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“Even Angela’s being a dick nowadays, of all the people I expected, honestly,” Dora told Fleur hurriedly, stuffing more than half a pancake into her mouth. “She seemed like the most decent to me, but most apparently, she can’t believe You-Know-Who’s back either.” “Eet eez ze exact opposite at Gringotts,” said Fleur much more calmly, spreading chocolate syrup on her own pancake and elegantly taking a bite out of it. “Eet eez like zey always knew ’e was going to return.” “Goblins are scary, I’d tell you that,” said Dora, gulping her orange juice. Fleur only rolled her eyes. She worked with goblins everyday. “You’re getting late for work, Dora!” Harry called from his bedroom. “Are you finished with breakfast yet or not?” “I am!” said Dora, springing to her feet after she had filled her mouth with the remaining piece of her pancake. “Are my robes ironed?” There was a pressing silence in the apartment for the next one minute before Harry appeared in the hall with Dora’s Auror robes in his arms, scowling nastily at her. She grinned guiltily as she took the robes from him. “Sorry,” she murmured under her breath. “I would really take care of it next time.” She had forgotten to tell Harry about her crinkled robes last night and had therefore irritated him by turning up with them in the morning when he was preparing breakfast. “You better would,” said Harry, a bit of impatience in his voice. His features, however, smoothened up as he turned to Fleur and asked her, “Do you need anything else, Fleur?” “No, I am all set, ’Arry,” said Fleur, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “The breakfast was delicious.” “Yeah, it was,” added Dora hastily, offering Harry a wide smile. His bright emerald eyes were still reproachful. She cleared her throat in an attempt to break the ice and said to Fleur, “It’s eight-thirty already, we should get going.” Fleur nodded, and the two of them donned their work robes and did a last take at themselves in the mirror in their bedroom. Dora whispered “Sorry, and thanks,” in Harry’s ear as she hugged him at the entrance of the apartment. The two witches planted a kiss on his cheek together — they did this everyday before leaving — before they descended down the stairs hand in hand. Harry sighed heavily, shutting the door closed behind him. He took off the apron, dropped it in the laundry basket placed in a corner of the hall, and went on to slump down on his bed. As if on cue, his cell phone rang. He rolled over in bed and extended his arm to pick the device from the bedside table. A smile threatened to split his face as soon as he glanced at the name. “Hello, love,” he said softly, grinning like an idiot. “Harry . . .” Harry almost dropped his phone, grabbing onto it with only the tips of his fingers. The voice surely belonged to his girlfriend, but it was one of her sexy moans. “H-Hermione?” “Hmm . . .” “What — what’s the matter? Are you alright?” Harry asked concernedly. “Oh, yes,” Hermione spoke through chapped lips. “I nicked an erotica novel from Mum’s collection, and oh, it’s good.” If he knew anyone that could get off reading a book, it was Hermione. “How good?” he asked, rather curious. “Very, very good, Harry,” she said in a hushed voice. “You should give it a read too sometime.” Harry’s face went aflame as he imagined Hermione rubbing herself off on a couch, a book in one hand, her soft breasts out of her half-open shirt, letting out moans through half-open lips, her hand working rapidly inside her damp knickers. They had had sex numerous times but, now Harry realized, he had never watched Hermione masturbate by herself. He could only imagine a hot scene in his mind, the hottest of its kind. “Pumpkin! Can you come here for a second?” Harry’s eyes flew open; he hadn’t even realized he had closed them as he lay in his bed, listening to his girlfriend’s sensual moans. “Shit! Oh shit! It’s Dad!” Hermione hissed, unsatisfied. “Fuck, Harry, I gotta go!” The call disconnected, and Harry stared at his phone before he erupted into laughter. But as his laughter died down, he couldn’t help pushing his own pants off his thighs, his hard cock throbbing and pointing straight at the ceiling fan. It was a good eight inches with a spongy head. Hermione had told him in no uncertain terms that his cock was perfect.  He started stroking his cock, and although his own hand never felt as good as Hermione’s, or even better, her mouth, or the best one, her warm pussy, but it had to do for the time being. Several moments went by and he was still trying to find that piece of pleasure when his phone rang again. Seeing his girlfriend’s name on it, he picked it up and put it on speaker. “So sorry, Harry, Dad called me downstairs,” her voice fell in his ears. “And — and sorry for that too, I don’t know why, I just felt like doing it. The novel really got me all worked up.” “Never mind,” Harry whispered, his hand moving too fast. “It made me realize we’ve never masturbated in front of each other since being together,” Hermione continued explaining herself, “and it just gave me the naughty idea.” “Take your skirt off,” Harry hissed. “What?” “Your skirt. Off.” “How do you know I’m wearing a skirt?” Hermione inquired. “And why should I take it off?” “Just do,” Harry groaned. “Take your skirt off and rub yourself. I’m listening.” Hermione gasped. Then, after a tiny pause, she mumbled, “Alright, and I guess you’re stroking yourself.” “Uh-huh.” “Okay then.” He heard the unstrapping of her skirt, and then, slowly, moans began flowing once again, from them both. “Can you imagine it, Harry?” Hermione breathed. “Imagine me giving you a handjob.” “I can imagine,” Harry admitted. “You do the same, me rubbing you.” “Oh, I can imagine lots.” Hermione was nothing if not imaginative. It wasn’t long before they fell prey to their passion one by one. “Although not as good as really fucking,” Hermione said between heavy breaths. “Still the best we can do until we meet again.” “Anyway,” said Harry, “what did you have for light-reading last night?” “Ha ha, so funny,” she said, sniffing. “I read Advanced Arithmancy by the way.” It was an acutely sour point for Hermione that she was no longer going to be able to continue Arithmancy at N.E.W.T. level since her schedule was about to be jam-packed without it already, and Arithmancy was not required for a Librarian. It was her favorite subject. “I read Daredevil,” Harry told her. “Harry, you can use this spare time for —” “Entertainment, which I am,” Harry cut her off abruptly. “Hermione, it’s holiday time, we can enjoy a little bit. You should too.” “You’re enjoying yourself without me, aren’t you?” “That’s not fair!” Hermione giggled. “Sorry, sorry.” “You —” Her giggles turned into full-on laughter, followed by a loud “Argh!” “Hermione!” Harry shouted, sitting up straight in alarm. “Argh . . . ow . . . my ass . . .” “What happened to your ass?” “I fell off my bed,” came Hermione’s reply, punctured with low moans of pain. Harry couldn’t help it. He rolled to his sides, laughing as loud and hard as possible. “Harry James Potter, stop laughing this instant!” “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, panting. “Are you — are you okay, though?” “My ass’s hurting here, and you’re laughing your ass off?” Hermione said, sounding highly vexed. “Is that how you treat your girlfriend?” “Don’t you worry, Miss Girlfriend, I’m going to make it up with you when we meet again,” Harry whispered in a seducing manner. “Mmm, you better will,” said Hermione breathlessly. “Well, I should get up now. I’m supposed to go shopping for groceries in a bit.” “Okay, take care.” Harry placed a kiss on his cell phone. “You too,” said Hermione. “Love you.” “Love you too.” Harry did the usual chores like dusting the apartment, putting dirty laundry in the washing machine, washing the utensils, and feeding his and Dora’s owls. At last, at around twelve o’clock, did he find time to pick up the comic he was reading last night and resume from where he had left. The adventurous journey of the Daredevil through the city of New York made Harry forget about the time. He only realized it was past lunch-time when his stomach grumbled to remind him. However, he had only marked the page when the doorbell rang. Wondering who it might be, Harry approached the door only to find a beautiful redhead girl standing outside, wearing a T-shirt whose bottom hem had been tied into a knot so that her smooth tummy skin showed to the world. She was also wearing tight jeans over sneakers. “Er, hello?” Harry said uncertainly. “Hi,” said the girl enthusiastically, waving a hand at him. “Is Tonks home?” “Oh, Tonks, no,” said Harry, shaking his head. “She’s off to the office, and you know her because . . . ?” “I’m her colleague, Angela Danvers,” said the witch, extending a hand. “And you’re Harry Potter, I believe?” “Yeah,” said Harry, shaking her hand. A moment later, he realized Angela was peering inside the apartment. “Why don’t you come inside?” he offered politely. “I was hoping you’d say that,” said Angela excitedly. She followed Harry inside and occupied the sofa seat that Harry had gestured at. He brought her water and sat down a seat away from her. “Thanks,” said Angela, accepting the glass of water. “So, how’s Angela, Dora?” The redhead witch choked on water. “What?” she spluttered, glancing up at Harry with wide eyes. “You thought I won’t know,” said Harry, smiling dangerously. “You knew all along?” “The moment I saw you.” “How?” “You have your keychain, Dora,” said Harry, pointing at the keychain dangling down the pocket of her jeans. “Dang,” Dora cursed under her breath, grinning guiltily at Harry. She reverted back to her true form, although her clothes remained the same. “Sorry, I was trying to pull a prank, that’s all.” “You have a lot to learn,” said Harry, smirking. “Where are your robes, though? And why are you back so early?” “I left my robes in my cubicle,” said Dora, stretching her arms wide. “Actually, some of us Aurors are about to be sent on a special mission in a couple of days. We have been given off till then.” “What kind of a mission?” “No idea,” said Dora, shrugging. “Listen, is food ready?” “I was about to begin working on it.” “Well, I’m taking a shower,” she told him. “Call me when it’s ready, okay?” “Yeah, okay.” As Dora proceeded into her bedroom, Harry instead made his way into the kitchen and began his work. About twenty minutes later, however, an ear-splitting scream filled the apartment. “HARRY!” Dora’s voice came from the bathroom. Harry hurried into the bathroom only to find himself in a situation that was embarrassing beyond imagination. Dora was standing totally naked on a stool, her slender arms barely covering her breasts and pubic region, while her eyes were fixed fearfully ahead. “Kill it!” she screamed, whining as though she was about to faint. “Kill what?” Harry asked urgently, trying his hardest to look only at Dora’s face. “That — that cockroach!” she moaned, gesturing ahead with her head. Harry followed her line of vision. A tiny cockroach was hanging down the edge of the bathtub, looking utterly harmless. “Don’t just stand there!” “Okay, okay, calm down!” said Harry. He went around Dora, took off his right slipper, and squashed the cockroach with it. “See? All dead now,” he said, turning around to Dora again. Her shoulders slumped in relief. “Th-thanks,” she breathed, letting out a deep breath. “C’mon, you can’t be that scared of cockroaches,” Harry said, shaking his head. “They are scary to some people,” Dora argued weakly, stepping down the stool and back into the bathtub. Her arms released her breasts, which, luckily, were under the water now. “Anyway, thanks. I’m okay now.” Dora returned from the bathroom a few minutes later, wearing a loose gray top and black shorts. She liked to be braless at home, so that her hard nipples were pressing against the fabric of her top. She liked having weight on her breasts. Her hair was short, black, and messy. “Nice hair,” Harry commented with a smirk as soon as he had a look at her. Dora rolled her eyes while she sat down next to Harry at the dining table. Although she didn’t miss to stroke her hair fondly. “What about my top?” she asked slyly, squeezing her huge breasts between her arms so that they bulged even more. “It suits me?” “You don’t talk while eating,” Harry said sternly, his eyes suddenly fixed on the plate ahead of him. “Mood spoiler,” said Dora, sticking her tongue out at him. “Can’t you ever flirt back at me?” “Don’t wanna get your hopes high.” “I can control myself.” “You tried that with Fleur. I daresay you failed abysmally.” “It was bidirectional.” “Initiated by you.” Dora flicked Harry on the forehead out of annoyance and lack of further arguments. He only smirked triumphantly. “You could learn a lot from me, you know,” she attempted a final time. “About your sexual life and skills.” “No thanks,” said Harry flatly. “Are you sure?” she said temptingly. Harry placed his fork down by his plate and stared at her. She was expecting him to scold her for her foolishness but then he asked her in a quiet voice, “It’s about being a Metamorphmagus. How do you know this is what your body looks like?” He gestured at her body with his eyes. Dora glanced down at herself. She had to admit she looked incredibly sexy, her voluminous curves threatening to pool out of her loose clothes. “I believe I’ve told you this in the past as well,” said Dora, smiling at Harry. “This is what my body looks like when I’m not thinking about how I want to look.” “But isn’t that conditional?” said Harry thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t your body change as you age? I mean, physical changes occur in one’s body as their age progresses. I wonder how that would work for you.” Dora hummed pensively. “I guess you’re right,” she said, nibbling on her lower lip. “My body has changed with age. My breasts and hips weren’t obviously the size they are right now. I believe my face’s also much sharper than before.” “You’ve grown taller as well,” Harry pointed out. “I was at your ear level when I first met you. I’ve grown almost a foot since then, and I am still at your ear level.” “Heh, do you feel intimidated, Harry Potter?” “I can beat you any day of the week,” said Harry, jerking his head in a I-can’t-believe-you-just-asked-that manner. “Yeah, yeah, you’re the Boy-Who-Lived after all,” said Dora, rolling her eyes. “And I am only a plain old Auror.” “Heh, do you feel intimidated, Nymphadora Tonks?” Dora smacked Harry on the arm for both his cheek and saying her first name in its true form. Harry ducked away from her, chuckling. They spent the rest of the day watching cartoons on the television. Harry had missed the majority of these things when he was staying at the Dursleys, and Dora liked to fill him up with quick, intriguing facts. Fleur returned half an hour before eight in the evening. She went into their bedroom to change. Her breasts were back from C to DDD. She liked to keep her breasts to a moderate size at work to avoid the unnecessary staring but also preferred to show off her true size within the privacy of their apartment. The three of them had noodles and fish for dinner, followed by a brisk walk down in the streets, returning at around nine o’clock. While Harry retired into his bedroom, Dora and Fleur went into their own. Fleur took off her shirt as soon as the door was closed. Her arms went around her back, and her black sports bra soon fell off her torso, and she let out a sigh of relief. “Eet was a long day today,” Fleur told Dora, who was now taking off her own upper clothes. “Ragnok was throwing childish tantrums.” Ragnok was the Head Goblin of the Gringotts Wizarding Bank. “Uh-huh?” Dora hummed, stepping closer to Fleur, wrapping her arms around the slender waist of the French blonde. “He didn’t bother mon chéri, did he?” “Non,” said Fleur, licking her lips, as their breasts squashed into each other. Fleur’s nipples were particularly sensitive. “ ’Ow was your day?” “Pretty great,” said Dora honestly. “I got off early, but I missed you.” “You did?” said Fleur, tilting her head a little, her eyes twinkling. Dora leaned in, and their lips met for a fervent kiss. Dora felt Fleur’s hands roam across her back before they reached her ass and groped her bottom cheeks rather roughly. Dora moaned into Fleur’s mouth. Fleur was naturally taller and stronger than Dora, so she had no issue lifting Dora up in her arms. Dora folded her legs around Fleur’s waist, never breaking the lip contact, as Fleur carried her to the bed behind. They were out of their remaining clothes in a quick burst of passion. Fleur was sporting a thick cock between her legs; it was pulsing with undulated desire. Dora spread her legs for her lover. She giddily reached for the turgid staff, beckoning Fleur to enter her already, but Fleur seemed to have other ideas. “Fleur?” Dora squealed, slightly startled and confused, when she felt a second appendage snake up her torso between her enormous pillowy tits. Fleur grinned in response. When Dora felt the crown of Fleur’s erect penis pressing between the humid petals of her heated entrance and the head of Fleur’s second serpent hover above her lips, waving tentatively, Dora suddenly caught on and giggled. “Do you want to geeve eet a go?” asked Fleur, raising her eyebrows questioningly. “Eet eez up to you.” “Holy shit, Fleur, just fuck me already,” Dora moaned excitedly. She pulled Fleur for another deep, searing kiss. Fleur’s lance plunged into her sheath. She let out a moan as Fleur began to rock her, and opened her lips wider to take Fleur’s second appendage in her mouth; she tasted its essence, sucking almost hungrily as it slid over her tongue. The feeling was almost indescribable; there was something heavenly about having Fleur filling her in both places simultaneously. The tidal surges of ecstasy swept Dora away more than once, and she was gleefully amazed that Fleur was still holding on. Fleur was more than surprised herself; the soaring sensations from her two members inside Dora rushing through her from head to toes were nearly overwhelming. Fleur could feel herself drawing nearer and nearer to the edge of the abyss, but she tried to hold off for as long as she could, delighting in both Dora’s pleasure and her own. But as Dora peaked, the passionate fervor fed back in on itself, and Fleur finally lost herself as well. Awash in a heavenly fog of bliss, Fleur erupted, releasing herself, flooding Dora’s depths as she drank thirstily from Fleur’s fountain. For an eternal moment, the pair were as one, undulating, caught in a perfect storm of uncontrollable multiple cascading climaxes. The magic arced like bolts of lightning; the bedroom seemed to light up, bathed in the pulsating silvery luminescence emanating from the writhing couple. “Fuck, that was amazing,” murmured Dora, as Fleur finally pulled her flaccid cocks from inside her and collapsed next to her, groaning. “Shokushu Fleur has got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” “Eef you think so,” Fleur said groggily. Fleur had turned into a half-Metamorphmagus more than a year ago when they had had sex for the first time. Dora had grown a foot-long cock using her Metamorphmagus abilities and penetrated Fleur to her very core, cumming inside her in the process. When they had woken up the next morning, Fleur had a cock herself. At first they didn’t understand how it came to be, but after a series of experimentation, they came to the conclusion that Dora’s Metamorphmagus and Fleur’s Veela magic had mist likely interacted with each other and resulted in Fleur developing some abilities of her own. She couldn’t change her complete appearance like Dora could, but she could change her sexual parts like breasts, hips, and pussy according to her will, and interestingly, could grow a cock of her chosen length as well. Their sex life had taken a turn for the better since then. Another advantage that Fleur saw in this incident was that she could now suppress her Veela magic by morphing her body so that she no longer attracted unwanted eyes upon herself. Dora turned to rest her head on her palm and put her other arm on Fleur’s cheek. “I suggested this a week ago,” she said softly. “What prompted this tonight?” “As I said earlier, eet was a long day,” Fleur purred, leaning closer to Dora. “I ’ope you enjoyed eet as much as I did.” “Of course.” They kissed again, but relatively slowly. Their hands were caressing, not squeezing and groping. Dora pushed her right thigh between Fleur’s both. The French witch sandwiched it immediately, pulling Dora closer in the process. On the other side of the wall that joined Dora’s and Harry’s bedroom, Harry was talking to Hermione over the cell phone. “Crookshanks isn’t being very snuggly today,” Hermione said sadly. “And I don’t have any stuffed animals either to sleep with.” Harry couldn’t help imagining Hermione snuggling with a stuffed panda or some other cute animal as she tried to fall asleep. Now that was a thought. . . . “Hey, the sky’s so beautiful tonight,” Hermione told Harry. “Are you watching?” “Hold on.” Harry approached the window, but unfortunately, the tall buildings neighboring the one he was currently in, obscured the view of the sky. “Er . . . hang on a moment, Hermione.” He went over to Dora’s bedroom and knocked on the door. “Don’t open!” he yelled as he heard a groan from inside. “All I wanted to say is I’m going upstairs to the terrace!” “Okay!” came the reply from inside, and Harry hurried outside the apartment. He climbed a set of stairs and pushed the door that usually stayed shut to reach the terrace. It was indeed a beautiful sight. Stars were shining brightly tonight, the moon being pleasantly breathtaking. “Wow,” Harry breathed. “Yeah,” whispered Hermione. “I can almost imagine you being by my side.” “Me too,” said Harry. After a few minutes, their conversation got steered in the direction of their best friend, Susan Bones. “Have you had any contact with her lately?” Harry inquired. “Yes, but her replies to my letters have been suspiciously short,” said Hermione. “Maybe she’s not yet as well as we thought,” said Harry quietly. He was talking, obviously, about the blow Susan had taken during the battle in the Department of Mysteries last month. She had had to take heavy medications for a long period of time as a result. “That might be it,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “I was wondering whether we could visit the Bones Manor after your birthday.” “This sucks,” Harry groaned. “We have to wait till my birthday to be truly free.” “The reason humans have been able to settle throughout the world is regulations,” Hermione recited faithfully. “Trust me, I know it feels like a bondage, but sometimes it is essential to be grounded.” “Sounds right, professor,” said Harry teasingly. “Hmph.” “If anything, I’m grateful I have you to keep me grounded.” Hermione hummed out of affection. “Don’t forget though,” she said warningly, “you’ve promised a long, nice massage when we finally meet again.” “I won’t forget, Hermione, I won’t.” ... Dora wasn’t required to go to the office for the next couple of days, so when she finally departed for her special mission, it was an emotional moment for both her and Fleur. Dora was going to Spain along with her fellow Aurors to investigate a murder case in which an old British witch had been killed a while ago. The old witch lived alone and didn’t have a cordial relationship with her neighbors. However, according to the Ministry’s sources, a Spanish wizard had visited her two days before the witch’s death. She had died because of a slow poison. “Take care,” Harry wished Dora as she stood at the doorway in the morning with all her packed stuff. “And stay hydrated.” “Yes, mommy,” said Dora, rolling her eyes. Turning to a teary-eyed Fleur, she said, “I will miss you.” “Toi aussi tu vas me manquer,” (“I will miss you too,”) said Fleur, nodding. “Reviens bientôt.” (“Come back soon.”) Dora left after kissing Fleur and hugging Harry one final time, and the two of them saw her Disapparate with a soft crack. Fleur retired into her bedroom at once. Harry followed her. “She’ll be alright,” Harry reassured Fleur, as she flopped down on the bed face-down. “You know ’er, ’Arry, she eez so clumsy,” Fleur said sniffily, “I am afraid she eez going to ’it ’erself een the knee wizz a chair or something and get injured.” “Now you’re undermining her, Fleur,” said Harry, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “She’s clumsy, I agree, but she can definitely take care of herself, she wasn’t made an Auror for nothing, was she?” Sighing, Fleur turned so that she now faced the ceiling. “You are right, I am overreacting,” she whispered, turning her gaze to him instead. “She eez going to be fine.” Fleur might have said that she was going to be okay but it was clear to Harry that she was deeply upset with Dora’s departure. The main issue was they couldn’t contact Dora at all and had no concrete idea when she’d be returning. It was a secret mission, and Dora wanted to impress her higher-ups in the first of her such missions. Five days went by and Harry didn’t see a smile on Fleur’s face even once. So he planned a date for them both. “I don’t know,” Fleur said uninterestedly when Harry told her they were going out for the evening. “I wasn’t asking you,” he said firmly, pulling her up to her feet by her arms. He went around her and pushed her until they reached her wardrobe. “Get dressed, we’re departing in half an hour.” Fleur stood stiffly in front of the wardrobe as Harry left her to her own devices. “Oh, and do wear something blue please,” he said before he finally left the room. Half an hour later, the two of them were walking through the streets. Harry was in a blue suit while Fleur wore a somewhat matching gown. The nearest restaurant was a few minutes’ distance away, so they chose to walk to their destination. They had dinner, and although Harry lamely attempted a few times to make a good joke, Fleur still had the grace to laugh. “Merci, Harry,” Fleur said when they were walking back to their apartment, their arms hooked. “For doing this for moi.” “Don’t sweat it,” Harry said wavily. “We’re friends, right? Best friends.” “Oui.” “I can do this for a friend,” said Harry. “I hope you had a good time.” “I did,” said Fleur, nodding. However, when they returned to their apartment, a surprise was waiting for them there. The door was open already, meaning only one thing.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Or two things, Harry thought. Either Dora was back or someone had broken into the apartment. Luckily it was the former one. “Dora!” Fleur squealed. Only Harry’s extended arm prevented her from running straight into Dora’s arms. “What eez the matter, ’Arry?” “I hate to say this, but you have to prove you’re Dora,” said Harry, staring ahead at the Metamorphmagus witch. “Well, I liked Harry romantically when we first met, but I got over it,” said Dora, shrugging. As Harry dropped his arm with a smile, Fleur jumped at Dora, hugging her lover tight, causing them both to fall down on the floor. “Where the hell were you both?” Dora asked, as she lay pinned to the floor underneath Fleur. “What?” she whispered quietly, for Fleur was staring down at her too intensely. “Tu m’as tellement manqué, Dora,” Fleur mumbled and went on to pepper Dora’s face with little kisses. Dora giggled heartily at Fleur’s actions. (“I missed you so much, Dora.”) “How was your mission?” asked Harry, when the two witches had shared enough ‘Miss you’s’ and they were all sitting on the sofa. “It was great, I learned a lot,” said Dora happily. “I believe I managed to impress my seniors as well.” “Zat eez great news, Dora,” said Fleur. “Wait — what eez zat?” She was pointing at Dora’s left elbow. Dora’s smile dropped a little as she forwarded her left arm and twisted it clockwise so that the scar on the back of her forearm was clearly visible. It looked a couple of days old. “It’s not much,” said Dora, laughing weakly. “I fell off . . . off my bed in the hotel room, yeah.” Harry could tell it was a lie, and so could Fleur. “Do not lie to moi, Nymphadora Tonks.” “Okay, no first names please,” Dora winced. “Fine, fine, I slipped off a cliff — but I was saved, don’t worry!” she added hastily, as both Fleur and Harry paled at the thought. “It was only a slip off.” Fleur got up at once and brought a first-aid kit from the kitchen. “It’s fine —” Fleur gave Dora such a fierce look that she quietened down at once. Fleur proceeded to nurse the wound while muttering furiously in French under her breath. “I think I have two mommies here,” Dora said, chuckling, but shut up when neither of the other two laughed. Fleur and Harry exchanged a look and giggled. Harry made noodles for Dora. At around eleven o’clock, they finally retired to their respective bedrooms. The emotions were running high, and only a few moments later, Dora had a foot long meat penetrating Fleur’s sacred flower. Fleur had her legs wrapped around Dora’s back as Dora thrust into her, grunts leaving her mouth every time she bottomed out inside Fleur. “Cum for me, Fleur,” Dora growled, her thrusts becoming longer and harsher, her hips slapping against Fleur’s every time. “I want to see you break apart for me.” Fleur lost all the self-restraint and exploded, her sticky fluid discharging all around Dora’s engorged cock and spilling out of her own cunt. Dora cummed soon enough, her warm seed hitting Fleur’s insides like a cannon blast. Exhausted, Dora attempted to pull out of Fleur but Fleur held her in place, her legs preventing Dora from moving backwards. “Stay inside,” Fleur panted. “I ’ave missed zis a lot.” “Me too,” said Dora, obliging to Fleur’s wish. “I missed this too.” She lay down next to Fleur in such a way that her cock remained inside Fleur. She placed a gentle hand on Fleur’s toned stomach where abs could be easily felt. Fleur was unbelievably hot. “Should I start working as well?” she asked Fleur, glancing up at her. “Your take,” said Fleur, shrugging. “I wouldn’t mind eef you do.” Fleur was grinding her hips up and down over Dora’s cock again, causing a delicious friction between the two. Dora became hard again. She lay Fleur on her back and began thrusting inside her once more. . . . The summer holidays had started three weeks ago, and Harry had been staying with Dora and Fleur in the former’s apartment in Luton. The Ministry was finally forced to accept the truth of Voldemort’s return (the murderer of Harry’s parents) when he appeared in the Ministry to steal a prophecy from the Department of Mysteries, a prophecy that bound Voldemort and Harry together, a prophecy that said neither can live while the other survives. . . . A very few people knew what the prophecy said. Harry, Hermione, Dora, Fleur, Amelia, Sirius, Susan, Ginny, Neville, Luna, and Dumbledore (Headmaster of Hogwarts, and the only one Voldemort ever feared). Susan, Ginny, Neville, and Luna were all Harry and Hermione’s friends; Susan and Ginny were a couple. However, the lack of information didn’t prevent people from guessing about it. An article was published on the fifth of July in the Daily Prophet, concerning the same topic. 
HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE?

Rumors continue to fly about the mysterious recent disturbance at the Ministry of Magic, during which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was sighted once more.

“We’re not allowed to talk about it, don’t ask me anything,” said one agitated Obliviator, who refused to give his name as he left the Ministry last night.

Nevertheless, highly placed sources within the Ministry have confirmed that the disturbance centered on the fabled Hall of Prophecy.

Though Ministry spokeswizards have hitherto refused even to confirm the existence of such a place, a growing number of the Wizarding community believe that the Death Eaters now serving sentences in Azkaban for trespass and attempted theft were attempting to steal a prophecy. The nature of that prophecy is unknown, although speculation is rife that it concerns Harry Potter, the only person ever known to have survived the Killing Curse, and who is also known to have been at the Ministry on the night in question. Some are going so far as to call Potter “the Chosen One,” believing that the prophecy names him as the only one who will be able to rid us of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

The current whereabouts of the prophecy, if it exists, are unknown, although (ctd. page 2, column 5) 
“Fudge finally admitted, huh?” Hary had said vindictively to which Dora, who worked as an Auror in the Ministry, had said, “He’s not the Minister anymore, so it’s not him who admitted it as per say.” “He’s not the Minister anymore?” said Harry, shocked. “Who’s the new Minister, then?” “Rufus Scrimgeour,” said Dora. “He was the Head of the Auror Office when Madam Bones used to lead the DMLE and succeeded her at it when she resigned. Now that Fudge’s been sacked, Scrimgeour got the top job automatically.” “It should have been Amelia,” Harry said ruefully. “She shouldn’t have resigned.” “I second that,” said Dora sadly. The article about Rufus Scrimgeour becoming the new Minister was published a couple of days later, bearing the headline: 
SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE 
Most of this front page was taken up with a large black-and-white picture of a man with a lion-like mane of thick hair and a rather ravaged face. The picture was moving — the man was waving at the ceiling. 
Rufus Scrimgeour, previously Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has succeeded Cornelius Fudge as Minister of Magic. The appointment has largely been greeted with enthusiasm by the Wizarding community, though rumors of a rift between the new Minister and Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, surfaced within hours of Scrimgeour taking office.

Scrimgeour’s representatives admitted that he had met with Dumbledore at once upon taking possession of the top job, but refused to comment on the topics under discussion. Albus Dumbledore is known to (ctd. page 3, column 2) 
Harry turned the paper and read the story bearing the title MINISTRY GUARANTEES STUDENTS’ SAFETY. 
Newly appointed Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, spoke today of the tough new measures taken by his Ministry to ensure the safety of students returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this autumn.

“For obvious reasons, the Ministry will not be going into detail about its stringent new security plans,” said the Minister, although an insider confirmed that measures include defensive spells and charms, a complex array of countercurses, and a small task force of Aurors dedicated solely to the protection of Hogwarts School.

Most seem reassured by the new Minister’s tough stand on student safety. Said Mrs. Augusta Longbottom, “My grandson, Neville — a good friend of Harry Potter’s, incidentally, who fought the Death Eaters alongside him at the Ministry in June — is returning to Hogwarts for his sixth-year this September and I am very much happy to be assured that the Ministry is taking appropriate safety measures for his and every other student’s security.” 
“Is he . . . Do you think he’s good?” Harry asked Dora. “He is able, certainly,” said Dora. “A more decisive and forceful personality than Cornelius.” “Yes, but I meant —” “I know what you meant, Harry. Rufus is a man of action and, having fought Dark wizards for most of his working life, does not underestimate Voldemort.” A purple leaflet was sent to every Hogwarts student on the tenth of July, emblazoned with the words:  — Issued on behalf of — The Ministry of Magic 
PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK FORCES

The Wizarding community is currently under threat from an organization calling itself the Death Eaters. Observing the following simple security guidelines will help protect you, your family, and your home from attack.

You are advised not to leave the house alone. 
Particular care should be taken during the hours of darkness. Wherever possible, arrange to complete journeys before night has fallen. 
Review the security arrangements around your house, making sure that all family members are aware of emergency measures such as Shield and Disillusionment Charms, and, in the case of underage family members, Side-Along-Apparition. 
Agree on security questions with close friends and family so as to detect Death Eaters masquerading as others by use of the Polyjuice Potion (see page 2). 
Should you feel that a family member, colleague, friend, or neighbor is acting in a strange manner, contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at once. They may have been put under the Imperius Curse (see page 4). 
Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling place or other building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact the Auror office immediately. 
Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death Eaters may now be using Inferi (see page 10). Any sighting of an Inferius, or encounter with same, should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY. 
To this Dora only quoted, “People want to feel they’re being taken care of,” and Harry felt like no other words could have described the current situation of the Wizarding world better. It’s been a busy three weeks for both the Ministry and the Death Eaters. The Brockdale Bridge was destroyed by the Death Eaters, killing dozens of Muggles in the process. Emmeline Vance, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, was murdered. Destruction in Somerset was reported; the Muggle government suspected a hurricane, but it was more likely the work of giants for Voldemort. Similarly, according to the Order, Dementors were breeding, causing cool weather and persistent mist across Britain. Moreover, it was not like only the Muggles were being persecuted by the rise of power of the Dark Lord. Dora, who kept paying the Order visits often, once brought the news of the disappearance of Florean Fortescue. “The man who ran the ice-cream place in Diagon Alley?” asked Harry. “What’s happened to him?” “Dragged off, by the look of his place,” said Dora. “Why?” “Who knows? He must’ve upset them somehow. He was a good man, Florean. Talking of Diagon Alley, looks like Ollivander’s gone too.” “The wandmaker?” said Harry, startled. “That’s the one. Shop’s empty. No sign of a struggle. No one knows whether he left voluntarily or was kidnapped.” “But wands — what’ll people do for wands?” “They’ll make do with other makers,” said Dora. “But Ollivander was the best, and if the other side have got him it’s not so good for us.” ... “I’m coming tomorrow,” Hermione told Harry over the phone one evening. Only a week was left for Harry’s birthday. “You are?” he said, flabbergasted by this sudden announcement. “Yes, I’m done waiting here,” said Hermione firmly. “I’m coming tomorrow and that’s final. Just tell me the proper address, I’ll write it down.” Harry heard a commotion; Hermione must be picking a notepad and a pen from her study table. “But, Hermione —” “The address, Harry.” Her no-nonsense tone and the clicking sound of the pen left no space for arguments. Harry begrudgingly told her Dora’s address. “Are Dora and Fleur back?” Hermione asked when she had clicked her pen again. “No. Why?” “Nothing, I just wanted to know they won’t mind me staying over, that’s all.” “They won’t,” said Harry knowingly. He knew it was a really difficult task to convince Hermione out of something when she’s devoted herself to it. He might just accept the truth as it is and go on with it. “You know what,” he said, a brilliant idea storming into his mind, “come before ten, okay?” “Why?” Hermione asked curiously. “We will go on a picnic.” “Really?” “Yep — I’ve always wanted to do that with you,” Harry said blissfully. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” “Like that? I’d love that, Harry,” Hermione said in delight. “You just made it even harder for me to sleep tonight.” “Do try and sleep though, I don’t want you to doze off on the picnic.” ... Hermione was so thrilled to see Harry again that she reached Luton at nine in the morning — an hour earlier than they had discussed. Harry picked her and her pet cat, Crookshanks, from the main street. Hermione Granger was only a couple of months away from being seventeen, an age at which you became a legal adult in the Wizarding World. Hermione was beautiful; her brown, bushy hair that she used to hate so much had now smoothened into elegant curls; her eyes were of almond-brown shade with a few golden flecks visible when observed closely; she had grown taller but still not so much to be at Harry’s eye level — Harry only had to raise his head a little to rest his chin on the top of her head; her body had developed at all the right places as well — she had more than handfuls of breasts and hips. However, the thing that made her different from everyone else and the best person in the whole world in Harry’s opinion was her character. She was fierce, passionate, smart, and full of compassion and love. She was not known as the brightest witch of this age for nothing. She proved herself worthy of the title everyday. She had a strict rule-abiding personality but also didn’t think twice to go out of her way to help her friends, especially Harry. Harry and Hermione were now friends of five years and a couple of one-and-a-half years. Interestingly, both their friendship and their intimate relationship began in one of the bathrooms of Hogwarts. “Hello, my boy, did you miss me?” Harry said sweetly, picking the enormous ginger cat up in his arms. Crookshanks purred contentedly to Harry rubbing around his neck. There was a “hmph” and Harry turned to see that Hermione was now striding ahead alone. “Hey, wait!” he called, but Hermione had turned momentarily deaf. He let Crookshanks go after his master, and himself went running after Hermione with her heavy trunk in his hands. “What happened, love?” Harry asked as soon as he reached her. But she gave another huff, jerking her head furiously, and continued walking ahead. “Hermione.” Harry grabbed Hermione’s arm. She turned to him with eyes that flashed dangerously. Crookshanks was circling around her legs now, his bottlebrush tail up in the air. “What is it?” Harry asked quietly. “I ain’t telling you if you don’t know,” Hermione snapped at him. “Please?” “You’re supposed to ask me first if I missed you or not!” Hermione burst out, her voice shaking with anger and frustration. She jerked her head away from him again, but didn’t move ahead this time, instead stood quietly with her arms crossed over her chest. Dropping the trunk on the earth with a thud, Harry grabbed both of Hermione’s arms and pushed her to the nearest wall. “Harry!” Hermione squeaked in shock, as Harry ducked his head and began kissing her on the neck. “W-wait, somebody will see — oh, fuck.” Her voice turned into moans when Harry sucked on her skin. And then, suddenly he was a foot away from her. She stood pinned to the wall, her arms over her head although nothing was keeping them there. “Let’s go,” Harry said, grinning roguishly. “Dora and Fleur must be waiting.” Hermione had no idea what turns they had taken to reach Dora’s flat because she was walking numbly beside Harry, her hand clasping his free one, while Crookshanks walked ahead of them both. “Bonjour, Hermione, comment vas-tu?” Fleur greeted Hermione as soon as the young couple entered the apartment. (“Hello, Hermione, how are you?”) “Je vais bien, Fleur, et toi?” said Hermione, shaking hands with the French witch. (“I’m fine, Fleur, and you?”) “Moi aussi, chéri,” said Fleur gladly. “Dora eez een the bathroom,” she told Harry. (“Me too, darling.”) “She was in the bathroom when I left too,” Harry said, disgruntled. “Isn’t she getting late? It’s fifteen past nine already.” “She said she eez not going to ze office today,” said Fleur. “She eez supposed to reach ze crime scene by one o’clock.” Dora returned a few minutes later, wearing a sky-blue shirt and black pants. Her hair was black and straight. “Oi, wotcher, Mione,” she said excitedly, as she noticed Hermione on the dining table along with Harry and Fleur. “When did you arrive?” “When you were trying to cause droughts by draining the whole country’s water in the bathroom,” Harry said sarcastically. Hermione and Fleur giggled, but Harry received a blow to the back of his head. “How’re you, Dora?” Hermione asked the young Auror. “Enjoying your work?” “Very much,” said Dora gladly. “It’s been a dream come true for me, honestly.” The four of them talked about anything and everything that caught their attention until Fleur had to leave for Gringotts. “Maybe I should leave as well,” Dora said thoughtfully. “One of my school-time friends wanted to have a chat with me, perhaps I should tell her I’m free until one.” “Okay,” said Harry, nodding. “As you wish.” “Besides, you two will get the place to yourself as well,” Dora added teasingly. “Won’t you like that, Miss Granger?” “Ahem.” Harry cleared his throat, as Hermione blushed pink. “Just leave,” he said coldly. “Yes, mommy.” Harry reacted instantaneously, sending a Stinging Hex towards Dora, but her Auror skills kicked in and she ducked just in time. “What’s this, mommy?” she said cockily, her head reappearing above the table, a smirk plastered on her face. “Hexing your loved ones while they’re having breakfast — bad manners.” “I’ll show you bad manners,” Harry growled, getting off the chair. Dora squealed, ducking Harry in order to enter her bedroom. She tried to shut it close before he could follow her inside but Harry managed to place his foot in the way at the last moment. “No — aaaaargh!” When Hermione and Fleur entered the bedroom, Harry was sitting on top of Dora and tickling the breath out of her. “Fleur — Hermione — ha ha — save me — HA HA!” Dora gasped helplessly, turning and tossing fruitlessly against Harry. “Apologize,” Harry said, tickling Dora ruthlessly. She was completely out of breath; her face had turned bright red and tears were brimming the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry!” she screamed, still trying to break free from Harry’s grip. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” “That’s enough, Harry,” said Hermione from behind, and Harry let go of Dora at last. She lay lifelessly on the bed, her chest rising and falling with every long breath she took to catch her breath. “That was torture,” she mumbled, turning to her right and sitting upright. “Way worse than a Stinging Hex.” “Go and wash your face,” Harry said gently, patting her thigh. Around ten minutes later, Dora and Fleur both left the apartment for their respective destinations. Hermione, to Harry’s surprise, proceeded to her trunk, sat down on the floor, and opened it to rummage with its contents. “And I thought you’d be jumping on me the second we were alone,” Harry said unabashedly, grinning, as he stood in front of her. “I thought so too,” she said without looking up at him. “But now I wanna go on the picnic first. I even brought my newly bought sundress — look.” She raised a parrot-green sundress in her arms. Harry sat down next to her and caressed the cloth between his fingers. It was really soft. “It will look great on you,” he said truthfully. “Do you have something green to match with this?” Hermione asked hopefully. “Mmm. . . . I believe I have a T-shirt that will look good with this,” Harry said after thinking for a moment. “Great! Let’s get ready, then!” A while later, they were both dressed for the picnic. Harry had even prepared a picnic basket in which he had kept sandwiches and fruits. Hermione, on the other hand, had chosen a novel for a bit of light reading. With Crookshanks ahead and their hands clasped together, they finally left the apartment for a great day ahead. ... “Yes . . . Mmm, harder, Harry . . . Yes! Fuck!” Hermione let out a muffled scream as Harry thrust into her from behind, holding her hair high above her head. Harry’s thighs kept slapping against Hermione’s hips for a while until the pressure was too much to control. “I’m close,” he groaned, his legs beginning to tremble already. “Me too,” said Hermione, her back arching downwards. She lay her hands flat in front of herself so that her cheek now pressed into the mattress. The change in angle was the breaking point, and Harry released his seed inside Hermione, who had reached her own climax at last. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Hermione moaned under her breath. Harry pulled his flaccid length out of her cunt and lay down next to her, exhausted but pleased. “You make me feel so good,” Hermione mumbled, snuggling into Harry’s arms. “I missed this.” “I missed this too,” he said, patting her sweaty back. They kissed sloppily, even messily, not that they cared anyway. They were kissing, that was all that mattered to them at the moment. “Only a week left for your birthday,” Hermione said, gazing at him with a passion flickering in her eyes. “What’re you planning, you little devil, huh?” Harry asked, nuzzling his nose against hers. “Nothing too much,” she whispered, catching his lips again. Hermione’s “nothing too much” was literally too much when it came to celebrating Harry’s birthday. It was like she had decided to celebrate the whole week preceding Harry’s birthday as an event. She arranged a special something for each and every day. They explored Neal’s Yard and Covent Garden on Thursday. Neal’s Yard was a colorful oasis of shops, cafes, and apartments, nestled in the heart of Covent Garden. This tiny alley opened up to a courtyard where they grabbed a bite. On Friday they had a bougie dinner at Sushi Samba, a pricey joint on the 38th floor of a high-rise building. They also wandered through the Camden Market, grabbed afternoon tea and walked off the calories in Kew Gardens, and finally explored the theater scene in Piccadilly Circus. “One of the best weeks ever,” Harry told Dora and Fleur over dinner a day before his birthday. Dora and Fleur were both very jealous of Harry and Hermione’s daily adventures while they went off to their boring offices. “It hasn’t ended though,” said Hermione calmly. “It hasn’t?” said Harry, wide-eyed. “Well, we ain’t taking a day off tomorrow for nothing, are we?” said Dora, pointing at herself and Fleur. “Right,” said Hermione. “We’re going on a picnic on Pultsmore Hill.” “Brillante!” cheered Fleur. “I ’ave not been on a picnic een ages.” “Me neither,” said Dora. “Then we’d be going to my place and staying there for the night,” Hermione went on. “Good,” said Harry happily. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to say that.” Hermione woke Harry up the next morning with a blowjob. “Fuck,” he whispered heavily, when he had shot his load inside her throat. She planted a short kiss on Harry’s forehead and wished him, “Happy birthday, love.” “Thanks,” he said, beaming at her. “Er . . . let me have a quick detour to the bathroom?” Hermione tinkered with laughter while getting off Harry. He pulled his boxers on and hurried into the bathroom. Hermione lay down like a starfish on the bed and waited for Harry to return. The clock chimed six o’clock. Hermione felt acutely aware of everything around her. She was so happy it was Harry’s birthday. He deserved nothing but love and happiness and care. I will give it all to him, she thought resolutely. And yet, there was that impending feeling of doom, looming in the back of her mind. Voldemort was out in the open again, gaining power rapidly, ready to distort the Wizarding World once again into his own spectrum of vision, which was nonetheless to say quite regressive. Harry practiced Occlumency everyday, and Hermione was pleased to know he was doing exceptionally well. He hadn’t had a single weird dream or vision since the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. However, Harry had a not-so-positive view regarding this. He thought he wasn’t seeing any visions anymore because Voldemort had just stopped trying. “Why would he stop though?” Hermione had questioned Harry. “Because I have you,” he had said as simply as if saying two and two equals four. Hermione had felt pleased for a few seconds, before her stomach seemed to twist with the thought: Then what about when I will not be there for you, Harry? “Hey,” Harry had said softly, no doubt sensing her thoughts in an instant. He cupped her cheeks and stared her in the eyes. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me, okay? There’s nothing that can pull us apart. Nothing. Right?” Hermione remembered having hugged Harry too tightly after that. It was all she needed to hear, all she needed to believe. “Babe?” “Huh?” Hermione blinked. Harry was half-bent over her, a genuine concern in his eyes. “You okay?” he asked. “Yeah,” she said, nodding her head. “Just thinking.” Harry didn’t ask what. Perhaps one of the many reasons the two of them got along so well was that they respected each other’s boundaries. Harry had always realized that Hermione was an overthinking girl, and he had never had a problem with it until and unless it made her think something detrimental. In fact, he believed she wouldn’t be her if she didn’t think too much. He lay down next to her and tried to squeeze the very breath out of her. She also enjoyed the warm contact. “Harry?” Hermione spoke after a while. Harry hummed against what was quite the nest of her hair. “Do you think Professor Snape lured us to go to the Ministry on purpose?” Harry pulled back to look her in the eyes. She could see confusion in those bright green orbs. “I have no idea,” he said quietly. “I might never understand why that man does what he does.” True, thought Hermione. Severus Snape was nothing if not full of secrets. They showered and got dressed together. Surprisingly, Harry didn’t have to fume over Dora staying in bed till late. She and Fleur were already up by the time Harry started making breakfast. “Happy birthday, Harry!” said Dora, racing into the kitchen and hugging him from behind. “Thanks,” he said, turning around to hug her properly. “Joyeux anniversaire, Harry!” said Fleur, hugging him once Dora had stepped aside. (“Happy birthday, Harry!”) “Merci, Fleur,” said Harry. “Ici,” Fleur said excitedly, presenting a heavy shopping bag to him. (“Here.”) “There was no need,” said Harry modestly. “It’s from both of us, prat,” said Dora, patting him on the back. “Okay,” said Harry slowly. They had bought a shirt, pants, and a pair of shoes for him. “Oh, wow,” Harry whispered, taking out the shoes. “I’ve wanted these for a while.” “Yes, I saw you look at zese,” Fleur said, beaming at him. Harry didn’t feel words could properly express the gratitude that was coursing through him, so he stepped forward and grabbed Fleur in a tight hug. “Oi, where’s my hug?” Dora pouted from behind, causing Fleur to giggle. Harry went and hugged Dora as well. “Thanks, both of you,” he said gratefully. “I need to cook breakfast though.” “Where’s Mione?” asked Dora. “I didn’t see her in the hall.” “She’s reading in the bedroom,” Harry told her. “I ’ave never seen a girl so studious een moi entire life,” Fleur remarked amusingly. “Neither will you ever,” said Harry, chuckling. “She’s one of a kind.” “True,” said Dora. “The day before yesterday I accidentally entered the bathroom when she was already in there, she was reading in the bathtub too. I mean, who reads while bathing?” “Accidentally, huh?” Harry said suspiciously. “Yes, accidentally,” said Dora sniffily. “Harry!” Hermione’s voice rang from outside the kitchen. “I’m famished!” “Coming in a moment!” Harry called back before he addressed Fleur in a hushed voice. “I haven’t even started yet. Can you please help?” “Sure,” said Fleur, nodding. “Until then, maybe you can keep Hermione occupied?” Harry asked Dora, who nodded as well. The four of them reached Pultsmore Hill by eleven o’clock. Hedwig (Harry’s owl) and Tony (Dora’s owl) had not been brought since it was their time to sleep, for they went hunting every night. Crookshanks, (Hermione’s cat), however, had demanded to be carried along in an exceptionally loud manner, and Hermione had to surrender in front of the Almighty Cat Lord. As soon as they found a tree that did not have anyone underneath it, Crookshanks bounced out of his carrier, stretched wide, and busied himself chasing grasshoppers and crickets all around. “Don’t run far away!” Hermione called after her cat, who didn’t respond at all, momentarily focused on pouncing on what he thought was an unaware butterfly. The insect dodged at the very last moment. Dora spread the mat on the grass, and they all sat down under the tree shade. Sighing, Dora crawled to her left so that she could lay down with her head resting in Fleur’s lap. “It’s nice to have a day off once in a while, isn’t it?” Dora said lazily, as Fleur began threading her fingers through Dora’s messy black hair. Dora was donning a hairstyle exactly similar to Harry’s today. Her eyes were also emerald-green. She basically looked like Harry’s elder sister. “Hey, Dora, I just realized, you never told us what happened in Spain,” Harry said observantly. “I’ve told Fleur,” Dora told him. “But I’ll repeat it for you both. “Actually, the lads at Magical Law Enforcement Patrol found a dead old woman in her house. Now there was nothing suspicious when you look at it like that. She might have died naturally. But when one of the Healers at St. Mungo’s Hospital examined her body, they found that she had been poisoned. So, the case was transferred to us Aurors. “We studied her profile — her name’s Amber Perez — we found that she was a loner. Her husband had died twenty years back, her only son married to a witch in America — they had both settled there and never came back to see Amber. She didn’t get along well with her neighbors either. There were basically no suspects. “However, one of the neighbors told us that he had seen a Spanish wizard visit Amber two days before her death.” “How did the neighbor know it was a Spanish wizard?” Hermione asked curiously. “Amber was very old, so she had no idea someone was ringing the doorbell,” said Dora. “So the neighbor — Tim Byrne — had to come out and open the door — he had an extra key. When Tim asked the guest who he was, the man gibbered something in Spanish, all Tim could understand was that his name was Luke Lopez. When Amber saw Luke, she became visibly happy, so Tim thought they knew each other and left the two of them alone. He had no idea Luke was about to kill Amber.” “You chased him in Spain?” asked Harry. “Yes, we contacted the Spanish Ministerio de Magia and reached the country to investigate the case. We inquired a lot of people about Luke —” “Where did you start though?” questioned Hermione. “How did you know whom to ask about Luke?” “Good question.” Dora finally sat up, looking quite glad to be reciting the story again. “We had one question in mind. How come Amber who had never visited Spain knew a Spanish wizard? The fact was, her husband, Benjamin Perez, was a Spanish wizard as well. “We traced Benjamin’s history and found that Benjamin and Luke were in the same year in Escuela Mágica De Madrid, the Madrid School Of Magic. After graduation, their friend circle decided they should go on a trip together before they all got separated, you know. They came to a magical village in Britain. “However, both Benjamin and Luke fell in love with a girl who resided in that village, Amber Martin. Luke was a stubborn, impatient kind of man, so he went straight to Amber and told her he liked her. Obviously Amber thought he was a creep. “Benjamin was more cautious. He first became friends with Amber, wooed her with small actions, you getting me? While Luke lost all hopes, Benjamin kept coming back to that village every three or four months. Even Amber grew to like him. Three years later, they got married. Benjamin thought Britain had given him the love of his life, so he settled down in Britain itself for the rest of his life. “But when Benjamin died years later, Luke found hope again. He traced Amber and tried to convince her to marry him. She refused, but he kept coming back. There were heated arguments, but Luke was, as I said earlier, stubborn. He returned to Britain every year to see Amber.”“Hold on,” Hermione interrupted. “You said Amber was visibly happy when she saw Luke that day.” “Yes, actually Amber had grown to like Luke too in the end,” Dora said, a look of disgust on her face. “But Luke had lost his patience. He poisoned her before she could confess her feelings. She died alone in her house due to cardiac arrest. “So, back to our investigation, we met lots of people who were in the same year as Benjamin and Luke, in search of Luke’s current location. Interestingly, Luke never stayed at a single location for too long. You know why? He was a mob.” Hermione gasped, wide-eyed. “We thought all along he had killed Amber for revenge or something, but no, he did it for someone else. He did it for Jose Perez, Amber’s own son.” “No!” Hermione gasped again in horror. “Yes,” said Dora, nodding her head. “When we caught Luke at last, he told us he did it for Jose. In fact, he had been visiting Amber every year since Benjamin’s death because Jose paid him for it. He paid Luke to threaten Amber for all the property that Benjamin had transferred on her name before dying. Jose believed it was his property. “Luke visited Amber every year to threaten her and make her sign the papers that transferred all the property to Jose. She refused. She said she won’t give it to a son who had not even talked to her since his father’s death.” “Rightly so!” Hermione fumed. “Jose kept sending Luke to Amber’s house every year, only to be rejected by his mother every single time. He lost patience and paid Luke to kill his mother at last. “Now us Aurors thought Amber was happy to see Luke because she was about to confess her feelings, but that was not the case. The truth was she had at last decided to give her son all the property. She was old, could barely see, hear, and talk, what was she going to do with all that money, right? “But Luke, as I said before, was an impatient man. He couldn’t wait to let the old woman stutter what she wanted to say. He offered her a poisoned tea, which she drank not knowing it was poisoned.” “What about Jose now?” Harry asked angrily. “Ain’t you going to arrest him?” “Scrimgeour immediately sent another team to America,” Dora told him. “He’s been arrested, trialed, and in fact, jailed in Azkaban for his crimes.” “I can’t believe — his own mother,” said Hermione, frowning. “I know,” said Dora, shaking her head. “It’s fucking disgusting.” “Life’s so unfair,” Harry said quietly, his voice rather choked up. “People are killing their parents while some even don’t have them.” There was no response from any of the other three to this grim statement. Eventually, Hermione opened the picnic basket and gave everyone a sandwich. “By the way, Harry told me you visited the village of the Veelas,” said Hermione curiously. “Yeah, it was fun now that I look back at it,” said Dora, grinning, before she began telling Hermione what she had already told Harry: the story of her and Fleur’s visit to the village of Veelas, Féroé. ... “Happy birthday, Harry!” Emma wished and hugged him, as he, Hermione, Dora, and Fleur reached number six, Chilmark Gardens, Hampstead at five in the evening. “You took a day off too?” Harry asked, sighing. “Of course we did,” said Emma, pulling him inside. “I made a cake for you.” “You didn’t have to —” “Hello, Harry,” said Dan, appearing behind Emma. “Many many returns of the day.” They shook hands. “Amelia, Sirius, and Susan are due any time,” Emma told Harry. Emma and Dan were Hermione’s parents. They were both dentists and ran their own practice nearby. Sirius Black was Harry’s godfather and was James Potter’s (Harry’s father’s) best friend back in the day. He was also James’s best man. Amelia Black née Bones was Lily Evans’s best friend during their time at Hogwarts. She had gotten married to Sirius only a year ago. Amelia had recently given birth to their baby boy, Zain. Susan Bones was a Hufflepuff witch in the same year as Harry and Hermione. She had long, red hair which she always wore in plaits. She was also the owner of the biggest bust in the castle of Hogwarts, even bigger than any adult woman in the esteemed school. She was Harry and Hermione’s closest friend. Harry, Dora, Fleur, and the Grangers occupied the couch in the hall and began chatting about how Hermione had planned the past week, when the doorbell rang. “It’s got to be them!” Emma said excitedly, jumping to her feet and running to the door. “Hi, Amelia, hi, Sirius, and hello, dear.” Amelia and Sirius entered the hall with a sleeping Zain in the former’s arms. They all made a beeline up to Zain, trying to get a good look at his adorable face. “Hey.” Harry turned and found himself looking at Susan who was waving eagerly. He went and grabbed her in a hug immediately. “Hey yourself,” he said, pulling back and watching her. She looked the same Susan. Her hair, her eyes, her smile, it was all Susan-y. “Hello, Susan,” said Hermione, beaming at her friend. “Shall we begin?” Emma asked all around. “Yeah, okay,” said Sirius, nodding. “Next year onwards, Harry can have firewhiskeys.” He winked at his godson. “Like he hasn’t been already,” Amelia murmured under her breath. Dan had taken Zain from her and was currently patting his back at a distance from the rest of them. “Officially, I mean to say,” said Sirius, grinning quite boyishly at Harry, who rolled his eyes. “Anyway,” said Amelia. She pulled out a tiny beaded bag out of her jeans pocket. “Here’s something Siri thought you’d like,” she told Harry, pulling a huge box of LEGO’s from inside the beadbag. “A very happy birthday, Harry.” Harry accepted the box of LEGO’s with slightly trembling hands. “Thank you,” he said, glancing intensely at the box in his hands. “I always watched Dudley play with these.” “I thought so,” said Sirius grimly. “I guess it’s one of the best games Muggles have.” “Well, now that we’re giving you your gifts already,” Emma said, smiling at Harry. “Here’s what Dan and I bought for you and your girlfriend back in Norway. Just wait a moment.” She hurried into her bedroom and brought back two white coffee mugs, but as Harry observed them closely in his hands, he noticed that “Harry & Hermione” was printed on them both. “Oh wow, Mum, I had no idea you bought these,” Hermione said, taking one of the mugs from Harry and watching it closely. “Custom printed coffee mugs. Nice.” “Here’s mine,” said Susan at last, presenting two small cards forward. “I’m giving Hermione’s present with Harry’s since she won’t be able to use it at Hogwarts.” She handed over a card each to Harry and Hermione. Harry looked down at his own.

Public Library, London

Service: A private cabin booked for two

Benefits: Unlimited access to all the exclusive books in our catalog

Date & Time: Of the owner’s choosing (a full day) 
“A movie date!” Hermione said excitedly. “Oh thank you so much, Sue!” “What? No! Hold on!” Susan swapped the two cards. Harry was now looking down at the second one.

