Posted 10/30/2013

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Marriage contracts, as edited in at the end of the last chapter as part of the annotations, do not follow inheritance laws. After all, what if a half-breed inherited it? Or a squib? That's why there are these rules about suitable candidates in the first place -that way, families of higher standing like the Blacks may be more picky about who is allowed to marry into their family.

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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.


Chapter Three - Daphne's Plan

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"Hey, Harry."

He looked up from the parchment in front of him to the source of the sound. "Ah, Hermione. How nice of you to join the common crowd instead of hiding in your room. Good read, I assume? Mrs. Weasley wished me to inform you that she has put 'it' in the third cupboard. I assume you know what she meant?"

She nodded. "A good read, yes, but I needed a bit of fresh air. It is summer, after all, and a sunny day even. I thought I might as well read outside." It was then Harry noticed the bag over her shoulder. "And I know what Mrs. Weasley meant, yes; nothing for you to worry about, though. I asked her to get me something. Where is everybody?" She looked around. "I assumed Ron would be around. Summer and all, I would have expected you to go flying with him; instead, I find you not only inside but doing some writing? No that I'm complaining, mind you." She threw a quick glance at the parchment, but apparently couldn't decipher Harry's scribble.

"You could check the clock," Harry told her with a smile.

She shrugged. "And it will show mortal peril for everyone. As great as that clock is, right now it is pretty much useless. And even if that weren't the case, it wouldn't tell exactly where they are, right? Ron would show up as being at Home, assuming he is around, but whether he is sulking in his room or lounging under a tree, the clock would mark it as the same."

"Good point," Harry replied. "Well, let's see. Mr. Weasley is at work. Bill too."

"No surprise there," Hermione pointed out.

"True. Ginny is visiting Luna. She took her homework, so I assume they want to work on it. Makes sense, they have a few classes together. Mrs. Weasley took Fleur with her. They wanted to go buy something, but I suspect Mrs. Weasley just wants to shock her future daughter-in-law, perhaps to get her to reconsider the wedding plans by showing her the responsibility of being the wife of a Weasley. I doubt it would work, Bill and Fleur seem to love each other very much, but you'll never know. Ron is outside –weeding. I was asked to clean up in here," Harry gestured around the living room, "as it was a bit messy. That happens with so many people around. I did clean up; I'm done with my chore and have the time for myself. You were upstairs reading. The twins are obviously in Diagon Alley..."

"Yes, I get it," Hermione waved off. "Why aren't you out there helping Ron, though? I would have thought..."

"Are you kidding? With how slow he is working, he won't finish before the holidays are over. If I were to help him, I'd do basically all the work, and yes, I'm aware that is how you feel with us at school. No, he has to learn to tackle his chores with a proper mentality; lending him a hand won't do much good. Besides, he had his chore, I had mine. I'm finished, he is not."

"Fair enough and very mature. Maybe I should do that in school as well with you two? Would that help you do your own work?"

"We are doing it most of the time. You only look it over and make sure there aren't too many mistakes in there."

Hermione ignored his reply. She glanced at the parchment and quill in front of him. "So what are you doing? I thought you were already finished with most of your homework? Which, by the way, is very unusual for you, but also very welcome. However, I also know how you feel about writing essays, and it is a nice day outside, so to find you here, instead..."

He shrugged indifferently. "Well, it was quiet around here, so I drafted my will." He had to fight down the laugh that tried to escape him; Hermione reacted exactly like he had expected. She sighed, shook her head sadly and threw him a look of pity. Ever since he had returned from Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, she had occasionally done that, usually in the evenings when the inhabitants were winding down and relaxing before bed. He guessed she had noticed his changed mood after his return, and his helpless grief had been replaced by sadness over the loss.

"Oh, Harry, you shouldn't think about something like that. Come, let us go outside, take a walk around the house; that might cheer you up." She actually stepped towards him. "Or maybe watch Ron work, it might motivate him if he sees us enjoying ourselves, free of our tasks. Well, seeing you free of your task, but then, Mrs. Weasley gave me something to do this morning as well."

"Err, no. Hermione, I need to finish this, and I need to deal with this while I still can," Harry spoke, trying to keep any hint of sadness out of his voice. "I need a will. I have told you about the prophecy..."

"And you will win, Harry, even if I have to teach you everything myself. I will not let you die, not on my watch. I'll be by your side, and you will live through this. I will help you, and you will win." Her feelings hadn't changed since he had told his friends about the prophecy, nor had her tone –not that he had expected it. She was clearly still determined to stand by his side until the end. He smiled thinly as he remembered Hermione's black eye that she had gotten that day. After Mrs. Weasley hadn't been able to cure it, Fred had to drop by and give a small tub of paste that had worked exceptionally fast. Harry would have to ask the twins how it worked the next time he saw them –if Mrs. Weasley couldn't figure out how to remove the bruise but the twins did, what else could he learn from them? While their mother might be reluctant to accept it, both Fred and George were fairly smart and, more importantly, resourceful. But he'd have to focus on that later; he had a friend to convince at the moment.

