A/N: If this were a real book, you could see by page count that it is approximately one-third done by the end of this chapter. Year Two is the shortest, probably just two chapters because of the circumstances.

Year Two

Chapter 1: The Deceiver

Harry blinked, then opened his eyes.

"—c'mon Harry, you just take it and push, like this."

He felt a soft hand guide his and thrust it downward. He heard a sigh from the owner of that hand. Not quite right, it seemed.

"Oh, keep trying! Here, let me take your hand… now follow what I do."

He felt his hand being guided down again, this time with less force and a bit slower, though still with intent. He heard a sharp intake of breath, then a slow exhale as he felt the force guiding his hand cease.

"You almost had it that time. Here, let's try again."

"Mum, make her stop! Some of us are trying to eat!"

"Now Ronald, Ginny is only trying to make Harry feel comfortable at the table."

"But she's being all touchy with him!"

"Let's see you go through the same thing that he is, prat!"

"Ginny, language!"

"Sorry, mum."

A light scraping noise came from the otherwise silent seat at the table. It would let up, then start again. Skrittt-t-t. Pause. Skrittt-t-t. Pause. And so forth. The three voices of Ginny, Ronald, and Mum turned to see the source of the noise: Harry Potter was dragging his fork down onto the plate aimlessly, sometimes hitting food and sometimes not, then bringing it back up.

"Oh! He's getting it!" Ginny said. "Here, here, now do it like this Harry."

Ron rolled his eyes, but not before his mother saw him. She made do with rebuking him for being rude and since he wouldn't help Harry his sister would instead and how would you like it if you were in a magically-induced-retardation-state and on and on and oh my, that's not appropriate Mrs. Weasley. Don't wave a knife in an eleven year old's face!

Ginny shook her head with a "tut-tut" and turned her attention back to the scraper. Skrittt-t-t. Pause. She grabbed the hand again and spoke.

"See, you have to put it in the food." Jab downward, spear a carefully sliced bit of ham, then lift into mouth. "C'mon Harry!" She was insistent, but her voice still caught in a bit of a whine.

Harry chewed on the bite and swallowed. He brought the fork back down again. Skrittt-t. He lingered on the mashed potatoes he'd stumbled into, then lifted him right into his mouth.

"Mum!"

"Not now Ginny, I'm disciplining your brother."

"But mum, he's got it!"

Sure enough, Harry Potter was eating like a normal British human being. Baby steps.

"That's great dear. Now, Ronald…"

And on and on. Ginny harrumphed. "Well, I think it's great."

After Ron eventually grumbled an apology, the four—Fred and George had gone to Lee Jordan's, while Percy was off interning for some Ministry papermuncher—finished lunch. A wrinkled old head wiggled its way out of the fireplace and on scene. "Molly, may I?"

"Oh! Of course, Albus, we were just finishing lunch, do come in!"

"Don't mind if I do."

The head withdrew briefly and Professor Albus Dumbledore strode through. He conjured a nice, red loveseat to sit in and joined the Weasleys at their table.

"Tea, Albus?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Certainly, Molly. Two cubes, as I'm feeling rather daring today."

Mrs. Weasley cleared the dishes and set the tea down. Dumbledore took a sip and smiled fondly. "Ah, the risk was well worth it. Your tea is delicious, Molly." She smiled with approval. "But you may have already guessed that I did not come here for tea. How is young Mister Potter faring as of late?"

By the time Ron opened his mouth, Ginny had already jumped into a detailed summary of Harry's day-to-day over the past week. "—and today he started eating by himself! That one took a while."

Dumbledore smiled approvingly. "Very good, Miss Weasley. I applaud your patience with Mister Potter's condition."

"He's been sleeping better, too," Ronald interjected, seeming anxious to speak his piece. "He used to thrash something fierce, like I told you last time. Now I reckon he sleeps all right, hardly moves a bit."

"That's because you sleep like the dead, Ronald."

"Hey, I don't—!"

"Enough, children!" Molly said. "Professor Dumbledore is trying to help poor Harry and all you two can do is bicker!"

"Easy, Molly," Dumbledore interjected with no less than the utmost congeniality. "Children will be children, let them enjoy it while they can. I'm afraid for Harry that time has ended far too quickly." He gestured to Ron and Ginny. "I must speak to your mother alone now, children."

"Go on, run upstairs. Ronald, don't forget to make Harry's bed for him. Ginny, sort the clothes. The dirty ones too, young lady!"

"Yes, mum," they both muttered. Ronald trudged up the stairs with Ginny right behind him. Mrs. Weasley turned to face the most powerful wizard in Britain.

"Albus, what—"

"Professor Dumbledore!"

Ginny had waited for Ron to round the corner before turning back and reentering the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley was ready to send her right back up to join her brother before Dumbledore replied.

"Yes, Miss Weasley?"

She fidgeted under his attention, a flush of embarrassment creeping up her face. "I was… I was wondering whether we have to teach Harry all this stuff all over again."