Pristine Cinema Hall

Service booked: A private cabin for two

Movie displayed: A Lover’s Chase

Date & Time: Of the owner’s choosing (any 1 show) 
“A private cabin booked in the Public Library with unlimited access to all of their exclusive books for a full day?” Hermione exclaimed, sounding exhilarated. “This is — this is —” “A dream come true?” said Susan, raising an eyebrow. “I just thought perhaps you — oof!” Hermione had flung herself upon Susan. “That’s really thoughtful of you, Susan,” said Amelia, looking rather impressed. “Thanks, Sue,” said Harry happily. “It’s brilliant, really.” Once the cake had been cut and glasses had been raised, Harry cleared his throat in order to gain attention. “Everyone, I, er, I wanted to say something,” he spoke a bit timidly. He had prepared this little speech all month but now that he was actually speaking, his mouth had gone rather dry. It had all sounded so easy in his mind. “Yes, Harry?” said Susan. “Is something the matter?” “No, everything’s good,” he assured her. “Better than ever, to be honest. It’s just — and I know I’m not that good at saying these things — but still I think I owe it all to you —” “Harry, you don’t owe us anything,” Hermione started; of course she had an inkling where Harry was leading this to. “No, Hermione,” Harry quickly cut her off before he himself got cold feet. “This is important.” Hermione closed her mouth and nodded. Harry looked around at them all. Susan, who had retained the worst injuries in the battle last month, was grinning widely. Amelia and Sirius, who had finally achieved their happiness, had finally given birth to a baby boy, were still not free in its truest sense, having to stay accommodated inside closed confines most of the time. Zain, who was barely months old, and yet his life was uncertain. Emma and Dan, who were unaware of the Wizarding World’s dangers, who didn’t understand magic at all, had opened their hearts to such wizards and witches. Dora and Fleur, lovely witches, like Harry’s own sisters. Hermione, the best person in the world. “I was raised by my relatives,” Harry began. “And you all know very well it wasn’t an ideal family, not for me. I was shunted aside, forgotten. I always wondered if I would ever know what it feels like to be loved.” Hermione, Emma, and Amelia already had tears in their eyes. The rest were faring no better, sadness having taken residence in their eyes as well. “It was a dream for me. Having a family, having friends, people I could care for, people who cared for me, people I could call my own. Trust me, when I remember my own self from the past, and it feels truly surreal to be saying this: “Thank you.” He raised the glass in his hand high in the air. “Thank you for being here with me. It fills my heart with warmth to know that my family is here to celebrate with me. I have spent birthdays doing nothing at all, so I truly appreciate you doing this all for me, bringing presents for me. I can’t believe I have friends and family who are one and the same. “I love you all.” Harry didn’t realize he was crying until Hermione stepped forward and wiped his tears for him. He smiled at her because she had tears streaming down her own face but she cared not for them, but for him. “Stupid Potter,” Susan muttered, hurrying to grab Harry for a hug, “ruining my makeup.” “You applied makeup?” Harry chuckled. “I couldn’t imagine.” “Shut up . . .” “I wish Ginny was here too, and perhaps Neville and Luna too,” Harry mused. “But one can only be so selfish, I guess.” I wish you were selfish, Harry, Hermione thought, rubbing her eyes. “One can be selfish when it comes to friends though,” said Sirius, smiling wisely. Harry felt his heart being overpoured that everyone in the room truly loved him, that he wasn’t alone in this world. It was a sweet sixteen indeed.

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“Do you think that was corny?” Harry asked Hermione awkwardly once they had all retired to their beds. “What I said downstairs.” “No, it was lovely,” said Hermione firmly. “There’s nothing corny with expressing your feelings every once in a while.” Harry hummed and buried his head in the crook of her neck, her scent filling his nostrils. She patted the back of his head, whispering soothing words in his ear, trying to give Harry every ooze of warmth that her body possessed. A while later, when Harry was fast asleep, Hermione felt the urge to vacate her bladder. She quietly disentangled herself from Harry and headed towards the bathroom. The lights were on though. “Is somebody in?” “Y-yeah, it’s me!” Susan’s voice responded a second later. “Oh, I need to pee,” Hermione said hastily. “Coming!” The door pulled open. Susan had rinsed her face thoroughly, her skin glowing, her cheeks pink. She was clutching her top over her chest, slightly panting. “You alright?” Hermione asked on instinct. “Yeah,” said Susan, giving Hermione a smile. “Just — just washed my face — helps to sleep, you know,” she said in a hushed voice. “Well, good night, Hermione.” “Good night, Sue,” said Hermione, accepting a hug from her friend. Perhaps I’m overthinking this, Hermione thought as she watched Susan enter her own bedroom, but she looks stressed. She couldn’t extrapolate much since her bladder pulled her attention back to the natural urge that had drawn her away from Harry’s arms in the first place. Hermione observed Susan over the next few days. She was still the same Susan: jolly and grumpy over the most miniscule things. Nothing seemed out of sorts, and so Hermione almost forgot about keeping a watch over her friend. One afternoon, Hermione was reading another novel that she had nicked from her Mum’s collection (not erotic,  thank you very much) while Susan listened to music on Hermione’s headphones, when Harry, who had been preparing lunch, burst into the room, panting heavily. “The O.W.L. results,” he gasped, “they have come.” “What?” Hermione gasped, a shot of high voltage electricity running down her spine. “Without any prior notice?” “It’s not the time to talk, girl,” Susan said excitedly; she had taken off the headphones, “come on!” Harry and Susan made their way to the corridor before they realized their companion was absent. “Hermione!” Susan called from the corridor. “Where are you?” Hermione emerged from Susan’s bedroom looking blank-faced. She was walking rather mechanically. “Come on,” Harry said enthusiastically, “the owls are waiting for us, I haven’t opened mine yet.” “No, I can’t,” Hermione croaked, her eyes comically wide, her heart slowing down in dread. “What are you talking about?” Susan demanded, looking at her in astonishment. “Are you even Hermione Granger?” “I know I messed up Ancient Runes,” muttered Hermione feverishly. “I definitely made at least one serious mistranslation. And the Defense Against the Dark Arts practical was no good at all, Umbridge was smiling at me; it couldn’t have been anything good, could it? And I thought Transfiguration went all right at the time, but looking back —” “Don’t be silly,” said Harry encouragingly. “I can bet anything you’ve got ten ‘Outstandings.’ ” “Don’t, don’t, don’t!” said Hermione, flapping her hands hysterically. “I know I’ve failed everything!” “You haven’t failed a thing, you dumb idiot.” Susan laughed at her. “Come on!” As soon as the three of them reached downstairs, three owls that were perched upon the center table took flight and soared through the window. Sirius and Amelia were already there, looking expectantly at the three of them. Zain was busy with Crookshanks at the moment. “Hold on, let’s swap, alright?” said Harry smartly, acknowledging Hermione’s extreme anxiety. “You check mine, Hermione, and I’ll check yours.” “O-okay . . . Thanks . . .” Nobody in the hall spoke as Harry picked the three envelopes, passed Susan’s to her, and his own to Hermione. She slit it open with fumbling hands and unfolded the parchment inside. A's in Arithmancy and History; E's in Astronomy, Care of Magical Creatures, and Herbology; and O's in Charmms, Defense, Potions, Runes, and Transfiguration. Hermione reread the parchment several times, her breathing easing with each reading. Harry had done great! He had always had an issue with Arithmancy and History of Magic but except for them, three ‘Exceeds Expectations’ and five ‘Outstandings’! It was his ambition to be a Healer, and it seemed like he was now a lot closer to it. “Yep, nine O’s and an E in Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Harry said proudly, supplying Hermione a quick kiss on her forehead. “Let’s swap.” Hermione sighed as she finally looked down at her own results. She was expecting a grade lower than Outstanding in Defense Against the Dark Arts anyway. “Why they even let you sit in exams is beyond me,” Susan joked, flicking on Hermione’s forehead. “How did you do?” Hermione asked. “Better than I was expecting, honestly . . .” Susan passed her results to Hermione who read them eagerly. A's in Arithmancy and Potions; E's in Charms, Defense, Muggle Studies, and Transfiguration; and O's in Astronomy, Herbology, and History. “Wow, Sue, an O in Astronomy,” said Hermione, hoping she wasn’t sounding too surprised. “I’m surprised too,” said Susan knowingly. “Maybe I got lucky. Anyway, I’m taking only Astronomy, Charms, Defense, Herbology, History, and Transfiguration for N.E.W.T.s.” “You’re dropping Potions?” asked Hermione, actually startled. “It’s such an important subject.” “Not for me,” said Susan. “I’ve got just an A, Snape won’t let me in, I know that. What subjects are you taking, by the way?” “I require N.E.W.T.s in Study of Ancient Runes, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and History of Magic to apply for a librarian, but I’m also taking Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, and Herbology, because, well, typical me,” said Hermione, shrugging airily. Susan and Harry just rolled their eyes. “I can’t believe I’m going to have to drop Arithmancy,” Hermione added sulkily. “It’s my favorite subject. But Harry keeps saying seven subjects are more than enough already.” “They are,” said Susan, nodding firmly. “I want to be a column editor. So, primarily I only need History of Magic, but I’m also taking Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, and Astronomy, because I like those ones.” “And for Healer, I need Herbology, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, and Transfiguration,” said Harry. “I want to take a sixth subject, but can’t decide between Study of Ancient Runes and History of Magic.” “Take History!” Susan added promptly. “We can all sit together then.” “I need some time to think,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I don’t want to hurry into anything.” He took Susan’s results from her and read them. “Andy? I didn’t know your middle name’s Andy.” “Her mother’s middle name was also Andy,” said Amelia from the couch. “Anyway, congrats for top scores, all three of you. It calls for a celebration.” Dora and Fleur were invited as well for the night. “Well, if my girl isn’t the topper of the year again,” Dan boasted as soon as he and Emma returned home and Hermione jumped into his arms. They all sat down together for dinner over which the main topic of conversation was the three teenagers and their career options. “At Beauxbatons,” said Fleur, “we ’ad a different way of doing things. I think eet was better. We sat our examinations after six years of study, not five.” “I did fair enough myself,” said Dora, grinning unabashedly. “Defense and Charms is all I was focused on.” “So, Sue, you all set to find a career in writing?” asked Amelia. “Yeah,” said Susan, nodding slowly. “I’ve got all the necessary grades. That’s gotta mean something, right?” “Yes, it does,” said Amelia encouragingly. “A society needs reporters who can report the truth without pushing their own hidden agenda forward.” “And you, Hermione?” asked Sirius. “Still rooting for the librarian?” “Getting paid to be surrounded by books?” Hermione said simply. “Don’t need no more than that to make me happy.” Everyone laughed. However, Hermione noticed that Dan became sombre after a bit. “Dad, are you okay?” she asked concernedly. “Oh — oh yeah.” Dan jumped in alarm. “I’m fine.” “Dad . . . ?” Hermione said insistently, and Dan sighed. “You’re growing up too fast,” he said awkwardly. “And you’re going to work in a world we might never be able to see with our own eyes. I don’t think I like it too much.” “Dad . . .” Hermione whispered softly, reaching out to hold his hand over the table. “I’m not going to leave you and Mum, never. Neither of us is going to.” “Don’t worry, Dan,” said Sirius. “You’ll always have us.” “Thank you,” said Dan. “Emma and I don’t always understand your world, we try to, but can’t.” “Don’t say that,” Hermione mumbled. “I’m not going to leave you, I promise.” “Yes, Dan,” said Amelia promptly. “I understand your concerns, but trust me, you won’t be kept in the dark about anything important.” “Thanks, everyone,” Dan said, nodding. “It means a lot to me and Emma, it really does.” That same night, however, Hermione once again encountered Susan in the bathroom late at night. Susan’s face was flushed, and she was clutching her chest, as she came out of the bathroom. “Sue, are you alright?” Hermione couldn’t help but ask. “Of — of course I am,” said Susan wavily. Hermione grabbed Susan’s free hand and pulled her back inside the bathroom. “What’re you doing?” Susan asked irritably. Hermione turned Susan so that they both now faced the mirror over the wash basin. “Look at yourself,” Hermione spoke, “you don’t look alright to me.” “I am, trust me,” said Susan, sighing. “Sue!” Hermione said angrily, turning Susan so that they were now face to face. “Tell me, please,” she pleaded. “We’re friends, right?” It served as the breaking point. Tears filled Susan’s eyes; she sniffed noisily. “Oh Sue . . .” Hermione pulled Susan into an embrace, letting her friend sob on her shoulder. She led Susan towards the toilet seat and made her sit down on its closed lid. “I — I’m having nightmares,” Susan finally told Hermione, wiping her tears away. “And it hurts . . . here.” She pulled her top over her head and unhooked her bra. Hermione gasped when Susan pulled her breasts apart from each other and the purple gash became visible. “It hurts, Hermione,” Susan mumbled. “But I thought Madam Pomfrey gave you remedial potions,” said Hermione concernedly, running the tips of her fingers over the gash. It was purple and more alive than it should be. “Not physically,” Susan clarified. “The potions took care of that. I meant to say, the nightmares make me feel like . . . It feels the same all over again. The battle.” “It’s Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD,” Hermione told her. “It happens when you suffer a trauma, even after your wounds have healed.” “I guess that’s what it is,” Susan sighed. “Why am I so weak?” “You’re not weak, Sue —” “Please, Hermione,” Susan huffed. “I was the first one to be knocked out. You had to literally carry me all over the place. I endangered you all.” “That doesn’t mean you’re weak,” Hermione said softly, placing her hands on Susan’s thighs. “The effort is all that matters.” Susan stared down at her friend for a moment before letting out a deep breath. “You’re incorrigible.” “Such fancy words,” Hermione said, smirking. “They don’t suit you, sweetheart.” “Shut up,” said Susan, rolling her eyes. She wore her top again and rinsed her face with water when Hermione spoke again, “Why don’t you sleep with us tonight? You don’t want to be alone when you’re having a nightmare, believe me. We can even write to Madam Pomfrey in the morning and ask for directions.” Susan considered this for a moment and was unable to find any reason to refuse, so they headed to Hermione’s bedroom, where Harry was slightly surprised to see Susan. “Guess we’re having a sleepover tonight,” said Susan wavily. “Okay,” said Harry contemplatively. Hermione lay down between her two friends. All three of them were staring up at the ceiling when Susan spoke out of the blue, “Have you both ever wondered how Gin and I got together?” “Only every time we see you two together,” said Hermione, giggling. “It happened over the Christmas holidays, didn’t it?” “Yeah, it was . . . so sudden, really. We were sharing a room at Sirius’s place, and she was upset over her father being in the hospital. She was crying so much, and I was trying to comfort her, and she thanked me and admitted how much she’s liked me for ages, and I still hadn’t properly gotten over my breakup with Daph, and it just . . . happened. The next moment I knew, we were kissing, and I felt like I could forget all my miseries, that I could make Gin forget all of hers. “I won’t lie to you, when I woke up the next morning, I kinda regretted it, didn’t tell Gin of course, but I was confused and pained. I felt like I was betraying Daph in a way even though we’d already broken up, and then I saw Gin’s face. She looked like she’d never been happier. It all became a mess . . . a mess I created. “I think I just gave up trying to figure out everything by myself and kept Gin to myself. “And you know what, I didn’t tell you this before, but I did approach Daph once we were back at Hogwarts. But she saw me with Gin, and I think she hated me more than ever. I can’t get back to her, not when it disgusts her to even be in the same room as me, if she can’t look me straight in the eyes anymore. That’s what I decided. “But wounds heal over time, I guess, and we were able to look each other in the eyes again. We’re almost friends again. I’m just happy, really, and still a bit puzzled, to be honest. I’m rambling, ain’t I?” “It’s good to let your feelings out,” said Hermione, “and I hope you know they’re safe with us.” “I know,” said Susan, nodding. “And thanks for hearing me out even if I didn’t make a lot of sense.” “It doesn’t have to, but it will all make sense in the end.” “I definitely hope so . . .” ... In the morning, Susan wrote three letters; first, to Madam Pomfrey, penning down her current sufferings, asking for directions; second, to Ginny: 
Gin,

I’m sorry I didn’t write much over the month, sorry for keeping my feelings to myself.

I was afraid and even ashamed, actually, to tell you that I was having nightmares. I dunno what I was thinking, I should have told you. You deserved it. I didn’t tell anybody, to be frank. Not even my Aunt.

But Hermione found out, a genius and all that. She made me talk, and now I feel loads better. She says it’s PTSD. I’ve written to Madam Pomfrey to ask for further suggestions.

Hope you’re okay there.

Missing you,

Susan 
The third one was for Daphne: 
Dear Daphne,

How are you? I hope fine.

Have you been studying well? I believe you are.

How were your O.W.L.s? Brilliant, I’m sure.

It’s been a while since I’ve written to you, hasn’t it? Well, I was having nightmares and thought you should know.

Take care.

With love,

Susan

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind. He was waiting for a call from the President of a far distant country, and between wondering when the wretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories of what had been a very long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much space in his head for anything else. The more he attempted to focus on the print on the page before him, the more clearly the Prime Minister could see the gloating face of one of his political opponents. This particular opponent had appeared on the news that very day, not only to enumerate all the terrible things that had happened in the last week (as though anyone needed reminding) but also to explain why each and every one of them was the government’s fault. The Prime Minister’s pulse quickened at the very thought of these accusations, for they were neither fair nor true. How on earth was his government supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It was outrageous for anybody to suggest that they were not spending enough on bridges. The bridge was fewer than ten years old, and the best experts were at a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two, sending a dozen cars into the watery depths of the river below. And how dare anyone suggest that it was lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very nasty and well-publicized murders? Or that the government should have somehow foreseen the freak hurricane in the West Country that had caused so much damage to both people and property? And was it his fault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly that he was now going to be spending a lot more time with his family? “A grim mood has gripped the country,” the opponent had concluded, barely concealing his own broad grin. And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime Minister felt it himself; people really did seem more miserable than usual. Even the weather was dismal; all this chilly mist in the middle of July. . . . It wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal. . . . He turned over the second page of the memo, saw how much longer it went on, and gave it up as a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head he looked around his office mournfully. It was a handsome room, with a fine marble fireplace facing the long sash windows, firmly closed against the unseasonable chill. With a slight shiver, the Prime Minister got up and moved over to the window, looking out at the thin mist that was pressing itself against the glass. It was then, as he stood with his back to the room, that he heard a soft cough behind him. He froze, nose to nose with his own scared-looking reflection in the dark glass. He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the empty room. “Hello?” he said, trying to sound braver than he felt. For a brief moment he allowed himself the impossible hope that nobody would answer him. However, a voice responded at once, a crisp, decisive voice that sounded as though it were reading a prepared statement. It was coming — as the Prime Minister had known at the first cough — from the frog-like little man wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a small, dirty oil painting in the far corner of the room. “To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immediately. Sincerely, Fudge.” The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister. “Er,” said the Prime Minister, “listen. . . . It’s not a very good time for me. . . . I’m waiting for a telephone call, you see . . . from the President of —” “That can be rearranged,” said the portrait at once. The Prime Minister’s heart sank. He had been afraid of that. “But I really was rather hoping to speak —” “We shall arrange for the President to forget to call. He will telephone tomorrow night instead,” said the little man. “Kindly respond immediately to Mr. Fudge.” “I . . . oh . . . very well,” said the Prime Minister weakly. “Yes, I’ll see Fudge.” He hurried back to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had barely resumed his seat, and arranged his face into what he hoped was a relaxed and unfazed expression, when bright green flames burst into life in the empty grate beneath his marble mantelpiece. He watched, trying not to betray a flicker of surprise or alarm, as a portly man appeared within the flames, spinning as fast as a top. Seconds later, he had climbed out onto a rather fine antique rug, brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pin-striped cloak, a lime-green bowler hat in his hand. “Ah . . . Prime Minister,” said Cornelius Fudge, striding forward with his hand outstretched. “Good to see you again.” The Prime Minister could not honestly return this compliment, so said nothing at all. He was not remotely pleased to see Fudge, whose occasional appearances, apart from being downright alarming in themselves, generally meant that he was about to hear some very bad news. Furthermore, Fudge was looking distinctly careworn. He was thinner, balder, and grayer, and his face had a crumpled look. The Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in politicians before, and it never boded well. “How can I help you?” he said, shaking Fudge’s hand very briefly and gesturing toward the hardest of the chairs in front of the desk. “Difficult to know where to begin,” muttered Fudge, pulling up the chair, sitting down, and placing his green bowler upon his knees. “What a week, what a week . . .” “Had a bad one too, have you?” asked the Prime Minister stiffly, hoping to convey by this that he had quite enough on his plate already without any extra helpings from Fudge. “Yes, of course,” said Fudge, rubbing his eyes wearily and looking morosely at the Prime Minister. “I’ve been having the same week you have, Prime Minister. The Brockdale Bridge . . . the Vance murder . . . not to mention the ruckus in the West Country . . .” “You — er — your — I mean to say, some of your people were — were involved in those — those things, were they?” Fudge fixed the Prime Minister with a rather stern look. “Of course they were,” he said. “Surely you’ve realized what’s going on?” “I . . .” hesitated the Prime Minister. It was precisely this sort of behavior that made him dislike Fudge’s visits so much. He was, after all, the Prime Minister and did not appreciate being made to feel like an ignorant schoolboy. But of course, it had been like this from his very first meeting with Fudge on his very first evening as Prime Minister. He remembered it as though it were yesterday and knew it would haunt him until his dying day. He had been standing alone in this very office, savoring the triumph that was his after so many years of dreaming and scheming, when he had heard a cough behind him, just like tonight, and turned to find that ugly little portrait talking to him, announcing that the Minister of Magic was about to arrive and introduce himself. Naturally, he had thought that the long campaign and the strain of the election had caused him to go mad. He had been utterly terrified to find a portrait talking to him, though this had been nothing to how he felt when a self-proclaimed wizard had bounced out of the fireplace and shaken his hand. He had remained speechless throughout Fudge’s kindly explanation that there were witches and wizards still living in secret all over the world and his reassurances that he was not to bother his head about them as the Ministry of Magic took responsibility for the whole Wizarding community and prevented the non-magical population from getting wind of them. It was, said Fudge, a difficult job that encompassed everything from regulations on responsible use of broomsticks to keeping the dragon population under control (the Prime Minister remembered clutching the desk for support at this point). Fudge had then patted the shoulder of the still-dumbstruck Prime Minister in a fatherly sort of way. “Not to worry,” he had said, “it’s odds-on you’ll never see me again. I’ll only bother you if there’s something really serious going on our end, something that’s likely to affect the Muggles — the non-magical population, I should say. Otherwise, it’s live and let live. And I must say, you’re taking it a lot better than your predecessor. He tried to throw me out the window, thought I was a hoax planned by the opposition.” At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last. “You’re — you’re not a hoax, then?” It had been his last, desperate hope. “No,” said Fudge gently. “No, I’m afraid I’m not. Look.” And he had turned the Prime Minister’s teacup into a gerbil. “But,” said the Prime Minister breathlessly, watching his teacup chewing on the corner of his next speech, “but why — why has nobody told me — ?” “The Minister of Magic only reveals him- or herself to the Muggle Prime Minister of the day,” said Fudge, poking his wand back inside his jacket. “We find it the best way to maintain secrecy.” “But then,” bleated the Prime Minister, “why hasn’t a former Prime Minister warned me — ?” At this, Fudge had actually laughed. “My dear Prime Minister, are you ever going to tell anybody?” Still chortling, Fudge had thrown some powder into the fireplace, stepped into the emerald flames, and vanished with a whooshing sound. The Prime Minister had stood there, quite motionless, and realized that he would never, as long as he lived, dare mention this encounter to a living soul, for who in the wide world would believe him? The shock had taken a little while to wear off. For a time, he had tried to convince himself that Fudge had indeed been a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep during his grueling election campaign. In a vain attempt to rid himself of all reminders of this uncomfortable encounter, he had given the gerbil to his delighted niece and instructed his private secretary to take down the portrait of the ugly little man who had announced Fudge’s arrival. To the Prime Minister’s dismay, however, the portrait had proved impossible to remove. When several carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer had all tried unsuccessfully to prise it from the wall, the Prime Minister had abandoned the attempt and simply resolved to hope that the thing remained motionless and silent for the rest of his term in office. Occasionally he could have sworn he saw out of the corner of his eye the occupant of the painting yawning, or else scratching his nose; even, once or twice, simply walking out of his frame and leaving nothing but a stretch of muddy-brown canvas behind. However, he had trained himself not to look at the picture very much, and always to tell himself firmly that his eyes were playing tricks on him when anything like this happened. Then, three years ago, on a night very like tonight, the Prime Minister had been alone in his office when the portrait had once again announced the imminent arrival of Fudge, who had burst out of the fireplace, sopping wet and in a state of considerable panic. Before the Prime Minister could ask why he was dripping all over the Axminster, Fudge had started ranting about a prison the Prime Minister had never heard of, a man named “Serious” Black, something that sounded like “Hogwarts,” and a boy called Harry Potter, none of which made the remotest sense to the Prime Minister. “. . . I’ve just come from Azkaban,” Fudge had panted, tipping a large amount of water out of the rim of his bowler hat into his pocket. “Middle of the North Sea, you know, nasty flight . . . the dementors are in uproar” — he shuddered — “they’ve never had a breakout before. Anyway, I had to come to you, Prime Minister. Black’s a known Muggle killer and may be planning to rejoin YouKnow-Who. . . . But of course, you don’t even know who You-Know-Who is!” He had gazed hopelessly at the Prime Minister for a moment, then said, “Well, sit down, sit down, I’d better fill you in. . . . Have a whiskey . . .” The Prime Minister rather resented being told to sit down in his own office, let alone offered his own whiskey, but he sat nevertheless. Fudge pulled out his wand, conjured two large glasses full of amber liquid out of thin air, pushed one of them into the Prime Minister’s hand, and drew up a chair. Fudge had talked for more than an hour. At one point, he had refused to say a certain name aloud and wrote it instead on a piece of parchment, which he had thrust into the Prime Minister’s whiskey-free hand. When at last Fudge had stood up to leave, the Prime Minister had stood up too. “So you think that . . .” He had squinted down at the name in his left hand. “Lord Vol —” “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” snarled Fudge. “I’m sorry. . . . You think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is still alive, then?” “Well, Dumbledore says he is,” said Fudge, as he had fastened his pin-striped cloak under his chin, “but we’ve never found him. If you ask me, he’s not dangerous unless he’s got support, so it’s Black we ought to be worrying about. You’ll put out that warning, then? Excellent. Well, I hope we don’t see each other again, Prime Minister! Good night.” But they had seen each other again. Less than a year later a harassed-looking Fudge had appeared out of thin air in the cabinet room to inform the Prime Minister that there had been a spot of bother at the Kwidditch (or that was what it had sounded like) World Cup and that several Muggles had been “involved,” but that the Prime Minister was not to worry, the fact that You-KnowWho’s Mark had been seen again meant nothing; Fudge was sure it was an isolated incident, and the Muggle Liaison Office was dealing with all memory modifications as they spoke. “Oh, and I almost forgot,” Fudge had added. “We’re importing three foreign dragons and a sphinx for the Triwizard Tournament, quite routine, but the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures tells me that it’s down in the rule book that we have to notify you if we’re bringing highly dangerous creatures into the country.” “I — what — dragons?” spluttered the Prime Minister. “Yes, three,” said Fudge. “And a sphinx. Well, good day to you.” The Prime Minister had hoped beyond hope that dragons and sphinxes would be the worst of it, but no. Less than two years later, Fudge had erupted out of the fire yet again, this time with the news that there had been a mass breakout from Azkaban. “A mass breakout?” repeated the Prime Minister hoarsely. “No need to worry, no need to worry!” shouted Fudge, already with one foot in the flames. “We’ll have them rounded up in no time — just thought you ought to know!” And before the Prime Minister could shout, “Now, wait just one moment!” Fudge had vanished in a shower of green sparks. Whatever the press and the opposition might say, the Prime Minister was not a foolish man. It had not escaped his notice that, despite Fudge’s assurances at their first meeting, they were now seeing rather a lot of each other, nor that Fudge was becoming more flustered with each visit. Little though he liked to think about the Minister of Magic (or, as he always called Fudge in his head, the Other Minister), the Prime Minister could not help but fear that the next time Fudge appeared it would be with graver news still. The sight, therefore, of Fudge stepping out of the fire once more, looking disheveled and fretful and sternly surprised that the Prime Minister did not know exactly why he was there, was about the worst thing that had happened in the course of this extremely gloomy week. “How should I know what’s going on in the — er — Wizarding community?” snapped the Prime Minister now. “I have a country to run and quite enough concerns at the moment without —” “We have the same concerns,” Fudge interrupted. “The Brockdale Bridge didn’t wear out. That wasn’t really a hurricane. Those murders were not the work of Muggles. And Herbert Chorley’s family would be safer without him. We are currently making arrangements to have him transferred to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The move should be effected tonight.” “What do you . . . I’m afraid I . . . What?” blustered the Prime Minister. Fudge took a great, deep breath and said, “Prime Minister, I am very sorry to have to tell you that he’s back. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back.” “Back? When you say ‘back’ . . . he’s alive? I mean —” The Prime Minister groped in his memory for the details of that horrible conversation of three years previously, when Fudge had told him about the wizard who was feared above all others, the wizard who had committed a thousand terrible crimes before his mysterious disappearance fifteen years earlier. “Yes, alive,” said Fudge. “That is — I don’t know — is a man alive if he can’t be killed? I don’t really understand it, and Dumbledore won’t explain properly — but anyway, he’s certainly got a body and is walking and talking and killing, so I suppose, for the purposes of our discussion, yes, he’s alive.” The Prime Minister did not know what to say to this, but a persistent habit of wishing to appear well-informed on any subject that came up made him cast around for any details he could remember of their previous conversations. “Is Serious Black with — er — He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” “Black? Black?” said Fudge distractedly, turning his bowler rapidly in his fingers. “Sirius Black, you mean? Merlin’s beard, we, at the moment, have no idea where he is or where his true allegiance lies.” To his great surprise, the Prime Minister felt a fleeting stab of pity for Fudge at this point. . . . While the Prime Minister surreptitiously touched the wood of his desk, Fudge continued, “But Black’s not the point right now. The point is, we’re at war, Prime Minister, and steps must be taken.” “At war?” repeated the Prime Minister nervously. “Surely that’s a little bit of an overstatement?” “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has now been joined by those of his followers who broke out of Azkaban in January,” said Fudge, speaking more and more rapidly and twirling his bowler so fast that it was a lime-green blur. “Since they have moved into the open, they have been wreaking havoc. The Brockdale Bridge — he did it, Prime Minister, he threatened a mass Muggle killing unless I stood aside for him and —” “Good grief, so it’s your fault those people were killed and I’m having to answer questions about rusted rigging and corroded expansion joints and I don’t know what else!” said the Prime Minister furiously. “My fault!” said Fudge, coloring up. “Are you saying you would have caved in to blackmail like that?” “Maybe not,” said the Prime Minister, standing up and striding about the room, “but I would have put all my efforts into catching the blackmailer before he committed any such atrocity!” “Do you really think I wasn’t already making every effort?” demanded Fudge heatedly. “Every Auror in the Ministry was — and is — trying to find him and round up his followers, but we happen to be talking about one of the most powerful wizards of all time, a wizard who has eluded capture for almost three decades!” “So I suppose you’re going to tell me he caused the hurricane in the West Country too?” said the Prime Minister, his temper rising with every pace he took. It was infuriating to discover the reason for all these terrible disasters and not to be able to tell the public, almost worse than it being the government’s fault after all. “That was no hurricane,” said Fudge miserably. “Excuse me!” barked the Prime Minister, now positively stamping up and down. “Trees uprooted, roofs ripped off, lampposts bent, horrible injuries —” “It was the Death Eaters,” said Fudge. “You-Know-Who’s followers. And . . . and we suspect giant involvement.” The Prime Minister stopped in his tracks as though he had hit an invisible wall. “What involvement?” Fudge grimaced. “He used giants last time, when he wanted to go for the grand effect,” he said. “The Office of Misinformation has been working around the clock, we’ve had teams of Obliviators out trying to modify the memories of all the Muggles who saw what really happened, we’ve got most of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures running around Somerset, but we can’t find the giant — it’s been a disaster.” “You don’t say!” said the Prime Minister furiously. “I won’t deny that morale is pretty low at the Ministry,” said Fudge. “What with all that, and then losing Emmaline Vance.” “Losing who?” “Emmaline Vance. A very gifted witch and — and all the evidence was that she put up a real fight.” Fudge cleared his throat and, with an effort, it seemed, stopped spinning his bowler hat. “But that murder was in the newspapers,” said the Prime Minister, momentarily diverted from his anger. “Our newspapers. Emmaline Vance . . . It happened just around the corner from here, as a matter of fact. The papers had a field day with it, ‘breakdown of law and order in the Prime Minister’s backyard —’ ” “And as if all that wasn’t enough,” said Fudge, barely listening to the Prime Minister, “we’ve got dementors swarming all over the place, attacking people left, right, and center. . . .” Once upon a happier time this sentence would have been unintelligible to the Prime Minister, but he was wiser now. “I thought dementors guard the prisoners in Azkaban,” he said cautiously. “They did,” said Fudge wearily. “But not anymore. They’ve deserted the prison and joined He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I won’t pretend that wasn’t a blow.” “But,” said the Prime Minister, with a sense of dawning horror, “didn’t you tell me they’re the creatures that drain hope and happiness out of people?” “That’s right. And they’re breeding. That’s what’s causing all this mist.” The Prime Minister sank, weak-kneed, into the nearest chair. The idea of invisible creatures swooping through the towns and countryside, spreading despair and hopelessness in his voters, made him feel quite faint. “Now see here, Fudge — you’ve got to do something! It’s your responsibility as Minister of Magic!” “My dear Prime Minister, you can’t honestly think I’m still Minister of Magic after all this? I was sacked three days ago! The whole Wizarding community has been screaming for my resignation for a fortnight. I’ve never known them so united in my whole term of office!” said Fudge, with a brave attempt at a smile. The Prime Minister was momentarily lost for words. Despite his indignation at the position into which he had been placed, he still rather felt for the shrunken-looking man sitting opposite him. “I’m very sorry,” he said finally. “If there’s anything I can do?” “It’s very kind of you, Prime Minister, but there is nothing. I was sent here tonight to bring you up to date on recent events and to introduce you to my successor. I rather thought he’d be here by now, but of course, he’s very busy at the moment, with so much going on.” Fudge looked around at the portrait of the ugly little man wearing the long curly silver wig, who was digging in his ear with the point of a quill. Catching Fudge’s eye, the portrait said, “He’ll be here in a moment, he’s just finishing a letter to Dumbledore.” “I wish him luck,” said Fudge, sounding bitter for the first time. “I’ve been writing to Dumbledore twice a day for the past fortnight, but he won’t budge. If he’d just been prepared to persuade the boy, I might still be . . . Well, maybe Scrimgeour will have more success.” Fudge subsided into what was clearly an aggrieved silence, but it was broken almost immediately by the portrait, which suddenly spoke in its crisp, official voice. “To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Requesting a meeting. Urgent. Kindly respond immediately. Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic.” “Yes, yes, fine,” said the Prime Minister distractedly, and he barely flinched as the flames in the grate turned emerald green again, rose up, and revealed a second spinning wizard in their heart, disgorging him moments later onto the antique rug. Fudge got to his feet and, after a moment’s hesitation, the Prime Minister did the same, watching the new arrival straighten up, dust down his long black robes, and look around. The Prime Minister’s first, foolish thought was that Rufus Scrimgeour looked rather like an old lion. There were streaks of gray in his mane of tawny hair and his bushy eyebrows; he had keen yellowish eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a certain rangy, loping grace even though he walked with a slight limp. There was an immediate impression of shrewdness and toughness; the Prime Minister thought he understood why the Wizarding community preferred Scrimgeour to Fudge as a leader in these dangerous times. “How do you do?” said the Prime Minister politely, holding out his hand. Scrimgeour grasped it briefly, his eyes scanning the room, then pulled out a wand from under his robes. “Fudge told you everything?” he asked, striding over to the door and tapping the keyhole with his wand. The Prime Minister heard the lock click. “Er — yes,” said the Prime Minister. “And if you don’t mind, I’d rather that door remained unlocked.” “I’d rather not be interrupted,” said Scrimgeour shortly, “or watched,” he added, pointing his wand at the windows, so that the curtains swept across them. “Right, well, I’m a busy man, so let’s get down to business. First of all, we need to discuss your security.” The Prime Minister drew himself up to his fullest height and replied, “I am perfectly happy with the security I’ve already got, thank you very —” “Well, we’re not,” Scrimgeour cut in. “It’ll be a poor lookout for the Muggles if their Prime Minister gets put under the Imperius Curse. The new secretary in your outer office —” “I’m not getting rid of Kingsley Shacklebolt, if that’s what you’re suggesting!” said the Prime Minister hotly. “He’s highly efficient, gets through twice the work the rest of them —” “That’s because he’s a wizard,” said Scrimgeour, without a flicker of a smile. “A highly trained Auror, who has been assigned to you for your protection.” “Now, wait a moment!” declared the Prime Minister. “You can’t just put your people into my office, I decide who works for me —” “I thought you were happy with Shacklebolt?” said Scrimgeour coldly. “I am — that’s to say, I was —” “Then there’s no problem, is there?” said Scrimgeour. “I . . . well, as long as Shacklebolt’s work continues to be . . . er . . . excellent,” said the Prime Minister lamely, but Scrimgeour barely seemed to hear him. “Now, about Herbert Chorley, your Junior Minister,” he continued. “The one who has been entertaining the public by impersonating a duck.” “What about him?” asked the Prime Minister. “He has clearly reacted to a poorly performed Imperius Curse,” said Scrimgeour. “It’s addled his brains, but he could still be dangerous.” “He’s only quacking!” said the Prime Minister weakly. “Surely a bit of a rest . . . Maybe go easy on the drink . . .” “A team of Healers from St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries are examining him as we speak. So far he has attempted to strangle three of them,” said Scrimgeour. “I think it best that we remove him from Muggle society for a while.” “I . . . well . . . He’ll be all right, won’t he?” said the Prime Minister anxiously. Scrimgeour merely shrugged, already moving back toward the fireplace. “Well, that’s really all I had to say. I will keep you posted of developments, Prime Minister — or, at least, I shall probably be too busy to come personally, in which case I shall send Fudge here. He has consented to stay on in an advisory capacity.” Fudge attempted to smile, but was unsuccessful; he merely looked as though he had a toothache. Scrimgeour was already rummaging in his pocket for the mysterious powder that turned the fire green. The Prime Minister gazed hopelessly at the pair of them for a moment, then the words he had fought to suppress all evening burst from him at last. “But for heaven’s sake — you’re wizards! You can do magic! Surely you can sort out — well — anything!” Scrimgeour turned slowly on the spot and exchanged an incredulous look with Fudge, who really did manage a smile this time as he said kindly, “The trouble is, the other side can do magic too, Prime Minister.” And with that, the two wizards stepped one after the other into the bright green fire and vanished.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Many miles away the chilly mist that had pressed against the Prime Minister’s windows drifted over a dirty river that wound between overgrown, rubbish-strewn banks. An immense chimney, relic of a disused mill, reared up, shadowy and ominous. There was no sound apart from the whisper of the black water and no sign of life apart from a scrawny fox that had slunk down the bank to nose hopefully at some old fish-and-chip wrappings in the tall grass. But then, with a very faint pop, a slim, hooded figure appeared out of thin air on the edge of the river. The fox froze, wary eyes fixed upon this strange new phenomenon. The figure seemed to take its bearings for a few moments, then set off with light, quick strides, its long cloak rustling over the grass. With a second and louder pop, another hooded figure materialized. “Wait!” The harsh cry startled the fox, now crouching almost flat in the undergrowth. It leapt from its hiding place and up the bank. There was a flash of green light, a yelp, and the fox fell back to the ground, dead. The second figure turned over the animal with its toe. “Just a fox,” said a woman’s voice dismissively from under the hood. “I thought perhaps an Auror — Cissy, wait!” But her quarry, who had paused and looked back at the flash of light, was already scrambling up the bank the fox had just fallen down. “Cissy — Narcissa — listen to me —” The second woman caught the first and seized her arm, but the other wrenched it away. “Go back, Bella!” “You must listen to me!” “I’ve listened already. I’ve made my decision. Leave me alone!” The woman named Narcissa gained the top of the bank, where a line of old railings separated the river from a narrow, cobbled street. The other woman, Bella, followed at once. Side by side they stood looking across the road at the rows and rows of dilapidated brick houses, their windows dull and blind in the darkness. “He lives here?” asked Bella in a voice of contempt. “Here? In this Muggle dunghill? We must be the first of our kind ever to set foot —” But Narcissa was not listening; she had slipped through a gap in the rusty railings and was already hurrying across the road. “Cissy, wait!” Bella followed, her cloak streaming behind, and saw Narcissa darting through an alley between the houses into a second, almost identical street. Some of the street lamps were broken; the two women were running between patches of light and deep darkness. The pursuer caught up with her prey just as she turned another corner, this time succeeding in catching hold of her arm and swinging her around so that they faced each other. “Cissy, you must not do this, you can’t trust him —” “The Dark Lord trusts him, doesn’t he?” “The Dark Lord is . . . I believe . . . mistaken,” Bella panted, and her eyes gleamed momentarily under her hood as she looked around to check that they were indeed alone. “In any case, we were told not to speak of the plan to anyone. This is a betrayal of the Dark Lord’s —” “Let go, Bella!” snarled Narcissa, and she drew a wand from beneath her cloak, holding it threateningly in the other’s face. Bella merely laughed. “Cissy, your own sister? You wouldn’t —” “There is nothing I wouldn’t do anymore!” Narcissa breathed, a note of hysteria in her voice, and as she brought down the wand like a knife, there was another flash of light. Bella let go of her sister’s arm as though burned. “Narcissa!” But Narcissa had rushed ahead. Rubbing her hand, her pursuer followed again, keeping her distance now, as they moved deeper into the deserted labyrinth of brick houses. At last, Narcissa hurried up a street named Spinner’s End, over which the towering mill chimney seemed to hover like a giant admonitory finger. Her footsteps echoed on the cobbles as she passed boarded and broken windows, until she reached the very last house, where a dim light glimmered through the curtains in a downstairs room. She had knocked on the door before Bella, cursing under her breath, had caught up. Together they stood waiting, panting slightly, breathing in the smell of the dirty river that was carried to them on the night breeze. After a few seconds, they heard movement behind the door and it opened a crack. A sliver of a man could be seen looking out at them, a man with long black hair parted in curtains around a sallow face and black eyes. Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale that she seemed to shine in the darkness; the long blonde hair streaming down her back gave her the look of a drowned person. “Narcissa!” said the man, opening the door a little wider, so that the light fell upon her and her sister too. “What a pleasant surprise! “Severus,” she said in a strained whisper. “May I speak to you? It’s urgent.” “But of course.” He stood back to allow her to pass him into the house. Her still-hooded sister followed without invitation. “Snape,” she said curtly as she passed him. “Bellatrix,” he replied, his thin mouth curling into a slightly mocking smile as he closed the door with a snap behind them. They had stepped directly into a tiny sitting room, which had the feeling of a dark, padded cell. The walls were completely covered in books, most of them bound in old black or brown leather; a thread-bare sofa, an old armchair, and a rickety table stood grouped together in a pool of dim light cast by a candle-filled lamp hung from the ceiling. The place had an air of neglect, as though it was not usually inhabited. Snape gestured Narcissa to the sofa. She threw off her cloak, cast it aside, and sat down, staring at her white and trembling hands clasped in her lap. Bellatrix lowered her hood more slowly. Dark as her sister was fair, with heavily lidded eyes and a strong jaw, she did not take her gaze from Snape as she moved to stand behind Narcissa. “So, what can I do for you?” Snape asked, settling himself in the armchair opposite the two sisters. “We . . . we are alone, aren’t we?” Narcissa asked quietly. “Yes, of course. Well, Wormtail’s here, but we’re not counting vermin, are we?” He pointed his wand at the wall of books behind him and with a bang, a hidden door flew open, revealing a narrow staircase upon which a small man stood frozen. “As you have clearly realized, Wormtail, we have guests,” said Snape lazily. The man crept, hunchbacked, down the last few steps and moved into the room. He had small, watery eyes, a pointed nose, and wore an unpleasant simper. His left hand was caressing his right, which looked as though it was encased in a bright silver glove. “Narcissa!” he said, in a squeaky voice. “And Bellatrix! How charming —” “Wormtail will get us drinks, if you’d like them,” said Snape. “And then he will return to his bedroom.” Wormtail winced as though Snape had thrown something at him. “I am not your servant!” he squeaked, avoiding Snape’s eye. “Really? I was under the impression that the Dark Lord placed you here to assist me.” “To assist, yes — but not to make you drinks and — and clean your house!” “I had no idea, Wormtail, that you were craving more dangerous assignments,” said Snape silkily. “This can be easily arranged: I shall speak to the Dark Lord —” “I can speak to him myself if I want to!” “Of course you can,” said Snape, sneering. “But in the meantime, bring us drinks. Some of the elf-made wine will do.” Wormtail hesitated for a moment, looking as though he might argue, but then turned and headed through a second hidden door. They heard banging and a clinking of glasses. Within seconds he was back, bearing a dusty bottle and three glasses upon a tray. He dropped these on the rickety table and scurried from their presence, slamming the book-covered door behind him. Snape poured out three glasses of blood-red wine and handed two of them to the sisters. Narcissa murmured a word of thanks, whilst Bellatrix said nothing, but continued to glower at Snape. This did not seem to discompose him; on the contrary, he looked rather amused. “The Dark Lord,” he said, raising his glass and draining it. The sisters copied him. Snape refilled their glasses. As Narcissa took her second drink she said in a rush, “Severus, I’m sorry to come here like this, but I had to see you. I think you are the only one who can help me —” Snape held up a hand to stop her, then pointed his wand again at the concealed staircase door. There was a loud bang and a squeal, followed by the sound of Wormtail scurrying back up the stairs. “My apologies,” said Snape. “He has lately taken to listening at doors, I don’t know what he means by it. . . . You were saying, Narcissa?” She took a great, shuddering breath and started again. “Severus, I know I ought not to be here, I have been told to say nothing to anyone, but —” “Then you ought to hold your tongue!” snarled Bellatrix. “Particularly in present company!” “ ‘Present company’?” repeated Snape sardonically. “And what am I to understand by that, Bellatrix?” “That I don’t trust you, Snape, as you very well know!” Narcissa let out a noise that might have been a dry sob and covered her face with her hands. Snape set his glass down upon the table and sat back again, his hands upon the arms of his chair, smiling into Bellatrix’s glowering face. “Narcissa, I think we ought to hear what Bellatrix is bursting to say; it will save tedious interruptions. Well, continue, Bellatrix,” said Snape. “Why is it that you do not trust me?” “A hundred reasons!” she said loudly, striding out from behind the sofa to slam her glass upon the table. “Where to start! Where were you when the Dark Lord fell? Why did you never make any attempt to find him when he vanished? What have you been doing all these years that you’ve lived in Dumbledore’s pocket? Why did you stop the Dark Lord procuring the Sorcerer’s Stone? Why did you not return at once when the Dark Lord was reborn? Where were you a few weeks ago when we battled to retrieve the prophecy for the Dark Lord? And why, Snape, is Harry Potter still alive, when you have had him at your mercy for five years?” She paused, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the color high in her cheeks. Behind her, Narcissa sat motionless, her face still hidden in her hands. Snape smiled. “Before I answer you — oh yes, Bellatrix, I am going to answer! You can carry my words back to the others who whisper behind my back, and carry false tales of my treachery to the Dark Lord! Before I answer you, I say, let me ask a question in turn. Do you really think that the Dark Lord has not asked me each and every one of those questions? And do you really think that, had I not been able to give satisfactory answers, I would be sitting here talking to you?” She hesitated. “I know he believes you, but . . .” “You think he is mistaken? Or that I have somehow hoodwinked him? Fooled the Dark Lord, the greatest wizard, the most accomplished Legilimens the world has ever seen?” Bellatrix said nothing, but looked, for the first time, a little discomfited. Snape did not press the point. He picked up his drink again, sipped it, and continued, “You ask where I was when the Dark Lord fell. I was where he had ordered me to be, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, because he wished me to spy upon Albus Dumbledore. You know, I presume, that it was on the Dark Lord’s orders that I took up the post?” She nodded almost imperceptibly and then opened her mouth, but Snape forestalled her. “You ask why I did not attempt to find him when he vanished. For the same reason that Avery, Yaxley, the Carrows, Greyback, Lucius” — he inclined his head slightly to Narcissa — “and many others did not attempt to find him. I believed him finished. I am not proud of it, I was wrong, but there it is. . . . If he had not forgiven we who lost faith at that time, he would have very few followers left.” “He’d have me!” said Bellatrix passionately. “I, who spent many years in Azkaban for him!” “Yes, indeed, most admirable,” said Snape in a bored voice. “Of course, you weren’t a lot of use to him in prison, but the gesture was undoubtedly fine —” “Gesture!” she shrieked; in her fury she looked slightly mad. “While I endured the dementors, you remained at Hogwarts, comfortably playing Dumbledore’s pet!” “Not quite,” said Snape calmly. “He wouldn’t give me the Defense Against the Dark Arts job, you know. Seemed to think it might, ah, bring about a relapse . . . tempt me into my old ways.” “This was your sacrifice for the Dark Lord, not to teach your favorite subject?” she jeered. “Why did you stay there all that time, Snape? Still spying on Dumbledore for a master you believed dead?” “Hardly,” said Snape, “although the Dark Lord is pleased that I never deserted my post: I had sixteen years of information on Dumbledore to give him when he returned, a rather more useful welcome-back present than endless reminiscences of how unpleasant Azkaban is. . . .” “But you stayed —” “Yes, Bellatrix, I stayed,” said Snape, betraying a hint of impatience for the first time. “I had a comfortable job that I preferred to a stint in Azkaban. They were rounding up the Death Eaters, you know. Dumbledore’s protection kept me out of jail; it was most convenient and I used it. I repeat: The Dark Lord does not complain that I stayed, so I do not see why you do. “I think you next wanted to know,” he pressed on, a little more loudly, for Bellatrix showed every sign of interrupting, “why I stood between the Dark Lord and the Sorcerer’s Stone. That is easily answered. He did not know whether he could trust me. He thought, like you, that I had turned from faithful Death Eater to Dumbledore’s stooge. He was in a pitiable condition, very weak, sharing the body of a mediocre wizard. He did not dare reveal himself to a former ally if that ally might turn him over to Dumbledore or the Ministry. I deeply regret that he did not trust me. He would have returned to power three years sooner. As it was, I saw only greedy and unworthy Quirrell attempting to steal the stone and, I admit, I did all I could to thwart him.” Bellatrix’s mouth twisted as though she had taken an unpleasant dose of medicine. “But you didn’t return when he came back, you didn’t fly back to him at once when you felt the Dark Mark burn —” “Correct. I returned two hours later. I returned on Dumbledore’s orders.” “On Dumbledore’s — ?” she began, in tones of outrage. “Think!” said Snape, impatient again. “Think! By waiting two hours, just two hours, I ensured that I could remain at Hogwarts as a spy! By allowing Dumbledore to think that I was only returning to the Dark Lord’s side because I was ordered to, I have been able to pass information on Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix ever since! Consider, Bellatrix: The Dark Mark had been growing stronger for months. I knew he must be about to return, all the Death Eaters knew! I had plenty of time to think about what I wanted to do, to plan my next move, to escape like Karkaroff, didn’t I? “The Dark Lord’s initial displeasure at my lateness vanished entirely, I assure you, when I explained that I remained faithful, although Dumbledore thought I was his man. Yes, the Dark Lord thought that I had left him forever, but he was wrong.” “But what use have you been?” sneered Bellatrix. “What useful information have we had from you?” “My information has been conveyed directly to the Dark Lord,” said Snape. “If he chooses not to share it with you —” “He shares everything with me!” said Bellatrix, firing up at once. “He calls me his most loyal, his most faithful —” “Does he?” said Snape, his voice delicately inflected to suggest his disbelief. “Does he still, after the fiasco at the Ministry?” “That was not my fault!” said Bellatrix, flushing. “The Dark Lord has, in the past, entrusted me with his most precious — if Lucius hadn’t —” “Don’t you dare — don’t you dare blame my husband!” said Narcissa, in a low and deadly voice, looking up at her sister. “There is no point apportioning blame,” said Snape smoothly. “What is done, is done.” “But not by you!” said Bellatrix furiously. “No, you were once again absent while the rest of us ran dangers, were you not, Snape?” “My orders were to remain behind,” said Snape. “Perhaps you disagree with the Dark Lord, perhaps you think that Dumbledore would not have noticed if I had joined forces with the Death Eaters to fight the Order of the Phoenix? And — forgive me — you speak of dangers . . . you were facing six teenagers, were you not?” “They were joined, as you very well know, by half of the Order before long!” snarled Bellatrix. “And, while we are on the subject of the Order, you still claim you cannot reveal the whereabouts of their headquarters, don’t you?” “I am not the Secret-Keeper; I cannot speak the name of the place. You understand how the enchantment works, I think? The Dark Lord is satisfied with the information I have passed him on the Order. It led, as perhaps you have guessed, to the recent capture and murder of Emmeline Vance, and it certainly helped dispose of Mad-Eye Moody, though I give you full credit for finishing him off.” He inclined his head and toasted her. Her expression did not soften. “You are avoiding my last question, Snape. Harry Potter. You could have killed him at any point in the past five years. You have not done it. Why?” “Have you discussed this matter with the Dark Lord?” asked Snape. “He . . . lately, we . . . I am asking you, Snape!” “If I had murdered Harry Potter, the Dark Lord could not have used his blood to regenerate, making him invincible —” “You claim you foresaw his use of the boy!” she jeered. “I do not claim it; I had no idea of his plans; I have already confessed that I thought the Dark Lord dead. I am merely trying to explain why the Dark Lord is not sorry that Potter survived, at least until a year ago. . . .” “But why did you keep him alive?” “Have you not understood me? It was only Dumbledore’s protection that was keeping me out of Azkaban! Do you disagree that murdering his favorite student might have turned him against me? But there was more to it than that. I should remind you that when Potter first arrived at Hogwarts there were still many stories circulating about him, rumors that he himself was a great Dark wizard, which was how he had survived the Dark Lord’s attack. Indeed, many of the Dark Lord’s old followers thought Potter might be a standard around which we could all rally once more. I was curious, I admit it, and not at all inclined to murder him the moment he set foot in the castle. “Of course, it became apparent to me very quickly that he had no extraordinary talent at all. He has fought his way out of a number of tight corners by a simple combination of sheer luck and more talented friends. He is mediocre to the last degree, though as obnoxious and self-satisfied as was his father before him. I have done my utmost to have him thrown out of Hogwarts, where I believe he scarcely belongs, but kill him, or allow him to be killed in front of me? I would have been a fool to risk it with Dumbledore close at hand.” “And through all this we are supposed to believe Dumbledore has never suspected you?” asked Bellatrix. “He has no idea of your true allegiance, he trusts you implicitly still?” “I have played my part well,” said Snape. “And you overlook Dumbledore’s greatest weakness: He has to believe the best of people. I spun him a tale of deepest remorse when I joined his staff, fresh from my Death Eater days, and he embraced me with open arms — though, as I say, never allowing me nearer the Dark Arts than he could help. Dumbledore has been a great wizard — oh yes, he has,” (for Bellatrix had made a scathing noise), “the Dark Lord acknowledges it. I am pleased to say, however, that Dumbledore is growing old. The duel with the Dark Lord last month shook him. He has since sustained a serious injury because his reactions are slower than they once were. But through all these years, he has never stopped trusting Severus Snape, and therein lies my great value to the Dark Lord.” Bellatrix still looked unhappy, though she appeared unsure how best to attack Snape next. Taking advantage of her silence, Snape turned to her sister. “Now . . . you came to ask me for help, Narcissa?” Narcissa looked up at him, her face eloquent with despair. “Yes, Severus. I — I think you are the only one who can help me, I have nowhere else to turn. Lucius is in jail and . . .” She closed her eyes and two large tears seeped from beneath her eyelids. “The Dark Lord has forbidden me to speak of it,” Narcissa continued, her eyes still closed. “He wishes none to know of the plan. It is . . . very secret. But —” “If he has forbidden it, you ought not to speak,” said Snape at once. “The Dark Lord’s word is law.” Narcissa gasped as though he had doused her with cold water. Bellatrix looked satisfied for the first time since she had entered the house. “There!” she said triumphantly to her sister. “Even Snape says so: You were told not to talk, so hold your silence!” But Snape had gotten to his feet and strode to the small window, peered through the curtains at the deserted street, then closed them again with a jerk. He turned around to face Narcissa, frowning. “It so happens that I know of the plan,” he said in a low voice. “I am one of the few the Dark Lord has told. Nevertheless, had I not been in on the secret, Narcissa, you would have been guilty of great treachery to the Dark Lord.” “I thought you must know about it!” said Narcissa, breathing more freely. “He trusts you so, Severus. . . .” “You know about the plan?” said Bellatrix, her fleeting expression of satisfaction replaced by a look of outrage. “You know?” “Certainly,” said Snape. “But what help do you require, Narcissa? If you are imagining I can persuade the Dark Lord to change his mind, I am afraid there is no hope, none at all.” “Severus,” she whispered, tears sliding down her pale cheeks. “My son . . . my only son . . .” “Draco should be proud,” said Bellatrix indifferently. “The Dark Lord is granting him a great honor. And I will say this for Draco: He isn’t shrinking away from his duty, he seems glad of a chance to prove himself, excited at the prospect —” Narcissa began to cry in earnest, gazing beseechingly all the while at Snape. “That’s because he is sixteen and has no idea what lies in store! Why, Severus? Why my son? It is too dangerous! This is vengeance for Lucius’s mistake, I know it!” Snape said nothing. He looked away from the sight of her tears as though they were indecent, but he could not pretend not to hear her. “That’s why he’s chosen Draco, isn’t it?” she persisted. “To punish Lucius?” “If Draco succeeds,” said Snape, still looking away from her, “he will be honored above all others.” “But he won’t succeed!” sobbed Narcissa. “How can he, when the Dark Lord himself — ?” Bellatrix gasped; Narcissa seemed to lose her nerve. “I only meant . . . that nobody has yet succeeded. . . . Severus . . . please . . . You are, you have always been, Draco’s favorite teacher. . . . You are Lucius’s old friend. . . . I beg you. . . . You are the Dark Lord’s favorite, his most trusted advisor. . . . Will you speak to him, persuade him — ?” “The Dark Lord will not be persuaded, and I am not stupid enough to attempt it,” said Snape flatly. “I cannot pretend that the Dark Lord is not angry with Lucius. Lucius was supposed to be in charge. He got himself captured, along with how many others, and failed to retrieve the prophecy into the bargain. Yes, the Dark Lord is angry, Narcissa, very angry indeed.” “Then I am right, he has chosen Draco in revenge!” choked Narcissa. “He does not mean him to succeed, he wants him to be killed trying!” When Snape said nothing, Narcissa seemed to lose what little self-restraint she still possessed. Standing up, she staggered to Snape and seized the front of his robes. Her face close to his, her tears falling onto his chest, she gasped, “You could do it. You could do it instead of Draco, Severus. You would succeed, of course you would, and he would reward you beyond all of us —” Snape caught hold of her wrists and removed her clutching hands. Looking down into her tearstained face, he said slowly, “He intends me to do it in the end, I think. But he is determined that Draco should try first. You see, in the unlikely event that Draco succeeds, I shall be able to remain at Hogwarts a little longer, fulfilling my useful role as spy.” “In other words, it doesn’t matter to him if Draco is killed!” “The Dark Lord is very angry,” repeated Snape quietly. “He failed to hear the prophecy. You know as well as I do, Narcissa, that he does not forgive easily.” She crumpled, falling at his feet, sobbing and moaning on the floor. “My only son . . . my only son . . .” “You should be proud!” said Bellatrix ruthlessly. “If I had sons, I would be glad to give them up to the service of the Dark Lord!” Narcissa gave a little scream of despair and clutched at her long blonde hair. Snape stooped, seized her by the arms, lifted her up, and steered her back onto the sofa. He then poured her more wine and forced the glass into her hand. “Narcissa, that’s enough. Drink this. Listen to me.” She quieted a little; slopping wine down herself, she took a shaky sip. “It might be possible . . . for me to help Draco.” She sat up, her face paper-white, her eyes huge. “Severus — oh, Severus — you would help him? Would you look after him, see he comes to no harm?” “I can try.” She flung away her glass; it skidded across the table as she slid off the sofa into a kneeling position at Snape’s feet, seized his hand in both of hers, and pressed her lips to it. “If you are there to protect him . . . Severus, will you swear it? Will you make the Unbreakable Vow?” “The Unbreakable Vow?” Snape’s expression was blank, unreadable. Bellatrix, however, let out a cackle of triumphant laughter. “Aren’t you listening, Narcissa? Oh, he’ll try, I’m sure. . . . The usual empty words, the usual slithering out of action . . . oh, on the Dark Lord’s orders, of course!” Snape did not look at Bellatrix. His black eyes were fixed upon Narcissa’s tear-filled blue ones as she continued to clutch his hand. “Certainly, Narcissa, I shall make the Unbreakable Vow,” he said quietly. “Perhaps your sister will consent to be our Bonder.” Bellatrix’s mouth fell open. Snape lowered himself so that he was kneeling opposite Narcissa. Beneath Bellatrix’s astonished gaze, they grasped right hands. “You will need your wand, Bellatrix,” said Snape coldly. She drew it, still looking astonished. “And you will need to move a little closer,” he said. She stepped forward so that she stood over them, and placed the tip of her wand on their linked hands. Narcissa spoke. “Will you, Severus, watch over my son, Draco, as he attempts to fulfill the Dark Lord’s wishes?” “I will,” said Snape. A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from the wand and wound its way around their hands like a red-hot wire. “And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?” “I will,” said Snape. A second tongue of flame shot from the wand and interlinked with the first, making a fine, glowing chain. “And, should it prove necessary . . . if it seems Draco will fail . . .” whispered Narcissa (Snape’s hand twitched within hers, but he did not draw away), “will you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to perform?” There was a moment’s silence. Bellatrix watched, her wand upon their clasped hands, her eyes wide. “I will,” said Snape. Bellatrix’s astounded face glowed red in the blaze of a third tongue of flame, which shot from the wand, twisted with the others, and bound itself thickly around their clasped hands, like a rope, like a fiery snake.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Dear Harry,

If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number six, Chilmark Gardens this coming Friday at eleven P.M. If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend along with you. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.

Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday.

I am, yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore 
“What d’you think he wants to see me for?” Harry wondered aloud as he read the letter to Hermione and Susan on Tuesday. “No idea,” said Susan cluelessly. Harry wrote a short reply agreeing to Dumbledore’s request and sent it to the headmaster with his own owl, Hedwig, who had been wanting to stretch her wings on purpose for a while. Madam Pomfrey had written back that Susan should see her the first thing when she returned to Hogwarts and, meanwhile, she should keep her cool at all times. One idea that Hermione came up with was to have Susan sleep with her and Harry for the rest of the holidays. Susan had refused profusely, arguing she didn’t want to invade their privacy. “Look, Sue, it’s okay, alright?” said Harry, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I know that feeling when you wake up from a nightmare scared out of your wits, and trust me, it really, really helps when you have someone by your side to calm you down in that moment of vulnerability. Please don’t mind our privacy. You are more important.” Susan couldn’t find a valid counter, so the three slept together for the next few days, and Susan got lots and lots better again. On Wednesday, Hermione decided to make good use of the coupons that Susan had given to her and Harry as birthday presents. The couple reached the Public Library at eleven o’clock and were provided a private cabin with a plush couch, a table for two, and a collection of books unlike Harry had ever witnessed before. The smile that spread on Hermione’s face after having a good look at the cabin was too adorable. Harry closed the door behind him and immediately seized Hermione’s mouth with his own. “Harry!” she gasped in surprise, although she didn’t resist his actions at all. “Let’s — let’s read something first, please?” she asked hopefully, gesturing at the bookshelves around them. Grinning, Harry let go of her. “Later, I promise,” Hermione assured him, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. “I’ll hold you to that.” The two of them spent the whole of their afternoon in their own little private cabin, reading books and snogging on the couch, leaving the cabin in between only to have lunch in a nearby outlet. At around four in the evening, they left for the Pristine Cinema Hall and watched A Lover’s Chance. They had dinner in an Italian restaurant and were on their way back home when Hermione spotted something she ought not have and whispered it in Harry’s ear. He shivered at the thought. “We’re underage,” he remjnded her. “You’re supposed to be the role-abiding one here, comsidering my family lineage.” “I know . . . But I’m not the same Hermione you met on the train all those years ago. I — You’ve changed me so much.” “Didn’t know I made you a drinker though.” “Forget I said anything,” said Hermione sadly. “Let’s go.” Harry sighed. “I can never see you sad, really.” The lights had turned off by the time they returned. Sneaking upstairs they approached their bedroom. Hermione peeked inside. “Psst — Sue.” Susan was fast asleep, wearing only a bra over pajamas. Hermione and Harry tiptoed inside and shut the door behind them. Hermione went over and shook Susan’s shoulder. “Hnngh,” Susan moaned in disapproval. “Sue, wake up — it’s me, Hermione.” It still took Hermione a great effort to wake up the sleeping witch. “What d’you want?” Susan asked, disgruntled, as she finally sat up, looking groggy. “Please let me sleep.” “No, you don’t,” Hermione said, grinning. Susan rubbed her eyes before blinking at the two of them. “Look, what we got here,” Hermione said, pointing at Harry, who now placed his bag on the bed and pulled out a bottle of wine from it. “You woke me up at this time so that we could drink?” Susan murmured sleepily. “Even you can’t be that stupid, Hermione.” Hermione huffed, brushing a few strands of her hair away from her face. “Well, that is the idea.” “No way,” said Susan, finally looking properly awake. “You bought a drink? But you’re underage!” “Thanks for the reminder,” said Hermione coyly. “We wanted to thank you,” said Harry, sitting down next to his girlfriend. “Please do it in the morning, a good night’s sleep would do wonders for my health rather than a drink,” Susan grunted, falling back on the bed, but Hermione got her arm beneath her head just in the nick of time. She pulled Susan back up and said, “We can’t drink in the morning, can we? And we really want to thank you. We had such a great time today, all because of you.” “And this is the way you punish me?” Susan said sarcastically. “No, Sue, just — just drink one glass, okay? One glass is all.” Susan couldn’t deny Hermione anymore, so she grunted in agreement and accepted a glass of wine from Harry. “Whose idea was it though?” she asked, taking the first sip. “Yours?” She frowned at Hermione. “Yep,” said Harry, grinning. Hermione only rolled her eyes, focusing more on the glass in her own hands right now. “So . . . You had a great time today?” Susan asked, shivering a little. “Yes,” Hermione said gladly and went on to tell Susan about their day. “Well, I’m glad,” Susan said, draining the final drops from her glass and placing it on the bedside table. “I don’t believe we’re telling anyone about this.” “Of course not.” “Right. Good night.” Susan lay down again and had dozed off again before Hermione and Harry could lay down on the other half of the bed. “I had soooooo much fun today,” Hermione slurred happily. “Me too,” said Harry, kissing the top of her head. They lay quietly for a moment until Hermione spoke again. “Harry?” “Hmm?” “I don’t wanna lose you.” Another silent moment between them. “You won’t,” whispered Harry, kissing her forehead this time. “Not even to Voldemort?” Once again a moment of pause. “Not even to Voldemort.” “Or to any other girlfriends you might have in the future?” Harry laughed. “You won’t lose me to anybody, love,” he said, peppering her forehead with little kisses. “And I won’t be making any other girlfriends.” “Good,” Hermione purred, snuggling deeper into Harry’s chest. “You won’t lose me either. Never.” They shared a sloppy kiss before settling into a comfortable position and dozing off peacefully. “And I won’t be making any other boyfriends either.” ... “Eeny-meeny-miney-mo, teeny-tiny-shiny-toe!” Zain giggled as Harry sang and made faces for him while Hermione applied baby-oil on his belly. Then, as soon as she was done with the oil, she lifted Zain up and held him to her chest, patting his back and rocking him back and forth; he liked when she did that. Harry gave Hermione a soft kiss on her forehead and got off the bed to place the oil bottle on the bedside table. Zain was growing overwhelmingly fast. He was noticeably longer and heavier than Hermione had last seen and lifted him, and the way his head was becoming harder, it almost felt like it was growing much faster than the rest of his body, but Hermione was wiser. She knew it was totally normal. As if outgrowing his clothes was not enough, Zain’s senses were also improving significantly. Now he could recognize faces up to fifteen feet away. He preferred to look at objects with bright colors, bold lines, and simple designs, so everyone was engaging his sense of sight by pointing out interesting things to look at during a morning walk or a lunch in the backyard. He was also now able to recognize familiar voices. His sense of touch, however, was perhaps the fastest one to develop. He was reaching for objects more, and had found that he himself had hands and feet and became fascinated with touching them many a time. Another thing that he liked was putting things in his mouth, and as the rightful baby expert in the house, Emma Granger, kept saying, “This is a way that babies learn about the world!” Zain could now control his head a bit, swipe at objects in front of him, open and close his hands, and kick his feet when lying down or when being held. He was not being given solid food yet. He was usually breastfed or bottle-fed. Something that Sirius kept saying was a real improvement in Zain’s behavior was that he now slept up to seven hours in a row at night, allowing Sirius and Amelia some much-needed rest. Amelia and Sirius, both from pure-blood families, had never heard about immunization shots before, so when Emma and Dan introduced them to the concept, they were clearly apprehensive and uncertain. But Dan and Emma talked them into it, and Zain was given a few shots like Polio Vaccine and Pneumococcal Conjugate Vaccine. Hermione and Harry spent quite a time reading about a child’s overall development. At Zain’s age, a child’s brain developed extremely quickly. So, as recommended, everyone spoke, read, and sang to him very often. They smiled at him, made eye contact, allowed him to examine their faces, and in return, sometimes, it seemed like he was trying to mimic the sounds they made. It was not only Zain who was being taken care of. Amelia and Sirius, first-time parents, were under Emma’s constant watch. She kept them hydrated and well-slept. A stroll around the backyard was a must every evening. To stay away from direct sun rays was also an order for them. “Gah!” Harry and Hermione were reading Zain the story of Cinderella when there was a knock on their door. “How’s my boy doing?” said Susan heartily, as she stepped inside. She lay down on Zain’s other side so that he could see the faces of all three of them. “I applied the oil on his tummy,” said Hermione, planting a soft kiss on Zain’s cheek. “What were you reading to him?” asked Susan. “Cinderella,” said Hermione. “Oh, I’ve never heard that story,” said Susan keenly. “I mean I’ve heard of it but never the story itself. Seems like a pretty famous tale to me.” “It really is,” said Harry. “It’s a classic romance tale.” “You’re reading Zain a romance tale already?” said Susan, looking stunned. “He’s just a three-month-old boy for Merlin’s sake! D’you want him to have perverted thoughts so early at age?” “Don’t be stupid, Sue,” said Hermione reprovingly while Harry rolled on the bed with laughter. “He doesn’t understand a word we’re saying. It’s only for him to stay awake and engaged. Stupid!” She flicked on Susan’s head, who stuck out her tongue in return. Hermione couldn’t help but shake her head in amusement. Crookshanks arrived in the room at this moment. He hopped onto the bed and lay down next to Zain, who started grabbing his fur. Now, if it was anyone else grabbing Crookshanks’s fur, they’d be writhing in pain right now because he would have struck them with his deadly paws in an instant, but he seemed to have developed a special bond with the little human boy. Crookshanks purred in joy, wagging his tail over Zain’s little body. “Hey, can we talk for a moment?” The three teenagers glanced up from Zain and Crookshanks. Amelia stood there at the doorway, looking rather hesitant. “Yeah, what’s it, Aunt?” asked Susan curiously. “Well, Siri and I both want to talk to you,” Amelia told them. “Come downstairs whenever you’re free.” Susan exchanged a look with Harry and Hermione before turning back to Amelia and saying, “Let’s go then.” While Hermione grabbed her cat, Susan carried Zain, and the three of them followed Amelia down into the hall where Sirius was awaiting them; Emma was there too. Amelia nodded at Sirius, who nodded back and produced a scroll. “What is that?” asked Hermione curiously, as Sirius handed over the scroll to Amelia, who untied it. “It’s about Zain,” Sirius told the three teens. “We want the three of you to accept his godparentship.” “Siri and I signed similar papers for you, Harry,” said Amelia, passing the scroll over to Hermione. She held it straight, Harry and Susan leaned in, and they all read: 
We, Sirius Orion Black and Amelia Susan Black, parents of Zain Orion Black, are happy to recognize the following witches and wizards as the godparents of our aforementioned child.

Mr. Harry James Potter

Miss Hermione Jean Granger

Miss Susan Andy Bones

Shall anything happen to us in the future, shall Zain find himself alone at any point of his life, shall he need a word of advice or a hand to hold onto, we trust you immeasurably and boundlessly.

Signed:

Sirius O. Black             Amelia S. Black

Harry J. Potter            Hermione J. Granger

Susan A. Bones 
“We’re sure you’d be much better godparents than we turned out to be,” said Sirius, sporting a confident smile. “Don’t say that,” said Harry in a constrained voice. “You’re awesome, both of you.” “But we could have been better,” said Amelia heavily. “Look,” spoke Emma, “as a parent for over almost seventeen years, I can tell you one thing. You’d always think you could have been better, you should have been better, and it’s all right. It gives you the will to push forward at the lowest of lows and keep you calm-headed at the highest of highs. When I first held Hermione in my arms, I pledged to myself that I’d never let this girl cry in pain, but she did. Every time she would come back home crying because a boy teased her or she wasn’t let to ride on the swings or a girl ruined her book, whatever the reason, it punctured my heart like a nail in a balloon. Similarly, for Harry, I know you regret not being there for him when he was alone, I do too. I wish he hadn’t had to face all the pain he did but then he might not have been what he is today. He might have been a spoiled brat instead, Hermione might not have fallen in love with him, I might not have ever met him. I’m not saying that I don’t resent what he had to go through, of course I do, but I know that there are things you can’t help with. In the end, no matter how much you provide to your children, they have to pave their own path, they have to write their own destiny, and all you can do is watch and perhaps whisper a word of advice every once in a while. I learned that a long while ago.” As Emma fondly ruffled Harry’s hair and pecked on his cheek, he blushed modestly and cleared his throat. “I don’t blame you for what happened,” he told Amelia and Sirius. “I never did. You came to me the moment you could and gave me all your love. You trust me enough to be your child’s godfather, that’s more than enough for me.” “See,” said Emma affectionately. “What did I just say?” “Yeah, Aunt,” said Susan. “You’re a wonderful godparent.” Hermione, Harry, and Susan signed the document and handed it back to Sirius. “Actually,” said Amelia a little timidly, “there is one more thing we wanted to tell you.” “What’s it?” asked Harry. “You know about my dislike for my family’s place, don’t you?” Sirius said quietly. “Yes. What about it?” “Well, I named it to you.” “What?” Harry gasped in shock. “You did what?” “I don’t want it,” said Sirius defiantly. “I’ve named it to you. Sell it, keep it, destroy it, I don’t care. I just don’t want Zain to inherit it, I don’t.” “But it’s Zain’s, isn’t it?” said Harry in a barely controlled voice. “It’s his decision to —” “No, it’s not,” said Sirius abruptly. “A child doesn’t inherit his or her parents’ wealth until he or she ages seventeen. So, it falls completely under my right to transfer the House of Blacks to anyone I want to.” “But why me?” asked Harry helplessly. “Why don’t you just sell it to anyone else if you don’t want it?” “I can’t do that, it’s being used as the headquarters of the Order. But as soon as this war ends, it will be of no use to anyone, and I don’t want Zain to ever step into that cursed place. You must rid him of that building, Harry, you’re his godfather.” “That’s blackmailing!” “Seemingly, yes,” said Sirius flatly. “But it’s essential to bury the past, and I trust you to make use of that place better than I can ever imagine.” Harry glared at Sirius, then sighed and said, “Fine. Where do I sign?” “Oh, no signing this time,” said Sirius cheerfully. He rose to his feet and came around the table. Holding out his right hand for Harry, he told him, “Hold my hand, and Amy will read us the vow.” “The vow?” repeated Hermione curiously. “What kind of vow?” “A magical vow,” said Amelia matter-of-factly. “In previous times, to seal a deal, wizards used to make a vow that would taint their magical soul if not obeyed.” “Taint the magical soul?” said Hermione nervously. “Oh, don’t worry,” said Amelia quickly. “It’s all in the past. It doesn’t taint your soul anymore. Nowadays, if you don’t obey the vow, you’ll be fined by Gringotts, and they might even freeze your account, and trust me, for a wizard belonging to a wizarding family, losing access to his account is just as bad.” “Alright,” Harry grunted, standing up and placing his hand in Sirius’s. “But don’t you forget, you’ve blackmailed a Marauder’s only son, you will pay gravely.” Sirius laughed loudly. “I’d like to see how that turns out,” he said jovially. “Amy, we’re ready.” “Harry, repeat after me,” said Amelia, pointing her wand at Harry and Sirius’s joined hands. “I, Harry James Potter . . .” “I, Harry James Potter . . .” repeated Harry. “. . . as the godson of Sirius Orion Black, acknowledging his wish to transfer his property to my name, accept the House of Blacks and everything that resides within it as my own. This moment onward, I shall be the sole owner of the place.” As soon as Harry repeated “of the place,” a red string-like beam of light emitted out of Amelia’s wand and knotted itself around Harry and Sirius’s joined hands. Their skin seemed to absorb it, and it quietly disappeared with a faint glow the next moment. “Great,” said Sirius happily. “Good riddance. And you know what, now you can set a prime example of how a house-elf should be treated. Good luck.” Harry’s jaw dropped, and so did Hermione’s. “Harry owns Kreacher now?” she gasped. “Yes,” said Sirius, beaming. “You — you cheater!” Harry said hotly. “You didn’t tell me that!” “Amy just said, ‘accept the House of Blacks and everything that resides within it,’ ” Sirius pointed out. “Kreacher’s been residing there for ages.” “You should’ve told me!” Harry said irritably. “Amelia,” he added, turning around and frowning at her. Amelia mouthed Sorry at him and quickly averted her eyes. “Why’re you so upset?” said Sirius. “Haven’t you always told me to behave with Kreacher? Well, now you can show us all the way.” “Oh, you’re so going to pay for this,” Harry swore under his breath. “Anything to get rid of that place,” said Sirius airily. “By the way, we should check it once.” “Check what?” asked Hermione. “See if Kreacher now obeys Harry or not. Kreacher!” he suddenly yelled. Nothing happened. “Good,” said Sirius gladly. “Now you call Kreacher, Harry.” Glaring at Sirius, Harry said Kreacher’s name a lot more quietly than Sirius had, as if almost regretting coming downstairs at all. There was a loud crack, and a house-elf appeared, with a snout for a nose, giant bat’s ears, and enormous bloodshot eyes, crouching on the kitchen-floor and covered in grimy rags. Emma let out an involuntary yelp. “Kreacher won’t, Kreacher won’t, Kreacher won’t!” croaked the house-elf, stamping his long, gnarled feet and pulling his ears. “Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes, Kreacher belongs to the Blacks, Kreacher wants his new mistress, Kreacher won’t go to the Potter brat, Kreacher won’t, won’t, won’t —” “Bellatrix?” Sirius said, his mouth hanging open in shock. “Where have you been, Kreacher, you filthy toerag?” “Won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t —” “You remember, Sirius?” said Amelia urgently. “He used to disappear last year during the Christmas holidays. We thought he had been in the attic.” All the color drained out of Sirius’s face. He came around and seized Kreacher by the neck of his loincloth. “Oi!” yelled Harry. “Drop him right now!” “Won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t —” “Where have you been, Kreacher?” Sirius asked loudly over Kreacher’s consistent screaming. “Have you seen Bellatrix lately?” “I said, drop him!” said Harry angrily, pulling Kreacher out of Sirius’s grip. “You’re not his master anymore.” “Won’t, won’t, won’t, WON’T!” “Be quiet, Kreacher!” said Harry. It looked for a moment as though Kreacher was going to choke. He grabbed his throat, his mouth still working furiously, his eyes bulging. After a few seconds of frantic gulping, he threw himself face forward and beat the floor with his hands and feet, giving himself over to a violent, but entirely silent, tantrum. “Stop moving, Kreacher,” said Harry carefully. Once again, despite his will, Kreacher obeyed. He became still as a rock, laid on his stomach on the floor. “Sit straight, Kreacher,” said Harry gently. “Good,” he added as Kreacher followed his words. “Now, look up at me and tell me, have you been to Bellatrix Lestrange recently?” Kreacher looked up at Harry with his bloodshot eyes. Emma chanced this moment and asked Hermione and Susan, “What’s he wearing?” “Yes,” Kreacher croaked at last. Sirius and Amelia gasped. “When?” asked Harry at once. “When did you see Bellatrix and why?” “Kreacher saw Miss Bella two months ago,” Kreacher said. “She is a much better Black than Master Sirius ever was, Mistress Black is so ashamed of him, poor Mistress.” “What did Bellatrix ask you, Kreacher?” asked Harry. “Miss Bella asks Kreacher if the Dark Lord’s dreams are working on Harry Potter or not.” Sirius looked around at Amelia, Harry, and Hermione in shock. “And what did you tell her, Kreacher?” asked Harry in the politest manner. “Kreacher told Miss Bella the truth,” said Kreacher rather proudly. “Kreacher tells Miss Bella and Miss Narcissa that Harry Potter is scared of sleeping after seeing Weasley head being bitten in his dreams, oh yes, Kreacher did. Miss Bella and Miss Narcissa was happy. They told Kreacher to keep a watch on Harry Potter, but Kreacher could not do much. Harry Potter did not return to the Noble House of Blacks after Christmas, but Kreacher was able to keep a watch on the Order, oh yes, Miss Bella was happy with that.” “You little piece of —” “No!” said Hermione angrily. “You will not say a word, Sirius, it’s all your fault!” “Mine?” said Sirius in disbelief. “Yes, yours,” said Hermione fiercely. “If you hadn’t treated Kreacher like he’s the dirt on your shoes, he’d have been loyal to you. He’d not have thought of seeing Bellatrix and Narcissa for even a second if it hadn’t been for your dislike for him. I’m sure Bellatrix would have been nice to Kreacher because she knows how useful he can be, but it’s not about being useful, it’s about respect and integrity.” “You’re right, Hermione,” said Amelia embarrassedly. “I’m ashamed, too. I never tried —” “No, Amy, it’s not your fault,” said Sirius, taking a deep breath. “You were pregnant, you already had a lot on your plate. It’s my fault. I’m sorry.” Both Harry and Hermione gestured at the old house-elf at once. Sirius gulped and croaked, “I’m sorry, Kreacher.” Kreacher didn’t say anything. “Kreacher, I want you to return to the Noble House of Blacks,” said Harry gently. “And I don’t want you to leave that place without my permission. Because if you did, I might be dead by the next morning. Do you want to be an elf who caused his own master’s death?” “No,” Kreacher choked, looking scared. “Good,” said Harry, nodding. “Now go back to number twelve, do not disturb the Order members, and do not keep a watch on them. I’ll be there soon, alright?” Kreacher nodded his head, whispered, “Poor house-elf does as Master says,” and disappeared with a loud crack. Harry glared at Sirius so angrily that it wiped the grin off his face. He looked around at Hermione for help but received none. “What was that?” Emma asked the four witches and wizards. “I don’t understand.” “That was a house-elf, Mrs. Granger,” Susan told her. “We have a bunch at our place, but certainly more hygienic and approachable.” ... Although nobody ever voiced their thoughts, Hermione could feel it in the air that they all constantly thought about the prophecy. She had noticed Amelia and Sirius give Harry a coveted look when they thought he wasn’t looking, but Hermione was. In fact, to be honest, Hermione hadn’t spent more than half a day without once remembering that night in Dumbledore’s office. She must admit to herself that she was quite embarrassed to see the headmaster; she had shouted a lot on that occasion, not to mention done her best to smash several of Dumbledore’s most prized possessions. Susan also discussed what they could and should do with Hermione when they were alone together, when Harry was busy with something else. Susan was working out everyday not only because she wanted to prove that she was strong, but also because she wanted to protect her loved ones, and Harry was very dear to her. Hermione hesitated to bring up the topic in front of Harry. She didn’t know what to do. She had no idea how to instill confidence in Harry when he got that blank look in his eyes whenever he was reminded, intentionally or otherwise, that he had to either kill or be killed by perhaps the darkest wizard in the history of Wizarding World. It scared Hermione to her core. She couldn’t fathom the idea of a world without Harry, she simply couldn’t. Harry had improved a lot at Occlumency. At least once a day, he sat on meditation, absolutely quietly, clearing his mind of all thoughts. Hermione idolized him for this because she knew she could never clear her mind of thoughts. Her brain just wouldn’t stop thinking. However, Harry, who seemed to rather be not too happy about his improvements in Occlumency, always said that he felt like Voldemort was simply not trying to invade his thoughts anymore. Hermione now thought this was possible since Voldemort had felt a great deal of pain when he had tried to possess Harry’s mind last time during the Battle in the Ministry of Magic. Friday arrived. Hermione stirred and snuggled closer to Harry. Even though she kept her eyes closed, reveling in the warmth of Harry’s body, her mind was now wide awake. Dumbledore was coming tonight. What did he want from Harry that he was coming to the Grangers Residence himself? And that too at eleven p.m.? At such a late hour? “Mmm, stop thinking.” “Huh. What?” Hermione whispered dumbly, as she finally opened her eyes to find Harry grinning at her. “I can practically hear your thoughts,” he told her smugly. “And what am I thinking?” “You’re thinking about Dumbledore’s arrival tonight.” Hermione was impressed. “The last time I checked, you didn’t have Divination,” she said, amused. Harry laughed. “Nah, McGonagall says Divination’s woolly, remember?” They both laughed. “What d’you think Dumbledore wants from you?” Hermione asked on a serious note. “It must be something really important or he won’t bother to come here at all.” “Sounds right,” said Harry pensively. “But I have no idea what he wants.” Downstairs, Susan was playing with Crookshanks, Sirius was attending to Zain, and Amelia was reading the Daily Prophet. Harry went to Susan to play with Crookshanks while Hermione made a beeline towards Zain. Emma and Dan were off to practice already. “Hey, Amy,” Sirius said loudly so that everyone looked around at him. “How about if we stay at the Bones Manor for a while?” “Yes!” said Hermione excitedly. “Please, Amelia, I wanna have a better look at your library. I didn’t get to read enough last time.” There was such an adorable look on her face that nobody in their right mind would have been able to deny her request. Amelia was no different. “Okay, we’ll go,” she said, much to Hermione’s joy. “Dumbledore’s expected to come tonight, so I guess we can go tomorrow. Happy?” “Yes!” said Hermione delightedly. “C’mon, all you wanna do over there is read?” Susan said sarcastically. “Geez, Hermione, if I didn’t know better, I was almost convinced that you accepted to go to Hogwarts because it had a huge library.” “Well, it was one of the reasons,” Hermione said plainly. “But anyway, this is brilliant. I’m so excited.” It was absolutely clear on her face. As she returned her attention to Zain, Susan shared an amused look with Harry. They both were busy talking and playing with Crookshanks when Amelia gave a sad sigh. “What’s it?” Sirius asked worriedly. “I just kind of remembered Moody,” Amelia said in a heavy voice. The hall became uncomfortably silent. Hermione’s heart thudded inside her chest as she remembered what she could of Mad-Eye Moody. He was supposed to be their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor in their fourth year but an impostor had kidnapped him and kept him hostage in his own magical trunk. The impostor fooled everyone by consuming the Polyjuice Potion at regular intervals and had actually managed to impersonate Moody to near-perfection. Not even Albus Dumbledore seemed to see through him. “They didn’t find his eye,” Amelia said quietly. That was news to Hermione, Harry, and Susan. “You mean, his magical eye?” Hermione gasped. Amelia nodded slowly. “Either it got destroyed in the battle or . . . someone picked it up,” she said grimly, “from their side because neither the Ministry nor the Order ever found it.” Hermione dreaded to imagine how beneficial a magical eye could be to the Death Eaters. That eye could see through anything whether it be a wall or an Invisibility Cloak. The day passed on. The hour hand on the clock reached the number eleven and, at that precise moment, the street-lamp outside the window went out. “He’s on time,” Hermione mumbled, turning to Harry and Susan, who were both playing cards with her. “I’d hope he is,” said Susan, showing her final three cards. “He’s the damn headmaster, isn’t he?” The three of them didn’t rise immediately; the game had reached its most intriguing part. Susan had shown three two’s; she was smirking too widely for Hermione’s pleasure. “Pass,” said Harry, showing his own cards. One, Three, and Four. “Pass,” muttered Hermione, sighing. “Yay!” Susan cheered, grabbing all the “money” she had won. They got off the bed and had only reached the bedroom door when they heard a deep voice say, “Good evening. You must be Mr. Granger. I daresay Miss Granger has told you I would be coming for Harry?” “Yes, please come inside.” Harry, Hermione, and Susan ran out of the bedroom, coming to an abrupt halt on the top of the stairs. There in the doorway stood a tall, thin man with waist-length silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles were perched on his crooked nose, and he was wearing a long black traveling cloak and a pointed hat. “Thank you for warmly inviting me in your house, Mr. Granger,” Dumbledore said pleasantly. “It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times.” He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the front door behind him. “I must say your agapanthus are flourishing,” Dumbledore said keenly. “Erm, yes, thank you, Emma takes good care of them,” said Dan, half-puzzled. “Ah, good evening Harry,” said Dumbledore, looking up at him through his half-moon glasses with a most satisfied expression. “Good evening, Miss Granger, Miss Bones. Excellent, excellent. . . . And this must be Mrs. Granger.” Emma appeared from her bedroom, followed closely by Sirius and Amelia, the latter holding Zain in her arms. “Dumbledore,” Sirius said, slightly surprised. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.” “I had to, Sirius,” Dumbledore said simply. “This must be your son, Zain?” “Yeah.” “Please, come and sit, Professor,” Emma said cordially, inviting the old wizard to the couch. “Thank you, Mrs. Granger,” said Dumbledore. He settled himself on the couch and was taking in the surroundings with an expression of benign interest. He looked quite extraordinarily out of place. “What would you like to have, Professor?” asked Emma. “Oh, there is no need to be bothered about it,” Dumbledore said, smiling. He drew his wand so rapidly that Harry barely saw it; with a casual flick, a dusty bottle and eight glasses appeared in midair. The bottle tipped and poured a generous measure of honey-colored liquid into each of the glasses, which then floated to each person in the hall. “Madam Rosmerta’s finest oak-matured mead,” said Dumbledore, raising his glass. Hermione, who caught hold of her own, sipped. She had never tasted anything like it before, but enjoyed it immensely. As Dumbledore replaced his wand in his pocket, Hermione saw that his hand was blackened and shriveled; it looked as though his flesh had been burned away. “Sir — what happened to your — ?” “Later, Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore. “Well, Harry,” he went on, turning towards him, “I have recently come to learn that the House of Black has now been passed down to you.” Harry turned to glare at Sirius at once. Sirius looked around as though he had no idea. “You can keep using it as headquarters,” said Harry. “That is generous,” said Dumbledore. “I also want to thank Sirius for letting Buckbeak stay with Hagrid. He was thrilled to see Buckbeak again. Incidentally, we have decided, in the interests of Buckbeak’s safety, to rechristen him ‘Witherwings’ for the time being, though I doubt that the Ministry would ever guess he is the hippogriff they once sentenced to death.” “Buckbeak saved my life,” Sirius said gratefully. “It’s the least I could do.” “Good . . . well, Harry . . . time for us to be off,” said Dumbledore at last, standing up and straightening his long black cloak. “Where are you taking Harry, Professor?” Hermione couldn’t restrain herself from asking. “And can I come too?” “Me too?” asked Susan. Smiling and waving his wand again so that the front door opened onto cool, misty darkness, Dumbledore said, “I’m afraid, Miss Granger, Miss Bones, it is a flighty temptress, adventure, that only Harry and I must walk on.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Harry felt distinctly awkward as they set off down Chilmark Gardens together. He had never had a proper conversation with the headmaster outside of Hogwarts before; there was usually a desk between them. The memory of their last face-to-face encounter kept intruding too. “Keep your wand at the ready, Harry,” Dumbledore said brightly, looking completely relaxed. “But I thought I’m not allowed to use magic outside school, sir?” asked Harry. “If there is an attack,” said Dumbledore, “I give you permission to use any counter-jinx or curse that might occur to you. However, I do not think you need worry about being attacked tonight.” “Why not, sir?” “You are with me,” said Dumbledore simply. “This will do, Harry.” He came to an abrupt halt at the end of the alley. “You have not, of course, passed your Apparition Test,” he said. “No,” said Harry. “I thought you had to be seventeen?” “You do,” said Dumbledore. “So you will need to hold on to my arm very tightly. My left, if you don’t mind — as you have noticed, my wand arm is a little fragile at the moment.” Harry gripped Dumbledore’s proffered forearm. “Very good,” said Dumbledore. “Well, here we go.” Harry felt Dumbledore’s arm twist away from him and redoubled his grip; the next thing he knew, everything went black. He gulped great lungfuls of cold night air and opened his streaming eyes. He and Dumbledore were now standing in what appeared to be a deserted village square, in the center of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches. “Are you all right?” asked Dumbledore, looking down at him solicitously. “The sensation does take some getting used to, although I believe you’ve Apparated already alongside Madam Bones.” “I’m fine,” said Harry, rubbing his ears, which felt as though they had left Chill Mark Gardens rather reluctantly. “But I think I might prefer brooms. . . .” Dumbledore smiled, drew his traveling cloak a little more tightly around his neck, and said, “This way.” He set off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a few houses. According to a clock on a nearby church, it was almost midnight. “So tell me, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Your scar . . . has it been hurting at all?” Harry raised a hand unconsciously to his forehead and rubbed the lightning-shaped mark. “No,” he said, “and I’ve been wondering about that. I thought it would be burning all the time now Voldemort’s getting so powerful again.” He glanced up at Dumbledore and saw that he was wearing a satisfied expression. “I, on the other hand, thought otherwise,” said Dumbledore. “Lord Voldemort has finally realized the dangerous access to his thoughts and feelings you have been enjoying. It appears that he is now employing Occlumency against you.” “Well, I’m not complaining,” said Harry, who missed neither the disturbing dreams nor the startling flashes of insight into Voldemort’s mind. They turned a corner, passing a telephone box and a bus shelter. Harry looked sideways at Dumbledore again. “Professor?” “Harry?” “Er — where exactly are we?” “This, Harry, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton.” “And what are we doing here?” “Ah yes, of course, I haven’t told you,” said Dumbledore. “Well, I have lost count of the number of times I have said this in recent years, but we are, once again, one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts.” “How can I help with that, sir?” “Oh, I think we’ll find a use for you,” said Dumbledore vaguely. “Left here, Harry.” They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. All the windows were dark. The odd chill that had lain over Chilmark Gardens for six weeks persisted here too. Thinking of dementors, Harry cast a look over his shoulder and grasped his wand reassuringly in his pocket. “Professor, why couldn’t we just Apparate directly into your old colleague’s house?” “Because it would be quite as rude as kicking down the front door,” said Dumbledore. “Courtesy dictates that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity of denying us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are magically protected from unwanted Apparators. At Hogwarts, for instance —” “— you can’t Apparate anywhere inside the buildings or grounds,” said Harry quickly. “It’s written so in Hogwarts: A History, Hermione keeps reminding us all.” “And she is quite right. We turn left again.” The church clock chimed midnight behind them. Harry wondered why Dumbledore did not consider it rude to call on his old colleague so late, but now that conversation had been established, he had more pressing questions to ask. “Sir, Dora —er, Tonks said that Fudge has been sacked. . . .” “Correct,” said Dumbledore, now turning up a steep side street. “He has been replaced, as I am sure you also saw, by Rufus Scrimgeour, who used to be Head of the Auror office under Madam Bones’s leadership of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not say anything about the disagreement with Scrimgeour that the Daily Prophet had reported, and he did not have the nerve to pursue the subject, so he changed it. “And . . . sir . . . Emmaline Vance.” “Yes,” said Dumbledore quietly. “A terrible loss. She was a great witch. Just up here, I think — ouch.” He had pointed with his injured hand. “Professor, what happened to your — ?” “I have no time to explain now,” said Dumbledore. “It is a thrilling tale, I wish to do it justice.” He smiled at Harry, who understood that he was not being snubbed, and that he had permission to keep asking questions. “Sir — Susan, Hermione, and I each got a Ministry of Magic leaflet by owl, about security measures we should all take against the Death Eaters. . . .” “Yes, I received one myself,” said Dumbledore, still smiling. “Did you find it useful?” “Not really.” “No, I thought not. You have not asked me, for instance, what is my favorite flavor of jam, to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore and not an impostor.” “I didn’t . . .” Harry began, not entirely sure whether he was being reprimanded or not. “For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry . . . although of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam preferences before impersonating myself.” “Er . . . right,” said Harry. “The leaflet wasn’t very clear about Inferi either.” “Inferi are corpses,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Dead bodies that have been bewitched to do a Dark wizard’s bidding. Inferi have not been seen for a long time, however, not since Voldemort was last powerful. . . . He killed enough people to make an army of them, of course. This is the place, Harry, just here. . . .” They were nearing a small, neat stone house set in its own garden. Harry was too busy digesting the horrible idea of Inferi to have much attention left for anything else, but as they reached the front gate, Dumbledore stopped dead and Harry walked into him. “Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear.” Harry followed his gaze up the carefully tended front path and felt his heart sink. The front door was hanging off its hinges. Dumbledore glanced up and down the street. It seemed quite deserted. “Wand out and follow me, Harry,” he said quietly. He opened the gate and walked swiftly and silently up the garden path, Harry at his heels, then pushed the front door very slowly, his wand raised and at the ready. “Lumos.” Dumbledore’s wand tip ignited, casting its light up a narrow hallway. To the left, another door stood open. Holding his illuminated wand aloft, Dumbledore walked into the sitting room with Harry right behind him. A scene of total devastation met their eyes. A grandfather clock lay splintered at their feet, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys strewn across the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier glittered nearby. Cushions lay deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments of glass and china lay like powder over everything. Dumbledore raised his wand even higher, so that its light was thrown upon the walls, where something darkly red and glutinous was spattered over the wallpaper. Harry’s small intake of breath made Dumbledore look around. “Not pretty, is it?” he said heavily. “Yes, something horrible has happened here.” Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the room, scrutinizing the wreckage at his feet. Harry followed, gazing around, half-scared of what he might see hidden behind the wreck of the piano or the overturned sofa, but there was no sign of a body. “Maybe there was a fight and — and they dragged him off, Professor?” Harry suggested, trying not to imagine how badly wounded a man would have to be to leave those stains spattered halfway up the walls. “I don’t think so,” said Dumbledore quietly, peering behind an overstuffed armchair lying on its side. “You mean he’s — ?” “Still here somewhere? Yes.” And without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging the tip of his wand into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled, “Ouch!” “Good evening, Horace,” said Dumbledore, straightening up again. Harry’s jaw dropped. Where a split second before there had been an armchair, there now crouched an enormously fat, bald, old man who was massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an aggrieved and watery eye. “There was no need to stick the wand in that hard,” he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. “It hurt.” The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walrus-like mustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore’s chin. “What gave it away?” he grunted as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair. “My dear Horace,” said Dumbledore, looking amused, “if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house.” The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead. “The Dark Mark,” he muttered. “Knew there was something . . . ah well. Wouldn’t have had time anyway, I’d only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room.” He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his mustache flutter. “Would you like my assistance clearing up?” asked Dumbledore politely. “Please,” said the other. They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the short round one, and waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion. The furniture flew back to its original places; ornaments reformed in midair, feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared onto side tables and reignited; a vast collection of splintered silver picture frames flew glittering across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; rips, cracks, and holes healed everywhere, and the walls wiped themselves clean. “What kind of blood was that, incidentally?” asked Dumbledore loudly over the chiming of the newly unsmashed grandfather clock. “On the walls? Dragon,” shouted the wizard called Horace, as, with a deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling. There was a final plunk from the piano, and silence. “Yes, dragon,” repeated the wizard conversationally. “My last bottle, and prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable.” He stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard and held it up to the light, examining the thick liquid within. “Hmm. Bit dusty.” He set the bottle back on the sideboard and sighed. It was then that his gaze fell upon Harry. “Oho,” he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry’s forehead and the lightning-shaped scar it bore. “Oho!” “This,” said Dumbledore, moving forward to make the introduction, “is Harry Potter. Harry, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn.” Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd. “So that’s how you thought you’d persuade me, is it? Well, the answer’s no, Albus.” He pushed past Harry, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a man trying to resist temptation. “I suppose we can have a drink, at least?” asked Dumbledore. “For old time’s sake?” Slughorn hesitated. “All right then, one drink,” he said ungraciously. Dumbledore smiled at Harry and directed him toward a chair not unlike the one that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood right beside the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp. Harry took the seat with the distinct impression that Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to keep him as visible as possible. Certainly when Slughorn, who had been busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face the room again, his eyes fell immediately upon Harry. “Hmpf,” he said, looking away quickly as though frightened of hurting his eyes. “Here —” He gave a drink to Dumbledore, who had sat down without invitation, thrust the tray at Harry, and then sank into the cushions of the repaired sofa and a disgruntled silence. His legs were so short they did not touch the floor. “Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?” Dumbledore asked. “Not so well,” said Slughorn at once. “Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism too. Can’t move like I used to. Well, that’s to be expected. Old age. Fatigue.” “And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice,” said Dumbledore. “You can’t have had more than three minutes’ warning?” Slughorn said, half irritably, half proudly, “Two. Didn’t hear my Intruder Charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still,” he added sternly, seeming to pull himself back together again, “the fact remains that I’m an old man, Albus. A tired old man who’s earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts.” He certainly had those, thought Harry, looking around the room. It was stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates and plump cushions. If Harry had not known who lived there, he would have guessed at a rich, fussy old lady. “You’re not yet as old as I am, Horace,” said Dumbledore. “Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself,” said Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore’s injured hand. “Reactions not what they were, I see.” “You’re quite right,” said Dumbledore serenely, shaking back his sleeve to reveal the tips of those burned and blackened fingers; the sight of them made the back of Harry’s neck prickle unpleasantly. “I am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand . . .” He shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to say that age had its compensations, and Harry noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had never seen Dumbledore wear before: It was large, rather clumsily made of what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked down the middle. Slughorn’s eyes lingered for a moment on the ring too, and Harry saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his wide forehead. “So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace . . . are they for the Death Eaters’ benefit, or mine?” asked Dumbledore. “What would the Death Eaters want with a poor broken-down old buffer like me?” demanded Slughorn. “I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to coercion, torture, and murder,” said Dumbledore. “Are you really telling me that they haven’t come recruiting yet?” Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment, then muttered, “I haven’t given them the chance. I’ve been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place more than a week. Move from Muggle house to Muggle house — the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands — it’s been very pleasant, I’ll be sorry to leave. It’s quite easy once you know how, one simple Freezing Charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of Sneakoscopes and make sure the neighbors don’t spot you bringing in the piano.” “Ingenious,” said Dumbledore. “But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts —” “If you’re going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding, but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge left! If that’s how you treat teachers these days —” “Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd,” said Dumbledore. “I think you, Horace, would have known better than to stride into the forest and call a horde of angry centaurs ‘filthy half-breeds.’ ” “That’s what she did, did she?” said Slughorn. “Idiotic woman. Never liked her.” Harry chuckled and both Dumbledore and Slughorn looked round at him. “Sorry,” Harry said hastily. “It’s just — I didn’t like her either.” Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly. “Are you leaving?” asked Slughorn at once, looking hopeful. “No, I was wondering whether I might use your bathroom,” said Dumbledore. “Oh,” said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. “Second on the left down the hall.” Dumbledore strode from the room. Once the door had closed behind him, there was silence. After a few moments, Slughorn got to his feet but seemed uncertain what to do with himself. He shot a furtive look at Harry, then crossed to the fire and turned his back on it, warming his wide behind. “Don’t think I don’t know why he’s brought you,” he said abruptly. Harry merely looked at Slughorn. Slughorn’s watery eyes slid over Harry’s scar, this time taking in the rest of his face. “You look very like your father.” “Yeah, I’ve been told,” said Harry. “Except for your eyes. You’ve got —” “My mother’s eyes, yeah.” Harry had heard it so often he found it a bit wearing. “Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn’t have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother,” Slughorn added, in answer to Harry’s questioning look. “Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too.” “Which was your House?” “I was Head of Slytherin,” said Slughorn. “Oh, now,” he went on quickly, seeing the expression on Harry’s face and wagging a stubby finger at him, “don’t go holding that against me! You’ll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families. Not always, though. Ever heard of Sirius Black? You must have done — been in the papers for the last couple of years — the one and only man to escape Azkaban by himself — he was a big pal of your father’s at school. The whole Black family had been in my House, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor! Shame — he was a talented boy. I got his brother, Regulus, when he came along, but I’d have liked the set.” He sounded like an enthusiastic collector who had been outbid at auction. Apparently lost in memories, he gazed at the opposite wall, turning idly on the spot to ensure an even heat on his backside. “Your mother was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn’t believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good.” “My girlfriend is Muggle-born,” said Harry, “and she’s the best in our year.” “Funny how that sometimes happens, isn’t it?” said Slughorn. “Not really,” said Harry coldly. Slughorn looked down at him in surprise. “You mustn’t think I’m prejudiced!” he said. “No, no, no! Haven’t I just said your mother was one of my all-time favorite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her too — now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course — another Muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts!” He bounced up and down a little, smiling in a self-satisfied way, and pointed at the many glittering photograph frames on the dresser, each peopled with tiny moving occupants. “All ex-students, all signed. You’ll notice Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, he’s always interested to hear my take on the day’s news. And Ambrosius Flume, of Honeydukes — a hamper every birthday, and all because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkiss, who gave him his first job! And at the back — you’ll see her if you just crane your neck — that’s Gwenog Jones, who of course captains the Holyhead Harpies. . . . People are always astonished to hear I’m on first-name terms with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!” This thought seemed to cheer him up enormously. “And all these people know where to find you, to send you stuff?” asked Harry, who could not help wondering why the Death Eaters had not yet tracked down Slughorn if hampers of sweets, Quidditch tickets, and visitors craving his advice and opinions could find him. The smile slid from Slughorn’s face as quickly as the blood from his walls. “Of course not,” he said, looking down at Harry. “I have been out of touch with everybody for a year.” Harry had the impression that the words shocked Slughorn himself; he looked quite unsettled for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Still . . . the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hogwarts just now would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix! And while I’m sure they’re very admirable and brave and all the rest of it, I don’t personally fancy the mortality rate —” “You don’t have to join the Order to teach at Hogwarts,” said Harry, who could not quite keep a note of derision out of his voice: It was hard to sympathize with Slughorn’s cosseted existence when he remembered Sirius, crouching in a cave and living on rats. “Most of the teachers aren’t in it, and none of them has ever been killed — well, unless you count Quirrell, and he got what he deserved seeing as he was working with Voldemort.” Harry had been sure Slughorn would be one of those wizards who could not bear to hear Voldemort’s name spoken aloud, and was not disappointed: Slughorn gave a shudder and a squawk of protest, which Harry ignored. “I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumbledore’s headmaster; he’s supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn’t he?” Harry went on. Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two: He seemed to be thinking over Harry’s words. “Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore,” he muttered grudgingly. “And I suppose one could argue that as I have not joined the Death Eaters, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named can hardly count me a friend . . . in which case, I might well be safer a little closer to Albus. . . .” Dumbledore reentered the room and Slughorn jumped as though he had forgotten he was in the house. “Oh, there you are, Albus,” he said. “You’ve been a very long time. Upset stomach?” “No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines,” said Dumbledore. “I do love knitting patterns. Well, Harry, we have trespassed upon Horace’s hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave.” Not at all reluctant to obey, Harry jumped to his feet. Slughorn seemed taken aback. “You’re leaving?” “Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one.” “Lost. . . ?” Slughorn seemed agitated. He twiddled his fat thumbs and fidgeted as he watched Dumbledore fasten his traveling cloak, and Harry zip up his jacket. “Well, I’m sorry you don’t want the job, Horace,” said Dumbledore, raising his uninjured hand in a farewell salute. “Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to.” “Yes . . . well . . . very gracious . . . as I say . . .” “Good-bye, then.” “Bye,” said Harry. They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them. “All right, all right, I’ll do it!” Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing breathless in the doorway to the sitting room. “You will come out of retirement?” “Yes, yes,” said Slughorn impatiently. “I must be mad, but yes.” “Wonderful,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September.” “Yes, I daresay you will,” grunted Slughorn. As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn’s voice floated after them, “I’ll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!” Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind them, and they set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist. “Well done, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “I didn’t do anything,” said Harry in surprise. “Oh yes you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?” “Er . . .” Harry wasn’t sure whether he liked Slughorn or not. He supposed he had been pleasant in his way, but he had also seemed vain and, whatever he said to the contrary, much too surprised that a Muggle-born like his mother or girlfriend should make a good witch. “Horace,” said Dumbledore, relieving Harry of the responsibility to say any of this, “likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat — more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystalized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office.” Harry had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great swollen spider, spinning a web around it, twitching a thread here and there to bring its large and juicy flies a little closer. “I tell you all this,” Dumbledore continued, “not to turn you against Horace — or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn — but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry. You would be the jewel of his collection; ‘the Boy Who Lived’ . . . or, as they call you these days, ‘the Chosen One.’ ” At these words, a chill that had nothing to do with the surrounding mist stole over Harry. He was reminded of words he had heard a few weeks ago, words that had a horrible and particular meaning to him: Neither can live while the other survives . . . Dumbledore had stopped walking, level with the church they had passed earlier. “This will do, Harry. If you will grasp my arm.” Braced this time, Harry was ready for the Apparition, but still found it unpleasant. When the pressure disappeared and he found himself able to breathe again, he was standing beside Dumbledore at the end of the alley that led to the Grangers Residence, his most favorite building in the world. “If you don’t mind, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “I’d like a few words with you before we part. In private. Perhaps in here?” Dumbledore pointed toward a run-down telephone booth. A little puzzled, Harry followed Dumbledore through the creaking door into a space a little smaller than the average cupboard. Dumbledore illuminated the tip of his wand, so that it glowed like a torch, and smiled down at Harry. “I hope you will forgive me for mentioning it, Harry, but I am pleased and a little proud at how well you seem to be coping after everything that happened at the Ministry. Permit me to say that I think Alastor would have been proud of you.” Harry swallowed; his voice seemed to have deserted him. “And now, Harry, on a closely related subject . . . I gather that you have been taking the Daily Prophet over the last two weeks?” “Yes, Tonks gets them, and Amelia and Hermione like to stay updated as well,” said Harry. “Then you will have seen that there have been not so much leaks as floods concerning your adventure in the Hall of Prophecy?” “Yes,” said Harry again. “And now everyone knows that I’m the one —” “No, they do not,” interrupted Dumbledore. “There are only a few people in the whole world who know the full contents of the prophecy made about you and Lord Voldemort, and two of them standing in this old phonebooth. It is true, however, that many have guessed, correctly, that Voldemort sent his Death Eaters to steal a prophecy, and that the prophecy concerned you. “Now, I think I am correct in saying that you have not told anybody that you know what the prophecy said, except for Miss Bones and Mr. and Mrs. Black?” “And Fleur,” Harry told him. “Fleur Delacour, Tonks’s girlfriend and a great friend of mine. And Ginny, Luna, and Neville, too.” “It’s all the same,” said Dumbledore. “You would do your friends and family a disservice by not confiding something this important to them. You need them, Harry.” “I know,” said Harry quietly. “Though I’d have liked it a bit more if they weren’t so much in danger because of you.” “They’re not in danger because of you, Harry,” Dumbledore said seriously. “Miss Granger, I’m afraid, will be frowned upon for obvious reasons. Miss Weasley and Mr. Longbottom are from pure-blood families and yet fight against the blood agenda, so they’re on target as well. Same goes for Miss Bones. All in all, they are not in danger because of you, Harry, instead they feel safer because they have you.” Harry said nothing, but Dumbledore did not seem to require an answer. He continued, “On a different, though related, subject, it is my wish that you take private lessons with me this year.” “Private — with you?” said Harry, surprised out of his preoccupied silence. “Yes. I think it is time that I took a greater hand in your education.” “What will you be teaching me, sir?” “Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” said Dumbledore airily. Harry waited hopefully, but Dumbledore did not elaborate, so he asked something else that had been bothering him slightly. “If I’m having lessons with you, would I still be having Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape?” “It is how you and Professor Snape converse with each other.” “Okay,” said Harry. “Now, one more thing, Harry, before we part. Firstly, I wish you to keep your Invisibility Cloak with you at all times from this moment onward. Even within Hogwarts itself. Just in case, you understand me?” Harry nodded. “Very well, then,” said Dumbledore, pushing open the phonebooth door and stepping out into the yard.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Dumbledore’s going to give you private lessons?” Sirius quizzed Harry for the umpteenth time that day. “I wonder what he’ll teach you,” said Amelia pensively. “Really advanced defensive magic, probably . . . powerful countercurses . . . anti-jinxes . . .” Harry did not really listen. A warmth was spreading through him that had nothing to do with the sunlight; a tight obstruction in his chest seemed to be dissolving. He was among his family after all. “. . . and evasive enchantments generally,” concluded Amelia. “Did you like Horace Slughorn, by the way? He was the Potions Master at our time.” “Potions Master?” Hermione repeated, puzzled. “But, does that mean . . . Professor Snape is not going to teach Potions anymore?” She looked appalled. However unpleasant Professor Snape might be, Hermione didn’t have a single shred of a doubt in her mind that he was the absolute best at what he did. Hermione didn’t wish to learn from anyone any less. “Seems like it,” said Amelia thoughtfully. “Horace’s an excellent potioneer, even better than Severus, I daresay.” “Loads better,” said Sirius, huffing. Hermione was shocked. She couldn’t believe there could be anyone even better than Professor Snape at Potions. But if someone as intelligent as Amelia thought so. . . . “He looked a bit like a walrus, though,” said Harry meekly. “Harry!” Hermione admonished him. “He’s our teacher!” But Susan and Sirius laughed out loud. “Yes, he is, though,” said Amelia, smiling herself. “He used to be the Head of Slytherin, and he had a really soft spot for your mother.” She gave Harry a tender smile as she mentioned his mother. “Yeah, he mentioned that,” said Harry in a low voice. “Is everything packed?” Sirius asked the three teens. “Yes, but I wanna re-check once again,” said Susan. “You have an hour before we leave,” said Amelia, looking around at the clock. “Go and check your stuff.” Harry, Hermione, and Susan zoomed upstairs into their respective bedrooms. Once Harry and Hermione had ensured they had packed everything they needed, they went to check Susan whether she was ready or not. Susan, however, was fidgeting around nervously, looking for something she couldn’t manage to find. “Where did I keep it?” she muttered anxiously, as she lay flat over her stomach on the floor, looking under the bed. “What are you looking for?” asked Harry. “Hermione’s headphones,” Susan said, rising back to her feet and approaching the cupboard instead. “You’re such a dumbo,” said Hermione, laughing. “I took them last night, remember?” Susan halted midway, turning around to Hermione and Harry with a relieved expression. “I totally forgot,” she said, chuckling breathlessly. “Don’t worry, I’ve packed them with my stuff,” Hermione told her. “Thanks,” said Susan. “Well, I’m all set then.” Hermione texted her father that they were departing for the Bones Manor while she went downstairs with Harry and Susan. 
We’re ready to leave, dad.

See you soon.

Okay, pumpkin.