"And you believe his followers will simply let it drop afterwards?" he asked Hermione, both knowing the answer. "Do nothing? No poison? No attacks? No cursed items flung my way, no traps? That they'll just quietly slink back into the shadows or their cells in Azkaban? And I'm not invincible; I could very well die in an accident. Actually, with my luck, that's a very real possibility. Or just look at Sirius. He certainly didn't think he'd die so young, yet he did. If he hadn't had a will in place, the Malfoys and Bellatrix as his closest living relatives would have gotten everything including the house, the wealth, and the elf. I don't want that to happen."

"They aren't that closely related to you," she reminded him.

He rolled his eyes. "Close enough. The Black wealth might go to them as the closest living wizarding relatives if I don't act. And ignoring that, it might also go to the Dursleys. I don't want them to get anything. Not a single Knut. I don't want them even close to anything of mine if I can help it."

"Harry..." Hermione tried to interrupt him, but he raised his hand to stop her.

"No. I have made up my mind. If I want my family to inherit, I will have to write it explicitly in my will; otherwise, it will likely go to the wrong people. But don't worry, I just want to be prepared; I don't want to die." It would happen either way, he added in his mind, what chance of survival did he have at the moment, reasonably speaking, and before he died, he had to finish his preparations for the eventuality. "And anyway, it really is fairly easy. It's not as if I have a lot of personal items to give away. Look at it like that: you'll get my books out of it, so it's a Win-Win for you."

Looks of shock, anger, and hurt flickered over her face, and for a moment, Harry thought she might hit him. Instead, she bent down and snaked her arms around his neck. Her hug was warm and altogether quite pleasant –certainly not one like Mrs. Weasley's. Then again, they were two distinctly different women, and even though Hermione might one day fill out, she was currently still considerably thinner all around, if surprisingly strong from constantly carrying loads of books.

While he wouldn't tell either one, Harry preferred Hermione's hugs as of late. Since she had grown up a bit and developed a sense of personal space and... well, sensuality, or maturity, in a way, she had moved towards softer, less restrictive hugs. Living with the Dursleys had taught him the worth of freedom. He really didn't like having someone's arms wrapping around him, and even less having his arms pinned to his side; he had learned his lesson in his childhood, even if no punches would come anymore. No, Harry much preferred Hermione's soft embraces.

Hermione pressed her face against his cheek. "Never think that way again, Harry." Her whisper was barely audible and her breath felt like fire. "You are irreplaceable, and no gift will ever lessen the pain of losing you. Please, Harry... I... Never... say something like that again. Please."

He sighed. He understood her. He did. He didn't want to die. The thought of leaving her or any of his friends behind was heavy on his mind. But he couldn't allow himself any illusions. Hoping blindly for his survival wouldn't help, wouldn't protect him or anyone else from the reality. His chances were very slim. He was horribly unprepared to face the challenges ahead, ironically because people like Dumbledore had wanted to protect him from harm, and simply not equipped to get out of it alive. The war would probably claim his life, one way or the other. When it did... if it did, he would be reunited with Sirius and his parents; he was certain of that. They were waiting for him, calling him from behind the Veil. He had heard his parents that night in the Ministry, he was sure of that. Maybe that was part of the power of the Veil –to hear those close to you who had died. "I'm sorry. I hadn't thought it through."

She let go with teary eyes. Swallowing, Hermione turned away, and when she faced him only moments later, she looked resolute. "Well, then. I understand what you mean even if I don't like it. It's these cruel times... children writing wills. Ah, listen to me, I sound like my Great-Grandaunt Maude, next I'll scare little boys from my lawn!" She laughed humourlessly before sitting next to him. Her bag dropped to the floor. "Let me see what you've got. If you have to this, and as much as I hate it, you probably do have to, then at least I can try to speed it up. No need wasting time, right?"

Obediently he pushed the parchment towards her. It wasn't as if he had anything to hide.

Strange, he wondered, as she read the few lines he had put down. He really didn't have a lot of secrets from her. Actually, most things he had refrained from telling her had been times he had covered for others. She didn't have to know about the talks in the dorm –not her business and not important. Guy talk stayed in the dorm. He assumed a similar code of honour existed among girls, and thought it better not to know girl talk.

"Okay, that is not as bad as it could be," Hermione spoke up, still glancing at the parchment with a raised eyebrow. "I do come out relatively well, you know?"

"You get my books, Ron my broom. Neither of you would be happy with the gift for the other," Harry defended. It was true; Ron didn't like reading, Hermione had no love for flying.

"True. Giving the map to the twins, fine, though I would advise you to not put it in writing," she gave him a pointed look. "It is better to leave as little clues to its existence as possible. It's probably for the best not to proclaim its existence to the world, especially if you leave it to two known mischief-makers."

Harry chuckled. "Mhh, good call."

Hermione nodded. "But the cloak? Really?"

"Well, it complements the map very well. Both are tools for the devious, and they might get a kick out of it. And I know Fred and George won't abuse it. More than we do. Regularly, then. Eh, I'll just let others worry about that."

"Fine, I'll give you that. So they get the cloak as well." She bit her lip. Ah, something bothered her, Harry realized. "It's just... Harry, I understand you, I do. But... well... the Weasleys... the twins... Ron... Neville... me..."

"I also leave Moody and Tonks something. Lupin and McGonagall too," he reminded her tapping a spot on the parchment.

