A/N: Please forgive the excessive use of "Wonderwall" in this chapter. It's been my inspiration for Daphne and Michael's relationship, and I've been wanting to write this particular scene for ages. I first bring up Magical Audio-Phones and Audio-Spellcards in "Chapter 17: Matters of the Heart" in Daphne Greengrass and the 6th Year From Hell. My version of Michael Corner, for the uninitiated, is a total music geek. Because I love those types so very, very much.

This chapter dedicated to the denizens of the Sober Universe for inspiring Daphne's metaphors about certain "activities". Thank you so much.

I own nothing, not Harry Potter nor "Wonderwall", a song that Oasis owns. Rated T for strong language and one nasty Death Eater.

Chapter 20: Under a Spell

Sunday in the Slytherin common room had started out rather calm and peaceful.

Well, more calm and peaceful than Daphne had been expecting.

After the Sorting Feast and the discovery that Pansy Parkinson loathed her with a fury ten times greater than last year, Daphne had been logically expecting the worst. Anytime she'd entered the dormitory, Daphne had made sure Millicent was with her, and that it was never just her and Pansy alone. She kept her time in the common room at a minimum, usually finding a spot on the couches or at a table if Blaise or Millicent was there already.

But the atmosphere had changed noticeably. There was still talk of Quidditch and the Wizarding Wireless Network playing in the background. But the WWN currently provided the soapbox for Minister Thicknesse and his pro-Voldemort, anti-Muggle-born agenda. The students allowed it to play without hesitation.

"—Let it be known," Thicknesse's strident voice sounded over the wireless, "that the Ministry shall not stand by and allow these thieves of magic, these pilferers of the public health and safety to go unpunished. I say to all witches and wizards out there: tell us about the Mudbloods you know of, turn them in, protect your families, protect your powers! Together we can make a difference in our society!"

Daphne felt nauseated at the sound of the Minister's voice and the words he used. Looking around, she noticed groups of students huddled together. She sighed; already into the school year and it seemed that many of the students had gravitated to specific groups. There were a very small number of students who seemed to dislike the anti-Muggle-born attitude as much as Daphne did, but they remained mostly quiet. Another group wanted absolutely nothing to do with either side. But there were quite a few Slytherins who seemed to be willing to fall in line with the reigning regime currently running Hogwarts.

Daphne couldn't help but wonder just how much was going to change over the next year. But wondering about the future wasn't going to help her get her Advanced Arithmancy charts done any quicker.

So she sat at a long wooden study table, finishing up her Advanced Arithmancy charts, and Blaise Zabini was poking . . .

And poking . . .

And poking her.

"What – is – it?" Daphne hissed. "Between Minister Taint-ness and you pestering me, I can't get my bloody homework done!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Blaise said in a mock innocent tone. "I didn't mean to disturb the girl that almost got my arse kicked yesterday!"

"Are you kidding me?" Daphne slammed her quill down in exasperation. "I already apologized once. What more do you want me to do? Publicly declare you the handsomest bloke that ever graced the halls of Hogwarts? Wear an 'I'd-Be-Easy-for-Blaise-Zabini' shirt—"

He smirked. "Do you have one? We could make one specially for you."

Daphne threw several balled-up parchments at him. Blaise ducked and blocked the onslaught with his hand.

"Blaise," Daphne sighed, "I've got no idea what you want, okay? Just tell me!" She shook her hands and her body in a frustrated manner. "Don't pull this shite with me. Be upfront. Be straightforward with me!"

Blaise beckoned her over and leaned forward with a serious expression. Daphne complied.

He whispered in her ear . . .

"Nahhh . . . I'll stick with the whole 'annoy Daphne until she beans me in the head with soft objects' philosophy." Blaise sat back in his chair and twiddled his wand in his fingers. He cocked an eyebrow, grinned and shrugged. "I do so love getting you all riled up. It's the best possible way to spend a day that ends in 'Y'!"

Daphne seethed. "Why, in the freak-ing name of everything good and wonderful in this world, do I even bother—"

"Why?"

A different voice — a female voice, strained and desperate in tone — came from behind Daphne. She watched Blaise's face fall, and he brought up his wand.

"Pansy," Blaise said, standing up, "we don't want to fight now, do we?"