Take care. 
“I’ve told Dad we’re leaving,” Hermione informed Amelia and Sirius. “How’re we traveling?” “The Knight Bus,” said Amelia. She ignored the looks of grimaces on Harry, Hermione, and Susan’s faces. The Knight Bus was a violet, triple-decker bus that moved at an incredible pace. It was run by a wizard named Ernie Prang while a young wizard named Stan Shunpike worked as the conductor. The Knight Bus dropped them at the village square of Nordfarm, from where they tracked a familiar way to a dilapidated wooden cabin, which in fact worked as an entrance to the magnificent Bones Manor. It was almost unbelievable that the whole place had been built by one person alone, but Amelia was one damn impressive personality anyway. If not for her willing resignation, she would have been the Minister, not Scrimgeour, and nobody would have raised an eyebrow. “I’m gonna take a looong bath now,” Susan told Harry and Hermione when the three of them were upstairs. “You interested, ’Mione?” “Er . . . alright,” said Hermione after a moment of thought. “Well, I think I’ll meditate until you return,” said Harry when Hermione turned to look at him, as if asking him what he’s going to do. “Okay,” said Hermione, nodding. As Susan proceeded into her own bedroom, Hermione collected her bath items and gave Harry a quick kiss before reaching the bathroom. Taking off her clothes so that she remained in her bra and knickers only, she turned on the tap to fill the bathtub. It was only half-filled when someone slapped Hermione on the butt. “Oi!” Susan laughed heartily as Hermione attempted futilely to smack her on the arm. “Prat,” Hermione murmured, rubbing her ass. While the tub filled, Susan took off her own clothes. They both sat down face-to-face in the tub and sighed. Pouring water over her body, Susan said, “Nothing more refreshing than a long bath, is there?” Her hand went straight to the scar on her chest that ran between her breasts right down to her navel. “Hermione, do you think this will ever fade away?” Susan asked with very little hope in her voice. “I dunno. It might not,” Hermione said with blunt honesty. “But that doesn’t make you any less beautiful.” A smile slowly crept up on Susan’s face, but it was almost instantly replaced by a frown. “That’s not what I was asking, but thanks anyway,” she said. Then, “Ain’t you scared?” “Scared?” Hermione repeated, puzzled. “Of what?” “Of everything that’s happening? Of everything that’s about to happen?” “Of course I am,” “You don’t look like it,” “That’s what I’m trying to do. Trying to be strong for Harry.” The two witches stared at each other for a moment, gathering up courage to face whatever might come in the future. Susan leaned forward and took Hermione’s hands in her own. “You’re a great witch, Hermione, brave and smart and caring. I wish I was a bit more like you.” “You’ve got your own perks, Sue,” said Hermione. “All you need to do is start believing in yourself because we believe in you. . . . Anyway, when do you think we’re gonna go to Diagon Alley to grab our new books?” “ARGH — just stop talking about books when we’re in the bloody bathtub, Hermione!” Susan said annoyedly, making Hermione laugh. “You’re fucking unbelievable.” “You just called me great though,” said Hermione, smirking. “Would take back my words if I could,” Susan muttered, frowning. “For real, though, when do you think we can go to Diagon Alley?” Hermione asked seriously. “I don’t see any reason why we can’t go as soon as tomorrow,” said Susan thoughtfully. “We’ve got our O.W.L.s and Dumbledore has also wound up his business with Harry, there’s no reason to stall anymore.” “That’s what I was thinking,” said Hermione, nodding. “By the way, what d’you think? Should I get my hair cut into, like, you know, a pixie cut?” “What! No way!” Susan half-yelled. “Why would you even think so?” “Don’t be Harry-ish now,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “They’re more bothersome than I could care for.” “I fucking deny you the privilege of getting your hair cut, or you’ll wish you never ever had the misfortune of having that repulsive thought, Granger,” Susan threatened her. “If anything, you can try a new style or something. Try to comb them down, you know?” “Yeah, right, like I haven’t tried that since the time I knew how to use a comb,” Hermione said sarcastically. “Let someone else try this time.” Susan went into a thoughtful silence for a moment before brightening up. “I’ve heard from Dora that Fleur knows a lot about make-up and stuff. We can take her help to manage that . . . nest of yours. Although I must add it’s not as nest-y as it used to be.” “But that’s a great idea, Sue!” said Hermione, actually excited. “I will call Fleur right away.” “But right now, let’s just stay here,” said Susan, grabbing Hermione’s arm just as she began rising up. “Let’s enjoy this bath first.” Since Fleur didn’t have a phone of her own and she didn’t catch up with Dora until late evening, Hermione had to wait for a few hours to be able to talk to Fleur. The French witch agreed at once and made a promise to come and help Hermione this coming Sunday. Hermione had also raised the matter of visiting Diagon Alley to buy their textbooks over dinner the same evening to which Amelia said she would ask someone from the Order to accompany the three teens to Diagon Alley. “But Dora can do it, can’t she?” said Hermione. “I’ve invited her and Fleur over here on Sunday anyway.” “Er, well Tonks,” Amelia said, looking uncertain. “She’s an Auror, Aunt,” Susan said reassuringly. “And we can stay for the rest of the holidays there,” she added nonchalantly. “I’ve wanted to spend time there anyway.” They all knew she was subtly referring to one witch named Ginny. “Okay then. Meanwhile, Siri and I can visit Moody’s grave,” Amelia added grimly. “He was one of the bravest wizards we ever knew.” ... It was an overcast, murky day on Sunday. Hermione, Harry, Susan, Dora, and Fleur traveled to the Leaky Cauldron by the Knight Bus. The Order had been informed about their trip in advance and hence they were to wait for an additional accomplice in the pub. “Was I not enough?” Dora asked everyone, looking put out. “Am I not an Auror?” “You are, mon cherie,” said Fleur encouragingly. “Zey just want extra security. Let them be sure.” “Harry!” They heard as soon as they deboarded the Knight Bus. Hermione looked around, and her heart leapt to see the gigantic, black-bearded form of Rubeus Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, wearing a long beaver-skin coat. He was beaming at the sight of them. Susan seemed to be quite aware of the startled stares of passing Muggles shooting at an oblivious Hagrid. “Harry!” Hagrid boomed, sweeping Harry into a bone-crushing hug. “Buckbeak — Witherwings, I mean — yeh should see him, Harry, he’s so happy ter be back in the open air —” “Glad he’s pleased,” said Harry, grinning as he massaged his ribs. “We didn’t know you were coming!” “I know, jus’ like old times, innit? See, the Ministry wanted ter send a bunch o’ Aurors, so Tonks came, but Dumbledore asked me as well,” said Hagrid proudly, throwing out his chest and tucking his thumbs into his pockets. “Let’s get goin’ then — after yeh —” The Leaky Cauldron was, for the first time in Hermione’s memory, completely empty. Only Tom the landlord, wizened and toothless, remained of the old crowd. He looked up hopefully as they entered, but before he could speak, Hagrid said importantly, “Jus’ passin’ through today, Tom, sure yeh understand, Hogwarts business, yeh know.” Tom nodded gloomily and returned to wiping glasses; Hermione, Harry, Susan, Dora, Fleur, and Hagrid walked through the bar and out into the chilly little courtyard at the back where the dustbins stood. Hagrid raised his pink umbrella and rapped a certain brick in the wall, which opened at once to form an archway onto a winding cobbled street. They stepped through the entrance and paused, looking around. Diagon Alley had changed. The colorful, glittering window displays of spellbooks, potion ingredients, and cauldrons were lost to view, hidden behind the large Ministry of Magic posters that had been pasted over them. Most of these somber purple posters carried blown-up versions of the security advice on the Ministry pamphlets that had been sent out over the summer, but others bore moving black-and-white photographs of Death Eaters known to be on the loose. Bellatrix Lestrange was sneering from the front of the nearest apothecary. A few windows were boarded up, including those of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor. On the other hand, a number of shabby-looking stalls had sprung up along the street. The nearest one, which had been erected outside Flourish and Blotts, under a striped, stained awning, had a cardboard sign pinned to its front: AMULETS Effective Against Werewolves, Dementors, and Inferi A seedy-looking little wizard was rattling armfuls of silver symbols on chains at passersby. “One for you, pretty girl?” he called at Susan as they passed, leering at her. “Protect your pretty neck?” “Back off, bastard!” Dora barked at him, slipping a protective arm around Susan’s waist. First of all, they went into the book shop, Flourish and Blotts, to buy their new coursebooks. However, when they emerged from the bookshop, Dora said, “This is taking too much time. Hermione, Susan, you both want new robes, right? I say, we split up. You two go to Madam Malkin’s with Hagrid, while Harry, Fleur, and I will go to the Apothecary and the Owl Emporium.” “Er . . .” Hermione hesitated, not wanting to be separated from Harry for even a second, but Susan enthusiastically grabbed her arm and turned her around. Hermione last saw Harry being led by Dora and Fleur, the two witches giggling by his sides, before she was pulled out of sight by Susan. Hermione noticed that many of the people who passed them had a harried, anxious look on their faces, and that nobody was stopping to talk anymore; the shoppers stayed together in their own tightly knit groups, moving intently about their business. Nobody seemed to be shopping alone. “Migh’ be a bit of a squeeze in there with all of us,” said Hagrid, stopping outside Madam Malkin’s and bending down to peer through the window. “I’ll stand guard outside, all right?” Hermione and Susan entered the little shop together. It appeared, at first glance, to be empty, but no sooner had the door swung shut behind them than they heard a familiar voice issuing from behind a rack of dress robes in spangled green and blue. “. . . not a child, in case you haven’t noticed, Mother. I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping alone.” There was a clucking noise and a voice Hermione recognized as that of Madam Malkin, the owner, said, “Now, dear, your mother’s quite right, none of us is supposed to go wandering around on our own anymore, it’s nothing to do with being a child —” “Watch where you’re sticking that pin, will you!” A teenage boy with a pale, pointed face and white-blond hair appeared from behind the rack, wearing a handsome set of dark green robes that glittered with pins around the hem and the edges of the sleeves. He strode to the mirror and examined himself; it was a few moments before he noticed Hermione and Susan reflected over his shoulder. His light gray eyes narrowed. “If you’re wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in,” said Draco Malfoy. “I don’t think there’s any need for language like that!” said Madam Malkin, scurrying out from behind the clothes rack holding a tape measure and a wand. “And I don’t want wands drawn in my shop either!” she added hastily, for a glance toward the door had shown her Susan standing there with her wand out and pointing at Malfoy. Hermione, who was standing slightly behind Susan, whispered, “No, don’t, Sue, honestly, it’s not worth it. . . .” “Yeah, like you’d dare do magic out of school,” sneered Malfoy. “That’s quite enough!” said Madam Malkin sharply, looking over her shoulder for support. “Madam — please —” Narcissa Malfoy strolled out from behind the clothes rack. “Put that away,” she said coldly to Susan. “If you attack my son, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do.” “Really?” said Susan, taking a step forward and gazing into the smoothly arrogant face that, for all its pallor, still resembled her sister’s. Susan was as tall as Narcissa was. “Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?” Madam Malkin squealed and clutched at her heart. “Really, you shouldn’t accuse — dangerous thing to say — wands away, please!” But Susan did not lower her wand. Narcissa smiled unpleasantly. “I see escaping a small battle has given you all a false sense of security. But Dumbledore won’t always be there to protect you.” Susan looked mockingly all around the shop. “Wow . . . look at that . . . he’s not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!” Malfoy made an angry movement toward Susan, but stumbled over his overlong robe. Susan laughed loudly. “Don’t you dare talk to my mother like that!” Malfoy snarled. “It’s all right, Draco,” said Narcissa, restraining him with her thin white fingers upon his shoulder. “I expect she will be reunited with her dear parents before I am reunited with Lucius.” Susan raised her wand higher. “Sue, no!” moaned Hermione, grabbing Susan’s arm and attempting to push it down by her side. “Think. . . . You mustn’t. . . . We’ll be in such trouble. . . .” Madam Malkin dithered for a moment on the spot, then seemed to decide to act as though nothing was happening in the hope that it wouldn’t. She bent toward Malfoy, who was still glaring at Hermione and Susan. “I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more, dear, let me just —” “Ouch!” bellowed Malfoy, slapping her hand away. “Watch where you’re putting your pins, woman! Mother — I don’t think I want these anymore —” He pulled the robes over his head and threw them onto the floor at Madam Malkin’s feet. “You’re right, Draco,” said Narcissa, with a contemptuous glance at Hermione, “now I know the kind of scum that shops here. . . . We’ll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting’s.” And with that, the pair of them strode out of the shop. “Well, really!” said Madam Malkin, snatching up the fallen robes and moving the tip of her wand over them like a vacuum cleaner, so that it removed all the dust. She was distracted all through the fitting of Hermione and Susan’s new robes, tried to sell them wizard’s dress robes instead of witch’s, and when she finally bowed them out of the shop it was with an air of being glad to see the back of them. “Got ev’rything?” asked Hagrid brightly when they reappeared at his side. “Just about,” said Susan. “Did you see the Malfoys?” “Yeah,” said Hagrid, unconcerned. “Bu’ they wouldn’ dare make trouble in the middle o’ Diagon Alley, Susan. Don’ worry abou’ them.” Hermione and Susan exchanged looks, but before they could disabuse Hagrid of this comfortable notion, Harry, Dora, and Fleur appeared, all clutching heavy bags. “Everyone all right?” said Dora. “Got your robes?” “You won’t believe, Hermione, Fred and George’s new shop’s opened already!” Harry told her excitedly. “There’s no time for that,” Dora started to say, but Harry’s joy was contagious. “C’mon, it won’t take too long!” he said pleadingly. “Please, Dora, pleeeeeease.” “Alright, just a few minutes, then,” said Dora at last, sighing. “But Fleur and I will be waiting in the parlor, okay?” “Fair enough,” said Harry, grinning, catching Hermione and Susan’s arms and dragging them both forward. Meanwhile, Hermione told Harry about her and Susan’s encounter with Draco and Narcissa Malfoy in Madam Malkin’s shop. “Whoa,” said Hermione, stopping in her tracks. Set against the dull, poster-muffled shop fronts around them, Fred and George’s windows hit the eye like a firework display. Casual passersby were looking back over their shoulders at the windows, and a few rather stunned-looking people had actually come to a halt, transfixed. The left-hand window was dazzlingly full of an assortment of goods that revolved, popped, flashed, bounced, and shrieked; Hermione’s eyes began to water by just looking at it. The right-hand window was covered with a gigantic poster, purple like those of the Ministry, but emblazoned with flashing yellow letters: WHY ARE YOU WORRYING ABOUT YOU-KNOW-WHO? YOU SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUT U-NO-POO — THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION THAT’S GRIPPING THE NATION! Harry started to laugh. “U-No-Poo?” whispered Susan, gazing, dumbfounded, at the poster. “This is brilliant!” said Harry, who was laughing. “But only a few minutes, you lot,” said Hagrid, who had followed them. “I’m keeping a watch ’ere, okay?” Harry, arm in arm with Hermione, led the way into the shop. It was packed with customers; they could not get near the shelves. Hermione stared around, looking up at the boxes piled to the ceiling: Here were the Skiving Snackboxes that the twins had perfected during their last, unfinished year at Hogwarts; Hermione noticed that the Nosebleed Nougat was most popular, with only one battered box left on the shelf. There were bins full of trick wands, the cheapest merely turning into rubber chickens or pairs of briefs when waved, the most expensive beating the unwary user around the head and neck, and boxes of quills, which came in Self-Inking, Spell-Checking, and Smart-Answer varieties. A space cleared in the crowd, and Harry, Hermione, and Susan pushed their way toward the counter, where a gaggle of delighted ten-year-olds was watching a tiny little wooden man slowly ascending the steps to a real set of gallows, both perched on a box that read: Reusable Hangman — spell it or he’ll swing! “ ‘Patented Daydream Charms . . .’ ” Hermione read the information on the back of a box bearing a highly colored picture of a handsome youth and a swooning girl who were standing on the deck of a pirate ship. “ ‘One simple incantation and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, thirty-minute daydream, easy to fit into the average school lesson and virtually undetectable (side effects include vacant expression and minor drooling). Not for sale to under-sixteens.’ You know,” said Hermione, looking up at Harry, “that really is extraordinary magic!” “For that, Hermione,” said a voice behind them, “you can have one for free.” A beaming Fred stood before them, wearing a set of magenta robes that clashed magnificently with his flaming hair. “How are you, Harry?” They shook hands. “And you, Hermione?” “We’re good,” said Hermione. “How about you and George?” “The business is booming,” said Fred. “We’re testing most of our products on ourselves. Come on, I’ll give you a tour.” Hermione and Harry looked around and found Susan now poring over the Patented Daydream Charms. They followed Fred toward the back of the shop, where they saw a stand of card and rope tricks. “Muggle magic tricks!” said Fred happily, pointing them out. “For freaks like Dad, you know, who love Muggle stuff —” “Ahem — you’re talking to a Muggle-born,” Hermione interrupted sternly. “Er, sorry,” said Fred hastily. “It’s not a big earner, but we do fairly steady business, they’re great novelties. . . . Oh, here’s George. . . .” Fred’s twin shook Harry’s hand energetically. “Giving them the tour? Come through the back, Harry, Hermione, that’s where we’re making the real money — pocket anything, you, and you’ll pay in more than Galleons!” he added warningly to a small boy who hastily whipped his hand out of the tub labeled Edible Dark Marks — they’ll make anyone sick! George pushed back a curtain beside the Muggle tricks and Hermione saw a darker, less crowded room. The packaging on the products lining these shelves was more subdued. “We’ve just developed this more serious line,” said Fred. “Funny how it happened . . .” “You wouldn’t believe how many people, even people who work at the Ministry, can’t do a decent Shield Charm,” said George. “ ’Course, they didn’t have you teaching them, Harry.” “That’s right. . . . Well, we thought Shield Hats were a bit of a laugh, you know, challenge your mate to jinx you while wearing it and watch his face when the jinx just bounces off. But the Ministry bought five hundred for all its support staff! And we’re still getting massive orders!” “So we’ve expanded into a range of Shield Cloaks, Shield Gloves . . .” “. . . I mean, they wouldn’t help much against the Unforgivable Curses, but for minor to moderate hexes or jinxes . . .” “And then we thought we’d get into the whole area of Defense Against the Dark Arts, because it’s such a money spinner,” continued George enthusiastically. “This is cool. Look, Instant Darkness Powder, we’re importing it from Peru. Handy if you want to make a quick escape.” “And our Decoy Detonators are just walking off the shelves, look,” said Fred, pointing at a number of weird-looking black horn-type objects that were indeed attempting to scurry out of sight. “You just drop one surreptitiously and it’ll run off and make a nice loud noise out of sight, giving you a diversion if you need one.” “Handy,” said Harry, impressed. “Here,” said George, catching a couple and throwing them to Harry. A young witch with short blonde hair poked her head around the curtain; Hermione saw that she too was wearing magenta staff robes. “There’s a customer out here looking for a joke cauldron, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley,” she said. Hermione found it very odd to hear Fred and George called “Mr. Weasley,” but they took it in their stride. “Right you are, Verity, I’m coming,” said George promptly. “Harry, you help yourself to anything you want, all right? No charge.” “I can’t do that!” said Harry, who had already pulled out his money bag to pay for the Decoy Detonators. “You don’t pay here,” said Fred firmly, waving away Harry’s gold. “But —” “You gave us our start-up loan, we haven’t forgotten,” said George sternly. “Take whatever you like, and just remember to tell people where you got it, if they ask.” George swept off through the curtain to help with the customers, and Fred led Hermione and Harry back into the main part of the shop to find Susan and Ginny appearing from behind a curtain, smoothening up their hair and clothes. Hermione smirked at Susan. ... “Hello, beautiful.” Susan need not even turn around to recognize the owner of the voice. It was her — the only sister to the owners of the shop she was standing in right now — a beautiful, freckled, ginger-head witch, Ginny Weasley. “Hey,” said Susan softly, turning around with a wide smile on her face. “You’re here?” “I’m here,” Ginny whispered, her blue eyes rather dark with longing. Grabbing Susan’s arm, she pulled her into a corner that was out of everyone’s sight, then throwing caution to the wind, she grabbed Susan for a fierce, open-mouthed kiss. Susan didn’t hesitate to return the feeling; she had missed this, her. Their hands roamed; Susan threaded her fingers through Ginny’s hair while Ginny enjoyed kneading Susan’s supple butt flesh. “Is something the matter?” Ginny asked a few seconds later. “I . . . I’m sorry,” Susan choked. The passionate kiss had brought her emotions to the surface. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.” “Hey, don’t be silly,” said Ginny, cupping Susan’s cheeks. “It wasn’t your fault.” “You don’t wanna be with someone who becomes a burden during a battle.” “Don’t be so self-demeaning,” Ginny pleaded, frowning. “We all sustained injuries, and you took one straight at your chest. Nothing about that makes you a burden. We all went there at our own will, right? Nobody blames you for anything.” Susan couldn’t meet Ginny’s eyes yet. “I love you, okay?” Ginny said softly. “I always will.” “I love you too, Gin,” said Susan, sniffing and initiating the kiss this time. In no more than a couple of seconds, Ginny unbuttoned Susan’s shirt and slipped a hand underneath, letting out a low moan when her hand reached Susan’s bra. “Fuck, I’ve missed this,” she hissed under her breath, placing her other hand behind Susan’s head so as to not break the liplock. Susan could hear the chatter around them, muffled only slightly by the curtain they were snogging behind. She was half-excited, half-afraid of this semi-public affection. “Gin,” Susan moaned, loving the way Ginny pressed her tits. “I am so going to devour you tonight,” Ginny promised in Susan’s ear, then giving her one final kiss, she pulled Susan back from behind the curtain. ... “Haven’t you girls found our special Wonder-Witch products yet?” asked Fred. “Follow me, ladies. . . .” Near the window was an array of violently pink products around which a cluster of excited girls was giggling enthusiastically. Hermione, Susan, and Ginny all hung back warily. “There you go,” said Fred proudly. “Best range of love potions you’ll find anywhere.” Susan raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Do they work?” she asked. “Certainly they work, for up to twenty-four hours at a time depending on the weight of the boy in question —” “— and the attractiveness of the girl,” said George, reappearing suddenly at their side. Ginny leaned forward to take a small pink pot off the shelf. “What is this?” “Guaranteed ten-second pimple vanisher,” said Fred. “Excellent on everything from boils to blackheads.” “What are those?” asked Harry, pointing at a number of round balls of fluff in shades of pink and purple, all rolling around the bottom of a cage and emitting high-pitched squeaks. “Pygmy Puffs,” said George. “Miniature puffskeins, we can’t breed them fast enough.”  “They’re really cute!”  said Susan, putting a finger through the bars of the cage and watching the Pygmy Puffs crowd around it. “Look, they’re so sweet . . .” “You’d like one?” Ginny asked her fondly. “I’d love one. . . . Hold on.” Susan looked up at Ginny with wide eyes. “No birthday presents this year for you,” Ginny said, grinning. “Thanks, Gin!” Susan said excitedly. Susan and Ginny moved aside to look at the Pygmy Puffs, and Hermione and Harry momentarily had an unimpeded view out of the window. Draco Malfoy was hurrying up the street alone. As he passed Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, he glanced over his shoulder. Seconds later, he moved beyond the scope of the window and they lost sight of him. “Wonder where his mummy is?” said Harry, frowning. “Given her the slip by the looks of it.” “Why, though?” said Hermione. She was thinking really hard. Narcissa Malfoy would not have let her precious son out of her sight willingly; Malfoy must have made a real effort to free himself from her clutches. Hermione, knowing and loathing Malfoy, was sure the reason could not be innocent. Harry glanced around. Ginny and Susan were bending over the Pygmy Puffs. Fred and George were both helping customers. On the other side of the glass, Hagrid was standing with his back to them, looking up and down the street. “Get under here, quick,” said Harry, pulling his Invisibility Cloak out of his bag. “Oh — I don’t know, Harry,” said Hermione, looking uncertainly toward Susan and Ginny. She hesitated for a second longer, then ducked under the cloak with Harry. Nobody noticed them vanish; they were all too interested in Fred and George’s products. Hermione and Harry squeezed their way out of the door as quickly as they could, but by the time they gained the street, Malfoy had disappeared just as successfully as they had. “He was going in that direction,” murmured Harry as quietly as possible, so that the humming Hagrid would not hear them. “C’mon.” They scurried along, peering left and right, through shop windows and doors, until Hermione pointed ahead. “That’s him, isn’t it?” she whispered. “Turning left?” “Big surprise,” whispered Harry. For Malfoy had glanced around, then slid into Knockturn Alley and out of sight. “Quick, or we’ll lose him,” said Harry, speeding up. “Our feet’ll be seen!” said Hermione anxiously, as the cloak flapped a little around their ankles; it was much more difficult hiding the two of them under the cloak nowadays. “It doesn’t matter,” said Harry. “Just hurry!” But Knockturn Alley, the side street devoted to the Dark Arts, looked completely deserted. They peered into windows as they passed, but none of the shops seemed to have any customers at all. Hermione supposed it was a bit of a giveaway in these dangerous and suspicious times to buy Dark artifacts — or at least, to be seen buying them. “Look! He’s in there!” Hermione breathed in Harry’s ear. They had drawn level with the only shop in Knockturn Alley that they had ever visited, Borgin and Burkes, which sold a wide variety of sinister objects. There in the midst of the cases full of skulls and old bottles stood Draco Malfoy with his back to them, just visible beyond the very same large black cabinet in which Hermione and Harry had once hidden to avoid Malfoy and his father. Judging by the movements of Malfoy’s hands, he was talking animatedly. The proprietor of the shop, Mr. Borgin, an oily-haired, stooping man, stood facing Malfoy. He was wearing a curious expression of mingled resentment and fear. “If only we could hear what they’re saying!” said Hermione. “We can!” said Harry excitedly. “Hang on —” He dropped a couple more of the boxes he was still clutching as he fumbled with the largest. “Extendable Ears, look!” “Fantastic!” said Hermione, as Harry unraveled the long, flesh-colored strings and began to feed them toward the bottom of the door. “Oh, I hope the door isn’t Imperturbable —” “No!” said Harry gleefully. “Listen!” They put their heads together and listened intently to the ends of the strings, through which Malfoy’s voice could be heard loud and clear, as though a radio had been turned on. “. . . you know how to fix it?” “Possibly,” said Borgin, in a tone that suggested he was unwilling to commit himself. “I’ll need to see it, though. Why don’t you bring it into the shop?” “I can’t,” said Malfoy. “It’s got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it.” Hermione saw Borgin lick his lips nervously. “Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn’t guarantee anything.” “No?” said Malfoy, and Hermione knew, just by his tone, that Malfoy was sneering. “Perhaps this will make you more confident.” He moved toward Borgin and was blocked from view by the cabinet. Hermione and Harry shuffled sideways to try and keep him in sight, but all they could see was Borgin, looking very frightened. “Tell anyone,” said Malfoy, “and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He’s a family friend. He’ll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you’re giving the problem your full attention.” “There will be no need for —” “I’ll decide that,” said Malfoy. “Well, I’d better be off. And don’t forget to keep that one safe, I’ll need it.” “Perhaps you’d like to take it now?” “No, of course I wouldn’t, you stupid little man, how would I look carrying that down the street? Just don’t sell it.” “Of course not . . . sir.” Borgin made a bow as deep as the one Hermione had once seen him give Lucius Malfoy. “Not a word to anyone, Borgin, and that includes my mother, understand?” “Naturally, naturally,” murmured Borgin, bowing again. The next moment, the bell over the door tinkled loudly as Malfoy stalked out of the shop looking very pleased with himself. He passed so close to Hermione and Harry that they felt the cloak flutter around their knees again. Inside the shop, Borgin remained frozen; his unctuous smile had vanished; he looked worried. “What was that about?” whispered Hermione, reeling in the Extendable Ears. “Dunno,” said Harry, thinking hard. “He wants something mended . . . and he wants to reserve something in there. . . . Could you see what he pointed at when he said ‘that one’? He was behind that cabinet —” “You stay here,” whispered Hermione. “What are you — Hermione, no!” But Hermione had already ducked out from under the Cloak. She checked her hair in the reflection in the glass, then marched into the shop, setting the bell tinkling again. Harry hastily fed the Extendable Ears back under the door. “Hello, horrible morning, isn’t it?” Hermione said brightly to Borgin, who did not answer, but cast her a suspicious look. Humming cheerily, Hermione strolled through the jumble of objects on display. “Is this necklace for sale?” she asked, pausing beside a glass-fronted case. “If you’ve got one and a half thousand Galleons,” said Mr. Borgin coldly. “Oh — er — no, I haven’t got quite that much,” said Hermione, walking on. “And . . . what about this lovely — um — skull?” “Sixteen Galleons.” “So it’s for sale, then? It isn’t being . . . kept for anyone?” Mr. Borgin squinted at Hermione, and she had the nasty feeling he knew exactly what she was up to. So, she felt she had been rumbled and suddenly threw caution to the winds. “The thing is, that — er — boy who was in here just now, Draco Malfoy, well, he’s a friend of mine, and I want to get him a birthday present, but if he’s already reserved anything, I obviously don’t want to get him the same thing, so . . . um . . .” It was a pretty lame story, and apparently Borgin thought so too. “Out,” he said sharply. “Get out!” Hermione did not wait to be asked twice, but hurried to the door with Borgin at her heels. As the bell tinkled again, Borgin slammed the door behind her and put up the closed sign. “Sorry,” Hermione mumbled to Harry as he allowed her into the Invisibility Cloak. “It was really lame.” “Yeah,” he said softly. “First of all, people who visit shops like this one don’t wish morning.” Hermione grinned guiltily and listened to Harry telling her off for going into the shop without warning him all the way back to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where they were forced to stop so that they could dodge undetected around Hagrid, who had clearly noticed their absence. Once in the shop, Harry whipped off the Invisibility Cloak, hid it in his bag, and joined in with Hermione in pretending that they were in the back of the shop all along.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I can’t believe they went there without telling me!” Susan huffed angrily, twisting the pillow she had in her hands. Unbeknownst to the fact that Susan and Ginny were girlfriends, Mrs. Weasley had allowed them to share a room. In fact, she had also asked Hermione to sleep in the same room with them, but Hermione had squirreled into Harry’s bed as soon as the Weasley matriarch had turned her back to them. “Please — no weird noises,” Ron requested Harry and Hermione, looking quite uncharacteristically serious. “Like those you and Lav-Lav make when indulging into private business, you mean?” Hermione had remarked savagely, causing Ron to blush pink. He opened and closed his mouth several times before sighing in defeat and lying down on his bed, his back towards the couple. “Sue, calm down,” Ginny said hastily, for the seams of the pillow had started to pull apart. She pulled the pillow out of Susan’s hands and cupped her cheeks. “It’s okay, you were busy with me then, weren’t you?” she said calmly. “They should’ve asked you as well,” said Susan, looking agitated. “You should be cross with them too.” “I am, I am,” Ginny lied, giving Susan a small smile. “All I’m saying is, just think about it, love, if they had told you about seeing Malfoy, what would you have done? Raised questions, right? Even argue with them, no?” “Erm, maybe . . . but — yeah, you’re right . . .” Susan let out a long breath while she stared Ginny in the eyes. “You’re right,” she mumbled, now holding Ginny’s wrists. “It won’t have been a bother, and besides, I was busy with you.” She looked around at the Pygmy Puff that Ginny had bought for her. She had named it Ed after her late father whom she didn’t remember much, not at all to be brutally honest. Ed was slumbering on the table right now. Fred and George had insisted on giving it for free but Ginny still paid them ten Sickles, which she thought was a fair price. “Sue?” Ginny dropped her hands to Susan’s sides. “Hmm?” Susan fixed her gaze back at Ginny. “There’s something I haven’t told you.” “Yeah, like what?” Susan asked, blinking a couple of times. “You know, the night we returned from the Battle in the Department of Mysteries, you were, er, well, unconscious in a bed in the hospital wing, and my bed was next to yours, and I couldn’t sleep.” Susan could only stare at Ginny, wondering where she was leading to with this. “Daphne came to you that night.” “Pardon me?” Susan said, stunned. “Daphne came to your bed that night. She apologized to you.” Susan blinked again. So it hadn’t been a hallucination. Daphne had indeed come to see her. And all that time Susan thought she had only imagined it. “She was talking and even crying, I heard her. She was apologizing for not being with you. . . . I think you deserve to know, I just didn’t get a chance to tell you right after.” “Thanks, Gin,” Susan mumbled. “Thanks for letting me know.” The silence led to nothing but snogging from there. Ginny was impatient. She placed a firm hand behind Susan’s head and deepened the kiss. Susan let out an eep when Ginny pushed her flat on the bed. Ginny’s blue eyes were dark with lust, her expressions almost hungry. “I’ve waited too long for this,” she said in a low voice, sounding rather hungry, crawling over Susan so that their faces came closer once again. Ginny was a witch possessed. She sat on Susan’s crotch and took her own top off in a quick fashion, then unclasped her bra, and threw them all behind her. Her big tits jiggled as they found freedom from all sorts of restrictions, rising and falling with every breath of hers. Susan slid her hands up and felt Ginny’s tits, only a size smaller than her own, and considering the petite build of Ginny, they looked even more enormous on her body. Susan had always adored Ginny’s freckles which ranged from her nose and cheeks down to her breasts and tummy. Ginny let out a moan when Susan rolled her nipples between her fingers. Ginny’s moans always had an intensity to them, as if a sleeping beast was being awakened. It had always excited Susan too much to have that kind of power. “Take off your own,” Ginny groaned, pulling Susan up for a kiss. Susan was half-naked in an instant. Ginny took a pause to stare at the nasty scar on Susan’s chest, and Susan was only beginning to feel self-conscious, when Ginny bent over and planted her lips on Susan’s throat, sucking and nibbling. Susan’s heart skipped a beat. She wrapped her arms around Ginny’s back and pulled her close for a deep kiss, their tits getting squished into each other, adding even more sensations to their already building arousal. A few moments later, Ginny lay Susan down again and admired her figure, taking time in licking her way from Susan’s cheeks down to her breasts. When she planted her mouth on the left one, Susan gasped illicitly. Ginny continued to play with Susan’s tits for a while, taking her time, before moving on to the scar that flared from right under her left clavicle down to her waist, branching out to both sides. “You know what this means?” Ginny whispered, looking up at Susan with determination. “That you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, that you’re not weak.” She placed a soft finger on the scar, and Susan’s heart almost shattered its way through her sternum. “Gin . . .” Susan breathed, her heart beating too fast for her liking. “I love you, Sue,” Ginny said with a genuine smile. “I love you so fucking much.” She bent over and kissed the scar between Susan’s breasts, and — “ARGHHH!” “Wh-what happened?” Ginny backed away in panic. Susan had yelled in pain and was now clutching her chest, digging her own nails into her flesh. Ginny saw, with terror in her eyes, that the scar on Susan’s chest was glowing dark purple, as if it was alive. “Sue! Sue! What happened? Are you okay? Does it hurt?” Ginny asked hastily, trying to pull Susan up, but Susan had her eyes scrunched close. “Sue, look at me, does it hurt?” Ginny pleaded. “Tell me so that I can help.” When Susan did open her eyes, her eyeballs were about to pop out of their sockets. Her mouth was wide open but no sound was coming out of it. She seemed to be in pain beyond comprehension. “S-Stay here!” Ginny said urgently, getting up and grabbing her topping and donning it again. “I’m coming with help! Stay here!” “Gin . . . hurts . . .” That was all Ginny heard before she ran out of her room and climbed upstairs to reach Ron’s. She lit her wand and hoped Harry and Hermione weren’t doing anything that needed privacy. Luckily, they weren’t. She went straight to their bed and shook Hermione’s shoulders. “Huh — what?” Hermione mumbled disgruntledly. Harry was also stirring. Hermione was sleeping on top of Harry. “Hermione, wake up, something’s happened to Sue, her chest is hurting,” Ginny said this all very fast; tears were finally starting to prick her eyes. “What?” Hermione got up in a sudden movement and caught her head out of dizziness. “Sue — her chest is hurting — come on, hurry up —” “Sue? What happened to her?” Hermione asked urgently, getting off of Harry and grabbing her wand from under the pillow. “Hurry up,” Ginny whined desperately, grasping Hermione’s arm. “Her chest is hurting.” “Let’s go,” said Hermione, but when Harry attempted to get up as well, Ginny pushed him down and said, “She’s naked, you stay here.” Harry nodded understandingly and saw Hermione and Ginny leave for the latter’s room. “Sue!” Hermione gasped as soon as she saw Susan’s concerning state. The redhead was still writhing in pain, her hands clawing at her chest. “Hurts . . .” Susan moaned in pain, her eyes unseeing. “Don’t worry, it’s me, Hermione.” “Her . . . my . . .” “Yes, yes, now you just tell me what happened to you.” “Hermione! Look at her!” Ginny said angrily. “She is in no state to tell you anything!” “But I have to know what happened in order to —” “Oh right, fine! We were snogging and I kissed that scar on her chest and she just yelled and began writhing with pain.” “Okay, okay.” Hermione nodded. She pointed her wand down at Susan, made a circular movement, and whispered, “Dormir!” The effect was instantaneous. Susan stilled like a rock. Her hands fell down. Her features smoothened. She was fast asleep. “Is she — ?” Ginny asked meekly. “Sleeping, yes,” said Hermione. She rearranged Susan’s limbs to put her in a more comfortable position. “But I don’t understand,” Ginny mumbled under her breath. “You were both, um, snogging, right?” Hermione said a little awkwardly to which Ginny nodded in agreement. “It must have raised her heart rate a bit too high, I think. She still isn’t her hundred per cent yet. Did she tell you Madam Pomfrey told her to keep her cool at all times? Must have forgotten,” Hermione added as Ginny shook her head. “I hate to say it, Gin, but she has to stay calm for a while. The mark on her chest is still breathing, I’m afraid.” Ginny looked worried, even scared, so Hermione gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “She’ll be alright in no time,” she said with a small smile. “She’s not weak.” “No,” said Ginny steadily. “She isn’t.” ... Death was the ultimate truth after all. Nobody could escape it. But it hurt when someone you once knew died, but it hurt even more when it happened under unexpected circumstances, and it hurt the most if that person was someone you looked up to, someone you didn’t want dead. Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody was that person. Sirius knew him since his own days as an Auror; Moody was his mentor. “You gotta be rough and tough in this world, lad,” Moody once told Sirius, “or the dogs out there are gonna chew you bad and throw you in the bin.” Amelia was on the earth on her knees, her hands one upon the other, her head bowed, as she whispered words of prayer under her breath. Sirius had seen a fair share of graves in his life, but Moody’s looked different for some reason. It seemed to be talking to him. “It’s alright, lad,” he heard in Moody’s voice. “And remember: Constant Vigilance!” A smile graced Sirius’s lips despite everything. Amelia rose to her feet again and interlaced her hand with Sirius’s. “Let’s go,” she said in a choked voice. “I can’t —” She sneezed. “— stay anymore.” She sniffed. Sirius agreed, and the two of them Apparated back to Nordfarm. They had dropped Zain at the Grangers Residence in the morning before visiting Moody’s grave. Amelia leaned on Sirius’s arm as they walked towards the Bones Manor. Sirius wondered how many graves Amelia visited all by herself in his absence, but he was slightly glad that he was there by her side for this one, and pledged in his mind to be there for the rest of them too. “You want a cup of tea?” Sirius asked his wife once they had climbed down the stairs to reach the entrance of the Bones Manor. “Would like it,” she said, smiling a little. “Two cubes of sugar please.” “Two? You usually prefer one.” “Feel like having two this time,” Amelia answered vaguely. She stayed in the hall while Sirius headed towards the kitchen. The elves protested when he started making tea, and it took him a little while to accustom them to the idea that he simply wished to make a cup of tea for his wife, but at last, the cups were ready. He placed them on a tray and got a few cookies, when he heard the loudest explosion of his life. The tray slid out of his hands; the whole place shivered like an earthquake had hit it; then there was a scream.  Amelia’s scream. His heart twisting uncomfortably in his chest as though someone had wringed it like a wet cloth, Sirius hurried into the hall to find it in total shatters. Bits of ceiling had fallen off; the chandelier was on the floor, broken; pieces of glass strewn here and there; the furniture was either destroyed or upended. “What the fuck!” Sirius exclaimed. “Amy! Where are you?” The elves squeaked as they too reached the scene. “Mistress Bones!” One of the younger elves shouted. “Where are you, Mistress Bones?” “Amy!” Sirius cried desperately. “Amy, answer me! Please!” He and the elves split to search for Amelia. Sirius went to what was the remaining portion of the sofa set, and there, behind it, was Amelia, lying unconscious. “Amy!” Sirius knelt down by her side and pulled her upper half into his lap. “Amy, wake up!” Blood was streaming down her cheeks. Her clothes had turned dusty. She lay there cold and — No, the thought was too — I have to get a hold of myself, Sirius thought determinedly. The scene kind of reminded him of that fateful Halloween night fifteen years ago. His hands were twitching to twist someone’s neck for this. But he was determined to be better this time around, to do the right thing. First of all, he needed to get Amelia out of the place, before any other thought took hold of his mind. He rose up with Amelia in his arms and was only wondering if he could Apparate now that the place had been shattered when one of the elves spoke. “Where are you going, Master Black?” “St. Mungo’s of course,” said Sirius. “But you can’t!” the elf said worriedly, the rest of them shaking their heads. “You are a fugitive. They’ll arrest you if you go there.” “Fuck,” Sirius murmured, closing his eyes. It had totally slipped his mind. “The — the Grangers Residence then.” The last thing he saw before he Apparated away from the Bones Manor was the worried elves nodding with tears pooling down their faces. Sirius crossed the backyard in a stride to find Emma reading a magazine in the hall, laughing. Zain was fast asleep in his crib with Crookshanks keeping a watch, waving his tail across Zain’s belly. “Emma!” Sirius cried desperately, making the Muggle woman jump in alarm. “Oh, God, Siri, you fright — what happened to her?” Emma yelped as she noticed the unconscious figure in Sirius’s arms. Zain woke up, crying. “Amy’s not waking up,” Sirius said, his lips tasting salty. He was crying, he realized. “It was an explosion. Please, Emma, help.” “Lay her down here, quick!” Emma said urgently, getting off of the sofa. “Dan! Come here, Dan, it’s an emergency!” As Sirius went around and lay Amelia down on the sofa, Dan arrived hopping to the hall, wiping his greasy hands on a cloth. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Emma holding on to an unconscious Amelia’s wrist, checking her pulse. “What happened?” he asked Sirius, who was in absolutely no state to answer. His whole body was trembling. “She’s in shock,” Emma informed her husband. “We’ve gotta rush to the hospital.” It was all a haze from there for Sirius. Emma took hold of Zain, Sirius carried Amelia into the Grangers’ car in their garage, and Dan drove them to the nearest medical facility where Amelia was admitted to the emergency ward. Dan filled the admission form and paid the fee, stating Amelia was a friend from abroad. Sirius sat helplessly on a bench outside the emergency ward, not even listening to the comforting words Emma and Dan were saying to him. His head was spinning unless he held it in his hands. His ears were ringing unless he blocked them with his palms.  I can’t lose Amy too, not her, please, he thought desperately. There was a tug on his sleeve, and he looked up to see Zain trying to reach him. He took hold of his son and hugged him to his chest, trying not to tremble. How did this all happen? His mind refused to believe this was a mere accident. Something just didn’t feel right. Wasn’t the Bones Manor supposed to be unplottable? Amelia had learned it from the best wizard in the field. There was a possibility next to nil that she made a mistake. All Sirius could deduce was that someone followed them both from Moody’s grave and somehow entered the Bones Manor along with them without them not realizing it. He could definitely figure out who would want Amelia hurt, even dead. Amelia was one of the strongest witches in the Wizarding World, and Voldemort would no doubt prefer eliminating such a formidable threat to his second uprising. He was glad they decided to hand over Zain to the Grangers in the morning. “Let me,” Emma whispered, and Sirius let her take Zain back into her arms. She got up and walked a little farther, patting Zain’s back. The door opened, and Sirius jumped to his feet. The Muggle doctor emerged, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. As Sirius, Emma, and Dan gathered around him, he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” he said slowly. “No,” Sirius said, his heart stopping to a standstill. “The patient’s alive, yes,” the doctor said quickly, as Emma clasped a hand on her mouth, her eyes moist. “But,” the doctor went on, “in a comatose state.” Sirius couldn’t breathe. Everything spun in front of him. He felt himself crash down on his knees, but the impact didn’t hurt, not one bit. His body was numb, his ears unable to perceive sound. The only thing he heard was his own heart beating in his chest. The heart that belonged to Amelia.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Hermione . . . wake up . . .” Hermione grumbled her discontent at being woken up so early. It was barely an hour ago that she had been able to fall back asleep after aiding Susan with her acute pain episode. “It’s an emergency . . .” Hermione heard Mrs. Weasley’s urgent plea and got up despite her body’s protest. Harry was already awake, only waiting for her to get off of him. “Mrs. Weasley, what’s the matter?” Hermione asked the nervously fidgeting woman. It must be something extremely urgent because she wasn’t scolding Hermione for sleeping with Harry in the same bed. Hermione didn’t know if she should be glad or worried. “Madam Bones — she is in a coma,” Mrs. Weasley sobbed against her sleeve. “What?” exclaimed both Hermione and Harry. Mrs. Weasley nodded with tears in her eyes. “You have to wake up Susan,” she said between her long intakes of breath. “She gotta know. I can’t —” She muffled a sob with her hands.  But she just fell asleep, Hermione thought to herself, and judging by the expressions on Harry’s face, he was having the same line of thought. Harry nodded determinedly, and Hermione realized that they had to wake Susan up too. This night just kept getting worse. ... “Hey, girl,” Sirius whispered in Amelia’s ear from behind, pulling a streak of her hair from her ear, “wake up.” Amelia mumbled something that was incoherent to her husband, making him chuckle. She could be moody these days. One day she wanted to do every exciting thing possible in the world, and the other she wanted nothing more than to stay in bed. “I know it feels awesome to stay tucked in bed until late morning,” he said softly, “but you’ve got to wake up, love.” “I don’t want to.” Amelia turned to lay flat on her back, deliberately keeping her eyes closed. Sirius’s eyes flickered down to the substantial bump in her belly. He placed a gentle hand on it and caressed it. A life was being nourished in there, a life they created. They were expecting any time now. He still found it difficult every now and then to truly grasp that he was going to be a father, that he and Amelia were expecting a baby together. “Emma will worry,” he said. “She worries too much,” Amelia grumbled. “I’m glad she does,” Sirius said honestly. “Because I don’t know shit about what I’m supposed to do these days.” “Siri,” Amelia said admonishingly. They had agreed in unconditional terms to discourage the use of derogatory words around their baby. It was Emma ordering them to, actually, but they had agreed nonetheless. “Sorry,” Sirius mumbled. “But you’re right,” said Amelia, sighing wishfully. “I’m glad we have Emma and Dan. We owe them so much.” “True.” There was a knock on the door. “Are you up?” Emma’s voice called from the other side. Sirius and Amelia shared a laugh. “Yes!” Sirius said loudly, getting off of bed and helping Amelia do the same. “Coming!” The door swung open, and Emma stepped in, frowning, her arms crossed at her chest. “Have you looked at the time?” she asked, tapping her foot on the floor. Sirius made the mistake of looking around at the wall clock behind their bed. “It’s ten o’clock,” Emma said sharply. “Do you think Dan and I are free or something?” “No, Emma, and I’m really sorry,” Amelia said, but Emma cut her off. “You don’t have to apologize on someone else’s behalf, sweetheart,” she said, scowling at Sirius. “You go and brush your teeth, okay?” she added, smiling fondly at the eight-and-a-half-month pregnant witch. Giggling, Amelia left for the bathroom. “I’ve been up for an hour!” Sirius told Emma, outraged. “She wasn’t waking up.” “What did you expect me to do? Scold her?” Emma said, rolling her eyes. “Grow up, Siri, you’re going to be a father now. It’s high time you understood what that means.” Sirius blinked back to the present. He had settled down on a chair by Amelia’s bed inside the ward, holding her right hand in his own two. A catheter had been injected into the back of her other hand, fixed with tape, to maintain a steady supply of essential nutrients and electrolytes in her circulation. A monitor was displaying her heart rate and blood pressure with a constant, rhythmic beep of her heartbeat ringing in Sirius’s ears. The Order had been informed of the mishap at the Bones Manor, and a horde of witches and wizards had flooded the Muggle hospital. Dumbledore interfered with the memories of the Muggles in the hospital and raised protection wards to keep them and the undesired eyes away from Amelia’s ward. The possibility couldn’t be denied that whoever did this might still be keeping a watch on them. Sirius was finding it progressively harder to breathe in between the piercing side looks and whispered questions that nobody was daring to ask him straight forward. They were all interrogating Emma and Dan, who were holding their own against the likes of people they barely knew about. Sirius felt bad for the Grangers, but he didn’t believe he could be of any help in his current predicament. So, he decided to take shelter inside the ward. He didn’t realize the hours that he spent there as he kept a hold of Amelia’s hand while whispering assuring words that everything will be alright and murmuring apologies that he was sorry, that it was all his fault. Memories kept springing before his eyes that had become dry, red, and swollen with shedding tears too much. “Siri, look!” Sirius raised his head from Amelia’s lap and pretended to look up at the sky. The two of them were up on the terrace of the Leaky Cauldron, spending a clear, starry night with only one another for company. “Aw, you missed it,” Amelia said, pouting. “It was a shooting star.” She cleared away the hair from Sirius’s forehead and smiled. “Unlucky me,” Sirius said softly. “Did you wish for something?” “Yes,” said Amelia, grinning. “What’s it then?” For some reason, Amelia stared away, blushing, caressing her left hand’s fingers with her right one. “You’ll know, some day . . .” While Sirius of that time had shrugged his shoulders in confusion, the present Sirius knew what Amelia was talking about. He was a young Auror then, living in a small flat with Amelia in the Leaky Cauldron, pursuing bigger dreams together. It all felt so insignificant now, so unnecessary. All he needed was Amelia, her support, her love. Just her. “My husband looks rather horny tonight,” Amelia whispered wittily, caressing the hard tent in his pajamas. “Does he wish to fuck his pregnant wife?” Sirius could only groan; he was rather putty under his wife’s loving ministrations. Gone was the time when he used to dominate in bed. He liked to play it slow and sweet these days, even be played. Their lips found each other while Amelia sneaked her hand inside Sirius’s pajamas and stroked his hard dick. Her huge bump lay in between them as they kissed sloppily, drawing moans of pleasure out of each other. Sirius trailed his lips down to Amelia’s neck and sucked on her thrill points. “Oh!” Sirius pulled back, afraid he had hurt Amelia someway. “Are — are you okay?” he asked worriedly. Amelia stared back at him, wide-eyed, looking more shocked than hurt. “The baby kicked!” “What?” “The baby kicked, Siri!” Amelia said excitedly. “Here, feel.” She brought Sirius’s hand over her belly, and sure enough, after holding on for a few seconds, Sirius felt it too. He laughed awkwardly, not knowing what to say. “Perhaps, the baby’s telling Mama and Papa it’s time to sleep,” Amelia said, giggling. “Yeah?” Amelia giggled more, and Sirius thought himself the luckiest wizard on the planet. It still brought a smile on his face to this day. Another memory played before him, a very recent one. Amelia had given birth to Zain a couple of weeks ago, and the three were living happily in the Grangers Residence. Harry, Hermione, and Susan were off to Hogwarts. Amelia was reading the newspaper one morning when a grave news startled her. A wizard named Eric White had been reported dead under mysterious circumstances. “Who’s that?” Sirius had asked. “The one who taught me how to make a place unplottable,” Amelia told him. “I can’t believe he’s dead. He was a good man.” “ ‘A wizard by the name of Eric White found dead last night in the outskirts of a beautiful village Appleby. The cause of death, although unconfirmed, has been suspected to be a snake bite,’ ” Sirius read from the article. “That’s way far from where he lives,” said Amelia. “You can’t rule out the possibility of a Death Eater attack,” said Sirius. “Although I wonder what he could possibly provide to them.” “Yeah, I wonder too,” said Amelia thoughtfully. But now Sirius knew what Eric White could provide. The Death Eaters must have captured him to make him spill the secrets regarding infiltrating an unplottable territory, and ought to have disposed of him when he was no longer resourceful. There was a click sound. The door swung open a little. Harry’s head peered inside and looked around the ward. “Come in, Harry,” Sirius said quietly. Harry, Hermione, and Susan entered, looking anxious, Susan holding a small bouquet of flowers. The three stood by the feet of Amelia’s bed, watching her with flurried looks on their faces. Susan placed the bouquet on the bedside table and spoke to Sirius, “How did this just — we were at the Burrow, and Mrs. Weasley suddenly received the news half an hour ago — they were all so worried — although I do feel like the Burrow was the last place informed.” “What’s the time?” Sirius asked. “It’s half-past-three in the morning,” said Hermione, glancing down at her wrist watch. “Really? I totally zoned out,” said Sirius, genuinely surprised. “I feel like I’ve been sitting here for . . . months, actually.” “It’ll be alright, Sirius, I just know,” said Hermione, placing a hand on his shoulder, her voice slightly unstable. “She’s the bravest witch there is. She won’t — she won’t lose, I know.” “Yeah,” Sirius breathed. “Can you tell us what exactly happened?” asked Harry. Sirius narrated everything from his point of view since he himself had no idea what exactly happened in the hall at the Bones Manor when he was making tea for Amelia and himself in the kitchen. “It sounds like either the protection wards at the Bones Manor malfunctioned,” Hermione said pensively, “or someone invaded.” “I hope it’s the former,” said Susan grimly. “I’ve seen her injured a fair share of times, you know, after chasing a deadly criminal and the sort. I’ve just never seen her so, I dunno, uncharacteristically quiet. She’s always moaning in pain at night in her bedroom, cursing whoever was responsible, to their deaths. It’s almost like . . . this isn’t her.” “She’s in a coma, Sue,” Hermione said matter-of-factly. “That’s what you do when you’re in a coma. You become quiet.” “That’s not what I meant —” Susan argued, but was cut off by Harry squeezing her and Hermione’s hands. The ward remained silent for a moment with everyone staring at the unconscious figure of Amelia Black, listening to the beeps of her heart beat. The three teens left the ward after wishing Sirius comforting words again. Sirius sat there helplessly, numbly, until — He sat upright with a jolt, sparks shooting through his spine, jerking him out of the endless pit of hopelessness and dread. Amelia was not wearing her wedding ring. And that was impossible.  Because Amelia and Sirius couldn’t take out their rings without losing their fingers with them. They had charmed their rings like that. Sirius remembered the day as if it had been only yesterday. The two of them were lying in Amelia’s bed at the Bones Manor, drunk on each other’s love, ecstatic with the way things had turned out. Sirius had proposed to Amelia to marry him the previous morning, and the two had spent the entire day in bed, making love, asking the Bones house-elves to bring them food and drinks, and making love again. “Hey, Siri, I have an idea,” Amelia said, looking quite prudent. “Well, that’s something new,” said Sirius sarcastically. Amelia swatted his arm before continuing, “Let’s charm these rings.” That definitely caught Sirius’s attention. “What d’you mean?” “It’ll be a symbol of our love,” Amelia said dramatically. “And I thought wedding rings were a symbol of love as it is, where was I when Merlin was giving romance lessons?” “You were fucking your gorgeous girlfriend, Mr. Black,” Amelia said sniffily. “That I was.” Sirius chortled. “But back to the point, I want these rings charmed so that we can never take them off,” Amelia explained theatrically. “It’ll symbolize our eternal love.” Sirius smiled at her dramatic gesture, finding her quite adorable. The present Sirius groaned under his breath. How could I forget it? he thought angrily. I truly am an idiot.  He strode over to the door and looked outside. The corridor was conveniently deserted. He could only see Dan at the end of it. “Psst — Dan!” Dan turned at the sound of his name and came sprinting to Sirius. “What’s the matter?” he asked anxiously. “Where’s everyone?” asked Sirius. “Er, Emma’s sleeping with Zain in a guest room, and Hermione, Harry, and Susan are talking to Tonks and Delacour who just arrived.” “Can you call them here?” Sirius requested. “Not Emma and Zain, let’s let them sleep. The rest of them, can you bring them here?” “Er, yeah,” said Dan. “Why? Is something the matter? You can tell me, Sirius.” “I’m going to,” Sirius said, nodding. “But I think telling everyone at once will be more convenient.” “O-okay.” Dan brought Harry, Hermione, Susan, Dora, and Fleur with him. Sirius led them all inside the ward. “What happened, Siri?” asked Harry. “Listen, everyone,” Sirius said seriously, “and please keep it down when I tell you why I called you all.” Everyone nodded, and as Sirius leaned a bit forward, they all stepped closer to form a circle and listened with rapt attention. “This,” Sirius whispered, “is not Amy.” “What?” Susan gasped, but Hermione promptly muffled her mouth with a slap of her hand. “Hush, Susan, I said keep it down, didn’t I?” Susan mumbled something incorrigible against Hermione’s hand. Hermione removed it, and Susan spoke, “Yes, sorry, but what’re you talking about? This is not Aunt?” “Yeah, who’s it then, old dog?” asked Dora, frowning. “Because as far as I remember, she looks the same old boss to me.” “Yes, and that’s how we, especially me, got tricked,” Sirius said furtively. “Will you just explain yourself?” Hermione asked impatiently. “What do you mean, she’s not Amelia? Who’s she then, if not her?” “I dunno, all I know is she’s not my Amy,” Sirius said, shrugging. “And how did you deduce that, Sirius Orion Black?” Hermione said with gritted teeth. “Because of this,” Sirius said proudly, extending her right hand forward, displaying his wedding ring to them all. “Nice ring, so?” Hermione said nonsensically. “She doesn’t have that,” “Well, maybe it slipped off during the whole earthquake thing, it’s not that far-fetched of a possibility, is it?” “No, perhaps not if it wasn’t specifically charmed to stay on her finger forever.” “You mean . . . ?” “Yes, the ring’s supposed to stay as long as we’re alive,” Sirius said firmly. “This woman lying on a ventilator in front of us, this is not Amy, it’s someone else.” “Who?” asked Dora. “That only she can tell,” said Sirius, sighing. “We’ve to wake her up then,” said Susan. “She might actually know where Aunt is.” “The thing is, Sue, she’s in a sort of a comatose state,” Hermione said sharply. “That renders you kind of unable to answer other people’s queries, you know.” The ward went quiet once again. “Wait,” Sirius spoke up. “I think I know what happened to us.” The rest of them held their breaths. “The Death Eaters captured Eric White,” he began, but Susan interrupted, saying, “I’ve heard that name . . .” “He’s the one from whom your Aunt learned how to make a place unplottable,” Sirius explained. “The Death Eaters tortured him into spilling all the secrets and killed him off later. When Amy and I went to visit Moody’s grave, a Death Eater or two must have followed us; Eric must have told them how to follow a person into their unplottable house. So they followed us back into the Bones Manor, and when I went to make tea, those sneaky bastards attacked Amy and took her away, leaving someone else, impersonated I believe, in her wake, so that when I came back after hearing the explosion, I mistook that person for Amy and brought her here.” Such was the brilliance of this depiction that no one found a single flaw in it. “Okay, so we know what happened,” said Hermione contemplatively. “But now what . . . ?” “I theenk I can be of ’elp ’ere,” Fleur spoke up, making heads turn towards her. “Yeah?” Sirius said hopefully. “Eef I am correct, this person eez not een coma,” “What? Really?” Hermione whispered in shock. “But the doctors said . . .” Dan’s voice died down in his throat. He realized he was way out of sorts to be discussing the Muggle medical dictionary with a bunch of witches and wizards. “I meant to say, eet eez not a natural coma,” Fleur explained herself. “She ’as been cursed.” “Cursed?” whispered Harry, unsettled. “Yes, a magical comatose state,” said Fleur, nodding, her silky silvery hair bobbing on her shoulders. “We at Gringotts ’ave encountered a few cases where a person or a demon ’ad been put eento a magical coma and awakened as soon as we crossed a barrier or something.” “And I suppose you know how to break the curse?” Sirius said, his eyes sparkling with hope. “Obviously, I am a curse-breaker after all,” said Fleur, and Dora visibly melted at how cool her girlfriend looked saying that. She displayed her affection with a quick on Fleur’s cheek. Smiling, Fleur pulled her wand out and chanted words neither of the rest understood. “What language is that?” Susan asked in a hushed voice, leaning towards the know-it-all witch. “No idea,” said Hermione, shrugging. Susan wore a shocked expression on her face, at which Hermione rolled her eyes. “Gobbledegook,” said Dora knowingly. “But never call it that in front of a goblin or you’ll dearly regret it. They call it Grobzunge, which apparently means the greatest tongue. ” Fleur flicked and swished her wand in various ways while whispering incomprehensible words under her breath. At last, she moved her wand in a clockwise manner and said loudly what sounded to everyone else like, “Stewh!” A blue beam of light shot out of Fleur’s wand and hit the witch in bed straight in the chest. Her back arched up, and she woke up gasping for breath. “It worked!” Hermione gasped. “Of course eet did,” said Fleur calmly, putting her wand back inside her jeans’s pocket. The impostor gasped lungfuls of air, her eyes wide open, for a moment, before she settled down, and her eyes wandered around the place. As her eyes fell on the people around her, she let out a groan. “Who’re you?” Sirius asked, stepping forward. “And where’s Amy?” “What’s the time?” the impostor asked serenely. “We’re the ones asking questions here!” Sirius said furiously. “Well, my answers depend on the time!” the impostor yelled back. “What — what d’you mean?” “Four,” said Dan quickly, “it’s four in the morning.” “Oh,” the impostor said quietly. “You don’t have time, not much to be honest.” “What’re you talking about?” Sirius asked, his voice shaking. “What d’you mean we don’t have time?” “I — it’s not like I wanted to do this, I’m not even a Death Eater,” the impostor explained, looking away from Sirius. “My husband’s being held captive by them. They kidnapped him from outside our village. Then a week later, they kidnapped me as well and asked me to do this, to take Amelia Bones’s place.” “But you were put into a coma,” Harry said disbelievingly. “My husband was being tortured!” the impostor cried in pain. “They were threatening to kill him. It was the only way I could save him.” “What’s your name?” asked Dora. “And your husband’s?” “I’m Mia White, and my husband is Eric White.” Sirius felt truly sorry for this witch, but not more than he was worried for his own wife. “I’m sorry, Mrs. White,” he said sadly. “But your husband’s dead.” Mia’s eyes welled up with tears. She clasped a hand on her mouth and sobbed silently. Sirius stepped forward and squeezed her free hand. “His body was found outside Appleby. The Death Eaters, I’m sure, disposed of him when he was no longer, er, useful to them.” Mia scrunched her eyes tight and sobbed a bit more vocally for a while until her sobs died into nothing. “Well, I couldn’t save him,” she said shakily. “But I won’t want Amelia Bones dead as well, that’d be my own fault.” “Thank you,” said Sirius gratefully. “I don’t know exactly where, but I heard those who made me do this and abducted Madam Bones, they were saying they’d kill her somewhere close to her heart. They were talking about killing her in the morning, wanting to torture her all night or something like that.” Sirius’s fists clenched. “I won’t let them,” he said resolutely. “Yeah, we — we won’t let Aunt die,” said Susan, nodding. “Let’s do this,” said Harry. “Do you have any idea where they might be keeping her hostage?” Hermione asked Sirius. “It’s supposed to be somewhere close to her heart.” “Yes, I do have an idea,” said Sirius. “But you three are going nowhere. You’re staying here, safe.” “What? No way!” Susan protested. “This is Aunt Amy we’re talking about.” “Yes, and there might be more than a handful of Death Eaters there,” Sirius said dismissively. “And I don’t want you to be targets. You already had enough Death-Eater-hunting a couple of months ago.” “But —” “Dora and Fleur will accompany me,” Sirius said firmly. “The three of us shall be enough.” “Yeah, don’t you worry, kiddos,” said Dora, straightening up supremely. “Big players are on the board.” “Not ’elping, love,” Fleur breathed, shaking her head. All the three teens were glaring at Dora. “Er, sorry for that,” Dora muttered, “but it’s okay, we’ll bring boss back. Promise.” Despite Harry, Hermione, and Susan’s requests, Sirius, Dora, and Fleur marched outside the Muggle hospital and Disapparated hand in hand. They reappeared in a clearing in the woods. It was a total black out in there. “Where are we?” Fleur asked, lighting the tip of her wand. “No!” Sirius said hastily. “Don’t use your wands for light, it might alert them.” “Where are we?” asked Dora. “It’s a cemetery,” Sirius told them. “The one where Amy’s family was buried. She visits this place a few times a year. C’mon, follow me.” The three moved quietly through the trees and bushes, dodging any twigs or leaves that might create a sound on being stepped on. It was a tough task treading without light, but they still, even though at a snail’s pace, finally made it to the boundary of the cemetery. “We’ve to know if there’s someone inside,” said Sirius. Fleur raised her wand aloft and whispered, “Homenum Revelio!” A whiff of smoke emerged out of the tip and formed a ‘3’. “Considering one’s Amy, there are only two Death Eaters,” said Sirius. “Okay, that’s good.” “It’s eerily quiet,” Dora observed. “They didn’t . . . did they?” “Sh-shut up, Dora,” Sirius said with a trembling voice. The thought was simply unacceptable. “No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dora apologized profusely. “We’ll save her, we will.” Sirius thought of a strategy. “Dora, can you turn into a Death Eater?” “Er, yes, I guess — which one?” “Yaxley?” “I have seen that bastard in person,” said Dora with malice in her voice. “But what if one of them is Yaxley?” “Highly improbable,” said Sirius pensively. “He’s become a big shot recently, I don’t think he would be here away from his Dark Lord.” “But boss ain’t a small shot either, is she?” Dora countered. “He might have been sent by the Dark Lord to take care of her, don’t you think?” “We just ’ave to take a risk,” Fleur said wisely. “Eef eet eez Yaxley, we will fight, eef not, better for us.” “Okay then,” Dora agreed. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She became taller, and her hair turned pale blond, tied into a neat plait that ran down her neck. Her chest flattened, her hips narrowed, her shoulders broadened. Her facial features turned raw and blunt. She looked just like Corban Yaxley. “Fleur, turn her clothes into long, flowing, magnificent robes,” Sirius instructed the French witch. Fleur followed, and Dora’s top and jeans got transfigured into robes. “Convince them to go away for a while,” Sirius asked Dora-Yaxley. “Even if only for a few minutes. That will be enough for us.” Dora nodded. She rose to Yaxley’s feet and adjusted his robes. Then, taking a deep breath, she moved forward with Sirius and Fleur following from a distance. Yaxley reached the kissing gate of the cemetery and pushed it open. “Mr. Yaxley!” one of the Death Eaters spotted him. “Is something the matter?” “No,” Dora spoke in Yaxley’s voice. She recognized the two Death Eaters, sitting idle on a bench, as Gibbon and Selwyn. She plastered Yaxley’s unpleasant smile on his face and approached the two men. “The Dark Lord’s sent me to finish the job.” “But we’ve already buried her, Mr. Yaxley,” said Selwyn, smirking disgustingly. “It’s about time she takes her last breath.” “And Mr. Nott must be returning as well,” said Gibbon. “I don’t see a need —” “Are you telling me you know better than the Dark Lord?” Yaxley yelled, and the two Death Eaters cowered immediately. “N-no, Mr. Yaxley, that’s not what we meant,” Gibbon stuttered. “The Dark Lord’s word is the law.” “Scoot away then,” Yaxley sneered, waving his hand. “Inform Nott I took care of his job.” Nodding their heads, the two Death Eaters Apparated away. Sirius and Fleur came sprinting up to Dora, who had returned to her true appearance. “What did they say?” Sirius asked urgently. “We really don’t have time,” said Dora worriedly. “They buried her alive.” “Those bastards,” Sirius cursed under his breath. “We ’ave to ’urry!” said Fleur. “Yes, I assume Nott will be here in a few minutes tops,” said Dora, nervous to her very roots. The three of them looked around at a cemetery having hundreds of tombstones. “Homenum Revelio!” Fleur chanted, pointing her wand towards the sky. The smoke took the form of a ‘3’ again, making Sirius’s heart stop beating, before it changed into a ‘4,’ then back into a ‘3’ and then again into a ‘4’. “She’s about to die,” Dora breathed through shaking lips. “No, no,” said Sirius, tears fogging his vision. “She can’t.” Fleur performed the Human-Revealing Spell once again and spun her wand around. It formed a solid ‘4’ when they faced a huge cherry tree that looked like it hadn’t bloomed for decades. “Eet eez pointing at the tree,” Fleur said uncertainly. “Eez she down there?” “Only one way to find out,” said Dora, and with a shot of her wand, she blasted the enormous tree off the earth with its roots. It fell away with an enormous thud, and to their surprise and horror, there was a staircase underneath. “I guess we now know where boss is,” Dora whispered. Nodding at each other, they climbed down the stairs with the two witches in lead, lighting the way ahead with their wands. At the feet of the stairs, they found themselves in an empty chamber. “Amy!” Sirius yelled, and his voice rang in the earthy chamber. There was a thudding under their feet. “Wait!” yelled Fleur. “I ’eard something!” “It’s coming from below,” said Dora, wide-eyed. “Amy! Are you there?” Sirius cried desperately, getting down to his knees and putting his ear on the earth. “T-tap twice if you can hear me! We will get you out!” There was a tap, and just when Sirius thought it was someone else, there was another. “She eez down there!” Fleur gasped. She and Dora dug with the help of their wands, and a casket emerged. They pulled it out and opened it to find Amelia, the real one, gasping for air, only half-conscious, her wrists and ankles tied with ropes, blood staining her body at more places than one. “Amy!” Sirius cried in relief. “S-Siri?” Amelia mumbled weakly. Her eyes were only half open. “Yes, yes, it’s me, Amy,” said Sirius, grabbing her hands. “It’s going to be alright, we’ll get you out of here, don’t worry.” “Not so fast, fugitive.” Sirius, Dora, and Fleur looked up in alarm. Nott Sr. stood there at the top of the stairs with his wand in hand, ready to strike. “I was personally asked by the Dark Lord to dispose of Bones,” he said quietly. “I got careless, and this undesired complication came to happen. It was a good old trick to become Yaxley, Miss Tonks I presume, considering her notorious ability to metamorph, and send Gibbon and Selwyn to me, but unfortunately for you, I was talking to Yaxley himself when they reached me saying Yaxley asked them to. But there is no need to worry because none of you are getting out of this alive. The Dark Lord shall be pleased with me.” “In your dreams, Nott!” Sirius yelled in rage. Dora and Fleur seized the opportunity and launched a collective offense, their wands shooting red beams, and although Nott was unhurt, he had to take a step back. “Let’s go!” Sirius cried. He lifted Amelia in his arms and Disapparated away; Dora and Fleur followed. The last thing they heard before their feet left the earth was Nott’s scream of fury.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hermione and Harry spent a lot of the last week of the holidays pondering the meaning of Malfoy’s behavior in Knockturn Alley. What disturbed them most was the satisfied look on Malfoy’s face as he had left the shop. Nothing that made Malfoy look that happy could be good news. They had shared this information with Susan, but to their slight annoyance, Susan didn’t seem quite as curious about Malfoy’s activities as they were; or at least, Susan seemed to get bored of discussing it after a few days. “Yes, we’ve already agreed it was fishy, Harry,” said Susan a little impatiently. She was sitting on the windowsill in her room with her feet up on one of the stools and had only grudgingly looked up from her new copy of The Biography of Uric the Oddball. “But haven’t we agreed there could be a lot of explanations? Maybe he’s broken his Hand of Glory. Remember that shriveled-up arm Malfoy had?” “But what about when he said, ‘Don’t forget to keep that one safe’?” asked Harry for the umpteenth time. “That sounded to me like Borgin’s got another one of the broken objects, and Malfoy wants both.” “You reckon?” said Susan. “Yeah, I do,” said Harry. When Susan didn’t answer, he went on, “Malfoy’s father’s in Azkaban. Don’t you think Malfoy’d like revenge?” Susan looked up, blinking. “Malfoy, revenge? What can he do about it?” “That’s my point, I don’t know!” said Harry, frustrated. “But he’s up to something and I think we should take it seriously. His father’s a Death Eater and —” Harry broke off, his eyes fixed on the window behind Susan, his mouth open. As if their minds were connected, a startling thought occurred to Hermione, too. “Harry?” said Susan in an anxious voice. “What’s wrong? Your scar’s not hurting again, is it?” “He’s a Death Eater,” said Harry slowly. “He’s replaced his father as a Death Eater!” There was a silence; then Susan erupted in laughter. “Malfoy? He’s sixteen, Harry! You think You-Know-Who would let Malfoy join? What makes you think — ?” “In Madam Malkin’s,” spoke Hermione. “She didn’t touch him, but he yelled and jerked his arm away from her when she went to roll up his sleeve. It was his left arm. He’s been branded with the Dark Mark.” Susan stared at them both. “Well . . .” she said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. “I think he just wanted to get out of there.” “He showed Borgin something we couldn’t see,” Harry pressed on stubbornly. “Something that seriously scared Borgin. It was the Mark, I know it — he was showing Borgin who he was dealing with, we saw how seriously Borgin took him!” Susan stared again. “I’m not sure, Harry. I still don’t reckon Voldemort would let Malfoy join. . . .” Hermione and Harry, annoyed but absolutely convinced they were right, didn’t talk to Susan after that and instead kept their thoughts open to each other only. Harry’s owl, Hedwig, and Susan’s new purple Pygmy Puff, Ed, in their cages, the trip to King’s Cross on September the first was uneventful. Crookshanks was not accompanying them to Hogwarts this year because Zain liked him and everyone reckoned they would be a nice company for each other. As for the Blacks, they had decided to take time off outside the country. Sirius took his wife and son to America, saying they would be back before anyone knew it, but honestly, Hermione didn’t think they would be back for a good while. Sirius looked shaken to his core, and although Amelia recovered in a couple of days, he just wasn’t the same. Crookshanks was in America too right now. Hermione, Harry, and Susan, after sharing goodbyes with Emma and Dan, pushed their respective trollies towards the solid barrier between platform nine and ten and, a second later, found themselves standing on platform nine and three-quarters, where the scarlet Hogwarts Express stood belching steam over the crowd. The three of them climbed onto the train, heaving their trunks and their pet’s cages in Harry and Susan’s case. People stared shamelessly as they walked, even pressing their faces against the windows of their compartments to get a look at Harry. Hermione had expected an upswing in the amount of gaping and gawking Harry (and she, along with him) would have to endure this term after all the “Chosen One” rumors in the Daily Prophet, but she did not enjoy the sensation of standing in a very bright spotlight and could only feel a part of what Harry must be going through. “You’re gonna have to go to the Prefect’s carriage, I suppose?” Susan asked Hermione and Harry. “Yeah, we’ll join you very soon,” said Harry. “No worries,” said Susan gently. “I’ll be waiting.” She went away with her trunk and Ed. Hermione and Harry had to cloister in the Prefect’s carriage and listen to Xander Lofthouse, a Ravenclaw, the new Head Boy, and Ella Wilkins, a Hufflepuff, the new Head Girl, give their speeches. When Hermione and Harry finally got to leave the Prefect’s carriage, they immediately set off to look for Susan and finally found her in a compartment with Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom, and Luna Lovegood. “Hi, Harry, Hermione!” said Neville. “Hello, Neville,” said Hermione and Harry alike, taking a seat beside Susan. The couple exchanged gentle hellos with Ginny and Luna as well before Hermione announced, “Malfoy’s not doing Prefect duty. He’s just sitting in his compartment with the other Slytherins. We saw him when we passed.” It was not like Malfoy after all to pass up the chance to demonstrate his power as Prefect, which he had happily abused all the previous year. “What did he do when he saw you?” “The usual,” said Hermione indifferently. “But why isn’t he out there bullying first-years, I don’t understand.” “Dunno,” said Harry. Didn’t this look as though Malfoy had more important things on his mind than bullying younger students? “Maybe he preferred the Inquisitorial Squad,” said Susan. “Maybe being a Prefect seems a bit tame after that.” Hermione hated how reasonable this theory was. “I don’t think so,” said Harry. “I think he’s —” But before he could expound on his theory, there was a disturbance outside their compartment door; a group of fourth-year girls was whispering and giggling together on the other side of the glass. “You ask him!” “No, you!” “I’ll do it!” And one of them, a bold-looking girl with large dark eyes, a prominent chin, and long black hair pushed her way through the door. “Hi, Harry, I’m Romilda, Romilda Vane,” she said loudly and confidently. “Why don’t you join us in our compartment?” She was looking at Luna, who was clutching a magazine to her chest; large letters on the front announced that there was a pair of free Spectrespecs inside and was now wearing her free Spectrespecs, which gave her the look of a demented, multicolored owl. “They’re friends of mine,” said Harry coldly. “Oh,” said the girl, looking very surprised. “Oh. Okay.” And she withdrew, sliding the door closed behind her. “They’re even staring at us!” said Neville, indicating himself, Ginny, Susan, and Luna. “Because we’re with you!” “They’re staring at you because you were at the Ministry too,” said Harry moodily. “Our little adventure there was all over the Daily Prophet, you must’ve seen it.” “Yes, I thought Gran would be angry about all the publicity,” said Neville, “but she was really pleased. Says I’m starting to live up to my dad at long last. She bought me a new wand, look!” He pulled it out and showed it to the rest of them. “Cherry and unicorn hair,” he said proudly. “We think it was one of the last Ollivander ever sold, he vanished the next day — oi, come back here, Trevor!” And he dived under the seat to retrieve his toad as it made one of its frequent bids for freedom. “Are we still doing H.G. meetings this year, Harry?” asked Luna. “No point now we’ve got rid of Umbridge, is there?” said Hermione. Neville bumped his head against the seat as he emerged from under it. He looked most disappointed. “I liked the H.G.! I learned loads with you!” “I enjoyed the meetings too,” said Luna serenely. “It was like having friends.” This was one of those uncomfortable things Luna often said and which made Hermione feel a squirming mixture of embarrassment and pity. “You do have friends, Luna,” said Harry unhappily. “And five of them are sitting here with you.” “That’s nice,” said Luna, a tinge of pink in her cheeks. “People expect you to have cooler friends than us,” she said a moment later, once again displaying her knack for embarrassing honesty. “You are cool,” said Harry shortly. “None of them knows about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, you do.” “That’s a very nice thing to say,” beamed Luna. Then she pushed her Spectrespecs farther up her nose and settled down to read The Quibbler. “And anyway,” said Hermione, “none of them was at the Ministry. They didn’t fight the Death Eaters.” “We didn’t face him, though,” said Ginny while Neville emerged from under the seat with fluff and dust in his hair and a resigned-looking Trevor in his hand. “You did.” “You should hear my gran talk about you,” said Neville, reoccupying his place next to Ginny. “ ‘That Harry Potter’s got more backbone than the whole Ministry of Magic put together!’ She’d give anything to have you as a grandson. . . .” Harry laughed uncomfortably and changed the subject to O.W.L. results as soon as he could. While Neville recited his grades and wondered aloud whether he would be allowed to take a Transfiguration N.E.W.T. with only an “Acceptable,” Hermione watched him without really listening. Neville’s childhood had been blighted by Voldemort just as much as Harry’s had, but Neville had no idea how close he had come to having Harry’s destiny. The prophecy could have referred to either of them, yet, for his own inscrutable reasons, Voldemort had chosen to believe that Harry was the one meant. Had Voldemort chosen Neville, it would be Neville sitting opposite Harry bearing the lightning-shaped scar and the weight of the prophecy, and Hermione would be sitting with a scarless Harry, totally happy with their lives. . . . Or would it? Would Neville’s mother have died to save him, as Lily had died for Harry? Surely she would. . . . But what if she had been unable to stand between her son and Voldemort? Would there then have been no “Chosen One” at all? Would they be living in a world ruled by the Dark Lord? “You all right, Hermione? You look funny,” said Susan. Hermione started. “Sorry — I —” “Wrackspurt got you?” asked Luna sympathetically, peering at Hermione through her enormous colored spectacles. “I — what?” “A Wrackspurt . . . They’re invisible. They float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy,” Luna said. “I thought I felt one zooming around in here.” She flapped her hands at thin air, as though beating off large invisible moths. Harry caught Hermione’s eye and hastily pulled her head to his shoulder so that she could take a quick nap. The weather beyond the train windows was as patchy as it had been all summer; they passed through stretches of the chilling mist, then out into weak, clear sunlight. A while later, the compartment door slid open again and Daphne Greengrass stepped over the threshold. “I came to say hello,” she said, looking around at them all. She seemed to have grown around an inch taller. Her blonde hair were tied in a ponytail behind her. “Hi, Daph,” said Susan enthusiastically. “How are you?” “I’m good,” said Daphne, nodding. She was wearing her school robes already. “Why haven’t you changed yet?” “The train’s barely run for an hour,” said Hermione. “I wasn’t talking to you, Granger,” said Daphne, frowning. “We should change,” Susan said firmly, rising to her feet. “Harry, Neville, get out.” “Wow, that’s some way to ask your friends to leave, Sue,” Harry said sarcastically. “Just get out,” Susan said impishly, pulling on Harry’s arms now. “Okay, okay, geez, we’re leaving. C’mon, Neville, the ladies want us out.” Once Harry and Neville were out of the compartment, Daphne made to follow them, but Susan caught her hand. “You stay.” “Erm . . .” Daphne glanced around at Ginny, who gave a shrug of her shoulders, not minding Daphne’s presence. “I’ve never changed clothes with friends before,” said Luna, putting her magazine beside her. “This is nice.” She, Ginny, Susan, and Hermione got up, and Daphne sat down where Susan was. They searched for their clothes in their trunks and began taking off their tops. “Merlin, Hermione, that’s such a naughty bra you’re wearing,” Ginny spoke out, laughing. “Did Harry ask you to wear that?” Hermione blushed a bright shade of magenta, the same as her lacy bra. “Harry didn’t ask for anything,” she said in a low voice, not looking at any of them in the eyes. “This one is soft, it makes me feel nice.” Susan let out a long sigh. “You used to be so innocent, Hermione.” As Hermione blushed even more intensely, Susan and Ginny giggled harder while Daphne was acting mature and Luna simply didn’t care. Susan, who had her back towards Daphne until now, turned, and Daphne’s eyes widened. The blonde Slytherin gulped and involuntarily reached for the scar on Susan’s chest. “It’s okay,” Susan whispered. Neither of the other three were looking right now. Hermione and Ginny were having a witty back and forth while Luna moved over to buttoning her shirt. “Is it?” Daphne asked quietly, unable to pull her eyes away from the scar. “Yes.” It was about twenty minutes later that Harry and Neville were able to come back inside the compartment. They had changed into their robes as well. The compartment door slid open once more and a breathless third-year girl stepped inside. “I’m supposed to deliver these to Neville Longbottom and Harry P-Potter,” she faltered, and as her eyes met Harry’s, she turned scarlet. She was holding out two scrolls of parchment tied with violet ribbon. Perplexed, Harry took the scrolls, passed Neville’s to him, and thanked the girl, who stumbled back out of the compartment, blushing as if she was a furnace. “What is it?” Susan demanded, as Hermione looked over at Harry’s letter. “An invitation,” said Harry. 
Harry,