"Yes, yes," Hermione replied rolling her eyes, "even though it's odd, Harry. But, well, you give everything to us few."

Harry grinned. "I didn't intend on a Viking's funeral; of course I give everything away. What did you expect? That I'd have something put next to me? What good would that do?"

She glared at him for a moment. "It reads as if you don't plan for the future at all, as if you limit yourself to those you already know. The way I read it, you leave not even a single Knut for your family."

"Err, I leave everything to my family. The Weasleys, Neville, Luna, Tonks, Lupin, McGonagall... even Moody. My family," Harry replied with a frown, not seeing where she was coming from. Hadn't he made his intentions clear enough?

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Moody? You consider..." She seemed to reconsider and shook her head. "Never mind. I meant, well... wife and children and the dog or cat and family owl and the gnomes in the garden. Your future family, you know? People you will care about in the future."

It took Harry a moment to overcome his bewilderment. "Wife? Children? Hermione, something you want to tell me?"

She threw her hands up in frustration. "Argh, you know what I mean! You are sixteen, reasonably wealthy, clean up quite nicely..."

"... I repeat, Hermione, anything you want to tell me?" Harry asked, although he had a hunch what she was talking about. It was true, he hadn't made any provisions for a family of his own, but he also didn't have any plans to start one anytime soon. He had a war to fight, after all.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "In, let's say, ten years, you might have a family of your own. That is what I'm trying to tell you, and you haven't made any provisions for that case."

Harry shook his head. "Well, that is still some time away, isn't it? And, should it come to that, I can always make a new will, can't I?"

Hermione stood and started pacing. Never a good sign, Harry knew, but actually irrelevant. He knew his will would probably not need provisions for a wife or children, pets or anything in the future. Since it wouldn't matter, he could give in if it really troubled her so much. She could have something for the wife and children if Hermione wanted to.

Wow, that was a strange thought.

"Well, if it bothers you that much... fine. Wife and children get everything, should some come to be?" He knew it was a significant change in writing, but it wouldn't change anything in practice. With no wife or children to come along, his original plan would still be in place.

"Much better," she replied smiling. "Now then, let's work on the wording... See here, this is actually quite ambiguous, it would be better if..."


Daphne had been lucky that Pansy had planned an outing so timely. True, Pansy needed new robes to go with her new look and for that she naturally needed her friends' opinion. The Parkinsons had to have paid royally to have her daughter worked over to such an impressive degree. She looked good, Daphne had to admit. Apparently, a few days in the sun had done wonders for the young girl, and since Pansy and her parents were still trying to attract the Malfoys' attention, they had pulled all stoppers. Daphne wished them all the luck they could get, and not only because it might give the Malfoys a reason to dissolve the contract.

That was the reason why Pansy had arranged the outing –to find something to catch Draco's eye during the next school year. Tracey had been ecstatic; she loved shopping, and since it had been combined with an invitation to lunch –an ideal opportunity for gossip –she had been sold on the idea.

Daphne had of course been happy to get out of the house, and not only because it fit her plans well. She had been able to act as if nothing had happened in the past few days, as if her letter had been exactly as she had expected. Before she tipped her hand, she needed a plan. A good plan, actually. She needed to confirm who she suspected this mysterious candidate to be. That had been why she had asked Millicent to check for the surprise Black descendant. Since Millicent's Great-aunt Violetta had married a Black, Millicent might have access to additional information, the secrets that were usually kept in the family. Maybe some squib's son? It was possible, at least if the late Sirius Black had somehow acknowledged this child's relation to the house.

So when Pansy had extended the invitation, Daphne had been eager to accept. It meant a day away from her parents and the hell spawn; neither had asked questions Daphne hadn't been able to deflect, but it was still risky to stay around them. Furthermore, it was a good excuse to meet with her friends and a possibility to talk with Millicent without being suspicious. To Daphne, leaving as little as possible in writing about her enquiries was a reasonable course of action.

Whether Millicent had been reluctant to join them or not, Daphne couldn't tell. She knew Mrs. Bulstrode had been very angry after the last school year –Millicent had joined the Inquisitorial Squad of Professor Umbridge and done the dirty work with just enough passion to be noticed by the student body as working against their interests, but had not been remarkable, and as a result, Millicent hadn't gotten any advantages or recognition out of it from the Ministry, but a lot of attention from the students. With the end of Professor Umbridge's influence at Hogwarts, Millicent had had to endure the taunts and repercussions of her actions without the benefits attached to it. Before, she had been the burly girl nobody risked challenging because she had been too unimportant to risk any retribution from. Some even suspected Troll ancestry, but didn't dare ask Millicent about it. After the Inquisition Squad, people had had a grudge against her. Millicent had lost some of her intimidation potential, and all due to her participation in the Squad. What good was it to betray your equals if one got nothing out of it? Millicent's mother had seen it as decidedly unbecoming for a Slytherin. Millicent had indicated punishments, yet refrained from explaining.

But she had come. And with a small nod she had told Daphne that she had found an answer. After spending five years in the same dorm, the girls had learned how to communicate without words or being noticed. Daphne had had to wait, to listen to Pansy ramble on and on about her holidays and the many visits to beauticians. Did she think it impressive to need that much help? But Daphne preferred the conceited Pansy to her grumpy, sniping side she had shown at the end of the last school year; it reminded her of her old friend she could tease without feeling too guilty.