Dumbledore raised a thick eyebrow above his glasses. "I'm afraid you will have to explain yourself more clearly."

She winced, but answered with uncertainty tingeing her voice. "S-sorry, I meant... What I meant was… all the things he used to know to do. Things everyone knows how to do," she stopped herself to consider, "—and magic too. Does he have to learn to talk again? What if… what if he can't go to Hogwarts? Is he going to be like this… forever?"

The last word was spoken with the deepest trepidation an eleven year old girl can muster as she nearly chewed her bottom lip off. Dumbledore looked almost bemused at her level of worry. "I appreciate your concern Miss Weasley, but do not feel as if you should worry about Harry. That is what Madam Pomfrey and I have been doing for the past month. She is as fine a Healer as they come and she has assured me that the best thing you can do is just what you have been doing. Keep Harry at the Burrow, doing all the things you would do if he were able to respond."

She nodded hesitantly and replied before dashing upstairs. "O-okay. Thanks Professor Dumbledore."

Once she had disappeared, Mrs. Weasley sighed. "I swear, those kids will be the death of—"

"Professor Dumbledore!"

Molly shrieked and started violently. The teacup that was in her hand went flying up in the air, scalding hot tea flying out with the threat of burning herself something fierce. Dumbledore waved his wand with a bemused look on his face, returning the liquid to the cup and the cup to her hand. Dumbledore stifled his chuckling with a sip of his own tea, which earned him a rueful look from the woman who had made it for him.

"Yes, Miss Weasley?" Dumbledore said, with that damnable twinkle sparkling in his eyes.

"I almost forgot!" she exhaled. "You didn't answer my question, not really."

"What question would that be, child?"

Ginny sighed. "I want to know if Harry will be able to go to Hogwarts and if he'll ever get better." She paused, and then added, "That's okay if you don't know."

Another bemused look flashed across his eyes at the premise of a schoolgirl telling the Supreme Mugwump and Headmaster of Hogwarts what he did and did not know. "I suppose I didn't quite answer your question, did I? Harry's recovery depends on how long he stays in a place that lets him immerse himself in magic. It is a very complicated issue of Wizarding health, but I promise that he is being taken care of in a way that best assures his continued safety and happiness. As Hogwarts is also an excellent source of ambient magic, he will be attending whether he has recovered or not, so as to hopefully accelerate his improvement."

"Yes," Mrs. Weasley said, "but that's enough questions Ginny. The Headmaster is a busy man and his time is precious."

"Nonsense, Molly. I may be busy, but I always have time for a student of mine, no matter how young they may be."

Ginny smiled brilliantly at that, remembering that she was now a student of his. "Thanks again Professor Dumbledore." He nodded in reply. He could see flits of other questions buzzing around in her mind, but she decided not to press her luck with her mother and took off to get to her chores.

Mrs. Weasley waited in trepidation as her daughter ascended the staircase. When Ginny did not pop right back around and scare the dickens out of her after several seconds, she released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "I'm terribly sorry about Ginevra, Albus. That girl has been a whirlwind since Harry got here. She's gone from barely being able to stand ten feet from the boy to coddling him like an infant. Though," she said with a sigh, "I suppose he is about like one. The poor boy, Albus, he loses his parents, lives ten years with those wretched Muggles, then this happens to him. I can't imagine how he must feel. He has no family left!"

Yip yip yip yip.

Dumbledore smiled and nodded patiently. He knew how much she valued family and was content to let her finish. "I understand your concern, Molly. But—"

"How did he even survive those two weeks with the Muggles? It took the poor dear two weeks here to start eating by himself."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled fiercely, unrestrained. "The Dursleys may have won a sweepstakes for a two week vacation for three to Ireland. Curious that they didn't enter in the first place, but I suppose rich Muggles are far more generous than we. Arabella was, of course, more than willing to house-sit for them."

That seemed to mollify her, but her eyes faded again when she looked at the boy seated to her left. He had finished his lunch, albeit messily—peas don't scrape very well, as it happens—and was now staring, staring at somewhere far, far away. "I can't help but be heartbroken for him, Albus. How could this have happened at Hogwarts? It's the safest place in all Britain! And I can't for the life of me figure out how the Prophet hasn't eaten this story alive and made a mess out of everything."

Dumbledore smiled. "The Daily Prophet may not be aware of the fact that young Mister Potter is… incapacitated."

Molly gaped. "But… but how? Surely word must have gotten out."

"Alas, I'm afraid the intrepid reporters at the esteemed paper were not made aware of the situation," he said. "The only ones who know are your family, young Mister Longbottom and Miss Granger, and the Heads of House at Hogwarts."

"But Albus, you know once they catch wind of this they'll run roughshod over Harry even worse for it being hidden, never mind how they'll treat you in the papers. The death of that poor girl was bad enough, even if the family did try to keep it private. Once the boy goes back to Hogwarts everyone will know."

Dumbledore reclined in his chair with a thoughtful expression. "Indeed, Molly. That is why I have consented to an interview with the Daily Prophet tomorrow to discuss the Boy-Who-Lived. They have been assured it is the scoop of a lifetime."