I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C.

Sincerely,

Professor H. E. F. Slughorn 
“Who’s Professor Slughorn?” asked Neville, looking perplexedly at his own invitation. “New teacher,” said Harry. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to go, won’t we?” “But what does he want me for?” asked Neville nervously, as though he was expecting detention. “No idea,” said Harry, which was not entirely true, though he had no proof yet that his hunch was correct. As Hermione saw Harry and Neville leave the compartment, she was seized by a sudden brain wave and ran outside to call for Harry. “Please, give me the Invisibility Cloak, please, please, please,” she requested in a hushed voice, making sure Neville couldn’t hear her. “Hermione, we had an agreement you won’t take the Invisibility Cloak —” “Without you knowing about it,” Hermione finished for him. “But I’m telling you, right? I won’t go anywhere else, I’ll just follow you. Please, Harry.” Harry sighed and slipped Hermione the Cloak. She bolted into a nearby empty compartment and came out of it invisible. She had to keep close to Harry as he and Neville walked through the corridors, which were packed with people on the lookout for the lunch trolley. Hermione couldn’t help but detest all the staring, which seemed to have increased in intensity. Every now and then, students would hurtle out of their compartments to get a better look at Harry. As Harry passed the window of a compartment in which Cho Chang was sitting with her friends, she saw Cho deep in determined conversation with her friend Marietta, who was wearing a very thick layer of makeup that did not entirely obscure the odd formation of pimples still etched across her face. Smirking slightly satisfactorily, Hermione grabbed onto Harry’s arm and followed him. When they reached compartment C, they saw at once that they were not Slughorn’s only invitees, although judging by the enthusiasm of Slughorn’s welcome, Harry was the most warmly anticipated. “Harry, m’boy!” said Slughorn, jumping up at the sight of him so that his great velvet-covered belly seemed to fill all the remaining space in the compartment. His shiny bald head and great silvery mustache gleamed as brightly in the sunlight as the golden buttons on his waistcoat. “Good to see you, good to see you! And you must be Mr. Longbottom!” Neville nodded, looking scared. At a gesture from Slughorn, they sat down opposite each other in the only two empty seats, which were nearest the door. Hermione glanced around at their fellow guests. She recognized a Slytherin from their year, a tall black boy with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes; there were also two seventh-year boys one of which Hermione did not know. “Now, do you know everyone?” Slughorn asked Harry and Neville. “Blaise Zabini is in your year, of course —” Zabini did not make any sign of recognition or greeting, nor did Harry or Neville: Gryffindor and Slytherin students loathed each other on principle. “This is Cormac McLaggen, perhaps you’ve come across each other — ? No?” McLaggen, a large, wiry-haired youth, raised a hand, and Harry and Neville nodded back at him. “— and this is Marcus Belby, I don’t know whether — ?” Belby, who was thin and nervous-looking, gave a strained smile. “Well now, this is most pleasant,” said Slughorn cozily. “A chance to get to know you all a little better. Here, take a napkin. I’ve packed my own lunch; the trolley, as I remember it, is heavy on licorice wands, and a poor old man’s digestive system isn’t quite up to such things. . . . Pheasant, Belby?” Belby started and accepted what looked like half a cold pheasant. “I was just telling young Marcus here that I had the pleasure of teaching his Uncle Damocles,” Slughorn told Harry and Neville, now passing around a basket of rolls. “Outstanding wizard, outstanding, and his Order of Merlin most well-deserved. Do you see much of your uncle, Marcus?” Unfortunately, Belby had just taken a large mouthful of pheasant; in his haste to answer Slughorn he swallowed too fast, turned purple, and began to choke. “Anapneo,” said Slughorn calmly, pointing his wand at Belby, whose airway seemed to clear at once. “Not . . . not much of him, no,” gasped Belby, his eyes streaming. “Well, of course, I daresay he’s busy,” said Slughorn, looking questioningly at Belby. “I doubt he invented the Wolfsbane Potion without considerable hard work!” “I suppose . . .” said Belby, who seemed afraid to take another bite of pheasant until he was sure that Slughorn had finished with him. “Er . . . he and my dad don’t get on very well, you see, so I don’t really know much about . . .” His voice tailed away as Slughorn gave him a cold smile and turned to McLaggen instead. “Now, you, Cormac,” said Slughorn, “I happen to know you see a lot of your Uncle Tiberius, because he has a rather splendid picture of the two of you hunting nogtails in, I think, Norfolk?” “Oh, yeah, that was fun, that was,” said McLaggen. “We went with Bertie Higgs and Rufus Scrimgeour — this was before he became Minister, obviously —” “Ah, you know Bertie and Rufus too?” beamed Slughorn, now offering around a small tray of pies; somehow, Belby was missed out. “Now tell me . . .” It was as Hermione had suspected. Everyone here seemed to have been invited because they were connected to somebody well-known or influential. Zabini, who was interrogated after McLaggen, turned out to have a famously beautiful witch for a mother (from what Hermione could make out, she had been married seven times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold). It was Neville’s turn next: This was a very uncomfortable ten minutes, for Neville’s parents, well-known Aurors, had been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange and a couple of Death Eater cronies. At the end of Neville’s interview, Hermione had the impression that Slughorn was reserving judgment on Neville, yet to see whether he had any of his parents’ flair. “And now,” said Slughorn, shifting massively in his seat with the air of a compere introducing his star act. “Harry Potter! Where to begin? I feel I barely scratched the surface when we met over the summer!” He contemplated Harry for a moment as though he was a particularly large and succulent piece of pheasant, then said, “ ‘The Chosen One,’ they’re calling you now!” Harry said nothing. Belby, McLaggen, and Zabini were all staring at him. “Of course,” said Slughorn, watching Harry closely, “there have been rumors for years. . . . I remember when — well — after that terrible night — Lily — James — and you survived — and the word was that you must have powers beyond the ordinary —” Zabini gave a tiny little cough that was clearly supposed to indicate amused skepticism. Hermione wished she was not hidden behind the Invisibility Cloak. “Anyway,” said Slughorn, turning back to Harry. “Such rumors this summer. Of course, one doesn’t know what to believe, the Prophet has been known to print inaccuracies, make mistakes — but there seems little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there was quite a disturbance at the Ministry and that you were there in the thick of it all!” Harry, who could not see any way out of this without flatly lying, nodded but still said nothing. Slughorn beamed at him. “So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so fond — you were there, then? But the rest of the stories — so sensational, of course, one doesn’t know quite what to believe — this fabled prophecy, for instance —” “We never heard a prophecy,” said Neville, turning geranium pink as he said it. “I was there too, and all this ‘Chosen One’ rubbish is just the Prophet making things up as usual.” “You were there too, were you?” said Slughorn with great interest, looking at Neville, who sat clam-like before his encouraging smile. “Yes . . . well . . . it is true that the Prophet often exaggerates, of course. . . .” Slughorn said, sounding a little disappointed. “I remember dear Gwenog telling me (Gwenog Jones, I mean, of course, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies) —” He meandered off into a long-winded reminiscence, but Hermione had the distinct impression that Slughorn had not finished with him, and that he had not been convinced by Neville. The afternoon wore on with more anecdotes about illustrious wizards Slughorn had taught, all of whom had been delighted to join what he called the “Slug Club” at Hogwarts. Hermione could not wait to leave. Finally the train emerged from yet another long misty stretch into a red sunset, and Slughorn looked around, blinking in the twilight. “Good gracious, it’s getting dark already! I didn’t notice that they’d lit the lamps! You’d better go and change into your robes, all of you. McLaggen, you must drop by and borrow that book on nogtails. Harry, Blaise — any time you’re passing. Well, off you go, off you go!” As he pushed past Harry into the darkening corridor, Zabini shot him a filthy look that Harry returned with interest. He (and Hermione) and Neville followed Zabini back along the train. “I’m glad that’s over,” muttered Neville. “Strange man, isn’t he?” “Yeah, he is a bit,” said Harry, his eyes on Zabini. He stopped dead in his tracks so that Hermione stumbled into him. “I’ll see you later, Neville,” said Harry under his breath. “But what’re you — ?” asked Neville. “Later!” whispered Harry, darting into a nearby empty compartment, in which Hermione followed him. “Quick, give me the Cloak.” “Why?” she asked, pulling the Cloak off her shoulders. Harry quickly told her about his reckless but potentially wonderful idea. In a minute’s time, Zabini was going to reenter the Slytherin sixth-year compartment and Malfoy would be sitting there, thinking himself unheard by anybody except fellow Slytherins. . . . If Harry could only enter, unseen, behind him, what might he not see or hear? True, there was little of the journey left — Hogsmeade Station had to be less than half an hour away, judging by the wildness of the scenery flashing by the windows. “No, I’m not letting you go alone,” Hermione said stubbornly. “I’ll come with you.” Harry stared at her anxiously before sighing and saying quickly, “Plan changed. We’ll stay outside the compartment and hear them through the Extendable Ears.” “Good. I prefer that more.” So, Hermione and Harry, under the Invisibility Cloak’s protection, walked as quietly as possible, though the rattling of the train made such caution almost pointless. The corridors were almost completely empty now. Nearly everyone had returned to their carriages to change into their school robes and pack up their possessions. They caught a glimpse of Zabini opening a door and disappearing behind it. They stood outside the door and Harry quickly reeled the Extendable Ears under it. “So, Zabini,” Hermione heard Malfoy say, “what did Slughorn want?” “Just trying to make up to well-connected people,” said Zabini. “Not that he managed to find many.” This information did not seem to please Malfoy. “Who else had he invited?” he demanded. “McLaggen from Gryffindor,” said Zabini. “Oh yeah, his uncle’s big in the Ministry,” said Malfoy. “— someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw —” “Not him, he’s a prat!” said Pansy Parkinson. “— and Longbottom and Potter,” finished Zabini. Hermione heard what seemed like Malfoy had sat up very suddenly. “He invited Longbottom?” “Well, I assume so, as he was there,” said Zabini indifferently. “What’s Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?” Zabini must have shrugged. “Potter, precious Potter, obviously he wanted a look at ‘the Chosen One,’ ” sneered Malfoy. “Well, I pity Slughorn’s taste. Maybe he’s going a bit senile. Shame, my father always said he was a good wizard in his day. My father used to be a bit of a favorite of his. Slughorn probably hasn’t heard I’m on the train, or —” “I wouldn’t bank on an invitation,” said Zabini. “He asked me about Nott’s father when I first arrived. They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he heard he’d been caught at the Ministry he didn’t look happy, and Nott didn’t get an invitation, did he? I don’t think Slughorn’s interested in Death Eaters.” Malfoy forced out a singularly humorless laugh, but Hermione could sense his anger behind it. “Well, who cares what he’s interested in? What is he, when you come down to it? Just some stupid teacher.” Malfoy yawned ostentatiously. “I mean, I might not even be at Hogwarts next year, what’s it matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or not?” “What do you mean, you might not be at Hogwarts next year?” said Pansy indignantly. “Well, you never know,” said Malfoy. “I might have — er — moved on to bigger and better things.” Hermione’s heart began to race. She looked up at Harry with her lips slightly parted. What would Susan say about this? There was dead silence in the compartment; apparently no one had had any inkling of Malfoy’s plans to move on to bigger and better things. “Do you mean — Him?” Pansy said, sounding dumbfounded. “Mother wants me to complete my education,” said Malfoy, “but personally, I don’t see it as that important these days. I mean, think about it. . . . When the Dark Lord takes over, is he going to care how many O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s anyone’s got? Of course he isn’t. . . . It’ll be all about the kind of service he received, the level of devotion he was shown.” “And you think you’ll be able to do something for him?” asked Zabini scathingly. “Sixteen years old and not even fully qualified yet?” “I’ve just said, haven’t I? Maybe he doesn’t care if I’m qualified. Maybe the job he wants me to do isn’t something that you need to be qualified for,” said Malfoy quietly. “I can see Hogwarts,” he added, clearly relishing the effect he had created in the compartment. “We’d better get our robes on.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Where’ve you been?” Susan asked the couple quite sharply when they joined her and the rest of their friends in the compartment. “I was worried for you both.” “Sorry, Sue . . .” Hermione said in a tone that Susan understood they were not going to discuss this matter further, not now at least. Hermione could hear the rustling of the trees that surrounded the lake, and the hootings of owls as the train began to slow down with a shrieking honk, finally lurching at Hogsmeade Station. Sirius caught up with them as they all got off the train. Luna gladly took Hediwg’s cage from Harry as he and Hermione prepared to guide the new first-years towards the Black Lake. Hermione was now able to see the thestrals who pulled the carriages for second-years and above, and she couldn’t help but wonder if creatures more hideous than the skeletal winged-horses were possible. Susan, Neville, Ginny, and Luna climbed into a carriage, and Harry and Hermione were just climbing behind them when a voice called, “Harry! Hermione!” Striding towards them was Dora. “Dora!” Harry gasped. “Wotcher,” said Dora. “Fleur’s my girlfriend, and I went to the village of Veelas with her. That takes care of the formalities, I hope.” “What are you doing here, Dora?” asked Harry. “I’m stationed in Hogsmeade now, to give the school extra protection,” said Dora. “Is it just you who’s stationed up here, or — ?” “No, Proudfoot, Savage, and Dawlish are here too.” “Dawlish, that Auror Dumbledore attacked last year?” “That’s right. Anyway, let the carriages go. I’ve got something to discuss with you.” “Wait, you mean, we’re going to walk up to the castle?” Hermione inquired, aghast. “Yes, now come along,” Dora said plainly. Confused, Hermione and Harry looked at each other before the latter gave a shrug. They informed their friends waiting in the carriage about their unexpected detour and followed Dora. Dora waved her wand, and an immense silvery four-legged creature erupted from it and streaked off into the darkness. “Was that a Patronus?” asked Hermione; Dumbledore had once mentioned using more reliable ways of communicating within the Order, and now as Hermione came to think of it, it had got to be Patronuses. “Yes, I’m sending word to the castle that I’ve got you. Come on, we’d better not dawdle.” They set off toward the lane that led to the school. “So, what’s it, Dora?” Hermione spoke a while later. “Dumbledore’s told me to keep a watch on you,” Dora said, staring at Harry. “You’re not allowed to wander off alone in the castle or outside at night-time, nor are you wanted to sneak into Hogsmeade like we know you can.” Harry’s jaw clenched, and he huffed disapprovingly, but Hermione’s look of pleading made him nod his head anyway. They tramped on through the cold night in silence. Having always traveled there by carriage, Hermione had never before appreciated just how far Hogwarts was from Hogsmeade Station. With great relief she finally saw the tall pillars on either side of the gates, each topped with a winged boar. She was cold and hungry. But when Harry put out a hand to push open the gates, he found them chained shut. “Alohomora!” Hermione said confidently, pointing her wand at the padlock, but nothing happened. “That won’t work on these,” said Dora. “Dumbledore bewitched them himself.” Harry looked around. “We could climb a wall, I guess,” he suggested. “No, you couldn’t,” said Dora flatly. “Anti-intruder jinxes on all of them. Security’s been tightened a hundred-fold this summer.” “Well then,” said Hermione, starting to feel annoyed at Dora’s lack of helpfulness, “First of all, you made us walk up to here without a decent reason, and now I suppose we’ll just have to sleep out here and wait for morning.” “Someone’s coming down for you,” said Dora, undeterred. “Look.” A lantern was bobbing at the distant foot of the castle. Hermione was so pleased to see it she felt she could even endure Filch’s wheezy criticisms of their tardiness and rants about how their timekeeping would improve with the regular application of thumbscrews. It was not until the glowing yellow light was ten feet away from them that she recognized, with a rush of a peculiar affection, the uplit hooked nose and long, black, greasy hair of Severus Snape. “There is no need to wait, Nymphadora, I shall take over from here,” said Professor Snape, taking out his wand and tapping the padlock once, so that the chains snaked backward and the gates creaked open. “I meant Hagrid to get the message,” said Dora, frowning. “Hagrid was late for the start-of-term feast, so I took it instead. And incidentally,” said Professor Snape, standing back to allow Hermione, and Harry to pass him, “I was interested to see your new Patronus.” He shut the gates in her face with a loud clang and tapped the chains with his wand again, so that they slithered, clinking, back into place. “Bye,” Harry called to Dora over his shoulder, as they began the walk up to the school with Professor Snape. “See you later, both of ya.” “I gathered the Blacks left the country?” Professor Snape asked in such a small voice that it was incredible there was any sound at all. “Yeah,” said Hermione. Professor Snape scoffed. “The coward,” he whispered maliciously. “A poor influence on such a brave witch.” They reached the castle steps at last and as the great oaken front doors swung open into the vast flagged entrance hall, a burst of talk and laughter and of tinkling plates and glasses greeted them through the doors standing open into the Great Hall. Hermione wondered whether she and Harry could slip his Invisibility Cloak back on, thereby gaining their seats at the long Gryffindor table (which, inconveniently, was the farthest from the entrance hall) without being noticed. Hermione and Harry marched straight through the open doors. The Great Hall, with its four long House tables and its staff table set at the top of the room, was decorated as usual with floating candles that made the plates below glitter and glow. It was all a shimmering blur to Hermione and Harry, however, who walked so fast that they were passing the Hufflepuff table before people really started to stare, and by the time they were standing up to get a good look at them, they had spotted Neville and Ginny, sped along the benches toward them, and sat opposite them. “You missed the Sorting,” said Ginny. “Hat say anything interesting?” asked Harry, taking a piece of treacle tart. “More of the same, really . . . advising us all to unite in the face of our enemies, you know.” “Dumbledore mentioned Voldemort at all?” Ginny and Neville flinched. “Not yet, but he always saves his proper speech for after the feast, doesn’t he?” said Ginny, composing herself. “It can’t be long now.” Hagrid was waving at Hermione and Harry. Hagrid had never quite managed to comport himself with the dignity of Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House, the top of whose head came up to somewhere between Hagrid’s elbow and shoulder as they were sitting side by side, and who was looking disapprovingly at this enthusiastic greeting. Harry was surprised to see the Divination teacher, Professor Trelawney, sitting on Hagrid’s other side; she rarely left her tower room, and he had never seen her at the start-of-term feast before. She looked as odd as ever, glittering with beads and trailing shawls, her eyes magnified to enormous size by her spectacles. Having always considered her a bit of a fraud, Hermione had been shocked to discover at the end of the previous term that it had been she who had made the prediction that caused Lord Voldemort to kill Harry’s parents and attack Harry himself. Her great beacon-like eyes swiveled in Harry’s direction; he hastily looked away toward the Slytherin table. “So what did Slughorn want?” asked Susan, who came over from the Hufflepuff table and sat on Hermione’s left. While Susan always sat with them at the Gryffindor table for meals, she never did it on the start-of-term feast, but, perhaps, the curiosity was too much this time. “To know what really happened at the Ministry,” said Harry. “Him and everyone else here,” sniffed Hermione. “All wanting to know if Harry really is ‘the Chosen One’ —” “There has been much talk on that very subject even amongst the ghosts,” interrupted Nearly Headless Nick, inclining his barely connected head toward Harry so that it wobbled dangerously on its ruff. “I am considered something of a Potter authority; it is widely known that we are friendly. I have assured the spirit community that I will not pester you for information, however. ‘Harry Potter knows that he can confide in me with complete confidence,’ I told them. ‘I would rather die than betray his trust.’ ” “That’s not saying much, seeing as you’re already dead,” said someone from behind. “You show all the sensitivity of a blunt ax, Miss Greengrass,” said Nearly Headless Nick in affronted tones, and he rose into the air and glided back toward the far end of the Gryffindor table. Daphne stepped forward and asked Susan, “May I?” “Yeah, yeah, of course,” said Susan, regaining her composure. She slid closer to Ginny to make space on her other side. Daphne sat down graciously and adjusted her robes. “Stop staring, Granger.” “I’m — I’m not staring,” Hermione sputtered, but she was staring. “Are you sure you want to sit here?” “Do you mind?” Daphne asked simply. “Nobody minds it, Daph,” Susan said tenderly. “Isn’t that right?” She looked around at Hermione with warning in her eyes. “Of course not,” said the brunette monotonously. Dumbledore got to his feet at the staff table. The talk and laughter echoing around the Hall died away almost instantly. “The very best of evenings to you!” he said, smiling broadly, his arms opened wide as though to embrace the whole room. “What happened to his hand?” gasped Susan. She was not the only one who had noticed. Dumbledore’s right hand was as blackened and dead-looking as it had been on the night he had come to fetch Harry from the Grangers Residence. Whispers swept the room; Dumbledore, interpreting them correctly, merely smiled and shook his purple-and-gold sleeve over his injury. “Nothing to worry about,” he said airily. “Now . . . to our new students, welcome, to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you . . .” “I forgot to tell you, his hand was like that when I saw him over the summer,” Harry whispered to Hermione, Susan, Ginny, and Daphne. “I thought he’d have cured it by now, though . . . or Madam Pomfrey would’ve done.” “It looks as if it’s died,” said Hermione, with a nauseated expression. “But there are some injuries you can’t cure . . . old curses . . . and there are poisons without antidotes. . . .” “. . . and Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to say that there is a blanket ban on any joke items bought at the shop called Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. “Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch teams should give their names to their Heads of House as usual. We are also looking for new Quidditch commentators, who should do likewise. “We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year. Professor Slughorn” — Slughorn stood up, his bald head gleaming in the candle-light, his big waist-coated belly casting the table below into shadow — “is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master.” “Potions?” “Potions?” The word echoed all over the Hall as people wondered whether they had heard right. “Professor Snape, meanwhile,” said Dumbledore, raising his voice so that it carried over all the muttering, “will be taking over the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.” “No!” said Neville, so loudly that many heads turned in his direction. He did not care; he was staring up at the staff table, incensed. How could Snape be given the Defense Against the Dark Arts job after all this time? Hadn’t it been widely known for years that Dumbledore did not trust him to do it? Professor Snape, who was sitting on Dumbledore’s right, did not stand up at the mention of his name; he merely raised a hand in a lazy acknowledgment of the applause from the Slytherin table, yet Hermione was sure she could detect a look of triumph on his features. “Well, there’s one good thing,” Neville said savagely. “Snape’ll be gone by the end of the year.” “What do you mean?” asked Ginny. “That job’s jinxed. No one’s lasted more than a year. . . . Quirrell actually died doing it. . . . Personally, I’m going to keep my fingers crossed for another death. . . .” “Neville!” said Hermione, shocked and reproachful. “He might just go back to teaching Potions at the end of the year,” said Ginny reasonably. “That Slughorn bloke might not want to stay long-term. Moody didn’t.” Dumbledore cleared his throat. Hermione, Ginny, and Neville were not the only ones who had been talking; the whole Hall had erupted in a buzz of conversation at the news that Professor Snape had finally achieved his heart’s desire. Seemingly oblivious to the sensational nature of the news he had just imparted, Dumbledore said nothing more about staff appointments, but waited a few seconds to ensure that the silence was absolute before continuing. “Now, as everybody in this Hall knows, Lord Voldemort and his followers are once more at large and gaining in strength.” The silence seemed to tauten and strain as Dumbledore spoke. Hermione glanced at Malfoy, who was not looking at Dumbledore, but making his fork hover in midair with his wand, as though he found the headmaster’s words unworthy of his attention. “I cannot emphasize strongly enough how dangerous the present situation is, and how much care each of us at Hogwarts must take to ensure that we remain safe. The castle’s magical fortifications have been strengthened over the summer, we are protected in new and more powerful ways, but we must still guard scrupulously against carelessness on the part of any student or member of staff. I urge you, therefore, to abide by any security restrictions that your teachers might impose upon you, however irksome you might find them — in particular, the rule that you are not to be out of bed after hours. I implore you, should you notice anything strange or suspicious within or outside the castle, to report it to a member of staff immediately. I trust you to conduct yourselves, always, with the utmost regard for your own and others’ safety.” Dumbledore’s blue eyes swept over the students before he smiled once more. “But now, your beds await, as warm and comfortable as you could possibly wish, and I know that your top priority is to be well rested for your lessons tomorrow. Let us therefore say good night. Pip pip!” With the usual deafening scraping noise, the benches were moved back and the hundreds of students began to file out of the Great Hall toward their dormitories. Hermione and Harry darted ahead to fulfill their Prefect’s duty of shepherding the first-years. Hagrid caught up with them right outside the entrance hall. “How come yeh two were late? I was worried.” “Dora,” said Harry shortly. “Why were you late?” “I was with Grawp,” said Hagrid happily. “Los’ track o’ the time. He’s got a new home up in the mountains now, Dumbledore fixed it — nice big cave. He’s much happier than he was in the forest. We were havin’ a good chat.” “Really?” said Hermione; the last time she and Harry had met Hagrid’s half-brother, a vicious giant with a talent for ripping up trees by the roots, his vocabulary had comprised five words, two of which he was unable to pronounce properly. “Oh yeah, he’s really come on,” said Hagrid proudly. “Yeh’ll be amazed. I’m thinkin’ o’ trainin’ him up as me assistant.” Harry groaned, but managed to pass it off as a violent sneeze. They were now standing beside the oak front doors. “Anyway, I’ll see yeh tomorrow, firs’ lesson’s straight after lunch. Come early an’ yeh can say hello ter Buck — I mean, Witherwings!” Raising an arm in cheery farewell, he headed out of the front doors into the darkness. Hermione and Harry looked at each other. Exactly what Hagrid would say when he realized his two favorite students had given up his subject, they did not like to think. Hence, they resumed guiding the first-years upstairs once again.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“But he was obviously showing off for Parkinson, wasn’t he?” Susan said ruefully the next morning as Hermione and Harry shared with her what they had heard Malfoy say to his friends on the train. “You know, it would be like Malfoy to make himself seem more important than he is . . . but, honestly, that’s a big lie to tell. . . .” “Exactly,” said Harry, but he could not press the point, because so many people were trying to listen in to their conversation, not to mention staring at him and whispering behind their hands. “It’s rude to point,” Susan snapped at a particularly minuscule first-year boy as they entered the Great Hall together. The boy, who had been muttering something about Harry behind his hand to his friend, promptly turned scarlet and toppled away in alarm. “We’re going to be getting free time this year,” said Susan much more gladly. “Whole periods when we can just sit and relax.” “We’re going to need that time for studying, Sue!” said Hermione. “Yeah, but not today,” said Susan. “Today’s going to be a real doss, I reckon.” “Hold it!” said Hermione, throwing out an arm and halting a passing fourth-year, who was attempting to push past her with a lime-green disk clutched tightly in his hand. “Fanged Frisbees are banned, hand it over,” she told him sternly. The scowling boy handed over the snarling Frisbee, ducked under her arm, and took off after his friends. When Hermione turned back to Harry and Susan, she found them both staring incredulously at her. “What?” she said, slightly blushing. “I’m a Prefect.” “Oh, just admit it, girl,” said Susan in a teasing voice. “Admit it that you like to boss around.” “I don’t,” Hermione said, flushed. “Do I?” “And you look adorable doing it,” Susan cooed, nudging Hermione in the ribs. “Shut up,” said Hermione, sticking her tongue at her girl-bestie. The ceiling of the Great Hall was serenely blue and streaked with frail, wispy clouds, just like the squares of sky visible through the high mullioned windows. Ginny and Daphne were already present at the Gryffindor table when they reached it. Susan slipped between the two witches while Harry and Hermione sat opposite to them. “Hey,” Susan wished Ginny, kissing her gently on the cheek. “Hi,” said Ginny, then she sighed rather heavily. “What?” asked Susan. “It’s my O.W.L. year,” Ginny said stiffly. “I didn’t quite realize the pressure until Professor McGonagall came and gave me my schedules.” “And I was telling her she would do just fine,” Daphne spoke up before taking a small bite out of her sandwich. “Yeah, you will do good, Gin,” Susan said comfortingly, patting Ginny on the shoulder. “I know you will.” Ginny forced a smile as she nodded. “I believe you will do more than fine if you pay attention to the teachers and practice spells, potions, and diagrams enough times,” Daphne told her. “You can come to me for help anytime you feel like asking.” “Or me, of course,” Hermione offered promptly. “Daphne’s right, Gin, just be attentive and practice enough.” “And don’t forget to take breaks every once in a while,” Harry added smartly. “Yeah, that’s important,” Hermione agreed. She knew how problematic it could be if one didn’t take an appropriate amount of rest between study hours. She had experienced that herself last year when she suffered from a panic attack because she was worrying more than a healthy amount about her exams. It wouldn’t be a lie to say she fell in love with Harry all over again when he found her sobbing in a bathroom and took care of her, assuring her that everything was going to be fine. “Daph, are you sure you want to sit here?” Susan asked the blonde Slytherin. “Why not?” said Daphne, looking annoyed. “You’re sitting here too, even though you’re a Hufflepuff.” “Because I don’t belong to the House that hates the rest of us lowly beings,” said Susan. Daphne sighed. “I can feel the stares on my back,” she whispered, and sure enough, as Hermione looked ahead, she saw almost the entire Slytherin table glaring at Daphne. “But I think I like it here more. I’m done hiding the fact that I prefer your company over theirs.” “Of course you can sit wherever you want to,” said Harry gently. “I just meant to ask, won’t your Housemates bother you about this?” Susan asked concernedly. “I’m sure they will,” said Daphne, shrugging her shoulders. “So what? They talk about something or the other all the time.” “And your sister?” Susan continued. “Won’t they bother her too?” “She said she can take care of herself,” said Daphne, clearly not pleased with this notion. “And as much as I hate it, I feel like I’ve intimidated her a bit too much anyway.” Hermione understood this quite well. Astoria, Daphne’s younger sister, told her once that none of the boys of their House came close to her because they were too scared of Daphne. “I’m affecting her teen romance days apparently,” Daphne said sarcastically. “Nonsense,” said Susan. “And besides, I think we all missed the entire purpose of Sorting,” Daphne muttered under her breath. “That was to fulfill each other, and not to create separation among us on the basis of foolish things like Houses and family lineages.” Hermione stared at Daphne with something she had only scarcely felt before for her: admiration. Daphne cleared her throat. “I wanted to ask you all something.” “What’s it?” asked Hermione. “Pardon me, but whose idea was it to take heads-on with the Death Eaters in the Ministry without a fool-proof plan? You got more hurt than was necessary.” Daphne frowned at the four of them. “I appreciate the criticism, Daphne,” Harry said calmly, “but, you see, the thing with fighting Voldemort is you don’t always get to plan in advance.” Nobody disputed his statement and instead tucked into porridge and eggs and bacon. Hermione and Harry told Susan, Daphne, and Ginny about their embarrassing conversation with Hagrid the previous evening. “But he can’t really think you’d continue Care of Magical Creatures!” Susan said, looking distressed. “I mean, have you ever expressed . . . you know . . . any enthusiasm?” “That’s it, though, isn’t it?” said Harry, chewing a fried egg. “We were the ones who made the most effort in classes because we like Hagrid.” “But he thinks you liked the stupid subject, doesn’t he?” said Susan. “D’you reckon anyone’s going to go on to N.E.W.T.?” Neither Harry nor Hermione answered; there was no need. They knew perfectly well that nobody in their year would want to continue Care of Magical Creatures. They avoided Hagrid’s eye and returned his cheery wave only half-heartedly when he left the staff table ten minutes later. “What subjects are you taking?” Daphne asked the three sixth-years. “Ancient Runes, Defense Against the Dark Arts, History of Magic, Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, and Herbology,” said Hermione. “That’s a handful,” Daphne observed. “Runes and History? What’re you supposed to do with them?” “A librarian,” Hermione said airily. “I can’t believe I’m going to have to drop Arithmancy,” she added sulkily. “It’s my favorite subject, but everyone keeps saying seven subjects are more than enough already.” “They are,” said Susan, nodding firmly. “I want to be a newspaper column editor. So, I’m taking History of Magic, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, and Astronomy.” “Astronomy?” said Ginny, amused. “Are you going to write horoscopes as well?” The rest of them all laughed. “No, I just like that one,” Susan mumbled. “And to become a healer, I’d need Herbology, Charms, Defense, Potions, and Transfiguration,” said Harry. “I want to take a sixth subject, but can’t decide between Runes and History.” “Take History, Harry!” Susan said promptly. “We can all sit together then. You, me, and Hermione.” “Yeah, but I think I’ll decide in a bit,” Harry said furtively. “What subjects are you taking, Daphne?” Hermione curiously asked the blonde. “What career are you choosing?” “I’m going to apply for the Department of Internations Magical Cooperation,” she said confidently. “I’d very much like to explore the world. I’m taking History of Magic, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, and . . . my favorite subject, Arithmancy,” she added with a little teasing smirk aimed at Hermione. Hermione could do nothing but scowl nastily at her. It only widened her smirk. “You all are going to pass out before me,” Ginny said, looking quite depressed. “How am I going to spend a whole year without y’all?” For a moment, none of them replied, able to imagine how dreadful it would most likely be. Then, as if to lighten the mood, Harry leaned forward, covered the majority of his face with a hand as he pretended to eat his porridge, and muttered, “Find yourself a boyfriend, that’s how.” “Harry James Potter!” exclaimed Susan, looking very offended. Hermione giggled. “Geez, loosen up, I was kidding,” said Harry, wincing and retreating from the table. Susan turned to her ginger-haired girlfriend, who rolled her eyes and clarified, “I won’t, okay?” Daphne cleared her throat. “Well, c’mon, Daph, we need to hurry along,” said Susan as she noticed Professor McGonagall moving along the Gryffindor table, handing out new schedules for the sixth-years. Susan and Daphne bid them goodbyes and went to their House tables where their respective House Heads provided them with their schedules. The distribution of class schedules was more complicated than usual this year, for professors needed first to confirm that everybody had achieved the necessary O.W.L. grades to continue with their chosen N.E.W.T.s. Hermione was immediately cleared to continue with every class she had been planning to take but she waited for Harry’s turn. Professor McGonagall was proceeding alphabetically, based upon their last names. Neville took a little longer to sort out; his round face was anxious as Professor McGonagall looked down his application and then consulted his O.W.L. results. “Herbology, fine,” she said. “Professor Sprout will be delighted to see you back with an ‘Outstanding’ O.W.L. And you qualify for Defense Against the Dark Arts with ‘Exceeds Expectations.’ But the problem is Transfiguration. I’m sorry, Longbottom, but an ‘Acceptable’ really isn’t good enough to continue to N.E.W.T level. I just don’t think you’d be able to cope with the coursework.” Neville hung his head. Professor McGonagall peered at him through her square spectacles. “Why do you want to continue with Transfiguration, anyway? I’ve never had the impression that you particularly enjoyed it.” Neville looked miserable and muttered something about “my grandmother wants.” “Hmph,” snorted Professor McGonagall. “It’s high time your grandmother learned to be proud of the grandson she’s got, rather than the one she thinks she ought to have — particularly after what happened at the Ministry.” Neville turned very pink and blinked confusedly; Professor McGonagall had never paid him a compliment before. “I’m sorry, Longbottom, but I cannot let you into my N.E.W.T. class. I see that you have an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in Charms, however — why not try for a N.E.W.T. in Charms?” “My grandmother thinks Charms is a soft option,” mumbled Neville. “Take Charms,” said Professor McGonagall, “and I shall drop Augusta a line reminding her that just because she failed her Charms O.W.L., the subject is not necessarily worthless.” Smiling slightly at the look of delighted incredulity on Neville’s face, Professor McGonagall tapped a blank schedule with the tip of her wand and handed it, now carrying details of his new classes, to Neville. Professor McGonagall turned next to Parvati Patil, whose first question was whether Firenze, the handsome but banished centaur, was still teaching Divination. “He and Professor Trelawney are dividing classes between them this year,” said Professor McGonagall, a hint of disapproval in her voice; it was common knowledge that she despised the subject of Divination. “The sixth year is being taken by Professor Trelawney.” Parvati set off for Divination five minutes later, looking slightly crestfallen. “So, Potter, Potter . . .” said Professor McGonagall, consulting her notes as she turned to Harry. “Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Potions, and Transfiguration . . . all set. I must say, I was pleased with your Transfiguration mark, Potter, very pleased. So, full steam ahead with becoming a Healer?” “Yes,” said Harry. “Professor, can you add Study of Ancient Runes to my schedule as well?” “Runes?” said Professor McGonagall, rather puzzled. Runology had no relation with Healer practice after all. But then she noticed the beaming face of Hermione and muttered, “Fair enough,” and made the necessary changes to Harry’s schedule. “You’re taking Runes?” Hermione said excitedly as soon as Professor McGonagall had moved on from them. “Yeah, Susan and Daphne are both taking History as well, you won’t be there alone,” Harry said thoughtfully. Hermione opened her mouth, so he quickly went on, “And I prefer Runes over History anyway.” She accepted the statement with a nod of her head and hugged him out of pure joy. “Let’s go, shall we? We have a Runes period right now,” said Harry, kissing her temples. Hence, they bid a goodbye to Ginny and shot off to a first-period Ancient Runes without further ado. There were even lesser students taking Advanced Runes than there were at O.W.L. level. Besides Harry and Hermione, only Terry Boot, the sixth-year Ravenclaw Prefect, was there. “Only the three of us, eh?” said Terry, grinning, as Hermione and Harry sat next to him. “What d’you think Professor Babbling’s gonna teach us today?” “I believe she’s going to revisit the previous years’ stuff today,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “To brush up our memory.” “I’m going to go for translator,” Terry told the young couple. “And you?” “Librarian,” said Hermione. Terry accepted it immediately. “Healer,” said Harry, and Terry frowned in confusion. “But you don’t need Runes for that, do you?” he asked Harry. “No, I just like this subject,” said Harry, shrugging. Hermione was proved right when Professor Babbling, a witch in her late thirties with a slender build and long, shiny hair that she often wore in a bun, arrived and said they were going to revise everything they have studied till now. Hermione answered the most questions, and each and every one of them was correct, causing Terry Boot to ask the fates in frustration why she was not sorted into Ravenclaw. “You absolutely smashed it,” Harry praised Hermione as the two of them headed towards their next class. “Can we stop by the library?” she asked hopefully. “I wanna borrow some books regarding our Runes homework.” Harry agreed, and the two of them changed their tracks towards the library instead. When they eventually reached the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, students were already queuing outside, most of them looking carefree. “We got so much homework for Runes,” Hermione said anxiously, carrying an armful of heavy books and looking put-upon, when she and Harry joined Susan and Daphne in the queue. “A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and we’ve got to read these by Wednesday!” “Shame,” yawned Susan. “You wait,” Hermione said resentfully. “I bet Professor Snape gives us loads.” The classroom door opened as she spoke, and Professor Snape stepped into the corridor, his sallow face framed as ever by two curtains of greasy black hair. Silence fell over the queue immediately. “Inside,” he said. Hermione looked around as they entered. Professor Snape had imposed his personality upon the room already; it was gloomier than usual, as curtains had been drawn over the windows, and was lit by candlelight. New pictures adorned the walls, many of them showing people who appeared to be in pain, sporting grisly injuries or strangely contorted body parts. Nobody spoke as they settled down, looking around at the shadowy, gruesome pictures. “I have not asked you to take out your books,” said Professor Snape, closing the door and moving to face the class from behind his desk; Hermione hastily dropped her copy of Confronting the Faceless back into her bag and stowed it under her chair. “I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention.” His black eyes roved over their upturned faces, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Harry’s than anyone else’s. “You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe. Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be much more advanced.” Professor Snape set off around the edge of the room, speaking now in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to keep him in view. “The Dark Arts,” he said, “are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible.” Quite a few people stared at Professor Snape, and Hermione could blame none. It was surely one thing to respect the Dark Arts as a dangerous enemy, another to speak of them, as Professor Snape was doing, with a loving caress in his voice? “Your defenses,” said Professor Snape, a little louder, “must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures” — he indicated a few of them as he swept past — “give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse” — he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly shrieking in agony — “feel the Dementor’s Kiss” — a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall — “or provoke the aggression of the Inferius” — a bloody mass upon the ground. “Has an Inferius been seen, then?” said Parvati Patil in a high-pitched voice. “Is it definite, is he using them?” “The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past,” said Professor Snape, “which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now . . .” He set off again around the other side of the classroom toward his desk, and again, they watched him as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind him. “. . . you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of a nonverbal spell?” Hermione’s hand shot into the air. Professor Snape took his time looking around at everybody else, making sure he had no choice, before saying curtly, “Very well — Miss Granger?” “Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you’re about to perform,” said Hermione, “which gives you a split-second advantage.” “An answer copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six,” said Professor Snape dismissively (over in the corner, Malfoy sniggered), “but correct in essentials. Yes, those who progress to using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some” — his gaze lingered maliciously upon Neville — “lack. “You will now divide,” Professor Snape went on, “into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence. Carry on.” Although Professor Snape did not know it, Harry had taught at least half the class (everyone who had been a member of the H.G.) how to perform a Shield Charm the previous year. None of them had ever cast the charm without speaking, however. A reasonable amount of cheating ensued; many people were merely whispering the incantation instead of saying it aloud. Typically, ten minutes into the lesson, Hermione managed to repel Harry’s muttered Jelly-Legs Jinx without uttering a single word, a feat that would surely have earned her twenty points for Gryffindor from any reasonable teacher but which Professor Snape ignored. He swept between them as they practiced, looking just as much like an overgrown bat as ever, lingering to watch Neville and Ron struggling with the task. Ron, who was supposed to be jinxing Neville, was purple in the face, his lips tightly compressed to save himself from the temptation of muttering the incantation. Neville had his wand raised, waiting on tenterhooks to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely ever to come. “Pathetic, Weasley,” said Snape, after a while. “Here — let me show you —” He turned his wand on Neville so fast that Neville reacted instinctively; all thought of nonverbal spells forgotten, he yelled, “Protego!” His Shield Charm was so strong Professor Snape was knocked off-balance and hit a desk. The whole class had looked around and now watched as Snape righted himself, scowling. “Do you remember me telling you we are practicing nonverbal spells, Longbottom?” “Yes,” said Neville stiffly. “Yes, sir.” “There’s no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.” The words had escaped him before he knew what he was saying. Several people gasped, including Hermione. Behind Professor Snape, however, Ron, Dean, and Seamus grinned appreciatively. “Detention, Saturday night, my office,” said Professor Snape. “I do not take a cheek from anyone, Longbottom.” “That was brilliant, Neville!” chortled Ron, once they were safely on their way to break a short while later. “You really shouldn’t have said it,” said Hermione, frowning at Ron. “What made you?” “He tried to jinx me, in case you didn’t notice!” fumed Neville. “Why doesn’t he use another guinea pig for a change? What’s Dumbledore playing at, anyway, letting him teach Defense? Did you hear him talking about the Dark Arts? He loves them! All that unfixed, indestructible stuff —” “Well,” said Daphne, “I thought he sounded a bit like Harry.” “Like me?” Harry gaped at her. “Yes, when you were telling us what it’s like to face the Dark Lord. You said it wasn’t just memorizing a bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your brains and your guts — well, wasn’t that what Snape was saying? That it really comes down to being brave and quick-thinking?” Before Harry could express his surprise that she had thought his words as well worth memorizing as The Standard Book of Spells, someone called for him. “Harry! Hey, Harry!” Harry looked around; Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters on last year’s Gryffindor Quidditch team, was hurrying toward him holding a roll of parchment. “For you,” panted Sloper. “Hey, Ron, have you any idea when the trials are going to be held?” “No,” Ron grunted, becoming sulky at once. As Lavender began assuring him that he’d no doubt be rechosen as the Keeper of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Harry recognized the thin, slanting writing on the parchment and hurried away with Hermione, Susan, and Daphne, unrolling the parchment as he went. 
Dear Harry,