Daphne turned around and faced Pansy Parkinson, staring right into her eyes. She had been surprised that, despite Pansy's reaction to her at the feast, and Bulstrode's words of warning, it had taken one whole week for any sort of direct showdown to occur.

However, it appeared that it was, indeed, "high noon".

"Blaise, so help me . . . just stay the fuck out of this," Pansy said through gritted teeth, her eyes remaining on Daphne.

Daphne stood up. Just over Pansy's shoulder, she could see half the common room staring at them, including many of the younger students that she had talked to last year about Harry Potter to recruit to his side during the war.

"Pansy," Daphne started, "look I don't know what problem you have with me. I thought we talked things out a couple of months ago, and that everything was okay."

Just before Daphne had left Hogwarts, she had found a crying, sleep-deprived Pansy Parkinson camped out in the Slytherin common room. After realizing that Draco Malfoy had never included her in on the plan to kill Dumbledore, Daphne told Pansy a stripped-down version of what Harry had told her; Malfoy hadn't killed Dumbledore after all, and he had not been alone on the roof top that day. She made no mention of the fact that Harry had also told her Snape was on the rooftop and Snape had been the one who killed--

(Not now, you idiot!)

Pansy had said nothing back then. She had merely nodded, indicating that she had heard Daphne.

Yet, here they were, Pansy and Daphne . . .

And Pansy looked like she was ready to eat Daphne's face.

"I need to know, Greengrass. Why did you tell me anything? Anything at all about last year?" Pansy walked slowly toward her, her face red and livid. "You don't know anything, do you?"

"Pansy, I—"

"DO YOU?!"

Daphne had no idea how to proceed. Last time she had allowed Pansy Parkinson to bait her, both girls ended up in the Hospital Wing, Parkinson had lost her prefect badge, and they'd ended up with detentions with Snape for weeks.

Now, Daphne was Head Girl, and that honor, with the perks of having access to the halls after hours and Snape's office at will, was far too good to give up for a couple minutes' satisfaction of punching Parkinson in her pug-nose.

And, more importantly, that day at the train station, when she had answered the questions from the other students when they had asked her for guidance, was a new stepping stone for Daphne. It allowed her to see that she had a real opportunity to help out and take care of some of the innocent parties who might get caught up in the Death Eaters' bloodthirsty games . . . .

"ANSWER ME, DAMMIT!"

Daphne thought about this current situation.

She opened her mouth.

And, she pivoted on her heels, quickly Accioed all of parchments, quills and books into her bag, and made for the door, without so much as a backwards glance to Pansy.

"What do you think you're doing?" Pansy shouted.

Daphne just kept walking. There were shuffling sounds behind her, and she heard—

"Get off me, Millicent!"

"Don't you bloody hex her, Pansy."

Daphne couldn't help but smile as Millicent Bulstrode apparently defended her honor. She turned around, and saw Millicent, her thick broad arms pushing Pansy back. Blaise had come over to Pansy, trying to talk some reason into her.

"What're you doing, Daphne?" Blaise asked her. "Just go!"

Daphne looked at Pansy. "I'm not going to fight you. No matter what you try to do, what hex you throw at me, what curse or jinx. The Headmaster—" she repressed a gutful of bile from rising in her throat, "made me Head Girl, and I intend to remain Head Girl."

She tried to keep her expression bland and unreadable as she continued to speak. "I don't think it would be a good idea to show such discord in Slytherin House, Pansy. What message do you want to send to the other Houses? To the Carrows? That we can't live in harmony with each other? Millicent's got the right idea. What about you? Can't you just let bygones be bygones?"

Pansy Parkinson stopped struggling. She was still breathing hard, but she wrenched herself out of the bigger girl's grasp. Millicent, though, clearly had her guard up; her arms were still extended, waiting for Pansy to charge again.

"Daphne," Millicent addressed, "go! I'll meet up with you later for those, er . . . Potions essays."

Daphne held back a snort.

(Maybe in an alternate universe Bulstrode actually knows what a bloody potion is!)

Instead, she merely nodded, relieved that Blaise and Millicent seemed to have things under control.

Daphne stepped out into the main dungeon corridor, rubbing her head and shouldering her book bag as she walked briskly toward the entrance hall.

"Shit . . . shit . . . shit!"

Daphne was so preoccupied with what had just happened with Pansy that she ran right into a tall, dark and skinny object . . . that had been shouting her name for the past five minutes.