"Albus!" Molly said. "You haven't given a full interview since…"

"Yes Molly, since Grindelwald was defeated. I'm afraid I have little charm with reporters, but if they get a hold of this before I can explain what happened, then Harry might be subjected to… undue stress."

Molly frowned, and then quieted her voice. "What did happen, Albus?"

.

.

As it was, Albus Dumbledore was actually quite close to the truth of the matter. After being dead-ended at the Ministry, he realized something was amiss and hurried back to Hogwarts. By the time he arrived, it was too late. All that remained was two children and a pile of ash (that was determined to be the remains of Quirinus Quirrell) near the remnants of the Mirror of Erised that lay strewn across the floor. The last bit both surprised and worried him. The Mirror of Erised was no mere construct of glass and metal. It was an ancient magical artifact crafted to resist all but the worst damage. Something had been let loose in the Chamber. Something dangerous, something very dark. Whatever it was had killed the girl and left Harry broken, crumpled on the floor in a heap of bruised flesh and blood pouring from his forehead like someone'd left the spigot on.

On top of that, the Philosopher's Stone was missing. It was possible that it was destroyed along with the mirror, but Dumbledore couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss.

As for Harry Potter? He'd never seen anything like it. The boy retained his involuntarily functions—breathing, blinking, and so on, but was otherwise close to dead. Poppy said that an unknown type of dark magic, spreading inward from the lightning bolt on his forehead, had shocked his magic so badly that it drove the brain itself into total shutdown. His recovery, Poppy said, depended on how long it took Harry to process the sheer volume of magical pain that had been inflicted without going mad.

At least the curse scar wasn't vomiting dark magic into Harry's system any longer. Poppy had assured him of that. The fact that it was ever involved was disturbing and led him to a conclusion he had hoped he would never reach. That Voldemort, terror of Britain, had finally returned to form and wielded the power of the Philosopher's Stone.

As stated, close. But not quite right.

.

.

Dumbledore sat in his chair pondering her question, stroking his chin absentmindedly.

"I am reactivating the Order."

She drew in breath so quickly it hissed. "Albus, you can't mean…"

"I'm afraid so, Molly. There is no other explanation."

She glanced nervously at the boy she had laid her arm around, rubbing his shoulder soothingly with her thumb. He was fiddling with the sleeve of her blouse, a look of both total disconnect and intense concentration somehow coexisting in the same expression.

"I know what you're thinking, but he can't hear us—not really. I've already contacted most of the other members. Those in key positions are on the lookout for signs of suspicious activities that might indicate his return."

"Arthur?" she asked. "Have you told him?"

"Indeed. He only refrained from telling you because I wished to do so myself." The aged wizard allowed himself a smile. "He seemed quite insistent that you be told the rest as soon as possible."

"The rest of what, Albus?"

He braced himself for impact. "Your two sons, Charlie and Bill, have both agreed to join the Order as agents abroad."

Surprisingly, none came. Only a rush of air as she exhaled the breath she again didn't know she was holding.

"Molly?"

"The moment you mentioned the Order I thought about how young we were when we joined. We weren't that much older than Bill."

"Thank you for your understanding. If Voldemort—" flinch "—truly has returned, then we must be prepared. Contingencies have been made for safehouses and we are searching for a proper Headquarters. Everyone in the Order is instructed to behave as if he is already back in Britain."

"During the last war you were never so… proactive."

"Well spoken, Molly," he said, and then sighed. For a moment, the veneer of a merry, wise Headmaster gave way to the weary, battle-hardened warrior that lay beneath. For all his decades of knowledge and experience, Albus Dumbledore was old. The moment passed. "I must confess that Harry's current state has led me to take more decisive action than I normally would. If Voldemort—" flinch "—was able to penetrate even Hogwarts and attack students and a professor, that means we must take steps to ensure it will not happen again.

That was only true in the strictest definition of the word. It was indeed Harry's current state that had Dumbledore all up in a tizzy, but not because of his attack per se. You see, if Harry was drooling on himself in a St. Mungo's ward, how could he possibly fulfill the prophecy that made him a target in the first place?

Harry had found a button on Mrs. Weasley's sleeve to fiddle with. Molly looked down at him with a mixture of worry and maternal affection.

"Oh, Albus. Are you sure he will get better soon?"

"I'm not sure of much of anything in these trying times, Molly. It may take weeks, it may take months. It may come gradually or all at once. We can only do our best."

Whirr-click. Whirr-click. The sound of the gears slowly beginning to turn. Unbeknownst to anyone, including Harry himself, what had been said in that kitchen did not fall on idle ears. Methodically, the cogs began to move and hum vibrantly.

Harry blinked, then closed his eyes.

.

.

Harry blinked, then opened his eyes.

"Harry! We have a surprise for you!"