I would like to start our private lessons this Saturday. Kindly come along to the chamber beyond Godric Gryffindor’s portrait at 8 P.M. I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops. 
“He enjoys Acid Pops?” said Daphne, who had read the message over Harry’s shoulder. “Is it the password to get past the gargoyle outside his study?” asked Hermione. “I think so,” said Harry in a low voice. “Do you know what class Ginny’s taking right now?” Susan asked the rest of them. “It’s break time, Sue,” Hermione reminded her. “And she’s got a meeting with the rest of the team,” said Daphne. “She told me over breakfast before you arrived. Anyway, she’s got to be either in the Gryffindor common room or the Quidditch stadium.” “Ah, I just wanted to ask her if she’d fancy a visit to the kitchens right now,” said Susan. “Anyway, would you like that?” she asked Daphne. “That sounds nice,” Daphne said, beaming. “Sounds like a date to me,” Hermione murmured under her breath, to which Susan only stuck her tongue out. “We’ll grab something for Gin too,” Susan suggested to Daphne. “She likes kipper.” While Susan and Daphne headed towards the kitchens, Hermione and Harry went up to the Gryffindor Tower instead. The common room was crowded, filled with murmurs about the first day at school. Hermione spotted a gleaming badge pinned to the chest of Katie Bell, the only remaining member of the original Gryffindor Quidditch team that Harry had joined in his first-year. “I thought you’d get that, well done,” Harry called over, pointing at the Captain’s badge on Katie’s chest. “Thank you,” said Katie politely. She then turned to Ron, who was sitting in a chair near the fireplace and told him, “Trials will be held very soon, and everyone will have to fight for their post. For all you know, there’s someone much better than me out there. Good teams have been ruined before now because Captains just kept playing the old faces, or letting in their friends. . . .” Ron looked a little uncomfortable and stared fixedly at the fire. Lavender was absent from the common room. “I’m holding trials very soon,” Katie said passionately. “And every team member has to prove they’re still the best, including me. For all we know, there’s someone much better than me out there. Good teams have been ruined before now because Captains just kept playing the old faces, or letting in their friends. . . .” Ron looked even more uncomfortable. He pulled out a Fanged Frisbee and began playing with it. It zoomed around the common room, snarling and attempting to take bites of the tapestry. “Where’s Ginny?” she asked Ron. “Do you know?” Ron only shook his head, not trusting his voice at the moment. “She’s off to the Quidditch pitch,” said Neville, who had just appeared at the door of the boys’ dormitories. “She’s going to apply for the Chaser this time.” Ron most likely didn’t want to hear anything about Quidditch, so he turned to a third-year girl and asked her if she could call Lavender downstairs from her dorm. “Tell her I’m down on the grounds,” Ron told the girl, who nodded and went into the girls’ dorm. He exited the common room, still playing with the Fanged Frisbee. “I can’t believe Dumbledore made Snape the Defense teacher,” Neville fumed as he, Harry, and Hermione followed Ron out of the portrait hole. “Now I’m going to fail in this subject too.” “No, Neville,” said Hermione consolingly. “You’re a brilliant wizard. You can do anything you put your mind into.” “Hermione’s right,” said Harry. “As always.” Both Harry and Neville grinned at the blush that stained Hermione’s cheeks. Harry and Hermione reunited with Susan and Daphne down in the Great Hall. The four of them spent the whole of break speculating on what Dumbledore would teach Harry. Susan thought it most likely to be spectacular jinxes and hexes of the type the Death Eaters would not know. Daphne said such things were illegal, and thought it much more likely that Dumbledore wanted to teach Harry advanced Defensive magic. “What is that, by the way?” Daphne asked Susan, who was tickling her pet Pygmy Puff, Ed. Hermione had no idea where Ed appeared from. “A Pygmy Puff,” Susan told Daphne. “Bred by the Weasley twins. Ginny bought this for me. I named it Ed. Isn’t it cute?” “Yeah,” Daphne whispered a little unsurely. “You know what, you should take Ed with you,” Susan said all of a sudden. “Take him and play with him. That ought to give you peace of mind.” Daphne simply couldn’t refuse a direct suggestion by Susan. While she headed to the Slytherin common room with Ed in her palm to later head towards Arithmancy, Susan, Harry, and Hermione made their own way to the library, where they started Professor Snape’s homework. This turned out to be so complex that they still had not finished when Daphne joined them with Ed in her hands. She looked devastated. “What’s the matter?” Susan asked her. “Your pet ate my books,” Daphne said, looking more depressed than irritated. “What? Can he even do that?” said Susan, stunned. “I mean, he’s so small.” “But it can get big, I’m telling you. Now I know what the ‘Puff’ in their name refers to.” “I’m so sorry, Daph,” Susan mumbled, embarrassed. “I had no idea that might happen.” “Never mind,” said Daphne. “Professor Slughorn will give me a spare copy until I get the new ones.” “I’m sorry again,” said Susan. “I’ll pay for your books.” “It’s okay,” said Daphne, shaking her head. “It really is. . . . Are you still not finished with Professor Snape’s homework?” she asked, staring down at their essays. “It’s really complex,” Susan said ominously. Daphne joined them (more like copied from Susan’s, because she didn’t want to be left behind). They had only just finished when the bell rang for the afternoon’s double Potions and Hermione, Harry, and Daphne beat the familiar path down to the dungeon classroom that had, for so long, been Professor Snape’s. When they arrived in the corridor they saw that there were only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T. level. Crabbe and Goyle had evidently failed to achieve the required O.W.L. grade, but three Slytherins (excluding Daphne) had made it through, including Malfoy. Five Ravenclaws were there, and one Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, whom Hermione didn’t like much for his rather pompous manner and the fact that he once argued with Susan for siding with Harry after Harry’s name had come out of the Goblet of Fire regarding the Triwizard Tournament. “Harry,” Ernie said portentously, holding out his hand as Harry approached, “didn’t get a chance to speak in Defense Against the Dark Arts this morning. Good lesson, I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat, of course, for us old H.G. lags . . . And how are you, Hermione?” Before they could say more than “fine,” the dungeon door opened and Slughorn’s belly preceded him out of the door. As they filed into the room, his great walrus mustache curved above his beaming mouth, and he greeted Harry and Zabini with particular enthusiasm. The dungeon was, most unusually, already full of vapors and odd smells. Hermione, Harry, and Daphne sniffed interestedly as they passed large, bubbling cauldrons. The Slytherins and Ravenclaws took two tables for themselves, four at each. This left Harry, Hermione, and Daphne to share a table with Ernie. They chose the one nearest a gold-colored cauldron, which Hermione recognized as Amortentia at once; it was emitting one of the most seductive scents she had ever inhaled: It reminded her simultaneously of freshly mowed lawn grass, tasty Harry-made bacon, new parchment, and the vanilla scent that Harry always seemed to be full of. She was breathing very slowly and deeply. The potion’s fumes seemed to be filling her up like a drink. A great contentment stole over her; she grinned around at Harry, who beamed back at her. “Now then, now then, now then,” said Slughorn, whose massive outline was quivering through the many shimmering vapors. “Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don’t forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making. . . .” “Sir?” said Daphne, raising a hand. “Yes, Miss Greengrass, I guess?” “Yes, Sir. I haven’t got a book, I — er —” Daphne looked sideways at Hermione. “— I lost it.” “Not to worry, my dear girl, not to worry at all. We’ve got a small stock of old books here, they’ll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts. . . .” Slughorn strode over to a corner cupboard and, after a moment’s foraging, emerged with a very battered-looking copy of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage, which he gave to Daphne. “Now then,” said Slughorn, returning to the front of the class and inflating his already bulging chest so that the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst off, “I’ve prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of ’em, even if you haven’t made ’em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?” He indicated the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table, which contained what looked like plain water boiling away inside it. Hermione’s well-practiced hand hit the air before anybody else’s; Slughorn pointed at her. “It’s Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth,” said Hermione. “Very good, very good!” said Slughorn happily. “Now,” he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, “this one here is pretty well known. . . . Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too . . . Who can — ?” Hermione’s hand was the fastest once more. “It’s Polyjuice Potion, sir,” she said as she very well recognized the slow-bubbling, mud-like substance in the second cauldron; she, after all, was the one who had succeeded in making it, back in their second year. “Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here . . . yes, my dear?” said Slughorn, now looking slightly bemused, as Hermione’s hand punched the air again. “It’s Amortentia!” “It is indeed. It seems almost foolish to ask,” said Slughorn, who was looking mightily impressed, “but I assume you know what it does?” “It’s the most powerful love potion in the world!” said Hermione. “Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?” “And the steam rising in characteristic spirals,” said Hermione enthusiastically, “and it’s supposed to smell differently to each of us, according to what attracts us, and I can smell lawn grass, bacon, parchment, and vanilla essence.” “May I ask your name, my dear?” said Slughorn. “Hermione Granger, sir.” “Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?” “No, I don’t think so, sir. I’m Muggle-born, you see.” Hermione saw Malfoy lean close to Nott and whisper something; both of them sniggered, but Slughorn showed no dismay; on the contrary, he beamed and looked from Hermione to Harry, who was sitting next to her. “Oho! ‘My girlfriend is Muggle-born, and she’s the best in our year!’ I’m assuming this is the very girl of whom you spoke, Harry?” “Yes, sir,” said Harry proudly. “Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” said Slughorn genially. Malfoy looked rather as he had done the time Hermione had punched him in the face. Hermione turned to Harry with a radiant expression and whispered, “Did you really tell him I’m your girlfriend and the best in the year?” “You seem surprised,” said Harry, mocking a frown. “Oh, Harry!” Daphne smiled before hushing the lovebirds, so that they could hear what Slughorn was saying. “Amortentia doesn’t really create love, of course,” Slughorn spoke further. “It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room — oh yes,” he said, nodding gravely at Malfoy and Nott, both of whom were smirking skeptically. “When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love. . . . “And now,” said Slughorn, “it is time for us to start work.” “Sir, you haven’t told us what’s in this one,” said Ernie Macmillan, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn’s desk. The potion within was splashing about merrily; it was the color of molten gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle had spilled. “Oho,” said Slughorn again. Hermione was sure that Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had waited to be asked for dramatic effect. “Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it,” he turned, smiling, to look at Hermione, who had let out an audible gasp, “that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?” “It’s liquid luck,” said Hermione excitedly. “It makes you lucky!” The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter. Now all Hermione could see of Malfoy was the back of his sleek blond head, because he was at last giving Slughorn his full and undivided attention. “Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it’s a funny little potion, Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn. “Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed . . . at least until the effects wear off.” “Why don’t people drink it all the time, sir?” said Terry Boot eagerly. “Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence,” said Slughorn. “Too much of a good thing, you know . . . highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally . . .” “Have you ever taken it, sir?” asked Michael Corner with great interest. “Twice in my life,” said Slughorn. “Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days.” He gazed dreamily into the distance. Whether he was play-acting or not, thought Hermione, the effect was good. “And that,” said Slughorn, apparently coming back to earth, “is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson.” There was silence in which every bubble and gurgle of the surrounding potions seemed magnified tenfold. “One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn, taking a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his pocket and showing it to them all. “Enough for twelve hours’ luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt. “Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organized competitions . . . sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. So the winner is to use it on an ordinary day only . . . and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary! “So,” said Slughorn, suddenly brisk, “how are you to win my fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion-Making. We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!” There was a scraping as everyone drew their cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as people began adding weights to their scales, but nobody spoke. The concentration within the room was almost tangible. Harry saw Malfoy riffling feverishly through his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. It could not have been clearer that Malfoy really wanted that lucky day. “What did you smell in Amortentia, Harry?” Hermione asked her boyfriend. “Treacle tart, your minty smell, and something that felt like I was cooking bacon,” said Harry, slightly chuckling. “Man, do I love anything but food?” Ignoring the annoying whispers of Hermione and Harry, Daphne bent over the tattered book Slughorn had lent her. To her annoyance she saw that the previous owner had scribbled all over the pages, so that the margins were as black as the printed portions. Bending low to decipher the ingredients (even here, the previous owner had made annotations and crossed things out) Daphne hurried off toward the store cupboard to find what she needed. As she dashed back to her cauldron, she saw Malfoy cutting up valerian roots as fast as she could.  Everyone kept glancing around at what the rest of the class was doing; this was both an advantage and a disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your work private. Within ten minutes, the whole place was full of bluish steam. Hermione, of course, had progressed furthest. Her potion already resembled the “smooth, black currant-colored liquid” mentioned as the ideal halfway stage. Harry didn’t look way behind either. Having finished chopping her roots, Daphne bent low over her book again. It was really very irritating, having to try and decipher the directions under all the stupid scribbles of the previous owner, who for some reason had taken issue with the order to cut up the sopophorous bean and had written in the alternative instruction: 
Crush with flat side of silver dagger, releases juice better than cutting. 
“Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?” Harry looked up; Slughorn was just passing the Slytherin table. “Yes,” said Slughorn, without looking at Malfoy, “I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn’t unexpected, dragon pox at his age. . . .” And he walked away. Harry bent back over his cauldron, smirking. He could tell that Malfoy had expected to be treated like Harry or Zabini; perhaps even hoped for some preferential treatment of the type he had learned to expect from Snape. It looked as though Malfoy would have to rely on nothing but talent to win the bottle of Felix Felicis. Hermione, however, had no eyes for anything but her potion, which was still deep purple, though according to the book ought to be turning a light shade of lilac by now. Daphne crushed her bean with the flat side of the dagger. To her astonishment, it immediately exuded so much juice she was amazed the shriveled bean could have held it all. Hastily scooping it all into the cauldron she saw, to her surprise, that the potion immediately turned exactly the shade of lilac described by the textbook. Her annoyance with the previous owner vanishing on the spot, Daphne now squinted at the next line of instructions. According to the book, she had to stir counterclockwise until the potion turned clear as water. According to the addition the previous owner had made, however, she ought to add a clockwise stir after every seventh counterclockwise stir. Could the old owner be right twice? Daphne stirred counterclockwise, held her breath, and stirred once clockwise. The effect was immediate. The potion turned palest pink. “How are you doing that?” demanded Hermione, who was red-faced and whose hair was growing bushier and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron; her potion was still resolutely purple. “Add a clockwise stir —” “No, no, the book says counterclockwise!” she snapped. Daphne shrugged and continued what she was doing. Seven stirs counterclockwise, one clockwise, pause . . . seven stirs counterclockwise, one stir clockwise . . . Across the table, Harry was having a hard time as well and Ernie was cursing fluently under his breath; his potion looked like liquid licorice. Daphne glanced around. As far as she could see, no one else’s potion had turned as pale as hers. She felt elated. “And time’s . . . up!” called Slughorn. “Stop stirring, please!” Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He made no comment, but occasionally gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last he reached the table where Hermione, Harry, Daphne, and Ernie were sitting. He passed over Ernie’s navy concoction. Hermione’s potion he gave an approving nod to. Then he saw Harry’s, and a look of slight disappointment spread over his face. “Not stirred accurately,” he mumbled under his breath. “You’ll learn, of course. Your mother was an excellent potioneer.” He moved on and finally reached Daphne’s cauldron. A look of incredulous delight occupied his face. “The clear winner!” he cried to the dungeon. “Excellent, excellent, Miss Greengrass! Good lord, it’s clear you’ve inherited your grandfather’s talent. He was a dab hand at Potions, Mr. John Greengrass was! Here you are, then, here you are — one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!” Daphne slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into her inner pocket, feeling delighted at the furious looks on her Housemates’ faces and guilt at the disappointed expression on Hermione’s. Ernie looked simply dumbfounded. Harry was the only one who didn’t seem to mind her winning. “How did you do that?” Ernie demanded of Daphne as they left the dungeon. “Got lucky, I suppose,” said Daphne, as Malfoy was within earshot. Once they were securely ensconced at the Gryffindor table for dinner, however, she felt safe enough to tell Hermione and Harry. Hermione’s face became stonier with every word she uttered.  “I s’pose you think I cheated?” she finished, aggravated by her expression. “Well, it wasn’t exactly your own work, was it?” Hermione said stiffly. “She only followed different instructions to ours,” said Harry. “Could’ve been a catastrophe, couldn’t it? But she took a risk and it paid off.” “Hang on,” said a voice close by Daphne’s left ear and she caught a sudden waft of that flowery smell she had picked up in Slughorn’s dungeon. She looked around and saw that Ginny had joined them. “Did I hear right? You’ve been taking orders from something someone wrote in a book, Daphne?” She looked alarmed and angry. Daphne knew what was on her mind at once. “It’s nothing,” she said reassuringly, lowering her voice. “It’s not like, you know, Riddle’s diary. It’s just an old textbook someone’s scribbled on.” “But you’re doing what it says?” “I just tried a few of the tips written in the margins, honestly, Ginny, there’s nothing funny —” “Ginny’s got a point,” said Hermione, perking up at once. “We ought to check that there’s nothing odd about it. I mean, all these funny instructions, who knows?” “Hey!” said Daphne indignantly, as Hermione pulled her copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of her bag and raised her own wand. “Specialis Revelio!” she said, rapping it smartly on the front cover. Nothing whatsoever happened. The book simply lay there, looking old and dirty and dog-eared. “Finished?” said Daphne irritably. “Or d’you want to wait and see if it does a few backflips?” “It seems all right,” said Hermione, still staring at the book suspiciously. “I mean, it really does seem to be . . . just a textbook.” “Good. Then I’ll have it back,” said Daphne, snatching it off the table, but it slipped from her hand and landed open on the floor. Nobody else was looking. Daphne bent low to retrieve the book, and as she did so, she saw something scribbled along the bottom of the back cover in the same small, cramped handwriting as the instructions that had won her her bottle of Felix Felicis, now safely hidden inside her trunk in her dorm.

This Book is the Property of the Half-Blood Prince.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

For the rest of the week’s Potions lessons Daphne continued to follow the Half-Blood Prince’s instructions wherever they deviated from Libatius Borage’s, with the result that by their fourth lesson Slughorn was raving about Daphne’s abilities, saying that he had rarely taught anyone so talented. Hermione was not delighted by this. Although Daphne had offered to share her book with the brunette Muggleborn, Hermione was resolutely plowing on with what she called the “official” instructions, but becoming increasingly bad-tempered as they yielded poorer results than the Prince’s. Daphne wondered vaguely who the Half-Blood Prince had been. Although the amount of homework they had been given prevented her from reading the whole of her copy of Advanced Potion-Making, she had skimmed through it sufficiently to see that there was barely a page on which the Prince had not made additional notes, not all of them concerned with potion-making. Here and there were directions for what looked like spells that the Prince had made up himself. “Or herself,” said Hermione irritably, overhearing Daphne pointing some of these out to Susan in the library on Saturday evening. “It might have been a girl. I think the handwriting looks more like a girl’s than a boy’s.” “The Half-Blood Prince, he was called,” Daphne said. “How many girls have been Princes?” Hermione seemed to have no answer to this. She merely scowled and twitched her essay on The Principles of Rematerialization away from Susan, who was trying to read it upside down. Harry looked at his watch and hurriedly put his own copy of Advanced Potion-Making back into his bag. “It’s five to eight, I’d better go, I’ll be late for Dumbledore.” “Ooooh!” gasped Hermione, looking up at once. “Let me come, please!” “You wanna come?” said Harry, a little hesitant. “Yes, or I’ll follow you under the Invisibility Cloak.” He sighed, and she gave him a quick, grateful peck on the lips. “Good luck!” said Susan. “We’ll wait up, we want to hear what he teaches you!” Harry and Hermione proceeded through the corridors, though they had to step hastily behind a statue when Professor Trelawney appeared around a corner, muttering to herself as she shuffled a pack of dirty-looking playing cards, reading them as she walked. “Two of spades: conflict,” she murmured, as she passed the place where Harry and Hermione crouched, hidden. “Seven of spades: an ill omen. Ten of spades: violence. Knave of spades: a dark young man, possibly troubled, one who dislikes the questioner —” She stopped dead, right on the other side of the statue. “Well, that can’t be right,” she said, annoyed, and Hermione heard her reshuffling vigorously as she set off again, leaving nothing but a whiff of cooking sherry behind her. Harry and Hermione waited until they were quite sure she had gone, then hurried off again until they reached the spot in the seventh-floor corridor where a single gargoyle stood against the wall. “Acid Pops,” said Harry, and the gargoyle leapt aside; the wall behind it slid apart, and a moving spiral stone staircase was revealed, onto which Hermione and Harry stepped, so that they were carried in smooth circles up to the door with the brass knocker that led to Dumbledore’s office. Harry knocked. “Come in,” said Dumbledore’s voice. “Good evening, sir,” said Hermione, walking into the headmaster’s office. “Ah, good evening, Miss Granger. Sit down,” said Dumbledore, smiling, conjuring a couple of chairs out of thin air. “I was expecting you.” “You were?” said Hermione, a bit surprised. “Yes, of course, I hope you’ve had an enjoyable first week back at school?” “Yes, thanks, sir,” said Hermione. She looked around surreptitiously for some indication of what Dumbledore was planning to do with him this evening. The circular office looked just as it always did; the delicate silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, puffing smoke and whirring; portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in their frames, and Dumbledore’s magnificent phoenix, Fawkes, stood on his perch behind the door, watching Harry with bright interest. It did not even look as though Dumbledore had cleared a space for dueling practice.  “So, Harry,” said Dumbledore, in a business-like voice. “You have been wondering, I am sure, what I have planned for you during these — for want of a better word — lessons?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, I have decided that it is time, now that you know what prompted Lord Voldemort to try and kill you fifteen years ago, for you to be given certain information.” There was a pause. “You said, at the end of last term, you were going to tell us everything,” said Hermione. It was hard to keep a note of accusation from her voice. “Sir,” she added. “And so I did,” said Dumbledore placidly. “I told you everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who believed the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron.” “But you think you’re right?” said Harry. “Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being — forgive me — rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger.” “Sir,” said Harry tentatively, “does what you’re going to tell me have anything to do with the prophecy? Will it help me . . . survive?” Hermione held her breath painfully and didn’t release it until she heard Dumbledore say, “It has a very great deal to do with the prophecy, and I certainly hope that it will help you to survive.” Dumbledore got to his feet and walked around the desk, past Harry and Hermione, who turned eagerly in their seats to watch Dumbledore bending over the cabinet beside the door. When Dumbledore straightened up, he was holding a familiar shallow stone basin etched with odd markings around its rim. He placed the Pensieve on the desk in front of Hermione and Harry. “You look worried.” Hermione and Harry had indeed been eyeing the Pensieve with some apprehension. Their previous experiences with the odd device that stored and revealed thoughts and memories, though highly instructive, had also been uncomfortable. The last time they had disturbed its contents, Hermione had found herself in a row with Professor Snape. But Dumbledore was smiling. “This time, you enter the Pensieve with me . . . and, even more unusually, with permission.” “Where are we going, sir?” asked Hermione. “For a trip down Bob Ogden’s memory lane,” said Dumbledore, pulling from his pocket a crystal bottle containing a swirling silvery-white substance. “Who was Bob Ogden?” “He was employed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” said Dumbledore. “He died some time ago, but not before I had tracked him down and persuaded him to confide these recollections to me. We are about to accompany him on a visit he made in the course of his duties. If you will stand . . .” But Dumbledore was having difficulty pulling out the stopper of the crystal bottle: His injured hand seemed stiff and painful. “Shall — shall I, sir?” “No matter, Harry —” Dumbledore pointed his wand at the bottle and the cork flew out. “Sir — how did you injure your hand?” Hermione asked, looking at the blackened fingers with a mixture of revulsion and pity. “Now is not the moment for that story, Miss Granger. Not yet. We have an appointment with Bob Ogden.” Dumbledore tipped the silvery contents of the bottle into the Pensieve, where they swirled and shimmered, neither liquid nor gas. “After you,” said Dumbledore, gesturing toward the bowl. Harry bent forward, took a deep breath, and plunged his face into the silvery substance. Hermione followed suit. She felt her feet leave the office floor; she was falling, falling through whirling darkness and then, quite suddenly, she was blinking in dazzling sunlight. Before her eyes had adjusted, Dumbledore landed beside her. They were standing in a country lane bordered by high, tangled hedgerows, beneath a summer sky as bright and blue as a forget-me-not. Some ten feet in front of them stood a short, plump man wearing enormously thick glasses that reduced his eyes to mole-like specks. He was reading a wooden signpost that was sticking out of the brambles on the left-hand side of the road. Hermione knew this must be Ogden; he was the only person in sight, and he was also wearing the strange assortment of clothes so often chosen by inexperienced wizards trying to look like Muggles: in this case, a frock coat and spats over a striped one-piece bathing costume. Before Hermione had time to do more than register his bizarre appearance, however, Ogden had set off at a brisk walk down the lane. Dumbledore, Harry, and Hermione followed. As they passed the wooden sign, Hermione looked up at its two arms. The one pointing back the way they had come read: Great Hangleton, 5 miles. The arm pointing after Ogden said Little Hangleton, 1 mile. They walked a short way with nothing to see but the hedgerows, the wide blue sky overhead and the swishing, frock-coated figure ahead. Then the lane curved to the left and fell away, sloping steeply down a hillside, so that they had a sudden, unexpected view of a whole valley laid out in front of them. Hermione could see a village, undoubtedly Little Hangleton, nestled between two steep hills, its church and graveyard clearly visible. Across the valley, set on the opposite hillside, was a handsome manor house surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawn. Ogden had broken into a reluctant trot due to the steep downward slope. Dumbledore lengthened his stride, and Hermione and Harry hurried to keep up. Harry thought Little Hangleton must be their final destination and wondered, as he had done on the night they had found Slughorn, why they had to approach it from such a distance. He soon discovered that he was mistaken in thinking that they were going to the village, however. The lane curved to the right and when they rounded the corner, it was to see the very edge of Ogden’s frock coat vanishing through a gap in the hedge. Dumbledore, Harry, and Hermione followed him onto a narrow dirt track bordered by higher and wilder hedgerows than those they had left behind. The path was crooked, rocky, and potholed, sloping downhill like the last one, and it seemed to be heading for a patch of dark trees a little below them. Sure enough, the track soon opened up at the copse, and Dumbledore, Harry, and Hermione came to a halt behind Ogden, who had stopped and drawn his wand. Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast deep, dark, cool shadows, and it was a few seconds before Hermione’s eyes discerned the building half-hidden amongst the tangle of trunks. It seemed to her a very strange location to choose for a house, or else an odd decision to leave the trees growing nearby, blocking all light and the view of the valley below. She wondered whether it was inhabited; its walls were mossy and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime. Just as he had concluded that nobody could possibly live there, however, one of the windows was thrown open with a clatter, and a thin trickle of steam or smoke issued from it, as though somebody was cooking. Ogden moved forward quietly and, it seemed to Hermione, rather cautiously. As the dark shadows of the trees slid over him, he stopped again, staring at the front door, to which somebody had nailed a dead snake. Then there was a rustle and a crack, and a man in rags dropped from the nearest tree, landing on his feet right in front of Ogden, who leapt backward so fast he stood on the tails of his frock coat and stumbled. The man standing before them had thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any color hissed weirdly. Several of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and dark and stared in opposite directions. He might have looked comical, but he did not; the effect was frightening, and Hermione could not blame Ogden for backing away several more paces before he spoke. “Er — good morning. I’m from the Ministry of Magic —” The man hissed again. “Er — I’m sorry — I don’t understand you,” said Ogden nervously. “You understand him, I’m sure, Harry?” said Dumbledore quietly. “Yes, of course,” said Harry, looking slightly nonplussed. “Why can’t Ogden — ?” But as his eyes found the dead snake on the door again, he suddenly understood, and so did Hermione. “He’s speaking Parseltongue?” “Very good,” said Dumbledore, nodding and smiling. “The man was saying that Ogden is not welcome here,” Harry told Hermione and Dumbledore. The man in rags was now advancing on Ogden, knife in one hand, wand in the other. “Now, look —” Ogden began, but too late: There was a bang, and Ogden was on the ground, clutching his nose, while a nasty yellowish goo squirted from between his fingers. “Morfin!” said a loud voice. An elderly man had come hurrying out of the cottage, banging the door behind him so that the dead snake swung pathetically. This man was shorter than the first, and oddly proportioned; his shoulders were very broad and his arms overlong, which, with his bright brown eyes, short scrubby hair, and wrinkled face, gave him the look of a powerful, aged monkey. He came to a halt beside the man with the knife, who was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden on the ground. “Ministry, is it?” said the older man, looking down at Ogden. “Correct!” said Ogden angrily, dabbing his face. “And you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?” “S’right,” said Gaunt. “Got you in the face, did he?” “Yes, he did!” snapped Ogden. “Should’ve made your presence known, shouldn’t you?” said Gaunt aggressively. “This is private property. Can’t just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself.” “Defend himself against what, man?” said Ogden, clambering back to his feet. “Busybodies. Intruders. Muggles and filth.” Ogden pointed his wand at his own nose, which was still issuing large amounts of what looked like yellow pus, and the flow stopped at once. Mr. Gaunt spoke out of the corner of his mouth to Morfin. “Get in the house. Don’t argue.” This time, ready for it, Harry recognized Parseltongue and translated it for Hermione and Dumbledore. Morfin seemed to be on the point of disagreeing, but when his father cast him a threatening look he changed his mind, lumbering away to the cottage with an odd rolling gait and slamming the front door behind him, so that the snake swung sadly again. “It’s your son I’m here to see, Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, as he mopped the last of the pus from the front of his coat. “That was Morfin, wasn’t it?” “Ar, that was Morfin,” said the old man indifferently. “Are you pure-blood?” he asked, suddenly aggressive. “That’s neither here nor there,” said Ogden coldly, and Hermione felt her respect for Ogden rise. Apparently Gaunt felt rather differently. He squinted into Ogden’s face and muttered, in what was clearly supposed to be an offensive tone, “Now I come to think about it, I’ve seen noses like yours down in the village.” “I don’t doubt it, if your son’s been let loose on them,” said Ogden. “Perhaps we could continue this discussion inside?” “Inside?” “Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I’ve already told you. I’m here about Morfin. We sent an owl —” “I’ve no use for owls,” said Gaunt. “I don’t open letters.” “Then you can hardly complain that you get no warning of visitors,” said Ogden tartly. “I am here following a serious breach of Wizarding law, which occurred here in the early hours of this morning —” “All right, all right, all right!” bellowed Gaunt. “Come in the bleeding house, then, and much good it’ll do you!” The house seemed to contain three tiny rooms. Two doors led off the main room, which served as kitchen and living room combined. Morfin was sitting in a filthy armchair beside the smoking fire, twisting a live adder between his thick fingers and crooning softly at it in Parseltongue: 
Hissy, hissy, little snakey,

Slither on the floor,

You be good to Morfin

Or he’ll nail you to the door. 
“Harry, don’t sing it,” Hermione said, cringing. “Oh, sorry . . .” There was a scuffling noise in the corner beside the open window, and Hermione realized that there was somebody else in the room, a girl whose ragged gray dress was the exact color of the dirty stone wall behind her. She was standing beside a steaming pot on a grimy black stove, and was fiddling around with the shelf of squalidlooking pots and pans above it. Her hair was lank and dull and she had a plain, pale, rather heavy face. Her eyes, like her brother’s, stared in opposite directions. She looked a little cleaner than the two men, but Hermione thought she had never seen a more defeated-looking person. “M’daughter, Merope,” said Gaunt grudgingly, as Ogden looked inquiringly toward her. “Good morning,” said Ogden. She did not answer, but with a frightened glance at her father turned her back on the room and continued shifting the pots on the shelf behind her. “Well, Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, “to get straight to the point, we have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night.” There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped one of the pots. “Pick it up!” Gaunt bellowed at her. “That’s it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle, what’s your wand for, you useless sack of muck?” “Mr. Gaunt, please!” said Ogden in a shocked voice, as Merope, who had already picked up the pot, flushed blotchily scarlet, lost her grip on the pot again, drew her wand shakily from her pocket, pointed it at the pot, and muttered a hasty, inaudible spell that caused the pot to shoot across the floor away from her, hit the opposite wall, and crack in two. Morfin let out a mad cackle of laughter. Gaunt screamed, “Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!” Merope stumbled across the room, but before she had time to raise her wand, Ogden had lifted his own and said firmly, “Reparo.” The pot mended itself instantly. Gaunt looked for a moment as though he was going to shout at Ogden, but seemed to think better of it: Instead, he jeered at his daughter, “Lucky the nice man from the Ministry’s here, isn’t it? Perhaps he’ll take you off my hands, perhaps he doesn’t mind dirty Squibs. . . .” Without looking at anybody or thanking Ogden, Merope picked up the pot and returned it, hands trembling, to its shelf. She then stood quite still, her back against the wall between the filthy window and the stove, as though she wished for nothing more than to sink into the stone and vanish. “Mr. Gaunt,” Ogden began again, “as I’ve said: the reason for my visit —” “I heard you the first time!” snapped Gaunt. “And so what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming to him — what about it, then?” “Morfin has broken Wizarding law,” said Ogden sternly. “ ‘Morfin has broken Wizarding law.’ ” Gaunt imitated Ogden’s voice, making it pompous and singsong. Morfin cackled again. “He taught a filthy Muggle a lesson, that’s illegal now, is it?” “Yes,” said Ogden. “I’m afraid it is.” He pulled from an inside pocket a small scroll of parchment and unrolled it. “What’s that, then, his sentence?” said Gaunt, his voice rising angrily. “It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing —” “Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?” “I’m Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad,” said Ogden. “And you think we’re scum, do you?” screamed Gaunt, advancing on Ogden now, with a dirty yellow-nailed finger pointing at his chest. “Scum who’ll come running when the Ministry tells ’em to? Do you know who you’re talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?” “I was under the impression that I was speaking to Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, looking wary, but standing his ground. “That’s right!” roared Gaunt. For a moment, Hermione thought Gaunt was showing his middle finger, but then realized that he was showing Ogden the ugly, black-stoned ring he was wearing on his middle finger, waving it before Ogden’s eyes. “See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it’s been in our family, that’s how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I’ve been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?” “I’ve really no idea,” said Ogden, blinking as the ring sailed within an inch of his nose, “and it’s quite beside the point, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed —” With a howl of rage, Gaunt ran toward his daughter. For a split second, Hermione thought he was going to throttle her as his hand flew to her throat; next moment, he was dragging her toward Ogden by a gold chain around her neck. “See this?” he bellowed at Ogden, shaking a heavy gold locket at him, while Merope spluttered and gasped for breath. “I see it, I see it!” said Ogden hastily. “Slytherin’s!” yelled Gaunt. “Salazar Slytherin’s! We’re his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?” “Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!” said Ogden in alarm, but Gaunt had already released Merope; she staggered away from him, back to her corner, massaging her neck and gulping for air. “So!” said Gaunt triumphantly, as though he had just proved a complicated point beyond all possible dispute. “Don’t you go talking to us as if we’re dirt on your shoes! Generations of purebloods, wizards all — more than you can say, I don’t doubt!” And he spat on the floor at Ogden’s feet. Morfin cackled again. Merope, huddled beside the window, her head bowed and her face hidden by her lank hair, said nothing. “Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden doggedly, “I am afraid that neither your ancestors nor mine have anything to do with the matter in hand. I am here because of Morfin, Morfin and the Muggle he accosted late last night. Our information” — he glanced down at his scroll of parchment — “is that Morfin performed a jinx or hex on the said Muggle, causing him to erupt in highly painful hives.” Morfin giggled. “Be quiet, boy,” snarled Gaunt in Parseltongue, and Morfin fell silent again. “And so what if he did, then?” Gaunt said defiantly to Ogden. “I expect you’ve wiped the Muggle’s filthy face clean for him, and his memory to boot —” “That’s hardly the point, is it, Mr. Gaunt?” said Ogden. “This was an unprovoked attack on a defenseless —” “Ar, I had you marked out as a Muggle-lover the moment I saw you,” sneered Gaunt, and he spat on the floor again. “This discussion is getting us nowhere,” said Ogden firmly. “It is clear from your son’s attitude that he feels no remorse for his actions.” He glanced down at his scroll of parchment again. “Morfin will attend a hearing on the fourteenth of September to answer the charges of using magic in front of a Muggle and causing harm and distress to that same Mugg —” Ogden broke off. The jingling, clopping sounds of horses and loud, laughing voices were drifting in through the open window. Apparently the winding lane to the village passed very close to the copse where the house stood. Gaunt froze, listening, his eyes wide. Morfin hissed and turned his face toward the sounds, his expression hungry. Merope raised her head. Her face, Hermione saw, was starkly white. “My God, what an eyesore!” rang out a girl’s voice, as clearly audible through the open window as if she had stood in the room beside them. “Couldn’t your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?” “It’s not ours,” said a young man’s voice. “Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his children. The son’s quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village —” The girl laughed. The jingling, clopping noises were growing louder and louder. Morfin made to get out of his armchair. “Keep your seat,” said his father warningly, in Parseltongue. “Tom,” said the girl’s voice again, now so close they were clearly right beside the house, “I might be wrong — but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?” “Good lord, you’re right!” said the man’s voice. “That’ll be the son, I told you he’s not right in the head. Don’t look at it, Cecilia, darling.” The jingling and clopping sounds were now growing fainter again. “ ‘Darling,’ ” whispered Morfin in Parseltongue, looking at his sister. “ ‘Darling,’ he called her. So he wouldn’t have you anyway.” Merope was so white Hermione felt sure she was going to faint. “What’s that?” said Gaunt sharply, also in Parseltongue, looking from his son to his daughter. “What did you say, Morfin?” “She likes looking at that Muggle,” said Morfin, a vicious expression on his face as he stared at his sister, who now looked terrified. “Always in the garden when he passes, peering through the hedge at him, isn’t she? And last night —” Merope shook her head jerkily, imploringly, but Morfin went on ruthlessly, “Hanging out of the window waiting for him to ride home, wasn’t she?” “Hanging out of the window to look at a Muggle?” said Gaunt quietly. All three of the Gaunts seemed to have forgotten Ogden, who was looking both bewildered and irritated at this renewed outbreak of incomprehensible hissing and rasping. “Is it true?” said Gaunt in a deadly voice, advancing a step or two toward the terrified girl. “My daughter — pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin — hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?” Merope shook her head frantically, pressing herself into the wall, apparently unable to speak. “But I got him, Father!” cackled Morfin. “I got him as he went by and he didn’t look so pretty with hives all over him, did he, Merope?” “You disgusting little Squib, you filthy little blood traitor!” roared Gaunt, losing control, and his hands closed around his daughter’s throat. Hermione, Harry, and Ogden yelled “No!” at the same time; Ogden raised his wand and cried, “Relashio!” Gaunt was thrown backward, away from his daughter; he tripped over a chair and fell flat on his back. With a roar of rage, Morfin leapt out of his chair and ran at Ogden, brandishing his bloody knife and firing hexes indiscriminately from his wand. Ogden ran for his life. Dumbledore indicated that they ought to follow and Hermione and Harry obeyed, Merope’s screams echoing in their ears. Ogden hurtled up the path and erupted onto the main lane, his arms over his head, where he collided with the glossy chestnut horse ridden by a very handsome, dark-haired young man. Both he and the pretty girl riding beside him on a gray horse roared with laughter at the sight of Ogden, who bounced off the horse’s flank and set off again, his frock coat flying, covered from head to foot in dust, running pell-mell up the lane. “I think that will do,” said Dumbledore. He took Hermione and Harry by the elbow and tugged. Next moment, they were all soaring weightlessly through darkness, until they landed squarely on their feet, back in Dumbledore’s now twilit office. “What happened to the girl in the cottage?” said Hermione at once, as Dumbledore lit extra lamps with a flick of his wand. “Merope, or whatever her name was?” “Oh, she survived,” said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk and indicating that Hermione and Harry should sit down too. “Ogden Apparated back to the Ministry and returned with reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage, and subsequently convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin, who already had a record of Muggle attacks, was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Marvolo, who had injured several Ministry employees in addition to Ogden, received six months.” “Marvolo?” Harry repeated wonderingly. “That’s right,” said Dumbledore, smiling in approval. “I am glad to see you’re keeping up.” “That old man was — ?” “Voldemort’s grandfather, yes,” said Dumbledore. “Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope, were the last of the Gaunts, a very ancient Wizarding family noted for a vein of instability and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense coupled with a great liking for grandeur meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a very nasty temper, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his daughter.” “So Merope,” said Harry, leaning forward in his chair and staring at Dumbledore, “so Merope was . . . Sir, does that mean she was . . . Voldemort’s mother?” “It does,” said Dumbledore. “And it so happens that we also had a glimpse of Voldemort’s father. I wonder whether you noticed?” “The Muggle Morfin attacked? The man on the horse?” “Very good indeed,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Yes, that was Tom Riddle senior, the handsome Muggle who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for whom Merope Gaunt cherished a secret, burning passion.” “And they ended up married?” Hermione said in disbelief, unable to imagine two people less likely to fall in love. “I think you are forgetting, Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore, “that Merope was a witch. I do not believe that her magical powers appeared to their best advantage when she was being terrorized by her father. Once Marvolo and Morfin were safely in Azkaban, once she was alone and free for the first time in her life, then, I am sure, she was able to give full rein to her abilities and to plot her escape from the desperate life she had led for eighteen years. “Can you not think of any measure Merope could have taken to make Tom Riddle forget his Muggle companion, and fall in love with her instead?” “The Imperius Curse?” Harry suggested. “Or a love potion?” said Hermione. “Very good,” said Dumbledore. “Personally, I am inclined to think that she used a love potion. I am sure it would have seemed more romantic to her, and I do not think it would have been very difficult, some hot day, when Riddle was riding alone, to persuade him to take a drink of water. In any case, within a few months of the scene we have just witnessed, the village of Little Hangleton enjoyed a tremendous scandal. You can imagine the gossip it caused when the squire’s son ran off with the tramp’s daughter, Merope. “But the villagers’ shock was nothing to Marvolo’s. He returned from Azkaban, expecting to find his daughter dutifully awaiting his return with a hot meal ready on his table. Instead, he found a clear inch of dust and her note of farewell, explaining what she had done. “From all that I have been able to discover, he never mentioned her name or existence from that time forth. The shock of her desertion may have contributed to his early death — or perhaps he had simply never learned to feed himself. Azkaban had greatly weakened Marvolo, and he did not live to see Morfin return to the cottage.” “And Merope? She . . . she died, didn’t she?” Harry said quietly. “Wasn’t Voldemort brought up in an orphanage?” “Yes, indeed,” said Dumbledore. “We must do a certain amount of guessing here, although I do not think it is difficult to deduce what happened. You see, within a few months of their runaway marriage, Tom Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little Hangleton without his wife. The rumor flew around the neighborhood that he was talking of being ‘hoodwinked’ and ‘taken in.’ What he meant, I am sure, is that he had been under an enchantment that had now lifted, though I daresay he did not dare use those precise words for fear of being thought insane. When they heard what he was saying, however, the villagers guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle, pretending that she was going to have his baby, and that he had married her for this reason.” “But she did have his baby.” “But not until a year after they were married. Tom Riddle left her while she was still pregnant.” “What went wrong?” asked Hermione. “Why did the love potion stop working?” “Again, this is guesswork,” said Dumbledore, “but I believe that Merope, who was deeply in love with her husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him by magical means. I believe that she made the choice to stop giving him the potion. Perhaps, besotted as she was, she had convinced herself that he would by now have fallen in love with her in return. Perhaps she thought he would stay for the baby’s sake. If so, she was wrong on both counts. He left her, never saw her again, and never troubled to discover what became of his son.” The sky outside was inky black and the lamps in Dumbledore’s office seemed to glow more brightly than before. “I think that will do for tonight, Harry, Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore after a moment or two. “Yes, sir,” said Harry. “Sir . . . is it important to know all this about Voldemort’s past?” “Very important, I think,” said Dumbledore. “And it . . . it’s got something to do with the prophecy?” “It has everything to do with the prophecy.” “Right,” said Harry, a little confused, but reassured all the same. “Good night.” They turned away and were almost at the door when Hermione turned back again. “Sir, are we allowed to tell Susan, Daphne, and Ginny everything you’ve told us?” Dumbledore considered her for a moment, then said, “Yes, I think Miss Bones, Miss Weasley and Miss Greengrass have proved themselves trustworthy. But Miss Granger, I am going to ask you to ask them not to repeat any of this to anybody else. It would not be a good idea if word got around how much I know, or suspect, about Lord Voldemort’s secrets.” “No, sir, we’ll make sure it’s just Susan, Ginny, and Daphne. Good night.” They turned away again when Harry saw it. Sitting on one of the little spindle-legged tables that supported so many frail-looking silver instruments, was an ugly gold ring set with a large, cracked, black stone. “Sir,” he said, staring at Dumbledore. “That ring —” “Yes?” said Dumbledore. “You were wearing it when we visited Professor Slughorn that night.” “So I was,” Dumbledore agreed. “But isn’t it . . . sir, isn’t it the same ring Marvolo Gaunt showed Ogden?” Dumbledore bowed his head. “The very same.” “But how come — ? Have you always had it?” “No, I acquired it very recently,” said Dumbledore. “A few days before I came to fetch you from your aunt and uncle’s, in fact.” “That would be around the time you injured your hand, then, sir?” asked Hermione. “Around that time, yes, Miss Granger.” Hermione hesitated. Dumbledore was smiling. “Sir, how exactly — ?” “Too late, Miss Granger! You shall hear the story another time. Good night.” “Good night, sir.” Harry pulled open the door when Hermione turned around for one last time. “Sir?” “Yes, Miss Granger?” “Please call me Hermione.” Dumbledore looked touched and gave a very small nod of his head. Slipping her fingers into Harry’s, Hermione finally accompanied him outside.

