Chapter Seven

I have right here a nice long chapter to keep you all satisfied. OwO


"Teach us," Margot said, her eyes like stone.

"No!" Harry snapped back.

"Why not?" The sixth-year was flanked by an assortment of other Slytherins, most of whom Harry did not recognize other than those who bore slight resemblances to the people that he knew from school in his own time.

"Because I'm too…" He planned on saying 'busy', but then paused as he imagined Hermione saying 'honourable'. Too 'honourable' to ever consider teaching Slytherins his signature spell. Or anything else. This thought only succeeded in fuelling his temper.

"Because you're too stubborn?" Margot guessed.

"Because I don't have time for this," countered Harry, turning to enter the common room through the entrance hole and hopefully retire to bed for an undisturbed sleep. Unfortunately, he found himself blocked by a barrier of various younger students, mainly fifth and sixth-years. There was Edwin Parkinson with a sneer upon his face, who Harry had been half-acquainted to that morning; there was a girl who looked like a she might have been related to one Michael Corner in Ravenclaw; and then there were the others. All smirking. It seemed that if you were sorted into Slytherin, it was compulsory to know how to smirk.

"We shall not release you until you name a proper reason," said Margot, apparently assigned spokesperson for the small gathering of Slytherins. "It is obvious that you are completely brilliant at Defence Against the Dark Arts, even more brilliant than Riddle, so what why not help us to be better than him as well?"

If it was anybody else, Harry thought, then it would be 'yes' in a heartbeat, but these people are all potential future Death Eaters. I would be an idiot to tutor them all, only for them to use their newfound knowledge against the Light side.

"I thought you lot all worshipped Tom Riddle," Harry remarked aloud, turning back to face Margot with a scowl upon his face. "Why in Merlin's name do you want to be better than him now?"

Margot blushed in a demure manner while averting her eyes, which did not have Harry fooled, whereas the other students merely looked affronted.

"I do not worship Riddle," said Margot. "I told you that, Harry. None of us here do."

"Yes," tacked on Parkinson loudly. "Unlike the rest of the house, we still have a little dignity, see."

Still suspicious, Harry's eyes flickered over the numbers. There were less than ten in all. None of the ones he saw here looked as if they came from the Death Eater families he knew from the future. Daphne Greengrass, in his year, had never been a bother, and it had never reached his ears that Pansy Parkinson's parents were Dark. Then there was Michael Corner, Ginny's ex-boyfriend, who was definitely on the Light side.

Harry felt his resolve waver for a moment.

"Just think of it as helping your fellow students with a bit of homework," Margot said, latching onto Harry's brief lapse in judgment. Eyes as sharp as a hawk, that one.

C'mon, Harry, said a voice which sounded suspiciously like Ron's in Harry's head. Set Riddle's snakes on him. He'll never see it coming!

"Just do it, Delacour," commanded Parkinson, and then a cunning light crept across his face. "Unless everything that people have said that you did were all lies…?"

That did it. Harry blamed his Gryffindor side for never being able to back away from a challenge

"Bloody hell," he muttered, then said louder, "Fine! But you'd better all leave me alone now, or I'll change my mind."

Smugly, Parkinson swung through the entry hole, bumping shoulders with a few of the others as if to say, I told you I could get him to do it.

There was a very gleeful air about the group as they all echoed things like, "We owe you, Delacour," and, "Good on you…"

Margot was the last to leave. The façade in which she had appeared rather flustered had been pushed away to be replaced by dangerous sugariness, and her mask was as bright as starlight.

"Looking forward to our time together, Professor Delacour," she purred, flittering her fingers in farewell as she made her way into the common room. "I wonder if my Patronus shall be a doe?"

The entrance hole slid closed behind her. Harry unleashed a low growl, deep in the back of his throat. These people made it so easy for him to hate them.

Deciding that he was too tightly strung to go to bed now, Harry opted to go for a stroll down the corridors to reflect on all the mistakes that he had made that day. Merlin knew that it had been wrong for him to step into the spotlight the way that he had. He had just been so desperate to prove himself against Riddle.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice that somebody was stalking him in the shadows.


Earlier that day…


By the time Defence Against the Dark Arts rolled in after lunch, Harry had successfully avoided the Slytherin table in favour of joining Ignatius among the Gryffindors, where he was introduced to some of the other seventh-years.