Harry Potter still lay in bed on his back, hands to his sides, staring at the ceiling. He heard the sound of the door bursting open and footsteps indicating a person—no, two—had come in the room. He felt the tug of both yanking him out of bed and onto his feet. Each grabbed a wrist and led him downstairs.

"Come on ickle Harrykins,"

"It's time to party!"

"Surprise!"

"Not that it's much of a surprise when you can't hear us, of course."

"Ah, but to not hear Ronald or Ginny all day,"

"Is truly a treat!"

"I said to bring him down here, not heckle your little siblings!"

The twins shared a sheepish look and slung Harry past the last step before catching his momentum and setting him down. Mrs. Weasley looked him in the eyes and smiled.

"Happy birthday, Harry."

A chorus echoed from behind her. "Happy birthday, Harry!"

A person descended upon him, grasping his body in hers and whispering, "Happy birthday. I've missed you, Harry."

Another person, clasping him firmly on his shoulder, "We both have."

"We're so glad you can make it Neville, Hermione." Molly said. "I'm sure Harry appreciates it very much. Now sit, sit! I made you and your friends a cake, Harry. Dig in, all of you!"

Chatter buzzed around the table as the children discussed the next school year, the book list—okay, that was just Hermione—Quidditch, and so forth. Hermione sat next to Harry and would examine him occasionally, peering into his eyes or poking him to test a reaction and so on. Harry held his fork gingerly and took a bite of the cake and "mm'd" a sign of approval. Hermione shrugged and followed suit, pleasantly surprised to agree with him.

"This cake is delicious, Mrs. Weasley!" Hermione said

"It's not much," she demurred. "Just a little something I put together."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short. Even Harry likes it!"

The Weasleys all stopped speaking turned to her with a strange look on their faces. Mrs. Weasley was the first to respond. "Pray tell, how do you know he likes the cake?"

Hermione glanced nervously about at the twelve eyes—now fourteen thanks to Neville—and cleared her throat. A-hem a-hem. "Well, he didn't say it, but he made an 'mmm' sound. That's what most people sound like when they like what they eat. What? Why are you all staring? That's not funny, you know."

"Hermione," Ron whispered, "that's the first time he's said anything since he got here."

Her eyes widened. "You're telling me that was the first time he's vocalized at all since…"

"Yeah."

She clapped her hands together. "That must mean he's getting better! Keep eating, Harry!"

The table burst into laughter at her enthusiasm and devolved back into a muddle of conversations. Only Neville Longbottom remained stoic and simply poked and nibbled at the food set out in front of him. As they finished, the Weasleys started in on Harry with their presents. The twins gave him a pair of Multisense Mirrors, seeing as he'd liked the first one so much. Hermione gave him the book Recovering From Magical Maladies by renowned healer Ella Gamp.

"It's not like he can read it Hermione," earned Ron a swat from the frustrated girl who huffed and said he'd read it once he was better. Ron's gift was a Cannons poster, while Mr. and Mrs. Weasley gave him a necklace with a Snitch on the end ("Bill's idea," they said) that they were forced to remove soon after for fear Harry would paw at the Snitch indefinitely. The jolly mood was interrupted by Hermione's question.

"Where's your gift, Neville?"

A dour silence fell on the table. The twins shared a quick, meaningful glance before turning to face Neville.

"Now, kids," Mr. Weasley said, "perhaps Mister Longbottom simply wants to give it in private. Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," Neville ground out between gritted teeth. "That's it. May I borrow him for just a minute?"

"Certainly. Ron's room is upstairs to the right and should afford plenty of privacy."

"Thank you."

With that, Neville drug Harry from the chair walked him upstairs. Ron turned to the rest of the table and muttered, "What's his bloody problem?"

No response was forthcoming.

Neville pushed Harry inside and locked the door with a quick spell. He paced the room, wand in hand, and then came to a stop where Harry stood. He stared hard into his eyes, looking for some sign of life. Harry's face was blank as ever. Neville finally broke eye contact and paced again. He eventually stopped at a wall and leaned his head against it.

"FUCK!"

Without warning, Neville lashed out and slammed his closed fist into the wall in time with his shout; the room shook a bit, almost as if it were quaking in fear. He whirled from the wall, storming toward Harry. He grabbed him by the shoulders and began shaking him violently.

"Merlin's sake, I know you're in there! You're still in there somewhere," he screamed. "Stop mucking around Harry, get your arse out—!"

A knock on the door. "Neville, dear? I heard some loud noises, is everything okay?"

Neville froze, then sighed and turned to the door. "Fine, Mrs. Weasley. I'll just be another minute."

A pause. "That's all right, just hurry up, okay? The others still want to see Harry."

He heard footsteps fading downstairs. Cringing, he turned back to Harry and locked gazes again. Hot, angry tears were brimming from the eyes of the day older boy. "Why, Harry?" he whispered. "Why you too? You knew. You knew what happened to my parents and you bloody well went and let it happen to you, too."

He choked out a laugh. "As if it's your fault and not mine. I told you I would stick with you. I promised I wouldn't let anything like this happen. I failed. I'm a failure. That miserable snake-faced scumbag got you again while I was sitting on my hands in the Great Hall like a bloody idiot."