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As Hermione had predicted, the sixth-years’ free periods were not the hours of blissful relaxation Susan had anticipated, but times in which to attempt to keep up with the vast amount of homework they were being set. Not only were they studying as though they had exams every day, but the lessons themselves had become more demanding than ever before. Susan barely understood half of what Professor McGonagall said to them these days; even Hermione had had to ask her to repeat instructions once or twice. Incredibly, and to Hermione’s increasing resentment, Daphne’s best subject had suddenly become Potions, thanks to the Half-Blood Prince. Nonverbal spells were now expected, not only in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but in Charms and Transfiguration too. Harry frequently looked over at his classmates in the common room or at mealtimes to see them purple in the face and straining as though they had overdosed on U-No-Poo; but he knew that they were really struggling to make spells work without saying incantations aloud. It was a relief to get outside into the greenhouses; they were dealing with more dangerous plants than ever in Herbology, but at least they were still allowed to swear loudly if the Venomous Tentacula seized them unexpectedly from behind. History of Magic was a class that Hermione was taking but Harry wasn’t. However, Hermione found the second best comfort there was to have in Susan and Daphne’s presence in that class, although she avoided talking too much to Daphne since it reminded her that she was not the best student in Potions anymore because of the blonde Slytherin witch possessing an unauthorized source of info. Professor Binns taught the sixth-years about the Salem Witch Trials, a series of hearings and prosecutions of people accused of witchcraft that occurred in Muggle colonial Massachusetts in the years 1692 and 1693. The trials resulted in the executions of twenty people, most of them women. Some of these women were actually witches, though they were entirely innocent of the crimes of which they were convicted. Others were simply Muggles unlucky to be swept away in a moment of mass hysteria. Professor Binns had given his sixth-year students a particularly difficult assignment in the form of an essay about the Aftermath of the Salem Witch Trials. Harry and Hermione were now being taught how to draw Ancient Runes these days. But when Hermione heard Daphne telling Susan, in a voice that made it clear she wanted Hermione to listen, that Professor Vector was now teaching them about the Psychic Number that revealed how a person looks at themselves — oh, the jealousy that clouded Hermione’s mind for a while, it couldn’t be expressed in words. She didn’t speak to either Susan or Daphne that entire day, much to Susan’s confusion and Daphne’s vindication. Harry most likely sensed that Hermione was becoming more restless with every passing day, so he thought of a brilliant idea to calm her nerves down. On the eighteenth of September, at eleven in the evening, laid in bed together, the two of them took pleasure in having each other’s bodies to worship. Harry swept Hermione into a steamy kiss, his fingers tangled in her mess of golden curls. Hermione wriggled joyfully as she tightened her arms around Harry, pressing herself against him, totally lit up with the flames of desire. After a moment of eternity, their lips wetly separated and both of them gasped for air, wanting more. Hermione busied herself in caressing Harry’s neck with her lips while he unbuttoned her shirt and kneaded her breasts. She was all set to let loose when she found that Harry was pulling away. Confused and disgruntled, she looked up at him quizzically but he had the sheer audacity to smirk down at her, his eyes sparkling rather wickedly. Hermione felt her heart skip a beat in anticipation. It was always worth the wait when Harry had that spark in his eyes. He quickly crawled across the bed to pull a brush and an ink bottle out of a drawer. “Harry, what — ?” “Hush — lemme try this —” he said coyly, helping Hermione take off her shirt. He stared at her bare chest for a moment, then dipped the brush in the ink bottle and started painting on her stomach. “Ha ha — Harry — it tickles —” “Don’t move,” Harry requested, pausing the brush. “If I got it wrong. . . .” He left his sentence incomplete, as if trying to make her understand the gravity of the situation. “What are you doing?” she asked a little breathlessly. “Oh, I’m just gonna . . . How’s it said? . . . set you on fire,” Harry said savagely, and placed his free hand on Hermione’s mouth while painting on her stomach. Hermione lay quietly under Harry’s watch, waiting for him to finally say that he was done with whatever he was trying to achieve, so that they could immediately go back to the delicious feel of snogging the living daylights out of each other. “Done,” Harry said a few minutes later, retrieving his hand from her mouth; he looked rather proud of himself. “Yes, it looks good.” Hermione looked down at herself. Harry had drawn two Runes on her body, the lower one a lot more complicated than the upper one. She glanced up at Harry in puzzlement. He lowered down upon her for a kiss and whispered in her ear, “The complicated one is for increased body temperature and the easy one is for enhanced sexual desire.” Hermione gasped. The audacity of this boy to assume she needed more sexual desire than she already had for him. But the Runes had already begun to work their magic on her. She started sweating a lot more than she usually did, and her sex region literally felt like it was on fire. It was both pleasant and demanding at the same time. She breathed heavily, causing her boobs to rise and fall gracefully. “It’s bearable, right? The heat?” Harry asked her. “Think so,” she answered. She couldn’t breathe properly if she was being honest with herself. The heat had risen to her mind and made it all steamy. She couldn’t think straight. Harry . . . A voice rang in her ears. Harry, in his normal nightwear, grinning down at her, looked so dashing, so gorgeous, she was amazed she still had her hands to herself. “Wanna join me to a magical place, love?” he asked her. “We’re in a fucking school of magic, Harry,” Hermione mumbled impatiently, grinding her hips against Harry’s crotch, clinging to him, desperate for a release already. “I don’t wanna go fucking anywhere. Just fuck me here, please, I can’t fucking wait anymore.” “Oh, you will,” Harry said slyly, placing her on the edge of the bed. While Hermione sat groaning, he quickly pulled out a blouse of hers that he liked, pulled it over her head, then pulled the Invisibility Cloak out of his bag, and pulled it over their shoulders. Hermione hooked her arms around Harry’s neck as he carried her outside without making any noise. Once out of the common room (the Fat Lady had swung forward unknowingly in her sleep), Hermione locked her lips with Harry’s, pushing her hips against his, begging him to do her right there on the stony floor or against the wall, but he didn’t. A few minutes later, Hermione realized that they had reached the Room of Requirement. She gasped when she had a look around the room, which had taken the form of a grand library, bigger than any library she had ever been in, and she’d seen a lot. “Harry?” “I wanna study you now,” Harry said raspily in Hermione’s ear, and she felt wetter than ever before. The door locked and silenced, Harry sat down in an armchair and settled Hermione in his lap. His hand slipped down under her skirt, caressing her inner thigh. He locked her lips with his own, and his other hand cupped one of her tits, squeezing it through the fabric of her blouse. Hermione’s heart raced; her every nerve tingled with elation. She gave herself to the moment, melting in the heat of a long, burning kiss. She shuddered joyfully when Harry’s fingers slipped under the elastic of her knickers and touched bare flesh, probing her humid fold before entering her slippery sheath. Harry’s digits burrowed deeper, his thumb jiggling Hermione’s little pearl. With his other thumb and forefinger, he tugged the hardened nipple which belonged to the breast in the palm of his hand. A moan escaped Hermione’s lips. She wriggled in Harry’s lap, quivering as she climaxed, soaking her knickers and skirt with her dewiness. Harry groaned at Hermione’s bottom grinding against his stiffness. Still giddy with delight and burning with desire, Hermione slipped down from Harry’s lap and kneeled between his legs, unzipping his pants and releasing his eight-inch long erection. Taking the base in her palm, she swirled her tongue wetly around the crown of the lance, then engulfed it into her mouth. Moaning, Harry tangled his fingers in Hermione’s tawny curls, slowly gaining speed with his thrusts. A swell of euphoria took him and he burst, spilling his seed into her throat. The unrelenting tempest of ardor swept them both into a feverish frenzy, and soon their clothes littered the floor of the library. Hermione fell back upon a table, gasping, pulling Harry with her, clasping her legs and arms around his backside, and he slid his length inside her. Again and again Harry plummeted to Hermione’s depths, sweat dripping from his brows. The intoxicating scent of leather bindings and parchment mingled with heady musk — the delicious friction of passionate abandon — Hermione reached new heights of ecstasy and cried out Harry’s name. Lost in the tremors of Hermione’s cascading climaxes, Harry burst, flooding her chamber with his essence. “Happy birthday, Hermione.” Hermione mumbled incoherently, and Harry gave her a soft kiss and lifted her up in his arms again. Her eyes were drooping. Before she knew it, they were down on a bed again. It couldn’t have been the dorm bed. There was no way they had returned to the dormitory so quickly. But Hermione cared not. She snuggled into Harry’s arms as he pulled her to his chest, and she closed her eyes, exhausted, satisfied, and peaceful. . . . When Hermione stirred again, she was in Harry’s dorm bed. She felt the vacant space beside her and lifted her head a little bit to find Harry sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the grounds. She groggily murmured his name, and he turned around to her, beaming. “Happy seventeenth, Hermione!” Harry seemed more excited than her to celebrate the day. “Thanks,” she said, smiling, sitting up straighter and holding her arms out for him. He came and obediently placed himself in her arms. Then he carried her to the windowsill, where they sat with Hermione’s back pressed into Harry’s chest, both staring outside the window. They were breathing quietly, almost in sync. “Did you enjoy it last night?” Harry asked a few long minutes later, squeezing her from behind. “Uh-huh.” She hummed, feeling fondly comfortable in his arms. “You always feel so good.” Hermione received birthday wishes and gifts over breakfast in the Great Hall. Her and Harry had reached the hall a bit earlier than usual, so Ginny got a chance to sneak up from behind and give the birthday girl a particularly tight hug, saying cheerfully, “Happy birthday, Hermione! Many many returns of the day!” “Thanks, Gin,” said Hermione gratefully. Susan gave her a hug too when she arrived, a less squeezing one luckily since Hermione didn’t believe she could afford busting a rib and that too on her birthday no less. They both gave Hermione a gift each. However, the surprising one was from Daphne. “You got me a gift?” Hermione couldn’t help expressing her wonder. “Yes,” said Daphne curtly. “We’re friends, right?” “Yeah, I’m sorry I asked, and thank you,” Hermione said, politely accepting the wrapped package. “It’s not much,” said Daphne in a small voice. “I didn’t know today was your birthday until Susan informed me a couple of days ago, so I didn’t have a lot of time to plan and execute.” “You’d have planned for my birthday?” Hermione stated, touched. “Of course,” Daphne said rather simply. “That’s what friends do, right?” When nobody answered immediately, she looked around at her friends, from Hermione to Susan to Ginny to Harry and back to Hermione. “What? Did I say something wrong?” “You never planned for my birthday,” Susan pouted. “I’m planning this time,” said Daphne, grinning. “Really?” Susan smiled heartily. “You’re such a cutie.” Daphne literally shuddered. “I’m not cute,” she said, looking quite disinclined to the notion of her being something like cute. “But you are, Daph,” Susan kept teasing. “Ain’t I right, guys?” She glanced around at the rest of them, and they all nodded. “Oh please.” Daphne rolled her eyes. “It’s cats and dogs that are cute, and maybe Pygmy Puffs, but not humans, definitely not me.” Susan sighed. It seemed like the two of them had already had this conversation before. “Fine, you’re not cute,” Susan said monotonously, before adding cheerfully, hugging Ginny, “But my Gin-Gin here is defo a cutie.” “Ew! Not the Gin-Gin!” Ginny said, looking repulsed, and the rest of them all laughed. Luckily, Harry and Hermione had no class on Thursdays that they had to attend separately, so they got to spend the entire day together. They attended Herbology and Charms and had lunch after which they had the rest of the day free, three hours of which they spent in the library that Harry had generated in the Room of Requirement last night and had fun both reading and making love. “Harder, Harry!” Hermione screamed hoarsely, absolutely loving being fucked from behind. “Spank me fuckin’ harder, baby!” Harry raised a hand and brought it down hard on Hermione’s bottom cheek, making her gasp in pain, followed by a purr of pleasure, as Harry rubbed her ass. “Oh shit, I’m gonna cum!” she moaned loudly. “Are you close?” “Yes!” growled Harry, his pace driving into next gear, their thighs clapping slickly every time Harry bottomed out inside Hermione. “Cum inside me!” Hermione cried out, willing her body not to cum before Harry. “Just knock me up, love!” The filthy language that she was spitting caused them both to seize together, and with a unified guttural moan, they cummed together, their thighs trembling and giving up. Hermione collapsed on the couch, face-first, while Harry fell on top of her, his flaccid cock now out of her sacred hole. “Fuck,” Hermione mewled, as Harry nibbled on her earlobe. “Now I just want a third round.” Harry chuckled, but Hermione was in no mood to be playful. She turned around and grabbed Harry for another fierce kiss. Later that same evening after dinner, Hermione’s moral ethics were put to test. Susan and Ginny whispered something in Harry’s ear that made him chuckle and leave for the Gryffindor Tower. “Harry?” Hermione said, puzzled at his departure without even doing a proper goodbye. The two notorious witches chose this moment to pull Hermione up by her arms, not caring that her books spilled over to the floor, even ruffling up upside down, and despite the brunette’s cries of protest, they dragged her out of the library. “You’re letting go of me this instant, both of you!” Hermione warned them furiously, struggling against their grips. They dropped her arms so suddenly that she stumbled backwards until she caught herself and stood up straight, scowling at the two witches. “Explain yourself,” she said angrily, her hands on her hips. “It’s a surprise,” said Ginny. “You gotta come with us.” “Was it necessary to send Harry away?” “Yes,” said Ginny. “Can’t you just tell me what you’re planning to do?” “No,” said Susan, shaking her head. Hermione sighed. She had spent enough time with the two of them to realize that was all she was going to get at the moment. “Fine, where’re we supposed to go?” “You’ll know,” Susan said, grinning mischievously. Hermione followed her friends a floor above where they stopped in front of the Prefects’ Bathroom. “What’re we doing here?” she asked the other two. “Open it,” Ginny asked her. “But why?” “ ’Cause you’re the only one amongst the three of us who can, dumbo,” said Susan. “We, unlike yourself, ain’t Prefects, are we? So, just sober up and open the damn door, will you?” “Wow, Sue, that’s surely some way to ask your friend for help for something you’re not even supposed to be doing,” Hermione hissed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Alright, I’m saying please,” said Susan, rolling her eyes. Hermione waited for a full minute before saying, “Well . . . ?” “Are you seriously going to make me say please? What kind of a friend are you?” Hermione had no idea how this whole argument turned on her. She simply accepted her defeat and said the password to enter the Prefects’ Bathroom. Both Susan and Ginny expressed their awe as they stepped inside and had their first look at the magnificent place. “How come you didn’t become a Prefect?” Susan asked Ginny. “You certainly have got the qualities.” “There are others better than me,” said Ginny, shrugging. “Besides, you get the same privileges as a Prefect if you become the Captain of your Quidditch team.” “I’m sure you’ll become the Captain next year,” Susan assured her girlfriend. “Like I said, you’ve got the ability to lead people.” Ginny was grateful and decided to show it by kissing Susan on the mouth. Susan seized the opportunity and turned it into a full blown snogging session by grabbing Ginny by the arms and pulling her closer. Ginny had no intention of pulling back either, so the two of them got lost in their own little world. Hermione turned away and found Daphne at the door. “You too?” she asked the blonde witch. “They asked me to come after dinner,” Daphne told her. “Seems like they don’t need us anymore.” Hermione chuckled. “Yeah, but you know what, Daphne, I’m the birthday girl here, and I’ll be damned if I missed this glorious opportunity to have a bath of a lifetime,” she said, a sudden bolus of courage having filled her heart. Daphne giggled. The two of them approached the enormous pool in the center, leaving the snogging couple to themselves, and turned on different taps, commenting on which one they liked better. When they were done choosing, the pool was full of moderately warm water giving off a fragrance of lavender. “Wow, that smells nice,” Susan remarked. Somehow, she and Ginny had gotten down to only their underwear without Hermione and Daphne even realizing. Whether they had done it while snogging or after, Hermione had no idea. “Here I come!” Ginny yelled playfully. She made a run for the pool, naked-feet, and jumped into the water, making a huge splash that reached Hermione and Daphne, wetting their clothes. Ginny resurfaced, grinning, looking not the least bit guilty. Susan followed suit, and there was another splash that reached the two witches standing by the pool. Hermione gasped while wiping her face, trying to keep her bushy hair away that was clinging everywhere right now. Daphne was in a similar state. “You two are unbelievable,” Hermione said, scowling at the two witches in the pool. They only grinned back at her before Ginny asked Susan, “You up for a lap?” “Of course.” And the two of them began swimming around the edges of the pool. “Here.” Hermione looked up to find Daphne standing nearby with her wand in hand. She wasn’t wet anymore. Hermione realized Daphne ought to have dried herself up with a Warm Air Spell and was now offering her the same. “Thank you, but I’m going into the water anyway, are you coming?” Hermione asked her. Daphne shook her head and said, “I don’t prefer taking a bath at night, I catch cold pretty easily, so . . .” Hermione nodded in understanding. She unbuttoned her shirt and took off her skirt. She was wearing an even more expensive set of underwear today than the one that Susan and Ginny had teased her for back in the Hogwarts Express, but it was her birthday today, so she decided to stop overthinking and stepped into the water, where she was immediately attacked with splurts by Susan and Ginny. She joined the foray with enthusiasm and held her own in a two-on-one battle to decide who was/were the better one(s) tonight. Susan and Ginny were too much for Hermione to handle on her own, but she believed she performed pretty well and took pleasure that all three of them were panting and not just her. “Daph, what’re you doing there?” Susan’s voice made Hermione look around for the blonde Slytherin. Daphne was standing close to a portrait on the wall opposite to the entrance, her hands joined behind her, as if talking to the portrait. “Nothing,” she said, facing them again. “Are you finished?” “No way,” said Susan. “We’re just getting started, and we need your ass in this pool, Greengrass. So, come on, take your clothes off and jump in.” “Yeah,” said Ginny. “Join us, Daphne.” “See? Everyone is waiting for you,” Susan said, moving over to the edge of the pool. “Don’t be shy, Daph.” “I’m not being shy,” Daphne said, visibly uncomfortable to Hermione’s eyes. “I just don’t wish to take a bath right now.” “Not even when we all want you to?” asked Susan, dropping the cheerful tone altogether. “That’s not what I meant!” Daphne protested. “I just —” “It’s fine,” Susan said, her voice cold. “I’m going back too. Gin and I wanted to do this with you and Hermione both, but since you’re not interested, it’s no use lingering here any further. Sorry, Gin,” she added, facing Ginny, “we should go.” Ginny agreed, and the two of them got out of the pool. Hermione watched Daphne watching Susan and Ginny rub their bodies with towels rather silently, their backs towards Daphne. Hermione got out of the pool herself and approached Daphne. “Is something the matter?” she asked the blonde quietly. Daphne gulped. “I can’t — it’s embarrassing,” she admitted. “I don’t know what it is,” Hermione said honestly, “but if you can’t share it with them, it can’t be entirely right.” “It’s not wrong!” Daphne burst out. “I’m doing it for them — for her.” Her voice, however, had risen and fell in the other two witches’ ears. They turned around. Susan had a puzzled look on her face. “What have you been doing?” she asked. “And why can’t you tell us?” “I — I can’t,” Daphne said, looking away. “Why not?” “I . . . can’t.” Susan’s temper rose. “Oh yeah? And why is that so?” she said furiously, walking over to Daphne to stare her right in the eyes. “If you ever considered me your friend for even a single day of your life, you’re going to tell us the truth right now.” Susan’s eyes reflected the seriousness in her voice. “I JUST CAN’T, ALRIGHT?” Daphne screamed at Susan’s face, and as she hurried away, clutching her chest, her shoulder bumped into Susan’s, who stumbled backwards in a numb state. Daphne emerged out of the Prefect’s Bathroom with tears streaming down her eyes. She wiped them away with her sleeves, not stopping to take a pause until she had turned a corner. She pulled the necklace from beneath her top and held it in her palm. The tiny Time-Turner glinted in even dim light, especially the sand inside. It was a heirloom that the Greengrasses had kept confidential from the rest of the Wizarding world for generations. Daphne’s father had let her know about it since she was a child, and she had finally decided to utilize it for her own selfish whims. She had nicked it from their family vault this summer without her father noticing, and had been using it everyday since then. She was doing it all for Susan. That’s all there was to it.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

One result of their enormous workload and the frantic hours of practicing nonverbal spells was that Harry and Hermione had so far been unable to find time to go and visit Hagrid. He had stopped coming to meals at the staff table, an ominous sign, and on the few occasions when they had passed him in the corridors or out in the grounds, he had mysteriously failed to notice them or hear their greetings. “We’ve got to go and explain,” said Hermione, looking up at Hagrid’s huge empty chair at the staff table the following Saturday at breakfast. “I’ve got Quidditch tryouts this morning!” said Ginny. “And we’re supposed to be practicing that Aguamenti Charm from Flitwick!” said Susan. “Anyway, explain what? How are you going to tell him you hated his stupid subject?” “We didn’t hate it!” said Hermione. “Speak for yourself, I haven’t forgotten the skrewts,” said Ginny darkly. “And I’m telling you now, you’ve had a narrow escape,” said Susan. “You didn’t hear him going on about his gormless brother — we’d have been teaching Grawp how to tie his shoelaces if you’d stayed.” “I hate not talking to Hagrid,” said Hermione, looking upset. “We’ll go down this evening,” Harry assured her. He too was missing Hagrid, although like Susan he thought that they were better off without Grawp in their lives. “But trials might take all morning,” said Ginny, “the number of people who have applied.” She looked slightly nervous at the prospect of the tryouts. “I dunno why the team’s this popular all of a sudden.” The post owls arrived, swooping down through rain-flecked windows, scattering everyone with droplets of water. Most people were receiving more post than usual; anxious parents were keen to hear from their children and to reassure them, in turn, that all was well at home. Hermione was very surprised to see the snowy white Hedwig circling amongst all the brown and gray owls. She landed in front of Daphne carrying a large, square package. A moment later, an identical package landed in front of Ron, crushing beneath it his minuscule and exhausted owl, Pigwidgeon. “Ha!” said Daphne, unwrapping the parcel to reveal a new copy of Advanced Potion-Making, fresh from Flourish and Blotts. “Oh good,” said Hermione, delighted. “Now you can give that graffitied copy back.” “Are you mad?” said Daphne. “I’m keeping it! Look, I’ve thought it out —” She pulled the old copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of her bag and tapped the cover with his wand, muttering, “Diffindo!” The cover fell off. She did the same thing with the brand-new book (Hermione looked scandalized). She then swapped the covers, tapped each, and said, “Reparo!” There sat the Prince’s copy, disguised as a new book, and there sat the fresh copy from Flourish and Blotts, looking thoroughly second-hand. “I’ll give Slughorn back the new one, he can’t complain, it cost nine Galleons.” “All about deception, aren’t you?” Susan said sarcastically, giving Daphne a side-eye. Daphne ignored the jibe like it didn’t even exist. Susan and Daphne didn’t see eye-to-eye these days. Hermione pressed her lips together, looking angry and disapproving at Daphne, but was distracted by a third owl landing in front of her carrying that day’s copy of the Daily Prophet. She unfolded it hastily and scanned the front page. “Anyone we know dead?” asked Susan in a determinedly casual voice; she posed the same question every time Hermione opened her paper. “No, but there have been more dementor attacks,” said Hermione. “And an arrest.” “Excellent, who?” said Ginny, most apparently thinking of Bellatrix Lestrange. “Stan Shunpike,” said Hermione. “What?” said Harry, startled. “ ‘Stanley Shunpike, conductor on the popular Wizarding conveyance, the Knight Bus, has been arrested on suspicion of Death Eater activity. Mr. Shunpike, 21, was taken into custody late last night after a raid on his Clapham home . . .’ ” “Stan Shunpike, a Death Eater?” said Harry, remembering the spotty youth he had first met three years before. “No way!” “He might have been put under the Imperius Curse,” said Susan reasonably. “You never can tell.” “It doesn’t look like it,” said Hermione, who was still reading. “It says here he was arrested after he was overheard talking about the Death Eaters’ secret plans in a pub.” She looked up with a troubled expression on her face. “If he was under the Imperius Curse, he’d hardly stand around gossiping about their plans, would he?” “It sounds like he was trying to make out he knew more than he did,” said Susan. “Isn’t he the one who claimed he was going to become Minister of Magic when he was trying to chat up those veela?” “Yeah, that’s him,” said Harry. “I dunno what they’re playing at, taking Stan seriously.” “They probably want to look as though they’re doing something,” said Hermione, frowning. “People are terrified — you know the Patil twins’ parents want them to go home? And Eloise Midgen has already been withdrawn. Her father picked her up last night.” “But Hogwarts is safer than their homes, bound to be!” said Susan. “We’ve got Aurors, and all those extra protective spells, and we’ve got Dumbledore!” “I don’t think we’ve got him all the time,” said Hermione very quietly, glancing toward the staff table over the top of the Prophet. “Haven’t you noticed? His seat’s been empty as often as Hagrid’s this past week, and now that he’s not the Headmaster anymore, it feels intrusive to even question anyone where he is, if anyone knows where he is.” Harry, Susan, Ginny, and Daphne looked up at the staff table. The chair that Dumbledore occupied when present for meals was indeed empty. Now Harry came to think of it, he had not seen Dumbledore since their private lesson two weeks ago. “I think he’s left the school to do something with the Order,” said Hermione in a low voice. “I mean . . . it’s all looking serious, isn’t it? Harry, Susan, Ginny, and Daphne did not answer, but Hermione knew that they were all thinking the same thing. There had been a horrible incident the day before, when Hannah Abbott had been taken out of Herbology to be told her mother had been found dead. They had not seen Hannah since. “By the way, I wanted to tell you all something,” Susan said in a very small voice. “What’s it, Sue?” “I — er — Professor Sprout gave me Hannah’s Prefect badge,” she said miserably, pulling out a yellow and brown badge with a P imposed on it. In any other case Hermione would have squealed in joy but — “And I don’t like it,” Susan admitted. “I mean, it’s Hannah’s, and I confess I wanted it really badly last year but . . .” “You feel like a replacement?” said Ginny carefully. Susan nodded after a very uncomfortable pause. “Your House needs you, Sue,” said Harry. “Just do your job,” said Daphne. “Nobody asked you, you two-faced witch!” Susan said rudely. “What did you just call me?” Daphne asked furiously. “Do you even know what I —” “I want to see the tryouts,” Harry told Hermione in a loud voice; it signalled the end of Susan and Daphne’s banter. “I missed it last time.” “Er, yeah, okay,” Hermione said, finding no reason to deny. “Well, I’ll most probably be in the library if you need me,” said Susan, and she left the Great Hall. “See you later,” said Daphne, heading in the same direction as Susan. “Hermione, I have a little query about the last Charms homework,” Harry told his girlfriend. “I want to discuss it with Professor Flitwick.” “Let’s go then,” she said in an instant, never the one to refuse a chance to be engaged academically. “See you, Gin.” When Ginny left the Gryffindor table to head down to the Quidditch pitch, she passed Ron, Lavender, and Parvati Patil. Remembering what Hermione had said about the Patil twins’ parents wanting them to leave Hogwarts, Ginny was unsurprised to see that the two best friends were whispering together, looking distressed. As Ginny had expected, the trials took most of the morning. Half of Gryffindor House seemed to have turned up, from first-years who were nervously clutching a selection of the dreadful old school brooms, to seventh-years who towered over the rest, looking coolly intimidating. The latter included a large, wiry-haired boy Ginny recognized immediately from the Hogwarts Express. “We met on the train, in old Sluggy’s compartment,” he said confidently, stepping out of the crowd to shake Ginny’s hand. “Cormac McLaggen, Keeper.” “You didn’t try out last year, did you?” asked Ginny, taking note of the breadth of McLaggen and thinking that he would probably block all three goal hoops without even moving. “I was in the hospital wing when they held the trials,” said McLaggen, with something of a swagger. “Ate a pound of doxy eggs for a bet.” “Right,” said Katie Bell, striding over to them. “Well . . . if you wait over there . . .” She pointed over to the edge of the pitch, close to where Lavender and Parvati were sitting. Ginny thought she saw a flicker of annoyance pass over McLaggen’s face and wondered whether McLaggen expected preferential treatment because he was one of “old Sluggy’s” favorites. “Listen, Ginny,” said Katie, addressing the young redhead. “None of them have appeared to try for the Seeker, so you’re in the team already.” “Really?” Ginny said in disbelief. “Yeah,” said Katie, nodding her head. “Surprising, isn’t it? It’s like Harry left a drought of Seekers only you’re willing to fill.” Katie decided to start with a basic test, asking all applicants for the team to divide into groups of ten and fly once around the pitch. This was a good decision: The first ten was made up of first-years and it could not have been plainer that they had hardly ever flown before. Only one boy managed to remain airborne for more than a few seconds, and he was so surprised he promptly crashed into one of the goal posts. The second group was comprised of ten of the silliest girls Katie had ever encountered, who, when she blew her whistle, merely fell about giggling and clutching one another. Romilda Vane was amongst them. When Katie told them to leave the pitch, they did so quite cheerfully and went to sit in the stands to heckle everyone else. The third group had a pileup halfway around the pitch. Most of the fourth group had come without broomsticks. The fifth group were Hufflepuffs. “If there’s anyone else here who’s not from Gryffindor,” roared Katie, who was starting to get seriously annoyed, “leave now, please!” There was a pause, then a couple of little Ravenclaws went sprinting off the pitch, snorting with laughter. After two hours, many complaints, and several tantrums, one involving a crashed Comet Two Sixty and several broken teeth, Katie had found herself three Chasers: herself, who returned to the team after an excellent trial; a new find called Demelza Robins, who was particularly good at dodging Bludgers; and another new find, a third-year girl, Natalie McDonald, who had outflown all the competition and scored seventeen goals to boot. Pleased though she was with her choices, Katie had also shouted himself hoarse at the many complainers and was now enduring a similar battle with the rejected Beaters. “That’s my final decision and if you don’t get out of the way for the Keepers I’ll hex you,” she bellowed. Neither of her chosen Beaters had the old brilliance of Fred and George, but she was still reasonably pleased with them: Jimmy Peakes, a short but broad-chested third-year boy who had managed to raise a lump the size of an egg on the back of Katie’s head with a ferociously hit Bludger, and Ritchie Coote, who looked weedy but aimed well. They now joined Ginny, Katie, Demelza, and Natalie in the stands to watch the selection of their last team member. Katie had deliberately left the trial of the Keepers until last, hoping for an emptier stadium and less pressure on all concerned. Unfortunately, however, all the rejected players and a number of people who had come down to watch after a lengthy breakfast had joined the crowd by now, so that it was larger than ever. As each Keeper flew up to the goal hoops, the crowd roared and jeered in equal measure. Katie glanced over at Ron, who had always had a problem with nerves; Katie had hoped that winning their final match last term might have cured it, but apparently not: Ron was a delicate shade of green. None of the first five applicants saved more than two goals apiece. To Katie’s great disappointment, Cormac McLaggen saved four penalties out of five. On the last one, however, he shot off in completely the wrong direction; the crowd laughed and booed and McLaggen returned to the ground grinding his teeth. Ron looked ready to pass out as he mounted his Cleansweep Eleven. “Good luck!” cried a voice from the stands. Katie looked around to see it was Lavender Brown. Katie need not have worried: Ron saved one, two, three, four, five penalties in a row. Delighted, and resisting joining in the cheers of the crowd with difficulty, Katie turned to McLaggen to tell him that, most unfortunately, Ron had beaten him, only to find McLaggen’s red face inches from her own. He stepped back hastily. “His sister didn’t really try,” said McLaggen menacingly. There was a vein pulsing in his temple. “She gave him an easy save.” “Rubbish,” said Katie coldly. “That was the one he nearly missed.” McLaggen took a step nearer Katie, who stood her ground this time. “Give me another go.” “No,” said Katie. “You’ve had your go. You saved four. Ron saved five. Ron’s Keeper, he won it fair and square. Get out of my way.” She thought for a moment that McLaggen might engage physically, but he contented himself with an ugly grimace and stormed away, growling what sounded like threats to thin air. Katie turned around to find his new team beaming at him. “Well done,” she croaked. “You flew really well —” “You did brilliantly, Ron!” Lavender was running toward them from the stands. Ron looked extremely pleased with himself and even taller than usual as he grinned at the team and at Lavender. When Harry and Hermione returned to the Gryffindor common room after spending a couple of hours with Professor Flitwick, they found Ron excitedly telling Lavender how he secured his position as the Keeper in the team. “I thought I was going to miss that fourth penalty,” Ron was saying happily. “Tricky shot from Demelza, did you see, had a bit of spin on it —” “Yes, yes, you were magnificent,” said Lavender, looking amused. “I was better than that McLaggen anyway,” said Ron in a highly satisfied voice. “Did you see him lumbering off in the wrong direction on his fifth? Looked like he’d been Confunded. . . .” To Hermione’s surprise, Lavender turned a very deep shade of pink at these words. Ron noticed nothing; he was too busy describing each of his other penalties in loving detail. Harry and Hermione headed off towards Hagrid’s hut. A watery sun was trying to break through the clouds now and it had stopped drizzling at last. The great gray hippogriff, Buckbeak, was tethered in front of Hagrid’s cabin. He clicked his razor-sharp beak at their approach and turned his huge head toward them. “Oh dear,” said Hermione nervously. “He’s still a bit scary, isn’t he?” “I thought you liked riding him,” Harry said, grinning. “I liked riding him with you,” Hermione clarified. “You know my aversion to flying otherwise, don’t you?” “Too well,” said Harry, still grinning. He stepped forward and bowed low to the hippogriff without breaking eye contact or blinking. After a few seconds, Buckbeak sank into a bow too. “How are you?” Harry asked him in a low voice, moving forward to stroke the feathery head. “Oi!” said a loud voice. Hagrid had come striding around the corner of his cabin wearing a large flowery apron and carrying a sack of potatoes. His enormous boarhound, Fang, was at his heels; Fang gave a booming bark and bounded forward. “Git away from him! He’ll have yer fingers — oh. It’s yeh two.” Fang was jumping up at Hermione, attempting to lick her ears. Hagrid stood and looked at them both for a split second, then turned and strode into his cabin, slamming the door behind him. “Oh dear!” said Hermione, looking stricken. “Don’t worry about it,” said Harry grimly. He walked over to the door and knocked loudly. “Hagrid! Open up, we want to talk to you!” There was no sound from within. “If you don’t open the door, we’ll blast it open!” Harry said, pulling out his wand. “Harry!” said Hermione, sounding shocked. “You can’t possibly —” “Yeah, I can!” said Harry. “Stand back —” But before he could say anything else, the door flew open again as Harry had known it would, and there stood Hagrid, glowering down at him and looking, despite the flowery apron, positively alarming. “I’m a teacher!” he roared at Harry. “A teacher, Potter! How dare yeh threaten ter break down my door!” “I’m sorry, sir,” said Harry, emphasizing the last word as he stowed his wand inside his robes. Hagrid looked stunned. “Since when have yeh called me ‘sir’?” “Since when have you called me ‘Potter’?” “Oh, very clever,” growled Hagrid. “Very amusin’. That’s me outsmarted, innit? All righ’, come in then, yeh ungrateful little . . .” Mumbling darkly, he stood back to let them pass. Hermione scurried in after Harry, rather frightened. “Well?” said Hagrid grumpily, as Harry and Hermione sat down around his enormous wooden table, Fang laying his head immediately upon Harry’s knee and drooling all over his robes. “What’s this? Feelin’ sorry for me? Reckon I’m lonely or summat?” “No,” said Harry at once. “We wanted to see you.” “We’ve missed you!” said Hermione tremulously. “Missed me, have yeh?” snorted Hagrid. “Yeah. Righ’.” He stomped around, brewing up tea in his enormous copper kettle, muttering all the while. Finally he slammed down two bucket-sized mugs of mahogany-brown tea in front of them and a plate of his rock cakes. Harry took one out of compassion. “Hagrid,” said Hermione timidly, when he joined them at the table and started peeling his potatoes with a brutality that suggested that each tuber had done him a great personal wrong, “we really wanted to carry on with Care of Magical Creatures, you know.” Hagrid gave another great snort. Harry rather thought some bogeys landed on the potatoes, and was inwardly thankful that they were not staying for dinner. “We did!” said Hermione. “But none of us could fit it into our schedules!” “Yeah. Righ’,” said Hagrid again. There was a funny squelching sound and they all looked around: Hermione let out a tiny shriek. It was full of what looked like foot-long maggots, slimy, white, and writhing. “What are they, Hagrid?” asked Harry, trying to sound interested rather than revolted, but putting down his rock cake all the same. “Jus’ giant grubs,” said Hagrid. “And they grow into . . . ?” said Hermione, looking apprehensive. “They won’ grow inter nuthin’,” said Hagrid. “I got ’em ter feed ter Aragog.” And without warning, he burst into tears. “Hagrid!” cried Hermione, leaping up, hurrying around the table the long way to avoid the barrel of maggots, and putting an arm around his shaking shoulders. “What is it?” “It’s . . . him . . .” gulped Hagrid, his beetle-black eyes streaming as he mopped his face with his apron. “It’s . . . Aragog. . . . I think he’s dyin’. . . . He got ill over the summer an’ he’s not gettin’ better. . . . I don’ know what I’ll do if he . . . if he . . . We’ve bin tergether so long. . . .” Hermione patted Hagrid’s shoulder, looking at a complete loss for anything to say. Harry knew how she felt. He had known Hagrid to present a vicious baby dragon with a teddy bear, seen him croon over giant scorpions with suckers and stingers, attempt to reason with his brutal giant of a half-brother, but this was perhaps the most incomprehensible of all his monster fancies: the gigantic talking spider, Aragog, who dwelled deep in the Forbidden Forest and which Harry had only narrowly escaped four years previously. “Is there — is there anything we can do?” Hermione asked. “I don’ think there is, Hermione,” choked Hagrid, attempting to stem the flood of his tears. “See, the rest o’ the tribe . . . Aragog’s family . . . they’re gettin’ a bit funny now he’s ill . . . bit restive . . .” “Yeah, I think I saw a bit of that side of them,” said Harry in an undertone. “. . . I don’ reckon it’d be safe fer anyone but me ter go near the colony at the mo’,” Hagrid finished, blowing his nose hard on his apron and looking up. “But thanks fer offerin’, Hermione. . . . It means a lot. . . .” After that, the atmosphere lightened considerably, for although neither Harry nor Hermione had shown any inclination to go and feed giant grubs to a murderous, gargantuan spider, Hagrid seemed to take it for granted that they would have liked to have done and became his usual self once more. “Ar, I always knew yeh’d find it hard ter squeeze me inter yer timetables,” he said gruffly, pouring them more tea. “Even if yeh applied fer Time-Turners —” “We couldn’t have done,” said Hermione. “We smashed the entire stock of Ministry Time-Turners when we were there last summer. It was in the Daily Prophet.” “Ar, well then,” said Hagrid. “There’s no way yeh could’ve done it. . . . I’m sorry I’ve bin — yeh know — I’ve jus’ bin worried abou’ Aragog . . . an’ I did wonder whether, if Professor Grubbly-Plank had bin teachin’ yeh —” At which the two of them stated categorically and untruthfully that Professor Grubbly-Plank, who had substituted for Hagrid a few times, was a dreadful teacher, with the result that by the time Hagrid waved them off the premises at dusk, he looked quite cheerful. “I’m starving,” said Harry, once the door had closed behind them and they were hurrying through the dark and deserted grounds; he had abandoned the rock cake after an ominous cracking noise from one of his back teeth. As they came into the castle they spotted Cormac McLaggen entering the Great Hall. It took him two attempts to get through the doors; he ricocheted off the frame on the first attempt. Ron, who was entering the castle along with Lavender, merely guffawed gloatingly and strode off into the Hall after McLaggen, but Hermione caught Lavender’s arm and held her back. “What?” said Lavender defensively. “If you ask me,” said Hermione quietly, “McLaggen looks like he was Confunded this morning. And from what we’ve gathered from Ginny, he was standing right in front of where you were sitting.” Lavender blushed. “Oh, all right then, I did it,” she whispered. “But you should have heard the way he was talking about Ron and Ginny! Anyway, he’s got a nasty temper, you saw how he reacted when he didn’t get in — you wouldn’t have wanted someone like that on the team.” “No,” said Hermione. “No, I suppose that’s true. But wasn’t that dishonest, Lavender? I mean, you were a Prefect for almost a year, weren’t you?” “Oh, be quiet,” Lavender snapped, as Hermione smirked. “What are you three doing?” demanded Ron, reappearing in the doorway to the Great Hall and looking suspicious. “Nothing,” said Hermione and Lavender together, and they hurried after Ron. “Guess what?” Harry said tenderly as he and Hermione entered the Great Hall. “You want to go on a date tonight?” “Really?” said Hermione excitedly. “Where are you taking me?” “That’s a surprise.” But they had barely taken three steps toward the Gryffindor table when Professor Slughorn appeared in front of them, blocking their path. “Harry, Harry, just the man I was hoping to see!” he boomed genially, twiddling the ends of his walrus mustache and puffing out his enormous belly. “I was hoping to catch you before dinner! What do you say to a spot of supper tonight in my room instead? We’re having a little party, just a few rising stars, I’ve got McLaggen coming and Zabini, the charming Melinda Bobbin — I don’t know whether you know her? Her family owns a large chain of apothecaries — and, of course, I hope very much that Miss Granger will favor me by coming too.” Slughorn made Hermione a little bow as he finished speaking. “Er. . . .” Hermione paused, thinking very hard how to avoid this situation because she really wanted that dinner with Harry. “Sorry, Professor, we can’t come,” said Harry, noticing Hermione’s discomfort at once. “We’ve — I daresay — a date tonight and I really would be a fool to mess it up!” Slughorn, to Hermione’s surprise, boomed with laughter. “Your father’s son, you are,” he said, staring at Harry affectionately. “Alright, alright, this time, you can miss, but next time, I won’t hear a word.” “Thanks, Professor.” As Slughorn went away, Hermione hugged Harry tightly and kissed him passionately. “Thank you so much!” she said heartily. “As I said earlier, anything for you,” said Harry, giving her a kiss on the forehead. Harry thought of taking the Marauder’s Map, so after dinner, they made their way back to the Gryffindor Tower. The common room was very crowded, as most people had finished dinner by now, but they managed to find a free table and sat down. They were on their way to the boys’ dormitory when they caught Ginny talking to Neville while holding a copy of the Evening Prophet. “My dad’s in here — he’s all right!” Ginny added quickly, for Neville had looked at her in alarm. “It just says he’s been to visit the Malfoys’ house. ‘This second search of the Death Eater’s residence does not seem to have yielded any results. Arthur Weasley of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects said that his team had been acting upon a confidential tip-off.’ ” “Well, if it’s not at their house,” Harry interrupted, “he must have brought whatever it is to Hogwarts with him —” “But how can he have done, Harry?” said Ginny, putting down the newspaper with a surprised look. “We were all searched when we arrived, weren’t we?” “Were you?” said Harry, taken aback. “We weren’t!” “Oh no, of course you weren’t, I forgot you were late,” said Ginny. “Well, Filch ran over all of us with Secrecy Sensors when we got into the entrance hall. Any Dark object would have been found, I know for a fact Crabbe had a shrunken head confiscated. So you see, Malfoy can’t have brought in anything dangerous!” “Someone’s sent it to him by owl, then,” Harry went on. “His mother or someone.” “All the owls are being checked too,” said Neville. “Filch told us so when he was jabbing those Secrecy Sensors everywhere he could reach.” Not knowing how to press his point, Harry led Hermione up into the boys’ dormitory instead, from where they made their way to the top of the Astronomy Tower under the Invisibility Cloak. “This is brilliant,” said Hermione, shrugging the Cloak off of her shoulders and moving over to the parapet. “Look, what a sight.” It was indeed a beautiful sight. Hermione’s womanly figure leaning over the parapet under a twinkling sky, the dim moonlight illuminating her figure, making it look as if she was glowing. Harry folded and pocketed the Invisibility Cloak and stood next to Hermione, his elbow placed on the parapet, as he gazed at her. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, staring up and ahead at the sky. “Yeah,” Harry whispered, pushing a wild strand of hair behind her ear. “Beautiful indeed.” He had eyes for nothing but her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Where was Dumbledore, and what was he doing? Harry caught sight of the headmaster only twice over the next few weeks. He rarely appeared at meals anymore, and Harry was sure Hermione was right in thinking that he was leaving the school for days at a time. Had Dumbledore forgotten the lessons he was supposed to be giving Harry? Dumbledore had said that the lessons were leading to something to do with the prophecy; Harry had felt bolstered, comforted, and now he felt slightly abandoned. Halfway through October came their first trip of the term to Hogsmeade. Hermione had wondered whether these trips would still be allowed, given the increasingly tight security measures around the school, but was pleased to know that they were going ahead; it was always good to get out of the castle grounds for a few hours. Daphne woke early on the morning of the trip, which was proving stormy, and whiled away the time until breakfast by reading her copy of Advanced Potion-Making. It was not very unusual of her to lie in bed reading it. The more Daphne pored over the Half-Blood Prince’s book, the more she realized how much was in there, not only the handy hints and shortcuts on potions that were earning her such a glowing reputation with Slughorn, but also the imaginative little jinxes and hexes scribbled in the margins, which Daphne was sure, judging by the crossings-out and revisions, that the Prince had invented himself. Daphne had already attempted a few of the Prince’s self-invented spells. There had been a hex that caused toenails to grow alarmingly fast (she had tried this on Crabbe in the corridor, with very entertaining results); a jinx that glued the tongue to the roof of the mouth (which she had twice used on an unsuspecting Millicent Bulstrode); and, perhaps most useful of all, Muffliato, a spell that filled the ears of anyone nearby with an unidentifiable buzzing, so that lengthy conversations could be held in class without being overheard. The only person who did not find these charms amusing was Hermione, who maintained a rigidly disapproving expression throughout and refused to talk at all if Daphne had used the Muffliato spell on anyone in the vicinity. Sitting up in bed, Daphne turned the book sideways so as to examine more closely the scribbled instructions for a spell that seemed to have caused the Prince some trouble. There were many crossings-out and alterations, but finally, crammed into a corner of the page, the scribble:

Levicorpus (nvbl)