There was a Muggle-born witch named Phyllis Colbert, who seemed very happy to retain a conversation with Harry about what was currently occurring in the Muggle world at that very moment (they were in the midst of World War II); there was Finlay Bell, who Harry figured was related to Katie Bell, one of the original Gryffindor Chasers that he had known; and then there was Bridget Bones, and Harry came to the assumption that she was a part of the family which Susan Bones in his year at school had come from. Harry recognised her as the girl who had sat in Potions with Ignatius.

Ignatius seemed to be something of a leader to the three, so perhaps it was his acceptance of Harry which urged them to behave on friendly terms to the Slytherin. Or maybe it was because they had also seen what Ignatius had during the sorting last night – Harry's apparent Gryffindor-ish qualities. Either way, Harry found himself to be very comfortable seated there. If anything, it felt normal.

When Hermione, who had hung back during Potions class to further discuss Felix Felicis with Slughorn, finally entered the Great Hall to grab a bite between classes, her gaze had zeroed in on Harry, the blot of green among the red, and her eyes had narrowed, if only slightly. Not in annoyance, but in contemplation, probably turning everything over in her head. She joined one Rowan Poole – the poor, besotted kid – at the Ravenclaw table, and Harry watched her graciously accepting compliments from him – probably regarding her perfect progress in Felix Felicis thus far (Harry's, of course, had been far from perfect).

Hermione was not the only one who noticed the new Slytherin's variation from conventional seating plans. Though Harry had at first received suspicious glances from the rest of Gryffindor table, they had quickly diminished due to the seventh-years' apparent confidence in him. But then there was the case of Slytherin table. The faces of the students over there were quietly watchful, dubious, displeased… and one which was even betrayed, that one being Margot Greengrass.

Harry only paid special attention to a particular person, though. The one person who merited special attention.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, sitting there with an expression of leisurely boredom scrawled across his features, as if he was so above everybody surrounding him. Harry watched him, observing his conduct around the others, and the others' conduct around him. The same people as the night before sat around Riddle, as if forming a protective wall to prevent the lesser beings from having contact with him. They all radiated that sense of awe and adoring for the future Dark Lord. But said future Dark Lord was just as cold, just as dismissive as Harry would have expected.

Unbidden, their eyes met, and Harry felt the blood in his veins suddenly run as cold as winter. The blasé veil in Riddle's eyes drifted away, and they became as bright as the night sky, boring into Harry's own as if Riddle could see his very soul. It was instinctual to look away, to lower his gaze and submit to the other's clear dominance, but Harry had initiated a challenge that morning, and he would not back down.

Wiping his face of emotion, Harry raised his chin, just a little, and stared right back at Riddle. The confrontation was cut short when Ignatius grabbed Harry's shoulder, asking what was going on, and Harry looked away with a muttered, "Nothing." He didn't dare look in Riddle's direction again, and within another thirty seconds excused himself, his tone curter than was necessary, and left the Great Hall.

He was glad that Hermione did not follow him out.

Because of his abrupt flight from the Great Hall, Harry found himself to be the first student in the DADA class, arriving even before Professor Merrythought.

Harry recalled, from the memory that Dumbledore had had him view the previous year, that Riddle had been questioning Slughorn about Merrythought's retirement. This must be the professor's final year of teaching, Harry assumed.

His assumptions were proven correct when the elderly professor shuffled into the classroom, five minutes before class was due to start. She certainly looked elderly, and, quite frankly, weary of her time here.

"Somebody is early," Merrythought said aloud as her gaze landed on Harry.

"Yes, Professor," said Harry.

"I don't recognize you." The witch leaned heavily against her cane and flicked her wand at the blackboard at the front of the classroom. Harry watched silently as the words Defence Against the Dark Arts, N.E. Final Year scrawled themselves across the board, the piece of chalk rasping through his eardrums. It suddenly occurred to him that Merrythought had been asking a question, and said quickly, "I'm new. Harry Delacour. I transferred from Beauxbatons."

"Hm," Merrythought said, finding a chair opposite Harry and dropping into it like a stone. Harry could hear her joints creaking painfully from where he sat, but Merrythought seemed accustomed to it and made no noise of complaint. Instead, she looked at Harry beadily, pale eyes sharp even with her old age. "You undertook Defence class whilst there?"