Finally, Tracey had found something to distract Pansy and lured her towards the corner of the store, leaving Daphne with her heavy friend. Not one to waste time and such an opportunity, she quickly checked their surrounding. All clear; only Millicent was close. Good, finally. Daphne had feared she might have to ask Tracey for help with drawing Pansy away; the last she needed was for Pansy to know about this mysterious candidate. Friend or not, she might have passed the information on to Draco just to gain a better chance with him if Daphne's suspicion was spot-on.

"Well, Millicent, had a nice week?" she tried, smiling genially.

The other girl rolled her eyes. Her life had made her sulky, which, Daphne thought, was actually sad. Millicent could have been a sensitive and attentive girl, but instead she had developed into little more than henchgirl to Pansy, the brawns to the other girl's... well. "Not really. But that wasn't what you wanted to know, was it?"

"Right to the point then," Daphne replied, lowering her voice slightly. "You found something?"

Millicent nodded. "Yes, it wasn't that hard. There aren't that many people of Black descent left and even fewer males. Well, there is of course Draco, son of Narcissa Malfoy, daughter of Cygnus Black the II."

"Yes, I know. But I already knew about Malfoy, and he's still the most probable candidate as well as a First Rank. There has to be another one. So, who have you identified as the mysterious Black?" Daphne waited with baited breath. Had she been mistaken? She was fairly certain she was right in her assumption.

"Well, there is only one other who it could be." Millicent glanced around nervously before whispering, "Potter. His grandmother was..."

"Dorea Potter, daughter of Cygnus and Violetta Black, yes," Daphne interrupted, struggling not to smile. "I came to the same conclusion after a look into Nature's Nobility –the only family I could find was Potter's, but needed someone to double-check my findings. You can imagine my surprise, it was just luck no one was around. Well, yes, I did find him, but he should be a Third Rank at best under normal circumstances, not a Second Rank, and I wanted to be sure about it. So no one else?"

"No. To be fair, I didn't even know he had Black blood. He is as far from... well, anyway. Maybe someone from the Black family acknowledged his relation? It doesn't happen that often, but it's possible something like that happened. Maybe he impressed a Black? I don't know, but that might explain it. Anyway, I'm sorry I don't have good news for you, Daphne. I can't imagine how you are dealing with it."

But Daphne didn't listen to her anymore. So she hadn't made a mistake –Potter was the mysterious boy. She would have preferred someone who wasn't on the opposite side of the house rivalry, but it wasn't all bad. Or rather, instead of worsening her position, it was actually an improvement. She still had to marry Malfoy unless she found some way out –to find one had been the main problem over the last month. Buying out would not work; she didn't have the money. Kill Draco? Not really feasible, not with whom his aunt and mother were. Daphne didn't fancy dying, whether by her own hand or someone else's. Deciding to break the magical contract? No. Getting the Malfoys to buy out? Very difficult, especially with the limited wealth Draco's family struggled with at the moment. Even if Daphne helped Pansy to seduce him, he might still through with the marriage to gain access to the Greengrass-Black wealth. No, hoping for the Malfoys to buy out was not an option.

But she still had options left to her, and now more than before, all thanks to the unexpected new candidate Potter. It was worth a try at least, but it also needed to be handled cautiously. And it just so happened that she had the right person for the job by her side –Millicent.

"These are great news, Millicent," Daphne said.

The other girl frowned. "Are you sure? He's Potter, he is..."

"An affected party now, Millicent, with the right to buy out as well." Seeing the heavy girl's face light up in sudden realization, Daphne did smile, and continued, "I have a small favour to ask of you, but I need your word that you won't tell."

"Daphne..." Millicent started to lean away. No matter what people thought when they saw her, she had learned that lesson of living in Slytherin well; don't promise anything carelessly. "You know I can't make such a hasty promise."

"Well, alright," Daphne relented. It was too important to insist, and she had a feeling Millicent would keep quiet anyway. "I want you to help me with my negotiations with Potter."

"Me? Wouldn't Pansy be... more appropriate? She is..."

"I don't want her involved. You know her; she wouldn't keep anything secret from Draco. One look at him and her mind blanks out; she can't keep her mouth shut in front of him. For this to work, Draco can't know about it before it is done and over with, not when the Malfoys might plan to make me dissolve –if I get Potter to do it, the Malfoys won't get anything. No, I need to keep control of this. And Tracey, well, I like her, of course, and she is nice and all, but she isn't... well..."

"I'm only a half-blood, Daphne, just like Tracey," Millicent reminded her.

"Unlike her, you were taught our traditions by your mother, even if you don't get along with her that much. You know what is required as well as the importance of certain acts. Millicent, for what I have planned, I need someone who doesn't make a mistake along the way and is already familiar with the procedures. And you hardly count as a real half-blood, unlike Tracey. Who cares about that pint of blood?"

"Purists like the Malfoys?" Millicent replied with a wry smile.

Daphne rolled her eyes. "You just know Tracey would botch it. She's just too..."

"Helping you with that?" Millicent narrowed her eyes. "Well, I don't like it. I'm in enough trouble as it is already, but fine. It sounds like you already have a plan, so out with it."

