Won’t it look a bit odd to see a sixth year Hogwarts student taking pulls from a hip flask?”

“Nah,” Tonks dismissed. “Lots of people have to take potions regularly. If anyone asks, we’ll just say you have foot fungus.”

“Lovely.”

“I thought so!” she replied cheerily. “So, where to first, product of my loins?”

“Well, mum – I’d say Flourish and Blotts for this one, I’m sure,” Harry said, tilting his head towards Hermione. “We can pick up our textbooks and Hermione can have a look around.”

Hermione tried not to look too pleased by this idea. “Oh, honestly, we can go anywhere first, Harry. What about the Quidditch store?”

“I think we should get everything on our term lists before we try to see anything else,” Harry said, pulling his Hogwarts letter from his pocket to verify the things they needed.

“You’re right,” Hermione agreed. “But I would like to visit Gringotts first. My parents gave me eighty pounds, but I need to exchange them for galleons.”

“Oh, right – Gringotts,” Harry murmured. “Good thing you thought of it. I don’t have any money on me.”

“That’s our first stop, then, Harry,” Hermione replied.

“Wait, wait,” Tonks interrupted, grabbing them both by the shoulder and turning them towards her. “We can’t have you going around calling him ‘Harry’. He’s supposed to be in disguise.”

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed. “Of course. What shall we call him then?”

“Oo, fun! I’ll think of a name,” Tonks declared. She peered at Harry thoughtfully and tapped a long, thin finger against her chin. “Wait, I’ve got one! Vladimir.”

Harry glowered. “Absolutely not.”

“Too bad!” Tonks sing-songed. “That’s what I’m calling you.”

“Fine,” Harry conceded. “But you’re in disguise, too. If you get to choose my name, I get to choose yours.”

Tonks considered this. “I guess that’s fair. But you can’t choose Nymphadora! So don’t even try.”

Harry frowned, obviously having been hoping to choose that name. He looked at her disguise critically for a moment before reaching forward and tugging a strand of her blonde hair. “Goldilocks, then.”

Hermione did not even try to hide her laugh at this.

Tonks looked confused. “Goldilocks? What kind of a name is that?”

“Yours,” Harry said. “Let’s go.”

~: --------------------------- :~

Gringotts was particularly crowded that day, and there was a line to see a teller. Harry nudged Tonks with his shoulder while they were waiting.

“Will the Polyjuice be a problem for getting into my vault?” he asked her, whispering as quietly as he could.

“Nope. They verify your identity with your key. I’ve got it right here,” she assured, patting her robe. She seemed to consider for a moment. “They might ask you for a drop of your blood, though.”

“When do I get a copy of my key?” Harry asked. “Hagrid had it first year and now you, apparently. Shouldn’t I be the one to have it?”

Tonks looked at him apologetically. “You’re right. Here – take it. I’ll tell Dumbledore I gave it to you. But don’t lose it! They’re not easy to replace.”

She handed him the small, gold key just as the goblin nearest them shouted, “Next!”

Together, Harry, Hermione and Tonks walked towards the shrewd-looking creature and looked up at him on his high stool behind the counter.

“Good morning!” Hermione greeted the goblin pleasantly. He looked a bit taken aback by her cordiality, but nodded in response. “I would like to exchange some pounds for galleons, please. And my friend would like to visit his vault.”

“Do you have your key, Sir?” the goblin asked, addressing Harry.

“Right here,” he replied, holding up the key Tonks had just given him.

The goblin took the key and looked it over. “This is in order, but Gringotts security regulations require that customers under Polyjuice submit to a simple blood-identity test.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at this. How had the goblin known he was under Polyjuice so easily? “That’s fine.”

The goblin nodded and returned the key. He pulled out a delicate, gold scale and turned to Hermione. “Your pounds, please, Miss.”

Hermione placed eight ten-pound notes on the counter and the goblin eyed them critically. He stacked them on one side of the scale, and strangely, the thin paper notes dipped the balance significantly. One by one, he placed shining gold galleons on the opposite side of the scale until the two sides were perfectly balanced once more.

“Today’s exchange rate is 5 to 1. Your total amount is 16 galleons,” the goblin informed. “Is this acceptable?”

“Yes, thank you,” Hermione said politely. The goblin gave her another odd look before sweeping the galleons from the scale into a small, cloth bag and setting it on the counter for her.

“Your hand, please, Sir?” the goblin requested, holding his long fingers out towards Harry.

Harry dutifully held out his hand the goblin pricked him gently with a long, silver needle. When a drop of blood appeared, the goblin had Harry press his hand against a plain-looking sheet of parchment. At the touch of his blood, writing began to appear, but it was in no language Harry had ever seen. He supposed this was Gobbledegook – the language of goblins.

“Yes, everything is in order,” the goblin declared after examining the parchment. He snapped his fingers at another goblin waiting nearby. “Thornfoot! Please escort Mr. Potter to his vault.”

This new goblin scuttled forward and gestured for them to follow him. When they reached the narrow stone passage that lead to the cart room, Hermione looked quite excited and Harry realised she had never been down to the vaults before. He thought maybe he should warn her about how they travelled down there, but decided against it. It proved unnecessary, anyway – they arrived quickly and Hermione’s face went ashen at the site of the tracks and the old, metal cart that came rushing up towards them.

“Oh, no,” she moaned. Harry gave her a sympathetic look. He knew she hated anything that went either very high or very fast.

“I love these things,” Tonks supplied cheerfully, oblivious to Hermione’s nervousness. “I keep looking for the dragons, but everything just zips by too fast to see!”

If anything, Hermione seemed to go paler at this statement. Harry squeezed her shoulder in encouragement. She glanced up at him and seemed slightly heartened by his look.

“Let’s go,” she muttered in resignation before stepping into the cart. Harry slid past her to take one side of the bench, allowing her to press against his side.

Tonks gestured to the other end of the bench. “Are you sure you don’t want the side, Hermione?” she asked. “You can’t see well from the middle.”

“N-no, I’m perfectly fine right here,” she said. Blindly, she reached down and gripped Harry’s thigh anxiously. After a second, she froze and jerked her head up towards him, realizing what she had done and blushing to the roots of her hair. She let go at once. “Sorry!”

Harry smiled at her weakly and took her hand in his own to let her know it was all right. He, too, was blushing slightly, and he looked away out the side of the cart.

The goblin stepped in after them and situated himself at the front. With a sudden lurch, the cart jerked forward, reaching an incredible top speed that had Hermione shrieking in Harry’s ear the entire ride. The goblin glanced back at her warily, but did not slow.

Onward they raced through the twisting passages. Strange, echoing noises followed them at nearly every turn. The flickering lanterns on the stone walls of the cavern threw odd shadows across the cart as they hurtled past. Harry could barely hear Tonks shouting gleefully over the rush of the wind. Hermione’s nails were digging painfully into his hand and he could see that her eyes were clenched as tightly closed as possible.

Soon enough, the ride was over and they came to a crashing stop just outside Harry’s vault. Hermione did not open her eyes until Harry nudged her, and even then, she did not release her fierce grip on his hand. Tonks leapt from the cart with a jovial bound before looking down at Hermione in confusion. “What’s wrong with her, then?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Harry said curtly.

Hermione moaned again and shakily got to her feet. Her knees were trembling and Harry took hold of her upper arm to help her from the cart. She leaned against the wall and shuddered, exactly as Hagrid had done all those years ago.

Thornfoot removed a lantern from its hook on the wall and moved to unlock the vault door. When he finished, green smoke streamed out in a great cloud and gathered against the dark ceiling of the cavern before dissipating. This unusual sight seemed to finally draw Hermione out of her stupor and she watched it in curiosity.

“Potter vault – number 511,” the goblin announced, holding the lantern in a way that lit the interior and the piles of galleons, sickles, and knuts within.

Tonks handed him a bag with a string tie and Harry strode forward into his vault. He quickly swept a few piles of galleons into the bag before cinching it closed and stuffing it in his pocket.

When he returned outside, Hermione was looking at him feebly.

“Do you think you’re ready to ride again?” Harry asked her gently. “We can wait a bit, if you like.”

“No,” Hermione sighed. “It’s probably better to just get it over with.”

The ride back to the surface was marginally slower — they were now traveling uphill instead of down — but if Hermione noticed the change, it did not show in her expression. She looked as ill as before.

When they finally arrived, Tonks had the graciousness to suggest that they stop and sit for a while at Florean Fortescue’s. They found a table just inside the door and Hermione’s colour slowly returned to normal as she sipped from a crème soda. Harry and Tonks helped themselves to a chocolate sundae which was split cheerfully between them.

Once they had finished, they began the short walk down to Flourish and Blotts. Hermione’s spirits improved considerably as they strolled, and she pointed out various shoppe fronts and street hawkers to Harry, commenting on things she would like to see later. Before long, they had arrived at the bookstore and had to jostle their way through the crowd milling around the doorway.

“Goodness, it’s packed today,” Hermione said as she squeezed between two heavy-set men who were arguing loudly over which team would win the upcoming Quidditch league season.

Harry shouldered his way through a group of Hufflepuffs standing near the doorway and followed Hermione up the stairs. She seemed to know where each and every book on their term list was to be found, and she led him around the store with the careless certainty of someone very familiar with the building’s layout.

“Watch where you’re putting your bloody hands, you pervert!” Tonks shouted from behind him. Harry turned to see what was happening. A thin, swarthy-looking man was nearly purple from embarrassment as nearby customers turned to stare at the scene. Tonks — in her blonde, pouty disguise — had her hands on her hips and was glaring at him fiercely.

The man stuttered and babbled for a moment before rushing out the store. “That’s right! Run away, little man!” Tonks called after him. She stalked over to Harry in a huff, muttering curses under her breath.

Harry smiled at her weakly before turning back to see Hermione further up the aisle, picking enormous leather books from the shelf seemingly at random and flicking through them. Some she placed in a stack on the floor beside her, and others she put back where she found them.

“Are those the books you’re getting?” Harry asked her warily, eyeing the impressive pile.

“Oh, it’s so hard to choose!” Hermione moaned. “I have to really consider which ones to buy – I only have 16 galleons and I still have to get potion supplies and a new robe.”

“I can buy them for you,” Harry offered.

“Oh, Harry, I couldn’t accept. But it’s generous of you to offer,” Hermione replied. She carefully selected three books from the pile she had made and returned them to the shelf. She gathered the five remaining books in her arms and started back downstairs. “The new Transfiguration texts are in a display near the counter,” she called back. “That should be the last one we need!”

When she moved out of sight, Harry glanced back at Tonks somewhat guiltily before removing the three books Hermione had returned to the shelf and adding them to his own pile. “It’s her birthday in September,” he explained quietly.

She grinned at him goofily and nodded.

Harry tucked his new acquisitions beneath his textbooks so the titles could not be read and moved to stand behind Hermione in line. They each grabbed a copy of ‘Sticks to Stones: Transfiguration for the Advanced Pupil’ by Gregory Gimmini and then paid for their selections.

The harried sales clerk tied their books together with a leather strap that made carrying their purchases much easier. Hermione’s numerous books had to be split into two of these groupings, and Harry offered to carry one. This time, she relented and smiled at him gratefully.

When they finally shuffled their way outside, they stopped underneath an awning for a cauldron shoppe to regroup after the chaos of the store.

“Where to next, kiddies?” Tonks asked.

“I think we should go to the Apothecary next,” Hermione stated and pointed down the cobblestone road. “It’s just down this way.”

“Hang on a minute. My flask is heating up,” Harry whispered. He discreetly turned and pretended to examine a cauldron so his back was to the street. He took a quick gulp of Polyjuice before replacing the cap on his flask and making a disgusted face. “Errg. All right, let’s go then.”

The Apothecary was busy, but not as bad as the bookstore had been. Still, the hag behind the counter glared at every customer that entered the store, as if annoyed that they would soon force her to actually work.

“I hated Advanced Potions,” Tonks confessed, peering down into a barrel of eels. “Snape was horrid, as usual, and it was really tough. I’m sure you’ll be aces at it, though, Hermione. Everyone says you’re a clever crumpet.”

Hermione turned to Tonks and beamed. “Didn’t you hear? Harry got an ‘O’ on his Potions O.W.L., so he can continue with the lessons, too! He wants to be an Auror, like you.”

Tonks clapped him on the back. “Figured you would! Maybe I will end up being your boss, huh? Hope you know a few good scouring charms. My desk is always a right mess.”

Harry smirked and turned to scoop some slimy-looking lobster eggs into a small glass jar. It took nearly half an hour for both he and Hermione to collect all the required ingredients from their term list. The hag muttered angrily under her breath as they paid.

“Well!” Hermione exclaimed once they made it outside. “She was quite rude.”

“I’d probably be a bit ornery too if I had to work somewhere that smelled like that,” Tonks pointed out.

“Madame Malkins is the last place we need to go for sure,” Harry cut in. “After that, we can do what we want.”

Madame Malkins Robes for All Occasions was an impressive example of organized chaos. When they stepped through the door, they found packs of first years running around, chasing one another and giggling. Salesclerks were barking out orders for bolts of fabric into the back room while counting out change in knuts and sickles. At least three men were standing around quite casually in nothing but long shirts, discussing Ministry policy. A seamstress was running frantically back and forth between a few Hogwarts students who were standing on short stools, waiting to be fitted for robes. Behind her, a charmed measuring tape was whipping around, taking measurements of arms and legs, which she would then jot hastily on a small ledger.

“Oh, bother,” Hermione muttered quietly, taking in the scene.

“Hermione!” someone called from behind them. “So good to see you. It’s simply mad in here, don’t you think?”

Harry stiffened noticeably. He recognised that smarmy voice at once.

Percy Weasley was standing behind them with his hands at the small of his back, puffing his chest out importantly. He was smiling affably and did not seem to notice the storm clouds growing in Harry’s eyes.

“Oh, hello, Percy,” Hermione replied uneasily. She touched Harry’s arm gently, willing him to calm down.

“I’m just here getting fitted for my new Ministry robes. I’ve been assigned to the Magical Information Distribution Office,” Percy boasted. “It’s really quite prestigious. I’m assuming you must be here for Hogwarts robes?”

Harry could not believe Percy still had a job at the Ministry. Apparently total incompetence was no obstacle in magical government.

“Oh. Congratulations,” Hermione said in an exceedingly false voice. “And yes, I’m here to pick up a new robe.”

“And who are your escorts?” Percy asked amicably, glancing at Harry and Tonks. “I’m Percival Weasley. It’s a pleasure.”

Both Harry and Tonks were staring at him stonily. Percy must have finally noticed because his smile died a little on his face.

“This is – this is Vladimir,” Hermione supplied vaguely. “And his mother – um—”

“Goldilocks,” Harry supplied sharply.

Percy began to look uncomfortable. “Vladimir and Goldilocks? Are you… visiting from a foreign land, then? If that’s the case, let me be the first from Britain’s Magical Government to welcome you to our soil. We have many excellent tourist programmes available at the Ministry of Magic that will help you fully experience our fine culture and entertainments,” he babbled.

There was no response to this and the atmosphere grew tense and awkward. After nearly a full minute of silence, Percy looked towards Hermione and cleared his throat. “Hermione, I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you. Alone, perhaps?”

Harry’s look turned stormy and Hermione stilled him once again with a hand on his elbow.

“Oh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said hesitantly. “Vladimir and his mother – I’d rather not leave them alone. They might get… lost.”

Percy looked rather put out. “I’m certain they would be fine for a short—”

“No, really,” Hermione insisted. “And anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of them.”

Percy clearly did not want to, but whatever he had to say must have been important, because he did not relent. “Well, I had been hoping you would come to my family’s home this summer so I could discuss some important matters with you, but unfortunately, you have not. I’ve attempted several owls, but they can’t seem to locate you,” he said, and his voice was clearly hinting that he wanted her to reveal where she was. When no answer was forthcoming, he seemed to deflate a bit before continuing. “I thought we might discuss our mutual friend – Harry Potter? It’s quite important.”

Hermione was on guard at once. “Why do you want to talk about Harry?” she asked coolly.

Percy did not seem aware of the change in her demeanour. “The Minister himself has asked me to attempt to reach Mr. Potter. He knew of our friendly acquaintance and the relationship he has with my family. The Minister would like to speak with Harry, and with haste. It’s quite an honour, really… a private audience. However, I have not managed to locate Harry, either. Perhaps you might help me pass along the message? It would be wonderful if you could stress how important it is that Harry contacts him at once.”

Harry could scarcely believe what he was hearing. He could not imagine the levels of self-deception necessary for Percy to describe their relationship as a ‘friendly acquaintance’.

Hermione was frowning deeply. “I doubt very much that Harry would care to meet with either the Minister or you,” she declared.

Percy was clearly taken aback by her blunt honesty. “Surely, you’re mistaken. Perhaps – perhaps some mistakes were made last year, but Harry is not so foolish as to hold the Ministry responsible for them!”

Hermione clenched her fists. “You’re right about one thing – Harry isn’t a fool! And I’m not telling him a thing. If you want him to come to the Ministry, you’ll have to ask him yourself!” she blustered. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re next in line. Good day, Percy.”

To Percy’s complete astonishment, she turned her back to him and strode to greet the seamstress who had just gestured her forward. Harry followed behind her, surprised and pleased by outburst. Tonks drew up the rear and was grinning madly.

“Did you see the look on that tosser’s face?” she asked him in a giddy whisper. “Cor! I’d have given ten galleons for a photo of that. I bet he’s still back there with his mouth open!”

Hermione pinked slightly when she heard this, but did not comment. “We would like to be fitted for robes, please. We’re both Gryffindors,” she said politely to the seamstress. She turned to gesture towards Harry, but stopped in her tracks after she looked at him. “Er – I’m so sorry, but can you give us a minute?”

The seamstress blew out a frustrated breath and nodded, before dashing over to finish the measurements on a nervous-looking third year.

“What’s the matter?” Harry asked.

“Harry, you’re Polyjuiced! Your robes won’t fit you with the measurements they take today,” Hermione whispered.

Harry frowned. “Oh, right.”

Tonks glanced at the wizarding clock on the wall of the store. “Leave it to me,” she declared. She strode over to the counter, cutting in front of several angry customers and had a short discussion with the sales clerk. The young girl looked confused for a moment, before darting back into the storeroom and returning with an older, matronly-looking woman with grey hair tied in a messy bun. Tonks took her aside and they had another brief conversation, during which Tonks gestured towards Harry and Hermione several times.

When they had finished, Tonks walked back to Harry and Hermione and said they were going to Madame Malkin’s office. “I showed her my Auror identification. I told her I was undercover, and that you were, too, Harry. Only I didn’t tell her your name – just said you were Polyjuiced and would need to be measured. She gave me this and said we could use her office,” Tonks explained, holding up one of the charmed measuring tapes. It flapped in her hand helplessly. “We’ll just wait there for the Polyjuice to wear off, then measure you ourselves. They can make your robe to order.”

“Good idea,” Harry said.

Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were sitting on the floor of Madame Malkin’s office, waiting for Harry to change back. Hermione was reading through her textbooks with astonishing rapidity, while Tonks was shifting her hair into a variety of strange colours and thinking up new nicknames for Percy.

“Percy Pee-Pants!” she announced. “Or is that too juvenile? Maybe Perci-vile?”

Harry did not have a chance to critique these suggestions before he felt his skin begin to crawl as his body reverted to its normal self. It was terribly uncomfortable and he grimaced through the entire process. When it was over, Harry stood stiffly in his now too-tight clothing and sighed.

“That didn’t take too long!” Tonks said cheerfully. “Let’s get you measured.”

She released the measuring tape and sent it towards Harry with a flick of her wand. It fluttered around him like a long, thin butterfly, stretching itself beside each of his limbs and wrapping around his chest, waist, and neck. When it was finished, it reported back the measurements to Tonks who wrote them down on the back of a used piece of parchment.

“Done,” Tonks stated, grabbing the measuring tape again and stuffing it into her pocket. “You’ll have to drink the last of the potion now, Harry. So whatever shopping you had in mind, remember – we’ve only got an hour.”

Harry nodded and downed the last of the vile liquid. When the transformation had completed once more, Hermione packed up her books and they went back out into the main store.

The rush had died down some and the seamstress who had tried to help them earlier was soon free again to finish the job. When Hermione was done being measured, she explained that Harry no longer needed new robes, but that they needed to have one more Gryffindor set made — this one for a ‘friend who could not make it today’ — with the specific measurements that Tonks provided. If the seamstress found this odd, she did not comment, and ten minutes later, both sets of robes were complete and paid for. Tonks left the measuring tape at the counter and the three made their way back outside.

With their remaining time, Harry, Hermione, and Tonks dashed between Quality Quidditch Supplies, Eeylops Owl Emporium, and Knits and Bits. By the time they were done, they had trouble carrying all their purchases.

“I was hoping we might run into Ron,” Harry admitted as they made their way back to the floo station. “I haven’t heard back from him since we got our O.W.L. results.”

“I’m sure he’s just been busy with family,” Hermione assured. “He told me Bill is staying at their house again. He and Fleur seem to be getting serious and Ron doesn’t care for it.”

“How serious?” Harry asked, sounding surprised.

“Well, I imagine they’re likely to be engaged soon, from the sound of it. And why do you want to know? You’re not hung up on Fleur, too, are you?” she asked suspiciously.

“What? Where did you get that idea? I’ve never been interested in Fleur.”

Hermione peered at him critically as if assessing whether he was being truthful before making a non-committal sound.

Tonks moved aside as they arrived at the row of fireplaces. “This is where I leave you,” she announced before turning to Harry with a mischievous look. “Aren’t you going to give your old mum a kiss?”

“No,” Harry said at once.

“You’re no fun,” she replied. She gave them both a wave and stepped away so they could enter the fireplace. “See you around, you two!”

Harry and Hermione each said their goodbyes and thanked her for her help before they turned and vanished into the fire.