"Yes, professor," Harry replied smoothly.

"Now, I met the Beauxbatons Defence professor in previous years," said Merrythought, scratching her eyebrow. "I found him to be a most disagreeable man. What was his name again?"

Harry's heart leapt in his throat. What the fuck was the Beauxbaton's DADA professor called?

"Um–" he began, unsure of what he would have said if Merrythought hadn't cut him off.

"Oh, I remember," she said. "Aubinet, wasn't it? Mathis Aubinet."

"Yes, that's it." Harry expelled a breath. "Professor, um, Aubinet."

"My mind is not the sharpest needle you might find nowadays," Merrythought muttered, then smiled. "But it still hasn't turned completely senile yet."

Harry tried to also smile out of politeness, but the tilt of his mouth felt wooden. Thankfully, this little detail passed Merrythought's notice.

"Do you enjoy Defence much?" she asked, seemingly content to have a casual conversation with Harry. Harry latched onto that in hopes of avoiding an interrogation about anything else related to Beauxbatons.

"I've always enjoyed it more than any of my other subjects," he said, shrugging slightly. "In the other subjects, there's always something extra that you have to do to get it right, always some sort of twist, but I find that I get DADA. It comes naturally to me, most of the time." Harry didn't bother adding that this was probably because since first-year, he had always found himself in situations which determined that he had to be best at DADA, because if he wasn't, he would almost certainly die. It was a requisite to being Harry Potter.

"I see," Merrythought murmured. "We shall see how you handle yourself in my class, then." The volume of the of footsteps approaching in the corridor heightened, indicating that the rest of the class would be entering soon.

With a slight grimace, Merrythought pushed herself to her feet, bracing herself on her cane.

"Well, best prepare for the tidal wave converging on us," she pronounced, hobbling to the front of the room.

True to her word, the class filled within a minute, a far greater number in this class than in Potions.

Somebody plonked down into the seat by Harry. Hermione to shoot him down with questions. Harry folded his arms against the tabletop and leaned forwards to rest his chin on them.

"Not now, Hermione," he mumbled, closing his eyes. "Can't deal with this right now."

"Good thing I'm not dearest sister, then," said a voice which most definitely did not belong to Hermione.

Harry bolted up, his spine ramrod straight, and whipped around to face Lestrange. Bastard.

"Lestrange." He heard the snarl in his voice, sensed that he was bristling. It was impossible not to. Up close, those black eyes, as cold and flat as a shark's, could have been the exact same as Bellatrix's. He could have been staring straight into the face of Sirius's murderer.

"I am so privileged to hear that you remember my name," Lestrange remarked, a sneer curling the corner of his mouth.

"Why are you here?" Harry hunted for Hermione, and found her at a desk a couple of rows down from him. She widened her eyes at him, as if to ask why the hell he was sitting with Lestrange. The rest of the seats in the classroom were taken now, so Harry found none available for him to move to. Maybe he could swap with someone, but then again, who would want to sit with Lestrange…

"Your solicitous fellow Slytherin, Riddle–" the extra emphasis on the word brought Harry to the conclusion that this was about him sitting with the Gryffindors at lunch "–thought it would be best if you kept company with those in your own house, and asked if I would be so kind to keep you from straying down the wrong path."

"What might that 'wrong path' be?" Harry asked, sneering right back at Lestrange's face. "Ignatius Prewett? Phyllis Colbert? They're both the 'righter' path than you could ever be."

"You compare us to a blood-traitor and a mudblood?" Lestrange smiled sharply. "So you're one of those?"

"'Those' meaning a person who strives for equality? Yes, I am." Harry turned his face away. "Now, I would rather you stopped trying to speak to me."

Lestrange hissed loudly, just as Merrythought began speaking.

"Welcome to your final year of N.E. Defence Against the Dark Arts," she announced, the room falling into silence to listen. Gone was the weariness which had been pressed all over her before, and here was the professor with life experience. "This year will no doubt challenge you to the point that I expect a vast number of you to drop out throughout our time here. This class is not, after all, intended for the faint-hearted. But first, the roll call. Lucan Abbott?"

"It's dangerous to hold such views in a time like this," Lestrange told Harry from the corner of his mouth. "You wouldn't want the wrong people hearing you say such things."