While the wind and sleet pounded relentlessly on the windows, and Millicent Bulstrode snored loudly, Daphne stared at the letters in brackets. Nvbl . . . that had to mean “nonverbal.” Daphne rather doubted she would be able to bring off this particular spell; she was still having difficulty with nonverbal spells. The Prince had proved a much more effective teacher than Snape so far. Pointing her wand at nothing in particular, she gave it an upward flick and said Levicorpus! inside her head. “Aaaaaaaargh!” There was a flash of light and the room was full of voices: Everyone had woken up as Pansy Parkinson had let out a yell. Daphne sent Advanced Potion-Making flying in panic; Pansy was dangling upside down in midair as though an invisible hook had hoisted her up by the ankle. Millicent Bulstrode roared with laughter. “Hang on — I’ll let you down —” said Daphne. She groped for the potion book and riffled through it in a panic, trying to find the right page; at last she located it and deciphered one cramped word underneath the spell: Praying that this was the counter-jinx, Daphne thought Liberacorpus! with all her might. There was another flash of light, and Pansy fell in a heap onto her mattress. “Are you okay?” Daphne asked weakly, while Millicent Bulstrode continued to roar with laughter. “I think so,” Pansy mumbled groggily. “Who cast it though?” “I — er — I was trying something, and the spell reflected off the ceiling — sorry,” Daphne said quietly. “Tomorrow,” said Pansy in a muffled voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” When Daphne reached the Great Hall for breakfast, Susan and Ginny were eating together. She went and told Ginny what happened at night, but she knew Susan was listening too. Ginny, being the only sister to a pair of tricksters, thought Daphne’s new spell was highly amusing; so amusing, in fact, that she lost no time in regaling Hermione and Harry with the story as they sat down for breakfast. Hermione had not cracked a smile during this anecdote, and now turned an expression of wintry disapproval upon Daphne. “Was this spell, by any chance, another one from that potion book of yours?” she asked. Daphne frowned at her. “Always jump to the worst conclusion, don’t you?” “Was it?” “Well . . . yeah, it was, but so what?” “So you just decided to try out an unknown, handwritten incantation and see what would happen?” “Why does it matter if it’s handwritten?” said Daphne, preferring not to answer the rest of the question. “Because it’s probably not Ministry of Magic–approved,” said Hermione. “And also,” she added, as Daphne and Ginny rolled their eyes, “because I’m starting to think this Prince character was a bit dodgy.” Surprisingly, Susan shouted her down at once before Daphne or Ginny could. “It was a laugh!” said Susan, upending a ketchup bottle over her sausages. “Just a laugh, Hermione, that’s all!” “Dangling people upside down by the ankle?” said Hermione. “Who puts their time and energy into making up spells like that?” “Fred and George,” said Ginny, “it’s their kind of thing. And, er —” “My dad,” said Harry. He had only just remembered. “What?” said Ginny, Susan, and Daphne together. “My dad used this spell,” said Harry. “Remember?” He and Hermione had had a particular excursion into the Pensieve where they had seen a young James Potter use the same hex on a young Snape. “Maybe your dad did use it, Harry,” said Hermione, “but he’s not the only one. We’ve seen a whole bunch of people use it, in case you’ve forgotten. Dangling people in the air. Making them float along, asleep, helpless.” They all stared at her. With a sinking feeling, Daphne too remembered the behavior of the Death Eaters at the Quidditch World Cup. Susan came to her aid. “That was different,” she said robustly. “They were abusing it. Daph was just having a laugh. You don’t like the Prince, Hermione,” she added, pointing a sausage at her sternly, “because Daph’s better than you at Potions —” “It’s got nothing to do with that!” said Hermione, her cheeks reddening. “I just think it’s very irresponsible to start performing spells when you don’t even know what they’re for, and stop talking about ‘the Prince’ as if it’s his title, I bet it’s just a stupid nickname, and it doesn’t seem as though he was a very nice person to me!” “I don’t see where you get that from,” said Daphne heatedly. “If he’d been a budding Death Eater he wouldn’t have been boasting about being ‘half-blood,’ would he?” “The Death Eaters can’t all be pure-blood, there aren’t enough pure-blood wizards left,” said Hermione stubbornly. “I expect most of them are half-bloods pretending to be pure. It’s only Muggleborns they hate.” “There is no way they’d let me be a Death Eater!” said Ginny indignantly. “My whole family are blood traitors! That’s as bad as Muggle-borns to Death Eaters!” “And they’d love to have me,” said Harry sarcastically. “We’d be best pals if they didn’t keep trying to do me in.” This made Ginny and Susan laugh; even Hermione gave a grudging smile, and a distraction arrived in the shape of Colin Creevey. “Hey, Harry, I’m supposed to give you this.” It was a scroll of parchment with Harry’s name written upon it in familiar thin, slanting writing. “Thanks, Colin . . . It’s Dumbledore’s next lesson!” Harry told the rest of them, pulling open the parchment and quickly reading its contents. “Monday evening!” He felt suddenly light and happy. Filch was standing at the oak front doors as usual, checking off the names of people who had permission to go into Hogsmeade. The process took even longer than normal as Filch was triple-checking everybody with his Secrecy Sensor. “What does it matter if we’re smuggling Dark stuff OUT?” demanded Ron, eyeing the long thin Secrecy Sensor with apprehension. “Surely you ought to be checking what we bring back IN?” His cheek earned him a few extra jabs with the Sensor, and he was still wincing as they stepped out into the wind and sleet. The walk into Hogsmeade was not enjoyable. Hermione wrapped her scarf over her lower face; the exposed part soon felt both raw and numb. The road to the village was full of students bent double against the bitter wind. More than once Harry wondered whether they might not have had a better time in the warm common room, and when they finally reached Hogsmeade and saw that Zonko’s Joke Shop had been boarded up, Harry took it as confirmation that this trip was not destined to be fun. Susan pointed, with a thickly gloved hand, toward Honeydukes, which was mercifully open, and Ginny, Daphne, Harry, and Hermione staggered in her wake into the crowded shop. “Thank Merlin,” shivered Susan as they were enveloped by warm, toffee-scented air. “Let’s stay here all afternoon.” “Harry, m’boy!” said a booming voice from behind them. “Oh no,” muttered Harry. The five of them turned to see Professor Slughorn, who was wearing an enormous furry hat and an overcoat with matching fur collar, clutching a large bag of crystalized pineapple, and occupying at least a quarter of the shop. “Harry, Miss Granger, that’s three of my little suppers you’ve missed now!” said Slughorn, poking Harry genially in the chest. “It won’t do, I’m determined to have you! Miss Greengrass loves them, don’t you?” “Yes,” said Daphne helplessly, “they’re really —” “So why don’t you come along, Harry?” demanded Slughorn. “How about Monday night?” “We can’t, Professor, we’ve got — er — an appointment with Professor Dumbledore that evening.” “Unlucky again!” cried Slughorn dramatically. “Ah, well . . . you can’t evade me forever, Harry!” And with a regal wave, he waddled out of the shop. “I can’t believe we’ve wriggled out of another one,” said Hermione, shaking her head. “They’re not that bad, you know,” said Ginny. “They’re even quite fun sometimes. . . .” “For you, Ginny,” said Daphne, sighing, “it’s the worst nightmare to me. You love socializing, I don’t.” “I don’t love it per se, but yeah, you’re definitely out of the circle in his parties,” said Ginny. “I noticed he didn’t ask you twice,” Daphne observed, frowning at Hermione. “Suits me,” said Hermione. “Oh, look — they’ve got deluxe sugar quills — those would last hours!” said Susan cheerfully. After they had purchased enough sweets, Hermione, Harry, Susan, Ginny, and Daphne bundled their scarves back over their faces and left the sweetshop. The bitter wind was like knives on their faces after the sugary warmth of Honeydukes. The street was not very busy; nobody was lingering to chat, just hurrying toward their destinations. The five of them had a goblet of butterbeer each, talked about their upcoming holidays and Ginny’s O.W.L. exams, before Hermione asked the rest of them whether they should call it a day. It was at this moment that Ginny asked Daphne, “I’ve heard from your sister you’re great with colors, can you help me pick some robes?” “I don’t mind,” said Daphne, shrugging. “Thanks,” said Ginny. “We’ll catch up with y’all later, guys.” Hence, it was only Hermione, Harry, and Susan who drew their cloaks tightly around them, rearranged their scarves, pulled on their gloves, and strolled back up the High Street; the weather was getting worse the longer they stayed. Hermione could make out Katie Bell, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, ahead of them with another girl. It was a little while before Hermione became aware that the voices of Katie Bell and her friend had become shriller and louder. Hermione squinted at their indistinct figures. The two girls were having an argument about something Katie was holding in her hand. “It’s nothing to do with you, Leanne!” Hermione heard Katie say. They rounded a corner in the lane, sleet coming thick and fast, blurring Harry’s glasses. Just as he raised a gloved hand to wipe them, Leanne made to grab hold of the package Katie was holding; Katie tugged it back and the package fell to the ground. At once, Katie rose into the air, suspended comically by the ankle, but gracefully, her arms outstretched, as though she was about to fly. Yet there was something wrong, something eerie. . . . Her hair was whipped around her by the fierce wind, but her eyes were closed and her face was quite empty of expression. Hermione, Harry, Susan, and Leanne had all halted in their tracks, watching. Then, six feet above the ground, Katie let out a terrible scream. Her eyes flew open but whatever she could see, or whatever she was feeling, was clearly causing her terrible anguish. She screamed and screamed; Leanne started to scream too and seized Katie’s ankles, trying to tug her back to the ground. Hermione, Harry, and Susan rushed forward to help, but even as they grabbed Katie’s legs, she fell on top of them; Harry and Susan managed to catch her but she was writhing so much they could hardly hold her. Instead they lowered her to the ground where she thrashed and screamed, apparently unable to recognize any of them. Hermione looked around; the landscape seemed deserted. “Stay there!” she shouted at the others over the howling wind. “I’m going for help!” She began to sprint toward the school; she had never seen anyone behave as Katie had just behaved and could not think what had caused it; she hurtled around a bend in the lane and collided with what seemed to be an enormous bear on its hind legs. “Hagrid!” she panted, disentangling herself from the hedgerow into which she had fallen. “Hermione!” said Hagrid, who had sleet trapped in his eyebrows and beard, and was wearing his great, shaggy beaverskin coat. “Jus’ bin visitin’ Grawp, he’s comin’ on so well yeh wouldn’ —” “Hagrid, someone’s hurt back there, or cursed, or something —” “Wha?” said Hagrid, bending lower to hear what Hermione was saying over the raging wind. “Someone’s been cursed!” she bellowed. “Cursed? Who’s bin cursed — not Harry?” “No, it’s not him, it’s Katie Bell — this way . . .” Together they ran back along the lane. It took them no time to find the little group of people around Katie, who was still writhing and screaming on the ground; Harry, Susan, and Leanne were all trying to quiet her. “Get back!” shouted Hagrid. “Lemme see her!” “Something’s happened to her!” sobbed Leanne. “I don’t know what —” Hagrid stared at Katie for a second, then without a word, bent down, scooped her into his arms, and ran off toward the castle with her. Within seconds, Katie’s piercing screams had died away and the only sound was the roar of the wind. Hermione hurried over to Katie’s wailing friend and put an arm around her. “It’s Leanne, isn’t it?” The girl nodded. “Did it just happen all of a sudden, or — ?” “It was when that package tore,” sobbed Leanne, pointing at the now sodden brown-paper package on the ground, which had split open to reveal a greenish glitter. Susan bent down, her hand outstretched, but Harry seized her arm and pulled her back. “Don’t touch it!” He crouched down. An ornate opal necklace was visible, poking out of the paper. “I’ve seen that before,” said Harry, staring at the thing. “It was on display in Borgin and Burkes ages ago. The label said it was cursed. Katie must have touched it.” He looked up at Leanne, who had started to shake uncontrollably. “How did Katie get hold of this?” “Well, that’s why we were arguing. She came back from the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks holding it, said it was a surprise for somebody at Hogwarts and she had to deliver it. She looked all funny when she said it. . . . Oh no, oh no, I bet she’d been Imperiused and I didn’t realize!” Leanne shook with renewed sobs. Hermione patted her shoulder gently. “She didn’t say who’d given it to her, Leanne?” “No . . . she wouldn’t tell me . . . and I said she was being stupid and not to take it up to school, but she just wouldn’t listen and . . . and then I tried to grab it from her . . . and — and —” Leanne let out a wail of despair. “We’d better get up to school,” said Hermione, her arm still around Leanne. “We’ll be able to find out how she is. Come on. . . .” Harry hesitated for a moment, then pulled his scarf from around his face and, ignoring Susan’s gasp, carefully covered the necklace in it and picked it up. “We’ll need to show this to Madam Pomfrey,” he said. As they went up the road, Hermione was thinking furiously. They had just entered the grounds when she spoke, unable to keep her thoughts to herself any longer. “Malfoy knows about this necklace. It was in a case at Borgin and Burkes four years ago, we saw him having a good look at it while we were hiding from him and his dad. This is what he was buying that day when we followed him! He remembered it and he went back for it!” “I — I dunno, Hermione,” said Susan hesitantly. “Loads of people go to Borgin and Burkes . . . and didn’t that girl say Katie got it in the girls’ bathroom?” “She said she came back from the bathroom with it, she didn’t necessarily get it in the bathroom itself —” “McGonagall!” said Harry warningly. Hermione looked up. Sure enough, Professor McGonagall was hurrying down the stone steps through swirling sleet to meet them. “Hagrid says you four saw what happened to Katie Bell — upstairs to my office at once, please! What’s that you’re holding, Potter?” “It’s the thing she touched,” said Harry. “Good lord,” said Professor McGonagall, looking alarmed as she took the necklace from Harry. “No, no, Filch, they’re with me!” she added hastily, as Filch came shuffling eagerly across the entrance hall holding his Secrecy Sensor aloft. “Take this necklace to Professor Snape at once, but be sure not to touch it, keep it wrapped in the scarf!” Hermione, Harry, Susan, and Leanne followed Professor McGonagall upstairs and into her office. The sleet-spattered windows were rattling in their frames, and the room was chilly despite the fire crackling in the grate. Professor McGonagall closed the door and swept around her desk to face Hermione, Harry, Susan, and the still sobbing Leanne. “Well?” she said sharply. “What happened?” Haltingly, and with many pauses while she attempted to control her crying, Leanne told Professor McGonagall how Katie had gone to the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks and returned holding the unmarked package, how Katie had seemed a little odd, and how they had argued about the advisability of agreeing to deliver unknown objects, the argument culminating in the tussle over the parcel, which tore open. At this point, Leanne was so overcome, there was no getting another word out of her. “All right,” said Professor McGonagall, not unkindly, “go up to the hospital wing, please, Leanne, and get Madam Pomfrey to give you something for shock.” When she had left the room, Professor McGonagall turned back to Hermione, Harry, and Susan. “What happened when Katie touched the necklace?” “She rose up in the air,” said Harry, “and then began to scream, and collapsed. Professor, can I see Professor Dumbledore, please?” “He is away until Monday, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, looking surprised. “Away?” Harry repeated angrily. “Yes, Potter, away!” said Professor McGonagall tartly. “But anything you have to say about this horrible business can be said to me, I’m sure!” For a split second, Harry hesitated. Professor McGonagall did not invite confidences; Dumbledore, though in many ways more intimidating, still seemed less likely to scorn a theory, however wild. This was a life-and-death matter, though, and no moment to worry about being laughed at. “I think Draco Malfoy gave Katie that necklace, Professor.” On one side of him, Susan shuffled her feet as though quite keen to put a bit of distance between herself and Harry; on the other, however, Hermione stood firmly. “That is a very serious accusation, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, after a shocked pause. “Do you have any proof?” “No,” said Harry, “but . . .” and he told her about following Malfoy to Borgin and Burkes and the conversation they had overheard between him and Mr. Borgin. When he had finished speaking, Professor McGonagall looked slightly confused. “Malfoy took something to Borgin and Burkes for repair?” “No, Professor, he just wanted Borgin to tell him how to mend something, he didn’t have it with him. But that’s not the point, the thing is that he bought something at the same time, and I think it was that necklace —” “You saw Malfoy leaving the shop with a similar package?” “No, Professor, he told Borgin to keep it in the shop for him —” “But Harry,” Susan interrupted, “Borgin asked him if he wanted to take it with him, and Malfoy said no —” “Because he didn’t want to touch it, obviously!” said Harry angrily. “What he actually said was, ‘How would I look carrying that down the street?’ ” said Susan. “You told me like a dozen times, remember?” “Well, he would look a bit of a prat carrying a necklace,” interjected Hermione. “Oh, Hermione,” said Susan despairingly, “it would be all wrapped up, so he wouldn’t have to touch it, and quite easy to hide inside a cloak, so nobody would see it! I think whatever he reserved at Borgin and Burkes was noisy or bulky, something he knew would draw attention to him if he carried it down the street — and in any case,” she pressed on loudly, before Harry could interrupt, “You asked Borgin about the necklace, didn’t you? When you went in to try and find out what Malfoy had asked him to keep, Borgin just told you the price, he didn’t say it was already sold or anything —” “Well, I was being really obvious, he realized what I was up to within about five seconds, of course he wasn’t going to tell me — anyway, Malfoy could’ve sent off for it since —” “That’s enough!” said Professor McGonagall, as Susan opened her mouth to retort, looking furious. “Potter, I appreciate you telling me this, but we cannot point the finger of blame at Mr. Malfoy purely because he visited the shop where this necklace might have been purchased. The same is probably true of hundreds of people —” “— that’s what I said —” muttered Susan. “— and in any case, we have put stringent security measures in place this year. I do not believe that necklace can possibly have entered this school without our knowledge —” “But —” “— and what is more,” said Professor McGonagall, with an air of awful finality, “Mr. Malfoy was not in Hogsmeade today.” Harry gaped at her, deflating. “How do you know, Professor?” “Because he was doing detention with me. He has now failed to complete his Transfiguration homework twice in a row. So, thank you for telling me your suspicions, Potter,” she said as she marched past them, “but I need to go up to the hospital wing now to check on Katie Bell. Good day to you all.” She held open her office door. They had no choice but to file past her without another word. Harry was quite dejected; nevertheless, he felt compelled to join in once Hermione and Susan started discussing what had happened. “So who do you reckon Katie was supposed to give the necklace to?” asked Susan, as they climbed the stairs to the common room. “Goodness only knows,” said Hermione. “But whoever it was has had a narrow escape. No one could have opened that package without touching the necklace.” “It could’ve been meant for loads of people,” said Harry. “Dumbledore — the Death Eaters would love to get rid of him, he must be one of their top targets. Or Slughorn — Dumbledore reckons Voldemort really wanted him and they can’t be pleased that he’s sided with Dumbledore. Or —” “Or you,” said Hermione, looking troubled. “Couldn’t have been,” said Harry, “or Katie would’ve just turned around in the lane and given it to me, wouldn’t she? I was behind her all the way out of the Three Broomsticks. It would have made much more sense to deliver the parcel outside Hogwarts, what with Filch searching everyone who goes in and out. I wonder why Malfoy told her to take it into the castle?” “Harry, Malfoy wasn’t in Hogsmeade!” said Susan, actually stamping her foot in frustration. “He must have used an accomplice, then,” said Harry. “Crabbe or Goyle — or, come to think of it, another Death Eater, he’ll have loads better cronies than Crabbe and Goyle now he’s joined up —” Susan owned a look that plainly said There’s no point arguing with him. “It wasn’t a very slick attack, really, when you stop and think about it,” she said after a brief pause. “The curse didn’t even make it into the castle. Not what you’d call foolproof.” “You’re right,” said Hermione. “It wasn’t very well thought-out at all.” “But since when has Malfoy been one of the world’s great thinkers?” asked Harry. Unable to help it, Hermione and Susan both giggled.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Katie was removed to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries the following day, by which time the news that she had been cursed had spread all over the school, though the details were confused and nobody other than Hermione, Harry, Susan, Ginny, Daphne, and Leanne seemed to know that Katie herself had not been the intended target. Hermione had wondered whether Dumbledore would return from wherever he had been in time for Monday night’s lesson, but having had no word to the contrary, she and Harry presented themselves outside Dumbledore’s chamber at eight o’clock, knocked, and were told to enter. There sat Dumbledore looking unusually tired; his hand was as black and burned as ever, but he smiled when he gestured to the two of them to sit down. The Pensieve was sitting on the desk again, casting silvery specks of light over the ceiling. “You have had a busy time while I have been away,” Dumbledore said. “I believe you witnessed Katie’s accident.” “Yes, sir. How is she?” said Hermione. “Still very unwell, although she was relatively lucky. She appears to have brushed the necklace with the smallest possible amount of skin: There was a tiny hole in her glove. Had she put it on, had she even held it in her ungloved hand, she would have died, perhaps instantly. Luckily Professor Snape was able to do enough to prevent a rapid spread of the curse. He knows much more about the Dark Arts than Madam Pomfrey. Anyway, the St. Mungo’s staff are sending Minerva hourly reports, and we are hopeful that Katie will make a full recovery in time.” “Where were you this weekend, sir?” Harry asked, disregarding a strong feeling that he might be pushing his luck. “I would rather not say just now,” said Dumbledore. “However, I shall tell you in due course.” “You will?” said Harry, startled. “Yes, I expect so,” said Dumbledore, withdrawing a fresh bottle of silver memories from inside his robes and uncorking it with a prod of his wand. “Sir,” said Harry tentatively, “did Professor McGonagall tell you what I told her after Katie got hurt? About Draco Malfoy?” “She told me of your suspicions, yes,” said Dumbledore. “And do you — ?” “I shall take all appropriate measures to investigate anyone who might have had a hand in Katie’s accident,” said Dumbledore. “But what concerns me now, Harry, is our lesson.” Dumbledore poured the fresh memories into the Pensieve and began swirling the stone basin once more between his long-fingered hands. “You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lord Voldemort’s beginnings at the point where the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London, expecting the baby who would one day become Lord Voldemort.” “How do you know she was in London, sir?” asked Hermione. “Because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke,” said Dumbledore, “who, by an odd coincidence, helped found the very shop whence came the necklace we have just been discussing.” He swilled the contents of the Pensieve as Hermione and Harry had seen him swill them before, much as a gold prospector sifts for gold. Up out of the swirling, silvery mass rose a little old man revolving slowly in the Pensieve, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with a thatch of hair that completely covered his eyes. “Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along . . . Going to have a baby, see. She said the locket had been Slytherin’s. Well, we hear that sort of story all the time, ‘Oh, this was Merlin’s, this was, his favorite teapot,’ but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn’t seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!” Dumbledore gave the Pensieve an extra-vigorous shake and Caractacus Burke descended back into the swirling mass of memory from whence he had come. “He only gave her ten Galleons?” said Hermione indignantly. “Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity,” said Dumbledore. “So we know that, near the end of her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and in desperate need of gold, desperate enough to sell her one and only valuable possession, the locket that was one of Marvolo’s treasured family heirlooms.” “But she could do magic!” said Harry impatiently. “She could have got food and everything for herself by magic, couldn’t she?” “Ah,” said Dumbledore, “perhaps she could. But it is my belief — I am guessing again, but I am sure I am right — that when her husband abandoned her, Merope stopped using magic. I do not think that she wanted to be a witch any longer. Of course, it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of her powers; that can happen. In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life.” “She wouldn’t even stay alive for her son?” Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?” “No,” said Harry quickly, “but she had a choice, didn’t she, not like my mother —” “Your mother had a choice too,” said Dumbledore gently. “Yes, Merope Riddle chose death in spite of a son who needed her, but do not judge her too harshly, Harry. She was greatly weakened by long suffering and she never had your mother’s courage. And now, if you will stand . . .” “Where are we going?” Hermione asked, as Dumbledore joined them at the front of the desk. “This time,” said Dumbledore, “we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you . . .” Hermione bent over the Pensieve; her face broke the cool surface of the memory and then she was falling through the darkness again. . . . Seconds later, her feet hit firm ground; she opened her eyes and found that she, Harry, and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street. “There I am,” said Dumbledore brightly, pointing ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart. This younger Albus Dumbledore’s long hair and beard were auburn. Having reached their side of the street, he strode off along the pavement, drawing many curious glances due to the flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that he was wearing. “Nice suit, sir,” said Hermione, before she could stop herself, but Dumbledore merely chuckled as they followed his younger self a short distance, finally passing through a set of iron gates into a bare courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building surrounded by high railings. He mounted the few steps leading to the front door and knocked once. After a moment or two, the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron. “Good afternoon. I have an appointment with Mrs. Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?” “Oh,” said the bewildered-looking girl, taking in Dumbledore’s eccentric appearance. “Um . . . just a mo’ . . . MRS. COLE!” she bellowed over her shoulder. Hermione heard a distant voice shouting something in response. The girl turned back to Dumbledore. “Come in, she’s on ’er way.” Dumbledore stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly clean. Hermione, Harry, and the older Dumbledore followed. Before the front door had closed behind them, a skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying toward them. She had a sharp-featured face that appeared more anxious than unkind, and she was talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper as she walked toward Dumbledore. “. . . and take the iodine upstairs to Martha, Billy Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley’s oozing all over his sheets — chicken pox on top of everything else,” she said to nobody in particular, and then her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a giraffe had just crossed her threshold. “Good afternoon,” said Dumbledore, holding out his hand. Mrs. Cole simply gaped. “My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today.” Mrs. Cole blinked. Apparently deciding that Dumbledore was not a hallucination, she said feebly, “Oh yes. Well — well then — you’d better come into my room. Yes.” She led Dumbledore into a small room that seemed part sitting room, part office. It was as shabby as the hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. She invited Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair and seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him nervously. “I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom Riddle and arrangements for his future,” said Dumbledore. “Are you family?” asked Mrs. Cole. “No, I am a teacher,” said Dumbledore. “I have come to offer Tom a place at my school.” “What school’s this, then?” “It is called Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore. “And how come you’re interested in Tom?” “We believe he has qualities we are looking for.” “You mean he’s won a scholarship? How can he have done? He’s never been entered for one.” “Well, his name has been down for our school since birth —” “Who registered him? His parents?” There was no doubt that Mrs. Cole was an inconveniently sharp woman. Apparently Dumbledore thought so too, for Hermione now saw him slip his wand out of the pocket of his velvet suit, at the same time picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs. Cole’s desktop. “Here,” said Dumbledore, waving his wand once as he passed her the piece of paper, “I think this will make everything clear.” Mrs. Cole’s eyes slid out of focus and back again as she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment. “That seems perfectly in order,” she said placidly, handing it back. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few seconds before. “Er — may I offer you a glass of gin?” she said in an extra-refined voice. “Thank you very much,” said Dumbledore, beaming. It soon became clear that Mrs. Cole was no novice when it came to gin drinking. Pouring both of them a generous measure, she drained her own glass in one gulp. Smacking her lips frankly, she smiled at Dumbledore for the first time, and he didn’t hesitate to press his advantage. “I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle’s history? I think he was born here in the orphanage?” “That’s right,” said Mrs. Cole, helping herself to more gin. “I remember it clear as anything, because I’d just started here myself. New Year’s Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn’t the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour.” Mrs. Cole nodded impressively and took another generous gulp of gin. “Did she say anything before she died?” asked Dumbledore. “Anything about the boy’s father, for instance?” “Now, as it happens, she did,” said Mrs. Cole, who seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand and an eager audience for her story. “I remember she said to me, ‘I hope he looks like his papa,’ and I won’t lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty — and then she told me he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father — yes, I know, funny name, isn’t it? We wondered whether she came from a circus — and she said the boy’s surname was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word. “Well, we named him just as she’d said, it seemed so important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he’s been here ever since.” Mrs. Cole helped herself, almost absentmindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she said, “He’s a funny boy.” “Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I thought he might be.” “He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was . . . odd.” “Odd in what way?” asked Dumbledore gently. “Well, he —” But Mrs. Cole pulled up short, and there was nothing blurry or vague about the inquisitorial glance she shot Dumbledore over her gin glass. “He’s definitely got a place at your school, you say?” “Definitely,” said Dumbledore. “And nothing I say can change that?” “Nothing,” said Dumbledore. “You’ll be taking him away, whatever?” “Whatever,” repeated Dumbledore gravely. She squinted at him as though deciding whether or not to trust him. Apparently she decided she could, because she said in a sudden rush, “He scares the other children.” “You mean he is a bully?” asked Dumbledore. “I think he must be,” said Mrs. Cole, frowning slightly, “but it’s very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents. . . . Nasty things . . .” Dumbledore did not press her, though Hermione could tell that he was interested. Mrs. Cole took yet another gulp of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still. “Billy Stubbs’s rabbit . . . well, Tom said he didn’t do it and I don’t see how he could have done, but even so, it didn’t hang itself from the rafters, did it?” “I shouldn’t think so, no,” said Dumbledore quietly. “But I’m jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before. And then” — Mrs. Cole took another swig of gin, slopping a little over her chin this time — “on the summer outing — we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside — well, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they’d gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they’d just gone exploring, but something happened in there, I’m sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things. . . .” She looked around at Dumbledore again, and though her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was steady. “I don’t think many people will be sorry to see the back of him.” “You understand, I’m sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently?” said Dumbledore. “He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer.” “Oh, well, that’s better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker,” said Mrs. Cole with a slight hiccup. She got to her feet, and Hermione was impressed to see that she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of the gin was now gone. “I suppose you’d like to see him?” “Very much,” said Dumbledore, rising too. She led him out of her office and up the stone stairs, calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers and children as she passed. The orphans, Hermione saw, were all wearing the same kind of grayish tunic. They looked reasonably well-cared for, but there was no denying that this was a grim place in which to grow up. “Here we are,” said Mrs. Cole, as they turned off the second landing and stopped outside the first door in a long corridor. She knocked twice and entered. “Tom? You’ve got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton — sorry, Dunderbore. He’s come to tell you — well, I’ll let him do it.” Hermione, Harry, and the two Dumbledores entered the room, and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe, a wooden chair, and an iron bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book. There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle’s face. Merope had got her dying wish: He was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired, and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore’s eccentric appearance. There was a moment’s silence. “How do you do, Tom?” said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand. The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital patient and visitor. “I am Professor Dumbledore.” “ ‘Professor’?” repeated Riddle. He looked wary. “Is that like ‘doctor’? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?” He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left. “No, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “I don’t believe you,” said Riddle. “She wants me looked at, doesn’t she? Tell the truth!” He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if anything, warier still. “Who are you?” “I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school — your new school, if you would like to come.” Riddle’s reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious. “You can’t kid me! The asylum, that’s where you’re from, isn’t it? ‘Professor,’ yes, of course — well, I’m not going, see? That old cat’s the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they’ll tell you!” “I am not from the asylum,” said Dumbledore patiently. “I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you —” “I’d like to see them try,” sneered Riddle. “Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, as though he had not heard Riddle’s last words, “is a school for people with special abilities —” “I’m not mad!” “I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic.” There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Dumbledore’s, as though trying to catch one of them lying. “Magic?” he repeated in a whisper. “That’s right,” said Dumbledore. “It’s . . . it’s magic, what I can do?” “What is it that you can do?” “All sorts,” breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. “I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.” His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer. “I knew I was different,” he whispered to his own quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.” “Well, you were quite right,” said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. “You are a wizard.” Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured: There was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial. “Are you a wizard too?” “Yes, I am.” “Prove it,” said Riddle at once, in the same commanding tone he had used when he had said, “Tell the truth.” Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts —” “Of course I am!” “Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir.’ ” Riddle’s expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite voice, “I’m sorry, sir. I meant — please, Professor, could you show me — ?” Hermione was sure that Dumbledore was going to refuse, that he would tell Riddle there would be plenty of time for practical demonstrations at Hogwarts, that they were currently in a building full of Muggles and must therefore be cautious. To her great surprise, however, Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of his suit jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick. The wardrobe burst into flames. Riddle jumped to his feet; Hermione could hardly blame him for howling in shock and rage; all his worldly possessions must be in there. But even as Riddle rounded on Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged. Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore; then, his expression greedy, he pointed at the wand. “Where can I get one of them?” “All in good time,” said Dumbledore. “I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe.” And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. For the first time, Riddle looked frightened. “Open the door,” said Dumbledore. Riddle hesitated, then crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above a rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box was shaking and rattling as though there were several frantic mice trapped inside it. “Take it out,” said Dumbledore. Riddle took down the quaking box. He looked unnerved. “Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?” asked Dumbledore. Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating look. “Yes, I suppose so, sir,” he said finally, in an expressionless voice. “Open it,” said Dumbledore. Riddle took off the lid and tipped the contents onto his bed without looking at them. Hermione, who had expected something much more exciting, saw a mess of small, everyday objects: a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ among them. Once free of the box, they stopped quivering and lay quite still upon the thin blankets. “You will return them to their owners with your apologies,” said Dumbledore calmly, putting his wand back into his jacket. “I shall know whether it has been done. And be warned: Thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts.” Riddle did not look remotely abashed; he was still staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore. At last he said in a colorless voice, “Yes, sir.” “At Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, “we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have — inadvertently, I am sure — been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic — yes, there is a Ministry — will punish law-breakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws.” “Yes, sir,” said Riddle again. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his face remained quite blank as he put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he had finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said baldly, “I haven’t got any money.” “That is easily remedied,” said Dumbledore, drawing a leather money-pouch from his pocket. “There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but —” “Where do you buy spell-books?” interrupted Riddle, who had taken the heavy money bag without thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat gold Galleon. “In Diagon Alley,” said Dumbledore. “I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything —” “You’re coming with me?” asked Riddle, looking up. “Certainly, if you —” “I don’t need you,” said Riddle. “I’m used to doing things for myself, I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley — sir?” he added, catching Dumbledore’s eye. Hermione thought that Dumbledore would insist upon accompanying Riddle, but once again she was surprised. Dumbledore handed Riddle the envelope containing his list of equipment, and after telling Riddle exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from the orphanage, he said, “You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you — non-magical people, that is — will not. Ask for Tom the barman — easy enough to remember, as he shares your name —” Riddle gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to displace an irksome fly. “You dislike the name ‘Tom’?” “There are a lot of Toms,” muttered Riddle. Then, as though he could not suppress the question, as though it burst from him in spite of himself, he asked, “Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they’ve told me.” “I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Dumbledore, his voice gentle. “My mother can’t have been magic, or she wouldn’t have died,” said Riddle, more to himself than Dumbledore. “It must’ve been him. So — when I’ve got all my stuff — when do I come to this Hogwarts?” “All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope,” said Dumbledore. “You will leave from King’s Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too.” Riddle nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again. Taking it, Riddle said, “I can speak to snakes. I found out when we’ve been to the country on trips — they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?” Hermione could tell that he had withheld mention of this strangest power until that moment, determined to impress. “It is unusual,” said Dumbledore, after a moment’s hesitation, “but not unheard of.” His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously over Riddle’s face. They stood for a moment, man and boy, staring at each other. Then the handshake was broken; Dumbledore was at the door. “Good-bye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts.” “I think that will do,” said the white-haired Dumbledore at Harry’s side, and seconds later, they were soaring weightlessly through darkness once more, before landing squarely in the presentday office. “Sit down,” said Dumbledore, landing beside Hermione and Harry. “He believed it much quicker than I did — I mean, when you told him he was a wizard,” said Harry. “I didn’t believe Hagrid at first, when he told me.” “Yes, Riddle was perfectly ready to believe that he was — to use his word — ‘special,’ ” said Dumbledore. “Did you know — then?” asked Harry. “Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time?” said Dumbledore. “No, I had no idea that he was to grow up to be what he is. However, I was certainly intrigued by him. I returned to Hogwarts intending to keep an eye upon him, something I should have done in any case, given that he was alone and friendless, but which, already, I felt I ought to do for others’ sake as much as his. “His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard and — most interestingly and ominously of all — he had already discovered that he had some measure of control over them, and begun to use them consciously. And as you saw, they were not the random experiments typical of young wizards: He was already using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and the young boy and girl he lured into a cave were most suggestive. . . . ‘I can make them hurt if I want to. . . .’ ” “And he was a Parselmouth,” interjected Harry. “Yes, indeed; a rare ability, and one supposedly connected with the Dark Arts, although as we know, there are Parselmouths among the great and the good too. In fact, his ability to speak to serpents did not make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy, and domination. “Time is making fools of us again,” said Dumbledore, indicating the dark sky beyond the windows. “But before we part, I want to draw your attention to certain features of the scene we have just witnessed, for they have a great bearing on the matters we shall be discussing in future meetings. “Firstly, I hope you noticed Riddle’s reaction when I mentioned that another shared his first name, ‘Tom’?” Hermione and Harry nodded. “There he showed his contempt for anything that tied him to other people, anything that made him ordinary. Even then, he wished to be different, separate, notorious. He shed his name, as you know, within a few short years of that conversation and created the mask of ‘Lord Voldemort’ behind which he has been hidden for so long. “I trust that you also noticed that Tom Riddle was already highly self-sufficient, secretive, and, apparently, friendless? He did not want help or companionship on his trip to Diagon Alley. He preferred to operate alone. The adult Voldemort is the same. You will hear many of his Death Eaters claiming that they are in his confidence, that they alone are close to him, even understand him. They are deluded. Lord Voldemort has never had a friend, nor do I believe that he has ever wanted one. “And lastly — I hope you are not too sleepy to pay attention to this, Harry, Hermione — the young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles he had hidden in his room. These were taken from victims of his bullying behavior, souvenirs, if you will, of particularly unpleasant bits of magic. Bear in mind this magpie-like tendency, for this, particularly, will be important later. “And now, it really is time for bed.” Hermione and Harry got to their feet. As they walked across the room, Hermione’s eyes fell upon the little table on which Marvolo Gaunt’s ring had rested last time, but the ring was no longer there. “Yes, Hermione?” said Dumbledore, for they had come to a halt. “The ring’s gone,” said Hermione, looking around. “But I thought you might have the mouth organ or something.” Dumbledore beamed at her, peering over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “Very astute, Hermione, but the mouth organ was only ever a mouth organ.” And on that enigmatic note he waved to Hermione and Harry, who understood themselves to be dismissed.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Hermione and Harry had Herbology first thing the next morning. They had been unable to tell Susan and Daphne about their lesson with Dumbledore over breakfast for fear of being overheard, but they filled the two witches in as they walked across the vegetable patch toward the greenhouses. The weekend’s brutal wind had died out at last; the weird mist had returned and it took them a little longer than usual to find the correct greenhouse. “Wow, scary thought, the boy You-Know-Who,” said Susan quietly, as they took their places around one of the gnarled Snargaluff stumps that formed this term’s project, and began pulling on their protective gloves. “But I still don’t get why Dumbledore’s showing you all this. I mean, it’s really interesting and everything, but what’s the point?” “He says it’s all important and it’ll help me survive,” said Harry, inserting a gum shield. “I think it’s fascinating,” said Daphne earnestly. “It makes absolute sense to know as much about the Dark Lord as possible. How else will you find out his weaknesses?” “Quite enough chat over here!” said Professor Sprout briskly, bustling over and looking stern. “You’re lagging behind, everybody else has started, and Neville’s already got his first pod!” They looked around; sure enough, there sat Neville with a bloody lip and several nasty scratches along the side of his face, but clutching an unpleasantly pulsating green object about the size of a grapefruit. “Okay, Professor, we’re starting now!” said Susan, adding quietly, when she had turned away again, “should’ve used Muffliato, Daph.” “No, we shouldn’t!” said Hermione at once, looking, as she always did, intensely cross at the thought of the Half-Blood Prince and his spells. “Well, come on . . . we’d better get going. . . .”  She gave the other three an apprehensive look; they all took deep breaths and then dived at the gnarled stump between them. It sprang to life at once; long, prickly, bramble-like vines flew out of the top and whipped through the air. One tangled itself in Daphne’s hair, and Susan beat it back with a pair of secateurs; Harry succeeded in trapping a couple of vines and knotting them together; a hole opened in the middle of all the tentacle-like branches; Hermione plunged her arm bravely into this hole, which closed like a trap around her elbow; Harry and Daphne tugged and wrenched at the vines, forcing the hole to open again, and Hermione snatched her arm free, clutching in her fingers a pod just like Neville’s. At once, the prickly vines shot back inside, and the gnarled stump sat there looking like an innocently dead lump of wood. “Pass me a bowl,” said Hermione, holding the pulsating pod at arm’s length; Susan handed one over and she dropped the pod into it with a look of disgust on her face. “Don’t be squeamish, squeeze it out, they’re best when they’re fresh!” called Professor Sprout. “Anyway,” said Hermione, continuing their interrupted conversation as though a lump of wood had not just attacked them, “I forgot to tell you, Harry, Slughorn caught up with me today when I was leaving the History class. He’s going to have a Christmas party, and there’s no way we’ll be able to wriggle out of this one because he actually asked me to check our free evenings, so he could be sure to have it on a night we can come.” “Well, in that case.” Harry held her hands and glowed brightly as he said softly, “Will you be my date?” “Of course,” she said breathlessly, blushing a bit, feeling the stares of people around her. Susan rolled her eyes at them. The pod flew out from under her fingers and hit the greenhouse glass, rebounding onto the back of Professor Sprout’s head and knocking off her old, patched hat.  Katie Bell was still in St. Mungo’s Hospital with no prospect of leaving, which meant that the promising Gryffindor team was now Captainless and one Chaser short. Professor McGonagall, rather begrudgingly, passed the Captain badge down to Ron, who was the oldest player on the team after Katie. In any other case Ron would have been extremely exhilarated to become the Quidditch team Captain — it had always been a dream of his — but the team was in shambles at the moment, and he couldn’t understand how to increase their chances of winning. He kept putting off replacing Katie in the hope that she would return, but their opening match against Slytherin was looming, and he finally had to accept that she would not be back in time to play. Ron did not want to hold another full-House tryout. With a sinking feeling that had little to do with Quidditch, he cornered Dean Thomas after Transfiguration one day. Most of the class had already left, although several twittering yellow birds were still zooming around the room, all of Hermione and Harry’s creation; nobody else had succeeded in conjuring so much as a feather from thin air. “Are you still interested in playing Chaser?” Dean was one of the sixth-years who had tried for Chaser. “Wha — ? Yeah, of course!” said Dean excitedly. Over Dean’s shoulder, Ron saw Seamus Finnigan slamming his books into his bag, looking sour. One of the reasons why Ron would have preferred not to have to ask Dean to play was that he knew Seamus would not like it. On the other hand, he had to do what was best for the team, and Dean had outflown Seamus at the tryouts. “Well then, you’re in,” said Ron. “There’s a practice tonight, seven o’clock.” “Right,” said Dean. “Cheers, Ron! Blimey, I can’t wait to tell Parvati!” He sprinted out of the room, leaving Ron and Seamus alone together, an uncomfortable moment made no easier when a bird dropping landed on Seamus’s head as one of Hermione’s canaries whizzed over them. “Parvati?” Harry asked Hermione, amused. “Is she and Dean — ?” “They’re dating, yes.” Seamus was not the only person disgruntled by the choice of Katie’s substitute. There was much muttering in the common room about the fact that Ron had chosen one of his classmates for the team without holding a tryout. Ron, unlike Harry, had not endured such mutterings in his school career, and hence he was particularly bothered. The pressure was increasing to provide a win in the upcoming match against Slytherin. If Gryffindor won, Ron knew that the whole House would forget that they had criticized him and swear that they had always known it was a great team. If they lost . . . well, Ron thought wryly, it was something he thought was natural to be criticized when you’re the Captain. . . . Ron had no reason to regret his choice once he saw Dean fly that evening; he worked well with Demelza and Natalie. The Beaters, Peakes and Coote, were getting better all the time. The only problem was Ron himself. Ron was an inconsistent player who suffered from nerves and a lack of confidence, and unfortunately, the looming prospect of the opening game of the season seemed to have brought out all his old insecurities. After letting in half a dozen goals, most of them scored by Demelza Robins, his technique became wilder and wilder, until he finally punched an oncoming Natalie McDonald in the mouth. “It was an accident, I’m sorry, Natalie, really sorry!” Ron shouted after her as she zigzagged back to the ground, dripping blood everywhere. “I just —” “Panicked,” Ginny said angrily, landing next to Natalie and examining her fat lip. “You prat, Ron, look at the state of her!” Overall it was one of the worst practices they had had all term. While the rest of the team left the changing room looking reasonably happy with themselves, Ron stayed behind. Lavender arrived a while later. “I played like a sack of dragon dung,” said Ron in a hollow voice when Lavender swung the door shut behind her. “No, you didn’t,” said Lavender firmly. “You’re the best Keeper Katie tried out, Ron. Your only problem is nerves.” “Maybe that’s because it was McLaggen I was trying against,” said Ron dejectedly. “If it was anyone like Oliver Wood . . .” “You’d have beaten him too,” Lavender said fiercely. “Because you’re the best.” Ron only slumped his shoulders and fidgeted with his fingers, his broom laying purposelessly on the floor near his feet. Lavender sat down next to him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you trust my judgment, Ron?” she asked quietly with no hint of disappointment in her voice, just sadness. “I do,” said Ron, glancing up at her, his blue eyes full of helplessness. “I trust your word more than my own. It’s just . . . sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve it.” “Hush, don’t be dense,” Lavender mock-chastised him. “Do you have any idea how happy I am to see you leading the team?” “I wish I could say the same.” “C’mon, Ron, just fucking cheer up!” “Okay, okay.” Ron chuckled despite himself. “Maybe I would if you kiss me.” “Gladly.” Lavender made herself comfortable in Ron’s lap, and their lips met for a passionate snogging session. “You know,” Ron panted, when they pulled apart for air, “I never thought my girlfriend would be so understanding.” “Are you questioning my emotional stability, Mr. Weasley?” Lavender said with a smirk. “No, not in thousands of my lives,” said Ron, grinning. “I’m just so bloody grateful we don’t keep secrets from each other, you know? We have this certain level of understanding.” Lavender’s heart jumped to her throat. The anxiety must have shown on her face because Ron blinked in confusion. “What?” he asked, frowning, his arms going a little limp around her waist. “You ain’t keeping a secret, are you?” “Please listen to me, Ron,” Lavender said cautiously. “What is it?” Lavender flinched. She got off Ron’s lap and smoothened her skirt quite unnecessarily while Ron rose to his own feet in front of her. “You remember the tryouts when you beat that jerk McLaggen for the Keeper?” she said, taking a deep breath. Ron nodded very slowly, almost as if he was expecting something along these lines anyway. “Well-I-Confunded-him-so-that-you-could-win,” Lavender let out in a single breath. “What?” Ron said rather loudly. “What was that?” “I Confunded him,” said Lavender, gulping. It took Ron a few moments to process these three words. He looked anguished and betrayed. “You thought I couldn’t beat him, didn’t you?” he said, acid dripping down his voice. “You thought I was inferior to McLaggen, didn’t you?” “No, no, Ron,” said Lavender hastily. “Of course I knew you could beat —” “No, you didn’t!” Ron shouted, making Lavender jump. “You didn’t have faith in me, that’s why you Confunded McLaggen! You definitely thought I was going to lose! And here I was, thinking McLaggen was just being stupid during that last goal he couldn’t save!” “I only wanted you to win!” cried Lavender, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s been your dream for so long! I didn’t want you to lose your place in the team!” “I didn’t want it this way!” said Ron, his voice cracking. “I wanted to earn it, but now I’m a cheater. I eluded my way into the team. Do you know what that means?” “You aren’t going to resign,” Lavender said desperately. “Don’t have even that much freedom now?” Lavender opened her mouth in protest, but then closed it. She knew the ship had sailed. “Look, I know what I did was wrong,” she said clearly. “All I wanted was to see you stay in the team, see you happy.” Ron stood quietly in front of her, his face turned to his left. Her heart beating much more slowly than it should have been, Lavender turned and left the changing room, regrets weighing down on her shoulders. Breakfast was the usual excitable affair on the morning of the match; the Slytherins hissed and booed loudly as every member of the Gryffindor team entered the Great Hall. Ron glanced at the ceiling and saw a clear, pale blue sky: a good omen. The Gryffindor table, a solid mass of red and gold, cheered as Ron approached. He grimaced weakly and shook his head. “Cheer up, Ron!” called Ginny. “I know you’ll be brilliant!” Ron ignored her. “Tea?” Ginny asked him. “Coffee? Pumpkin juice?” “Anything,” said Ron glumly, taking a moody bite of toast. “Any issue between you two?” Hermione asked Lavender, who was sitting two places away from Ron. “He found out that I Confunded McLaggen,” Lavender muttered dejectedly. “We haven’t talked since.” Hermione placed a consoling hand on the blonde’s shoulder. If Lavender had thought the Gryffindors beating the Hufflepuffs would brighten up Ron’s mood and make him forgive her, she was sorely mistaken. The Gryffindors won the match, but Ron was far from forgiving Lavender. He slipped out of the changing room when she reached there and avoided her completely during the victory party held later in the common room. Lavender had never felt so restless all her life.  Snow was swirling against the icy windows once more; Christmas was approaching fast. Hagrid had already single-handedly delivered the usual twelve Christmas trees for the Great Hall; garlands of holly and tinsel had been twisted around the banisters of the stairs; ever-lasting candles glowed from inside the helmets of suits of armor and great bunches of mistletoe had been hung at intervals along the corridors. Large groups of girls tended to converge underneath the mistletoe bunches every time a charming boy (like Xander Lofthouse, the Head Boy) went past, which caused blockages in the corridors. Harry’s frequent night-time wanderings had given him an unusually good knowledge of the castle’s secret passageways, so that he was able, without too much difficulty, to navigate mistletoe-free routes between classes. Hermione, Harry, Susan, and Daphne sat down on a table. As Daphne pulled out the Prince’s copy of Advanced Potion-Making, Hermione let out a huff. Daphne chose to ignore it and instead began making notes on Everlasting Elixirs, occasionally pausing to decipher the Prince’s useful additions to Libatius Borage’s text. “Oh Harry,” said Susan, after a few moments, “I gotta tell you, you need to be careful.” “About what?” “I went into the girls’ bathroom just before we came in here and there were about a dozen girls in there, including that Romilda Vane, trying to decide how to slip you a love potion. They’re all hoping they’re going to get you to take them to Slughorn’s party, and they all seem to have bought Fred and George’s love potions, which I’m afraid to say probably work —” “Why didn’t you confiscate them then?” demanded Harry. “You’re also a Prefect now.” “They didn’t have the potions with them in the bathroom,” said Susan scornfully. “They were just discussing tactics. Still, I’d suggest you do something that’ll stop all the others thinking they’ve still got a chance. It’s tomorrow night, they’re getting desperate.” “Are they all blind or what?” Harry said moodily. “I have Hermione, how can they even think they have a chance?” “I bet not even the Half-Blood Prince could dream up an antidote for a dozen different love potions at once,” Hermione mumbled under her breath. While Daphne completely ignored the remark, Susan went on, “Well, to be frank, you’ve never been more fanciable, Harry. Everyone knows you’ve been telling the truth now, don’t they? The whole Wizarding world has had to admit that you were right about Voldemort being back and that you really have fought him twice in the last two years and escaped both times. And now they’re calling you ‘the Chosen One’ — well, come on, can’t you see why people are fascinated by you? “And you’ve been through all that persecution from the Ministry when they were trying to make out you were unstable and a liar. You can still see the marks on the back of your hand where that evil woman made you write with your own blood, but you stuck to your story anyway. . . . And it doesn’t hurt that you’ve grown about a foot over the summer either.” “Geez, Sue — you’ve a girlfriend,” said Hermione, more amused than agitated. “I’m just telling you how it all is. Just be careful what you drink, because Romilda Vane looked like she meant business,” said Susan grimly. She hitched up the long roll of parchment on which she was writing her History essay and continued to scratch away with her quill. Harry watched her with his mind a long way away. “Hang on a moment,” he said slowly. “I thought Filch had banned anything bought at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes?” “And when has anyone ever paid attention to what Filch has banned?” asked Susan, still concentrating on her essay. “But I thought all the owls were being searched. So how come these girls are able to bring love potions into school?” “The twins send them disguised as perfumes and cough potions,” said Daphne clearly. “It’s part of their Owl Order Service, Ginny told me, back when we were buying her new robes in Hogsmeade.” “Oh, yeah. . . .” “It was all on the back of the bottles they showed Gin and me in the summer,” said Susan. “But the point is, Filch is being fooled, isn’t he?” said Harry. “These girls are getting stuff into the school disguised as something else! So why couldn’t Malfoy have brought the necklace into the school — ?” “Oh, Harry . . . not that again . . .” “Come on, why not?” demanded Harry. But Susan gave him such a look that he shut his mouth with clenched teeth. Hermione sighed and told Harry in a small voice, “She’s kind of right. Secrecy Sensors detect jinxes, curses, and concealment charms, don’t they? They’re used to find Dark Magic and Dark objects. They’d have picked up a powerful curse, like the one on that necklace, within seconds. But something that’s just been put in the wrong bottle wouldn’t register — and anyway, love potions aren’t Dark or dangerous, so it would be down to Filch to realize it wasn’t a cough potion, and he’s not a very good wizard, I doubt he can tell one potion from another.” Hermione stopped dead. Somebody had moved close behind them among the dark bookshelves. They waited, and a moment later the vulture-like countenance of Madam Pince appeared around the corner, her sunken cheeks, her skin like parchment, and her long hooked nose illuminated unflatteringly by the lamp she was carrying. “The library is now closed,” she said. “Mind you return anything you have borrowed to the correct — what have you been doing to that book, you depraved girl?” “It isn’t the library’s, it’s mine!” said Daphne hastily, snatching her copy of Advanced Potion-Making off the table as Madam Pince lunged at it with a claw-like hand. “Despoiled!” she hissed. “Desecrated! Befouled!” “It’s just a book that’s been written on!” said Daphne, tugging it out of her grip. She looked as though she might have a seizure; Susan, who had hastily packed her things, grabbed Daphne by the arm and frog-marched her away. Hermione and Harry followed closely. “She’ll ban you from the library if you’re not careful,” said Hermione. “Why did you have to bring that stupid book?” “It’s not my fault she’s barking mad, Hermione,” said Daphne. “Or d’you think she overheard you being rude about Filch? I’ve always thought there might be something going on between them. . . .” Neither of the four could resist laughing. “Hey, I wanted to ask you something,” Daphne spoke up. “All of you.” “What’s it, Daph?” asked Susan. The Slytherin blonde took a deep breath before she said, “Would you like to come to my family home in America this New Year?” “Yes!” Susan said cheerfully. “Why not?” “Really?” said Daphne, looking excited. “Of course!” “We’d love to,” said Hermione. “It’ll be fun doing a trip together.” “Thank you,” Daphne said gratefully. “I’ve to tell my parents.” “I’ll come with you,” Susan offered. As Susan and Daphne went away, Harry turned to his girlfriend and said, “I’ve never been in an airplane.” He sounded excited. “Oh, it’s not all fairies and angels like you’d expect,” Hermione said fairly. “A lot of people even feel sick inside a plane.” “Seriously?” Hermione and Harry made their way along the deserted, lamp-lit corridors back to the Gryffindor common room. “Baubles,” said Harry to the Fat Lady, this being the new, festive password. “Same to you,” said the Fat Lady with a roguish grin, and she swung forward to admit them. “Hi, Harry!” said Romilda Vane, the moment he had climbed through the portrait hole. “Fancy a gillywater?” Hermione and Harry exchanged a Sue-was-right look. “No thanks,” said Harry quickly. “I don’t like it much.” “Well, take these anyway,” said Romilda, thrusting a box into his hands. “Chocolate Cauldrons, they’ve got firewhisky in them. My gran sent them to me, but I don’t like them.” “Oh — right — thanks a lot,” said Harry, who could not think what else to say. “Er — I’m just going over here with . . .” He hurried off behind Hermione, his voice trailing away feebly. “Come on, don’t be grumpy,” Hermione said impishly. “Want me to scare her away?” Harry sighed. “No, just keep close to me.” “What else do I ever do?” The next day at Transfiguration, they were supposed to be changing the color of their eyebrows. Harry and Susan laughed as Daphne got so good at it and went on a spree that her eyebrows turned frequently from black to yellow to brown to red; even Hermione couldn’t help but be impressed. Not everyone was as comfortable with the concept as Daphne, though. In his disastrous first attempt, Ron somehow managed to give himself a spectacular handlebar mustache; Lavender tried to give him a reassuring smile from a bench ahead, but he only turned his head away, making Lavender’s face fall immediately; Neville was now looking like he had glued pieces of a cheetah’s skin in place of his eyebrows; Seamus, being his usual explosive self, was showing singed eyebrows. Susan was really delighted when Professor McGonagall awarded Daphne twenty points for her brilliant show. Praising her work, Harry, Hermione, and Susan accompanied Daphne out of the classroom an hour later. They were passing a girls’ bathroom when Luna Lovegood emerged out of it. “Hi, Luna,” Hermione greeted her merrily. “Hello, Hermione,” said Luna; it felt a bit incomplete to not see Luna holding her father’s magazine, The Quibbler. “Hi, Harry. Hi, Susan. Hi, . . . er?” “Daphne Greengrass,” said Susan, pointing at Daphne. “Have you had a good term, Luna?” “Oh, it’s been all right,” said Luna. “A bit lonely without the H.G. Ginny’s been nice, though. She stopped two boys in our Transfiguration class calling me ‘Loony’ the other day.” Luna was demonstrating her usual knack of speaking uncomfortable truths; Hermione had never met anyone quite like her. “Would you like to come to Slughorn’s Christmas party tonight?” Hermione found herself saying. Luna turned her protuberant eyes upon Hermione in surprise. “Slughorn’s party? With you?” “Yeah, but with Daphne actually,” said Hermione, much to Daphne’s startlement. “It’d be nice to spend a night with others, having a nice dinner and a dance with friends, wouldn’t it? But if you don’t want to . . .” “I’d love to go with you as friends!” said Luna, beaming. Hermione had never seen Luna beam before; she was kind of proud to be the cause of it. “Nobody’s ever asked me to a party before, as a friend!” “We’ll meet you in the entrance hall at eight o’clock then, Luna,” said Hermione. “Be ready on time.” Luna nodded and left with a bounce in her steps. “What on earth are you on, Granger?” Daphne said angrily. “Why would I go to Slughorn’s Christmas party with someone I don’t even know?” “Well, do you have a date?” Hermione asked simply. “No,” Daphne flushed. “I was going to ask Sue.” “Oh,” said Susan, looking uncomfortable. “But Gin asked me already, and I obviously agreed. But hold on, Gin and Luna are close friends. Maybe we can ask her to pair up with Luna. She won’t mind, I’m sure.” For a brief second, Daphne seemed like she would love nothing more than that, but then she sighed. “It’s fine,” she mumbled. “Thought so,” said Hermione with the most wicked smile on her face, making Daphne scowl.  “Stay still for a moment, will you?” Hermione ceased all attempts at looking at herself in the mirror from around Harry’s arm as he combed her hair. Surprisingly, at the last moment, Harry had come up with an offer to help Hermione dress up for Slughorn’s party. He helped her wear bra and knickers (baby-pink matching ones) and the parakeet-green-colored floaty dress Emma had bought for her over the summer. He then applied a healthy amount of Sleekeazy Potion to her hair before beginning to comb it. “Perfect,” he said a while later, stepping back to examine his work. As he sidestepped, Hermione finally had a look at herself. Her hair was no longer the nest it used to be. They were much more straighter, falling in small curls on her shoulders. They easily reached her breasts. Rubbing her cheek fondly, Harry kissed her gently. “You look very good too, Harry,” she said similarly, wanting nothing more than to turn around, go back up to bed with Harry, and do some messing around with their party clothes. He was wearing a moss-green suit. Susan’s mouth hung open when she spotted Hermione. Susan herself was donning cobalt-blue robes. Daphne and Ginny, on the other hand, wore matching sky blue robes. “You two look like a pair,” said Susan, making Ginny and Daphne grin. “She bought the same robes for herself when helping me choose,” Ginny told Susan. Looking around, Hermione found an unusually large number of girls lurking there, all of whom seemed to be staring at Luna resentfully as she approached Harry. Luna was wearing a set of spangled silver robes that were attracting a certain amount of giggles from the onlookers, but otherwise she looked quite nice. She had left off her radish earrings, her butterbeer cork necklace, and her Spectrespecs. “Shall we get going then?” Harry asked, looking around at the five girls. “Oh yes,” Luna said happily. “Where is the party?” “Slughorn’s office,” said Harry, leading her up the marble staircase away from all the staring and muttering. “Did you hear, there’s supposed to be a vampire coming?” said Susan, her arm hooked with Hermione’s. “Rufus Scrimgeour?” asked Luna. “I — what?” said Susan, disconcerted. “You mean the Minister of Magic?” “Yes, he’s a vampire,” said Luna matter-of-factly. “Father wrote a very long article about it when Scrimgeour first took over from Cornelius Fudge, but he was forced not to publish by somebody from the Ministry. Obviously, they didn’t want the truth to get out!” Hermione, who thought it most unlikely that Rufus Scrimgeour was a vampire, but who was used to Luna repeating her father’s bizarre views as though they were fact, winked at Susan, who shook her head, in confusion; they were already approaching Slughorn’s office and the sounds of laughter, music, and loud conversation were growing louder with every step they took. Whether it had been built that way, or because he had used magical trickery to make it so, Slughorn’s office was much larger than the usual teacher’s study. The ceiling and walls had been draped with emerald, crimson, and gold hangings, so that it looked as though they were all inside a vast tent. The room was crowded and stuffy and bathed in the red light cast by an ornate golden lamp dangling from the center of the ceiling in which real fairies were fluttering, each a brilliant speck of light. Loud singing accompanied by what sounded like mandolins issued from a distant corner; a haze of pipe smoke hung over several elderly warlocks deep in conversation, and a number of house-elves were negotiating their way squeakily through the forest of knees, obscured by the heavy silver platters of food they were bearing, so that they looked like little roving tables. “Harry, m’boy!” boomed Slughorn, almost as soon as the four of them had squeezed in through the door. “Come in, come in, so many people I’d like you to meet!” Slughorn was wearing a tasseled velvet hat to match his smoking jacket. Gripping Harry’s arm so tightly he might have been hoping to Disapparate with him, Slughorn led him purposefully into the party; Harry seized Hermione’s hand and dragged her along with him. “Harry, I’d like you to meet Eldred Worple, an old student of mine, author of Blood Brothers: My Life Amongst the Vampires — and, of course, his friend Sanguini.” Worple, who was a small, stout, bespectacled man, grabbed Harry’s hand and shook it enthusiastically; the vampire Sanguini, who was tall and emaciated with dark shadows under his eyes, merely nodded. He looked rather bored. A gaggle of girls was standing close to him, looking curious and excited. “Harry Potter, I am simply delighted!” said Worple, peering short-sightedly up into Harry’s face. “I was saying to Professor Slughorn only the other day, ‘Where is the biography of Harry Potter for which we have all been waiting?’ ” “Er,” said Harry, “were you?” “Just as modest as Horace described!” said Worple. “But seriously” — his manner changed; it suddenly became business-like — “I would be delighted to write it myself — people are craving to know more about you, dear boy, craving! If you were prepared to grant me a few interviews, say in four- or five-hour sessions, why, we could have the book finished within months. And all with very little effort on your part, I assure you — ask Sanguini here if it isn’t quite — Sanguini, stay here!” added Worple, suddenly stern, for the vampire had been edging toward the nearby group of girls, a rather hungry look in his eye. “Here, have a pasty,” said Worple, seizing one from a passing elf and stuffing it into Sanguini’s hand before turning his attention back to Harry. “My dear boy, the gold you could make, you have no idea —” “I’m definitely not interested,” said Harry firmly, “and I’d like to have a dance with my girlfriend, sorry.” Harry and the five witches made their way over to the other side of the room, scooping up goblets of mead on the way, realizing too late that Professor Trelawney was standing there alone. “Hello,” said Luna politely to Professor Trelawney. “Good evening, my dear,” said Professor Trelawney, focusing upon Luna with some difficulty. Hermione could smell cooking sherry again. “I haven’t seen you in my classes lately. . . .” “No, I’ve got Firenze this year,” said Luna. “Oh, of course,” said Professor Trelawney with an angry, drunken titter. “Or Dobbin, as I prefer to think of him. You would have thought, would you not, that now I am returned to the school Professor Dumbledore might have got rid of the horse? But no . . . we share classes. . . . It’s an insult, frankly, an insult. Do you know . . .” Under cover of Trelawney’s furious criticism of Firenze, Ginny let out a grunt and said, “Hey, I didn’t come here to sit idle and listen to this old fraud talk about a banished centaur. I came here to dance.” “May I have a dance with you?” Daphne asked her curtly. “And I thought you’d never ask,” said Ginny, rolling her eyes. Susan turned hopefully towards Hermione at this moment. “Go and dance with her,” Harry told Hermione gently as she glanced up at him. “I’m alright here with Luna.” Nodding, Hermione went to the dance-floor with Susan and began swirling around with her on the Weird Sisters’ song. Out of the corner of her eyes, Hermione noticed Cormac McLaggen whistling at them. “Keep your eyes on me, girl,” said Susan, turning Hermione’s face back towards her. “Don’t listen to them. . . .” On the other side, Professor Trelawney had finally realized that Luna had come with a friend. “Harry Potter!” she said in deep, vibrant tones, noticing him for the first time. “Oh, hello,” said Harry unenthusiastically. “My dear boy!” she said in a very carrying whisper. “The rumors! The stories! ‘The Chosen One’! Of course, I have known for a very long time. . . . The omens were never good, Harry. . . . But why have you not ever chosen Divination? For you, of all people, the subject is of the utmost importance!” “Ah, Sybill, we all think our subject’s most important!” said a loud voice, and Slughorn appeared at Professor Trelawney’s other side, his face very red, his velvet hat a little askew, a glass of mead in one hand and an enormous mince pie in the other. “But I don’t think I’ve ever known such a natural at Potions!” said Slughorn, regarding Harry with a fond, if bloodshot, eye. “Instinctive, you know — like his mother! I’ve only ever taught a few with this kind of ability, I can tell you that, Sybill — why even Severus —” Then, Slughorn threw out an arm and seemed to scoop Professor Snape out of thin air toward them. “Stop skulking and come and join us, Severus!” hiccuped Slughorn happily. “I was just talking about Harry’s exceptional potion-making! Some credit must go to you, of course, you taught him for five years!” Trapped, with Slughorn’s arm around his shoulders, Professor Snape looked down his hooked nose at Harry, his black eyes rather blank. “Funny, I never had the impression that I managed to teach Potter anything at all.” “Well, then, it’s natural ability!” shouted Slughorn. “Really?” said Professor Snape quietly, his eyes still boring into Harry. “Remind me what other subjects you’re taking, Harry?” asked Slughorn. “Charms, Defense, Herbology, Potions, Runes, and Transfiguration . . .” “Quite a portfolio indeed,” said Slughorn radiantly. “Want to be an Auror, I guess, Harry?” “No, a Healer,” said Harry promptly. “And a great one you’ll make too!” boomed Slughorn. “I’m really glad you’re not trying for an Auror, Harry,” said Luna unexpectedly. Everybody looked at her. “The Aurors are part of the Rotfang Conspiracy, I thought everyone knew that. They’re working to bring down the Ministry of Magic from within using a combination of Dark Magic and gum disease.” Harry inhaled half his mead up his nose as he started to laugh. Emerging from his goblet, coughing, sopping wet but still grinning, he saw something calculated to raise his spirits even higher: Draco Malfoy being dragged by the ear toward them by Argus Filch. “Professor Slughorn,” wheezed Filch, his jowls aquiver and the maniacal light of mischief-detection in his bulging eyes, “I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?” Malfoy pulled himself free of Filch’s grip, looking furious. “All right, I wasn’t invited!” he said angrily. “I was trying to gatecrash, happy?” “No, I’m not!” said Filch, a statement at complete odds with the glee on his face. “You’re in trouble, you are! Didn’t the headmaster say that night-time prowling’s out, unless you’ve got permission, didn’t he, eh?” “That’s all right, Argus, that’s all right,” said Slughorn, waving a hand. “It’s Christmas, and it’s not a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once, we’ll forget any punishment; you may stay, Draco.” Filch’s expression of outraged disappointment was perfectly predictable; but why, Harry wondered, watching him, did Malfoy look almost equally unhappy? And why was Professor Snape looking at Malfoy as though both angry and . . . was it possible? . . . a little afraid? But almost before Harry had registered what he had seen, Filch had turned and shuffled away, muttering under his breath; Malfoy had composed his face into a smile and was thanking Slughorn for his generosity, and Professor Snape’s face was smoothly inscrutable again. “It’s nothing, nothing,” said Slughorn, waving away Malfoy’s thanks. “I did know your grandfather, after all. . . .” “He always spoke very highly of you, sir,” said Malfoy quickly. “Said you were the best potion-maker he’d ever known. . . .” Harry stared at Malfoy. It was not the sucking-up that intrigued him; he had watched Malfoy do that to Professor Snape for a long time. It was the fact that Malfoy did, after all, look a little ill. This was the first time he had seen Malfoy close up for ages; he now saw that Malfoy had dark shadows under his eyes and a distinctly grayish tinge to his skin. “I’d like a word with you, Draco,” said Professor Snape suddenly. “Oh, now, Severus,” said Slughorn, hiccuping again, “it’s Christmas, don’t be too hard —” “I’m his Head of House, and I shall decide how hard, or otherwise, to be,” said Professor Snape curtly. “Follow me, Draco.” They left, Professor Snape leading the way, Malfoy looking resentful. Harry stood there for a moment, irresolute, then said, “Luna, why don’t you go and dance with Susan? Send Hermione to me, please?” Luna went away happily, and a moment later, Hermione came striding to Harry, her expression that of resolution; she, too, had seen Malfoy. It was easy, once out of the party, for Harry to pull the Invisibility Cloak out of his pocket and throw it over the two of them, for the corridor was quite deserted. What was more difficult was finding Malfoy and Professor Snape. Hermione and Harry ran down the corridor, the noise of their feet masked by the music and loud talk still issuing from Slughorn’s office behind him. Perhaps Professor Snape had taken Malfoy to his office in the dungeons . . . or perhaps he was escorting him back to the Slytherin common room. . . . Hermione and Harry pressed their ears against door after door as they dashed down the corridor until, with a great jolt of excitement, they crouched down to the keyhole of the last classroom in the corridor and heard voices. “. . . cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled —” “I didn’t have anything to do with it, all right?” “I hope you are telling the truth, because it was both clumsy and foolish. Already you are suspected of having a hand in it.” “Who suspects me?” said Malfoy angrily. “For the last time, I didn’t do it, okay? That Bell girl must’ve had an enemy no one knows about — don’t look at me like that! I know what you’re doing, I’m not stupid, but it won’t work — I can stop you!” There was a pause and then Professor Snape said quietly, “Ah . . . Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, I see. What thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, Draco?” “I’m not trying to conceal anything from him, I just don’t want you butting in!” Hermione and Harry pressed their ears still more closely against the keyhole. . . . What had happened to make Malfoy speak to Professor Snape like this — Professor Snape, toward whom he had always shown respect, even liking? “So that is why you have been avoiding me this term? You have feared my interference? You realize that, had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told them repeatedly to be there, Draco —” “So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!” jeered Malfoy. There was another pause. Then Professor Snape said, “You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things.” “You’d better stop telling me to come to your office then!” “Listen to me,” said Professor Snape, his voice so low now that Hermione and Harry had to push their ears very hard against the keyhole to hear. “I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco —” “Looks like you’ll have to break it, then, because I don’t need your protection! It’s my job, he gave it to me and I’m doing it, I’ve got a plan and it’s going to work, it’s just taking a bit longer than I thought it would!” “What is your plan?” “It’s none of your business!” “If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you —” “I’ve got all the assistance I need, thanks, I’m not alone!” “You were certainly alone tonight, which was foolish in the extreme, wandering the corridors without lookouts or backup, these are elementary mistakes —” “I would’ve had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you hadn’t put them in detention!” “Keep your voice down!” spat Professor Snape, for Malfoy’s voice had risen excitedly. “If your friends Crabbe and Goyle intend to pass their Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. this time around, they will need to work a little harder than they are doing at pres —” “What does it matter?” said Malfoy. “Defense Against the Dark Arts — it’s all just a joke, isn’t it, an act? Like any of us need protecting against the Dark Arts —” “It is an act that is crucial to success, Draco!” said Professor Snape. “Where do you think I would have been all these years, if I had not known how to act? Now listen to me! You are being incautious, wandering around at night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing your reliance in assistants like Crabbe and Goyle —” “They’re not the only ones, I’ve got other people on my side, better people!” “Then why not confide in me, and I can —” “I know what you’re up to! You want to steal my glory!” There was another pause, then Professor Snape said coldly, “You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your father’s capture and imprisonment has upset you, but —” Hermione and Harry had barely a second’s warning; they heard Malfoy’s footsteps on the other side of the door and flung themselves out of the way just as it burst open; Malfoy was striding away down the corridor, past the open door of Slughorn’s office, around the distant corner, and out of sight. Hardly daring to breathe, Hermione and Harry remained crouched down as Professor Snape emerged slowly from the classroom. His expression unfathomable, he returned to the party. “What was that?” Hermione whispered quietly as she and Harry strolled back towards Slughorn’s office. “Who knows . . .” Harry shrugged his shoulders, looking deep in thought. “But it did seem like Malfoy has been asked to do something near to impossible but he’s denying Snape’s help.” His eyes widened as he gaped at Hermione. “Doesn’t that mean — ?” He left the sentence hanging, not that he needed to finish it anyway. It finally seemed like they had a proof of their Malfoy-is-a-Death-Eater theory. Hermione stopped dead in her tracks. She didn’t want to return to the noise of the party, not yet. “Hermione?” Harry said, confused, as she began looking around. A grin spread across her face when she found the perfect place. Grabbing Harry’s hand, she dragged into a nearby broom closet. “What is this, Miss Granger?” Harry said, smirking, as they stood face to face inside the closet with so little space that their chests were pressing into each other. “Don’t you know Santa doesn’t leave gifts for those on his Naughty List?” Hermione giggled, grabbing the collar of Harry’s robes in her hands. In return Harry placed his hands on her bottom cheeks. “I have my gift with me,” she breathed, gazing deep into his eyes. They both leaned closer and brushed their lips against each other. It was one of those kisses that conveyed love in its truest form but also left a lot to be shared at a later moment. “Just a kiss?” Harry asked childishly when Hermione pulled back. “Hush now, we’re Prefects.” “Like you didn’t know that all along.” They both chuckled and finally left the broom closet. Brushing their clothes to disintegrate any proof of them going inside there, they hooked their arms and returned to the party, talking, laughing.