13. A Changing Tune

Chapter 13: A Changing Tune

The final days of August drifted away until the train ride to Hogwarts was at hand. The night before, a frazzled looking Hermione had finished re-knitting Harry’s gloves and presented them to him just before bed. Despite the balmy weather, he was wearing them today in an attempt to alleviate some of the guilt he felt at how much time she had spent on them.

“You know England – there could be a frigid rainfall at any moment. Best to be prepared,” he had excused when she questioned him about it. She rolled her eyes at his histrionics, but looked pleased despite herself at his wearing them.

A full complement of Order members had shown up for the trip to King’s Cross, and Harry and Hermione both felt slightly embarrassed to arrive at the busy train station with six strangely-dressed adults, including one with a fake leg and eye. People gave them queer looks and made to avoid them as they walked past.

As they neared the platform gateway, Remus placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder and tugged him aside.

“Harry, you will be careful this year, won’t you?” he asked gently.

“I always try,” Harry hedged. “I— thank you for everything this summer, Professor. It was good to spend time with you.”

Remus smiled at him softly. “Remus, Harry. And yes, it was. I hope you won’t grow tired of my company in the years to come.”

“You ought to get a move on, lad,” Moody interrupted. He glanced around at the waiting passengers warily. “Who knows who might be watching…”

Harry was never particularly good with goodbyes, so he gripped the handle of his trunk awkwardly before offering a stilted, “See you, Remus,” and turned to catch up with Hermione. She was waiting for him at the dividing barrier between Platforms 9 and 10 and looking around sadly.

“It’s strange coming here without my parents. I wish I had asked them to meet me,” she admitted before straightening up and gesturing towards the brick wall that served as the portal to Platform 9 ¾. “Are you ready to go?”

“Best do,” Harry replied. He looked around once to check if any stray muggles were watching before he lowered his shoulder and barreled through the gateway. This wasn’t really necessary — he went through without a problem — but he had never managed to make himself simply walk through the portal as if it were a doorway.

Hermione followed behind him at a much more sedate pace before they both pulled up short at the sight that greeted them.

Platform 9 ¾ had never been so packed. Witches and wizards crowded onto every available bit of floor, making the normally spacious platform appear small and cramped. Hushed and excited whispering buzzed around them like the noise of insects, and it seemed that the crowd turned as one to stare at them.

Harry glanced at Hermione uneasily. She shook her head before gesturing for him to move towards the train. He adjusted his grip on his things and began to push his way through the throng. All around him, he heard his name being murmured and strange things being said. People began to move out of his way, parting in front of him like the sea. Harry felt his temper rise and it took considerable effort for him to keep his head down and his eyes on the floor instead of shouting at everyone to ask what they were looking at.

He could feel Hermione trailing behind him as he made a beeline to the train. He was almost there when he heard an inexplicable sound: a small, four-piece brass band began to play a rousing, cheerful tune. He shifted and turned to see where this was coming from before noticing a small stage had been set up near the middle of the platform. It was swathed in the colours of the British Ministry of Magic and there was a poster on an easel with a picture of Fudge upon it. The words on it proudly proclaimed, “Working to protect the people!” in bold, red letters. Upon the stage, four witches were playing horned instruments and Harry could see several other people — Percy Weasley among them — wearing Ministry robes standing around officiously. Beneath the stage, there were six Aurors looking around the crowd suspiciously with their wands in their hands. Harry recognised one as Dawlish – an Auror he held particular dislike for.

And in the middle of it all was Fudge himself, beaming and waving at the crowd like a true politician. A sick feeling began to grow in Harry’s chest and he glanced at the train waiting some twenty yards ahead as if he were contemplating making a run for it.

The crowd hushed as Fudge held his wand to his throat and cast Sonorus. The band gave a stirring flourish and then fell silent.

“Good witches and wizards, today is a wonderful day!” Fudge began and his magically-amplified voice boomed over the platform like a cannon-shot. “The start of term for our children at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is always a happy occasion. But sadly, this year you may be wondering whether your children are safe. Well, we’re here to assure you that the Ministry is doing everything in our power to protect them! And to protect all of you, as well!

“This summer, we struck a great blow against You-Know-Who when we valiantly captured several of his key supporters in the Battle at the Ministry! You-Know-Who came to regret the audacity of attacking the very home of our government after he fled in fear with the arrival of our Ministry Aurors!

“And there was a very special young man at the fight that day, leading the way with his bravery and his desire to defend the Ministry – and to stand up for witches and wizards everywhere! He is here, right now! And today we would like to recognise his service to the Ministry with an honorary induction into the Dark Arts Defense League!”

This proclamation was met with a smattering of cheering and applause, and several flashbulbs began to go off in Harry’s face, forever capturing his look of angry disbelief. He turned his head so his hair fell over his eyes, blocking their view, and felt a cold mixture of emotions stir inside him.

“Witches and wizards,” Fudge continued, smiling jovially and gesturing with his hands for the crowd to quiet, “let’s now offer our congratulations for the Boy-Who-Lived — and my personal friend — Harry Potter! Come on up here, Harry!”

The band cued up and began to play a sprightly march and Harry could feel every eye on the platform upon him. He felt the briefest brush of fingers upon his back and realised that Hermione was still behind him, letting him know she was there. He worked to calm himself and let out a breath through his nose before straightening his shoulders to continue pushing through the crowd towards the train.

He hefted his luggage through the door of the nearest train car and disappeared inside without a word. Behind him, he could hear the rising chatter of eager whispering – already, rumours were being spread and opinions were being formed. The band ended their song with a long, flat note, and Fudge’s nervous politicking could be heard even through the thick windows of the train.

“So modest, he is! Doesn’t like the spotlight, that one,” he stuttered.

In every cabin he passed, Harry saw familiar faces staring at him as if he were someone they had never seen before. A blushing Ravenclaw nearly flattened herself against the side of the train in her effort to allow him room to pass.

Harry felt like he might be sick.

He hurled his trunk inside the first empty cabin he saw, then placed Hedwig’s cage on the seat beside him, where she hooted at him dolefully, seeming to sense her master’s mood. Harry slumped into the seat and pressed his temple against the cool glass of the window, closing his eyes.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Hermione whispered as she entered the cabin behind him. “Oh, of course you aren’t. That was positively awful!”

She pushed her trunk underneath her seat and then freed Crookshanks from his carrier before moving to sit across from Harry. She worried her lip before leaning forward to bring herself closer to him. “Don’t pay them any mind. And the Minister! Goodness, the nerve of him! ‘Personal friend’? I’ve never heard such insulting rubbish.”

Harry cracked open his eyes to stare broodingly out the window, but did not respond. Hermione sighed and leaned back in her chair, smoothing her wool skirt with her hands. “Well, I’m very proud of you, Harry. I think you did the right thing – the best thing in the circumstances. I don’t think most people are buying Fudge’s story about what happened at the Ministry, anyway. The Prophet has even been reporting a fair truth on it, surprisingly.”

She fell silent and gathered Crookshanks into her lap, stroking him gently. Students began to file by the cabin, looking for empty seats, and many of them paused to stare at Harry inside, only to bustle off when Hermione glared at them from her seat. After a short while, the train lurched forward and began its slow departure from the station, leaving the murmuring noise of the crowd behind.

Hermione hesitantly stood up and removed her Hogwarts robe from her trunk. She pulled it on over her uniform and attached her Prefect’s badge to it. “I— I’m really sorry, Harry, but I need to go to the Prefect’s cabin. I’m supposed to be patrolling the train. I suppose that’s where Ron is, too,” she sighed.

Harry nodded, but didn’t turn his head from the window. Hermione paused uncertainly in the doorway. “Things will get better, Harry,” she said gently. “It will die down like it always does.”

She turned and closed the door behind her before leaving.

~: --------------------------- :~

Fifteen minutes into the train ride, Harry’s brooding was interrupted by the entrance of Luna Lovegood.

“Hello there, Harry,” she greeted in a wispy voice. “Do you mind if I sit in here? The people in my last cabin asked me to leave.”

She said this in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, and there was no indication she was bothered by it. Despite his mood, Harry felt a familiar swoop of sadness on her behalf.

“Sure, Luna,” he said after a moment, “but I’m probably not much good as company right now.”

Luna moved to place her things on the luggage rack before sitting down on the seat Hermione had vacated earlier. Harry turned to glance at her. She was wearing earrings that appeared to be made out of peanut shells this time, instead of her familiar radishes. There was an obviously home-made patch sewn onto the breast of her school robe which advertised her father’s paper, The Quibbler.

“Do you like my patch?” Luna inquired airily, noticing his look. “I made it myself. We have a lot more subscribers since your interview, Harry. We’re doing a special issue on Flying Spoolkeens next month. They have six mouths.”

“That’s… a lot of mouths,” Harry said after a moment’s hesitation.

“I think so, too. But my father says they need them, because of there aren’t many left and it gives them someone to talk to.”

Harry did not know what to say to this. Still, in some strange way, it made sense. “Right.”

Luna reached into the folds of her robe and produced two issues of the Quibbler. She placed one in her lap and handed him the other. “You can keep that one. I have lots.”

“Thank you,” Harry murmured. He glanced down at the cover to see a picture of a wizard wearing what appeared to be a shirt made entirely of bees.

“They don’t sting him,” Luna explained. “I think it’s because the bees can sense that he respects them.”

This, too, made an odd sort of sense. Luna leaned back in her seat and lifted her own copy right in front of her face to read. Harry glanced at her – he could see nothing of her head behind the open magazine. He felt a bit heartened that she had not mentioned anything about the spectacle on the train platform.

He glanced out the window again and watched as the scenery raced by. The long trip had only just started, so the view was still mostly urban, filled with the smaller, less modern buildings of the outskirts of London. He stared listlessly out the window as these began to thin, until there was nothing but green countryside as far as the eye could see. As they travelled north, the sky began to darken with temperamental weather, and soon fat raindrops began to splash against the roof of the train. Harry pushed open the window slightly to allow some of the cool, moist air inside.

Luna lowered her paper to glance outside. “I love rain,” she said in a dreamy voice. “It sounds like parchment crackling.”

“I like the way it smells,” Harry found himself responding, equally vaguely.

She smiled and him and nodded. “Yes. That, too.”

The compartment door slid open and they both looked up to see Ron and Hermione enter noisily. Ron tossed his trunk onto the rack with unnecessary force and sat down on the bench beside Luna, glancing at her and frowning. He looked as surly as Harry felt.

For her part, Hermione looked very displeased about something and made room for herself between Harry and Hedwig’s cage. She gathered Crookshanks into her lap once more and seemed to make an effort to look everywhere but at Ron.

Harry glanced at them, but did not feel curious enough to ask what they were fighting about now. Instead he greeted Ron and shifted to give Hermione a bit more room.

To Harry’s surprise, Ron did not return his greeting. Instead he muttered something under his breath and inched further away from Luna.

She didn’t seem to mind. “Hello, Ronald,” she said cheerily, drawing his name out so it sounded like three syllables instead of two.

There was no response and Harry frowned. He decided against questioning Ron’s behaviour, though – he didn’t really want to talk, either. Instead, he turned and continued to stare out the window.

Hermione did not follow his example. “Honestly, Ron! You’re being absolutely senseless.”

Ron looked incensed. “Senseless? Senseless? I see how it is!”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and pretended he couldn’t hear anything. Apparently, Ron and Hermione did not wish to wait until they actually arrived at Hogwarts before beginning their traditional bickering match.

“Yes, Ron – senseless! Harry had nothing to do with any of this. You know how much he hates it! It isn’t his fault what Fudge is doing and it isn’t his fault what the papers say,” Hermione fumed.

“I know it isn’t his fault – I never said it was! But he never corrects them!” Ron shouted.

“Sodding hell,” Harry muttered. “What are you two on about now?”

“What was that on the train platform back there? Why haven’t you said anything?” Ron asked harshly.

“What?” Harry barked.

“Don’t be stupid, Ron!” Hermione shrieked.

Luna did not seem aware of the chaos going on around her and smiled at an article in her magazine.

“Oh, now I’m stupid, too?” Ron snapped before turning to Harry, clearly upset. “Why didn’t you tell them, Harry? Why didn’t you tell them that we were all there?”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Harry growled.

“At the Ministry! Everyone is going on and on about you being there for that battle, but not a single one of us who went with you were even mentioned,” Ron said morosely.

“That’s what this is about?” Harry asked incredulously. “I haven’t even read the papers, Ron. I have no clue what they’re saying. Knowing the Prophet, it’s probably complete rubbish, anyway. Why do you care?”

“Why do I care? We all did our part in capturing those Death Eaters. You have the bloody Minister for Magic trying to induct you into the Dark Arts Defense League, and the rest of us aren’t even an afterthought.”

“Are you joking?” Harry asked darkly. “None of us ‘did our part’. We’d all be dead if the Order hadn’t shown up.”

“We were there,” Ron said stubbornly.

“Yeah. And Sirius died because of it,” Harry snarled.

This seemed to sober Ron momentarily, and he turned his head to stare out the glass of the compartment door in silence.

Harry rolled his eyes and turned his own head back to the window.

“Honestly,” Hermione muttered again, slipping her fingers through Crookshanks fur and pursing her lips.

Luna flipped her magazine upside down and continued reading, oblivious.

~: --------------------------- :~

The rest of the trip continued in silence. When the scarlet train pulled into Hogsmeade Station, Ron grabbed his things and stomped from the cabin with all the dramatics a teenage boy was capable of. Behind him, the other students began to file out as they always had, but there was a change in the atmosphere compared to previous years. The chattering had a nervous edge to it and the cheerful greetings seemed slightly forced.

Their reaction to Harry was mixed. Some approached him and said generically supportive things, like, “Good show,” or “Well done, Harry”. Others stared at him with a mixture of awe and fear. Most bizarrely, there was even some giggling and whispering.

And then there was Draco Malfoy.

The blonde-haired Slytherin looked even more out of sorts this year than he had at the end of last term. His hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in some time, and his skin had an unhealthy pallor even beyond his typical paleness. “Potter,” he hissed in a deathly whisper as the sixth years gathered near the carriages. “You’ll get what’s coming to you!”

“Right,” Harry said blandly. He felt much too tired by the events of the day to rise to the Slytherin’s insults. “Spend all summer thinking that one up, did you?”

Draco’s fists clenched and his eyes flashed in rage. “My father won’t be held forever,” he vowed menacingly. “And when he’s free, he’ll find the ones responsible… and you’ll be first on his list.”

“Held where? Apparently Azkaban is too good for the likes of him,” Hermione cut in, before tugging on Harry’s arm to keep him moving. “Come on, Harry.”

“You’ll join him on that list, mudblood! I swear it!” Draco called out after them and several students turned in shock at hearing this declaration.

Harry ripped his arm free from Hermione’s grasp and stalked toward Draco in fury. His wand was in his hand in an instant and Draco’s eyes widened in surprise and sudden nervousness.

“Harry, no!” Hermione shouted.

“What’s goin’ on ‘ere?” a loud voice boomed, and the towering figure of Rubeus Hagrid pushed through the crowd that had gathered at the spectacle. He noticed Harry with his wand drawn glaring at Draco and seemed to understand the situation at once. “Righ’, put yer wand away, Harry. There’ll be none o’ tha’ here.”

“Stay away from us, Malfoy,” Harry warned before stowing his wand and pushing through the crowd to return to his things. He picked up Hedwig’s cage and his trunk and placed them both in the luggage carriage with all the dignity he could muster.

He walked around the side of the carriage until he was out of sight from curious eyes, then leaned against it and released a shuddering breath just as Hagrid appeared before him. “Heard wha’ he said,” the half-giant remarked gently. “Nasty little thing, tha’ boy. Still – don’ yeh go gettin’ into trouble on yer first day back, Harry.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately,” Harry murmured. With all the problems he already had, it gnawed at him that the relatively insignificant Draco Malfoy could still infuriate him so utterly.

“I ‘ave a good idea what,” Hagrid confided with sympathy in his voice. “Dumbledore already knows all about wha’ Fudge tried at the platform. In a righ’ state about it when he heard, I tell yeh.”

Harry marveled at how quickly news travelled in the wizarding world. Likely, the scene he made at the platform was already being written about in preparation for tomorrow’s papers. Harry didn’t much care to think of that, so he pushed it from his mind and peered up at the gamekeeper. If Hagrid had trouble with the giants, his face didn’t show it. He looked happy and healthy – free of the numerous gashes and bruises he sustained while caring for his half-brother last year. “How’s Grawp?” Harry asked delicately.

Hagrid grinned. “He’s doin’ great, Harry! You’ll see this year. I’ll ‘ave yeh come down ter visit as soon as I can. Maybe after our first lesson? I can’t wait ter show yeh wha’ creatures we’ll be studyin’ this year!”

Harry gave him a tempered smile. He wasn’t sure how he felt about seeing Grawp again, but Hagrid’s enthusiasm was infectious. “Hagrid, I wanted to tell you – thanks for the birthday present. I’ve got it right here.” Harry patted his trouser pocket in demonstration.

“Thought yeh’d like it! Got a bit of a discount after I done someone a favour. A little extra protection fer yer wallet – although it’s got protection enough already!” Hagrid said, beaming. “Listen – I have ter lead the first years ter the school. Little cobblers ‘re prob’ly already wanderin’ around Hogsmeade like crups in a snow storm. I’ll see yeh at the feast, Harry!”

Harry nodded in goodbye and loitered for a few minutes until the crowd began to thin as the students moved to find carriages to Hogwarts. He noticed Hermione was watching him from a little ways down the path, and he felt slightly embarrassed by his obvious reticence. He moved to catch up with her.

“Harry, you mustn’t rise to his insults. He wants you to get into trouble, can’t you see that?” she asked when he fell in step with her. When he didn’t respond, she shook her head and said, “Come on, Neville’s got a carriage.”

She led him past rows of black, old-fashioned carriages, most already filled with students. Thestrals stood in front of each one, scratching at the ground with their hooves and shaking their great, reptilian heads. Harry watched them in interest. These beasts had carried him to the Ministry last year and he now felt a strange sort of kinship with them. He ran his fingers over the shoulder of one as they walked by.

Hermione noticed his fingers brushing what appeared to be empty air and her eyebrows rose. “Oh! I’d forgotten about the thestrals. Are— are they there now?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, “one in front of every carriage.”

Hermione reached out her hand tentatively towards the space Harry had just touched. Her hand was too far to the right and met empty air. Harry took hold of her wrist and gently moved her hand towards the beast’s shoulder. She opened her mouth in surprise when she felt its solid bulk. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to not seeing them,” she murmured.

Neville leaned out of the carriage ahead of them and waved cheerily. “Hey Harry!” he shouted. “Over here!”

Harry let go of Hermione’s wrist and stepped away to wave absently back at his round-faced friend. As he did so, he noticed Ron standing in the path ahead, staring back at him. The redhead seemed uncertain for a moment before visibly steeling himself and continuing on towards another carriage.

“Don’t worry about him,” Hermione murmured, tugging on his sleeve. “He’ll come around, Harry. He just wishes he wasn’t always in your shadow.”

“I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” Harry muttered. “And why is Fudge acting this way? I’m not his friend – he thinks I’m a crazy, attention-seeking kid.”

“Fudge may be incompetent, but he’s not stupid, Harry,” Hermione pointed out. “Public support is behind you now – and he’s under intense scrutiny because of his actions last year. People are angry that they were lied to. And they now know that all the horrible things that were written about you last year were untrue. Everything you said has been validated. Now that they know better, people probably admire that you wouldn’t change your story last year, no matter how bad things got.

“Fudge realises he’s holding onto his position by a thread. If he doesn’t find some way to win back the support he eroded away with his campaign against you and Professor Dumbledore, he’ll likely be voted out. Right now, the best way he can think to do that is to appear to be on the same side as you are.”

“Well, good luck to him,” Harry grumbled. “But he ought to look elsewhere – I have zero desire to join his ruddy Defense League.”

Hermione gave him a meaningful look. “The only ‘elsewhere’ that could be of any help to him is Professor Dumbledore. I rather doubt Fudge can convince him to do a photo op, either.”

When they walked up beside it, Neville opened the door to the black carriage and smiled at them. “Hi, Harry! Hi, Hermione. Have a good summer?”

Harry and Hermione climbed inside and sat down on the black, velvet bench opposite Neville, Luna, and Ginny. The carriage began to move nearly at once.

“It was lovely,” Hermione replied as she settled herself. “There was some excitement early on, but it was mostly very quiet where we were.”

Ginny met Harry’s eyes briefly before darting them to the window, struggling to pretend she was very interested in the scenery outside. Harry held in a sigh at her bizarre behaviour.

“I was visited by two spirits,” Luna said matter-of-factly. “How was your birthday, Harry?”

“Er – fine,” Harry responded haltingly. “It was Neville’s birthday, too, you know. His is the day before mine.”

Neville looked at him in surprise. “How’d you know that, Harry? I don’t think I ever told anyone when my birthday was.”

Hermione, too, was giving him an odd look. Harry could almost see the gears in her mind starting to turn.

“Heard it somewhere,” Harry replied vaguely. “How was it?”

“Well, my gran decided to let me have my own garden!” Neville said proudly. “With a greenhouse and everything! I’m going to try to grow some twisted moss over Christmas break. I’ve already sent away for the seeds.”

“That sounds wonderful, Neville,” Hermione encouraged.

“What’s twisted moss?” Harry asked.

“Tortura Ruralis Enticus,” Neville enunciated. “It’s really amazing! It can grow without any light and even when it’s freezing outside. They call it twisted moss because it grows in a spiral shape if you feed it butterscotch.”

Harry did not comment on the strangeness of feeding a plant butterscotch. As long as twisted moss didn’t spurt stinksap across their dorm room like Neville’s last pet project, he was all for it.

“It’s used in a lot of important potions,” Hermione added.

“I’m not growing it for that – I won’t be making potions, anymore,” Neville said, and there was a definite sound of relief in his voice. “I didn’t make the ‘O’ to stay in Professor Snape’s lessons. But I did much better on my O.W.L.s than I thought I would! The D.A. helped so much, Harry. My gran was really pleased.”