"Ooof!"

"Whoa there." Michael Corner grasped her shoulders to hold her steady. He smiled. "You look like you're being chased by a ghost or something."

Daphne breathed out, relieved that it was only Michael that she had encountered. "Just Pansy in the common room. No big deal."

Michael's face fell. "Pansy? Pansy Parkinson tried to do something to you?" He was evidently growing angrier and angrier. Daphne placed a hand on his chest; she hoped it would calm him.

"Easy, Sparky. She tried to goad me into a fight, but I walked away. Bul . . . I mean Millicent and Blaise held her off."

"Oh," he relaxed a little bit, but he still looked guarded when Daphne brought up Blaise. "Hey," he nudged his head toward the entryway. "Do you have a moment? Want to go outside?"

She smiled, but made as if pondering some age-old question. "Hmm . . . study, or hang out with Corner . . . study, or hang out with Corner." She moved her hands like scales. "Well, I guess you're more appealing than homework."

Michael smiled and rolled his eyes. "Why thank you for that endorsement." Putting a hand on her back, he ushered Daphne outside.

It was a beautiful, sunny day, warm with a gentle, rolling breeze caressing Daphne's skin. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath.

"So," she started brightly, brushing her hair away from her face, "on a scale of one to ten, one being the biggest pile of troll shit and ten being—"

"Time alone in a classroom with me?" Michael said cheekily and winked at her.

Daphne blushed and grinned. "How would you rank the meeting yesterday?"

He raised an eyebrow. "A two. Three if I'm being generous."

"Damn." She sighed. "I was hoping for at least a six or seven."

"Well, did you really expect bringing Zabini in would be all puppies and rainbows?"

Daphne shrugged. "I dunno what I was expecting. It definitely wasn't Finnigan getting all huffy about him." She breathed out. "In fact, it was like he and Padma and Susan all had puffeskins up their arses about Blaise." She looked at him with a confused expression. "I guess it's my fault. I didn't expect the DA to be so judgy."

Michael winced. "Well, I don't really blame 'em. It is gross, y'know . . . what, um . . . you know—" He swirled his hands in front of him, continuing the sentiment even if he couldn't verbalize the rest of his statement. He looked like he had just smelled something very stinky.

"You don't like the idea of two blokes shagging?" Daphne laughed as he shivered in repulsion.

"Michael, do you feel the same way as Seamus does about Blaise?" She stopped and faced him, looking right into his eyes. Her arms were crossed, and her face still had a smile on it, although it was noticeably smaller than before. She found herself genuinely curious about how he felt.

Michael scratched his head. "Erm . . . it's not like I really have any opinion about the actual, well . . . the gay part, or anything," he started awkwardly.

Daphne slid down, sitting in the dampened grass shaded by a large oak tree. Crossing her legs, she continued to look at Michael Corner, as he struggled with the English language.

"If it's not because Blaise's gay, then what is it?"

"Er . . . okay, well . . . i-it's because . . . y'see. . . ." He fell beside her, reclining on his side as he fiddled with a few blades of grass. "Okay . . . all right . . . I just think it's gross what they have to do to . . . y'know," he said, swirling his hand in the air.

Daphne moved her head in sync with Michael's very chatty hand. "You mean when they have to blow the basilisk? Lick the spotted dick? Ride the Hogwarts' Express right into the—"

"Okay! Okay." He clamped his hands over his ears. "Are you finished?"

Daphne giggled. "I really do like making you squirm." She waggled her eyebrows as he shot daggers at her. "But, in all seriousness, Michael, it's not like Blaise's going to advertise anything he does with his bloke. And he's most certainly not gonna try to do anything to you—"

"Oh, for bloody Godric's sake! I hope not!" he huffed. He gave Daphne a flat glare. And, quite suddenly, he fell over onto his back and let out several hearty guffaws.

Rubbing his eyes, Michael took a few moments to regain his composure from his fit of hysteria. "Ah, shite! We've all got our things don't we?" He rolled back over to his side and shook his head. "All of our own opinions and judgments about people and who they are and who their families are and who they shag." He turned his eyes back towards Daphne. "I do think the best thing about the whole 'Blaise is gay!' thing is that I've got no reason to be jealous anymore."

