The early-afternoon sun filtered into the arched windows of the Gryffindor common room, reflecting flecks of light off the golden drapes that extended from floor to ceiling. The weather was unexpectedly warm for late October, making the first Hogsmeade trip of the year irresistible to most students, who were spending the day sipping butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks and chattering about the Halloween feast taking place a few hours later that evening. Even the first- and second-years—not yet eligible to visit the neighboring magical community—chose to spend the day outdoors, organizing a pick-up Quidditch game on the grounds by the lake.

Only one student chose to forgo the day's festivities. Feet reclining on the coffee table and one hand tracing circles on the temple of his forehead, Harry nestled himself further into the cushions of the common room's comfiest armchair. The rare silence and privacy provided a much-needed break from the usual barrage of stares, whispering, and questions.

Shifting his shoulders a bit, Harry furrowed his brow at the short note from his godfather resting between his fingers. Delivered by Hedwig nearly three weeks ago, the slip of parchment had been unrolled so many times that it now lay almost flat in his hands. Apparently scribbled in a hurry, the almost illegible text read:

Harry,

I won't be in contact for a while. Dumbledore has given Moony and I an assignment. I can't tell you much, just that we'll be leaving London shortly and I'm not sure how long I'll be gone. Communication may be all but impossible. I promise I'll write when I can.

Stay focused on your studies. O.W.L. Exams will be here before you know it.

Snuffles

Harry rubbed harder at his temple as he examined the contents of the letter, debating the same unanswerable questions he'd been turning over in his mind since he'd received it. "Where are you, Sirius?" He muttered. "What are you guys up to?"

After a few minutes of futile frustration, Harry reached forward and snatched his copy of Quidditch Through the Ages from the table in front of him. Opening to a chapter four, he tried to stop thinking about secretive and potentially dangerous missions and focus his concentration on "The Arrival of the Golden Snitch."

Some time later, Harry awoke to a hand shaking his shoulder and calling his name. "Harry? Harry, wake up. You'll miss the feast."

He groaned as he opened his eyes, grimacing at the bright light and bustle of students. "What time is it?"

"Nearly six," Hermione told him. "How long have you been asleep?"

"I dunno. Couple hours, I guess. Must have dozed off while I was reading," Harry yawned, sitting up in the armchair and rubbing at a kink in his neck. "How was Hogsmeade?"

"You should have been there, mate." Ron told him, plopping down in an adjacent recliner. "Spintwitches got in a new line of quidditch gloves that you've got to see. And Zonko's got in a bunch of brilliant new stuff, as well. Which reminds me—don't eat anything Fred and George give you for at least a month."

Harry grinned. "Noted. Thanks."

"And we brought you back loads of sweets and couple bottles of butterbeer. I dumbed everything on your bed with."

"You really should have come along, Harry," Hermione said earnestly. "Dumbledore's threat must be working because we didn't see a single reporter in town. And even if they were, you can't hide from them fo—"

"Drop it, Hermione," Harry broke in shortly, bookmarking his page in Quidditch Through the Ages with Sirius's letter. "Shall we get to the feast, then? I'll drop this upstairs and be right back."

Harry pointedly ignored the knowing and somewhat amused glance exchanged between Ron and Hermione as he made his way up the staircase.

It was nearly eleven that evening when the portrait hole swung open, revealing a rather exhausted-looking Ron and Hermione. Prefect duties required them to oversee the Halloween festivities including, much to Ron's dismay, clean up. They'd requested Harry wait for them in the common room ("We've hardly seen you at all, this week!") and Harry braced himself for some sort of lecture.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione sighed as dropped down on the sofa. "I didn't think we'd be gone this long."

Harry waved off her apology. "How was it?"

"Bloody miserable," Ron huffed as he collapsed next to her. "Being a Prefect takes all the enjoyment out of things."