“I’m glad, Neville,” Harry said softly.

“It’s a relief that the exams are over with now. I was really worried about them,” Neville confessed. He glanced over at Ginny who was still inexplicably avoiding looking at Harry. “But if you need any help revising for them, Ginny, I— I’ll be happy to help.”

She turned her head to look at him for a moment, before darting a glance at Harry and sighing. “Thanks, Neville. But I think I’ll be all right.”

Hermione shot Harry a significant look that he did not understand. He quirked an eyebrow at her before turning to stare out the window.

Hogwarts was looming above them – a dark silhouette against the evening sky. There was a blanket of stars already visible and they shone in concert with the hundreds upon hundreds of yellow-lit windows peeking out from the castle. In the distance he could see the Whomping Willow shaking dead leaves from its massive boughs as if preparing itself for guests.

Despite the familiarity of the sight, Harry felt a chill pass over him. Dumbledore’s warning that Voldemort would be coming for him swam to the surface of his mind. Even Hogwarts did not feel safe to him, anymore. He wondered if anything ever would again.

14. The Sorting Hat's Warning

Chapter 14: The Sorting Hat’s Warning

During the start of term feast, the Great Hall of Hogwarts was a spectacle of magic. Thousands of flickering candles floated and danced in the air and torches the size of grown men burned brightly from their metal sconces on the walls. The ceiling above was no mere ceiling, but an illusion of impressive power, showing all who looked at it the very sky it was protecting against. Looking up at it now, Harry could see that night had truly fallen – the stars that he admired during the carriage ride were still there, but the heavens had lost the blue tint of evening and settled into the rich blackness of a late hour.

All around him, the students whispered and bobbed in their seats in anticipation of the new school year. Their uniforms were strange in their smartness – new and clean and without wrinkles or wear. Their faces, too, seemed slightly unfamiliar. Harry could see many of his classmates had changed their hair, their weight, and there were several thin, pitiable moustaches being sported by some of the older boys.

To his right, four seats down at the Gryffindor table, Ron was squashed between Seamus and Dean. Harry glanced at him occasionally, frowning. He felt a mixture of sadness and anger at his friend. Harry knew he cast a long shadow, but it had never been his intention or desire to throw that shade over his friend.

To his immediate left, Hermione nudged him gently with her elbow. He turned to look at her and she gestured to the front of the hall with her eyes.

At the staff table, Headmaster Dumbledore stood up from his chair and hushed the waiting students with a simple hand gesture. His fingers spread slightly and the candles floating above their heads seemed to flare. The hall was silent – it was unusual for the headmaster to speak before the Sorting and people did not know what to expect.

“I would like to welcome you all back to another year at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore began. He did not use a Sonorous charm, but his voice was clear and could be heard easily even in the very back of the hall. “As always, this year will be full of learning, challenge, and, hopefully, the pleasure of friendship. As returning students, you know well what lies ahead. For some, it will be exams. For others, perhaps graduation and a looming future. Whatever goals you set for the year, I wish sincerely for you to achieve them. And I urge you – do not allow the trials of the changing times to prevent you from reaching your dreams.

“With the news of Voldemort’s return,” Dumbledore paused as the hall was filled with gasps and shrieks, “most of you are likely feeling uncertain – uncertain about your future and uncertain about the futures of your friends. But take heed – in times of strife, it is more important than ever for us to hold on to the things most dear to us. Fear only has power if we allow it to steal away our dreams and our hopes. Be vigilant, but… do not forget to live.”

This speech was met with silence and the headmaster sat down and gestured for McGonagall to proceed with the Sorting Ceremony. The stern-faced witch placed the ancient Sorting Hat on a stool just in front of the staff table, then strode down the centre aisle of the hall to open the massive, wooden doors and lead the new students inside. Their timid, nervous faces were white in the candlelight.

Harry watched them with avid interest. They seemed so small, so vulnerable – he could hardly believe that he, too, had once looked as they did. Time had passed so quickly.

Hermione leaned over to speak softly in his ear. “They’re very young,” she said, and Harry understood that her thoughts were mirroring his own.

Ghosts began to stream through the walls to watch the ceremony and many of the new students screamed and tripped at the sight of them. Nearly-Headless Nick swooped up from beneath the Gryffindor table – his head and neck ruff seemed to be growing out from Harry’s plate.

“Why hello, Harry! I’m glad to see you look well,” he said. “I hope we have a good crop of new students for our house this year.”

“Hello, Sir Nicholas,” Harry replied. He felt slightly uneasy – he hoped that Nick would not mention Harry’s questions about contacting the dead following Sirius’s death. For whatever reason, he did not want anyone else to know about his conversation with the ghost the previous year.

But Sir Nicholas did not give any indication that he remembered this event. “I say, we’ll need to work extra hard to win the House Cup this year. The head girl and boy are both from Ravenclaw House – the Grey Lady had a rather smug look all summer.”

Harry twisted in his seat towards the Ravenclaw table as if he might catch a glimpse of the badges signifying the head students. He scanned their faces briefly before landing on a pair of dark eyes that were staring directly back at his own.

Cho Chang was looking at him searchingly, and against his will, Harry’s eyes drifted down to the breast of her robe – the sight of the gold badge there nearly shocked him cold. He turned back to his own table slowly and found Hermione staring at him.

“Yes, it’s Cho,” she said quietly. “She gave the prefects our patrol assignments on the train – I wasn’t sure if I should tell you. Harry, you don’t still have… feelings for her, do you?”

“No,” Harry said tensely.

Hermione looked relieved. “Oh, good,” she breathed. Harry looked at her strangely and she rushed to explain. “I mean – she’s not right for you, Harry. You’re much too serious for a silly girl like her.”

A loud clearing of a throat interrupted whatever response Harry might have had and they both turned their eyes towards the front of the hall where the Sorting Hat was shaking itself awake. Two small tears near its centre squinted like eyelids and the rip along its brim opened and closed in the pantomime of a mouth. The hat bowed to all four house tables before settling itself facing the Gryffindor table. Harry had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that it was staring right at him. He did not seem alone in this opinion – several students nearby seemed to be glancing back and forth between the hat and Harry.

The rip opened again and the hat began its song:

“Long ago, I was made to think,

Made to sing, and made to blink,

Made to see into your mind,

And made to comment on what I find.

But there's more to me than these simple tricks,

More to the forest than leaves and sticks,

More to this castle than walls of stone,

And more to you than blood and bone.

Do not judge on what first you see,

For you are certain to be deceived,

You must look closer if you want to know,

What is real and what's for show.

But if you find yourself astray,

The tower light will guide your way,

The lamp of time shines ever bright,

Cutting through the darkest night.

So I urge you now, do not ignore,

The ageless voice on distant shore,

Destiny comes for everyone,

Even its most wayward son.

Divisive times will lie ahead,

Lines are drawn and painted red,

Face the night but take this warning,

It's always darkest before the morning...”

When the hat finished, it closed its rip and slumped over, as if the song had taken all of its energy. The Great Hall was as quiet as it had ever been.

Harry felt like an icy hand had reached inside his chest to wrap cold fingers around his heart. The song had sounded like it was spoken directly to him. The references to tower lights and ageless voices... but that was impossible! Wasn’t it?

Hermione’s hand seized his forearm — whether it was for her own reassurance or his, he did not know — and he turned to look at her worried face. She stared at him mutely for a moment before scrambling to remove a quill and parchment from her bag and rapidly transcribing what she could remember from the song.

Harry turned to see the faces of his classmates watching him warily, and he shrugged his shoulders towards his ears in a useless attempt at hiding. He glanced towards the staff table to see Dumbledore giving him a significant look – clearly, he remembered Harry’s letter detailing his dream with the dying woman in the tower. The headmaster nodded at him once, but did not seem particularly concerned and turned his palm up in the direction of Professor McGonagall.

“Students will step forward when I call their names and place the hat on their head,” McGonagall instructed loudly, interrupting the anxious whispering that had begun to buzz around the hall. “Alpin, Gremina!”

A thin, fair-haired little girl climbed onto the stool and was promptly sorted into Hufflepuff.

“Does this look right?” Hermione asked Harry under her breath. “Did I get everything? I think I messed up some of the middle lines!”

Harry glanced towards her parchment to see Hermione’s transcription of the song. He dully pointed out a few corrections — the song had seemingly imprinted itself on his mind like a hot, iron brand — and then tried to shake off his ill feeling to watch the remainder of the sorting.

Several new students joined them at the Gryffindor table but Harry could neither recall their names nor their faces. He clapped to maintain the appearance of paying attention, but try as he might, his mind kept drifting back to the song.

Soon enough, all the students had been placed into houses and a feast of the most luscious foods imaginable appeared on their table. The dark atmosphere seemed to dissipate and people began to pile their plates high, laughing as they ate.

Harry dutifully served himself some roasted potatoes, but he settled for pushing them around listlessly with his fork. His appetite had all but disappeared.

“Don’t fret about it, Harry,” Hermione urged quietly, serving him a juicy piece of roast. “We’ll figure out what the song means later. We’ll do it together – you’ll see! Now you should eat something.”

Harry felt somewhat cheered by her camaraderie and took a bite of the roast. “I see you’re not restarting your hunger fast,” he commented neutrally as he looked at her plate piled with chicken and vegetables.

“I’m not giving up on house elves,” she retorted sharply, her hackles rising. “I’ll just find a more effective way of protesting. And I don’t care if you or Ron thinks it’s silly!”

“I don’t think it’s silly,” Harry argued, frowning.

Hermione’s face softened and she took a bite of broccoli. “Well— good. I would really like your help, Harry. This is important to me.”

Harry felt a twinge of guilt. He speared a potato with his fork and nodded. “Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” Hermione asked, surprised. “That’s it?”

“If it’s important to you, I’ll help,” he clarified. “I don’t think it’s right, either – how house elves are treated. But sometimes...” he hesitated, as if unsure he should continue, “Sometimes I think you’re going about it the wrong way, is all.”

“What do you mean, ‘the wrong way’?” Hermione asked, clearly stung.

Harry hurried to continue, not wanting to upset her. “What I mean is – like the name? Spew—”

“It’s not spew, it’s S.P.E.W.!” she nearly shouted. This was a familiar argument over the years and it obviously pushed the wrong buttons for her.

Harry placed his hand over the one she had fisted beside her plate in an effort to calm her down. His fingers closed over her small fist easily. “Wait – just listen,” he asked gently. “I know it’s S.P.E.W., but most witches and wizards already think the idea is a bit out there. Giving it a name with an acronym that spells ‘spew’ only gives those people an easy way to dismiss what you’re saying. They can just make fun of the name instead of having to counter what you’re arguing. That’s all I meant.”

He watched her warily as she worried her lip. Slowly, she seemed to relax and Harry let out a relieved breath. “Maybe you’re right,” she sighed at last.

Neither of them mentioned house elves again for the rest of the feast, but Hermione seemed lost in thought as she ate quietly. Several of his classmates started to attempt to include Harry in their conversations and he was grateful for their effort. He was still feeling off-kilter after the Sorting Hat’s song and he knew most of his responses were short and clipped, but no one seemed bothered by it. In fact, rather than looking offended, Parvati smiled at him strangely nearly the entire meal. Harry tried not to think about why she might be doing this.

When all the plates were clean and their glasses empty, the remainders of the food disappeared from the tables with the same rush of magic that had made them appear. The students turned in their seats to look up at the staff table as Headmaster Dumbledore rose from his chair once more.

“I would like to take this opportunity to welcome our new students to Hogwarts!” he announced. “In the next seven years, I hope you’ll find your minds broadened and your hearts filled with both small joys and great ones. Now, for all of our students, new and old – I have a few start-of-term notices to provide you with.

“First, I would like to reiterate than any decrees passed during the previous term are no longer applicable. It’s of particular note that groups do not require permission to form or to meet – they are, in fact, encouraged to do so.

“Mr. Filch, our caretaker, wishes to inform all students that a list of banned items has been posted on the door to his office. Please refer to it if you do not desire to see any of your Dungbombs or Whirling Frosties confiscated.

“I must stress the importance of this – the Forbidden Forest is strictly off-limits to all students. This is for your own safety. The forest has become increasingly dangerous as of late. To enter it is to place your neck willingly in the guillotine.

“Quidditch tryouts will begin on the second Tuesday of the month. Please contact Madame Hooch if you wish to tryout for your house team.

“And finally, I would like to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher – Allesia Ferrote,” Dumbledore said, gesturing at a sturdy-looking woman seated inconspicuously at the end of the staff table. Harry craned his neck to get a better look at her and he noticed many of his classmates doing the same. She seemed innocuous enough, if not a little stern, but Harry would hold his opinion until he was certain she was not evil, incompetent, or growing dark lords out of the back of her skull.

“I’m sure all of you would like to join me in wishing her the best of luck in her new position,” the headmaster concluded. “Now – let us end our festivities with the singing of our school song. You may choose to sing it to any tune you desire.”

The headmaster’s wand appeared in his hand and with a gentle flick, a long, golden ribbon shot out the end and fluttered into the air above him. The ribbon twisted and contorted until it formed words in fine script, spelling out the lyrics to the song.

The students all began to sing, each with their own rhythm and cadence. Beside him, Hermione was loudly singing to the tune of an old muggle song Harry recognised, and he changed his own version to sing along with her. They shared a companionable look and both found it difficult to keep from laughing. When they finished, Harry found himself immensely cheered from his earlier dark mood. No wonder Dumbledore insisted on this yearly ritual.

“Ah, lovely! Music is a gift that I never tire of,” the headmaster declared after everyone had finished. “Now then – prefects will please escort the first years to their dormitories. Goodnight to you all!”

As the students began to stand and prefects began to call out the names of their houses, Harry climbed to his feet and looked down at Hermione as she finished replacing her quill and parchment in her bag. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he said.

She smiled at him and stood up, shaking her head. “No, Harry – only the fifth year prefects have to lead the first years. We can walk up together.”

Harry returned her smile, feeling somewhat relieved and turned to glance at Ron, only to find that the redhead had already left them behind. Harry frowned and shifted his weight while Hermione looked on sadly. “He’ll come around,” she repeated as they began to follow the other students out to the Grand Staircase.

They hiked up the first set of stairs quietly and paused at the landing to wait for the next staircase to move into place. Above them, similar staircases were changing and turning to a melody of grinding stone.

“So what do you reckon?” Harry asked while they waited. “Think our new Defense teacher will be any good?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard of her before,” Hermione admitted, “but she must be an improvement over that horrid Umbridge woman.”

The staircase settled into the correct position and Harry and Hermione began to climb.

“Well, that’s not exactly a high standard to live up to,” Harry mused. “Snape would be a vast improvement. Even Moody was much better, and he tried to kill me.”

“I suppose,” Hermione agreed reluctantly. “But it’s more important than ever that we have a good teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts. If she doesn’t instruct us adequately, we’ll just have to reform the D.A.”

Harry’s eyes darkened a bit and he looked down at his boots as they continued trudging up the many staircases to the seventh floor. After the debacle at the Ministry, he was no longer sure he wanted the D.A. to exist anymore. Harry wasn’t keen on giving his classmates and friends the idea that they ought to be following him – not when it seemed fated that Voldemort and he would remain on the same path until one or the other was dead.

Hermione did not seem to notice his wandering thoughts and began to chatter excitedly about filling out their class timetables in the morning at breakfast. He listened with half an ear before they arrived at the portrait of the Fat Lady. She looked down at them from her frame imperiously before asking for the password. Hermione drew herself up straight and announced, “Fortis unus”.

The Fat Lady tipped her head and the portrait swung aside, revealing the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. Hermione had to duck her head and shoulders and Harry nearly had to bend over double to slip through the passage now. They shared a look when they made it to the other side, both remembering passing through with no trouble in their first years here.

The Gryffindor common room was packed with loitering students chatting animatedly about the upcoming term. A few stopped what they were doing to stare when Harry came through the door, but Hermione tugged him along behind her before he could dwell on it. They stopped at the base of the stairs to the girl’s dormitory and Hermione adjusted her bookbag on her shoulder.

“We’ll go over the hat’s song again, later,” she promised. “You should get some sleep, Harry. It’s important to start the school year well rested.”

Harry wished her goodnight and then left her to trudge up the stairs to his own dormitory. The room for the sixth year boys seemed identical to the one he had shared in fifth year, and all his things were neatly stacked beside the bed nearest the window.

Neville was already wearing a long, cotton sleep cap and climbing into his own bed. He smiled at Harry before wishing him a cheerful goodnight and pulling the hangings closed.

Seamus and Dean were nowhere to be found, but Ron was sitting on his trunk, tugging off his shoes gloomily. When he saw Harry, his eyes flickered for a moment before he stood up and turned his back to him, pretending to be fussing with his bed clothes.

Harry was never one to ignore a problem when he could tackle it head on, so he strode across the room and grabbed a fist-full of Ron’s sleep shirt, tugging his shoulder back so he would be facing him.

“Don’t do this again, Ron,” he said quietly.

Ron’s eyes widened a bit at both the rough treatment and the reminder of the debacle that was fourth year before dropping down to look at the floor. He seemed lost for words for a moment before he looked back up at Harry.

“Look, mate – I know it’s it not your fault,” he began haltingly. “I do know that. I’m not mad at you. It’s just…”

But whatever it was ‘just’, Ron did not say, and instead trailed off with a sigh. Harry stared at him for a moment before releasing his grip and pacing over to his trunk. He changed for bed quickly and then slid under his own covers.

“Goodnight, Ron,” he muttered, before pulling the hangings on his own bed closed and settling down for bed.

~: --------------------------- :~

The next morning, Ron joined Harry and Hermione at breakfast. When he sat down opposite them, he had a sheepish look on his face and his ears and cheeks were deeply red. Hermione shot Harry a knowing, triumphant look as Ron wordlessly began to dish himself a massive helping of eggs. Harry took a bite out of his sausage and shrugged.

Nothing was said about Ron’s earlier behaviour, and the morning’s breakfast was enjoyed in companionable silence like hundreds before it. Their classmates chatted and laughed all around them, filling the Great Hall with warm voices. Listening to this swell of sound, Harry began to hope that this year might be better than the last one.

“Gryffindors!” Professor McGonagall called from the head of the table. Conversation died immediately. “I’ll now be handing out the sign-up forms for your lessons. I expect them in my office by no later than noon today. Please remember to only sign up for lessons that you have met the pre-requisites for. If you sign up for lessons that you are not qualified to take, you will not be allowed to attend and you will not be allowed to sign up for alternate lessons for that hour. This can have severe consequences for those of you who are intending to pursue careers that require a certain number of N.E.W.T. courses.”

She began to walk down the aisle, handing out official-looking sheets of parchment to each student. Harry noticed that Hermione was nearly bouncing in her seat in excitement. Filling out her timetable had always been one of her favourite activities.

When McGonagall reached Harry, Ron, and Hermione, she paused and her stern features seemed to soften a bit. She handed them each a sign-up form before turning to Harry. “Mr. Potter, I have an important matter I wish to discuss with you privately. Please come to my office directly after you’ve finished breakfast. And bring your timetable with you. You can fill it out while you’re there.”

Harry looked at her a bit warily and she tutted at him impatiently. “You’re not in trouble, so wipe that look off your face. And do be punctual – I have a lot of matters to attend to today.”

With that pronouncement, Professor McGonagall bustled off, handing out the last of the sign-up forms to their remaining classmates. Harry turned back to his sausages and poked one with his fork.

“Wonder what that was about?” Ron asked, turning back to his nearly finished meal.

“No idea,” Harry admitted. Whatever it was, he hoped it wasn’t bad news. He continued poking his sausage absently for a few minutes before Ron eyed it with a plaintive look.

“Are you gonna eat that?” he asked.

Harry took one last gulp of his pumpkin juice before sliding his plate towards Ron and climbing to his feet. “I’m going to go see what she wants,” he said. He had only taken a few steps towards the door when the Great Hall was suddenly filled with the unmistakable sound of a great many owls fluttering inside. Harry paused and watched as the day’s post was delivered until he caught a familiar flash of brilliant white amid the browns and greys. Hedwig arched down from near the ceiling with her wings spread and talons lifted. Harry dutifully held out his forearm for her to land on.

She hooted at him in greeting before gripping him firmly with her talons, securing herself to his arm. Harry stroked her feathers with his free hand.

“I think it’s adorable that Hedwig visits you even when you don’t have any post,” Hermione remarked, turning in her seat to watch them.

“I never have post at Hogwarts,” Harry pointed out. “I’d never see her if she waited for someone to write me.”

Hedwig clicked her beak and swiveled her head to stare at him with her brilliant, amber eyes. Harry moved back over to the table and glanced down at Hermione. “Would you mind—”

“Of course not, Harry,” Hermione interrupted, understanding immediately what he wanted. She cleared a spot on the table for Hedwig to land and broke off a small piece of her toast. “I’ll keep her company while you’re gone. She can have some of my breakfast.”

Harry smiled at her gratefully. “Thank you,” he said. He stroked his owl one last time before lowering his forearm to the table, allowing Hedwig to step off. She hopped a few steps before puffing her feathers and swiveling her head towards Hermione’s toast. “I’ll see you both later.”

“Bye, mate,” Ron called after him.

Harry walked down the hall, ignoring several students who glanced up from their newly-delivered copies of the Daily Prophet to peer at him. He halted when he came to the end of the Gryffindor table and saw a second year he didn’t recognise reading avidly from her own copy. The front of the newspaper was held up perfectly for Harry’s perusal, and he was dismayed to see his own face scowling back at him.

Beneath a headline reading, ‘REBEL – Harry Potter snubs Minister for Magic!’, a wizarding photograph of the moment Harry had been asked to join the Minister on the stage took up the majority of the front page. Harry was somewhat startled by his own appearance in the photo – he had a dark expression and looked older than he perhaps thought he should.

