White Horses - Jackie Stevens

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White Horses Fandom: Harry Potter. Author: Jackie Stevens. Genre: Angst. Rating: Mature. Characters: Draco Malfoy. Ginny Weasley. Harry Potter. Hermione Granger. Ron Weasley. Pairings: Draco/Harry. Hermione/Ron. Summary: They say that there are no white horses—those that we think of as white are really just a faded and deceiving grey. Names can be misleading and definitions can be false, and yet through the maze of artifice and deceit, we might just find something true. When Harry returns for his last two years at Hogwarts School, he will find that boundaries are shifting and not everyone is who he thought—including himself. He will have to learn that change is like those elusive white horses: swift, beautiful and irretrievable. Link: www.fictionalley.org/… Prologue Fifth Year Girls’ Dormitory, Gryffindor Tower, Late May 1996 “So, explain to me again just why I am here?” Harry Potter looked askance at the girl next to him, who also happened to be one of his best friends, Hermione Granger. He was asking for clarification for what had to be the fortieth time that night. Rather than a logical explanation from Hermione though, Harry got a slightly less useful response from Parvati. Parvati Patil was one of Hermione’s house-mates and was positively quivering with excitement at the moment. “Look, I explained to you already, Lavender told us—” “Lavender, who is currently trying to break Ginny’s record of dating every guy in Gryffindor?” Hermione and Parvati both glared at him—though probably for different reasons—before Parvati pushed on again, “Lavender told us about this old charm, which witches—” “I am not a witch.” But Harry was pointedly ignored once again. “—which magical people have used for generations, because it is supposed to—” “ ‘Supposed to’? Come on, Hermione, since when would you believe in any hogwash like this bogus charm?” At this point, Parvati gave up her explanation in favour of glaring daggers at the boy, before rolling her dark eyes and asking him nastily, “Honestly, Harry, are you consciously trying to channel Ron here, or have you finally become as dense as him after all these years together?” But she had only given Harry more ammo, which he was not going to pass up as he asked in a bewildered voice, “And why not have Ron here? Why me, eh? Why not some other of your girlfriends?” Parvati was the one to respond to Harry, while Hermione had developed a sudden fascination with the duvet she was lying on as soon as Ron Weasley, Harry’s other best friend, had been mentioned. “Look. The charm requires three single witch—er, ‘magical people’—in order to work. And Lavender already has a guy, who she found using this charm. Ginny, as you so tactfully pointed out, is in no need of a boyfriend. We don’t really associate with any of the other younger years and the upper years are all taken as well. As for Ron—” Parvati paused to glance at Hermione, who had looked up with a strangely determined expression on her face. Harry knew that look. It was lecture time. “Harry, now you know that I don’t go in for these superstitious rumours. They positively border on the trash that Trelawney dishes out. I am participating for the sake of scholarship.” Hermione paused—ignoring Parvati’s indignant spluttering over the insult to her beloved Divinations professor—and slipped back into her familiar lecture-voice: the one which usually caused Harry and Ron to slip into a stupor for the subsequent fifteen minutes it would take her to get to the point. “There are so many supposed ‘charms’ like this in the magical world, which those who were raised with magic assume to have at least some truth. As Muggle-borns, we of course have no such inundation in magical lore and thus have no reason to believe there is any truth to such silly rituals. However, this is magic we’re talking about. We have so many other gibberish incantations that can have effects ranging from making something levitate to giving you complete control over another person’s mind, that it would be fascinating to see if there is any truth in these old wive’s tales. Thus I am participating and plan to take full notes on the repercussions, if any, of performing the charm and perhaps with more study I could write a treatise on it for Flitwick. It could improve my outlook for the N.E.W.T.s.” Both Harry and Parvati looked slightly ill at this last comment, since they were still just finishing up their O.W.L.s. Harry opened his mouth to protest again, but Hermione cut him off with an evil glint in her eye. “Come on, Harry. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy a little company. Especially after the whole disaster with Cho.” His teeth clicked audibly as he snapped his mouth shut again. Great, just what I needed reminding of: the Cho debacle. Cho Chang was the Ravenclaw Seeker who was a year ahead of him and their brief but disastrous relationship still remained a favourite subject for entertainment around Gryffindor Tower. And in the Slytherin dungeons. And just about everywhere else in the school. With a dull flush in his cheeks, he nodded shortly—it would probably be less painful just to go along with Hermione anyhow. Hadn’t they all seen what happened when they tried to stand up to her in the past, like with S.P.E.W.? Yes, definitely better to just play along. Hermione looked pleased as she checked the procedure with Parvati one last time, “So we get together three single ‘magical people’ with the same name, correct? Who then sit around a table together and everyone says ‘white horses’ simultaneously?” Parvati nodded and then gushed excitedly, “And one of the three will find true love within a years time!” Hermione only nodded clinically to this claim, although Harry thought she might be a bit flushed. Then again, they were sitting in front of the fire, here in the sixth year girl’s dormitory, so perhaps it was just the heat. He was just about to open his mouth to ask Hermione about the names, when she turned to him. “Yes, Harry, you want to know about the ‘same name’ issue.” She sighed, looking at him with pity, before continuing in a slightly disapproving voice, “If you had taken any worthwhile courses, you wouldn’t need to ask. For example, in Arithmancy much of what we learn is about borders and parameters in magic and how we define the elements used in our spellwork.” She looked at him hopefully, but didn’t seem to take much from his blank stare. “So, that means that we can skew the focus of what we define as our names. We obviously do not all have the same first names, or even the same last names—as Lavender did when she performed this charm with her cousins last summer—but we do all share the name of Gryffindor.” Harry looked like he was catching on, which was more than Hermione could say for when she had first explained it to Parvati. The other girl had been so disappointed after hearing how the charm had worked for Lavender, only to realize that she didn’t have two other people with the same name to perform it with. Hermione, being of course the cleverest witch of her age, had come up with the solution of using their house identity as a name. Harry was still rather dubious, but he had agreed to participate in this little experiment of Hermione’s (before really knowing what is was, of course). He glanced rather miserably at the two attractive girls in front of him, sprawled over their beds, and mused how many of his year-mates would kill to be where Harry was now. But boys could not come up to the girl’s dormitory without a girl physically taking them up and holding onto them the entire way, or the stairs would turn into a smooth chute that would eject the offending boys quite speedily, accompanied by a shreeking alarm. He’d had Hermione hold his hand all the way until he’d sat down where he currently was in front of the fire, just to be safe, and hadn’t moved since. With both Hermione and Parvati looking at him so expectantly, he finally agreed reluctantly. Holding his hands out to Hermione, he muttered resentfully, “Fine, all right—let’s try it then.” He was nearly jerked off his feet though, as both Parvati and Hermione grabbed his hands eagerly to drag him over to the table. Even Parvati had seemed to forget how she had been teasing him earlier about wanting Hermione to hold his hand the entire way. They settled at the table, each girl holding one of his hands and then joining their free hands as well. Hermione looked at the two of them rather magisterially and clarified one last time. “Alright, just focus on our unity as Gryffindors. And on the count of three…” Parvati’s grip tightened slickly on Harry’s hand, which was feeling rather sweaty at the moment. “One.” Hermione nodded in time with her counting, and the other’s joined her for, “Two.” Harry felt a peculiar tingling sensation down his spine, but wasn’t sure if it was magic or just dread. “Three.” He didn’t have time to guess which. “White horses.” Chapter 01 Harry Potter’s sixteenth birthday, and indeed his whole summer, had been spent quite miserably with his equally miserable relatives, as was tradition. Harry was rather disappointed to call it tradition, as he had been hoping against hope to not spend the entire holiday alone in Little Whinging. Back when he had first started at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry had always managed to escape the Dursleys, and Number Four, Privet Drive, for at least a portion of the summer holidays. Even last year’s escape—being whisked away to Grimmauld Place, hardly a pleasant trip—was no longer possible, as Grimmauld Place had been the property of his godfather, Sirius Black, and had been seized by the government upon the fugitive’s death. From what he had heard, the Ministry of Magic had been quite disappointed by the decided lack of Dark paraphernalia in Grimmauld Place. Harry could feel a grim satisfaction at this news, at least, since he and his best friends had been the ones forced to clean out the creaking old manor. But mostly Harry had just been trying to avoid thinking of Grimmauld or anything else that might remind him of his late godfather, ever since the funeral back in July. It had been held right after he’d received his O.W.L. results and had been his only trip outside of the house all summer. To be fair, though, life at the Dursley’s hadn’t been as bad as it could have been. His cousin, Dudley, had been quite petrified of Harry, despite being nearly a foot taller and easily a hundred pounds heavier than his diminutive cousin. After the dementor incident of the year before, Dudley had taken to noticeably paling and stuttering whenever Harry was around—quite acting like the gibbering idiot that he, in fact, was. Of course, not knowing what Dudley had seen when the dementors had attacked still plagued Harry with curiosity, but he knew better than to bring it up if he wanted to relative peace to continue. Harry had also found himself surprisingly apathetic towards the senior Dursley, despite his uncle’s best attempts at intimidation. Harry no longer considered Vernon Dursley worthy of fear, having seen so much worse, and it was now to his Aunt Petunia that he turned his attention. He had spent much of the summer trying to trick her into revealing any knowledge she might have of the Wizarding world. After she had so foolishly let it slip last year that she knew of the wizard prison Azkaban, and since he had nothing else to do at Number Four, he had spent the entire summer trying to learn what else Petunia might know about the Wizarding world. Unsurprisingly, his aunt only got defensive and tight-lipped each time he dropped wizarding terms into a conversation in an attempt to trip her up—so tight-lipped, in fact, that he was sometimes surprised that her mouth didn’t simply disappear into her face. She could almost rival Professor McGonagall for disapproving looks. But she hadn’t kicked him out of the house (most definitely because of her promise to Dumbledore), and so he had kept on pushing the limits. Although he hadn’t received any surprising news from Petunia about any knowledge she might or might not have about the Wizarding world, he did still subscribe to both the Daily Prophet and The Quibbler. The latter subscription had been out of appreciation to his friend, Luna, for getting his story published in the rather unique news magazine that her father worked for. But it was the Prophet that ran the story which had captured Harry’s attention that summer. It was a report of Lucius Malfoy and the eight other Death Eaters who had been captured the previous month in the Ministry of Magic. All involved had been sentenced to numerous consecutive life sentences in the new prison, with no hope of repeal. Even Lucius Malfoy’s money, so much of which had funded the Ministry for years, couldn’t keep him from justice this time. The Ministry, after spending over a year denying the return of Lord Voldemort, had decided to rectify their mistakes by making a vicious example out of these first criminals of the war; trying to assure the public of their readiness for the difficulties to come, or so Harry imagined. The location of this new prison hadn’t been revealed, of course. Since Azkaban had been overcome by the Dark Lord’s forces, no one knew where the new prison was, or what the security measures might be. There would be no visiting sessions for Narcissa or Draco Malfoy, both of whom were described in the article as declining comment. Of course, there had also been mention of the remaining two Malfoys’attendance of Sirius’funeral. The reporter had tried to allude to the Malfoy family’s continued entanglement with the Dark Arts by bringing up Narcissa’s ties to the house of Black. But Harry was of course blocking out anything to do with Sirius, including the surprise of his rival’s disturbing presence at the funeral. The rest of Harry’s reading material for the summer had consisted mostly of Defense Against the Dark Arts books. He had gone back through all of the textbooks he had used in the past five years of schooling and made sure that he knew everything covered. He had also already read the entire textbook for the coming year, which he had ordered through Owl Post. Although he was still more than a little resentful of his expected duty in the upcoming war—to be a living weapon employed by Dumbledore, as it were—he knew better than to let his resentment of circumstances leave him unprepared. He had certainly learned that during his fourth year with the Triwizard Tournament. Besides, he wasn’t the only one training. The entire wizarding world was facing dark times, and everyone needed to be prepared for the war that was already building up. There had been a number of attacks already that summer, mostly small skirmishes whose only point seemed to be letting the Wizarding world know that Voldemort truly was back. The people were being lulled into a false sense of security, though; thinking that these small sorties and few casualties were the most Lord Voldemort could cause. But Harry knew better, having been exposed to the Dark Lord himself for years. Thankfully he was no longer privy to Voldemort’s private thoughts and visions since he had started practising Occlumency the year before. It was his Occlumency lessons, in fact, which brought him to Dumbledore’s office on a calm, rather balmy evening in early September. *** Albus Dumbledore looked over his gold-rimmed half-moon spectacles at the boy staring rather stonily back at him with his mother’s green eyes. This was Harry’s third Occlumency lesson with Dumbledore so far this term. He’d had a conference with the headmaster on his first night back to discuss Dumbledore’s taking over the lessons in Professor Snape’s stead. Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat; lightly sucking on the lemon drop that was still dissolving in his mouth. “Well, Harry, you’ve been doing remarkably well. This marked improvement shows how much effort you’ve put into your practice this summer,” he started kindly, only to be met with silence. “Yes, yes, and no more dreams involving Voldemort, I trust?” Dumbledore thought that Harry might have snorted at that, but it was quickly masked as the boy replied shortly, “No, sir. None of those dreams.” Dumbledore nodded sagely, as though this were somehow significant news. He liked to keep his students wondering. Harry, meanwhile, was quite quietly fuming. He was still rather frosty towards the headmaster, trapped behind the awkward embarrassment that still lingered from his blow-up at the old man last year. He did miss the grandfatherly relationship he’d shared with Dumbledore in the past, but he didn’t know anyway to get past the wall that he had himself erected. Even if he could have, he was by no means ready to trust Dumbledore with his inner thoughts and worries, nor any of the nightmares he’d had involving Voldemort. After all, no one is interested if my dreams aren’t far seeing or prophetic. If my dreams don’t have any valuable information, what does anyone care about the scarred mind of some sixteen year-old? He could have continued in this mental tirade—it being so familiar to him—but Dumbledore interrupted his bitter ruminations once again. “Yes, very good. Very good progress indeed, my boy.” Dumbledore seemed to realize that his compliments were not meeting with much reception, however, and switched tactics to a much more business-like tone. Stroking his long beard thoughtfully, he leant back in his chair, preferring to examine the arched ceiling above him with its gilded crossbeams flickering in the candlelight, than the resentful boy in front of him. “Yes, well, as we’ve discussed before, Harry, there have been a number of attacks this summer, but we in the Order believe this to be the proverbial calm before the storm. It seems to us that Voldemort’s actions were merely testing the precautions against him, to see just how vulnerable his victims are. It is likely that Voldemort will begin striking in earnest, now that his presence is well known and before there are yet any real measures taken against him. Knowing of his animosity towards you and owing to the circumstances, we, both the Order and the staff here at Hogwarts, must insist that you take part in special lessons beginning this year.” At this point, he glanced at the young Gryffindor. Harry stared rather blankly back at the headmaster, wondering resignedly just what these special lessons were to entail. Introductory Defeating Dark Lords? An Elementary Course in Saving the World? He didn’t have to wait long, though, for Dumbledore to elaborate. “Judging the current situation and the likelihood for skirmishes, we thought it would be prudent for you to be privy to some special tuition, mostly focussed on the magic that will be useful in combat- type situations. This will also assist you in your future endeavours towards Aurorship, as Professor McGonagall has informed me that you are hoping to apply for the Auror program.” Dumbledore appeared to follow that thought for a moment, before backing up and setting his speech firmly back on track. “This new schedule will include advance tuition in potions, charms, transfiguration, mediwizardry and duelling, both wizard duels and the more physical duelling involving muggle hand- to-hand and weaponry. And, of course, we will continue in our Occlumency and perhaps even begin teaching you some Legilimency, if you are up to the responsibility. Each evening will be assigned to one subject, leaving one open night a week for your Defence club, if you still intend to hold it.” Harry was a bit sidetracked by the mention of the D.A., the defence group that he had started with Hermione and Ron and which had grown into a large club sprawling across three of the four houses. Since they had arrived back at school three weeks past, there hadn’t yet been any discussion about getting back together again, but Harry supposed he should talk to others about it. Of course, it would be much harder to get together with everyone if all of his night’s were full but one. After all, with members from all the different houses and from many different years, the meetings had always been based as much as possible around everyone’s conflicting schedules. It seemed that from now on they would be based solely on Harry’s conflicting schedule. Not to mention Quidditch! he realized with a silent groan. He had been almost looking forward to getting back to Quidditch this year, as Umbridge had banned him for life in his fifth year. He presumed the ban was void, now that the mad cow had been sacked from both Hogwarts and the Ministry. Even though he knew that this new program had surely been devised for his own benefit, he couldn’t help but feel annoyed. His voice held a hint of bitter sarcasm and perhaps more than a hint of desperation as he asked, “Headmaster, I know that you all expect me to kill Voldemort, but how exactly am I supposed to learn all of these extracurricular lessons in addition to all of my N.E.W.T. courses? Not to mention Quidditch practices and games, and maybe even being a teenager from time to time?” Picking up steam now, he ignored Dumbledore opening his mouth to rebuke him and spoke in a rush, “You’ve already told me that I’m tied up in this prophecy—can’t this wait until I’m out of school, or when I’m actually an Auror, if I do become one?” As soon as the words left Harry’s mouth, though, he realized what he was saying. He didn’t need Dumbledore to reiterate it aloud, the thought was already racing through his head: It couldn’t wait. Every day that he tried to push the reality of the situation away meant that more people were dying uselessly in his place. Dumbledore recognized his understanding and nodded, looking sorrowful— when Harry wanted him to show anything but this infinite sadness and regret. He wanted Dumbledore to get angry, to be determined, to be strong, anything but the weakness on display in front of him. Harry had never wanted Albus Dumbledore to fail, hadn’t wanted to lose the image of a benevolent god-like figure who would swoop down to provide him with all the answers and save him from every pinch he found himself in. But now he was left staring in dim horror at the frail remains of an old man, speaking slowly in front of him. “If it were up to me, Harry, I would give you all the time in the world. But I fear that the world would not have very much time left if I did so.” *** Harry walked slowly through the thick stone corridors which led back to Gryffindor Tower. He was half avoiding his friends and all the questions they were sure to have. He could probably try to pass off all this new training as being due to Voldemort’s ever constant animosity towards himself. It was true, of course. But he still hadn’t told them about the prophecy which foretold either his murder of or murder by Voldemort. For reasons he couldn’t quite express, he didn’t want them to find out. Suddenly he remembered Hermione’s hesitant question back in third year: “Harry doesn’t want to kill anyone, do you, Harry?” No, he thought bitterly, I don’t want to kill anyone, Hermione. But I don’t have much choice anymore, do I? He had, of course, had murderous impulses before. He still hated Wormtail with a passion unparalleled, except perhaps by his hatred for Belletrix Lestrange. Both had taken away the only family he’d had. But the rage was one thing, thinking he might like someone dead or even thinking about killing someone, all ended up as empty speculation when he was faced with the real thing. Then he realized that he couldn’t end another life, even if it were the life of a miserable human being who had caused nothing but suffering for Harry. Maybe I am just a scared little boy, he thought to himself. But of course he was. He didn’t have any particularly stunning magical prowess, no special powers. What was supposed to save him? Love? No, love only got those who cared for him killed. Deep in his musings, Harry hadn’t noticed that he’d passed the corridor that turned to go to Gryffindor Tower. Instead he was heading into some section of the dungeons he hadn’t seen before. The whole area was dusty and seemed to be in disuse. He didn’t spot any doors leading off the corridor and wondered absently if there might be any hidden rooms down here, wishing that he had the Marauder’s Map on him. Marauders. Sirius. Oh. Letting his train of thought shudder to a stop, he turned back round, taking vague note of where the corridor hedged back into the main part of the castle for future reference. Always good to know extra hiding places from Filtch. He made his way back again toward Gryffindor Tower, managing to keep his mind off Sirius by fretting instead about what he would tell his best friends. *** After giving the Fat Lady the password (“Ice Pops”), he was surprised and almost pleased to find Ron and Hermione getting along peacefully for a change. He couldn’t be completely pleased, because if they had been arguing, they wouldn’t pay him much notice. Oh well, I would have to explain it eventually. Even Ron would notice if he were gone every night for hours at a time. Harry’s best friends had looked up at him from their congenial chess match, which Ron was unsurprisingly winning. Hermione’s face in particular openly showed all her sympathy and worry for anyone present to see. Lucky for Harry, then, that there was no one else left in the common room. “Oh, Harry, you’re back. How was the Occlumency lesson? You’re later than usual tonight. Didn’t everything go smoothly?” There was a hint of steel in that last query, as Hermione still didn’t understand just why Harry was so cold and critical toward Dumbledore this year. She had tried to imply that his behaviour was due to Sirius’death, but Harry had cut her off harshly before she could even finish her statement. Since that shocking incident, neither she nor Ron had tried to bring up Sirius in Harry’s presence. Tired and not wanting to beat around the bush, only to have Hermione pry it out of him eventually, he sat down in one of the overstuffed armchairs that littered the room and launched into his explanation. He started off rather awkwardly, telling them, “Actually, things didn’t go all that well. Dumbledore wants me to take all these extra lessons, which are pretty much just warfare and fighting. After all, I’m The Boy Who Lived once again and it just wouldn’t be so effective a symbol if The Boy Who Lived died.” Ron swallowed hard at the thought of his best friend dying, but didn’t say anything as Harry went on to explain how he would have to meet with the professors every night. Hermione, trying to be pragmatic and yet praise the Hogwarts staff simultaneously as usual, said rather stiffly, “Well, Professor Dumbledore is only looking out for your best interests. You know how much of a target you are, Harry. The headmaster surely just wants to be sure you can fight for yourself.” Harry’s mouth tightened and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes when he heard Hermione’s words. “Oh, no, if I’m fighting for anyone, it’s definitely not for myself,” he muttered bitterly. Taken aback by his friend’s rancour, Ron blustered into the conversation, “Well, all that extra training and fighting and all should come in handy for the D.A., right? Just think of all the great things that you could teach us now. You are still going to teach, right? Come on, we should plan the first meeting for the new year!” Ron looked pleased with what he imagined to be his suave changing of the subject, but Harry pushed himself tiredly out of his chair. Looking away from his friend’s eager eyes, he absently brushed his hair out of his eyes, baring the glaring red scar on his forehead. “Yeah, well, I’ll figure out this new schedule and then I’ll set the coins so everyone knows we’re still on, okay? Right now, I’m going to try to get some sleep. It’s been a long night.” He left his friends by the fire, where they watched silently as he climbed the stairs, fading into the darkness. *** It was only later that night, as Harry lay on his bed, staring at the complicated new timetable he had received from Dumbledore, that he remembered something else that the old man had said. Harry, still angry, had complained of how frustrated he was at being used all the time, as if he had no mind of his own: “It’s my life, isn’t throwing it away my decision?” But he had been severely put-off when Dumbledore’s only reaction had been to pause for a moment, as if in surprise, and cock his head to the side, musing thoughtfully, “You know, I had a boy in my office just last week, saying the very same thing. Curious how these things work out.” Even now, Harry was dumbfounded by the headmaster’s seemingly random comment. And, despite himself, he couldn’t help but wonder just who the professor had been talking about. *** Several days later, Harry found himself once again singled out before the familiar figures of the D.A., their eager faces shining in anticipation of whatever pearls of wisdom he would bestow upon them this year. He couldn’t decide just how he felt in the face of their adoration. At first, he probably had been flattered by their respect, feeling like he could finally live up to his name. But now he resented their expectations for him to be the hero, to be some super-human power. No one expected him to be just another moody, hormone-driven, immature Sixth Year like them. No, that wasn’t right: no one allowed him to be just another moody, hormone-driven, immature Sixth Year like them. All his life, Harry had been a symbol. When he was with the Dursleys, he had been a symbol of everything they had hated, everything unnatural and abhorrent in their world. When he had first entered the Wizarding world, he had been a symbol of hope; his very existence was their world’s proof that good could triumph against overwhelming odds. But since Voldemort’s return, he had lost any humanity he might have once held with the rest of Wizardkind. No one viewed him as Harry Potter, sixth former and quidditch Seeker at Hogwarts School. He was irrevocably the Boy Who Lived, and he would save them all. Likely it had always been like this and he had been too immature and sheltered at Hogwarts to see what was really going on around him. When he had first found out he was a wizard, everything had been so bright and new, so inspiring when compared to the dull drudgery of life with the Dursleys. He saw the bright and gaily dressed crowds, extravagant in a rainbow swirl of cloaks. He didn’t yet know the terror that could be hidden in the dark shadows beneath a concealing cowl. Upon his first trip to Diagon Alley, he never would have imagined there would be a place like Knockturn Alley so closely entwined with the festive streets. When he had first heard of Albus Dumbledore, he never imagined that there could be someone like Voldemort in the world, a dark reflection of Dumbledore’s light. Sometimes he wondered, as if the whole subject were unrelated to him: how could the adults do it? How could they expect some scrawny, underdeveloped little boy to do what they could not? Was it just them wanting to foist responsibility off on someone else or did they really believe he could actually save them? He, who had no special talents, who hadn’t even finished school yet. Didn’t they realize he was a child? They were once children themselves, and yet they expected him to be so much more than they had ever been. His parents had died for him, but that didn’t prove anything more than that his parents loved him, as any other parents should love their child. That didn’t make him special, there were many orphans in his generation. He had somehow lived through the Death curse, Avada Kedavra. But as for how he had survived, the only thing he knew was what Dumbledore had told him long ago: that his mother’s love had protected him—a type of ancient magic, the oldest magic of all. So, maybe his mother would have been a spectacular witch, but he sure wasn’t a spectacular wizard. He needed