Daphne's eyebrow couldn't have shot up any faster. She knew she was blushing furiously; briefly, she wondered whether the famous Weasley blush was somehow contagious. "O-oh . . . er, jeal-jealous?" she said, the words stumbling out of her mouth.

Michael gave her one of his little lopsided grins. "Well, you two did have a past, and you talked about him incessantly. I would've thought you were dating him if you weren't pulling me into empty classrooms and closets all last year."

Daphne was sure that she was blushing so hard, that she resembled an apple.

Michael noticed her crimson appearance; his smile filled his entire face and he wiggled a finger at her. "I don't think I've ever seen you so red before, Daphne." He bit his bottom lip in excitement. "I really do like making you squirm!" And he scrunched his nose up at her.

She gasped and laughed and she started swatting him. "Hey! No fair!" she exclaimed. "Use your own words, you lit—"

And Daphne stopped. Michael had caught both of her hands in his, and was giving her a look . . .

No. The look.

The look the look told her exactly what his next moves would be.

Michael pulled her toward him, his hands wrapped around her wrists, the pads of his thumbs rubbing her skin in small circles. Her body softened and she allowed herself to be drawn forward and never took her eyes off of him.

She bent down toward him halfway, her lips already parted. Michael reached forward, closing the distance.

Closer . . .

And closer . . .

And they closed the distance.

It was soft and shaky and a little toothy at first because it had been so long — too long, really — since they had kissed like a true couple. But they kissed and they continued kissing, long after Daphne fell over onto her own side and entwined her fingers into his longer and skinnier ones and long after Michael rolled over just a tiny bit so he could better hold her as he continued to kiss her. He let go of her fingers and wrapped his arms around her, tangling his hands in her hair.

And Daphne gave a silent "thankyou" that they had chosen a spot facing away from Hogwarts, since she didn't fancy the possibility of the Carrows or Snape witnessing this moment.

They pulled away after an eternity of snogging and holding each other. Daphne smiled, her eyes and face soft, and she ran her fingers through his hair, lightly laughing as he kissed her face all over.

" . . . gahsummnferyah."

"Hmm?" Daphne asked. Michael was nuzzling into her neck, making it absolutely impossible to understand what he had just said. Not that she minded though.

Michael lifted his head up, his shaggy mane catching on her straight dark tresses. "I've got something for you," he said, his lips parted and his face flushed. He turned around and pulled his book bag over to him.

She propped herself on her elbows, both curious and a little annoyed that their lovely little snogging session had ended so abruptly.

Michael turned around, holding a little black object. Daphne recognized it as his Magical Audio-Phone, or M.A.P.s, a device witches and wizards could use to play music. M.A.P.s read off wizard music from slim Audio-Spellcards.

Any bright, young, and rather ingenious wizard or witch could figure out how to lift Muggle songs trapped in their own contraptions and transfer them onto the Audio-Spellcards that the M.A.P. used. Michael, himself, had bragged on several occasions to Daphne that he possessed one of the most extensive collections of Muggle and magical music on Spellcards of any Hogwarts student.

"That's your M.A.P., huh?" She took it into her hands, rather surprised at how new and scratch-free it looked.

Michael shook his head and tried to hold back a smile. "Actually, it's yours."

Daphne just stared at him. "Wh-what?"

"I ordered it for you. Wanted to give it to you so . . . I dunno. I could let you listen to some of the music I have. All those wizarding bands that aren't really well-known."

She could tell her eyes were shining, but the only thing she could croak out to him was, "wh- . . . we're in the gift-giving stage now of our relationship, huh?"

He smirked at her. "Oh, well . . . if you don't want it, I can take it back—"

"Not on your life, buster!" She held it just out of reach above her shoulder. "I- . . . just, this is the first thing a boy's ever given to me. Thanks."

"Hey! Just for the record," he gave her a teasing smile, "I'm a man now, y'know? Seventeen and all." His face softened. "And you're welcome, Daphne." He coughed awkwardly. "Um, well . . . d'ya remember telling me about that new Muggle band you've been listening to—"

"Oh . . . er . . . Oasis, you mean?" She gave him an odd, curious glance.

Michael nodded. "I sort of managed to get out a bit with Tony and Terry, and we happened on a Muggle music store, so I took a peek. I found the record you told me about. Uh," Michael got that adorably sheepish look on his face, and blushed a bit, "I . . . well, just tap your wand four times right on this spot." He pointed to a little raised area that looked like a button.