Daphne smiled delicately. "Well, the Malfoys won't buy out, and I doubt my family can. Our money is tied up for years to come, unfortunately. But Potter could if we convince him. He is an affected party, after all; should Malfoy die before his birthday, Potter would have to step in. I'm not sure he would want to marry a Slytherin, or what do you think about that? Of course, should he decide to buy out..."

Millicent blinked once. "I figured as much. You already had that plan in mind when you came here, didn't you? You only wanted me to confirm what you had found out on your own –the identity of that second candidate."

"Yes, I did," Daphne admitted. "But then, it's the simplest of solutions anyway, once you take everything into consideration. If I can convince Potter to buy out, then he will naturally also cancel my obligation towards Draco. My family gets a bit of gold, Malfoy his freedom, whether he wants it or not; everyone is happy. I just can't risk my mother interfering, and I can't let the Malfoys try something; they might have plans for whatever gold I might bring into the marriage. If so, then they wouldn't like Potter paying me to get out of it."

"You haven't planned anything for Potter, other than have him pay you," Millicent observed.

"Well, who knows what he might want, but everyone has a price. I'll just have to find his, and to do that, someone needs to talk to him. Naturally, the first step is to get in contact with him and make him understand what this is about. That's where you come in. So, will you do it?"

Millicent stared towards the window front. "Alright. First though, Potter needs to be informed. I don't think you should send him an owl, not if you want to keep this as secret as you indicated. Potter will also need someone to explain it to him, unless you think he knows it already? Or do you want to overwhelm him with the contract?"

"No, I think he should know what we are talking about. I need him to go along with it and show him just why he should get himself involved; this is an important matter. You could speak to one of his friends to have them deliver a message about the contract. Someone who knows the traditions –so not Granger –and won't talk," Daphne added. "And you'd best tell them to keep it secret as well. Oh, and about the curious status of Potter as a potential candidate of Second Rank. Maybe it will help them."

"Let's see," Millicent spoke, pursing her lips. "Definitely not Granger, no. Weasley wouldn't work either. I can't work with the idiot, and he would never speak to a Slytherin. And the other Weasleys... I doubt they learn what to do anyway, never mind getting in contact with them."

"Why not Longbottom?" Daphne proposed, knowing the boy had learned the traditions. "He's from your extended family, isn't he?"

The heavy girl frowned. "Well, it's a distant relation at best. But Longbottom should work. His grandmother raised him, and from what I heard, she places a lot of weight on our traditions. I'm not sure whether he could speak with Potter about this matter. I don't know whether he speaks all that much, actually."

Daphne bit her lip, seeing Pansy coming out of a stall. Time was running out, it seemed. "Well, we'll see, won't we? Ask him; as long as he doesn't blab, he should work."

Both nodded shortly and purposefully went different ways towards their shared friends.


It had gone wrong. They had been prepared, had lain in wait. A trap, and Harry had led his friends into it once again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the movement, recognized the stocky man. MacNair. How had they missed him before? With reflexes born from his experience, Harry threw himself on the floor, pulling Hermione with him. He saw the green shimmer of a curse missing him only by the breadth of a hair.

Stockton, the Auror that had been assigned as their protection, jumped into action. Good woman. Harry could see why she had been allowed to join. Mr. Weasley had sunken into a crouch flinging curses at MacNair.

But then, when had Death Eaters ever shown up alone? Two others jumped up from a table, disguised as simple guests. Trusting his instincts, Harry whipped his wand out and did the first thing he could think of: he summoned a nearby table towards him. One of the Death Eaters had flung a nasty-looking spell of sickly violet their way. It hit the table, which started to boil and melt before Harry's eyes.

"There!" cackled the other enemy, a skeletal woman with glowing eyes, and started her own onslaught. Hermione, ever the smart witch jumped to her feet. Her wand danced, with quick slashes some of the rubble around her transformed into a pack of dogs she sent towards the Death Eaters.

But more came out of hiding. Spellfire alarmed Harry to three additional attackers coming from a store in their back. Ron had acted brilliantly and was shielding everything he could. Harry sent two spells their way, but a yellow blast passed right in front of him: two more, from the left, hidden behind...

Harry cursed. Of course they had hostages. Dropping into a crouch, he ran towards a low wall.

Stockton was doing fine, but she had her hands full with MacNair and another enemy. Nine against eight. Weston had finally found his heart and jumped into the fray –he helped Ron.

"Well then, two, one..." And with a well-placed Reducto just above the two Death Eaters with the hostages, Harry organized his own distraction. He threw himself to the side, rolled into the open and behind the next cover. Not wasting time, he rolled forward, jumped...

Yes, he had flanked them!

"Stupefy!" His spell connected, and one of the masked men dropped to the floor. On the upside, Harry had reduced the fight to a one-on-one, on the downside; his enemy knew where Harry was. With a growl, the man sent his spell. Harry let himself fall to the floor, and the spell missed him.

Just stay on your feet. Don't get hit. Trust your instincts. Don't think. Act.

Not waiting for the next attack, Harry rolled to the side, flinging a Disarming Charm at his opponent. A miss, of course, but more importantly, it was activity. Duck, his instincts yelled, and Harry did. Another spell missed him narrowly.