"Don't listen to him, Harry," Hermione told him as Harry let out a small laugh. "He's just in a mood because Malfoy got out of duty tonight. Apparently he's got private potions tutoring early in the morning and Snape says he's got to be well-rested."

"Malfoy's a git," Ron said.

"No arguing with that," Harry nodded.

"Any word from Snuffles yet?"

"Nope."

"Oh."

"I wouldn't about it too much," Hermione advised. "He and Remus can take care of themselves."

"I know."

The crackle of burning embers filled a few moments of tense silence. Harry watched the ashes rise from the fireplace and then disappear. Rubbing the sleep from the inner-corner of his eyes, he looked at the pair expectantly. "Well?"

"Well what?" Ron countered, but Harry noticed the corners of his ears turning pink.

"Well, did you have something to talk to me about, or should I head off to bed," Harry asked, a smile grin playing on the corner of his lips. "I'm technically out of bed past hours, you know. And what was it McGonagall told you last week? Oh yeah, 'You shouldn't facilitate Potter's recklessness and lack of self-concern."

Ron laughed and Hermione even smiled while adding, "She's not wrong, though."

Harry scowled.

"Don't give me that look, Harry," Hermione said shortly. "You know as well as we do that you've been a little, er, unconcerned about your own safety lately."

"That's unfair," Harry shot back. "I stayed in from a Hogsmeade weekend just to—"

"—Just to avoid The Daily Prophet taking any more pictures of you? Be honest, Harry, that had nothing to do your well-being."

Harry's scowl deepened and Ron laughed again.

"I'm going to bed," Harry rose from the armchair and made his way to the staircase. He stopped short on the landing, however, when the hinges of the portrait hole sung open. Professor McGonagall stood at the entrance, still fully dressed. Curious, Harry remained frozen at the base of the steps.

"Granger, Weasley. Good, you're still awake. "

"Professor McGonagall," Hermione was on her feet. "Is everything alright?

"Everything's fine. I was just informed by the Headmaster that five new students arrived at Hogwarts this evening. Three of them have been sorted into Gryffindor. I'll be bringing them up shortly and I need the Prefects—" McGonagall paused and Harry bit his lip as her eyes careened over to the staircase. She let out an exasperated sigh. "Potter! I don't know how many times I have to have this discussion with you. Light's out was over an hour ago. Get in bed before I take points from Gryffindor."

"Fine," Harry said before shooting her a puzzled glance. "New students? Since when does Hogwarts accept transfers?"

"This really isn't any of your business, Potter, but Hogwarts has always accepted transfer students—especially in the event that the students' previous academy was recently attacked by Dementors. Are you going to make me take points from my own house?"

"What? When—?"

"Potter!"

"I'm going, I'm going!" Harry threw up his hands in defeat.

As he ascended the stairs, he heard McGonagall tell Ron and Hermione, "Like I was saying, Gryffindor will be getting three new students: a fourth-year named Abby Norton and two fifth-years called Jude Cooper and Thomas McQuillen…"

Harry prepared for bed slowly, taking an inordinate amount of time to change from his robes to his sweatpants. By the time he'd finished brushing and flossing, he was quite sure his teeth had never been so clean. Still, Ron hadn't returned with the new students.

Glancing at the mirror, Harry grimaced at his reflection. Nearly three months later, he still couldn't get used to the haircut imposed upon him by Sirius and the others on his birthday—his one day of freedom from a summer otherwise spent entirely in the confines of Privet Drive.

Weirder still was the lack of wire-rimmed glasses. ("Vision correction is absolutely vital at this point, Harry," Remus had told him seriously. "We can't risk anything happening to you because you can't see.") At least it'll be good for Quidditch, Harry reasoned.

When he felt as though he couldn't postpone sleep any longer, he returned to the dormitory and was momentarily surprised to see two extra four-posters resting on the right to his own. Climbing into into bed, Harry drew the curtains and casting a silencing charm on himself.

"This should be interesting," Harry mumbled as he drifted off.