Hermione to even pass his classes with the lowest marks. And there was Hermione, with the rest the club, watching him with that lemming-like drive to follow him, even as he lead them into the depths of hell. How could shelook at him like that, she who spent nights lecturing him over and over, going over charms till they lost count, just so that he might scrape through on the next test. What could she see in him? He wasn’t even a good leader— and yet here he was, leading again. “Welcome back to the D.A.,” he said, trying not to dwell on their choice of names. As if he wanted to be a part of anything associated with that old man anymore. Knowing none of the others would understand his change of heart, he continued, “I realize that we disbanded under rather… extreme circumstances last year…” There were a few nervous titters as they remembered Umbridge and her Inquisitor Squad. But the Squad, like the rest of her Nuremberg laws, had been thrown out along with her. “And although with Umbridge gone there’s no longer any specific reason for us to hide ourselves, to be some sort of secret society, I still think that in the current situation…” He trailed off, realizing how awkward this sounded coming from him. He had never been very good at speech making. Looking to Hermione helplessly, Harry was relieved when she continued on without hesitation, stepping up next to him. “Given the current situation and atmosphere of the Wizarding world,” she started primly, “we feel it would be more prudent for the D.A. to continue its activities in a concealed manner. It does not mean that we will not welcome new members; however, we will leave the invitation of new members to your discretion. Those of you still remaining in the D.A. are trusted explicitly, as you have proved yourself in the last year.” No one needed reminding of Marietta Edgecombe and the price of her defection. “If you trust someone enough to tell them of the D.A., then we will trust your judgement and allow them to join. But choose carefully.” As she said this, Hermione tried not to look too blatantly at Neville, who everyone could agree was the biggest liability in the group. There were more than a few nervous glances in his direction. “We simply don’t have the time, resources or energy necessary to screen each new member. And there should be no more incidences such as last year when we were in grave danger for illegal actions. “As such, you may wonder why we are going to these lengths to preserve secrecy. Although it’s true that our group is no longer openly under attack, we cannot ignore that in actuality the entire Wizarding world is under attack. Our training here need not be common knowledge. Why should we give our enemies any advantages by knowing our strengths? In these days of darkness in which distrust and suspicion run rampant, let us not open ourselves to such accusations! Let us remain as a trustedand trusting group, that we might absolve ourselves of such paranoia that would tear us apart and leave us only more open to attack.” Even Harry felt slightly taken aback by Hermione’s sudden vehemence. He hadn’t been expecting such a rapturous speech out of her, merely an explanation of the new terms. He commended her for her eloquence with a slightly less enthusiastic, “Er… right, Hermione. Thanks. As we were saying… yes, well, we will be accepting new members. But we won’t be starting at the beginning again. Every new member you bring in will be your responsibility and you must bring them up to snuff with what we have learned here in the D.A. If there is a legit reason why you can’t, then one of your fellow senior members can help you. “Otherwise, this year we will be focussing mainly on duelling.” There was a brief cheer and the students ranged in front of Harry looked slightly heartened. He felt a tiny flare of dark pleasure as snapped sharply, “But don’t imagine that this will be anything like the duelling you may have done before. True enough, we will start at the beginning, with elementary duelling: counting down, taking turns at curses. But by the end of the year, you should be up to duelling with multiple partners, and defending yourself against unexpected attacks and what might seem to be unusual measures, such as muggle fighting and weapon combat. Our final testing for the year will be an attack. One of us will attack each one of you, probably in the last term, since I don’t imagine anyone will be advanced enough before then.” Harry took a moment to glare at Zacharias, who faltered in his gloating. It felt rather good. “This will be an unmitigated surprise attack, made by an unknown person with unknown abilities. It may not even seem like an attack at the start. You will need to evaluate the situation and react appropriately.” Realizing with a small smirk that he sounded like some drill sergeant from a television program Dudley was likely to watch, Harry paused for a moment to savour his captive audience. “But, of course, we aren’t ready for all that yet. We’ll start at the beginning. Everyone, pair up.” *** Much of Harry’s planning for this new year with the D.A. had been influenced by his meeting with Remus Lupin earlier that week. They’d had an awkward start when Lupin had tried to talk to Harry about Sirius’death, and Harry had refused to listen. Once they had got past that, though, Harry had realized that Remus Lupin had quite a bit else to say. The professor seemed rather uncomfortable in his assigned role as Harry’s duelling instructor and had laughed sheepishly at himself as he admitted that he’d never taught fighting skills to anyone else before, aside from the ‘teaching’ provided in school-yard scuffles. That first night they didn’t get into any physical contact, although Harry was taught some basic stretching and warm-ups, and introduced to the serialized motions that Lupin called patin. Harry didn’t quite yet understand the purpose behind the patin, but it wasn’t critical for him to do so just yet, or so Lupin had told him. “It will all come together later, Harry. The patin are the central aspect of the fighting practised by werewolves.” Seeing Harry’s curiousness, Lupin explained briefly, “After your parents’ death, Sirius’betrayal and Peter’s supposed murder, I retreated to a lycanthrope community for a number of years, finding comfort in the simplicity of life there… and the isolation.” Harry was taken aback, as he had never before thought of what it must have been like for Lupin in those dark days, with all of his closest friends and companions either betrayed to their deaths or betraying him. He hadn’t ever thought to ask just what Lupin had been up to in the decade or so before he had come to Hogwarts. He didn’t have time to feel more than embarrassed, though, as Lupin had continued on. “As I’ve said, much of the patin won’t really make sense initially. Once you’ve learned the basics, we’ll start applying the moves to hand to hand combat and continue on from there—until you are able to hold your own in a fight. We’ll also be adding weapons in as we go along, and a portion of each of our meetings will be dedicated to magical duelling, as well. “The first, and most important lesson for me to impart upon you, though,” Professor Lupin paused and chuckled under his breath, “is constant vigilance. Now, I don’t intentionally mean to sound like Mad-Eye, nor am I aping his teachings; however, the most important skill I can teach you is awareness of your surroundings. Despite all the potions, charms and spells that you learn, the one thing most likely to keep you alive is this awareness. I want you to take note of everything around you.” He smiled reprovingly at Harry as the boy looked around searchingly. “Not just now, but from here on out. This isn’t just when you enter an unknown area or encounter a suspicious person, this is all the time. “You must always be aware, especially a boy… excuse me, a young man in your position, Harry. So watch people: learn what their body language tells you, learn the little ticks and signs that might tell you that someone is lying or nervous or fearful, anything you can pick up. Always judge an area that you enter by what you can use in it. What might be used as a weapon, either by you or against you? Look at the floor: is there anything for you to trip over, any uneven stones you would need to watch out for when staying on your feet could mean life or death? And always be aware of the most expedient way out of a situation—doors, windows, corridors and dead ends. These are just a few of the things you should keep in mind.” After the two-hour lesson, Lupin had only a few more words for Harry. “Now please do make an effort to recall that this is just the beginning. As you progress, I want you to make certain you don’t make the mistake of thinking that you’re unbeatable. There will always be someone in this world better than you, Harry. Remember that. There’s always some one more powerful, more intelligent or just plain quicker than you. Don’t let overconfidence lead you to your death.” Neither needed reminding of all the people they had known, whom this had been true of. *** And then, of course, there had been transfiguration with McGonagall. The old Scot had warmed considerably toward Harry since the last year, but not nearly so much as Harry had warmed toward her, in light of her treatment of Umbridge. She was, of course, still stiff and strict and generally known as the hardest teacher at Hogwarts School. (You might think that Snape would be up for that role, but Snape wasn’t fair. Snape was just a bastard. McGonagall was unequivocally the same hard- ass to all her students: all houses, all years.) Despite their new mutual understanding, though, the first thing McGonagall said to Harry when he found himself in her classroom that Tuesday night was a sharp bark of, “Sit down, Potter!” He dropped hastily into the nearest desk, feeling altogether like a first year again, late on the first day. McGonagall launched immediately into speech, telling him severely, “Now don’t you go imagining that you’ll be receiving the same lackadaisical treatment in our lessons here as you seem to expect in class. I said last year that I would help you become an Auror, and I meant it. I don’t care what that—” Her nostrils flared dangerously, turning white against the strain of refraining from profanity, “… that sorry excuse for a professor last year said. I said you would be an Auror and so then you shall. Have you ever known me to go back on my word?” she snapped when she saw his face, which must have looked quite uncertain. “Then I won’t have any doubting. If say I’m going to do something, I’ll do it, Potter.” She paused to pick up the parchment on her desk, giving the writing—which he quickly decided must be his O.W.L. results—a brief once over before fixing an even more critical look on Harry. She folded the paper over in a sharp decisive movement, then continued, “Well, Harry.” She stumbled a bit on his name, unaccustomed as she was to using it. “It seems you scraped through with enough O.W.L.s—for starting, anyway. Although I was quite disappointed with your transfiguration practical.” Harry spluttered a bit as he had gotten “Exceeds Expectations” in both the practical and written examinations. McGonagall looked him sternly, telling him, “You could have gotten O’s all across the board, Potter. And I won’t have you holding yourself back in these private lessons.” Harry felt a bit bemused and embarrassed, as he smiled weakly, “Professor, while I appreciate your… er, high opinion of me, I’m really not holding back. I’m just reallynot that good at Transfiguration.” “Potter!” He jumped at the sharp tone of voice. “Don’t talk back to me, boy! If I said you’re good, then you are!” She took a deep breath. “Now, as I was saying: I’ve seen you holding back in my class, particularly around that Weasley friend of yours. I understand, of course,” she said in a rather pained voice, as if trying to understand her student’s feelings was an unusual and arduous task, “that it must be difficult with all the expectations placed upon you. And whether conscious or unconscious,” she looked rather doubtful of the latter, “you’ve been holding yourself back to your friends’ level, not wanting to appear overly able or to over-achieve. Now, I know that you’re not a braggart, Potter. But that doesn’t mean you should limit yourself for those around you. Maybe you won’t hurt them, but you’ll definitely hurt yourself.” All speech making aside, McGonagall made him redo the lessons for the week. (Transfiguring clothes into different materials.) In class they had merely been transfiguring t-shirts into jumpers or rain jackets or those sorts of practical things. Once he proved his proficiency at these, McGonagall set him to transfiguring his clothes into more armour-like materials: impenetrable to projectiles, or padded from blows, even fire resistant and bullet proof—not that it was likely a wizard would ever use a gun. Harry was a bit uncomfortable with the rather violent implications behind these transfigurations and McGonagall was surprisingly adept at this type of fare. Harry was disinclined to ask where she had learned it. He wasn’t sure if her speech had set some courage or faith in him, or if it had been in him all along, but after her stern talking-to, Harry found he did have less problems with Transfiguration; he was able to perform the new tasks she set for him without fail, as opposed to his ramshackle and desolate results in class. However, after their initial meeting he had continued to perform as usual in her class, only doing better when his grade was in danger. He tried to ignore the glares McGonagall shot at him each time she passed his desk, where each newly failed project was displayed prominently. *** If McGonagall had been enlightening or inspiring in the least, though, Flitwick’s lesson had to be the most frustrating thus far. Although Harry ought to have been honoured that the diminutive professor had deigned to teach him wandless magic, he was mostly just annoyed. As Flitwick himself had said, wandless magic wasn’t really something you were taught. There was no specific gestures or set phrases to trigger the magic. You could either do it or you couldn’t. And so far, Harry couldn’t. They had started with ‘simple’ elementals, as Flitwick told Harry, “Elemental magic can be some of the most powerful—and thus unpredictable—magic there is. It is also one of the types of magic that most wizards and witches have a propensity towards accessing, when attempting wandless magic, and wizarding children often accidentally light things on fire or move things with their magic when feeling strongly about something.” This reminded Harry of the incident when he had found himself on top of the school roof, while being chased by Dudley’s gang. Now that he was a wizard he could explain that he had done something like Apparition, but he still couldn’t begin to explain how an untrained school-age wizard could Apparate. So Harry had spent the next hour and a half staring relentlessly at a matchstick, willing it to burn. It was doubly frustrating since he knew he could make it light by dragging it across the pitted desktop, or with a simple incantation. By the end of the night, all he had succeeded in was making the matchstick grow warm in his fingers and perhaps smoke a bit, but then maybe the smoke had been from his brain overheating. Flitwick had seemed uncomfortably supportive, patting Harry on the small of his back (as that was the highest he could reach) and chuckling, “Well, no one gets it on their first try. Diagon Alley wasn’t built in a day, you know!” But even the professor seemed a bit shocked that the Boy Who Lived hadn’t managed any amazing feats on his first day. “After all, you’ve been wand-broken all these years. And you’ve proved yourself more than sufficient there,” he chortled heartily, “Imagine, a third year producing a Patronus! It’ll just take some time, as you figure out a new way to think.” Still, Harry left