Harry frowned and quickly left the hall before anyone worked up the nerve to bother him about the article. He made his way up shifting staircases and down long halls filled with suits of armour before arriving in front of the wooden door that led to McGonagall’s office. He knocked once and was promptly invited inside.

Professor McGonagall’s office was small and not particularly impressive. It was sparsely furnished with only a dark wood desk, a small cabinet, and two chairs. Both the walls and the floor were bare. Clearly, she had chosen this room for the single luxury it did possess – behind her desk was a large, roman window that offered a beautiful view across the grounds to the Quidditch pitch. The room was high enough that she would likely be able to watch the teams play and practice, even if the distance might make it difficult to see what was going on.

“Do sit down, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall instructed, looking at Harry above her spectacles. She gestured to the wood chair in front of the desk and set down the parchment she had been reading. “I trust that you are well?”

“Yes, thank you,” Harry replied. He lifted his bag from his shoulder and set it on the ground before seating himself. He had to work to keep from fidgeting – he had no idea what Professor McGonagall wanted to see him for.

He was startled by a sudden, suctioning noise and a piece of parchment appearing on top of the wooden tray on the corner of her desk. Another parchment and then another followed it, both preceded by the strange sound.

McGonagall noticed his curious expression. “They’re the sign-up forms for your lessons. The tray is connected to the box outside my office,” she explained. “You did bring yours, I presume?”

Harry nodded and dug it out of his bag, holding it up for her to see. She took it from him and laid it out on her desk. “Good,” she continued. “We’ll fill it out later. I’ve brought you here this morning because I intend for you to captain the Gryffindor Quidditch team this season.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline. Of all the things he had been expecting to hear, that had not been one of them. “Quidditch captain?” he asked incredulously. “But I didn’t even play last year…?”

Professor McGonagall’s face darkened and she pursed her lips. “Yes, well – your… ban is no longer in effect. With your reinstatement, you’re the logical choice for captain. I wish to keep the Quidditch Cup in Gryffindor House, Mr. Potter. I hope that you feel as strongly about this as I do.”

Harry did not profess himself to be as much of a Quidditch nut as McGonagall herself was, but he certainly took pride in his house’s victories. “Of course I want Gryffindor to win…”

McGonagall nodded curtly. “Then you accept?”

Harry sat back in his chair. He could not help but feel a small rush of pride at his selection. “I— yes. All right.”

“Good. Then we have much to discuss in preparation for the upcoming season.
As captain, you will have many duties and responsibilities. You must schedule team practices, oversee try-outs, prepare our match strategies, and enforce team discipline,” she informed. “Additionally, the Gryffindor house Quidditch team has several important traditions that we have enjoyed for many long years. For example, the captain always lights the lamps in the team prep room on the day of every Gryffindor match – and only on match days. Only wandlight or daylight is used during practices or other team meetings. The Gryffindor captain will wear his or her captain’s badge on their robes at all times – except on match days. On those days, you will remove your badge, signifying that you are part of a team, and no more important than any other member. Finally, a more recent tradition began some seventy years ago with Montgomery Gullsnap – the Gryffindor captain from that time. He cut a strap of leather from a quaffle that was used during Gryffindor’s championship season that year and tied it around his arm. When his final game at the school was played, he passed it on to the next captain, and she wore it around hers. So it has continued through the years – even your father wore it. I trust you will continue this tradition?”

Professor McGonagall reached into her desk and removed a long, dark cord of leather. It was worn, but did not appear frayed or in poor condition. He vaguely recalled seeing it from time to time wrapped around Angelina Johnson’s robe sleeve, but he had no idea it signified her captaincy.

McGonagall handed the cord to Harry from across her desk and he took it somewhat hesitantly. It was strange to think that his father had once worn this. Sometimes he felt so disconnected from James Potter that it was hard to believe they had ever existed in the same universe.

Harry turned the leather cord over in his hands and mulled over what Professor McGonagall had said. He’d had no idea that being the Gryffindor captain was so involved. He suddenly had a better appreciation for why Oliver Wood had been so uptight.

McGonagall seemed to sense his certainty wavering and she offered him a surprisingly kind look. “You’ll do well, Potter. I haven’t chosen you on a whim.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” he said at last. McGonagall seemed pleased by this answer and nodded curtly.

“I’ve prepared some documents that should help you as you assume your new duties,” she stated. “There are some strategies and plays that I’m particularly fond of, along with a list of students I’ve seen potential in. Do try to make sure these students attend the tryouts, if possible.”

Harry took the stack of parchments and glanced over the diagrams and descriptions of complicated Quidditch moves and a few accounts of spectacular plays from famous matches. He took note of the names on the list of potential recruits and was surprised by how few there were.

McGonagall smiled grimly. “Yes, not many, is there? Our house hasn’t had many stellar flyers since your sorting. You’ll have your work cut out for you with our lot of beaters, too.”

Harry remembered their struggles with Kirke and Sloper from the previous year and nodded. Perhaps they had improved over the summer, but there was no way to tell until tryouts.

For the next hour, Harry and Professor McGonagall went over strategies and some of the more obscure rules of Quidditch – most of which Harry had never heard of. He thought it should have been obvious that poisoning the opposing captain with a draught of nightshade before a Quidditch match was illegal, but apparently it needed to be spelt out over three paragraphs in ‘The Standard Rules of Quidditch, Annotated Volume XXXVII’.

As the time passed, the pile of parchments that had appeared in McGonagall’s tray grew rapidly. When she noticed him eyeing it, McGonagall glanced at the clock and pursed her lips.

“Well, it seems it would be best for us to continue this at another time,” she announced. “Let’s go over your lessons timetable. Have you given any thought to which courses you want to take? I’m assuming you still desire to be an Auror…”

“Yes,” Harry replied at once.

Professor McGonagall’s quill flew over his sign-up form as Harry looked on patiently. “Then you’ll need Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, and Defense Against the Dark Arts as your core lessons. You’ll need at least five N.E.W.T.s with a grade of ‘Exceeds Expectations’ or better to be accepted into the Auror Programme. I would recommend that you take two more lessons to ensure this. You’ve met the requirements for both Advanced Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology, and Divination, Muggle Studies, and History of Magic have no prerequisites, so you may choose from any of those, if you so desire.”

“I want to do Care of Magical Creatures,” Harry stated. “And… Divination.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows rose behind her spectacles and Harry knew that the Transfiguration Professor had little respect for Trelawney’s babble. She said nothing, though, and marked it down on his form. Harry was glad for it – he did not know how to explain to her that he wanted to keep an eye on the Divination Professor just in case she were ever to deliver a real prophecy again. He was not looking forward to two more years of Trelawney’s nonsense, but he could not risk missing it if she were to divine something useful.

“Very well. Here is a copy of your timetable, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall announced, “and a booklist for the lessons you’ve signed up for. If you’ve not purchased your texts during the summer, you will need to send an owl order for them – students are expected to have their required books by the beginning of next week.”

“I already have them,” Harry replied. He hesitated for a moment before adding, “Well, most of them. I don’t have a Divination textbook yet.”

“Do see to getting one, then,” McGonagall said, reaching into her desk. She removed a small, gold badge depicting a stylized medieval lion rearing on its hind legs. She held it out for Harry to take. “This is your captain’s badge. I expect to see it on your robes at all times, except—”

“Except on match days,” Harry finished. He clipped the badge to the front of his black robes, taking care not to prick himself. “I won’t forget.”

McGonagall nodded. She gestured to the door before reaching for the pile of parchments in her tray. “Good day to you, then, Mr. Potter. I will see you in Transfiguration on Wednesday.”

15. Friends and Enemies

Chapter 15: Friends and Enemies

Following his meeting with Professor McGonagall, Harry wandered the seventh floor corridor aimlessly. Every once in a while, he would stop and peer at his distorted reflection in the shining suits of armour on their stone pedestals. It reminded him of his photograph in this morning’s Daily Prophet and he took to loitering in the vacant halls just to keep from returning downstairs. One of the suits of armour let out a clanking laugh beneath its visor at his behaviour, and — embarrassed — Harry decided he had wasted enough time and turned to return downstairs.

At the end of the hall was a faded tapestry of two armies clashing together; their red and white standards snaked across the sky while the men beneath them tumbled and writhed. Harry checked behind him for onlookers before lifting the corner of the tapestry and slipping behind it. There was a hidden stone alcove here, and a door beyond that the led to a mouldy, spiral staircase to the second floor. It was one of Hogwarts’ many secret passageways. Harry knew most of them by heart after six years here and countless nights spent awake in his bed studying the Marauder’s Map.

He followed the stairs down until he reached a small, wooden door. Beyond it was a clutch of old barrels and boxes that littered an unused storage cupboard. It was pitch black in here, and Harry soundlessly lit the tip of his wand for light. It was the first spell he had used in weeks and Harry took a moment to appreciate how right it felt to be casting magic again.

He slipped from the cupboard as quietly as possible and strode past the scattered groups of students who were laughing and chatting over their timetables. No one seemed to notice him and he was grateful for it.

Harry made his way through the hall and down the Grand Staircase to the ground floor. He followed several branching hallways until he reached a set of huge, wooden doors that led to the courtyard in front of the clock tower. With a heave, he pushed the heavy doors wide and stepped outside.

The sun was bright overhead and the crisp, blue sky lightened his mood. There was a small group of Hufflepuffs playing gobstones but otherwise the courtyard was deserted. Harry walked over to a stone bench beneath an ancient-looking tree whose massive roots were pushing aside the cobblestones as if they were pebbles. It was one of Harry’s favourite spots in the school.

He sank down onto the bench before turning and leaning back so he was lying flat against its surface. Above him, the green, summer leaves of the tree fluttered in the breeze and its great branches swayed gently. He closed his eyes and thoughts of the Daily Prophet drifted from his mind.

“There you are, Harry,” a voice called softly from above him. Harry cracked one eye open to see Hermione’s gently smiling face. “I’d wondered where you’d gone to.”

Ron slumped to the ground beside the bench and sighed as he dropped his bookbag into his lap. “Oy, another year of History of Magic. Hooray,” he muttered.

Hermione gestured to the open part of the bench beside Harry’s head and he shifted slightly to give her more room. She sat down gratefully and removed her own bag. She was smiling excitedly and pulled out several books.

“I can’t wait for lessons to begin!” she announced. “I’ve looked over some of the material we’ll be covering in Potions, Harry – it’s very advanced. We’ll have to study extra hard so that Professor Snape won’t have any reason to grade you unfairly.”

“Like he needs a reason to grade me unfairly,” Harry muttered. He was not looking forward to Advanced Potions.

“Glad to be rid of that greasy git,” Ron said, but even with only one eye open, Harry could see that his heart wasn’t in it. Ron, too, had wanted to be an Auror, but obviously he hadn’t made the prerequisites. Harry did not question him on his O.W.L. scores. If Ron wanted to tell him, he would.

Hermione seemed to notice Ron’s mood, too, and gave him a sympathetic look.

Harry sat up on the bench and brushed the dirt from his robe. “Just think – you’ll never have to make another potion for as long as you live.”

Ron seemed heartened at this and nodded along agreeably. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah… no more smelling like powdered goat spleen…”

Hermione beamed and nudged Harry inconspicuously with her elbow.

“Bill said he might be able to put me in line for a job at Gringotts,” Ron continued, sitting up some and squaring his shoulders. “Handling accounts – lots of galleons in that, he says. And the twins! Harry, you should see what sort of racket those two have cooked up. They’re selling to Zonko’s now! I bet they’re making loads of money. I could work for them, maybe. It’d take less N.E.W.T.s than a job at Gringotts…”

“Ron! You shouldn’t choose your future career based on how little you’ll have to revise for it,” Hermione interjected, scandalized.

“And just what are you going to be doing after Hogwarts, then?” Ron sniped back. “With your five hundred N.E.W.T.s?”

Hermione looked terribly affronted and struggled visibly to keep her expression even. “Well,” she huffed, “I thought I might like to work for the Ministry, in a policy office.”

Ron snorted at this, but said nothing.

Harry glanced at Hermione strangely. He had no idea she wanted to work for the Ministry. “So what lessons are you taking, then?” Harry asked Ron after a few moments of tense silence, sensing a need to change the subject before a fight could begin.

Ron pulled out his copy of his timetable. “Bill says I need at least four N.E.W.T.s with a passing grade to qualify at Gringotts. I’ve signed up for Divination — easy —, History of Magic — blah —, Charms, Herbology, Defense, and Muggle Studies. I figure you can help me pass that one since you know all about eclectrition.”

Harry frowned. “You forgot Care of Magical Creatures.”

Ron looked confused and glanced towards Hermione as if looking for support. “Er, no I didn’t. Harry, it’s the advanced lesson if you take it this year. Who knows what Hagrid’s going to come up with it for a N.E.W.T. lesson! You’d have to be mad to take it – everyone says so.”

“I know everyone says so!” Harry blustered. “That’s why we have to take it. If no one signs up, Hagrid will be devastated.”

Ron looked slightly guilty at this pronouncement. “I already turned in my form.”

Harry turned to stare at Hermione, but she, too, looked guilty. “Don’t tell me you didn’t sign up, either,” he said, incredulous.

“Harry, please don’t be angry. I love Hagrid, you know that, but… his lessons are very dangerous and I— I had such a full timetable already…” she stuttered.

Harry’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “Neither of you are taking his lesson? Where’s your loyalty?”

“Harry, that isn’t fair!” Hermione protested.

“Right,” he muttered. “I’ll take it myself. And I’m sure I won’t be the only one.”

After that, the conversation dwindled to a few awkward attempts at jokes about Snape from Ron before Harry excused himself, claiming he wanted to visit the owlery. He ignored Hermione’s pleading look while he gathered his things and trudged off without looking back.

~: --------------------------- :~

Harry’s cloudy mood began to ebb as he walked the grassy path to the owlery, but as his temper faded, his frustration only grew. His lack of control irritated him. His blood always seemed up lately and he didn’t understand why. He should not have been angry at his friends for something as inconsequential as the lessons they were taking. He kicked a rock with the toe of his boot and sighed.

Harry tilted his head up and squinted against the sunlight. On a craggy hill far above him, the owlery tower sat like a stone sentry, watching over the grounds of Hogwarts and the Black Lake and forests beyond. He could see the tiny silhouettes of owls against the sky as they returned from their flights, swooping through the many open windows and entrances of the building.

Harry set a quick pace as he trudged up the many stone staircases that scaled the side of the hill. He passed several students – mostly first years driven by homesickness to write to their parents. They scrambled out of Harry’s way as he passed and some could not help but stare at him with huge, astonished eyes.

When Harry made it to the entrance, he nearly collided with Marietta Edgecomb and had to pivot sharply to avoid her. He was surprised to see her back at Hogwarts. For some reason, it had not occurred to him that she would be returning to school just like all the other students.

For her part, she seemed even more shocked to be in this situation than he did, and she paled considerably when she recognized him. The faded pink marks on her face were made much easier to see by her sudden pallor.

“Excuse me,” Harry blurted politely, despite himself. She seemed deeply discomforted by his unexpected cordiality and mumbled something that he could not make out. Mixed with his lingering anger, Harry suddenly felt a swell of pity for the girl and stepped passed her into the tower without another word. She scurried down the staircases behind him as if the building had been on fire.

“Was that… Marietta?” a familiar voice asked from the doorway, and Harry turned to see Hermione watching him curiously.

“Yes,” Harry said simply, surprised that she had come after him.

“She nearly ran me over on the stairs,” Hermione stated blandly. “I guess she didn’t care to see you.”

“Well, I can hardly blame her,” Harry admitted. “The feeling is mutual.”

“She made her own decisions. Now she has to live with them,” Hermione declared and there was a bizarre fierceness to her words that went against her normal charitable manner. Harry raised his eyebrows at her tone, but Hermione’s stony expression didn’t waver. “If you had been expelled, who knows what could have happened to you. I’ll not forgive her.”

“It’s not like she was the only one who thought I was full of duff last year,” Harry pointed out reasonably.

“No, but she knew you better than most of them,” Hermione rebutted sternly. “She took lessons from you for months – if she receives a N.E.W.T. in defense this year, it will be entirely your doing. And Cho! I can hardly believe she forgave Marietta – you were dating at the time!”

“We were hardly dating when it happened. And besides – Marietta was her best friend. What if I did something awful? Would you give up on me so quickly? Or would you stand by me, even knowing I was wrong?”

Hermione’s features softened. “I can’t imagine that Marietta could possibly be as good a friend to Cho as you are to me,” she said quietly. “And it’s a decision I would never have to make, anyway. I know you, Harry. You’re not that kind of person – you don’t have betrayal in your character.”

Harry seemed to consider this for a moment before a serious look settled on his face. He stared into Hermione’s eyes. “But if I did? Or… maybe not betrayal, but what if — someday — I had to do something that… you didn’t like? That no one liked?”

Hermione seemed to sense that this was no idle question and Harry knew that he had scared her. Her mouth was slightly open and he could see the questions in her eyes. “Why would you ask that?” she asked haltingly.

Harry shook his head. He regretted his question the moment it had left his mouth. “I’m sorry. Forget—”

Hermione cut him off with a hand on his robe sleeve. She looked very upset. “Yes,” she said suddenly. “Harry… no matter what happens, I will always stand by you. I will always trust you. No matter what. You must know that, don’t you?”

Harry felt such a surge of affection for her — of relief — that he thought he might want to cross the distance between them and hold her to him. He clenched and unclenched his hands as the moment passed. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said softly.

Something broke in Hermione’s expression and she turned away, holding her elbows to her sides defensively. Harry stepped towards her and slid his fingers across her shoulder blade anxiously, brushing aside her hair.

Hermione turned so quickly that he was startled into taking a step back before she threw her arms around his neck. She held him tightly, leaning against him as she stood on her toes, and he had to wrap his arms around her to keep his balance. They stood together quietly for a long moment before two first years appeared in the doorway, talking animatedly before falling stone silent at the scene they had interrupted.

At the intrusion, Harry and Hermione separated slowly and turned to look at the two young girls who were now staring at them, slack-jawed and gaping. “Sorry!” one of them squeaked before grabbing a fist-full of the other’s robes and racing out the door.

Harry rolled his eyes and began to mount the spiral staircase that circled the interior of the owlery. Hermione trailed behind him.

“I actually came here to apologise,” she said after a moment. “About Hagrid. You were right – I should have taken the course. I should have supported him. Ron is actually speaking with Professor McGonagall to see if she might make an exception and allow us to change our timetables.”

Harry turned and looked down at her. “I shouldn’t have got so hacked off,” he sighed. “It’s not any of my business what lessons you sign up for.”

“You were only trying to support a friend,” she asserted before offering an ironic smile. “Isn’t that what this whole conversation was about?”

Harry allowed the corners of his lips to turn up. “Possibly.”

Hermione’s smile grew in response, but her face clouded over soon after. “Hagrid’s lessons — I’ll admit that I’ve found some of it terribly frightening,” she explained. “And after Grawp… well, I didn’t care for the idea of two more years of it. I suppose not all of us can be as ceaselessly brave as you are.”

Harry frowned. “That’s not true. You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever known.”

Hermione smiled at him. “There are different kinds of bravery, Harry.”

Harry shook his head and continued up the stairs. He found Hedwig in her usual spot near an open window. Her head was hidden beneath her wing as she dozed, but she perked up when she sensed his presence and swiveled to look at him. She hooted at him twice and puffed her feathers.

“She came to visit me at breakfast,” Harry explained unnecessarily as he reached to stroke Hedwig’s white plumage. “I figured I ought to return the favour.”

“She was good company,” Hermione complimented, smoothing her hand over the owl’s wing. “She likes bacon.”

“Well, she usually eats live mice. Bacon has to be an improvement.”

Hermione laughed as Hedwig preened from all the attention, swiveling her head and hooting softly. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” Hermione said after a few moments. “What did Professor McGonagall want?”

Harry stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers and leaned against the windowsill. “She wanted me to captain the Quidditch team.”

Hermione looked thrilled. “Harry, that’s wonderful!” she beamed. “I rather thought she would pick you — you’re certainly the best choice — but I’m so glad to hear it! Oh! Are you wearing your badge?”

Without waiting for an answer, she took hold of the front of his robe and smoothed it against his chest, revealing the small, gold badge. She straightened it between her thumb and forefinger before stepping back and smiling. “You’ll have lots of privileges now, just like prefects! You’re allowed out past curfew and you can use the prefects’ bathroom. It’s amazing! Just wait until you see it, Harry…”

“I have seen it.”

Hermione looked startled by this. “But… how?”

“I spy on girls as they bathe.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open before she noticed that Harry’s lips were twitching to keep from smiling. “Harry, don’t be crude,” she chided, but she smiled despite herself.

“It was in fourth year,” Harry admitted. “Cedric told me the password, actually. It’s where I took the egg to hold it underwater.”

“You never told me that,” Hermione said, surprised. “Cedric told you how to open the egg?”

Harry nodded and turned to look out the window. It was strange to speak of Cedric Diggory after everything that had happened. “Before the first task, I told him about the dragons,” he explained. “He was the only one who didn’t know about them – it wasn’t fair.”

“And in return, he helped you with the egg?” Hermione surmised.

“Yeah. It turned out that Moody was playing us both for bricks, of course. He was behind me finding out about the dragons, and he was the one who revealed the secret to opening the egg to Cedric, banking on the fact that he would tell me to settle his debt.”

Hermione chewed her lip thoughtfully. “It’s scary to think that Crouch could pretend to be someone else so well that no one could tell the difference – not even Professor Dumbledore.”

“I dunno,” Harry mused. “Ron and I managed to put it past Malfoy that we were Crabbe and Goyle for an hour, and we were less than useless as actors. Polyjuice Potion is a powerful thing. I reckon it’s likely to fool more than most.”

“Fooling someone for an hour or even a day is one thing, but fooling someone for an entire school year is quite another,” Hermione pointed out.