"Stupefy! Expelliarmus!" Keep him unbalanced! Harry's eyes came to rest on the window behind the Death Eater. The reflection of Spellfire told him his friends hadn't lost yet. Good.

The Death Eater slashed his wand again. "Crucio! Crucio!"

Not today, Harry thought, and jumped to the side. Foot buried deep in the rubble, he kicked some at his opponent. A particularly big chunk flew, and the man had to sidestep. The chunk smashed the window.

Now! "Stupefy!" Harry's spell connected, but with the hostage. The Death Eater wasted no time, experienced in similar situations. He grabbed a heavily bleeding man from the floor. But Harry had enough time to strike. Praying to everyone who could hear him, he cast his best Reducto at the ground, right in front of the Death Eater. It worked, or rather, it fulfilled its purpose: A cloud of dust was flung into the air. Harry concentrated. He knew he could do the spell as long as he didn't lose focus. The dust settled, and he could see the Death Eater pointing his wand.

"You're finished, Potter!"

Now or never.

Harry focused. With a nearly inaudible crack, the piece of glass from the broken window broke free and shot towards Harry in a straight line. With the knowledge of flying objects, he had pulled it off: The shard shot through the Death Eater, cutting his neck cleanly. Harry rolled to the side, the glass crashing ineffectively somewhere behind him.

The masked man fell to the side, head following just a bit too slowly in a shower of red.

Harry turned to the battle in his back and felt his blood run cold.

Stockton lay face down on the floor. MacNair stood alone, his comrades too felled. But neither Mr. Weasley nor Weston were anywhere in sight. Ron and Hermione still fought, only not on the same side: Even from the distance, Harry could see Ron's glazed over eyes.

Imperiused. He'd always been easily controlled.

Hermione sent something at Ron, hopefully something relatively harmless –why didn't anyone help? They couldn't be the only ones in the alley, yet no one else had stepped forward to fight them off –but in the meantime, MacNair managed to break through her shield. His spell connected.

As if in slow motion, her hands started bubbling, fingers blowing up rapidly like a balloon, and as the effect travelled up her arms and legs, her fingers broke open. In a shower of blood and flesh, shock edged on her face, Hermione's body was torn apart from within. Meeting his eyes, her lips moved, formed a word...

"You..."

And then, her eyes, accusing for just a moment, bubbled, blew up like a balloon...

Harry gasped for breath.

Darkness engulfed him as his eyes snapped open. The house was silent.

Great. That dream again. He had failed them. Again.

What time was it? It was still dark outside. Perhaps three in the morning. Another night with barely four hours of sleep. But he couldn't go back. He couldn't return to the dead Hermione. Not to the imperiused Ron. To the fallen Aurors. To his murdered family.

Another night of reading, then. If it was around three he would have about four hours until anyone would rise.

Maybe he should review the chapters about counter-curses from Practical Defensive Magic and its Use Against the Dark Arts. Knowing how to undo the worst of damage might prove to be useful some day, and from what he could tell, it wasn't something that was taught regularly at Hogwarts.

But he already knew them, at least in theory. He had to try them, cast them, to see whether he had actually understood them, and he couldn't do that at the Burrow. No matter whether the Ministry did notice or not, it was still against the law, and Harry had had enough run-ins with the law to last a lifetime, he felt. Maybe improving his offence would be better; he could try to read up on a few curses to incorporate into his style. The ambush in the alley had proven as much.

It had been a dream, he reminded himself. There hadn't been an ambush. Ron was fine. Ginny was fine. Mr. Weasley was fine. Hermione was fine. Stockton was not real. Weston had never been born. All was well.

Healing spells would be useful too. Maybe he should ask Madam Pomfrey the next time he was in the hospital wing. Had he seen anything about them in any of his books? Harry couldn't remember. His mind was still hazy, pictures floating to the forefront.

What spell would cause such a gruesome death? Where had MacNair learned something like that?

He hadn't, Harry once more reminded himself. It had been a dream, and he hadn't left it behind yet. They were fine.

Harry grabbed his glasses and opened his trunk. Where had he put his book from Practical Defensive Magic and its Use against the Dark Arts? First, he found his potions book from last year. That was one class he wouldn't miss. Next, the Monster Book of Monsters tried to bite him. Why had Hagrid assigned that book again? They hadn't even really used it! What a waste of money, and all for a stupid piece of...

Harry dug deeper. His hand found a cold leather cover he hadn't expected. Curious, he pulled it out. Sirius' book. He opened it. "The Mind Arts, by Josefina Smith," he read. His fingers ran over the words. Since he had thrown the book into his trunk the day he had visited Grimmauld Place, he hadn't thought about it. He hadn't told anyone about it. He had been ashamed of his moment of weakness, of taking the book in the first place, and of literally doing it behind Bill's back. Then it had slipped his mind, in a way, while he had been helping around the house. And then, when he might have explained it to the others, it had been too late to mention it without looking suspicious.

The Mind Arts. Occlumency. Dumbledore had wanted him to learn it. Sirius had wanted him to learn it. Lupin had told him to learn it. Yet Harry had failed. He had no talent for it. Snape had said so.