feeling more disheartened than he had since he’d first been told of these lessons. *** Of course, that didn’t even compare to how he felt now. As he watched the D.A. members walking their way through the first steps of duelling, he was really dreading his meeting with Snape the next night. He had avoided any interaction with Hogwart’s Potion Master outside of class, where he had no choice. After Harry had seen into Snape’s pensieve the previous year, he had been rather afraid to be alone with the professor, who had been more vicious than usual and more than a little unhinged at the end of last year. Noticing that Hermione was watching him in a concerned manner, he smiled falsely and took a more active approach in the lesson. He walked around the room, critiquing stances and handing out compliments on creative curses, helping Dean Thomas out by reattaching his arm (the artistic Gryffindor had the misfortune to be partnered with Neville.) Eventually the group fell apart naturally, with Harry calling after the trailing students with a reminder, “Same time next week!” *** Sleep came reluctantly to Harry that night, as he addled himself with thoughts of all the different ways Snape could torture him. He was in a daze as he stumbled into the common room early the next morning, aiming to finish his Care of Magical Creature’s essay that was due that afternoon. He had only continued to take the class out of loyalty to Hagrid, since he didn’t need it for the Auror test. Though Harry had to admit that Hagrid had been doing a better job at introducing magical creatures that the students were actually likely to encounter in the war. Thankfully his actual standards hadn’t changed at all, so if Harry centred his whole essay on how misunderstood Dragons were (“those poisonous claws are solely for rightful defence”) and threw in a few facts (“the 1732 Rampage, in which 38 wizards were killed, was completely provoked”) then he was sure to pass with flying colours. Harry thought that he ought to feel guilty about this obvious manipulation of his friend, but he was too weighed down with the stress of his N.E.W.T. courses, plus the extra lessons, to really be bothered. By the time Ron came stumbling down the tower with the rest of the upper Gryffindor boys, Harry had finished his essay and was chatting with Hermione about how to proceed with the D.A. over in a quiet corner. They quickly ended their conversation and were up and ready to leave with the rest of their year mates by the time everyone was tumbling out the door in the rush for food. In the Great Hall, Harry went almost unnoticed at the rowdy Gryffindor table—falling into his familiar role of glaring at Malfoy, ignoring Cho’s end of the Ravenclaw table and laughing at the boys’ ribald jokes while arguing quidditch. He slipped into this role easily from years of experience and it was simple to give his overworked mind a break. *** Only when walking into the cold, dark atmosphere of the dungeons did Harry come back to himself and remember his impending doom. Snape seemed to have had no such wavering, as he shot Harry a glare so potent that the Gryffindor actually stopped in his tracks and caused Ron and Hermione to run into him from behind and stumble. Snape smiled maliciously and Harry knew it would only get worse. The rest of the class trailed in, in that thick silence that was so prevalent in the potions dungeon. Once everyone was seated and pulling out their supplies, Snape’s smile (if you could call such an abomination a smile) grew and in his soft, dangerous voice, he spoke. “Don’t get too comfortable. Today we will be starting work on Veritaserum, a very fragile and unstable potion which will take us the greater part of a month to prepare. For the duration of this assignment, you shall be working with a single partner. Whom I will of course assign to you.” There were no outraged groans, as most the Gryffindors had come to expect this and most the Slytherins knew that partners would be assigned as most advantageous to them. Resigned, Harry glanced at Malfoy—who he would surely be stuck with, since Snape (and the rest of the world) knew of the boys’ animosity toward each other. He was surprised to find the pale boy looking curiously blank, as if lost in thought. Snape had already started reeling off names and Harry watched as Hermione reluctantly drug her cauldron over to Pansy Parkinson and Ron fumed as he moved to stand by Goyle, banging his cauldron as much as possible. The real shocker came when Harry was paired with Malfoy. Of course, Harry had expected that he would get stuck with the Slytherin—no, it was rather Snape’s attitude that was so shocking. He glared malevolently at Harry as he drawled out, “Potter, Harry.” But then he turned a similar glare on Malfoy as he called out the other boy’s name. He smiled silkily as he sneered, “That is, if you think you can deal with the Boy Who Lived to Fail at Potions.” Normally this insult would be directed at Harry and Snape might even sound concerned for Draco. Today he was purposefully insulting Malfoy. Roughly half the Slytherins snickered while the other half stared staring stonily ahead and Malfoy looked even more blank than before, as if nothing had happened. Harry was still staring in shock, his mind trying to get around the fact that Snape had just sneered at Malfoy, when the boy in question turned his burning silver eyes on him, asking coldly, “Have you become deaf as well as dumb, Potter? Surely you don’t expect me to sully myself in Gryffindor territory?” Harry would have regularly argued, but just obeyed mutely while he continued to reel in shock. He drug his cauldron over to where Malfoy had carefully lined up his expensive porcelain knives, their mahogany and silver plated handles gleaming in the light of the numerous candelabra. Although the dungeons in general were ill-lit and gloomy (no doubt, to preserve the intimidating impression), the N.E.W.T. potions classroom was usually illuminated to prevent mistakes in their delicate brews. It was only on occasions when Snape wanted to appear particularly fearsome that he indulged in the low lighting and deep shadows. Harry mightn’t have normally noticed such things, but he was making an effort to be more observant of his surroundings. Now he peered closely at the boy next to him. When Malfoy had called Harry over, he had been as disdainful and insulting as ever and he certainly didn’t seem to be bothered at all by Snape’s suddenly scornful attitude toward him, instead of pampering the former Slytherin poster boy. But, wait: although his face didn’t betray him and even the hands that smoothly minced his Augury liver were free of any tremors or shaking, Harry noticed a faint flush staining the boy’s throat, above the high collar of his robes. Malfoy seemed to notice him staring, though, and looked back at Harry blankly for a moment, eyes reflecting like dull mirrors, before drawling out, “If you continue to sit there like a lump, Potter, I will take points.” He then sneered at Harry’s surprised expression, tapping his prefect badge in reminder. Embarrassed, since he should have expected something similarly prickish from Malfoy, Harry stormed away—wanting to beat the smirk off of that prat’s pointy little face. He smiled in commiseration with Ron, who was grimacing at Goyle’s slipshod preparations, mixing incompatible and roughly chopped ingredients on the dirty table. (Crabbe hadn’t made it into N.E.W.T. potions and no one could honestly understand how Goyle had managed—though likely it had involved foul play on the part of the Slytherins.) As he collected the revealing potion that they would use as a base, he noticed that Hermione seemed to be actually talking with Pansy, although her face looked a bit like she had been asked to try to talk intelligibly with a flobberworm: a mix of doubt, surprise and disgust. Carrying the flasks of both his and Malfoy’s potions back to the table, Harry flinched at the sound of Snape’s voice. “You should all be collecting the Revealing Potions from last week. If you could not manage even as simple a potion as that, you have no chance at creating anything as complicated and fragile as Veritaserum. Yet regardless of your surely abysmal failure, you must at least attempt the potion. The instructions are on the board,” he waved his wand lazily and line upon line of the Potion Master’s cramped scrawling appeared. “You will find yourself unable to copy down the recipe, as it is too valuable for foolish students to possess and duplicate, perhaps thinking it a good prank. Due to the charm, you will also find yourself unable to recall the potion’s ingredients when you are outside class. The instructions will be displayed in this classroom only, for the next month as we work on the potion.” As Harry looked at the instructions on display, he realized that this potion was truly as difficult and complex as Snape had warned them. He was almost glad, in a bizarre way, to be partnered with Malfoy. He knew the boy would not let them mess up this potion. Although he loved to get one up on Harry, Malfoy would not sacrifice his own grade to do it. Of course, Harry thought to himself, Malfoy’s grade isn’t nearly as guaranteed now, is it? He still wasn’t sure how to explain the professor’s bizarre new attitude and Malfoy certainly wasn’t volunteering any information. Although the Slytherin boy had looked inordinately pleased, more pleased than Harry had seen him all term, when Snape announced loudly at the end of class, “Don’t forget, Potter. Remedial potions tonight.” *** The conflict in the hall, like most of their altercations, arose from some simple biting comment. As they all tramped out of the dungeons, mixing with the rest of the variegated crowd, Malfoy had somehow ended up right next to Harry as they were stuck almost stationary in the crush. Harry hadn’t noticed, so he jumped when Malfoy hissed in his ear, “You better not screw up on this potion, Potter.” Harry wrenched his head to the side and was surprised to see those glittering eyes inches from his own. Malfoy drawled softly in his face, “Though, that’s probably asking too much, isn’t it? Really, Potter, remedial potions… again?” Harry glanced around to confirm that both Ron and Hermione were several yards down the hall from him, though they both were visually struggling to regain their usual positions on either side of him as they had realized that Malfoy and his goons had Harry alone. Goyle was grinning mercilessly and Crabbe had caught up with them from somewhere as well. Just as Harry geared up for one of their usual spats, Malfoy froze as some little second-year Slytherin rudely shoved him aside on his way through. His supercilious shocked expression was comical, or at least Harry thought so as he snorted to himself. But he wasn’t loud enough to disguise the underclassmen’s slur: “Watch out, Malfoy,” he sneered, “Better make room for the up and coming.” Harry was slightly surprised, as Malfoy had always had perfect control over Slytherin house. And here this upstart came around insulting the Prince of Slytherins? He glanced toward Malfoy and his sycophants, wondering what they’d do next. Malfoy’s expression was the same as ever as he turned on the boy, speaking in the deceptively soft voice that Snape often used, “You ought to learn to respect your elders, boy. We wouldn’t want you to disgrace Slytherin house.” The kid seemed to have a death wish, though, as he laughed openly in the sixth-year’s face. “I’m not the one that’s a disgrace to Slytherin house. Really, respect for a Malfoy?” He smiled darkly, an expression for too cold and knowing for a boy his age, “Your father is out of the inner circle, Draco, and with him went any chances youhad in the new order.” By this time, Hermione and Ron had caught up with them. Ron was smirking gladly and Hermione watched, quite shocked, the proceedings. Malfoy’s mouth had tightened slightly, but other than that he gave no sign that he had heard the boy. Barely nodding to Crabbe and Goyle, the two took up the gauntlet and hauled the second year away through the crowd. Harry opened his mouth, but whether it was to continue their argument or to make a comment about what had just occurred, even he didn’t know. Before he could say anything, Malfoy looked at him with that blank expression once again and muttered, “We Slytherins take care of our own.” Then his glare focussed back on Harry, and he continued, with an unholy smile, “While I’d love to continue this thrilling conversation, Potter, I’ve got better things to do—second years to torture, kittens to sacrifice, you know how it is.” Was Malfoy actually joking with him? “Besides,” Malfoy glared pointedly at Hermione, “wouldn’t want to get any mud on my robes.” No, definitely not then. Before the trio could do anything but splutter indignantly, he had swept off in the wake of his two lumbering bodyguards. As the Gryffindors turned purposefully to stride away in the opposite direction, Harry couldn’t help looking back over his shoulder at the retreating Slytherin. Ron was muttering about new ways to destroy the ‘ferret’, but Hermione seemed lost in more serious thoughts. She spoke out unexpectedly, exclaiming “How interesting.” But Harry and Ron couldn’t get anything more out of her than that. *** Finally, it couldn’t be put off any longer. Potions with Snape. After loitering in the halls for nearly fifteen minutes, Harry knocked on the potions door at precisely seven o’clock sharp. Receiving no response from within, he tentatively opened the door. He saw the Potions Master standing with his back to Harry, hands clasped tightly behind him. He did not acknowledge Harry’s presence immediately, so the boy decided to go ahead with his own plan. “Er… Professor Snape?” He started uncertainly as the Potion Master still gave no sign as to whether he was even listening or not. “Uh… sir, I… um, I wanted to apologize.” Still no response other than a quick twitch. “I know that looking into your Pensieve last year was wrong of me, and I’m sorry for it. But it did help me realize something.” Now came the part that Harry was dreading the most. He spoke in a rush, as if that could make it easier, “Youwereright, sir. My father could be a complete git. I hadn’t wanted to believe it, but he really could be.” Harry stopped there but the older man still seemed to be waiting for something more. Speaking more slowly and unsurely, Harry continued, “I suppose I’ve made a bad habit of seeing people as what I want them to be, not what they are. And I’ve been mistaken more than once,” Harry sounded bitter as he spoke and though he couldn’t say it aloud, he knew he might have been mistaken about Snape as well. After all, the man had been right about his father and he was on Dumbledore’s side: a reformed Death Eater, he’d given up everything in order to turn traitor. Perhaps Snape was thinking along the same lines, as he turned back to Harry and gave a short bark of a laugh. It was perhaps the first time Harry had ever heard the professor laugh. Then he sneered, “You wouldn’t be the first, Potter. I’ve made a fair share of those mistakes myself.” Harry smiled tentatively and was rewarded by the Potion Master snapping, “Get to work.” But he had the feeling something had changed that night. They began work on an Invisibility Potion, which Harry thought would be much more useful than his father’s old Invisibility cloak. A potion couldn’t get caught on things or tripped over to reveal him at inopportune times, as his cloak had in the past. They went through the potion together, Snape quizzing him the entire time and more often lecturing him as he got things wrong. “Stop, Potter!” Harry froze, with a beaker of thestral blood still poised above the cauldron. “The yew,” Snape hissed in warning, “You’ve got to add the yew sap first, Potter. What are you trying to do?” Harry couldn’t think of an answer that wouldn’t infuriate the professor, so he just shrugged inelegantly. Snape made a sound of frustration as he asked rhetorically (or at least Harry assumed it was rhetorical, since he never knew the answer to any of Snape’s questions), “Why do we add yew sap to this potion, boy?” Unsurprising to either of them, Harry had no answer and so the professor continued on scathingly, “Potter! What are the properties of yew?” Harry thought back to distant herbology lessons and tried to pull the hazy memories to mind, “Uh, well, yew is associated with the rune Eoh, right? So, um, it can—it’s poisonous and… associated with death?” Snape reiterated his statement bitingly, “Yes, Potter, it’s ‘associated with death’. To be slightly more specific, though, it is associated with the transitive properties of death. As such, it can be used simply in poisons, but is also used often in potions that require a trance-like state. For example, Veritaserum. It is also commonly used in potions that are associated with transformation. Now, Potter,” he asked sardonically, “would not an Invisibility Potion be a transformative potion?” Harry nodded in embarrassment, mumbling, “Yes, sir. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” Snape seemed slightly taken aback by Harry’s lack of rancor. “Yes, well, Potter, any second year worth his salt would have. Now that you are so duly informed, could you tell me why it would not be prudent to add the thestral blood until after you have added the yew sap and allowed it to simmer properly?” When Harry continued to look blank, Snape snapped at him condescendingly, but not in the same insulting, well, purposefully insulting manner as usual, “Potter. How can I explain this to someone as thick as you? The yew has transformational properties. The thestral blood has invisibility properties. The order in which you add them is critical. “Think of it as if you must first tell the potion what it’s action is—in this case, to transform the imbiber in some way, by means of the yew—then to tell it the specifics of that action—to cause invisibility in the imbiber, by means of the thestral blood. Can you even get your head around something as simplified as that?” Suddenly it made much more sense to Harry, who had never before thought about why you added the ingredients in a special order to a potion. It all ends up a great mess in the same pot anyway, right? He didn’t normally think about what the individual ingredients did either, just followed the instructions set out for him. These failures on his part might also explain some of his less than stellar attempts at cooking, just as well as his lack of success in potions class. Snape must have seen some sign of understanding on Harry’s face because he went on in a slightly gentler (for Snape) tone of voice, now only sounding mildly vindictive, “Good enough, Potter. That’ll do for going on. After all, you did pass your O.W.L.s in order to make it into my N.E.W.T. class. You couldn’t be completely hopeless.” *** Although his friends had been horridly curious after that lesson, Harry hadn’t really told them what had occurred with Snape. After all, it wasn’t as if the feared Potions professor had actually been nice or anything. Harry supposed that it was only because he had built up such a tolerance to Snape over the years that his present attitude seemed almost pleasant in comparison. He no longer attacked Harry without provocation in class and in a most bizarre turn of events, was actually treating Harry better than he treated the Malfoy heir. Harry brought that up with his friends one morning over breakfast. “So, have you guys noticed that things seem a bit odd with Malfoy this year?” Ron stared at him incredulously, his expression aided by the piece of toast still hanging out of his open mouth. “Well, mate, I figure things have been a bit different for the little blighter since you got his dad packed off to prison. Maybe knock him down a couple pegs, right?” Hermione looked at Ron in disgust before turning more introspective, musing to Harry, “There has been an odd tension in Slytherin house, this year. And perhaps,” she sent a scathing glare at Ron, who was now shovelling down the eggs as if they might disappear at any given moment, “just perhaps, Ron is right.” And indeed he was, as the tables magically cleared themselves and he bit down hard on his now sparkling clean fork. “It seems that Lucius Malfoy’s absence has had greater repercussions around the school than we might have expected. “I’ve been wondering about it myself. You both remember what happened in the hall two weeks ago? The day that we started the Veritaserum project? Well, ever since then I’ve been watching the Slytherins much more carefully.” She looked away from the boys, affecting digging through her bag as they all got to their feet and made their way out of the Great Hall. “In fact, Pansy Parkinson has been trying to talk to me about it,” she said carefully, avoiding looking at Ron as he spluttered in outrage. “You’ve been talking to Pansy Parkinson?” he spat disbelievingly. She glared back at him sharply. It seemed to Harry that stupid ‘White Horses’ charm that she’d roped him into hadn’t done much for those two. “Look, I didn’t want to listen to her at first either; it’s not like she’s pleasant or anything. But what she’s been saying is really starting to make sense.” She lowered her voice, looking around them warily, “Ever since Malfoy’s father was convicted and ousted from his place in the Death Eater’s, Malfoy’s lost credibility. There’s been a split in Slytherin, between those still loyal to Malfoy and those who are trying to take his place in Voldemort’s ranks.” Harry asked her frankly, “Are you trying to imply that Draco Malfoy is against Voldemort in some way?” She shook her head immediately, saying thoughtfully, “No, not at all. All I’m saying is that while Malfoy still has his name and money, he no longer has his friends in high places. He can’t have his father try to sway the school governors, or put pressure on Snape, or bribe his way onto the Quidditch team any longer. And he certainly doesn’t seem guaranteed a place in Voldemort’s elite without his father’s clout.” Ron said simply, “I don’t get why we are talking so much about Malfoy. I mean, he’s Malfoy, right? Anything bad for him must be good for us.” Hermione looked doubtful at this cavalier attitude and tried again to make her last argument, “All I’m saying is that he might be looking at other options now.” Harry didn’t really understand why Hermione sounded so serious about this until weeks later, but some of their questions were certainly answered—though, only to be replaced with new ones—when Malfoy walked into the D.A. meeting later that night. Chapter 02 HARRY HAD FELT SOMETHING CHANGING in him over the last few months. It felt as if something were shifting inside of him, as if little filaments and pieces of what made him Harry were being knit together—slowly tightening together until intertwined in a fragile new wholeness. He wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe this feeling was him finally getting over Sirius’ death. Or getting over his guilt about Cedric. Or was this just growing up? Maybe Sirius’ death and the loss of the last support structure he’d clung to had caused the feeling. Maybe it had been prompted by the members of the Order of the Phoenix coming to see him off at the end of the previous year, showing him that he perhaps did have a family after all. Or maybe it really had started when Malfoy dropped his glass in their Charms O.W.L., shattered by the mere presence of Harry. Whatever had prompted it and whatever this feeling was of gears slowly turning and shifting, seeing Malfoy walk into the Room of Requirement had confirmed something in him, though he couldn’t say what. All those gears he felt within him seemed to fall into place—with such a final click that he was surprised no one else could hear it—the moment that Draco Malfoy walked into the D.A. meeting that night. For better or for worse, he had changed somehow and it seemed Malfoy somehow had something to do with it. *** HARRY WOULD LATER BE QUITE impressed with the reaction of the D.A. members, when he remembered this pivotal moment. While he himself was still reeling in shock, Neville, Luna, Dean and Zacharias cried almost as one, “Stupefy!” The slender, blonde Slytherin was sent flying backward by the force of their curses and struck the stone wall hard, before crumpling to the ground in a limp heap. Harry vaguely remembered the teachers fretting over whether McGonagall would live after four Stunners had hit her last year. He could only try not to imagine the trouble the D.A. would face if they had killed Draco Malfoy, even if he wasn’t so popular these days. The rest of the club stayed frozen in shock as Harry hurried over to check that Malfoy was at least still breathing. But luck was on his side (or against him, depending on how you looked at it), because the Slytherin was still very much in the land of the living. The thick silence continued as Harry cast about for what to do next, his back to the rest of the students. He hoped that Hermione might take charge in a situation like this, but she had gone unusually white, with her hands clasped over her mouth as her eyes widened in shock. Ron looked as if his synapses had simply imploded. He didn’t even register when Harry started speaking, or shift his idiotic stare from Malfoy’s unmoving figure. “Everyone, stay calm. Good reaction time, by the way, to Neville, Dean, Luna and Zacharias. Although, four Stunners might have been a bit too much, even for a git like Malfoy.” Dean interjected softly, “Ah, now we see the violence inherent in the system.” Harry started warningly, “Dean…” But he got no further as his Muggleborn friend cried oh, “Oh! Come and see the violence inherent in the system! Help! Help! I’m being repressed!” There were a couple nervous giggles, but the purebloods didn’t understand what was going on, not catching the cheesy movie dramatics that Dean was indulging in. Harry shot him a tolerating look before continuing,”Um, I think we better cut the meeting short tonight. I need to have a little talk with Malfoy here, and figure out what’s going on.” There was quite a bit of disappointed muttering—surely every person in Hogwarts had wanted the poncy little ferret at their mercy for some indiscretion or another over the last five years. They all seemed disappointed, that is, except for Ron—who was continuing to stare uncomprehendingly at Malfoy’s body. Grumbling amongst themselves, the D.A. members started to gather their bags and discarded robes, slowly filtering out of the room. Many made scathing remarks as they passed Malfoy and a couple even took the opportunity to literally kick him while he was down. Hermione had gently shook Ron awake and although his brain still hadn’t apparently caught up with him, he was following her mutely. Harry was left alone with Malfoy, finding himself reminded of the only other time he had seen the blonde unconscious and defenceless like this. *** IT HAD BEEN A STIFLING hot day in July when Tonks had come to pick Harry up for Sirius’ memorial service. The Dursleys had looked suspiciously at the young woman when she came to the door, asking for Harry. Luckily, the wild metamorphmagus had conformed a bit so as to not alienate Harry further from his relatives, and was wearing a sombre black suit that day, with her hair a thankfully normal shoulder length black sheet and a conservative face. Harry had come to meet her at the front door, wearing the only vaguely appropriate clothes he had, which happened to be his school uniform. Tonks had taken pity on him and transfigured his plain white button up into a soft black shirt. As they walked out to the car together, they could have easily been taken for siblings with their two dark heads bent together and both their rather delicate features drawn and white in pain. The long car ride to London was a quiet affair. Harry was relieved to be with someone from the magical world again but it was only dimly felt through his grief. Tonks was also far more quiet than he was accustomed for her to be and he remembered that not only was she a member of the Order of the Phoenix but she was also one of the few remaining relatives of the Black family. She was probably the only family member who had seen Sirius since he had escaped Azkaban. But it seemed that all the surviving Blacks had come out to the service, not just Tonks and her mother, Andromeda. Harry hadn’t known what to think at first, when he saw that familiar blond hair in the front row of chairs. He had broken free of Tonks and strode up to where Malfoy and his mother were sitting quietly. He was shocked to see that Malfoy seemed to be sleeping and wanted to roughly either slap the boy or yell at him, he couldn’t decide which. Maybe both. He was filled with fury that his most hated schoolmate had not only showed up at his beloved godfather’s memorial but was so rude as to sleep through it! He had been surprised, though, when Narcissa Malfoy held out her hand, lightly jostling the boy who was leaning against her shoulder. “You must be Harry Potter. I don’t believe we have ever been formally introduced. I am Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black. I am pleased to meet you at last, though I am sorry that it should be on an occasion such as this.” Her voice was measured and polite in an oddly formal way, but it was certainly much more than he would have expected. He felt slightly bad now for insulting the woman in past years, just to get to Malfoy. The boy in question had awoken wearily, his eyelashes fluttering for a moment before he seemed to focus on Harry. His face remained as blank as it had in repose and he shifted his head slightly to look at his mother, seeing her hand still holding Harry’s. He turned back to the Boy Who Lived and nodded briefly, acknowledging him softly with “Potter.” Harry had stared wide-eyed back at Malfoy, who had dark circles under his eyes and was watching him warily as if afraid that Harry might make a scene. Tonks’ mother had come up to him then, placing a soft hand on Harry’s shoulder and he had been forced to clear his throat, which was suddenly dry. “Malfoy,” he nodded back to the boy, then turned to his mother, “and Mrs. Malfoy. The pleasure is all mine.” He and Malfoy had stared at each other for the few minutes that Narcissa and Andromeda spoke, each feeling distinctly uncomfortable about being so civil towards his rival. It was only after Harry had taken his seat with the Tonks family that he remembered that Narcissa was the one most responsible for Sirius’ death and for the empty coffin on display that day. *** NOW MALFOY WAS ONCE AGAIN lying unconscious in front of Harry, though for very different reasons. In all their fights so far this year, neither had brought up their unspoken truce at the memorial service, nor had they even made mention that they had seen each other over the summer. Harry really didn’t want to be reminded of it now. Not wanting to wait for however long it would take Malfoy to wake naturally, Harry revived him with Ennervate and watched for the second time as those unreadable grey eyes focussed on him, framed by lashes that were shockingly black against that Malfoy fair skin and hair. As if in some parody of the encounter that was still fresh on Harry’s mind, and perhaps Malfoy’s as well, the blonde raised an eyebrow superciliously and greeted him with “Potter.” Taking his cue from the Slytherin who was still sprawled rather uncomfortably against the wall, he nodded grimly and spat out, “Malfoy. How’s your mother these days?” Malfoy smiled ironically and said, “She’s just fine. And your parents, Potter? Still dead, are they?” Harry’s expression became even grimmer. He held out his left hand expectantly, his right still holding his wand steadily on Malfoy, who continued to stare at Harry without understanding until the Gryffindor said, “Wand, Malfoy. You know I don’t trust you.” Looking like he wanted to snarl something surely insulting at