"I can handle myself," Harry countered. "Perhaps it's dangerous, but sometimes you have to choose between what is right, and what is easy."

Lestrange almost looked impressed. Harry doubted that he would have if he heard that it was Dumbledore who had taught Harry that lesson.

"Harry Delacour," said Merrythought, and Harry raised his hand to indicate his presence.

"Hermione Delacour," Merrythought continued, and Lestrange started speaking again.

"Does your sister share your views?" he asked.

"She's my cousin," Harry snapped back.

"That explains why you two don't look very much alike." Lestrange was unfazed.

"We do," said Harry defensively, even though he, too, was certain that they didn't. "A little bit."

"Peregrine Lestrange," called Merrythought.

"Is present," said Lestrange, before picking up the quiet conversation again. "Only if you count the fact that you're as feminine as she is." He sniggered.

"That's a lie," Harry barked, louder than necessary. All heads turned in his direction, including Merrythought's, but he quickly faked a coughing fit, and Merrythought proceeded with her list of names. Lestrange laughed quietly in obvious delight.

"Why else do you think Greengrass likes you so much?" he asked. "Because she likes pretty things."

"I am not pretty," Harry growled.

"Delicate as an elf," Lestrange mocked.

"Elves can be manly," Harry defended himself. He recalled hoping that he could pull off the Beauxbatons image of being 'fair' and 'pretty', but no longer wished that he could, what with listening to Lestrange's side of the conversation.

"Liar." The black-eyed boy managed to slip in the last word before Merrythought put away the roll call and began the lesson. Harry seethed silently, doing his best to focus back in on the lesson.

"The final year of N.E. covers less new content than many might expect," she said. "You are, however, expected to remember everything that you have ever covered in this subject since first-year, as we will be delving deeper into already known topics. Which is why I have set up a practical course for this lesson." At her word, the stone wall at the front of the class flickered and then fell away to reveal what looked to be the Forbidden Forest.

Most people in the class gasped and flinched backwards when the wall supposedly fell. Merrythought gave a hoot of laughter, as if her students' reactions really made her day.

"Don't worry, it's just an illusion," she said, "but a complicated one at that. By stepping into it, you will be transported to a false, three-dimensional world where you will face a range of Dark creatures and spells. All apparitions, of course, but life-like none-the-less. I'll have you take turns stepping into this illusionary world, where you will each be confronted with three trials. Some of you will face off the same creature or spell as others before you, and if you are smart, will learn from the mistakes that others previously made. When it is not your turn, you will observe and take notes on your classmate's successes and errors, which I will have you share at the end. Do we have any volunteers to go first?"

No. Harry doubted that anybody would volunteer to step up to this task before anybody else. It was not a fanciful thought, the idea of slipping into an 'illusionary world' to face three Dark challenges whilst having an audience observe your handiwork. Judging from the faces that he could see, most people shared this sentiment.

"Come now, it's not that scary," assured Merrythought, but the menacing manner in which she smiled at them did little to ease anyone's nerves. When still nobody volunteered, she sighed. "If you all must behave like children, then so be it… Prewett, you can go up first."

Ignatius Prewett stood reluctantly, wand in hand.

"Go on, mate," encouraged Finlay Bell, prodding him forwards amidst some cheers and catcalls from the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs.

Harry leaned forwards, interested, and watched as Ignatius took a deep breath before stepping into the illusion of the Forbidden Forest. Judging from the way he whipped around again and stared at the class blankly, it seemed that by stepping into the illusion, he could no longer see the classroom. Total immersion in the illusionary world.

"Observe," Merrythought whispered, caught in the mood as they all watched Ignatius swinging around in this direction and that, waiting for something to jump out at him.

Harry saw the Acromantula before Ignatius did, scurrying in the shadows silently, closing in on him, nearer, nearer… somebody made a choking noise when the giant spider reared up at Prewett from behind, exposing its waving pincers, and Ignatius whirled around at the last second, pointing his wand and shouting, "Confringo!"

The Acromantula caught the spell on a leg, and seemed to have merely been infuriated further as it charged at Ignatius again.

"Quickly, are you taking notes?" asked Merrythought in clear excitement. There was a great noise of rummaging as everybody hurriedly pulled out their parchment and quills, nobody feeling inclined to miss any of the action by taking too long.