... No. Harry wouldn't give up so easily. Just because Snape had said so didn't make it the truth. Maybe there had been some reason for Harry to struggle with it. Learning how to protect the mind, wouldn't that be vital when fighting Voldemort? Or his Death Eaters? What good would it be to know obscure spells when the enemy could read which one he would use? Yes, Harry realized it might be the most vital aspect of his preparation. Why hadn't Dumbledore arranged for lessons right from the start of Harry's fifth year? But no matter.

The Mind Arts.

Well, it was better than nothing. It was something new to read. It was something he might need. It was something that interested him. He leafed forward a few pages, skipping the table of contents.

"Chapter One – The Nature of the Mind," Harry began, getting more comfortable.


The sound of movement on the stairs shook him out of his reverie. Turning, he saw Mrs. Weasley coming into the room.

"Harry? Oh, you're awake, good. Ron said you had gone for a nap."

Harry blinked. He hadn't said anything about a nap to his friend when he had left earlier. Well, all the better, he thought. If they thought he had slept a bit, who was he to correct their mistake? He could imagine the faces if he told them he had wanted to read, especially since they still didn't know about Smith's book. No one could be more surprised than he was, though. Harry had expected a difficult read when he had first picked up the book after waking from his nightmare. After the first chapter, he had been tempted to burn the horrible tome just for existing and taunting him for his own inadequacies. It had been ridiculously complicated, and he had understood nothing from the text. Not even an inkling! The nature of the mind? Not worth the headache, apparently.

Only morbid curiosity had tempted him that night into giving the next chapter a chance. It had been equally bad, and he had regretted ever opening the book when, literally on the last page of the second chapter, he had he felt something take root in the back of his head. The chapter had been an introduction into the relation of magic and mind. True to form, Harry hadn't understood what Smith had wanted to tell her readers. Why even include a chapter about something like that? Smart wizards and witches were more capable. There. One sentence, and everything that mattered and was true, right?

Well, no, apparently not. Instead, she had written extensively about P-lines and J-peaks, Lyra-intersections and a lot more that Harry had never heard anything about. Utter crap, the whole book, he had decided, when that strange feeling had risen in him while reading the last page. There had been... something important buried within all these paragraphs. Smith had written about categorizing magical people according to the outlined characteristics. He may not have been able to follow her complex theories, but he still had the impression that there had been fundamental aspect of the Mind Arts, or perhaps magic as a whole, hidden within the elaborated explanations. Could people have different strengths, depending on their... intersections and peaks and loops and lines, dots, angles and whatnot? If so, perhaps there was more to the Mind Arts than what Snape had made him believe. With that suspicion occupying his mind, he had decided to read on. That was the reason why, when the others had wanted to play Exploding Snap a few hours ago, Harry had excused himself and left for his room to read in Smith's book.

"Ah, no, I'm up," he replied, forcing himself to smile. Just a few more pages and he would have grasped the underlying idea, would have understood the relation between magic and mind Smith had spent so much time building up to in a book about the Mind Arts, he knew it. Just a few more pages, just a few more minutes would have sufficed. All he had learned was that the mind had some influence on magic, but not the nature of it. Did strong magic help with the mind arts? Or was it the other way around? Did a strong mind help with the magical protection of itself?

But it didn't matter; he'd figure it out later.

"I'm up," he repeated, closing the book and putting it on the nightstand.

"Good, good. Well, I came to tell you dinner is almost ready," Mrs. Weasley said. "There was also an owl for you," she added, pulling an envelope from her pocket and handing it to Harry.

Curious, Harry opened it. He recognized the script quickly as Neville's and scanned the few lines.

"It's from Neville," he told Mrs. Weasley, who had busied herself with straightening the curtain of the window. "He wants to come over soon. He has something he wants to talk to me about."

"Well, that's alright, dear," Mrs. Weasley replied, "you know your friends are always welcome here. Did he write when he wants to come over?"

"Err, Tuesday, and for maybe an hour, he writes. His grandmother is having him do quite a bit in the garden, apparently, so he's kind of busy most of the time."

"Tuesday then," Mrs. Weasley confirmed, heading out the door, "Write him back, will you?"

Harry was left to think about the letter. What did Neville have to talk to him about? His mind jumped to Neville's parents first. They had suffered a horrible fate, and all because of the war that had taken James and Lily Potter, the same war that had cost Sirius years of his life. Did Neville want to commiserate? But no, that made little sense. Harry's mind jumped to something he had in common with Neville –the prophecy. Had Neville learned about it? Had he heard about the contents? Did he believe the rumours in the Daily Prophet? No, that couldn't be it either. So what did Neville have to talk about?

Well, come Tuesday, Harry would know; until then, all he could do was send the reply.

As if someone had switched a light on, Harry woke up. His dreams had been filled with death, destruction, and loss as was usual for him lately. This time, it had been Dementors, swarms of them, invading Hogwarts. With Dumbledore's Army stretched too thin and the teachers strangely absent, they had had no chance. The bodies of dozens, hundreds of students had littered the corridors, and Harry had had trouble fighting back, back somehow, miraculously, he had managed to stay just one step ahead. He had done a good job defending the Entrance Hall, which, considering the situation and the many other places without sufficient defences, had meant the Dementors were running out of victims elsewhere; they had begun swarming into the Entrance Hall from all floors. The dread had lifted slightly as he had fought with Ginny in his back, both covering half of the room, even though it wasn't enough to hold the masses back, when he saw something out of the corner of his eye: one of the first-years, soulless, had fallen down from above, directly on Ginny. It had happened too fast to recognize the boy, but the Dementors didn't give him time to check. They started picking people he could no longer cover fully, dragged them away high above him to be robbed of their soul; another defeat Harry had to suffer.