“Yeah, but Moody isn’t exactly sociable, is he? How would you suss out when someone is not acting themselves when you don’t know them well enough to tell the difference? I can’t imagine Mad-Eye has many friends.”

Hermione sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know. I suspect it’s a huge problem in the Ministry – people pretending to be who they aren’t. There are a lot of awful things you could do with that sort of anonymity.”

“But brewing Polyjuice isn’t exactly as easy as opening a bag of crisps,” Harry countered. “It’s probably beyond most people.”

“We managed to brew some in second year,” Hermione reminded mildly.

Harry crossed his arms. “There was no ‘we’ about it. You brewed it, Hermione. Ron and I would probably still bollox it all up if we tried it, and we’ve had three extra years of potions.”

Hermione shook her head at the veiled compliment but smiled anyway. “We should probably go see what Ron found out about the timetables. I told him I’d meet him in the common room if I managed to catch up to you.”

Harry smoothed his hand over Hedwig’s feathers one last time before moving to head down the stairs. Hermione caught his sleeve suddenly and he looked back to see her regarding him seriously. “Harry… about what you said downstairs,” she began haltingly. “You do know you could talk to me about anything, don’t you? I know you have secrets. And you don’t have to share them, but I hope you know… I would never betray your trust.”

Harry felt something squirm inside of him and, for a moment, the temptation to share the Prophecy with her was nearly overwhelming. If anyone could help him understand it better — if anyone could make him stop thinking about it with a morbid ceaselessness — it would be Hermione.

But he could not be that selfish. Not to Hermione.

“I do trust you. Don’t think otherwise,” he said after a few silent moments. She seemed to wait to see if he would say anything more, but when he didn’t, she nodded slowly and let go of his sleeve. She did not press him about his answer, and, together, they began the long hike back to the castle.

~: --------------------------- :~

“No luck,” Ron moaned from his spot slouched in the overstuffed chair near the Gryffindor fireplace. “And worse, she made me sit through a lecture on how prefects are supposed to set a better example for the other students – not ask for special privileges. Complete tosh, it was.”

Hermione sighed and sat down on the couch. “I suppose I didn’t really believe that Professor McGonagall would let us change our timetables after that speech she gave in the Great Hall.”

Ron glared at her. “Then why did you make me go talk to her if you didn’t think she’d do it?”

“There was no reason not to try!” Hermione defended. “If she had said yes, the result would have been well-worth the effort, wouldn’t it?”

“Speak for yourself,” he muttered.

“Regardless,” Harry interrupted, grabbing a high-backed wooden chair from the nearby table and setting it in front of the fire. He faced it backwards and straddled it, crossing his arms over the top of the chair back. “I’m glad you asked, mate. Even if it didn’t work out.”

Ron relaxed and nodded. “I hope Hagrid won’t be upset when he finds out…”

“Harry will be there, at least,” Hermione offered.

“Better you than me,” Ron joked, smirking at Harry. “Hagrid’s great, but I imagine he’ll have a family of ‘misunderstood’ Chimaeras for you to try to cuddle this year. It’ll be a grand time when they try to tear you limb from limb while Hagrid has you bottle-feeding them.”

“At least I don’t have to take History of Magic,” Harry shot back. “Try not to drool all over yourself without me around to wake you up during lectures.”

Ron frowned. “Bugger, you’re not taking History of Magic? What about Herbology or Divination?”

“I’m shut of Herbology, too, but I’m still taking Divination.”

Ron looked torn between being relieved and disappointed. “Hermione, you’re taking Herbology, aren’t you?”

She shook her head and placed her bookbag in her lap. “No. You’ll just have to take your own notes this year.”

“Bloody hell!” he groaned. “What about History of Magic? You’re the only person who actually likes that course – you’re still taking it, right?”

“I’m still taking History of Magic, but you’ll not be copying my essays this year, Ron. You’ll never learn anything if you don’t complete the work yourself,” Hermione informed smoothly.

Ron’s mouth dropped open at this proclamation. Hermione gave him a defiant look and began to pull out several rolls of parchment. Ron seemed to realise that arguing with her when she was in this type of mood would be a futile effort. He wisely kept any comments to himself for the time being.

“Honestly, why do the two of you persist in taking Divination?” Hermione huffed after fishing out a new quill and inkpot. “Besides being nonsense, it’s a complete waste of time and has no educational value.”

“Because it’s easy,” Ron said slowly, as if he were speaking to a small child.

Hermione glared at him and turned questioningly to Harry. He rolled his shoulder but said nothing, refusing to meet her eyes. Her expression was instantly wary.

“What’s all this, then?” Harry said before she could think too long on his non-response. He gestured to her quill and parchment. “You’ve already finished all your essays…”

Hermione frowned at his change of subject, but knew better than to question him right then. “Actually, I thought we might go over the Sorting Hat’s song. If we put our heads together, maybe we can make sense of it?”

“The only sense you’ll make out of it is that hats shouldn’t be allowed to speak,” Ron muttered.

“Ron, this is important!” Hermione exclaimed. “The hat has no reason to play tricks or scare us idly. It warned us last year and no one listened. We ought to have more care this time around. What if it could somehow help Harry?”

Ron looked somewhat chastened at this. “What did it say, again?”

Hermione unrolled her copy of the hat’s song and repeated it slowly. When she was finished, the three friends sat in silence, each contemplating the words. Harry had a rather good idea what the whole thing meant, but he wasn’t about to say so.

“It doesn’t really make much sense, does it?” Ron said, tapping his fingers against his lips. “Time lamps and all that, I mean. It’s a bit wonky, if you ask me. Hey, you’re not still having a go with that Timeturner, are you, Hermione?”

“No,” she said stiffly. “And the Timeturner wasn’t a lamp, anyway. It’s an hourglass. Besides, don’t you remember? All the Timeturners were destroyed during our… well, when we went to Ministry.”

“Er – right,” Ron mumbled. He pointed at a line on Hermione’s parchment. “And this stuff about wayward sons and destiny and all that? Naff, that is. Maybe the hat is having a go at us? Wants us to think there’s some big meaning to this, but then goes off and sits in his shelf all year giggling about making us think he’s so smart?”

Hermione’s tight expression clearly illustrated what she thought of that theory. “Ron – can’t you think of anyone whom the hat might be talking about?” she asked, clearly leading him towards an answer. “Someone with a destiny… a wayward son?”

“You mean besides Harry?” Ron laughed, but after a few minutes of stony silence, he realised no one was laughing with him. “Er, you don’t think… it’s actually about Harry, do you?” he asked hesitantly.

Hermione did not answer, but it was clear from her expression that she believed it was.

“Can we not do this?” Harry asked abruptly. “I get that you’re trying to help me, and I appreciate it – I really do. But all it’s saying is that horrible things are going to happen and we should be prepared for that. Well… everyone knows Voldemort’s back now. If you’re not expecting horrible things to happen, you’re not exactly frantic with brains, are you?”

Ron cringed at the mention of Voldemort, but, to his credit, he did not comment on Harry’s usage of the name.

“If something is going to happen,” Hermione began gently, looking Harry right in the eye, “wouldn’t you rather know ahead of time, so you can be sure you’re ready?”

Harry leaned his chin against his folded arms on the chair back and closed his eyes. “Be ready how?” he asked softly. “Does knowing something awful is going to happen make it easier to take when it does? Or does it just make all the days leading up to it harder to get through?”

Hermione clearly did not know what to say to this and turned to stare into the fire. Ron picked absently at a loose thread on his robes.

“Let’s just say – we’ll all look out for each other this year,” Harry said at last.

“We always do, mate,” Ron said after a moment, nodding agreeably.

“Yes,” Hermione said, offering a small smile. “And we always will.”

The three leaned towards each other in their seats, seemingly reaffirming their bond. They each nodded as if a pact had been struck and smiled the familiar, private smiles of very close friends.

“That’s settled, then,” Ron announced. He sank back into his seat and rubbed his hands over the arms of the chair. “Now… which one of you is going to let me copy their summer Charms essay?”

Hermione made an exasperated noise before standing up, scooping her things into her bag, and marching up the stairs to the girl’s dormitory without another word.

“What’d I say?” Ron asked, watching her departing form incredulously. Harry did his best to hide his grin.

16. Young Wicked

Chapter 16: Young Wicked

The first lessons of the year were always a predictable blend of professors lecturing on the coming term and reviewing the previous one. The familiar routine settled Harry’s nerves and he found himself smiling as he took down half-hearted notes and listened to Ron’s grumbling with mild interest.

“How can Flitwick talk so long without taking a breath?” Ron mumbled as the Charms professor droned on in his high voice about their upcoming lessons. “It’s inhuman, it is.”

Hermione shushed them for the third time and Ron lowered his voice in a useless attempt to keep her from hearing. “What do you think Defense will be like this year? We’ll probably learn lots of great stuff since You-Know-Who is back.”

Harry shrugged and wiped a stray drop of ink from his parchment with his thumb. “The professor must have been a last-minute hire,” he whispered back. “Dumbledore was having a rough go of it finding someone all summer.”

Ron sighed. “Figures. Well, who would want the job, anyway? Everyone knows it’s cursed.”

“It isn’t cursed,” Hermione countered sharply. “That’s just a myth.”

Harry didn’t bother to correct her and turned his attention back to the lecture. Professor Flitwick seemed to be winding down and the students had begun to fidget with their things in anticipation of the end of the lesson. When they were finally dismissed, everyone gathered their things and began the long hike up to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

As they walked, Harry glanced around at his classmates. Some had formed into small groups and were whispering eagerly, while others had apprehensive looks on their faces. Like every year before it, the appointment of a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was a topic of great interest, but after last year’s debacle with Professor Umbridge, most students were wary of any new faces on the teaching staff. And rightfully so, Harry thought. When they finally arrived, Hermione and Ron both gave him a significant look before filing into the classroom.

The long room looked much the same as it did in previous years, with its tall wooden shutters drawn partially closed and the old blackboard wet from a recent cleaning. On the professor’s desk were several dingy cauldrons and an old, antique clock. Harry noticed that the numbers on this particular clock went up to thirteen and he frowned at it sceptically.

Hermione, true to her nature, set down her things on a table in the very front row and Ron sighed loudly at her choice before dropping into the seat to one side of her. Harry took the chair to her left and began to dig out his textbook.

“Stop muttering, Ron,” Hermione chided sharply as she inked her new quill.

Ron glared at her but no other sounds issued from him.

Once all the students had settled, an uneasy silence fell over the classroom. Everyone had their textbooks out and opened, and many were fidgeting with their wands, as if unsure whether they would need them or not. Even the Slytherins were uncharacteristically quiet. Harry spared a glance back at Draco Malfoy who was predictably flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, both of whom looked even bigger and dumber than they had last year. At the table next to them, a clearly uncomfortable Hufflepuff — the last student to shuffle into the room — had taken the only open seat, which happened to be next to Millicent Bullstrode and Theodore Nott. Harry felt deeply sorry for the girl and she flushed brilliantly when he caught her eye.

The door to the Professor’s office burst open unexpectedly and Harry turned back around in his seat and straightened his shoulders. The sturdy-looking woman from the previous night’s feast shuffled through the door, struggling to carry another cauldron before dropping it heavily onto her desk. The class stared at her warily as she turned to survey them.

“I am Allesia Ferrote. You may call me Professor Ferrote,” she announced. Her voice was thin and dry. “I will be your teacher this year for Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Harry observed her critically as she turned to the blackboard and began to write out the letters of her name with painstaking precision. She was a short woman with thick shoulders and dark, medium length hair. She was wearing a tall, pointed hat of a deep purple colour, which matched her old-fashioned robes. Their hem was nearly a foot too short, and beneath it Harry could see her stocking-clad ankles and her black, squarish shoes. Each was topped with a shiny, silver buckle.

When she finished writing her name, she turned back towards the class and pulled her wand from beneath her robes.

“Now, what are you names?” Professor Ferrote asked crisply as she tapped her wand against her open palm. “When I point my wand at you, you will speak it out loud so that I can put a face to your name. First and last, please. And no funny business – if you think it would be amusing to say someone else’s name, I’d advise against it.”

The classroom was deathly silent as she turned her wand to Terry Boot, who sat up in his seat at the table beside Harry’s and stuttered his name loudly. Ernie Banks was next and then Su Li. When Allesia’s wand pointed at Harry, he hesitated for only a moment before saying clearly, “Harry Potter.”

The Professor’s wand ticked upward for just a moment and he saw her eyes flick up to his scar briefly before she moved on. The rest of the class was introduced quickly and it was obvious that Ferrote’s threat had been taken seriously. Not a single student misidentified themselves.

“Good, good,” she said absently after the final student announced herself. The Professor nodded stiffly and replaced her wand in her robes. “Your names and faces have been burned into my memory. I shall not forget them. Now… just a moment.”

She shuffled towards her desk and grabbed the metal handle of the cauldron she had placed their earlier. Lifting it from the desk, she struggled with the weight before tipping it forward with her free hand. A spill of fine, white granules began to pour out onto the floor and the class watched in bewilderment as she walked carefully around her desk and chair, until both were surrounded by a solid line of the substance.

Harry and Hermione shared a doubtful look and beside them, Ron muttered, “Mental…”.

The Professor straightened at once and marched directly in front of him. “Weasley!” she barked. “What did you just say?”

Ron slunk down in his seat and flushed a deep red. “N-nothing!”

“I’m old, not deaf, Mr. Weasley,” she replied tartly. “Keep your glib comments to yourself. This is Defense Against the Dark Arts, not Cosmetic Charm Application – you’ll take it seriously or you’ll get out of my classroom.”

Ron sunk even further into his seat. “Yes, ma’am.”

The Professor clicked her tongue and promptly took five points from Gryffindor. There were a few audible groans from several of their housemates, but nothing loud enough to draw attention. Harry frowned and leaned back in his chair. The movement seemed to catch Ferrote’s eye and she walked to stand stiffly in front of him. Her eyes trailed up his face to rest on his scar again and she stared at it gloomily.

Harry quickly grew uncomfortable under this scrutiny. Before he had a chance to question her, Ferrote drew a handful of whatever was in her cauldron and promptly threw it over his shoulder.

Harry blinked in surprise and the Ravenclaw in the chair behind him sputtered as her book and parchment were hit with the projectile.

At this distance, the sharp smell was unmistakable. “Is that… salt?” Harry asked, incredulous.

Hermione’s hand shot into the air and he could feel her shifting beside him as she tried to make herself taller in her seat.

Professor Ferrote ignored them both and shuffled back towards her desk. Harry frowned and glanced behind him, noticing the slack-jawed look on most of the students. Some of the braver Slytherins snickered at him.

“All right, then,” the professor began. “I’ve prepared a syllabus.”

She flicked her wand at a stack of parchments on the edge of her desk and then muttered an incantation. The stack floated into the air and she directed it towards Terry Boot before dropping it on his table. “Pass them around, and do be prompt,” she instructed. “Now… how does one defend themselves against the Dark Arts? This is a question that has preoccupied witches and wizards for centuries upon centuries. For as long as there has been magic, there have been those who would use it wrongly. So what can be done about it? We will be attempting to dissect this throughout the course of this term.

“You should know that I’m a scholar, not an Auror. So if you're hoping for dueling tips, prepare for disappointment. I will, however, help you understand the nature and pathology of dark magic and those who use it. You already have knowledge about the Dark Arts – now it's time you developed wisdom. I'm here to help with that.”

The remainder of the class was a painfully dull recitation of the goals for the year’s class as were dictated by the syllabus. Harry was both relieved and disappointed by its contents. There did not seem to be any time put aside for spellwork, but there was also nothing that suggested that Ferrote would spend the year pretending the Dark Arts did not exist, as Umbridge had.

When class had ended and Harry, Ron, and Hermione had gathered their things and began the long trek down to the Great Hall for lunch, Hermione finally allowed her frustration to show.

“Oh!” she bristled. “I had my hand up nearly the whole class period and she refused to call on me! And what did she mean, throwing salt at Harry like that?”

“Some wizards think salt can make protection spells more powerful. One of my great uncles used to keep some in little piles around his house,” Ron supplied.

“But it’s nonsense! It was proven decades ago that salt has no effect on the potency of spells. It’s old-fashioned thinking,” Hermione informed.

“My great uncle has never been attacked by dark wizards, though! Maybe that’s the salt working?”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Ron!” Hermione cried. “Most people have never been attacked by dark wizards. It’s just coincidence!”

Harry sat down on the bench and began to serve himself some cold sandwiches. He tuned out Hermione and Ron’s bickering and slid a finger into the knot of his school tie, loosening it around his neck. Parvati and Lavender — who were sitting across the table and gossiping to themselves — smirked at him.

Harry took a gulp of his pumpkin juice and ignored them, too. Turning in his seat, he looked over his shoulder and watched as more and more students began to file into the Great Hall. He noticed the Ravenclaw who sat behind him in DADA and whose things had been pelted with salt — Harry did not know her name — shoot him a commiserating look before taking a seat at her house table. He followed her progress absently and nearly locked eyes with Cho Chang. Harry froze for a moment before stiffly turning back to his own table.

Hermione was looking at him oddly.

“What?” he asked her, rolling one of his shoulders and taking a bite out of a sandwich. Hermione pursed her lips, but said nothing.

A few seats down the table, two third year Gryffindor girls began to shriek loudly.

“Trevor!” Neville shouted, jumping up from his seat and scrambling down the table to snatch the toad from where it had been sitting quite happily in a large bowl of squash soup.

“Why would anyone want a toad for a pet?” Ron muttered, watching the scene. “They don’t do anything.”

“Some people don’t require their pets to do things for them, they just enjoy their company,” Hermione said frostily. “And I don’t recall Scabbers delivering your post, either.”

Ron flushed deeply and stuck an overly-large spoonful of pickled onions into his mouth.

“There you are, Harry! I’ve been looking all over for you,” a familiar voice said from behind him. “McGonagall told me this morning – congratulations! She asked me to help you with the tryouts.”

Harry moved one of his legs until he was straddling the bench and looked up at his teammate, Katie Bell. She was smiling cheerily and had two Gryffindor ribbons threaded into her ponytail.

Harry blinked at her for a moment before remembering that he had been named Quidditch Captain yesterday. He had nearly forgotten in the excitement of the year’s first lessons.

“I’d appreciate that,” he replied. “I don’t want to cock up the ‘proud tradition of Gryffindor Quidditch’.”

Katie smirked at the familiar maxim of Oliver Wood.

“What about Quidditch?” Ron cut in, looking between them curiously.

“I was just telling Harry that I’d help him out with the tryouts next week,” Katie informed. “I’ve been on the team longest, so I expect seniority, Potter!”

She smiled to show she was joking and then moved to catch up with a group of seventh years that she was obviously friends with.

“Is she talking about Quidditch tryouts?” Ron asked slowly.

“Oo, are you captain, then?” asked Parvati slyly, giving Harry a teasing look.

Harry noticed the strange expression that settled on Ron’s face and remembered that he had not yet told his friend. “McGonagall just told me yesterday,” he explained. “I forgot about it.”

Ron’s face scrunched up. “You forgot you were named Quidditch Captain?” he asked incredulously. “But – you weren’t even on the team last year…”

“Oh, that was hardly his fault, Ron! And he’s been on the team since our first year,” Hermione defended.

“Congratulations, Harry,” a voice a few seats to his left piped up. Harry turned to see Ginny smiling at him a little awkwardly. He had not noticed she was there. “You’ll make a great captain.”

“Thanks, Ginny.”

“Are you really captain, Harry?” Colin asked excitedly from across the table. “We’ll win the cup for sure, then! Oh, just wait until Dennis hears this!”

He fished out his camera from his bag and snapped a picture that Harry was certain would show him blinking stupidly and looking discomfited.

“Quidditch captain…” Ron sighed morosely.

“Listen, Ron. I’ll probably need your help. McGonagall gave me all these plays, but I need to pick which ones to use. I figure you and I can take a look at them later.”

“Yeah,” Ron said quietly. “Yeah, all right.”

Harry went back to his lunch, feeling altogether uncomfortable now. Hermione offered him a reassuring smile before taking her Ancient Runes book from her bag and setting it in front of her to read as she ate.

When lunch ended, the Gryffindor students broke off into small groups to attend their afternoon lessons. Hermione had added three inches of post-script to her four-foot essay on Ancient Runes while she was eating and she fretted over her penmanship before bustling off to Professor Vector’s class. Harry and Ron both had some time free before their next lessons — Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology, respectively — but Ron disappeared abruptly and Harry was left to wander around on his own for an hour before deciding to go see Hagrid early.

The half-giant waved at him merrily as Harry picked his way down the steep path from the castle to Hagrid’s cabin. The hem of Harry’s black cloak was dotted with wet grass by the time he had made it down and he took a moment to breathe in the smell deeply. It reminded him wonderfully of Quidditch and of Hogwarts itself, with its grassy fields and old growth forests.

“Got here jus’ in time, yeh did!” Hagrid greeted happily, gripping Harry’s shoulder with a hand the size of a dust bin lid. “I’m gatherin’ up these pumpkins. Could use a hand stackin’ ‘em. We’ll need ‘em fer the lesson today.”

Harry draped his cloak over the old, stone fence surrounding Hagrid’s garden and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and jumper. Together, Harry and Hagrid unearthed and cut free five truly massive pumpkins and placed them in a pile close to the edge of the forest. Harry found this task quite difficult – the pumpkins were exceptionally heavy and were so large that they were unwieldy to carry. Hagrid, who was twice the size of a full-grown man, picked them up and moved them about with absolute ease and grinned cheerily beneath his beard as he did so.

“Just yeh wait until yeh see what I’ve found fer today’s class, Harry,” Hagrid enthused as he rearranged the pumpkin pile to his liking. “Awful rare, it is! Awful rare.”

When they were finished, Harry grabbed his cloak and followed Hagrid inside his cabin, declining an offer of rock cakes but accepting a bitterly spiced cup of tea. He drank it slowly, hiding his grimace with the back of his hand. The acidic smell made it hard to keep from gagging.