"Confundo!" Ignatius was busy bellowing, followed by, "Stupefy!"

The Acromantula, already reeling, went flying into a tree and fell unconscious.

The sound of scribbling on parchment filled the silence alongside Ignatius's quick breathing as he awaited the next trial.

It was a Banshee next, which Ignatius handled fine, though it took him a little while to block out her screeches, and finally went on to incapacitate a zombie after a couple of attempts.

Having faced off three different Dark creatures, Ignatius was allowed out of the illusion, and he stepped through the wall, exhausted. Everybody – excluding the Slytherins who were not Harry – broke into applause for him, and plastering on a winning grin, Ignatius took his seat again.

"Yes, very well done indeed," said Merrythought. "Now, hush up, everybody. Does anybody wish to share with Prewett anything that they have written in their notes?"

"I do, Professor Merrythought," Tom Riddle said, then turned to Prewett. Anybody who wasn't paying close attention would have thought that he was being utterly serious, but the nasty gleam in his eyes told Harry otherwise. "Surely it's counterproductive to holler spells at the top of your voice. Wouldn't it be alerting your enemies to your position on the battleground?"

Lestrange laughed under his breath when Ignatius glared at Riddle. Harry sighed loudly before he could stop himself.

"I don't think that it would occur to somebody in a life-or-death situation to use non-verbal spells if they haven't been properly trained to do so," he parried. "I think that you would have a much better chance of surviving if you performed the spell properly aloud, as opposed to mucking it up whilst trying to perform it silently. Sure, non-verbal spells are showier, but I'd rather live than go down in style."

Riddle opened his mouth to retaliate, but Merrythought cut him off.

"That's enough," she said. "If nobody has anything else to say, then we'll move on. Riddle, your turn." She indicated for him to step into the illusion.

"Of course," agreed Riddle suavely, stepping forwards to take his place in the Forbidden Forest illusion.

At Harry's side, Lestrange sat up a little straighter.

The first creature to come out was a dragon, silhouetted overhead, its wingspan massive, its hide metallic grey, its eyes glowing like a fire in the night.

"Ukrainian Ironbelly," Lestrange whispered in pure awe, his voice breathless and his dark eyes reflecting the lights ablaze in the beast's own eyes. "It's the largest dragon known to wizards."

"But is it more dangerous than the Hungarian Horntail?" asked Harry grimly, ignoring the sideways glance that he received.

Without hesitating, Riddle deflected the Ironbelly's flames and non-verbally cast a spell which radiated the colour of ice, so bright and white that it seared Harry's eyes. Whatever the spell was, it was powerful, because once Harry's sight had recovered, he saw that the Ironbelly had been paralysed, sending its immense girth toppling into a tree, which toppled into another, then another. The aftermath of the domino effect was a row of trunks, splintered into millions of woody shards.

Even though Harry was certain that he couldn't see the classroom, Riddle looked over his shoulder, and it seemed that he was staring directly at Harry when he smirked. As if he thought that he had proven a point by performing a spell non-verbally. How it was that he looked more handsome than ever with wind-tousled hair and flushed cheeks, Harry did not know.

A Chimaera came thundering into the scene without warning, its roar as loud as a thunderclap, but Riddle, once again, was completely unfazed and unfairly fluid in the grace that he exhibited when slaying the Chimaera in its advance before it could wreak any damage. Riddle made it look as easy as sliding a hot knife through butter.

It occurred to Harry then that he had dropped his quill and was simply watching open-mouthed as Riddle took out the dragon and the Chimaera so elegantly, but came back to himself when he realised that Lestrange had noticed his suddenly wonderstruck disposition.

"Don't you wish that you were as good as him?" asked Lestrange with quirked eyebrows, to which Harry grimaced.

"Like I said before," he replied, "I can handle myself fine."

What appeared next surprised Harry.

Riddle's corpse.

That is, the real Riddle found himself staring at a corpse of himself on the ground, and glanced about the illusionary field with sudden fear in his eyes.

"What is this?" he asked piercingly. "Is this some trick?"

"It's a Boggart," Harry murmured aloud. "He fears his own mortality."

Lestrange shot him a sharp look, but said nothing.