Neville wiped his eyes and took a minute to clear his head. Breathe in, breathe out. Sssssss, haaaaa. Sssssss, haaaaa. Better. "They told me you'd get better, not like Mum and Dad. Since I don't have a real present, this will have to do." Neville's countenance took on an incredible intensity. "Harry, I swear on my life that I will never, ever let anything like this happen again. Even if it kills me. Count on it."

A house elf popped into the room.

"OUT. NOW!" Neville roared.

Cowed, it popped right back out.

Harry blinked, then closed his eyes.

.

.

Harry blinked, then opened his eyes.

He was sitting upright in a train compartment, propped up by a shoulder on each side. Light, quiet conversation passed between the girls on either side of the boys keeping Harry upright, discussing Dumbledore's newspaper interview, the huge summer book list, and how exactly Harry kept ending up in the Weasley's shed all summer long. Harry's vacant gaze was drifting around the entrance to the compartment, which burst open at that moment. An incredulous Draco Malfoy stared at Harry before laughing loudly.

"The papers weren't kidding! Look at him! Daft as a stump with nothing to show for it but a Mudblood and a few blood traitors stuffed in a tiny compartment. I thought we had come to an agreement as equals last year, but obviousl-ghhkkkk—"

His sputtering noisebox was cut off by the sudden thrust and press of a wand into his trachea. His gaze shifted down and met furious brown eyes that pulsed an even darker shade with rage. Harry's eyes flashed with recognition. Even through the haze, he could sense it. Power. The last time he'd felt such a surge was… was…

A memory of explosive agony ripping through his forehead. A surge of uncontainable magic. Harry's eyes glassed over again.

"I will put you in the ground, Malfoy. Out. Now," she seethed, pushing him backwards with her wand as she said the last word. He stumbled backwards and fell on his rear end, earning a chuckle from Ron.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Percy Weasley.

Draco swallowed to clear his aching throat. "It was them, Prefect, they attacked me!"

Percy poked his head into the compartment to find Ginny and Hermione nose-deep in books, while Ron and Neville were scribbling on parchment and propping Harry up.

"Anything I should know about? Ginny? Ronald?"

"Other than last minute homework? Nothing interesting," Ron said. "You're welcome to stay and help if you like, I could use someone to revise my—"

"I'm a Prefect, Ronald, I have duties. Besides, you should have done those months ago. You, on the ground, stay away from this compartment for the rest of the trip or it's points and detention."

Draco muttered something (probably pejorative, the tosser) and stalked off, Thing 1 and Thing 2 in close pursuit. As soon as Percy closed the door to the compartment, Ron was howling with laughter.

"Did you see the look on Malfoy's face! That bloody git was running scared from a first-year!"

"Language, Ronald."

"And that first-year is still in the compartment, Ronald."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. But man, the look on his face!"

The girls couldn't resist smiling at Ron's enthusiastic bellows of laughter before returning to their books. It wasn't long before Hermione peeked out from behind hers.

"Neville, did you really wait until now to do your assignments?"

He grunted.

"Honestly, I thought better of—"

"I was busy, okay? Lost track of the days. It's none of your business anyway."

"Fine then," she huffed, before returning to her book. A minute passed.

"Sorry, Hermione," he muttered. "I'm a bit touchy today."

"That's all right," she said, though not taking her eyes from the book.

"Today? Mate, you've been touchy since…"

"Ronald!"

He shrugged. "What? It's true. He hasn't done anything this summer, have you Neville?"

"Have you ever considered that he is handling the whole thing a bit worse than we are?" Hermione asked. "Or that not all of us have the emotional capacity of a brick? Honestly."

Ron mumbled something about women all being barmy and got back to his summer work.

"Neville," Hermione said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"I think I know what's wrong with Harry."

"What? Really?" His eyes grew wide.

She bit her lip. "Yes, but not in magical terms. I was doing some research in Muggle books over the summer and I found something that describes a lot of what Harry's going through," she said as she launched into full-on lecture mode. "It's called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD for short. Muggles get PTSD from very dangerous and stressful events, like combat or a kidnapping. Harry's case is… rather extreme, but I think it's a piece of the puzzle. Here's the thing, though. People with PTSD are supposed to have some kind of outlet, something that gets them out of the shell that they create to hide away from the terrible event, but I've never seen Harry do anything but… this."

Neville shrugged. "Maybe it's not that, then. Maybe it's just magic."

"Maybe," she said. "Maybe."

Harry blinked, then closed his eyes.

.

.

"This is Defense Against the Dark Arts, second year class. Despite what you may think about this subject considering your previous and only other professor, it is not a dull, stutter-filled joke of a class. It is a serious discipline in which you will be training constantly, or you will not pass. Is that clear?"

Silence.