“So how’s yer first day goin’, Harry? What do yeh think of the new professor?” Hagrid asked.

“She seems all right,” Harry replied vaguely. He wasn’t sure what to think of Professor Ferrote. The salt incident had irritated him, but she still seemed to be a vast improvement over Umbridge.

“I met ‘er last week. Smart lady, tha’ one,” Hagrid praised. He finished his own tea in a single gulp and Harry had to hide his smile at the tiny teacup in Hagrid’s massive hand.

“So what’s this creature you’ve got?” Harry asked.

“Can’t tell yeh, Harry. It’s a surprise. You’ll have ter wait fer the rest of the class ter get here before yeh find out.”

Harry knew Hagrid would give it away if he stayed after him about it — he was terrible at keeping secrets — but he figured there was no harm in waiting. He finished the last of his tea with a brave swallow and watched as Hagrid fed a great hunk of uncooked steak to his dog, Fang.

An old clock on the mantle began to make a strange clucking noise and Harry peered at it curiously. The face of the clock opened like the doors of a cabinet and a strange, wooden beast emerged from inside. Its head swiveled back and forth quite realistically and it raked its front claws against its wooden perch. A gouge of flame erupted from its mouth, startling Harry, before the wooden creature disappeared back within the clock.

“That’s the time!” Hagrid boomed cheerfully. “Out yeh go, Harry. I need ter get a few things ready. See yeh out there!”

Harry set his teacup in the sink and made his way back outside to wait. Curiously, there was no one else nearby when he arrived at the pumpkin pile. He glanced towards the old wooden bridge that led from the castle to the top of the hillside, but could not see any students emerging from it. An anxious feeling began to build in his chest.

“Where is everybody?” Hagrid asked from behind him a few minutes later, hauling his crossbow over his shoulder. He scratched his beard and then held his hand above his brow to shield the sun from his eyes. He peered up at the bridge, but there was clearly no one else around. “It’s no good ter be late ter yer first day of lessons. Makes the wrong impression.”

Harry stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and tried to ignore his flipping stomach. “Maybe they forgot where to meet?”

Hagrid peered at him sceptically. “Why would they go and do tha’? We’ve always met at the same place. And where’s Ron an’ Hermione? Why didn’t they come down with yeh?”

Harry had been dreading this moment. He had hoped that Hagrid would have already known that neither Ron nor Hermione had signed up for the Advanced Course. “Didn’t you get an enrolment list?” he hedged.

“I’m sure I got one somewhere, but I don’t never bother with it. I know all yer names already,” Hagrid said.

Harry sighed and pulled his hands from his pockets. “Ron and Hermione… well, Hermione just had so many lessons this year. And Ron, too — they both are going to be right busy and they were sad to do it, but—”

Comprehension seemed to dawn in Hagrid’s beetle-like eyes. “They’re not takin’ the course this year?” he croaked, his voice breaking. “But… blimey, Harry! Are yeh the only one takin’ it?”

Hagrid looked so unbearably disappointed that Harry felt like he should ignore the obvious. “I doubt it. I mean, that seems unlikely…”

But Hagrid clearly did not believe him and sighed miserably. He poked one of the huge pumpkins with the toe of his boot. “Yeh ought ter just run back ter the castle yerself, Harry. No use teachin’ a class of one, is there?”

“Of course, there is,” Harry protested. “I got an ‘O’ for my Magical Creatures O.W.L. and I’m looking to get an ‘O’ for my N.E.W.T., as well. So I’ll be needing the best professor – that’s you.”

Something glittered in Hagrid’s eyes and he thumped Harry on the back so hard that he stumbled forward three feet before regaining his balance. “Yeh’ll get tha’ ‘O’ if I’ve got anythin’ ter say abou’ it, Harry,” Hagrid sniffed. He turned his shining face to collect himself and pretended to look over the pile of pumpkins while he dabbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his patch-work coat.

“What are the pumpkins for?” Harry asked after a few moments of silence. “Do we need to take them with us?”

Hagrid nodded and hefted a pumpkin that was the size of a tractor tire with his free hand. “Got a few too many fer just the two of us, but tha’s all righ’. Jus’ grab one fer yerself and we’ll go.”

Harry chose one of a more modest size, but he still struggled to get a fair grip on it. Harry could not fathom how a common pumpkin could grow to such an enormous size, but he was certain magic had helped it along somehow.

“Got one yeh like?” Hagrid asked and tapped his crossbow against his own pumpkin, making a hollow sound. “She’s a bit a-ways into the forest, but she’s worth the hike. Amazing little blighter, she is.”

“She?” Harry asked sceptically, following the half-giant as he began to trek loudly into the undergrowth. “What is this thing, exactly?”

“Told yeh, Harry – it’s a surprise.”

Harry refrained from sighing and adjusted his grip on the heavy pumpkin. The light was beginning to grow dimmer as they ventured deeper into the forest. Above them, the canopy was becoming thicker and denser, until only stray patches of sunlight could pass through to the forest floor. As they went further, a thin, damp fog began to pool around the ground and Harry watched it drift aside in the wake of Hagrid’s footsteps.

There were strange sounds around them now and Harry observed the empty areas between the colossal trees warily. He knew better than most what dangers lurked in this forest.

They had been hiking for nearly fifteen minutes and Harry’s arms were beginning to shake from the weight of the pumpkin. He was nearly ready to ask for a break when Hagrid stopped abruptly in front of him. They had arrived at a small clearing. The fog here was thicker than ever and it swirled around their ankles.

“Made it!” Hagrid announced. “Have a look, Harry. She’s a beauty, isn’ she?”

Harry set his pumpkin down and shook out his hands before stepping beside the half-giant and peering into the clearing carefully. At first, he saw nothing – he had been expecting something huge with rows upon rows of teeth, but there was nothing of that sort to be found. But when he looked closer, he began to distinguish… something… standing very still in the centre of the clearing. At first, he had dismissed it as an odd tree, but on second glance, Harry could see that this was no plant – it was a creature.

It was a spindly thing about as tall as the centre of Harry’s chest. It was hunched over and its thin, branch-like limbs seemed far too long for its body. Each of its fingers had a sizeable curved nail and it clicked them together periodically. Its mouth was more of a beak, like a turtle’s, and it had round, black eyes but no eyelids. Harry found that the effect of it looking at him without blinking was quite eerie.

“What… is that?” he whispered.

“Young Wicked speaks to me!” the thing hissed suddenly, and its voice was high and sharp, like a whistle.

Harry tensed in shock when the creature spoke and his hand went to the pocket where he kept his wand automatically.

“You can speak?” Harry asked.

“Young Wicked speaks to me!” it said again.

Harry turned to see Hagrid nearly beaming in pride. “Isn’ she gorgeous, Harry? Not many of her kind left, anymore. They were hunted down a long time ago.”

“Hunted down?”

Hagrid nodded and set his crossbow against a nearby tree root. “Wizards used ter hunt down lots o’ creature they thought were dangerous. Anything tha’ scared ‘em.”

“Why did they think they were dangerous?” Harry asked.

“Young Wicked…” the creature murmured again and Harry frowned at it.

Hagrid ignored it. “A bunch of codswallop, it is. Well, sure, any creature can be dangerous – but only if yer don’t treat it the way yer s’posed ter.”

“What exactly is it? Does it understand us?”

“This here is an Opith. Prob’ly the only one in the whole of Great Britain. And sure, she can understand yeh well enough. Not much fer conversation, though. They don’ make much sense when they talk.”

Harry had never heard of Opiths and he watched it curiously. He could not recall this particular creature being mentioned in any of his magical creature compendiums. It must have been truly rare.

“Want ter feed it?” Hagrid asked excitedly.

“Feed it what, exactly?”

“The pumpkins, of course! Opiths love ‘em. Bit of a treat, they are... nothin’ calms an Opith like pumpkin flesh, they say.”

Harry looked at his pumpkin uncertainly. “All right…”

Hagrid looked positively gleeful. “Tha’s the spirit, Harry! Now, alls you got ter do is take yer pumpkin up ter her. But yeh have ter do it slowly. If yeh move too fast, yeh’ll spook her and then yer in trouble. And be careful of the fog.”

“Why?”

“This is Nightmare Fog, Harry. The Opith makes it. See them little holes above its beak? It comes outta there. Yeh gotta be real careful of this fog, Harry. If it gets in yer mouth or up yer nose, yeh start ter see things.”

Harry glanced down at the fog swirling lazily around his boots and the hem of his cloak. “What sort of things?”

Hagrid scratched his beard and shrugged. “It’s different fer everyone. Weird things, I hear. I’ve never seen it – it doesn’t work on giants fer some reason, and I got enough giant blood that I’m safe from it,” he explained. “It’s harmless, though. Doesn’t actually hurt yeh – just spook yeh a bit. The trick ter handlin’ Opiths is that yeh always need more than one person around. If yeh start to see somethin’, another person can snap yeh out of it right quick. If yer by yerself, yeh might not even recognize tha’ what yer seein’ isn’t true.”

Harry turned to see that the Opith was still staring at him silently. The only sound that could be heard was the soft clicking of its nails.

“Go on, then, Harry,” Hagrid encouraged. “Just let ‘er know yer comin’, first.”

Harry blew out a short breath and hefted his pumpkin back into his arms. He looked at the Opith warily. “Er,” he began, unsure exactly what he was supposed to say. “I’ve got this pumpkin for you. Want me to bring it over?”

“Young Wicked… brings me a tasty…” it murmured.

“Why is it calling me that?” Harry asked in agitation.

“Dunno. She mus’ like yeh ter give yeh a name, I s’pose. Go on – bring her yer pumpkin.”

Harry did not agree with Hagrid’s conclusion, but he shifted the pumpkin a little higher in his arms and slowly began to walk towards the creature. He was mindful of the fog drifting around him, but it never rose high enough to come near his mouth or nose. When he was within arm’s length of the creature, he paused and glanced back towards Hagrid. “Now what?” he asked quietly.

Before Hagrid could respond, Harry felt the ground beneath him give way and he sank nearly to his knees. Startled, he tried to jerk one of his legs out, but the earth around him was spongy and unstable and he couldn’t get any leverage. He dropped the pumpkin and braced his hands to his sides in an effort to lift himself clear. He pushed and pushed with all his strength, but he remained stuck. Worse, he could feel the ground soften further and he began to sink deeper into the depression his body weight had created. The wet soil sucked at him and he redoubled his efforts at pulling himself out.

A strange noise began to build in the distance and Harry jerked his head to see what was happening. The noise rose and rose until it was a thundering sound and Harry’s eyes widened when he saw that a wall of water was rushing through the undergrowth, crashing against the massive root systems and approaching him at an astonishing speed. Harry had only a moment to suck in a deep breath before the rushing water hit him, smashing his body with horrifying force. He was ripped from his hole and thrown end over end, his legs tumbling above him in the black water. He hit something solid, forcing his mouth open in shock, and the frigid muck poured into his lungs. He clawed at the water around him with powerful strokes of his arms, desperately trying to reach the surface while his lungs burned for mercy. But it was too dark to see – he did not know which way was up.

Terrified, he slashed at the water, bubbles erupting from his mouth in a muffled scream. He could feel the edges of his mind begin to soften and dim until he began to grow tired and confused. His struggles grew weaker and he felt himself drifting deeper and deeper into the darkness…

“Harry!” a panicked voice shouted and Harry sucked in a loud breath, feeling cool, dry air enter his lungs. His eyes shot open and he swung his arms wildly, ripping free of the grip of the water, but then… there was no water.

Harry stumbled backwards, staring bewilderedly at Hagrid, who was looking at him with an equally startled expression on his face. Harry’s hands gripped wildly at the front of his jumper and the folds of his cloak, feeling the dry fabric in astonishment.

He was in the clearing. He was safe. The water was gone.

Behind him, a high, thin voice cackled, “Young Wicked…”

17. Obfirmo Occidere

Chapter 17: Obfirmo Occidere

“Bloody hell!” Harry gasped.

“Are yeh all righ’, Harry?” Hagrid questioned sharply, looking at him with deep concern. “She got yeh righ’ in the face, she did. Jus’ when yeh looked away.”

Harry still felt like he could not get enough air and he sucked in a shaky breath. He turned to glance behind him where the Opith was busily shredding the pumpkin with its beak and noisily swallowing the goopy insides.

“That was the fog?” he choked. He could hardly believe it. It had felt so real.

“It’s powerful, Harry,” Hagrid said gravely. “That’s why I have ter keep it so far out in the forest – don’ want nobody wanderin’ into that soup on accident. But yer all righ’, aren’ yeh? Yeh were jerking abou’ like a grindylow in a tin can fer a while there.”

Harry’s racing heart had already begun to calm and he nodded stiffly. “I’m fine. I’ve never felt anything like that, though.”

Hagrid let out a relieved breath but his eyes were suspiciously misty. “It’s my fault. I shoulda told yeh ter keep yer eye on it.”

“I should have known that on my own,” Harry countered, smiling grimly. “Besides, you and I both know that I learn best by doing things myself. Well, now I know what that stuff can do – I’ll be more cautious from now on.”

They both turned to watch the Opith finish its meal. When it was done, there was nothing left of the pumpkin except some yellowish seeds and a few strands of orange pulp that dripped from its beak as it muttered happily to itself.

“That’s prob’ly enough fer today’s lesson,” Hagrid said sheepishly as they watched the gruesome display.

“Probably, yeah,” Harry agreed immediately. He would never admit it, but he still felt rather unsettled. He would be happy to be back in the castle.

~: --------------------------- :~

“An Opith? Are you sure that’s what he called it? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Hard to forget it after that, Hermione,” Harry drawled.

“I told you you were mad to take that course,” Ron quipped. “And today was only the first day!”

“What was it like? Did you realise it was fake while it was happening?” Hermione questioned.

Harry shook his head. “It felt completely real. When the water hit me, it hurt. It felt like I’d taken a bludger, only about the size of lorry. And when it got in my lungs… well, it was as awful as you’d imagine it would be.”

Ron shivered and wrapped his dressing gown tighter around his shoulders. “What’s a lorry?”

“Was it psychosomatic?” Hermione asked, ignoring Ron’s question and peering at Harry in concern.

“Psycho-so-what?” Ron blurted.

“It was all in my head, Hermione,” Harry informed. “I’m not bruised or anything. I wasn’t even wet.”

“Still… that must have been absolutely terrifying,” Hermione fretted. She chewed on her lip as she stared into the Gryffindor fireplace. “Do you – do you have a particular fear of drowning?”

“What kind of a question is that?” Ron asked sharply. “Everyone’s afraid of drowning. It’s a crap way to go.”

Hermione glared at him. “I’m asking because if Harry had a fear of drowning, then it’s likely that the Opith’s fog reacts similarly to a boggart, in that it responds to a person’s individual fears. If he didn’t, then whatever ‘nightmare’ a person experiences must be random.”

Harry peered at her curiously. “I’ve never thought about drowning one way or another. I wouldn’t want to do it, but I wouldn’t say I’m afraid of it happening.”

Hermione nodded absently and appeared to be deep in thought.

Harry leaned back against the couch and glanced around the Gryffindor common room. Most of his housemates had gone to bed earlier, but there were a few older students talking quietly in groups or frantically working on their summer assignments. Ginny and Dean were sitting at a table together whispering heatedly. She ducked her head and flushed when she noticed Harry looking at her. He turned back to the fire in an effort to give them some privacy.

“By the way, both you lot have to speak to Hagrid sometime,” Harry announced, undoing the knot of his school tie and letting it drape carelessly around his neck. He had not yet changed for bed. “When you didn’t show up for lessons, he looked as if someone killed his puppy.”

Ron looked exceptionally guilty and fidgeted. “You told him we wanted to join, but just couldn’t, right?”

“Something like that.”

“I hope he isn’t mad at us,” Hermione fretted. “We should have taken the course, Ron. I’m really sorry now that I didn’t.”

Harry closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the top of the couch. “Don’t feel too bad – you weren’t the only ones. No one else showed up, either.”

Hermione gasped. “Oh, heavens! You’re the only one taking the lesson? Hagrid must have been devastated!”

Ron looked a bit ill. “Bugger, mate. I’ll go down and see him tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said. He cracked one eye open and glanced down at his ginger-haired friend. Ron had been in a mood during dinner and Harry had assumed he was still riled up over his being named Quidditch captain. However, once Harry had his friends alone and related what had happened in the Forbidden Forest, Ron’s snit had ended abruptly. Harry figured that near-death experiences always drew a truce from within the trio. Even if those experiences were imaginary.

~: --------------------------- :~

The next day’s lessons proved significantly less interesting than the first.

The morning had begun with two hours of Transfiguration and Harry and Hermione had spent the entirety of the class period changing turtles into bowler hats. As the class wore on, Harry’s interest began to wane and his hats began to appear with peculiar shell patterns in their fabric. On a strange whim, Harry changed one of these hats into a shining, silver shield much like the one he had seen Voldemort using while dueling in the Ministry atrium. Professor McGonagall had promptly lectured him on sticking to the lesson provided and had assigned him a foot of parchment as punishment.

Strangely, after her lecture, she had looked over his shield and nodded at him absently before bustling off to change Neville Longbottom’s snapping hat brims back into turtles.

After lunch, Hermione nearly skipped out of the Great Hall to attend her Arithmancy class while Harry and Ron hiked up to the Divination Tower. Professor Trelawny did not appear to be fully recovered from her traumatic firing the previous year and had spilt a frightfully powerful cinnamon-scented liquid all over the floorboards. Harry’s eyes had burned and watered all throughout class and Ron had faked gagging noises every time the professor’s back had turned.

But it was the final class of the day that Harry had been truly dreading.

Professor Snape’s Advanced Potions class met at 7 o'clock in the evening in an obscure dungeon within the depths of the castle. Hermione had insisted that she and Harry leave supper early to be certain they would not get lost and end up late. Harry had been exceedingly grateful for her foresight – they had wandered around dead-ends and mouldy causeways for nearly half an hour before Harry had remembered the Marauder’s Map and the two had used it to pinpoint Snape’s pacing figure. They burst into the classroom with just minutes to spare and the Potions Professor had looked so disappointed that Harry could not help but favour Hermione with a lopsided grin. She had flushed prettily and elbowed him in his side to keep him from infuriating Snape further and surely losing house points.

Unfortunately, only the Slytherins had been in their seats when they arrived, and Dean Thomas’s panicked entrance occurred almost ten minutes after class had begun. Snape had smiled thinly and stared right at Harry as he took twenty points from Gryffindor. Harry had bristled at this – the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students had also arrived late, but each of their houses had only had ten points taken. He was about to say something when Hermione had stilled him with a hand on his arm and a warning look. He resorted to squeezing the fabric of his cloak in his fist beneath their table to control his temper.

The rest of the class would prove as unpleasant as its beginning. Snape had taken great pleasure in announcing that his advanced lessons would be broken into four groups and that each would be expected to brew two exceedingly difficult potions per term. The groups, he related, would consist of all the members of a single house. Harry had thought this was deeply unfair – Slytherin had five students in the class, and Ravenclaw had six, but Gryffindor had only managed three. Worse still, Hufflepuff had only two — Ernie Macmillan and Susan Bones — both of whom looked aghast at this pronouncement.

“The quality of your potion,” Snape informed silkily, “will be the only factor in determining your marks. If I deem it to be… unsatisfactory… your entire group will be removed from this class. There will be no tolerance for mediocrity. Not anymore.”

He said this with an infuriatingly smug look directly solely at Harry. Hermione touched his side beneath the table when she felt him tense.

“Rearrange yourselves!” Snape barked when he realised he would get no response from his baiting.

Sullenly, Harry, Hermione, and Dean gathered at a table near the rear of the classroom. The Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and Slytherins did likewise. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Draco Malfoy glaring at him poisonously as he took his new seat and he shot the Slytherin his most unconcerned look in response.

Snape jutted his wand at the blackboard behind his desk and a piece of chalk rose into the air and began writing. “The name of your first potion will be on the blackboard,” he said icily. “You will be ready to demonstrate its efficacy on Halloween night. If your draught fails to meet my standards, you will not receive an extension and you will not be continuing in my class. No ingredients or instructions will be provided.”

Susan Bones bravely raised her hand to ask a question but Snape shot her a glare of such vehemence that she withered in her seat.

“If you cannot understand this simple assignment, then I must question the validity of your O.W.L. score,” Snape hissed at her. He turned to survey the classroom and sneered, “What are you waiting for? Begin.”

“I’m going to fail you both,” Harry whispered darkly to Dean and Hermione once Snape had turned away.

“Oh, hush,” Hermione said. “As long as our potion is good enough, Snape will have to mark us fairly.”

“Fairly? He’s not going to mark me fairly. I’m going to get my usual ‘P’ and you lot will be dragged down with me.”

Dean shook his head. “As long as we don’t make a complete bodge of it, he’ll have to keep us around.”

Hermione nodded, but Harry could tell that she was a bit unsettled by the idea of receiving a ‘P’ on an assignment. “Right. We’re just going to have to work extra hard to make sure he can’t dock points for anything we missed.”

Harry sat forward in his chair and leaned his elbows on his knees. A glance towards the blackboard revealed that the chalk had finished writing. “Obfirmo Occidere,” he read. “Any ideas?”

Hermione looked puzzled and began to flip rapidly through her textbook. “I’ve never heard of it before,” she confessed uneasily. “But… I’ve read through this book twice already!”

Dean raised his eyebrows, but a sharp look from Harry kept him from commenting.

“I doubt it would be in the textbook,” Harry reasoned, turning back to Hermione. “That would be too easy.”

Hermione looked thoroughly put out. “But – hmph! Why make us buy textbooks if we’re not going to use them?”

“Because he’s Snape,” Harry and Dean said in unison. They both glanced at each other in surprise and Dean grinned toothily.

Hermione sighed and closed her book. “You’re probably right, Harry,” she muttered. She looked thoughtful for a moment before her features brightened visibly. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find it in the library!”