But for once, he hadn't woken up because of the dreams. In all the chaos and devastation, Harry had come to the realization that had been lurking in his mind, the answer to the one question that had been bothering him incessantly in his waking moments; it was the answer that had been on the tip of his tongue. Suddenly and in the middle of his dream, as if hit by a punch, he had made the connection, had grasped the meaning of Josefina Smith's explanations. He had understood what she had meant with the peaks and lines and all of those stupid names. Why hadn't he seen it before? He had known it for months already, even though he hadn't had a clear understanding of the implications. Hadn't he noticed it during the lessons with Dumbledore's Army? It made perfect sense, now that he thought about it, or as much sense as magic usually did to him. He still struggled with the idea of peaks, lines, intersections and every other term Smith had used, but he had figured it out well enough for his purposes. What did he care about the proper terms or the finer details at the moment? He had his breakthrough.

All came down to personalities, he realized, his mind still slightly sluggish. Why should he care what others called it? He understood it basic principle. Magic and the mind, or the personality, to be precise, were linked. Of course they were, hadn't he wondered why Ron had learned the Patronus faster than Hermione? Why Luna, dear as she was, had no trouble at all with the spell when Padma Patil, no slouch for sure and quite clever, had fought hard to keep up even the mist? But he hadn't thought about the people in terms of character. The Patronus, a spell relying on strong positive emotions, was more difficult to learn for the logically inclined. Hermione had tried to crack it, to understand the how and why, and given enough time would probably have started analysing the exact amount of hope required for a Patronus. That was how her mind worked; when faced with a problem, she tried to rationalize it as best as she could.

Ron on the other hand was both more emotional and of simpler mind. Naturally, he would have less of a problem to recall a happy memory because he wasn't as troubled with categorizing his feelings, and if he was told to think of something that made him happy, then he didn't question it. His mind worked differently, and for a spell that required an emotional factor to work, he would be at an advantage, simple as that. Conversely, spells with more attention to detail, transfigurations for example, were Hermione's forte. Luna, unencumbered with image and believing in obscure theories, didn't view the world in terms of logic as much. She would have no trouble simply picking a happy thought or memory, and she would have believed Harry's explanation instead of questioning it. Or perhaps, Harry mused, the success with the Patronus had to do with death. Someone like Luna who had a lot of happy memories to draw from, but also knew of loss might have an easier time taking hold of one of the happiest moments. With the contrast of bad memories, the good simply stood out more.

Following the original train of thought, if the character of a witch or wizard made them more or less adapt at certain kinds of magic –influenced how they worked a spell –then of course the same would be true for the mind arts. That explained perfectly why Smith had wasted four chapters on it –if that was the influence of character, and since said influence might just be stronger when applied to the mind arts, then of course the first step in learning them had to be the classification of the student's mind. Although he didn't know where it would come into play, he had finally made progress and an explanation why he had struggled with Occlumency so much. If his theory was correct, he needed to find out what kind of mind he had.

He flipped the book open to the table of contents.

There it was. "Chapter Seven - On the Categories of the Mind," Harry read. His eyes travelled to the window. It was dark outside, but on the horizon, the sky had started turning a lighter shade of grey. Sunrise was close.

He couldn't sleep, not with the epiphany he just had. Not when he was so close to progress.


That's it for chapter three. Not really nail-biting action, but still needed, I think, to set the stage for later developments. The next chapter will be called Mind and Traditions, and going by what was in this chapter, you can pretty much guess already what will be the focus.

.

Since some might wonder about it, Daphne and Millicent are referring to a troubled relationship with an ambitious Mrs. Bulstrode. That's about as much as one needs to know. Since I have a soft spot for Millicent, though -as evidenced by my other story, After the Ball , with its own continuity, obviously -I also thought up a background story for her that, unfortunately, doesn't really play a role, quiet girl that she is. Her father, a pureblood, is of little importance here, only to pass the name to her. The mother is the half-blood daughter of a Muggle and a wizard, perhaps one with a bit of creature blood. Resenting her nonmagical heritage, Mrs. Bulstrode tried to raise her daughter to be as much like a pureblood as she could. No, that is not really all that important, it only explains why Millicent has a pureblood name -Violetta Bulstrode having married a Black, indicating the Bulstrodes were a pureblood family of some renown -and is familiar with the traditions, yet still be a half-blood like the documentary Harry Potter and Me implied.

About Harry preferring Hermione's hugs, no that's not hinting at a possible love for them; it's the difference between having your arms pinned to your side or rib-crackingly tight hugs and the considerably more mature embraces Hermione would bestow once she realizes she shouldn't squeeze the stuffing out of her friends. Think child clinging to a plush toy and hugging the mother/father, or perhaps the difference between punching the dog and petting it -more care involved.