"I don't hear a 'no'. That's good to know, because from this day forth I will be working you as hard as I am legally allowed by the rules and statutes of Hogwarts. By the time you leave my class at the end of the year, you will be able to defend yourself against and at least escape from anyone," he flashed a feral grin, "or anything you may come across. That is unless, of course, you manage to fail my class, in which case I am not responsible for any of the stupid things you do once you leave this place. Is that clear?"

Silence.

"There will be no complaining to your classmates about your workload or you will get detention and points taken away. There will be no complaining to your Heads of House about your workload or you will get detention and points taken away. There will be no complaining of any kind or you will get detention and points taken away. Is that clear?"

Silence.

"Good!" The man's disposition suddenly reversed one hundred and eighty degrees, back to its cheerful, bawdy self as he showed off his beauteous smile. "Now, let me inform you about bonus credit."

The class perked up at this. The professor grinned back at them.

"You'll need it. I hardly expect many students to pass this class without any bonus. There will be only one source of bonus points and they will be awarded at the end of the year. The way to get them is to win… THIS!"

He waved his wand at the board with a flourish and it lit up with a giant round robin bracket. The label at the top read 'Dueling Tournament'.

"Please, contain your excitement," he said, chuckling at his own joke as he swirled a glass of wine, poured out of a bottle that looked quite expensive. "At the end of the year, you and a partner will have a chance to show the whole class how much you've learned about the subject. The bonus starts the lowest for the team that finishes last and increases for each position gain. The duo that wins the tournament gets a full letter bonus on their final grade. Each."

The silence was broken by a sudden, near-deafening wave of chatter that erupted from the class of Slytherins and Gryffindors, excitedly discussing partners and dueling strategies. A sudden "Quiet!" and the class had settled again.

"Just what in Merlin's name do you all think you're doing? I don't believe I gave you permission to speak," he said, then pointing toward the girl with her hand in the air. "Yes, bushy hair?"

She felt her face flush at the nickname. "H-How else are we supposed to p-pick teams?"

She recoiled unconsciously at the bark of laughter that responded to her question. "Pick? Oh no, you won't be picking partners. They will be assigned. From the opposite house."

The roar went from near-deafening to actual-deafening.

"Sonorous. Quiet, now."

The class hushed again. He cancelled the spell and like the flick of a switch his mood shifted again. "Your bonus, and therefore your grade, will hinge on not only your own efforts, but also that of your partner. If you dislike your partner or think they are incompetent, you're going to have to find a way around it. If you don't like it, feel free to complain. I'll take those points and assign those detentions gladly."

He spoke now in hushed tones. "Part of escaping difficult situations may require you to work with people you don't like. That's a fact of life. If you can't get along with a person simply because they were sorted elsewhere from you, there's little hope for you in the real world." His attitude became happy once more. "That being said, the partner list, assigned at random, is as follows. Once you are assigned your partner, spend the rest of class getting to know their strengths and weaknesses. Your homework," a wave of wand, "is on the board. We'll start with, let's see here, Brown and Goyle, Team A…"

.

.

Harry blinked, then opened his eyes.

"Bloody hell! I regret ever calling that man a ponce."

"Language, Ronald."

"Did you see that homework he gave us? How are we supposed to learn those spells all by next class?"

"Practice, Ronald. I've already got two learned and I've started on my team project as well. My partner wasn't exactly thrilled…"

Ron snorted. "Fat chance that stuck-up Greengrass girl would even talk to a Muggleborn if she didn't have to. Tosser snakes, the lot of them."

Hermione scowled at him. "Wasn't exactly thrilled, but she'll be just fine. And I'll be fine once we win those bonus points, thank you very much."

"Oh," Ron said, "someone's confident. Me and Zabini are going to take it, just watch."

"That's 'Zabini and I', Ronald."

"Is that necessary, Hermione?" Neville snapped. "This is magic school, not grammar school. Besides," he said with a smile, "even if I am paired with his majesty the royal pompous git, he's still a better duelist than either of your partners. I ignore him, he ignores me, and we take you both down."

"Fat chance!" Hermione and Ron chorused.

Ginny walked over and sat in the empty seat to Harry's left. "So, how was Lockhart? Did he treat Harry all right? I don't want to see another Flourish and Blotts incident…"

"That's the thing," Hermione said. "I asked after class and Lockhart said his class wouldn't be of much use for someone in Harry's condition, so he's letting him do separate work elsewhere instead. He's so understanding."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Are you still on about him? Honestly, he might not be a ponce, but he still looks an awful lot like a poofter to me."

"Ronald!"

Neville couldn't help but chuckle as Hermione's indignant glare raked over Ron's guilty face. It was good to at least have a sense of normalcy. His laughter died in his throat as he saw the person he had come to respect and admire sitting to his right, struggling hopelessly with a cup of gelatin. He took the plate from Harry and replaced it with a glass of pumpkin juice, which he was content to sip.

"Never again."

"What was that, Neville?"

"Nothing Hermione. Just thinking aloud."

"If you say so."

Harry blinked, then closed his eyes.

.

.

Harry blinked, then opened his eyes.