“Hooray,” Dean drawled.

Hermione ignored him and began writing on a piece of parchment. “We can meet there tomorrow after supper to start looking.”

“Er, wait!” Dean protested. “Tomorrow is a match day.”

Harry looked at him oddly. “Matches don’t start until November. We haven’t even had tryouts yet.”

Dean straightened his robe and poked at a claret and blue badge on the lapel. “West Ham,” he reminded proudly. “We can’t see them on the telly here, but my mum sends me the fixture results. I can’t study on match days – I have to think about the team. It’s a solidarity thing.”

Harry had never watched a professional football match in his life and only knew the rules from a few schoolyard games. He didn’t understand Dean’s obsession with West Ham United, but he did understand the inability to concentrate on match days. He was often struck with the same affliction. But then again, he thought, he actually played on the team.

Hermione was less charitable. “You can’t study with us because a cricket team is having a game that you can’t even watch?”

“It’s football,” Dean said, looking quite offended. “And that’s right. But we can meet Thursday.”

Hermione frowned and looked at Harry for support. He shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest.

Hermione rolled her eyes and looked very put upon. “Boys…” she muttered.

~: --------------------------- :~

The next day’s Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson was as bizarre as the first. When he arrived at class, Harry was surprised to find a dead bat secured onto the table in front of his chair with a drawing pin. Hermione had shrieked at him not to pick it up due to it possibly carrying disease, but he had waved her off and pulled out the pin, anyway. Some of the other students had circled around to watch when he lifted the bat by its wing using his thumb and forefinger. He looked at it warily before depositing it in the bin by the professor’s desk.

When Ferrote had arrived, she had scowled when she noticed the corpse in her bin, but said nothing about it and the lesson continued as normal.

Ron had found the entire episode unsettling.

“It’s spooky,” he declared for the third time while they ate lunch. “Bats pinned to your desk? I’m telling you, someone is trying to curse you, mate.”

“Honestly, Ron, if someone wanted to curse Harry, they would use a wand… not a dead animal,” Hermione corrected. She leveled Harry with a displeased look. “And I can’t believe you just picked it up like that. It could have had rabies.”

Ron scrunched up his face. “It didn’t look pregnant…”

Hermione sighed. “I said rabies, not babies.”

“Oh. What’s rabies?”

“It’s an awful disease that Harry could have accidentally contracted,” Hermione informed.

Ron looked at Harry uncertainly and slid a little further away on the bench.

Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t have rabies, Hermione,” he grumbled. “Someone was just trying to scare me. Bad job of it, though – it’d take a bit more than a dead bat.”

Hermione tapped her lips with her fork in contemplation. “Still,” she said quietly. “You need to be careful, Harry. We don’t know who put it there, or why.”

“It was probably Professor Ferrote,” Harry hypothesized. “The whole salt thing from the day before yesterday was a bit off, wasn’t it? Maybe it’s another weird quirk of hers.”

“Hmm,” Hermione murmured. She dropped her fork abruptly and gathered her things. “I’m going to go to the library. Maybe I can find something that would explain it. If I don’t see you before your meeting, make sure you tell Professor Dumbledore.”

“I’m not going to tell Dumbledore,” Harry protested. “It was probably just a prank.”

“What meeting?” Ron asked. “What’s this about Dumbledore?”

Hermione waved him off. “You should tell him Harry,” she repeated and touched Harry’s shoulder before bustling out of the Great Hall.

Harry met Ron’s stony gaze and briefly explained his meetings with the Headmaster from over the summer. “It’s my first one since we got back to Hogwarts,” he revealed.

“Occlumency and magical history?” Ron parroted in horror. He looked relieved that he had not missed anything exciting. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

“Better Dumbledore than Snape,” Harry said, taking a bite of mince pie.

Ron nodded solemnly. “Right on that one, mate. Can’t say I’m missing Potions this year, either.”

Harry felt vaguely envious of Ron’s timetable. He had been up half the night yesterday finishing his essay for Professor McGonagall and that wasn’t even a real assignment. “I need to schedule tryouts next week,” he said suddenly. “When’s a good day for you?”

Ron frowned around his mouthful of chips and swallowed thickly. “I dunno,” he mumbled.

“Come on, Ron. I need to get the notices up in the common room soon or no one is going to show up.”

Ron leaned his elbow on the table and placed his chin in his hand. “Why do we even have to have tryouts? Can’t we just use the same team as last year?”

“Professor McGonagall asked me to. Plus, I reckon that we could use some different beaters if any decent flyers come out,” Harry explained. “And we should probably field a reserve team this year.”

“A reserve team?” Ron repeated, looking pale. “W-why?”

Harry observed his sudden pallor curiously. “Just in case anything happens like last year and we need a substitute. Plus, we could scrimmage with full teams, then.”

Ron pushed away the rest of his meal and sighed. “Fine…”

“What about Wednesday, then? I know you don’t have class then. I have to check with Katie, but it should be all right,” Harry said absently. “Can you run it by Ginny?”

“Yeah, all right,” Ron mumbled.

Harry shot him an uneasy look. “What’s with you?”

“Nothing,” Ron said dully. “I better go. I wanted to get some flying in before Herbology. See you later.”

Harry watched him go with a puzzled look on his face.

~: --------------------------- :~

When Harry returned from his meeting with Dumbledore, it was past one o’clock in the morning. Their lesson had gone on much longer than usual and when they had finished, Harry was given another book to read. He had a feeling that this one would prove more interesting than the previous texts. It was titled ‘The Rise of Grindelwald’ and Dumbledore had a far-away look on his face when he had presented Harry with the tome.

“It is important that you read this,” Dumbledore had said. “And that you try to understand.”

Harry had promised he would.

There was a fire still blazing merrily when Harry stepped through the portrait into the Gryffindor common room. There were no sounds other than the crackling of the flames and he wondered why it had been left to burn. He tucked his book under his arm and went to extinguish it, but was startled by a soft purring.

Crookshanks was lounging peacefully on the couch just beside Hermione’s leg. She was pouring over a thick tome and looked very tired.

“Hermione, what are you still doing up?” Harry asked.

She let out a startled noise and jerked her head up to look at him. When she recognized him, her hand flew to her chest, pressing against her racing heart. “Harry! You scared me,” she breathed. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry. What are you doing?”

“Oh! I found it, Harry – right here in ‘Misguided Magical Methods’!” she said excitedly. She shifted sideways to give him room to sit next to her on the couch and tapped at a passage in her book.

Harry dropped his own book on a chair and sat down beside her. Her leg felt pleasantly warm against his. “What is it?” he asked, fighting off a yawn.

“I looked up the uses of bats,” she explained. Her face was flushed from the heat of the fire. “And I found this. It says that bats or snakes used to be nailed to the doors of people who were suffering from curses. It was supposed to serve as protection – they thought it kept the curse from spreading. This was before anyone knew any better, of course. No one does it anymore.”

Harry frowned and leaned forward, gently taking the book from Hermione’s hands and reading the passage she indicated. “So why do it now? And why my desk? I’m not suffering from a curse.”

“I was thinking about that earlier – and look here,” she said, taking the book back and flipping to an earlier page. “There’s a whole chapter about salt, too! I think you’re right – it’s probably Professor Ferrote who did it. She did seem quite interested in your scar, didn’t she?”

Harry scratched his chin. “Well, yeah. But Hermione – most people are interested in my scar. I don’t think I’ve ever met a wizard or witch who didn’t at least glance at it when they first meet me.”

“That was more than a glance, Harry. She was staring at it, and she didn’t look happy it was there.”

Harry supposed that was true. “Fair enough, but… what’s the point? If the salt and the crusty bats don’t actually do anything, then why go to the trouble? And what’s she trying to protect against?”

“Maybe she thinks your scar is a physical manifestation of the killing curse?” Hermione speculated quietly. “It is very unusual – the shape of it, I mean.”

Harry ran his fingers under his hair and traced the familiar lightning-bolt scar on his forehead.

“Anyway,” Hermione continued. “Professor Ferrote seems very old-fashioned. Maybe she’s trying to help you, in her own way?”

“Or maybe she’s paranoid?” Harry countered, somewhat crossly. “Is all this supposed to protect me or her?”

Hermione shook her head and leaned back against the couch. “I don’t know. We’ll just have to keep an eye on her. We haven’t had much luck with Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers… there’s no reason to take any chances.”

Harry leaned back beside her, careful not to jostle her thin shoulder with his own. “I hope she doesn’t pin a snake to my desk next time,” he sighed. “I have a bad enough reputation with snakes as it is.”

Hermione smiled and turned her head to face him. “How was your lesson with Dumbledore?”

“Tiring,” Harry admitted, closing his eyes. “He gave me a new book: ‘The Rise of Grindelwald’.”

Hermione chewed on her lip thoughtfully. “I’ve always wondered why we haven’t covered Grindelwald in History of Magic. We hardly ever hear about it, really. It almost seems like people want to forget it happened.”

“It’s not that surprising,” Harry pointed out. “It’s a bit like all this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense, isn’t it? Witches and Wizards seem to think if they don’t talk about something, it just goes away.”

“I never thought of it that way, but I suppose that’s true,” Hermione conceded. Slowly, she tilted her head to the side until it was resting against Harry’s shoulder. “D-did you tell Dumbledore about the bat?”

A muscle in Harry’s jaw clenched and he frowned crookedly. “I told you I wasn’t going to.”

“Harry! You really should tell him,” Hermione chided.

“I’m not going to run to Dumbledore every time something unusual happens. We can figure it out on our own,” Harry said stubbornly.

Hermione looked at him questioningly. “Harry… did something happen between you and Dumbledore? I know he didn’t treat you very well last year, but now you’re meeting together and all…”

Harry cracked his eyes opened and stared into the fire. “I’m not angry at him,” he said after a few moments.

Hermione and he both knew that was not really an answer to her question, but she nodded against his shoulder and pulled Crookshanks into her lap. She rubbed her fingers through the cat’s fur absently and blinked to keep her eyes from drooping closed.

Harry noticed her slumping figure and suggested she go to bed.

“I’ll go to bed when you do,” Hermione said primly, rubbing her eyes with her small fists. “If I leave you down here on your own, you’ll just spend half the night brooding and then you’ll be of no use whatsoever during our lessons tomorrow.”

Harry quirked an eyebrow at her. “I will not.”

“Yes, you will. And I’ll not have it.”

Harry did not answer. They stayed sitting for some time in a small battle of wills before Harry finally climbed to his feet and offered his hand to help tug Hermione gently to hers. She smiled sleepily at his unspoken acquiescence and wished him a good rest before they both tiredly mounted the stairs to their dormitories.

18. Quidditch Tryouts

Chapter 18: Quidditch Tryouts

The day of the Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts dawned grey and unseasonably cold. Harry hoisted himself onto the stone sill beneath the ancient window in the Gryffindor common room and leaned his forehead against the cool glass. Despite his uncertainty at how the tryouts were going to go, he could not fight the feeling of peace and cheer that curled in his chest at the thought of spending the afternoon flying.

“Lovely day,” he asserted, bending his knee and leaning his forearm upon it. “Doesn’t look like rain, but the clouds are still dark enough to make it easier to see the snitch.”

Hermione beamed at him, pleased by his happy mood. The last week had not been an easy one. Despite considerable time spent in the library, their group had not managed to uncover any information about Snape’s mysterious potion. The frustration was beginning to set everyone on edge. Worse, Professor Ferrote had seemed on a mission to dispose of every ounce of salt within Hogwarts castle by tossing it over Harry’s shoulder or leaving piles of it around the classroom for students to step in. Harry had steadfastly refused to respond to her behaviour and had endured this treatment with cool indifference. Once he was out of her presence, however, his impressive patience had frayed. Their classmates were beginning to wonder at the cause of the Professor’s actions and Harry had brooded over their inquiring comments and puzzled looks all weekend.

Hermione felt it was a very welcome change to see him about and cheerful instead of holed up in the Room of Requirement or his dormitory, avoiding the other students and pouring over the book the Headmaster had given him.

“Are you coming to the tryouts?” Harry asked her, jumping down from the sill and dropping into the overstuffed chair beside her table.

“Of course I am,” she affirmed, dipping a quill into her inkpot. She moved her parchment up a few inches on the table to continue writing. It was so long, it hung nearly two feet over the edge.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he confessed. The moment the words were past his lips, he made a face as if he wished he hadn’t said them.

Hermione smiled at him fondly and jabbed the feathered end of her quill in his direction. “Don’t be silly, Harry. You’re going to make an excellent captain. Professor McGonagall wouldn’t have picked you if she didn’t think you were the best candidate.”

Harry glanced at her parchment and she tilted it away from him in an automatic response. He smirked crookedly at her. “Secretive.”

“I’m writing to Viktor, if you must know,” she announced demurely.

“I didn’t say I needed to know, I just said you were being secretive,” Harry teased. “What do you write to him about?”

“Why do you want to know?” she asked him earnestly, interested in his answer.

“You write him peculiarly long letters,” Harry said lowly.

She pinked and turned her face back to her parchment. She pretended to write something while glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. When she noticed he wasn’t fooled, she sighed and set down her quill. “I write to him about my life here – our adventures and such things. And right now… he’s asked me for advice about a girl that he’s taken a fancy to.”

Harry tapped his long fingers against the cushioned arm of his chair. “I don’t blame him. Girls are impossible to understand,” he said after a prolonged silence. A thought seemed to occur to him and he peered at her intensely. “Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me?”

“That he fancies someone else.”

Hermione smiled somewhat stiffly and shook her head. “I’ve never been attracted to Viktor,” she confessed hesitantly. She looked sideways at Harry and seemed to gather her courage. “It was lovely that he asked me to the ball – I was worried that no one would, and it was ever such a surprise that someone so popular wanted to go with me. But I don’t have feelings for him beyond friendship, Harry. Honestly, it’s somewhat of a relief that he likes someone else. That way, I don’t have to worry if he might feel something for me that I don’t for him.”

Harry climbed to his feet and moved to the window again. He leaned against the wall beside it and crossed his arms, looking across the fields towards the lake. “Ron and I rather ruined that night for you.”

Hermione looked at him curiously. “Harry, you didn’t ruin my night. I had a wonderful time,” she said. Then, perhaps recognizing the bit of truth in what Harry had said, she amended, “Well, up until the end… but that wasn’t really your fault, either.”

Harry seemed lost in thought as he stared out the window. “You looked very happy when you were dancing. Still… I hope we don’t have any more balls,” he finally sighed. He uncrossed his arms and turned towards the entrance to the common room. “Have you seen Ron? He was gone before I woke up this morning.”

Hermione looked a bit disoriented by the abrupt change of topic. She blinked slowly before hunching back over her parchment. “No, I haven’t. Do you need him for something?”

“Not particularly, but Katie helped me draw up some plays and I wanted to go over them with him.”

“He’s on the pitch,” a voice interrupted and Harry and Hermione both turned to see Ginny watching them with a strange look. “He told me he wanted to get some practice in before tryouts.”

Harry blinked at her. “All right… Thanks.”

Ginny stood up and brushed her hair away from her face with her hand. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “He’s nervous, Harry.”

“About the tryouts? Why?”

Ginny gave him a look as if the answer should be obvious. “He’s worried another keeper will try out and he won’t make the team.”

Harry looked at her in surprise. “But… why? I thought he did well in the last game. Everyone said so.”

Ginny picked at a button on her blouse. “He did do well in that game. But the others — I’m sure you remember that sometimes he plays well and sometimes he… doesn’t.”

Harry had no idea Ron was feeling this way. He felt like a bit of a heel for not noticing on his own that this was the problem. “I’m the captain, though. He can’t think I’m going to cut him,” he stated, but it came out sounding more like a question.

Ginny shrugged and her eyes darted around the room. “I… have to go. See you at the tryout, Harry.”

She gathered her things and disappeared out the portrait hole without waiting for a reply.

“What’s with her?” Harry wondered out loud.

“I— we should probably start heading to Transfiguration,” Hermione mumbled. She wiped her quill tip and replaced the cork in her inkpot before blowing gently on her parchment to dry it. When she was satisfied, she rolled and placed it inside her bag. She was already walking to the door when she asked, “Are you ready to go?”

Confused by her behaviour, Harry collected his things and followed her downstairs.

~: --------------------------- :~

The morning’s Transfiguration lesson went exceptionally well. Professor McGonagall seemed far too excited by the upcoming Quidditch tryout to be bothered by the uneven performance of her class and everyone received an ‘O’ for their transfigured pocket-watches, regardless of whether the hands worked (or in most cases, whether they had hands at all).

Harry had been rather proud of his own watch. Not only did it look handsome — its polished brass shell and chain were some of the best work he had ever done — it also told the time accurately and kept its shape throughout the entire lesson, far longer than any of the others. Hermione — whose own watch had melted back into a plum fifteen minutes before class had ended — seemed even more pleased by his success than he was. She spent the whole of lunch chattering ceaselessly about how happy she was to see him finally applying himself.

Harry listened to her with half an ear and fought to keep down a blush from her praise. His eyes, however, kept flicking back to the doorway of the Great Hall to see if Ron was going to appear. He could not remember the last time his friend had skipped a meal.

When lunch was over and their plates and cups had disappeared in a rush of magic, Hermione noticed Harry’s uneasy look and offered him an encouraging smile. “Just be kind to Ron,” she said, slipping the straps of her bookbag onto her shoulders. “But don’t make a fuss over his nerves. That will only make it worse, Harry.”

Harry thanked her for the advice and began his hike up to the Divination Tower. He saw his red-haired friend the moment he stepped off the top rung of the silver ladder. Taking Hermione’s counsel to heart, he walked straight over to him and dumped his things beside his usual chair as if nothing was wrong. “Still smells in here, doesn’t it?” he said. That was an understatement. The heavy cinnamon scent still lingered throughout the dimly lit classroom like an oppressive cloud. “I reckon I might have to break a window soon if it doesn’t go away.”

Ron looked at him strangely before nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he mumbled, and then said louder, “Yeah, you should do it. We could tell her ‘it’s a sign from the beyond’.”

Harry grinned at him crookedly.

Professor Trelawney emerged from behind the dark, velvet curtains that separated her office from the classroom proper. She glided over to Ron and Harry’s small, circular table, rubbing her hands together in front of her neck and drawing attention to the gauzy, purple scarf she had tied there. It was patterned with golden moons and stars and they changed configurations into various constellations every few minutes. “What was that, my dears?” she asked in a dramatic, hazy voice. “Have you seen a manifestation…of The Divine?”

Her eyes were hugely magnified by her thick glasses and Harry had always felt uncomfortably like he was being observed by a giant insect when she would peer directly at him. “Not really, no,” he answered slowly, hoping she had not heard their entire conversation.

By now, their exchange had caught the attention of the other students who were filing in and taking their seats. They watched with interest and Harry and Ron both slunk down in their chairs.

“Hmm… of course,” Trelawney murmured, patting his arm as if he were a child and stepping forward to stare at him from an alarmingly close distance. Harry leaned back in his seat as far as he could without tipping over. “You have a block about you. It is difficult for those without a natural gift to penetrate…but I can help you… I can see past the earthly fog…”

Without warning, she let out a horrid, shrieking cry and bent severely at the waist. Harry leapt to his feet in surprise, moving quickly to help her, but she seemed to recover instantly.

“I’ve seen— no,” she croaked, looking at him sadly, “my dear boy, don’t ask it of me. Don’t ask me to tell you what the fates have revealed…”

Harry dropped back into his seat in irritation. He had absolutely no intention of asking.

“What is it, Professor? What did you see?” Lavender asked breathily from her seat at the table to Harry’s left. She was sitting so far forward in her chair that she would tip over if anyone jostled her. Beside her, Parvati had both hands clapped over her mouth and her eyes were wide with awe.

Trelawney touched the back of her spindly wrist to her forehead as if she were taken with a sudden fever. “I cannot say. The march of time will reveal all…”

“Blimey,” Ron muttered under his breath when the professor moved to the centre of the room, shaking her head in exaggerated misery, “she’s even more barking than she was last year.”

Strangely, Trelawney’s annual portent of doom for Harry seemed to snap her out of whatever funk she had been in since her encounter with Umbridge. She drifted among the class as they attempted to see into their crystal balls, blithely relating future exam scores and injurious accidents for whichever student caught her eye.

“My boy,” she called to Neville as he squinted into his crystal ball, “you must avoid any stairs on the nineteenth.”

Neville paled and dug out a scrap of parchment from his bag to scribble down the date. Trelawney patted him sympathetically on the shoulder and turned to watch Lavender and Parvati. “Miss Brown, I can see that you have managed your first glimpse of the future while crystal-gazing,” she announced warmly after a few minutes had passed.

Lavender looked startled and said in an unsure voice, “But Professor – I haven’t been able to see anything yet…”

Trelawney smiled knowingly. “Not today.”

Lavender looked so excited that she whipped around and leaned so close to her crystal ball that her small nose nearly bumped it off its stand.

By the end of class, Harry had long given up pretending to see anything in his crystal ball other than his own distorted reflection. He instead stared longingly at the shuttered windows, thinking about the air and the sky and the upcoming tryouts. Ron’s head was pillowed against his arms on the table and his muffled snoring could just be heard over the sounds of the classroom.

Harry kicked his leg beneath the table when Professor Trelawny began to address the class. Ron woke up with a snort, earning twin scathing looks from Parvati and Lavender.

“My dears, some of you may have already foreseen the assignment I have for you in the depths of your crystals,” she said in her airiest voice. “For those of you who have not yet managed to see through your inner eye… I’ve prepared dream almanacs for each of you. With these, you may begin to brush away the mist that obscures the echoes of the transcendent world. Each morning, you will record the wanderings of your sleeping mind, and — with time and my gentle guidance — reveal the messages of your subconscious. You may find instructions for your almanacs on page sixteen of your textbooks. And Mr. Finnegan… when you lose your almanac, I will have a spare waiting in my office.”