Harry, Malfoy slowly pulled his wand from his pocket and handed it over. Harry pocketed his own wand and began to bend Malfoy’s pale yew piece experimentally, it was almost as white as his own holly wand. The other boy started forward when he saw this potentially destructive action, but his motion was aborted as Harry made a quelling gesture. The messy-haired boy smiled to himself, saying cryptically, “Yew, huh?” Malfoy made an effort not to look shocked when the git used the unfamiliar wand to neatly transfigure one of the nearby silk cushions that littered the floor into a hard wooden chair. Following the dark- haired boy’s signal, he sat himself gingerly on the new chair. Harry was still twirling the blonde wand in his fingers, surprised at how inflexible it was. It made a good wand for transfiguration, not that Harry could remember Malfoy having any particular skill in that branch of magic. His unexpected guest had slouched back into his usual poise and was smiling at Harry mockingly, “You don’t trust me, Potter? Well, gee, I’m hurt. No, wait, maybe that’s from being on the receiving end of four Stunning spells.” He gave a wince that might not have been all that exaggerated and Harry almost wanted to smile. Malfoy was obnoxious, but it took some bizarre sort of guts to be thrown into a wall and knocked unconscious, then lounge about afterward as if it had all been part of the master plan. Speaking of which: “Malfoy, what do you think you’re doing?” The blonde examined his buffed nails carefully, picking off some imaginary speck of dirt. “I’m currently bleeding horribly in my internal parts and will soon shuffle off this mortal coil, luckily taking you Gryffindors down with me. Even you, Wonder Boy, couldn’t get away with the murder most foul of a fellow classmate,” he said all this airily and seeing that Harry was looking quite apoplectic, he then sighed heavily as if he had been the one put upon by his shocking arrival. “If you must know, Potter, and evidently you must…” He examined Harry through a fringe of silvery hair as he drawled, “I just happened to be out patrolling the halls: prefect duty and all, you know how it is. Well, no, you wouldn’t, would you? Not being chosen as a prefect and all.” He smiled sharply and Harry smiled just as sharply back, showing that darker side that he rarely let out around his friends, “I’m not sure you really want to find out just whether or not I can get away with murder, Malfoy.” The blonde only raised an eyebrow at this statement, continuing to himself, “And no wonder you weren’t chosen as prefect, with an attitude like that. Now, as I was saying. I got quite bored and had been loitering up and down the seventh floor corridor, pondering to myself just what to do about the current fiasco in Slytherin house when, lo and behold, a door appeared to my much astonished right. And, of course, I opened it to find myself the happy recipient of a whole array of violent spells and I think you know the story from there, Potter. Curiosity killed the kneazle—I’m sure you’ve heard it.” Harry looked at Malfoy skeptically and told him flatly, “You are a horrid liar, Malfoy.” The blonde narrowed his eyes at Harry, but before he could retort, the Gryffindor had continued. “No, really. I mean, that’s just awful. It’s almost as bad as your hippogriff story back in third year. You make up these huge exaggerated stories—that no one could really fall for. At least, no one who knows you.” If looks could kill, Harry would now be a super-concentrated ghost with how many times over Malfoy’s glare would have caused him to expire on the spot. “You think you know me, Potter?” the Slytherin hissed, leaning forward as he poised for a fight. Harry was about to retaliate when remembered that Malfoy must have come for a reason and that reason was what he should be focussing on. “I take it back, Malfoy. You can lie when you need to, but when you don’t really care whether people believe you or not, you’re absolutely shite at it. So, why don’t you care if I believe your silly little tale, hmm? Why are you really here? Are you spying for the other Slytherins, or for Voldemort? Are you trying to play both sides? Or are you just a coward and trying to get in on the winning side, now?” Not duly impressed by the Gryffindor’s speech, Malfoy leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs, and he examined Harry appreciatively, “You think that yours is the winning side, Potter? Keep dreaming.” Harry didn’t seem to be listening to Draco rant as he thought to himself, trying to tally in his head. He said tangentially, “Malfoy, do you realize that we completely abuse each other’s surnames? How many times have you called me ‘Potter’ in the last ten minutes?” Harry had never noticed before now because he’d probably never had this long of a conversation with the Slytherin before now. Staring at him in disbelieving disgust, Malfoy started out, “Look, Pot–” before breaking off mid- sentence. “You know, you’re actually right about something, Potter.” He grinned jeeringly, “There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.” Satisfied at Harry’s dark look, he came up with his own theory, saying thoughtfully, “I imagine that since being you is such an insult anyway, your name itself is a slur. And, of course, being a Malfoy is so enviable a position that it is like being called, ‘your grace’ or a similar title of your choice.” Now it was Harry’s turn to look disbelieving and slightly ill, as he retorted “More like ‘your ponciness’, you daft git. Now, Draco, you’ve avoided the question long enough. What are you doing here?” Malfoy looked horrified and stared at Harry like he had started hissing in Parseltongue, “You’d better not be expecting me to call you ‘Harry’ or any-… oh, god damn it.” The blonde let out a heartfelt string of curses, before running a hand through his ever-perfect hair and rearranging himself in the chair that Harry had created, drawing his composure around him like a thick cloak. He started again, suddenly sober, “Now, then, Potter. If you have seen through my artfully-created deceit, then I have no choice but to level with you. I’m willing to make a deal.” When Harry didn’t interrupt this time, he continued with an air of benediction, “I will do you the favour of joining your silly little club and even allow you to teach me any little tricks you might know. In return, all I’ll ask of you is that our little arrangement not become common knowledge. Though I know it would be hard not to brag to others, as having me a member would hugely increase your popularity.” Snorting in laughter, Harry agreed with the other boy, “You’re right, it would be hard not to brag about how Draco Malfoy came crawling up to me, Harry Potter, asking to join our little Light club and wanting me to teach him how to fight. Get out of here, Malfoy, if you think I’m going to include you in on anything of mine.” Harry really should have learned to heed that dangerous gleam in Draco’s eye sometime over the last five years. It always meant the Slytherin was about to do something spiteful, quite probably against the rules and definitely painful to Harry or his friends. This time it meant that Harry found his breath cut off as Malfoy flung him into the wall with just a sweep of his empty hand. The slight boy stalked over to stand above Harry as his eyelids fluttered open to show dazed emerald irises, “Don’t go thinking you’d be teaching me all that much.” Figuring he had already screwed up any chance he might have had, Draco hissed in Potter’s hated face, “How do you like it, then?” He gestured to Harry’s sprawled position, much like that which he had found himself in earlier that evening, before picking up his wand and turning to leave. “Wait.” Harry’s croaking voice stilled the other boy’s hand as it reached for the door handle. “Show me how you did that, Malfoy, and I’ll teach you my ‘little tricks’.” *** “YOU DID WHAT?!” RON’S HYSTERICAL exclamation cut across the din in the Gryffindor common room, his voice cracking as it hadn’t in years. Ignoring the curious looks from their housemates, Harry tried to shush Ron. He’d been expecting a reaction like this, so he hadn’t told them even half of what had really occurred after the D.A. members had left. He winced as Ron continued his rant, “Let me make sure I have this straight. You made a deal with Malfoy? Draco Malfoy, the bane of our existence, the personification of all things git-like, the bastard we thought was Slytherin’s heir, Malfoy?!? You’re going to teach him how to fight, so that he can betray you and then kill us all with the spells you so kindly taught him?! And come on, this is the D.A.! You can’t have a Malfoy in Dumbledore’s army, it’s—it’s—it’s just wrong!” Harry hadn’t bristled up until that last comment, but hearing the phrase “Dumbledore’s army” pushed him over the edge, causing him to snap waspishly at Ron in a way he wouldn’t have normally even contemplated. “I’m not teaching him anything of the sort, Ron. How stupid do you think I am?” Ron looked like he was more than willing to elaborate, but Hermione placed a placating hand on his arm. His head jerked around to stare at her instead, in a mix of shock and mild betrayal. “Look, Ron…” Harry sighed, “I’m not teaching him anything that could be used against us. It’s all Light magic: summoning a Patronus, how to make Dark Detectors, that sort of thing. And he’s not going to be a member of the D.A.—not for a long shot. Do you think I’d trust him as far as that? I’ll meet him one on one. He’ll teach me what I want to know and I’ll teach him whatever I choose to.” Ron snorted, as he said skeptically at his best friend, “As if Malfoy doesn’t already know every dirty trick in the book. Besides, do you even think its safe, Harry? I mean, it hasn’t even been two weeks since the Muggle Relations Massacre.” Hermione’s hand dropped limply to her side as they all lapsed into silence at the mention of the attack on the Ministry. The Muggle Relations office had been completely destroyed, blown out from the building that housed the Ministry of Magic. There had been nothing but charred scraps left of both the office and its staff. Many of the previous member’s remains hadn’t even been identifiable. There simply wasn’t that much of them left after the Death Eaters were through. But it had become evident in the investigations that although the Muggleborn and half-bloods had died violently and unnaturally, it was the purebloods in the office who had suffered the worst. The message was clear and easy to decipher: Lord Voldemort would punish those who disgraced the Wizarding world and chose to identify with Muggles. Needless to say, any of the remaining staff of the Muggle Relations office had immediately put in requests for transfer or had submitted their two-week notice. The action was repeated all through the Ministry in any department that dealt at all with the Muggle world. But accusing Malfoy of being related to the Massacre seemed a bit over-blown, even for Harry’s fiery best friend. “Come now, Ron, you can’t really be suggesting that Malfoy had a hand in the Massacre, can you?” Ron floundered for a moment, stuttering, “Well, no. Not specifically. But you know as well as I, Harry, that he would’ve if he’d had the chance!” The dark-haired boy shook his head, taking off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. This was really starting to give him a headache. “Ron, I’m just using Malfoy for any knowledge he has that could help me or the D.A. I still don’t trust him at all. Though someone must’ve; someone told him about the meeting.” Hermione glanced up at him, seemingly taken about by his frankly Slytherin disregard for using and abusing another person and her wide chocolate eyes seemed over-large in her pale face. “But I thought… I thought you said he—he told you he just happened by the room…” she said in an odd voice. “You think that one of the members told him about the D.A.?” Harry glanced at her almost sharply, before answering her question. “Yes, Hermione. Someone told him about the room and the meeting, although they didn’t fully understand how the Room of Requirement works. It can’t be used for more than one purpose at a time, Dobby told me. So if I were in there when it was the D.A. room, because I wanted a place to practice, and Ron were to come by with a sudden yen for blood-flavoured lollipops,” he was cut off by the ginger-haired boy’s sound of disgust and continued with a grin, “the room can’t cancel me out to have Ron open the door and find a room full of sweets. Neither can it combine the two somehow, so that I would suddenly find myself sparring with a giant blood-flavoured lolly. If the room is occupied, it won’t reveal itself to anyone else unless they are looking specifically for what it’s occupied with. “That’s why the members of the D.A. can find it and we’re not in any danger of being found unless someone else knew about the D.A. I imagine whoever told Malfoy didn’t want anyone else to find out that they had. Come on, who would want to own up to letting Malfoy in? So they helped him come up with this plausible enough sounding story of coincidence, not knowing that the room can’t appear by coincidence.” Harry had already badgered Malfoy about this, but the Slytherin wasn’t willing to give up who had told him about the room and the meeting that night. Ron had his own ideas, though, of how Malfoy had come to disrupt their lives. “You’re also ignoring the likelihood that Malfoy—evil little git that he is—blackmailed or threatened one of the members to tell him about the D.A. You know what I bet? I bet Snape taught him how to do that Legilimency crap, even!” Hermione interjected here, reminding Ron that Snape wasn’t even civil to Malfoy at the present, let alone teaching him any powerful magic. Logic didn’t slow him down, though, as he bumbled on, “I wouldn’t be surprised if that was all a ploy to get at us, too! Throw us off his scent, that’s what. It’s a sure thing that he used some Dark magic or something to find us out.” Harry had to admit that this was a possibility, but… “Don’t you think someone would have told us if they got threatened or attacked by Malfoy?” “Well, that’s why he used a Memory charm on them!” Ron was at the ready to denounce Malfoy completely, but Hermione was the voice of reason as usual. Even she was beginning to sound exasperated at the other boy, “Ron, listen to yourself. Even I don’t want to admit that Malfoy could actually be… decent in any way, but you’re just grasping for straws! Whoever let Malfoy know about the D.A. must have had a reason. Besides, if we could get him on our side, he could be a powerful alley. He is poised perfectly to spy on our enemies.” Glad to let Hermione end the conflict peaceably, Harry made agreeable noises—although he didn’t really think there was any chance of Malfoy spying for them, even if he could be coerced over to their side. He wasn’t even sure he would want Malfoy on their side. *** BUT HARRY DIDN’T FULLY REALIZE just how much Malfoy had risked in his crazy attempt until after his weekly visit with Madam Pomfrey. He would have normally met with Snape on a Monday evening, but the Potions Master was away on ‘business’, which Harry took to mean that he had been summoned to a Death Eater meeting. The matron of the hospital wing had plenty of work to be done on any night, though, and had set him to healing the minor cuts and bruises of those patients currently in residence. Pomfrey sniffed disgruntledly as they made their rounds, “Too bad you weren’t here last night, Mr. Potter. You could have gotten some real practice with the mess that Draco Malfoy made of himself.” She glared at Harry and for a moment he feared that she somehow knew his involvement in Malfoy’s injuries, but she allayed his fears when she continued, “That boy is in here almost as often as you, Mr Potter. He came high near killing himself last night. Would have, too, if I weren’t highly trained to spot magical maladies.” This time Harry