"All right Harry, you can do this. Just feel what I do, okay? Get the exact motion, and point it right at the saucer. Imagine it becoming a thimble as you make the motion, come on now."

Transfiguration was nearly over and Harry had made no progress. Ron and Hermione were bickering about something petty like books or Quidditch or other cliché subjects while Neville was struggling to get Harry to turn a saucer into a thimble. He grunted in frustration.

"Harry. Motion. Saucer. Thimble. Just do it!"

"Mister Longbottom!" Professor McGonagall scolded. "Is there any reason for such an outburst?"

"Professor, I was… holy smokes. Harry, your thimble!"

McGonagall's gaze drifted downward to find that Harry was indeed standing in front of a fully-formed, artistically shaped thimble. His wand was still pointing at it, a few sparks dribbling out.

"Did you do this for him?"

Neville shook his head. "No, Professor. I was getting frustrated with how he wasn't doing it just a few seconds ago. It looks like he's got it now."

"Seven points to Gryffindor, Mister Potter. Does mean that he said the incantation, Mister Longbottom? Has he finally spoken?"

Another shake of the head. "I'm afraid not, Professor. He did it wordlessly."

"Very impressive Mister Potter, take another five points. I expect your work to be at least as good, Mister Longbottom."

"Yes, Professor."

Ron rushed up to him as soon as she left and immediately whispered in his ear, "Mate, how did Harry do that?"

"I taught him," Neville growled. "You wanted to know what I was doing all summer while you were sitting on your lazy arse? This, mate. I learned every bloody second year spell wordlessly so that I could teach Harry even though he can't speak. I learned every bloody second year potion and made them all more times than I can remember so that I could remember how many rotations to let him stir because if I don't stop him, he'll stand and stir until he drops dead. That, Ronald, is what I've been doing all summer. There, are you happy? You have no idea what it's like, having to deal with this kind of thing for so long."

"Yeah? How's that?" Ron said, tone escalating rapidly. "We've both been friends with Harry just as long, so unless you're implying tha—"

T'was all he got out before Hermione drug him away by his ear, muttering about keeping quiet in class. Neville offered a weak smile to Harry as class began to wind down. "We'll do it faster next class, Harry. Promise."

Harry blinked, then closed his eyes.

.

.

Harry blinked, then opened his eyes.

"—I don't know where he's going Ronald! He just took off on a blind tear! Literally, a blind tear, I think his eyes were closed!"

"He's still so bloody fast…" Ron muttered, gassed from the effort of chasing him.

"L-language… oh, forget it. Harry! Neville! Where are you?"

"Aha!"

The last voice was a new one, echoing rage down the hall. Ron and Hermione followed it to the source and found Filch screaming at Harry until Neville stuck a wand in his face. Oh yeah, it's that same old song and dance. Poor Voldemort still stuck in Albania has no idea how much danger one of his soul fragments is in trying to kill cats. After dissuading Filch from exacting his terrible Squib revenge against Harry, Lockhart appeared like clockwork. Surveying the situation, he immediately identified the most important issue at hand.

"Oh, Harry, you look simply dreadful. The aftereffects of some petrification curses can do this to passersby, of course, like the incident in Addis Ababa I wrote about in my autobiography. Come now, back to my office, I'll get you fixed right up."

"Gilderoy," Professor Dumbledore said, "perhaps Mister Potter and his friends would like to retire instead. It has been a long night."

"Nonsense! I'll have him fixed up in no time flat, you just watch," he said as he led Harry along. His three grademates followed in kind, leaving Dumbledore muttering something about authors' proclivities. He was close behind, followed by Professor Snape. Lockhart opened the door to his office, a magnificently atrocious and bright room with dedications to himself plastered all over the walls and on top of every available shelf and mantle.

"Do excuse the stench, as I've been making several potions in my spare time. A colleague of mine in North America simply had to have a chupacabra scent-masking potion, you see. Aha, here it is. Drink up, Harry! It will dispel the partial petrification effects quite quickly, I assure you. Aha, as if you'd need reassurance to believe Gilderoy Lockhart!"

He tipped the bottle and Harry drank the whole thing. Hermione interjected, "Sir, wasn't that just a Calming Draught?"

"Of course not!" he replied, taken aback by the accusation. "That potion takes months on end to prepare and can only be found in the Amazon basin, where the local tribesmen produce it as an antidote to some of the more vicious creatures' venom. Aha, but that's a tale for another book! Now, off you go! Don't forget to mention the help your favorite defense professor gave today to all your classmates, oh, and your family of course. Aha, and friends too!"

The last bit was barely heard as the four rushed out the door, eager to escape the torments of their weirdly bipolar Defense professor. Before they could get away, however, Dumbledore stopped them. Well, one of them anyway.

"I will bring Harry back to the Gryffindor commons myself. For now, I must speak with Madam Pomfrey regarding his condition. If you will excuse us."

The three looked sullen, but obeyed nevertheless. Hermione walked Harry toward Dumbledore, before leaving him with a squeeze of his hand. She joined the other two and disappeared down the hall. The mismatched trio of Headmaster, Potions Master, and mostly non-functioning boy strolled toward the Headmaster's office as Dumbledore and Snape went back and forth.