Daphne took her wand and tapped the wand four times and watched as the object emitted a bright glow. Suddenly, the air around them seemed to swirl and it filled with the sound of guitars strumming and violins in the background . . .

To-day is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you—

Daphne could hardly believe it.

"Michael? You did this?" She made no attempt to hide her smile, her look of adoration toward him. He had remembered something that she loved, and had taken the time, effort, and extra risks to his personal safety (it couldn't possibly be safe going out in Muggle areas right now!) and had made something for her.

And all the roads we have to walk are winding.

And all the lights that lead us there are blinding.

For her.

There are many things that I would like to say to you

But I don't know how . . .

"Not really a big deal or anything," he said quietly. But he was looking at her the whole time.

Daphne let her eyes drift back to the M.A.P.

Because maybe,

You're gonna be the one that saves me.

And after all—

You're my wonderwall.

And she turned her eyes back toward Michael and realized that the song held a far greater meaning for her than ever before.

It was Monday.

The second Monday since term had started.

Another day . . . starting off with another round of abuse by Hogwarts' newest teaching staff. And Daphne was so excited, it was all she could do to not find the nearest rope to make a noose for herself.

The Slytherins and Gryffindors streamed into the so-called Dark Arts classroom. Each had to walk by Amycus Carrow, who insisted upon having each student bow before him and answer his greeting . . . "The purer the blood—"

"—The better the wizard."

"Thank you, Mister Crabbe." Amycus patted the overly-large boy on the shoulders. "Your father would be proud of your enthusiasm, your commitment to the cause." And he gave Crabbe a malicious grin; the Slytherin returned a similar expression.

Daphne and Blaise Zabini looked at each other, both green with nausea.

Malfoy was next, and his response to Amycus was less than enthusiastic than his companion's.

She noticed Amycus, too, did not seem as impressed with him as he was Crabbe.

And that little discovery was very surprising indeed—

"The purer, the blood, Miss Patil!"

(Oh no.)

(Say it Parvati. Come on!)

Daphne bit her lip. She remembered on the first day of class, when Amycus Carrow had informed the first person that had approached the door, Neville Longbottom, that each student was expected to complete the phrase upon entering the classroom.

"Any student who fails to answer me will be dealt with, either by my wand," and he had snapped his wand into the air, "or by my hand."

Blaise Zabini had shoved his way to the front of the queue, making a sarcastic little comment to "Dungbottom," and had responded to Carrow's phrase. He had then bowed to the Death Eater. Daphne remembered that Blaise had turned around to look at Daphne; she had nodded, indicating that he had done exactly what he should have done. Then, she had taken her turn, and had stood away from the entering students, hoping that no one would tempt fate and try to talk back. Or not respond all together.

The students followed suit then.

But, here, in the present, Parvati was not.

She wasn't saying or making any moves—

(Parvati . . . do someth—)

SMACK

Parvati's head spun around with the force of the blow and she stumbled, her cheek scarlet and the wind clearly knocked out of her. To her side, both Neville and Lavender Brown came running up to catch her.

"Do you not realize, blood-traitor, who I am? All I have to do is touch this," and he thrust his forearm in front of her, his finger hovering just above the tattoo that covered it: a black, undulating outline of a skull and a snake slithering out of its mouth, "and the Dark Lord will eviscerate you. Or," Amycus leaned forward, leering at her while Neville and Parvati tried to pull her away inconspicuously, "he might decide to toy with you a little. Teach you to have respect for us pure-bloods."

Neville let out a jeer and Daphne watched as Parvati rubbed her stricken cheek.

Carrow hissed at her. "And . . . my dear," he said, reaching out to fondle her plait, "I might want to see what you're made of too—"

She had had enough.

"The – purer –the – blood – the – better – the – wizard!" Daphne spat out quickly. She stepped in front of Parvati. "M-mister . . . uh, Professor Carrow, we're ready for you. The students're very anxious to get class started. You know . . . N.E.W.T.s and all." Daphne stared at Amycus for as long as she could, and marveled at how she was able to tolerate the rotting tang of Carrow's breath.

Amycus looked at her with narrow, suspicious eyes. "Fine." And he beckoned the students to file into the classroom, Neville and Parvati being made to repeat the response to Carrow's required greeting with stony faces.

Daphne followed Parvati to her seat. "You going to be okay?"