Moments after Harry spoke, understanding came to Riddle's eyes as he registered that it was a Boggart that he was faced with. Narrowing his eyes, he said, in a voice which was woefully unsteady, "Riddikulus."

If anything, the corpse of Riddle became even whiter.

"Riddikulus," Riddle tried again, and his voice was thick, as if he had something lodged in his throat.

The corpse became gory in detail, the eyes a filmy grey, the cheekbones protruding through paper-thin skin.

"Riddikulus!" Riddle shouted now. "Riddikulus, Riddikulus, Riddikulus!"

It was on his sixth attempt that the Boggart exploded into what looked like lots of white feathers, and with a wave of his wand, the feathers were banished.

Riddle stepped back into the classroom, his face pale and his movements stiff. It appeared that the Boggart had really taken something out of him.

"Very good, Riddle," said Merrythought briskly, before addressing the class. "Does anybody have anything worth sharing with him regarding any of his trials?"

The glare that Riddle sent about the room said very clearly that they had better not, but Ignatius spoke anyway, having his shot at vengeance, no doubt.

"Boggarts are part of the third-year curriculum, Riddle," he said sweetly. "You seemed to have a little trouble there, so I would recommend asking a third-year for some assistance in the topic."

Riddle looked like he would have very much liked to curse the living daylights out of Ignatius, but instead chose to smile poisonously at the Gryffindor.

"I'll take that into account," he said, his voice dripping with false niceties. "Perhaps I'll approach your little sister about the matter – she's in third year, is she not?"

Ignatius leapt to his feet. The other Gryffindors formed a supportive barrier behind him.

"Stay away from my sister, you bastard!" he snapped.

The Slytherins all rounded on him, while Tom merely looked pleased with himself, having successfully turned the tables.

"Sit down, Prewett," Merrythought barked. "Five points from Gryffindor for inappropriate language, and five points from Slytherin for intentional provocation!"

"Riddle was only taking Prewett's advice into consideration, Professor," offered Lestrange innocently.

"Enough, Lestrange," Merrythought said. "Now, who shall we have next… Delacour, how about you?"

Harry and Hermione both stood at the same time, but Merrythought beckoned for Hermione to sit down again.

"If you're so eager to go up," she told Hermione, "then you can go up after your brother."

"Cousin," Harry corrected, growing tired of the assumption that the two of them were siblings. Maybe it would have been easier to go with that story.

Taking his wand in hand, he stepped towards the illusionary world and threw a quick glance over his shoulder.

Ignatius was nodding him on encouragingly; Hermione was looking worried; Lestrange was smiling, as if this would be the most entertaining thing that he could have ever wished to see; and Riddle was just as expressionless as ever, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"Time waits for no man, Delacour," Merrythought said, and so, shaking any stray thoughts from his head, Harry stepped through the wall, and into the crowding dark.

It was a rather disorienting experience, stepping from the real world into a fake one. Sort of like entering a dream. The distant chatter of his classmates immediately faded, as did the sunlight, streaming through the windows. Here, the only light was from the half-crescent moon, shining overhead.

Harry turned around to face the way that he had come, and to no surprise saw that there was no doorway to the classroom. It was as if he was really here.

A twig broke underfoot, and Harry whirled around. What he saw set a grim smile into his face. He was already quite familiar with these creatures.

There were no less than twenty Inferi, dragging themselves towards Harry from between the trees, naked and skeletal, their skins the colour of the pale underbelly of a fish. Harry recalled that Dumbledore had conjured a firestorm to fend off Inferi, but was not familiar was a spell as powerful as such. Besides, such a vast number of flames surely wasn't required for so few of them.

Incendio! Harry said, loud and clear in his head, directing his wand at the ground in front of him. The fallen leaves, perfect kindling for fire, burst in flames, flickering high up into the night air, driving the Inferi away, back into the shadows where they would vanish from existence. Calmly, Harry parted the fire around him with a wave of his hand and stepped through the burning barrier, only to come face-to-face with another Acromantula.

Serpensortia, Harry enunciated carefully, still non-verbal, and a long, heavy snake came flying from the tip of his wand, landing in an inelegant heap before the Acromantula. It did nothing to rival the immense size of a Basilisk, but its size was no laughing matter. The serpent reared back its great head, prepared to strike as it hissed in great agitation, :Who dares awaken me from my slumber?:

The Acromantula was quick to flee the scene of the crime in the face of an irate, gigantic serpent.