When Harry was handed his dream almanac, he eyed it dubiously and raised his hand. When he was called on, he asked, “Dream almanacs? How are they any different from the dream diaries from last year?”

Professor Trelawney smiled at him serenely. “Ah, dear child… those were diaries. They were meant only to raise your awareness of your private mind. With almanacs, we will unlock the meanings and patterns behind your dreams. With each dream, you will use your textbooks to decipher their significance, so that you may begin to understand how the fates reveal themselves in your subconscious.”

Harry found this to be a wholly unsatisfying answer — it did not seem at all different from the previous year’s assignment — and he flipped through his almanac morosely.

Ron was holding his almanac the same way he held dirty socks. He had a look of absolute dread on his face. “I can’t write about the meaning of my dreams,” he stammered. “They’re private!”

“Just make something up. I’m certainly not going to write about my evenings with Voldemort.”

Ron winced and dropped his almanac into his bag.

“I’m going down to the pitch to get kitted out and go over a few things,” Harry said as casually as possible. “Want to come?”

Ron stiffened and pulled his bookbag over his shoulders nervously. “I— I have something to do first. I’ll be down in a little while.”

Harry eyed him and nodded. “All right. See you later.”

“See you,” Ron mumbled.

~: --------------------------- :~

The Hogwarts Quidditch stadium was just as spectacular as Harry remembered. To him, everything about it was immeasurably beautiful – the towering, wooden stands and their painted house crests… the crisp grass of the pitch set off by the white regulation lines… the golden hoops some fifty feet tall… the brightly-coloured banners and flags, snapping in the wind... each grand splendor seemed to spring free a reservoir of memory.

Stepping out onto the empty field, Harry drank in the familiar sounds, smells, and sights. He had not realised how much he had missed this — being on the field proper and not just in the stands — until that very moment.

“Hi, Harry!” a voice called to him from high above. Harry turned in place and raked his hair away from his eyes as he glanced up into the stands behind him. Hermione waved cheerfully from the edge of the Gryffindor box. She was wearing scarlet red mittens and they stood out brightly against the grey sky.

“Hermione!” Harry called back. “You’re so early!”

“That’s okay!” she shouted down, turning behind her and hefting up a massive book for him to see. “I thought I might do a bit of research – it’s such a nice day!”

Harry pivoted to look across the vacant pitch with a lopsided grin. He turned back and motioned towards the ground with his arm. “Come down here!”

“I can see perfectly fine from up here!”

Harry gave an exaggeratedly wounded look before unshouldering his broomstick and commanding it to his hand to activate its charms. The muscles in Harry’s forearm twitched and jumped against the powerful broom and for a moment, he was reminded of his first flying lesson. How wonderful and strange it had seemed then…

“I’m coming up!” he called and mounted his Firebolt. He shot straight into the air at a thrilling speed, circling around the Gryffindor stand twice before coming to a stop just beside the box where Hermione was watching him, bemused. He stepped off the broom and tucked it beneath his arm.

“You look cozy,” he said, smiling.

Besides her mittens, Hermione was wearing a heavy cloak and her house scarf in defense against the unusually cold weather. Her things were spread out in the empty seats behind her – books, parchments, and a small tin of sugarless candies.

“I can hardly believe its only September,” she replied, looking across the valley to the south and towards the hazy mountains. The two highest peaks were both dusted with white. She turned back to Harry and held her mittens up for inspection. Up close, he could see that they were a little misshapen. “It’s my first chance to wear these. They were my first attempt, you see. I used them to practice before I started on yours. I had too much trouble with the fingers, though – I ended up making them mittens.”

Harry held up his arm so the back of his hand was facing Hermione. She smiled and nodded when she saw he was wearing the gloves she had made him.

Harry dropped his hand and walked to lean over the wooden railing. Strangely, a few other people were beginning to climb the various staircases to the stands. “Katie is supposed to meet me down here soon.”

“Have you decided what to do for the tryouts?”

“Not yet,” Harry admitted. “I’ll just have to make it up as I go.”

Hermione sighed before smiling ruefully. “Well, I suppose that’s been effective for you before.”

Harry laughed. “Right. Best stick with what works.”

Beneath him, Harry could hear several pairs of feet mounting the Gryffindor stairs. He frowned at the noise thoughtfully and glanced at his wristwatch before remembering that it had not worked since the Triwizard Tournament. “It must be getting close to time. I’d better go and get ready. Thanks for coming, Hermione.”

“Good luck, Harry!” Hermione called as he mounted his broom and swooped off towards the team paddocks.

Harry landed just inside the tunnel connecting the team rooms to the pitch and the sound of his boots on the old, wooden floor echoed loudly. When the noise announced his presence, Katie emerged from inside and greeted him with a huge smile. She was already wearing her practice uniform and had her broom under her arm.

“Brilliant day for Quidditch!” she piped, jogging down the tunnel and stepping out into the light to look up at the clouds. “Couldn’t ask for a better sky!”

She turned back around and clapped her hands together. “Well, go on, then! All our kits are in the Gryffindor suite. I’ll meet you out here when you’re changed.”

The Gryffindor suite belied its name. It was a musty, dimly lit room with wooden floors and high skirting boards. It had three sets of benches in its centre and a row of old-fashioned wood lockers against its back wall. There was a small plaque above each locker – Harry knew that these would be charmed with each player’s name when the season began, but his own plaque was currently the only one with writing on it. Hanging in the locker beneath it were two uniforms – one for practice and one for games. The practice uniform was a simple affair, while the game kit consisted of cream jodhpurs, a white wool jersey, and a brilliant scarlet robe with his name and number stitched to its back. Harry rubbed the sleeve of this between his fingers and smiled before grabbing the practice uniform and carrying it into the men’s dressing room.

When he was finished changing, he tucked his breeches into his boots and laced up his shin and arm guards. Once he was properly kitted out, he removed the case containing the Quidditch balls from its cubby and hefted it over his shoulder to carry out to the pitch.

Katie was waiting for him at the end of the tunnel.

“It looks like we’ve got an audience,” she said uneasily.

Harry blinked at her and stepped outside to see that most of the seats in the Gryffindor stand had been filled and there were several students milling about in the boxes of the other houses, as well.

“Why are all these bloody people here?” he asked in shock. Several students began to cheer when they saw him emerge. He could distinctly hear Colin Creevey’s excited whooping carry across the field despite the distance.

“I did book the pitch, right?” he asked Katie uncertainly. “No, I know I did… Madame Hooch cleared it and everything.”

Katie shrugged blandly. “Well, this might actually work to our advantage – it should make it easier to pick a team if you can see how everyone flies with people watching them.”

Harry felt his stomach drop. He hoped that Ron would not let the extra eyes bother him. Sighing, he adjusted his grip on the case and strode out to the centre of the pitch with Katie at his shoulder. He dropped it unceremoniously and drew his wand from where he had tucked it in his boot. He swished it in front of him for a moment and a long, thin flame emerged from the end, twisting around and forming numbers revealing the time of day.

“Almost time,” he said.

Katie eyed the display with interest. “Wow, where’d you learn that, Harry?”

Harry flicked his wand once more, and the flames snuffed out of existence. He had learned the spell after seeing a variation of it used by Tom Riddle in second year, but he wasn’t about to tell anyone that. “Book,” he answered vaguely. He glanced across the pitch to see a surprisingly large group of students sitting on the grass with their broomsticks in hand, obviously waiting for the tryouts to begin. Ron, Kirke, Sloper, and Ginny were among them. “Looks like a fair turnout… better than fair, really.”

Katie looked doubtful. “We’ll see, I guess...”

Harry stepped up onto the case and held his wand in the air. A great burst of gold sparks shot from the end, earning another cheer from the Gryffindor stands. “All right, over here!” he called. The students on the pitch leapt to their feet and hurried over to crowd around him, looking up at Harry with wide, seemingly astonished eyes. Up close, Harry could see that many of them were frightfully small and hardly any were wearing Quidditch robes. Some did not even have brooms. Worse, many looked so anxious that it seemed like they might be sick all over the pitch at any moment. Only Ginny appeared collected – Ron, Kirke, and Sloper were all among those who looked ill with nerves.

Harry smiled weakly at the assembled group and introduced himself, prompting a small group of fourth year girls to nearly fall over giggling.

“Can I see your broomstick?” a feminine voice cackled from the back of the group, inciting another round of giggling… this one more prolonged than the last.

Harry frowned and leaned to the side, trying to see who had spoken, but there were too many people to pick out a single face. “Enough now,” he barked when he grew tired of the giggling and everyone obediently fell silent. “Right… who here has played Quidditch before?”

Nearly half the class raised their hand, but some seemed unsure of their answer and their hands hovered furtively near their shoulders. “It’s okay if you haven’t,” Harry continued. “I never played before I made the team, either.”

Some of the hands dropped. There was another muffled giggle and Harry glanced at Katie in frustration. She looked like she was struggling not to laugh.

“Let’s not bother with the balls right now,” Harry said, stepping off the wooden case and pushing it aside with his boot. “I’d like to see how you lot fly. If you’ve a broom, go ahead and line up over round the goalposts. If you don’t, we’ll see if we can’t borrow some of the school brooms.”

The students with brooms quickly trotted over to the south end of the pitch, forming a crude line. Those without one hovered nearby, whispering excitedly to each other and fidgeting. Harry instructed Katie to bring them to Madame Hooch to see about getting them brooms and then strode over to the goalposts to begin the tryout.

He had each student fly across the pitch and back as he watched, but even this simple assignment was met with uneven success. Very few students were able to fly in a straight line and fewer still could do so with anything approaching the speed necessary for Quidditch. Some could not even get their brooms into the air – there were a number of red-faced students at the back of the line shouting, “Up!” and looking deeply panicked.

“Potter!” a voice called out from the Slytherin stands. “Are those supposed to be Quidditch players? Those lumps don’t know a broomstick from their arse!”

A roar of laughter could be heard following this pronouncement and Harry tried his best not to scowl. Unfortunately, the heckling exacerbated the problems and the third year boy who was next in line promptly flew into a wall.

By the time it was Ron’s turn, he was so preoccupied with stealing unhappy glances at the Slytherin stands that he did not notice Harry was speaking to him until Ginny dug her elbow into his side. He flushed deeply and took a deep breath before mounting his broom. He took off across the field in a steady line, slowly building up speed and rounding the far goalposts without any problems. Harry grinned at him when he landed, feeling very relieved, and Ron smiled proudly.

Ginny’s attempt was even better. She was smooth and fast across the pitch and landed with a graceful hop.

“Well done,” Harry praised her, feeling much more cheerful for the Weasleys’ success. She was still refusing to meet his eyes and he made due with speaking to the top of her head.

Kirke and Sloper were next, and both of them managed without any incidents, although neither looked like they had improved terribly from the previous year.

By this time, Katie had returned with the other students, each of whom was now clutching a battered school broom. Harry instructed them to line up with the others and took Katie aside to point out the students he felt had done well.

Under Harry and Katie’s watchful eye, the rest of the group finished their laps with mixed results. There were a few bright spots – a reedy seventh year boy who flew as straight as a new ruler… a second year boy who was quick and agile… and, astonishingly, one of the fourth year girls who had been a giggling mess earlier but now swooped across the pitch with determination and creativity. When she finished her lap, her friends enthusiastically cheered and began to whisper with her excitedly, stealing glances at Harry before collapsing in another fit of giggles.

“Is this Quidditch or a sodding slumber party?” a new voice sneered from the Slytherin box.

“You’ll see what Quidditch is when Gryffindor humiliates you come match day! Like usual!” an answering shout came from the Gryffindor stands. Soon, the two boxes were loudly heckling each other, shouting new and creative insults every few minutes.

“Ignore them,” Harry rumbled to the group and shouldered his broom. He pivoted and directed everyone to follow him back to the centre of the field. He found the wooden case where he had left it and opened the snaps, releasing the quaffle and displaying the two bludgers, which jumped and struggled against their restraints. “I’m going to separate everyone into groups. Chasers and keepers, go with Katie. Seekers and beaters, you’re with me.”

Katie grabbed the quaffle, tucked it beneath her arm, and mounted her broom, sweeping off towards the south goalpost with a procession of students flying behind her.

Harry looked at his remaining group – Kirke, Sloper, and the seventh year boy who had flown so precisely earlier were among them. “Right, then… beaters, there’s a crate with some old bats in the Gryffindor suite down that tunnel,” he said, pointing in the direction of the team paddocks. “Grab one and meet us at the north goalpost. Seekers, into the air.”

Less than a quarter of his group rushed off to find a bat. The remaining students mostly consisted of the flyers Harry had privately decided should not be anywhere near a broom. Most of the giggling girls were among them, although the one who had shown skill earlier had left with Katie.

None of the students followed his order, instead continuing to gawk at him and some began to ask him bizarre questions about his height or how fast his broom went.

“Look, if you’re not here to actually try out, go find somewhere to sit,” Harry growled. “Everyone else, get on your brooms!”

Over half of the group broke out into another spell of giggles and began to chatter amongst themselves, walking over to the side of the pitch and shrieking gleefully as they went. The others mounted their brooms as best they could and began to rise shakily into the air.

Harry opened the small compartment that held the golden snitch and removed it carefully. Its small, thin wings poked out between his fingers and batted against the top of his hand. Despite his lingering annoyance, he could not help but smile as he held the tiny, golden ball.

Harry mounted his broom with the snitch in his fist and shot into the air towards the northern side of the pitch. He looped sharply around the goalposts and drew to a quick halt just in front of the centre hoop. A chorus of “oohs” and “ahhs” erupted from the stands and the huddled group of his classmates now sitting on the pitch. The students trying out for seeker gathered around him nervously, clutching tightly to the handles of their brooms.

Harry opened his fist and held the snitch between his long fingers so everyone could see it. “I’m going to release this, then count to five. Once five is up, I want you lot to start searching for it. If you think you can catch it, go ahead. I’ll be watching… good luck!”

Harry released the tiny, fluttering ball and it hovered in front of him for just a moment before darting off towards the sky. Harry tracked its progress instinctively before snapping himself out of it and glancing towards the assembled flyers. None of them had managed to keep their eye on it and most were twisting and turning on their brooms, looking around the stadium wildly for sight of the little ball. “Have at it, then,” Harry commanded. The group flew off immediately, darting away in different directions.

The students trying out for beater began to emerge from the tunnel and mounted their brooms to gather around Harry as he hovered in front of the goalpost. When all of them had arrived, Harry nodded at them and pointed down to the case containing the struggling bludgers. From this height, they looked terribly small and harmless. Harry, of course, knew better.

“Everyone have a bat? Brilliant. When I let the bludgers go, you lot are going to try to hit me with them. I’ll be flying around to keep an eye on the seekers, so I won’t be an easy target,” Harry instructed. He leveled the group a serious look. “Only aim for me… I don’t want to see any bludgers hit towards the students trying for seeker. And try to keep them away from the other side of the pitch… I don’t want them hitting anyone in Katie’s group.”

The beaters nodded to show they understood and began to fly in nervous circles as Harry darted down to release the catch on the bludgers. They shot into the air immediately, careening past the assembled beaters who shot after them with a bit more skill than Harry had anticipated. He watched them for a moment before remounting his broom and beginning a wide circuit high above the north side of the pitch, observing the students flying this way and that, attempting to locate the snitch.

The loud crack of a bat alerted him to a successful bash of the bludger and he jerked his broom into a fancy loop to avoid it. Another great cheer erupted and he heard his name being shouted raucously from below. He glanced down to identify who had hit the bludger and saw that it was the seventh year boy who had impressed him earlier.

Another crack revealed another bludger hit, but this one did not come anywhere near him. He watched it shoot harmlessly into the sky before beginning a steep dive and sweeping behind the Hufflepuff stands before doubling back, looking to confuse the beaters who were tracking him. His maneuver was mostly successful — most of the beaters flew in the wrong direction, having expected him to come out the other side — but the seventh year followed him doggedly. Harry grinned and lost him with a twisting, spiraling manoeuvre that had the spectators gasping thunderously.

He slowed down and flew more sedately, giving himself a chance to watch the progress of the seekers and allowing the beaters to find him again. Another bludger was knocked in his direction, but it was inaccurate enough that Harry did not have to change his course. Then another was sent, and this one forced Harry to dive straight down before swooping back up and glancing behind him. Again, it had been hit by the same seventh year.

Harry allowed the tryout to continue for the better part of an hour before catching the snitch himself and shooting a great burst of red sparks into the air. With everyone’s attention drawn, he landed in the centre of the pitch and signaled his classmates to join him. He had seen enough.

Katie and her group of keepers and chasers arrived just before Harry’s seekers and beaters and she shot him a significant look. He frowned in confusion before turning back to the assembled group. “Brilliant… well done,” he announced. “I’m going to need all your names… when I point at you, introduce yourself clearly.”

One by one, the students called out their names as he indicated them. This process was interrupted by several more giggling episodes, but otherwise went smoothly.

“Right,” Harry said absently when he was finished. “I’m going to be posting a list of those who made the team on the notice board in the common room by the end of the week. We’ll be fielding a reserve team this year, so there will be twelve spots open. If you didn’t make the team this year, don’t give up… you can try again next year. Thanks for coming.”

The students broke into excited chattering immediately, laughing and whispering to each other as they headed off the pitch. Those who had borrowed equipment hurried off to return it before joining their friends.

Harry and Katie fell into step beside each other as they walked towards the far goalpost. “So?” Harry asked quietly.

“Well, we’ve got an excellent side of chasers. Ginny is really good, and that second year boy you noticed — the one with the cowlick… his name was Poole, I think — he should make the first team already. And me, of course,” she added cheekily. “There’s a bit of a drop off with the ones I would pick for the reserve team… Francis Uukle, Theodora Skyles, and Agatha Hornswiggle. I guess that’s to be expected, though.”

Harry noted the names absently and nodded for her to continue. Katie looked a bit hesitant and Harry felt his insides begin to churn.

“Ron did fine,” she said after chewing her lip for a moment, seeming to sense his concern. “He had a few really good saves, actually… but then… well…”

Harry began to look impatient and Katie sighed. “Some of the Slytherins began giving him a hard time and he started to lose the thread… and that girl that was so silly — the giggling one? Eudora Caulings? — she… did really well. The better it went for her, the worse it went for Ron.”

“But Ron was the better keeper, right?” Harry asked quickly.

Katie looked uncomfortable. “Ron… on his best day, yes – I think Ron’s the better keeper. But if I had to pick between the two for first team, I don’t know which I’d choose.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder to see his red-haired friend sitting morosely by the far goalpost. Hermione and Ginny were speaking with him – he recognized them by their bright, red mittens and bright, red hair, respectively.

“I’m sure Ron will do better in practice,” Harry said with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel, “when all these people aren’t around.”

Katie nodded agreeably and asked about the beaters and seekers.

“There was one beater who was bang on out there – Stuart Hagwood. He’s a seventh year… I have no idea why he hasn’t tried out before. Kirke and Sloper will both have to stay on… no one else really distinguished themselves. There was a second year with a good swing – I’ll go with her for the fourth. With a few years practice on the team, she should be a fine player.”

“Stuart tried out the same year I did,” Katie revealed. “But Fred and George were both better at the time. With no space on the team, I guess he just decided to wait until there was an opening to give it another shot. What about the seekers?”

Harry sighed and raked his hand through his hair. “They were sort of rubbish,” he admitted. “But I’m going to choose Fischer. She was the fastest of the lot and she’s only a third year.”

Katie smiled. “Well, Captain… looks like we’re done here, then.”

“Thanks again for your help, Katie.”

She waved cheerfully and left to catch up with her friends. Harry walked over to meet Ron, Hermione, and Ginny by the goalposts. Ron pretended to be very interested in a loose thread in his Quidditch robes when he saw Harry approaching.

Harry decided it would be best not to mention the dilemma with Eudora fighting for his position. “You’re both on the team, of course,” he stated to Ron and Ginny after checking to see that no one else was in earshot. Ron looked so immensely relieved that he seemed to sag into himself.

“See, Ron!” Hermione chimed. The cool wind was pushing her bushy hair into her face and she struggled with it for a moment before brushing it back, exposing her bright, rosy cheeks. “You just have to have confidence.”

Once he was assured that he was not being cut, Ron clamoured to his feet and began to grill Harry incessantly about the state of the other players. “Did you find any beaters who aren’t complete tosh?” he asked brightly.

“One,” Harry replied vaguely. He didn’t want to talk about who made the team when so many people were around to overhear. Ron seemed to pick up on this and nodded at him conspiratorially.

Ginny excused herself to catch up with Dean, who was waving at her from the edge of the pitch. Harry watched her absently for a moment before turning back to Hermione.

“I imagine you didn’t get much revising done,” Harry said apologetically. “I didn’t think so many people were going to show up.”

“It’s fine. I suppose I should have expected it,” Hermione replied, waving her red-mittened hand vaguely and sighing, “with the way people were talking and all.”

Harry peered at her warily. “What way was that?”

Hermione waved her hand again and made a small, meaningless noise before turning her attention to wrapping her scarf tighter around her neck.

“I can’t believe those filthy Slytherins showed up,” Ron muttered, scowling up at the now empty Slytherin box.

“They were being quite rude,” Hermione admitted.

Ron’s features brightened. “Their tryout is the day after tomorrow – I saw it on Madame Hooch’s calendar. We should go and spoil it!”

Hermione looked scandalized by the very idea and Harry shook his head. “I’ve got better things to do than waste my time with the likes of them,” he said flatly. “And Hermione and I are supposed to meet Dean at the library that afternoon to work on our sodding Potions assignment, anyway.”

Ron looked disappointed. “Well, yeah, but – we can’t let them get away with it, can we? Maybe Seamus will go…”

Hermione sighed and ordered Ron and Harry to go change out of their Quidditch robes so they could return to the castle and get out of the biting wind. Both Ron and Harry knew better than to try her patience and they hurried to do as she asked.