Parvati looked up and nodded quickly. "Take your seat before he sees you talking to me all concerned. We'll meet up later in You–Know–Where."

Daphne agreed, but not before giving Parvati a sad, sympathetic, but comforting smile. Just behind her, Daphne saw Neville coming over to check if Parvati was okay.

When the rest of the class settled in, Amycus Carrow strode to the front, walking in long, military-style steps. He stood in front of the blackboard.

"The Cruciatus Curse," Carrow began, with a sensuous drawl, "originated as a Healing spell, used by Magical Healers in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Healer Cronos Crucey developed a spell to localize pain in specific areas of the human body." Carrow paced slowly in front of the desks, the steel in his boots clanking on the stone floor. "Crucey used his new spell on patients with only the most extreme injuries, and primarily those witches and wizards who had to lose limbs, hands, and feet."

Carrow kicked Seamus Finnigan's foot . . . hard. The Gryffindor jumped in the air, and scowled furiously at the Death Eater.

"Healer Crucey found that, in an emergency situation, where there was nothing else to knock the patient out, applying pain to specific areas of a body, had an interesting, psychological impact on the patient. The patient would either become unconscious or would focus on the new pain engulfing their body and would thus be able to tolerate the severing of the nasty, infected appendage."

Carrow stopped and turned to face the class head on.

"When Muggle persecution against witches and wizards started becoming more and more prevalent," Amycus twirled his wand between his fingers, "our kind turned to the Cruciatus Curse as a defensive weapon." Amycus walked casually between the desks, and Daphne realized that he was coming right for her.

Stopping in front of her desk, Amycus, placed his fingertips on the wood. "The Cruciatus Curse is not well appreciated outside of certain ranks." Amycus smiled a horrible smile, filled with something akin to affection. "Because it originated as a Healing spell, the Cruciatus hinges on the caster's intentions; one only has to think, to intend for the spell to cause pain in a specific area. Or they could want to hurt the person all over."

The creepy grin stayed on Carrow's face.

"But all it takes is the one word — Crucio — and your thoughts do the rest."

To Daphne's disgust, he looked down at her.

"Miss Greengrass, since you were so anxious for class to start, why don't you step forward to help me with a little demonstration?"

Carrow turned around and strode with military precision to the front of the classroom. Daphne used those precious few seconds to calm her quickening heartbeat, her growing anxiety.

(What . . . what the bloody fucking hell does he mean? A demonstration?)

SLAM

Carrow smashed his fist into his desk, rattling it with such force, that the whole class jumped up at least two inches in the air.

"Get – up – here – now, Miss Greengrass!"

Daphne scurried to the front of the classroom, panting from a rush of adrenaline and fear.

(What is he going to make me do?)

Carrow never took his eyes off of her. Instead, he aimed at Daphne and flicked his wand.

"Crucio!"

Daphne's breath stopped. She flinched, expecting an onslaught of pain.

A little sting on her chest . . . and then nothing.

Behind her, students gasped in disbelief.

"Sir! You can't!"

"It's against the law to use it—" Parvati shouted.

Carrow held his hand up. "As you can see, I said the word, but I had no intention to cause Miss Greengrass any pain. So the curse did not affect her. That time."

"You monster!"

Carrow turned his head to Neville Longbottom. Daphne looked at the Gryffindor boy. Neville was turning a violent scarlet. He was practically standing up in his seat, his knuckles white as he clung to the edge of his desk. His prefect badge gleamed, even in the dim light of the Dark Arts classroom.

Carrow raised his eyebrow. "Mister Longbottom. You're volunteering for the demonstration?" That frightening smile appeared again. "Excellent." And he gestured for Neville to stand up at the front with Daphne.

Neville didn't move.

Carrow pointed his wand at Neville. "Mister Longbottom, you will stand up here, you will do it now, or else," and he swirled his wand over to Daphne, "I'll do it for real this time. And you'll watch her squirm in pain and realize you could've stopped me."

Daphne stared at Amycus Carrow, her eyes wide and fearful. She snapped her head at Neville, and tried to mouth at him, "No! Don't! Stay there!"

Her breathing increased as Neville gulped and walked to stand with her. He never lost the expression of furious disgust as he continued to glare at Carrow.

Amycus sneered at the pair of them. "Now, Miss Greengrass, raise your wand—"

(Oh God!)