Out of common courtesy, Harry normally would have answered the creature, but being aware that he had an audience, did not, and feigned ignorance to the snake's words. With a flick of his wand, it was banished back to whichever chasm it had come from.

One final test, now. One more. Harry waited in quiet anticipation, circling the clearing. The heat of the fire was still searing his skin when it came.

The air became frigid; the flames melted down like soupy wax before becoming no more; and Harry breathed out slowly, he breath condensing in the air as his frame was suddenly racked by the cold. Ice crystals were forming on the broken leaves underfoot, snapping into crisp slivers of ice when he took a step back, knowing what to expect, waiting for it to arrive…

There.

A black, hooded figure, drifting through the air towards him with its scaly, malformed hands outstretched… Harry knew that it wasn't real, but facing it today was worse than any of the previous times he had faced one. Since then, he had lost Dumbledore, Sirius… the world had descended into a chasm of chaos.

But this wasn't even real.

"Expecto," Harry murmured, motioning with his wand, his mind alight with the memory of Ron and Hermione's beaming smiles, "Patronum!"

Immediately, a great silver stag burst forth, breaking into a canter as it radiated such brilliance, driving the Dementor back into the shelter of darkness, before turning and lifting its head proudly to acknowledge Harry. It seemed almost as if it were smiling at him.

"Prongs," Harry breathed, because no matter how many times he saw it, he was always in awe of the stag who was such a bright representation of his dead father. Harry reached out a hand hesitantly, as if to touch the corporeal Patronus. If he could fall, if only for a heartbeat, into a sense of security that he had not felt in such a long time, then he would take the chance. But before his fingers could connect with the stag, the area behind him opened back up into the wall leading into the classroom, and his Patronus collapsed like smoke.

Reluctantly, Harry turned and moved back into the classroom, refusing to meet any eye that was turned in his direction, and he sat down heavily into his chair.

Nobody applauded him. Nobody spoke a word, until Merrythought cleared her throat and said, "I think that we can all agree that those were three flawless trials, Delacour, unless anybody has something to add?"

"Was that a corporeal Patronus?" somebody asked.

"Of course it was," Hermione answered for Harry. "Anybody with half a brain could see that."

"It's just that…" the same person said. "Those are really quite advanced, aren't they?"

"Indeed," said Merrythought, her tone musing, before shaking it off. "Now, Miss Delacour, I believe that your presence is required in our illusionary world."

"Yes, Professor Merrythought," said Hermione, making her way to the front of the room.

"You most certainly can handle yourself, Delacour," Lestrange told Harry in a low voice. "My apologies for doubting you – that was a very impressive display."

Harry did not reply, and spent the rest of the lesson with only half a mind on the occurrences within the pretend Forbidden Forest. He was far too preoccupied with avoiding Lestrange's probing questions and the curious gazes of everybody else, as well as wondering if it had been right for him to draw such attention to himself. His skills in Defence Against the Dark Arts would surely bring unwanted questions to his doorstep, and he wasn't sure that he was prepared to answer them.

It didn't even make him feel better to think that he had trounced Riddle in something.


Harry paused by a window overlooking the Black Lake, watching the ripples in the water that were illuminated by the new moon. It wasn't unexpected that word had spread from the class that he was able to summon a corporeal Patronus, that the instinct to survive came naturally to him. It wasn't unexpected that the group of Slytherins had coerced him into tutoring them. No, Harry just hadn't kept his wits about his as he should have. It was so easy to forget that Slytherin House was the house of cunning and ambition, and if he didn't keep an eye on himself, he could very well lose himself during his time here.

It was at that moment that somebody clapped a hand over Harry's mouth and wrestled him away.


Firstly, I acknowledge that I made out Merrythought to be older than she really would have been. Whoops. And secondly, not all the creatures in the trials are classified as dark, I know, but OH. WELL. I don't care.

Also, Mitsuki90 pointed out to be that Peregrine Lestrange and Bellatrix are not related and therefore their eyes would not resemble one another's. I'm aware that Bellatrix is a Black and married into the Lestrange family, I was merely making a comparison between them both having black eyes, which have an almost insane light to them.