didn’t bother to hide his shock at Pomfrey’s words. “What do you mean,” he exclaimed, “Malfoy nearly killed himself last night?” Madame Pomfrey made him get to work mending broken bones on a practice dummy back in her office, before she lowered herself into her chair to explain more fully. “Oh, Mr Malfoy came in all bruised and shaking, due to a Quidditch accident, or so he would have had me believe. As if I wouldn’t recognize the effects of a Stunning spell.” She shook her head at the foolishness of students who thought they could pull the wool over her eyes. “As Mr Malfoy is not a trained mediwizard, he did not realize the potentially fatal side affects that can arise from falling victim to Stunning.” Seeing that Harry had stopped in his ministrations, she gestured for him to continue; she hoped her young charge’s sudden fascination with medical magic wasn’t prompted just by his animosity towards the poor Malfoy boy. “There aren’t many people who understand the real nature of the Stunning spell,” she sniffed again and her disdain for wizards flinging about spells they didn’t understand was clear. “Stunning puts a halt not just to the limbs of a body, it momentarily stops all the functions of your body and it is this shock to your system that causes the unconsciousness that people ill-educated about the spell associate with Stupefy. “Of courses, if you are hit with just one spell, there are normally no further complications, unless you already had some other affliction or weakness. But when hit with multiple spells, as Mr Malfoy obviously was, the body cannot naturally recover. All the major organs begin to shut down, which puts too much strain on the heart as it belabours to pump blood. Clinically, the heart is not pumping enough blood—and with it, oxygen—to the extremities, so the victim begins to loose feeling, starting in the hands and feet before spreading through the body. Then a hysteria, as the brain loses its source of oxygen, which is compounded by hyperventilation and a feeling of suffocation as the cells of the lungs themselves begin to wither from asphyxiation and—Mr. Potter! You’re looking dreadful; are you all right? Dear me, I had no idea you were so squeamish.” She pushed him down into one of the chairs as he battled with his own feelings of suffocation. For all the joking the night before, he hadn’t thought that they might have actually killed the smarmy git. If Madam Pomfrey hadn’t been in, or hadn’t been so good at what she did… Harry pushed himself out of the chair with a hasty, unintelligible excuse, and rushed out of the hospital wing, throwing apologies back over his shoulder. He dashed through the nearly deserted corridors, but no one paid him much heed, as Harry Potter was always rushing about to spoil the Dark Lord’s newest plan or save a kitten from a burning building or some such rubbish. He skidded to a halt in front of the seemingly blank stretch of corridor that he knew hid the entrance to the Slytherin common room, far into the catacombs of the castle that stretched under the lake. He banged on the wall before leaning over to catch his breath. After a couple moments, the door ground open and Harry heard a sharp intake of breath. He peered up through his unruly black hair and saw Blaise Zabini staring at him in shocked silence. “Potter, what the fuck…?” Harry gasped out between ragged breaths, “Get Malfoy. I need to kick his ass.” He tried to ignore the stabbing pains in his side, but still couldn’t straighten up. Blaise looked shocked for another moment, then his dark eyes lit up, as he drawled, “Normally I wouldn’t oblige a Gryffindor, but this should be worth it.” With perfect timing, Harry heard Malfoy’s cold voice and saw him coming down the stairs through his view under Blaise’s arm, “Zabini, what are you doing? If someone’s forgotten the password, leave them out there to freeze, for God’s sake.” Blaise turned to reveal Harry and the blonde Slytherin’s shock was apparent for a moment, before his face froze into a mask of fury. “You’ve got a visitor, Malfoy,” was all Blaise said as he waited, smirking, for Draco to stride forcefully across their common room. The furious boy shoved Harry out of the door frame and back into the dark corridor as he growled, “Potter. What the fuck do you want? Looking for a fight?” Harry glared back at him as he regained his footing and replied in a similar tone to the one Draco had used, “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m looking for.” Malfoy noticed the avid Slytherins in his common room and slammed the door in their faces before dragging Harry roughly down the hall. Harry was actually a bit surprised by this raging, harsh Malfoy, who was quite different from the obnoxious but joking boy of the night before. Maybe almost dying did that to a person. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing here, Potter? I can’t even begin to imagine how you knew where the entrance to the Slytherin common room was.” Harry snorted and told Malfoy, “Hell, I’ve been in the Slytherin common room before. Subausculto signum.” His whispered incantation sent a little blue ball of light whizzing around the corridor before zooming back to his hand, signifying that they were free from eavesdroppers. Malfoy loosened up a bit when he saw this display, but said grimly, “You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to ensure privacy in Slytherin territory.” Following his words, Malfoy cast a high level Notice-Me-Not spell that encased he and Harry in a soundproof bubble which any prying eyes would slid over without seeing. “Nice one, Malfoy. Devious and yet obvious, just like you. You’ll have to teach it to me sometime.” Malfoy wasn’t about to be sidetracked by Harry’s left-handed compliments, though, and he launched back into the raven-haired boy. “I sincerely hope for your sake, Potter, that you didn’t come down here just to compare spell work,” he hissed scathingly, “If you did, you will find yourself with your wand shoved so far into your personage that even Pomfrey couldn’t remove it.” Harry winced slightly at Malfoy’s imagery, before saying, “I’ve actually just come from Madam Pomfrey and she was telling me a bit about your escapades last night.” Malfoy blinked at Harry’s revelation and said disbelievingly, “And… what? You were driven here by your overwhelming concern for my health and my undeniably alluring body? I know I’m the sexiest bloke at Hogwarts, but there’s no need to get yourself worked up.” He leered at Harry, “Even if I died, you wouldn’t even come in a close second. Hell, you’d probably be at least down in the teens. Come to think of it, even dead I could probably retain my title…” Now this was more like the Malfoy that Harry had begun to expect, using his sharp smiles as weapons that cut into you like blades with their cold beauty and making claims so outrageous that you could do nothing but shake your head in disbelief. But why had Harry rushed down here to the Slytherin’s lair? He decided it must have been that Gryffindor urge to do the right thing and make sure he hadn’t caused Malfoy’s death. “Oh, how noble of you,” Malfoy snorted when he heard this. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go do damage control and tell all the snarling Slytherins how I mopped the hall with your sorry arse.” He brightened for a moment, and said hopefully, “It would be so much more convincing if I could bloody you up a bit, maybe even knock you out?” When Harry flatly denied this possibility, Malfoy shrugged and waved him off, “Scurry away then, little Gryffindor.” He smiled savagely and growled, “Else I might be tempted to do it anyway.” And Harry, shaking his head in disbelief, started off as he had been instructed to, ignoring Malfoy’s calling after him, “And don’t think I didn’t notice your claim to have been in the Slytherin common room, Potter! I’ll get the truth out of you yet!” *** HE WONDERED A BIT, THOUGH, as he wandered back toward the Gryffindor section of the castle, about this almost bipolarity of Malfoy’s. In front of the other Slytherins and when Harry had first arrived, Malfoy had been very much the boy that Harry known and hated all these years. Perhaps even more so than that boy, he was cold and harsh, quick to anger. But when it was just the two of them, on those few brief encounters when it had been just the two of them, a different Draco Malfoy seemed to be emerging. When they had parted ways, Harry had looked back over his shoulder after Malfoy’s last shouted comment in time to see Malfoy slip back into that cold countenance—which seemed like some bizarre parody after the bright, painful smiles that Harry was privy to. The blonde’s face had been an emotionless mask, schooled to show just a hint of a triumphant smirk, the telling satisfaction in his eyes that would convince his housemates that he had just come from thoroughly trouncing his rival for daring to show his face in Slytherin territory. It wasn’t as if Malfoy was actually nice to Harry, or pleasant by any imaginable definition of the word. But he seemed somehow more real when they were alone. Gone was Slytherin’s ice prince. That soulless shell was so perfectly trained to show nothing but unbreakable composure and thoughtless cruelty that it couldn’t seem real, rather Malfoy seemed some bizarre caricature of a villain from a gothic novel. Surely it couldn’t be right for a teenager to be so self-contained and controlled. Harry had never thought about what kind of life could mould a boy into such an emotionless statue—he wouldn’t want to end up actually feeling something so soft as pity towards the Slytherin. But when he was teasing and smirking at Harry, making the Gryffindor feel every inch as awkward and foolish as he was, then Malfoy seemed like a real person. A real annoying person, that is. Harry wondered if anyone else knew about this second Malfoy. He certainly hadn’t acted any different in N.E.W.T. Potions that afternoon, despite their surreal tête-à-tête of the previous night. He’d given no sign at all that they’d even seen each other since the class’s last meeting on Wednesday past. The only sign Harry had that he hadn’t imagined the whole encounter was when Malfoy had, with the slightest evil glint in his eye, sent a piece of kelpie flesh scuttling across the table to land in Harry’s lap. It was a close thing and if anyone had been watching they would have assumed that Malfoy had merely flicked the raw lump of meat at his involuntary partner, in one their usual fits of goading each other. Only someone as close as Harry would have been able to see that Malfoy hadn’t physically touched the chunk of kelpie at all. And no one else would have known that Malfoy was baiting Harry with his dexterity at wandless magic, unless they had been privy to their conversation in the D.A. room. Poncy git, he thought to himself as he recalled the incident. Probably didn’t want to get his hands dirty with the rancid evil-horse flesh. Harry had been forced by Hermione to run up to the Gryffindor dorms on their break between classes, because the stench of the meat had been so potent. Malfoy had gotten yelled at by Snape for interrupting the lecture and Harry was disconcerted to get away without a single insult or point taken, even though he was the one who had jumped up with an—it had to be said—unmanly shriek when the lump of cold, wet tissue had landed on him. As much as Harry was disturbed by Snape’s new tolerating attitude towards him, Malfoy seemed just as unconcerned about Snape’s vindictiveness, and had continued to flout his head of house. Harry just hoped that his own head of house never turned on him in that way. He would greatly fear to face the brunt of McGonagall’s wrath. Shaking his head at the thought, he arrived at the Fat Lady’s portrait and let himself in with Hermione’s new password, “Widdershins.” He spotted the bushy-haired prefect easily in the unusually empty common room and dropped into the chair opposite hers with a tired groan, letting his eyes drop shut. Hermione had seemed pleased the last couple days, since she had been getting on with Ron quite well. Their ginger friend became furious with just the thought of Malfoy and had taken to glaring more potently than ever at the boy with the mocking silver eyes. Hermione had listened to his irate complaining, though, and murmured soothingly in agreement, only occasionally trying to remind him that people could change for the better. Or at least, for the slightly more neutral, in Malfoy’s case. In return, Ron had been heard to comment in wonderment about just how good of a person Hermione must be, to even think about giving a bastard like Malfoy a second chance. He’d been looking a lot more appreciative towards her constant presence, too. But tonight Hermione looked far away and hadn’t even greeted Harry when he came to sat with her. In fact, her eyes looked rather red and puffy… oh no, what did Ron do now? Casting for conversation, Harry leaned his head back and said, “You wouldn’t believe what I heard tonight, Hermione.” She gasped and seemed to focus on him for the first time. Her lip was trembling and her eyes seemed over bright as she whispered, “You—you’ve heard about it, too, Harry?” He felt a quick stab of cold in his stomach, wondering how she could have known about Malfoy’s brush with death at their hands. There couldn’t be something else, could there? He said bracingly, “Well, yeah, Madam Pomfrey told me all about it during our session. But don’t look so worried, the stupid git is fine.” Hermione blinked at him in confusion, tears trembling on her eyelashes. She said to him, incomprehension making her voice thin, “Who’s fine, Harry? You mean—someone made it out alive?” The cold feeling swept back into Harry, causing his fingers to still from where they had been nervously fraying a dusty gold pillow in his lap. He heard his own voice sound almost as high as Hermione’s as he asked her, slowly, “Hermione, what are you talking about?” “The attack, Harry! The attack on the school!” she cried in a rough voice that was somehow too soft, as if something had broken inside of her and some vital part which would have normally filled that voice with life had leaked out with her tears. Harry was reeling, “The school… wha—Hogwarts?!” He watched horrified as she wrapped her arms around herself. He was taken aback by how small she looked. Hermione had always been very skinny but now she looked like a little girl, hidden within her too large robes and her wild mass of hair. He felt like he ought to go over to her, hug her, take her hands, do something. But he couldn’t seem to move. Her voice was high and keening when she answered him. “No, no, Harry, the primary school. I thought you’d heard? Voldemort, he… he took out an entire primary school.” Hermione was staring unseeingly up into his face, as she murmured, “The staff, and the teachers, and the children. Oh my god, the children…” Harry felt everything fading around him. His vision was dancing with dark spots while his hands went numb. Was this what it felt like to suffocate under the weight of the Stunning spells? It was like when you stood up too quickly from sleep. That must be it, he must be sleeping. It’s just a dream, a nightmare. Wake up, Harry! But Hermione cut through the buzzing in his ears, her voice choking on her whispered words, “… the children were all murdered. Harry, over seven hundred people are dead.” Chapter 03 WHY COULDN’T HARRY WAKE UP from this nightmare? He wanted to wake up and find that the past year had all been just a fancy—nothing more than a cruel construct of his mind. Voldemort wasn’t back. Cedric wasn’t dead. Sirius wasn’t dead. Dean and half the other Muggleborns at Hogwarts weren’t really leaving the school. He would wake up and tumble down into the vibrant, crowded common room where Ron and Dean would be arguing about football versus quidditch, Hermione would be laughing in exasperation, and maybe Sirius would even pop in for a conversation through the fireplace… The