"—and perform the curse on your human target."

(N-no. He can't!)

(HE CAN'T DO THIS!)

Carrow continued to leer; he gritted his teeth, which gave his face an animalistic look. "Do it now, or I'll Imperius you, and then you will do everything I tell you to."

He held his wand at the ready, showing he meant it.

Daphne trembled. "I ca- . . . can't . . ." she said, shaking her head. She could feel tears of fear and indecision growing in her eyes. Her eyes grazed over the rest of the class. The Gryffindors were either staring at Amycus Carrow with pure hatred or staring at her with apprehension.

Shaking and scared, she turned to look at Neville.

He stood in front of her, quaking and filled with as much trepidation as she was. Amazingly, though, he spoke to her in the most calm, centered voice she had ever heard from him.

"Daphne. It's okay," he said slowly. "I know you have to do it, and I know you won't really mean it."

Daphne trembled more, and she realized that her respect and admiration for Neville had just multiplied a thousand-fold.

"What are you waiting for, Greengrass?!" Carrow snapped. "Get on with it!"

And Daphne, intending only to sting Neville on his hand, copied the wand motion she had just seen Carrow perform on her, and mumbled, "Crucio". She tried to suppress a smile, as Neville flinched only a little bit and rubbed his stinging hand. She allowed herself to breathe out in relief as Neville gave her a small grin and nod—

"CRUCIO!"

"NO!" Daphne screamed as Neville went down.

"YEARGH . . . AAAARGH!" Neville yelled. He writhed and jerked as the curse pulsed from Carrow's wand. Daphne watched, her arms outstretched, wanting to catch him, but frozen in shock and fear.

Carrow kept flicking his wand back and forth and Neville's whole body moved as the wand did.

"AARGH . . . NEER-Yeargh . . . nuuuh . . . eurrh . . ."

His body contorted unnaturally and it bent every possible direction. His shirt and trousers ripped in places as if cut by invisible knives.

Neville never yelled at Carrow to stop. And Daphne stood, powerless to stop the attack, and she watched as his eyes started rolling to the back of his head.

"Eurrgh . . . gurggh . . ." Neville gurgled. Daphne made no attempt to hide her tears.

She fell to her knees, her hands on the stone floor. "Please . . . Please Pr-professor . . . you're killing him!" She was sobbing and pounding her palms on the floor.

She was sobbing over a Gryffindor, and she didn't care if Carrow punished her for it.

Carrow raised one eyebrow at Daphne, and, rolling his eyes, he tore his wand away.

"Finite Incantatem!"

The curse broke, and Neville's body lay contorted and shaking. He jerked twice, as if seizing. Daphne crawled over to him.

"Neville?" she whispered harshly. "Neville . . . God please, Neville! Wake up!"

She heard the footsteps of several students approaching her. Seamus Finnigan kneeled above Neville's unconscious head, and tried to slap him awake.

Neville could only manage an incoherent moan.

"P-pro-professor, he needs the Hospital Wing. He needs it now!" Daphne had never heard such desperation in her own voice, but after the scene she had just witnessed, the unabashed cruelty she had just experienced and that she had been forced to participate in, she couldn't stop her emotions from rushing into her brain.

And it was too much for her to take.

Daphne felt a hand on her shoulder. "I'll help take him to Pomfrey." She looked up and saw Blaise's pale, horrified face. Nodding slowly, not truly comprehending what was happening, Daphne let Blaise get on the other side of Neville. Seamus looked at the Slytherin boy with a brief, fleeting glare.

Both boys paused, looked at each other, and gave two reluctant nods. They stood up, Neville balanced precariously between them, his arms thrown over their shoulders.

Daphne thought his head and body resembled a rag doll. She held back the urge to throw up.

Amycus Carrow stepped in front of Neville's still incoherent form. He pushed his wand tip up against Neville's chest.

Daphne, wringing her hands, her nerves completely destroyed, watched and listened as Carrow leaned forward toward the semi-unconscious Gryffindor's ear—

"Bellatrix," he hissed, "sends all her best."

And he waved his hand to send Seamus and Blaise off. "Take him away." Carrow turned to the rest of the class, their faces a mix of disgust, fear, and, from the couple of Slytherins seeking approval from Carrow, admiration.

"Class," Carrow sneered, "is dismissed."