"Headmaster, did you see the inside of his office?"

"I'm afraid so," Dumbledore chuckled. "A bit garish for my tastes, but as I am not a best-selling author I suppose I'm not much of an expert."

"Not that. The potions. Does he expect anyone to believe that line about the North American magical creature? Headmaster, he's hiding something. I told you about my potion stores being broken into without triggering what I assure you are nearly impenetrable alarms…"

"Which may have been simple forgetfulness, Severus. I always told you that your stores are too extensive to keep track of in your head. You likely misremembered."

He sniffed. "Doubtful. And must we talk about this with Potter listening in?"

"He's harmless, Severus," Dumbledore said. "He hasn't the faintest idea what you're saying."

Harry was at that moment very anxiously picking at a loose strand of fabric on the clip of his hideously coloured backpack.

"Very well. Headmaster, there was a bundle of Boomslang skin on his shelf as well. You know as well as I do what that means."

Dumbledore cocked a brow. "There are many potions that require Boomslang skin."

"Yes, but only one that was stolen from my stores before class even started this year: Polyjuice Potion. I have reported on numerous occasions a child roaming the castle late at night with impunity. Every time I nearly catch him, the brat ducks around a corner with unnatural speed and disappears. Headmaster, I believe that Lockhart is Polyjuicing into students and skulking the halls. I recommend we place a watch on him immediately.

"I'm afraid not, Severus," Dumbledore said. "For all your accusations, you have no proof of any wrongdoing. Furthermore, it seems rather silly for a grown man to run around aimlessly dressed as a child, wouldn't you say? If you want to investigate who or what petrified Mrs. Norris, I can help by saying I highly doubt it's our new favorite writer. Eh, Severus?"

He turned away from the twinkle in his boss' eyes and walked away, cloak billowing behind him. Dumbledore looked down at Harry, who was playing with his beard again.

"Come now Harry, it's time to see Poppy again. You know how she worries."

.

.

Harry blinked, and opened his eyes.

A piercing shriek shattered the quiet of the Gryffindor Common Room.

"Professor Lockhart is not the Heir of Slytherin!"

"It's the perfect disguise!" Ron protested. "Act like a total ponce in public, work your students so hard that they're too tired to figure out the truth, and no one's the wiser. You're just defending him because you have a crush on him!"

"Ronald!"

"Relax, you two. Ron, I doubt that Lockhart is the Heir of Slytherin. Hermione, he's a prat, get over it. Still, Ron does have a point about Lockhart." Seeing Hermione about to protest, Neville raised a hand to stop her. "First of all, he's been acting very strange all year, even for him apparently. Secondly, he's one of the few new additions to the castle since last year. The Heir had no reason to wait until this year to start terrorizing Hogwarts—"

"So that rules out almost everyone!" Hermione said. "Except for Professor Lockhart and the first years, everyone was here last year. Are you seriously implying that the Heir of Slytherin is a first year?"

Neville shrugged. "I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just following where common sense takes me. It's rather logical, wouldn't you say?"

"Well…" Hermione was struggling internally at the use of one of her favorite words. A first year being powerful enough to turn something to stone was ludicrous! Wasn't it? Just as absurd as the idea that magic existed would have been to her two years ago. Plus, Neville's reasoning was quite sound. "I suppose you might have a point. Let's say it is a first year. How do we figure out which one?"

No one spoke up.

"Right," Ron said. "It's not going to be that easy, mates. We've got a Slytherin freak on the loose, a suspicious Professor to investigate, and hopefully somewhere in there pass our classes. We still have a ton of Lockhart work to do, you know."

"Too well…" Neville muttered. Lockhart had intensified his teaching regimen, pounding dozens of spells into a learning period of a couple months. His warning of steep punishments for complaints was rendered moot by the fact that they were simply too tired to protest. "I haven't even touched the team project yet, not that Malfoy gives a toss about it either."

"You have to at least have an idea," Hermione said. "Come up with something both you and Malfoy can do well and put them together."

"Hate each other?" Ronald suggested.

"Oh, don't be a prat Ronald."

Neville's lip twitched upward just a tad. "No Ron, you're right. That's a good start."

Ron blinked. "It is?"

"Sure. You gave me a great idea. Don't be mad when I use it to win that bonus, though."

"Hey!" Ron was bumped aside and so repeated himself. "Hey! Watch it Ginny!"

Ginny had burst into the conversation frantically, asking "Where's my bag?" over and over and sighing with relief when she found it sitting next to Harry. She took it and walked away, digging through it as she walked, then froze and whirled around.

"Have any of you seen my diary?"

"Since when do you keep a diary?" Ron asked.

"Since now, Ron. It's a thin black notebook, have you seen it or not?"

None of them had, except for Harry. He had definitely seen it, in the bag of a Hufflepuff first year whose name he didn't even know. After all, he was the one who put it there.