reality of it was that the Gryffindor common room was oddly echoing and gloomy, and the group who wended their way down to the Great Hall for Dumbledore’s speech was listless and subdued. They huddled together as they went to take their seats at the long house table, as if trying to disguise the absence of their housemates. Most sat in their usual spots, the empty areas where their fellows should have been made all the more glaring by contrast. There were significantly fewer of these holes at the heads of the tables, where the upper levels sat, compared to the nearly empty ranks of their younger underclassmen. Yet these few absences were more deeply cutting, as the teens who had sat there had all grown together from children into young adults over the past five, six, seven years. There was no single reason to explain why the various students weren’t present for the speech. Many were Muggleborn, and were even now contacting their families to arrange their escape into the Muggle world. Some were half-bloods, but leaving for similar reasons. A disturbingly large group of those absent had lost family members and friends in the attack, and then there were those students who had abstained from the school-wide announcements to comfort their grieving friends and classmates. Voldemort had chosen his target well. Dumbledore was at the front of the room, addressing the students from behind the staff table as he would have at any feast. He surveyed the four house tables laid out before him; a sea of angry and fearful faces turned to him for direction. The Gryffindors, who were so stubbornly leaving spaces for their absent friends. The Hufflepuffs, whose table was the least populated, with a great many of its members choosing loyally to stay in their house with their grieving friends. The Ravenclaws were almost all in attendance, looking for any new information that the Headmaster could give them about the horrific events of the previous day. And the Slytherins… The Slytherins were a much more complicated group. Some had come out of genuine concern, but not many. Others appeared to have come merely to gloat and scoff at their fellow students and the staff. An equal amount had, or so it seemed, stayed away to give a different message. A message of disregard toward Dumbledore and what he had to say. A declaration of just where they stood in this war. Dumbledore was most interested to see Draco Malfoy seated among his small remaining court, consisting primarily of Miss Parkinson, Mr Crabbe and Mr Goyle. While Mr Malfoy employed his well- practiced blank look, Blaise Zabini had arrayed against him his own ruling party—consisting of himself, Miss Bulstrode and Miss Davis. Yes, Slytherin house was complicated these days. Dumbledore cleared his throat, looking sombre and drawing the attention of the quickly silenced assembly. He said to the gathered students, “I thank you all for turning out this morning. Though there is of course no grudge against those who are not present. As I know you are all aware, it has become undeniable that Voldemort launched an attack yesterday on both the Muggle world and the Wizarding world. “Madame Pratchett’s School for the Gifted was a well-known and respected primary school for both Muggles and Wizardingkind alike. Because Muggles attended the school as well, this incident has been reported in their news and has been quite accurately described as the heinous act of a terrorist group calling themselves the ‘Death Eaters’. For those of you who may not have heard the term ‘terrorist’ before, it is a word that the Muggles use to describe people who use undue violence and intimidation in order to further their ideologies. The name ‘Death Eaters’ is of course the moniker that Voldemort’s most loyal servants have taken upon themselves.” Many looked ill at Dumbledore’s frank description of the Dark Lord and his supporters. There was also a buzz of questioning among the Muggleborns (and even from some students born into Wizarding families) about Madame Pratchett’s curious school. Noticing this, Dumbledore explained, “If you are not familiar with the Madame’s former establishment, it was a most fine institute. Although many Wizard children—as were many of you, I’m sure—are taught at home or in informal classes, many also attend schools such as the former Madame’s, which welcome also those of mixed heritage, squibs, and regular Muggle children as well. These Muggle children do not realize the extraordinary abilities of some of their classmates and often live in areas so highly-populated by wizards that they are accustomed to strange happenings.” As he turned back to the dark events of the previous day, Dumbledore’s voice grew heavy once again. “As you have all heard, I am grief-laden to confirm that there were no survivors from the attack. Voldemort and his cohorts heartlessly dispatched every student and staff member. The most recent report is that seven hundred sixty-eight individuals died in the attack. Hogwarts sends our sympathy to the families and loved-ones of the victims. I would like to ask you all to bow your heads with us together, as we give a moment of silence to honour these poor souls.” Even the Slytherins didn’t dare say anything as the entire hall fell into a hushed reverence beneath the wild looking clouds that roiled in the enchanted ceiling. The headmaster waited several whole minutes before continuing, “The backlash of such attacks will surely echo throughout the world and even here at Hogwarts, they cannot be ignored. Many of your fellow students will be leaving us, either of their own volition or by the wishes of their families. The Hogwarts Express will be making a special unscheduled trip this Saturday, to take those leaving back to London. Yet I assure all of you that Hogwarts will remain safe, and will always be a haven for those who desire her protection.” If any of the students thought it odd that he was watching the Slytherin table as he said this, they didn’t ponder on it long; their hearts and minds were too bowed with grief to consider much else. “Do not fear for your safety while you are within these walls. Hogwarts will not fall.” *** THE GRYFFINDOR SIXTH YEARS HAD been huddled in front of the entrance to the boys’ dormitories for a number of minutes, hissing at each other in consternation, before Harry was finally ungracefully shoved forward by Lavender as their representative. He rapped on the door a few times and then called out hesitantly, “Dean? You in there, mate?” His entreaty was met with silence and he had just turned back to his year-mates to ask what to do next, when a pale Seamus pulled open the door in front of them. He motioned them all inside and went to resume his seat on his bed across from Dean’s, avoiding looking his best friend in the eye. The Gryffindors all trooped in silently and while the girls would have normally made disparaging comments about the untidiness of the boys’ dormitory, they didn’t bother on an occasion such as this. The conversation was stilted, as everyone avoided talking about what was really going on. Hermione was the first to dare broach the subject, and asked hesitantly if Dean knew how he was getting home. The quiet, artistic Gryffindor nodded and said softly, “Yeah, my mum and dad will be at King’s Cross.” He didn’t elaborate any further and the conversation died for a moment. Suddenly, Seamus broke out in a frustrated voice, “God damn it! Why did You-Know-Who have to come back?” Harry looked away quickly, knowing his guilt would show. After the article last year, everyone else knew and surely remembered his part in bringing back the Dark Lord. “Seamus!” Ron hissed at the Irish boy under his breath, but it was all too loud in the silent room. The Weasley turned to Harry, smiling forcefully, “Now, Harry. Don’t go beating yourself up about it. You know Seamus didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—” Before Ron could even finish, everyone was suddenly piping in, trying to cheer Harry up. He felt wretched. They were supposed to be cheering up Dean and once again he’d become the centre of attention, without even asking for it. The Gryffindors had lost some of their tension, since commiserating with Harry and his guilt was a rather regular pastime in their house, and were talking and teasing in an almost normal manner before long. Harry simmer quietly in anger, frustrated at how they could just ignore everything that was going on and forget Dean and his problems. Then he caught sight of the dark boy. Dean Thomas was smiling at him serenely, his dark eyes shining as he watched his year-mates act as was normal for them, in the rambunctious loudness that so characteristic of Gryffindor house. Harry felt the anger dying in him as he realized that maybe this was what Dean needed. Maybe he needed someone else to be the centre of attention, lest he break down in front of his long-time friends. Maybe he needed normalcy. Happy to ignore the situation as it was, the Gryffindors were much more comfortable comforting Harry. He was the Boy Who Lived after all and had saved their world and their own lives so many times over that he was sure to beat You-Know-Who again—surely if anyone could beat Voldemort, it was Harry. Or so they tried to convince him, as he let himself sink under the weight of their familiar litany. Maybe this really is what they all need, he thought to himself, just before he heard Lavender exclaim fastidiously, “God, this room is filthy. Don’t you boys ever clean?” *** HARRY WASN’T ALL THAT SURPRISED when McGonagall came to him in the common room that evening, saying that the headmaster wished to speak with him. He simply nodded and resignedly made his way to the office hidden behind the great phoenix statue, sparing no thought for how unusual it ought to be for a student to be so familiar with the venerable old wizard, so far as to know his passwords. Dumbledore was in the observatory when Harry arrived, examining the stars curiously through his gigantic, ornate gold telescope. He started when he realized that Harry was in the room. “Ah, my boy, I apologize for bringing you up like this. You were probably expecting to meet with Professor Snape this evening?” Honestly, Harry hadn’t even thought about his nightly meeting once that day. But it made sense that he might meet with Snape, since Pomfrey had taken Snape’s place the night before, in the Potions Master’s absence. But that would mean that Snape was back—which brought a new possibility, that hadn’t occurred to Harry in his addled state: He remembered his assumption that Snape had been called away yesterday for a Death Eater meeting. Could it really be that big of a coincidence, or had Snape taken part in the attack? Harry swallowed heavily and asked the headmaster, “Did Snape…” He floundered, as Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes bored into him. “Was he… Did he know about the attack?” Dumbledore turned away then, but was most emphatic when he replied, “Nothing of the sort, Harry. I’m afraid that Severus’s position among the Death Eaters is presently rather… uncertain. Voldemort didn’t trust him enough to give him knowledge of the attack beforehand, nor did he allow him the privilege,” Dumbledore’s lip curled in disgust, “of aiding in the attack. I’m afraid that Professor Snape is in the Hospital Wing now, because Voldemort decided to test his loyalty in a more unpleasant manner.” Harry didn’t know what to say to the admission that his least-favorite teacher had been tortured to the point of serious injury, but Dumbledore continued, “No, my boy, it’s due to a different matter, though one not completely unrelated, that I called you here tonight. “You may recall my mentioning in passing the enclaves that the Order of the Pheonix is helping to create?” Harry nodded uncertainly, he didn’t know any details but the project had been mentioned to him. “Let me refresh your memory and perhaps provide you with some new particulars. The idea of these enclaves is not a new one. It originally came to be during Voldemort’s first reign, though it luckily never had to be put into practice. Since the end of your fourth year, Harry, we have been toying with the idea again. It was rather a minor project of ours, until the last few months when Voldemort’s attacks have been increasing in both their ferocity and their frequency. We now have several sites ready for settlement. These sites have all been made Unplottable, just like Hogwarts is, and a Secret Keeper protects each, as well. “There will be no risk regarding these Secret Keepers,” Dumbledore quickly assured, knowing Harry’s aversion towards that particular form of protection. “Each Secret Keeper is trusted implicitly and will be safe from Dark influences, as each resides in an enclave that is protected by another Secret Keeper. They will create an unbreakable web to protect one another and not a one of them can be found as long as the web is intact. “Those wizards, witches and families who wish to take refuge in the enclaves must go through a number of tests, including interrogation under Veritaserum. This is in fact why Snape has entrusted his sixth and seventh year N.E.W.T. classes to try a brew so powerful. Normally, school-age children would not be allowed to make Veritaserum, but we will need large reserves of the potion for these interviews and the great many more that will be sprung randomly upon the inhabitants to ensure their continued virtue.” Harry was a bit uncomfortable as he heard all this and so he asked Dumbledore just what he was hoping for, in divulging this information now. “I need your help, Harry,” the Headmaster looked over his spectacles at the boy, as he laced his fingers together and laid them on the desk. “Specifically, I need the help of your defence club. You have a very bright and dedicated group there, Harry, and it’s a resource that our side cannot afford to ignore.” So that’s why he allowed us to continue to meet, Harry thought to himself. Oh god, we’ve become his little Junior Order of the Phoenix. Harry felt that familiar annoyance growing as Dumbledore described how he wanted the D.A. to help them by finding and researching locations for new enclaves. He assured Harry benevolently that once the Order of the Phoenix saw how proficient and trustworthy the D.A. was, they might even get more ‘assignments’, and when the time came they might even be able to help the casters of the defence spells, by volunteering their own magical power as well. Harry didn’t particularly like the idea of using his friends like disposable batteries, though he knew that in the past he probably would have been hugely flattered and pleased with such an offer. Now he just felt as if the old man was manipulating everyone better to his own use. Harry worked himself into quite a snit by the time Dumbledore dismissed him, and he was still silently fuming as he stormed down to the dungeons to meet Malfoy, as they had planned on Sunday past. He stopped in front of the tapestry, which concealed the entrance to the room he had discovered. After he had wandered down into this unused section of the dungeons a few weeks ago, he had finally gotten around to checking it on the Marauder’s Map. It seemed that his father’s group of hooligans hadn’t strayed into the dungeons much, as the map didn’t detail these tunnels at all and were quite inaccurate. The drawing was incomplete and ignored a whole 200 metre stretch of corridors. This section seemed, by Harry’s reckoning, to be under the Dark Forest and perhaps it had fallen into disuse because it was so far separated from the rest of the school. Ignoring the fine, surely antique tapestry which depicted the Hogwarts Founders in a rarely portrayed bit of congeniality, Harry took a deep breath. He was trying to shove his anger down where it wouldn’t show, when a thin hand darted out from under the hanging and yanked him forward into the concealed room. Malfoy was grinning recklessly at him and slammed shut the door that was normally hidden behind