Authors Note: This is the longest chapter to date, at 35k words. I surprised myself with it, but just had a hard time finding a good place to stop. As it is, I'm not entirely happy with where it ends, but as they say, all good things must come to an end. Its length is in part the reason why it has taken so long to be fine-tuned. Thank you everyone for your wonderful reviews, they keep me writing! Enjoy!

Many thanks to jdh41 and GJMEGA for betaing this chapter! *hugs*

Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort.

First, the cold friction of expiring sense
Without enchantment, offering no promise
But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit
As body and soul begin to fall asunder.

Second, the conscious impotence of rage
At human folly, and the laceration
Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.

And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
Of motives late revealed, and the awareness
Of things ill done and done to others' harm
Which once you took for exercise of virtue.

Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains.

-T.S. Eliot

The only thing he had taken from Mr. Steel's store was his book on blood runes. The Ancient Wizard had been impossible to find at first, locked in a bottom drawer of Mr. Steel's large wooden desk. Harry had finally risen his wand and summoned the thing, tucking it under his arm. For a moment he paused, sad verdant eyes taking in the pristine room, the walls of magical books, the door leading to their stash. He couldn't take it all, and what was the point? The Hounds would be back, and he doubted there was much here they had not already seen, or been informed about. Mr. Steel was obviously in thick with them. Had been. A pang went through his heart.

He returned to Australia, realizing a good hour must have passed, the sun much farther down in the sky, casting long shadows along the ground.

The house was a dump, pure and simple. Without magical wards to sustain it or house elves to do basic repairs the thing was close to being condemned. It would take weeks, perhaps months, for it to be restored to its former glory, especially with no hired labor. First he numbly met up with the others, Tiny seated silently on a cracked plastic chair at a broken table in what must have been the kitchen. Mike stood beside him, silent, as Kerr absently checked the house, Fawkes perched above them. Their eyes all turned to him when he entered, and Harry numbly began to speak.

"Well. I guess you guys have realized we must be far from home. As far as I can gather, we are in Western Australia, in the outskirts of a small rural farming town. This house, what's left of it, must have been a place set up for squibs, um, non-magical children, where they could live normal lives. I guess it's been a while."

He looked about, at the peeling walls and broken window. Mike gawked, eyes wide.

"Australia?! That's where you and that bloody bird brought us? What are you thinking?"

Kerr silenced him, brown eyes gentle.

"Mike, relax. It's been a rough day, and Harry did what he could to get us out of a sticky situation. I guess…"

He met Harry's green eyes, and Harry nodded, his mouth dry, before looking down at his feet. Kerr's eyes saddened, and he cleared his throat, walking over to kneel in front of Tiny.

"Tiny, Mike… Mr. Steel. He was shot."

Tiny let out a gasping sob, collapsing in on himself. Shock settled over Mike with a pale mantle, the boy's shoulders sinking. Harry turned away, walking out, Kerr's soothing words washing over him. His eyes stared blindly out into the landscape, red dirt and strong trees, a desert with bushy grass and sparse vegetation. He could just spot a golden field of wheat, a farmers crop nearly ready for harvest. He heard the footsteps, turning to meet the eyes of Mike and Kerr. Harry quietly began to speak, walking past them back into the kitchen, where Tiny sat blankly, silent tears upon his face.

Harry spoke, his voice sounding like a different person, one calm and collected. "Settle in as you can. I'll return with what supplies I can get. Kerr, I can only assume everything left behind is lost, including your vehicle. I'll get what passes for currency in this area, but it might take a few days. This has to be done carefully, but this can act as a safehouse of sorts until you are prepared to return to Britain. You've got to lay low. Any one of you can be taken as a hostage in order to manipulate me. Is this understood?"

They nodded, though Tiny still had not met Harry's eyes. Perhaps the boy blamed him. No longer a boy, Harry thought, truly looking at the sixteen year old. Tiny was standing at equal height to himself, a teenager. Only his manner had made him appear young, carefree and happy. With that stripped away, he was dark and brooding, his blonde hair hiding his dull blue eyes. Harry's heart sank again, and he turned to leave. Kerr spoke behind him, voice soft.

"Are you alright, Harry? Perhaps you should stay….?"

Harry shook his head, not turning around, leaving without a word. He could not afford to pause and think, or else he would lose the momentum he had gained and mire down in anger and despair with the knowledge that life, once again, had turned for the worse.

It was past midnight in London. Harry had already been to Gringotts and withdrawn enough Australian currency to buy a small farm. He had also gained the location of the Australian Ministry of Magic, passed along with a snide warning. Relations between the British and the Australian magical communities were strained at best, and outright hostile at worst. There was no love lost, as Australia had been for wizards much what it had been for muggles centuries ago. A place to deposit the unwanted, squibs and wizards alike. It was not unusual that the Potters had a house there, for many other pureblooded families did as well, all carefully hidden from each other. He would need to tread carefully.

That business done, Harry quickly drafted a letter to Dumbledore, expressing his desire for Nicholas Flamel to tutor him in his third year material. He had no doubt the two were already in contact, but formalities were what they were. He also included his London address, so no more owls would get confused. Letters from his friends had finally arrived from harried owls, no doubt angry over his changing location. Without a specific address, they had only been able to follow his magical signature. With all the hopping between continents he must have given them quite the flight. He left the letters unopened, unable to deal with them at the moment. His mind was stretched enough, stress and fatigue weighing down on him.

Mind numb and his body still clothed, he lay back upon his bed, darkness rising over him to pull him into its depths.

The next morning he flamed to the Australian house. His thoughts moved at a fast pace, cataloguing the things he needed to do. There was still no power to the small building, and he made it a priority to contact the proper authorities. At least the weather was nice. The boys could go ahead and start repairs, and Kerr planned to purchase a used flatbed truck. One saving grace was that the language was sufficiently similar that communication would be relatively easy. What would be hard to explain was how they arrived at the house with no vehicle and nobody noticing. It was a small town, and there would be talk.

He put that from his mind. The house was secluded, and unless the farmers were in the fields they would be far from prying eyes. The lane leading to the house was red dirt, overgrown mostly though obviously the farmers had sprayed some sort of chemical to reduce weeds making it passable. Once they reached town, perhaps two or three miles away, the dirt turned to old faded pavement. It would do, but was as different from London as was possible. Hot and dry instead of cool and damp, sparse and private instead of crowded and loud. In a way, it reminded him of the cottage in Cheddar, the last place he had truly felt safe. But no longer. He knew the world now, and just how fragile it was. He would never allow himself to think of a place as home again, for then no one would be able to take home from him.

"Harry."

He turned from where he had stood in the front yard, observing how Kerr's face was drawn with weariness. The man approached him with a slow gait, and joined him in staring as the sun began its slow rise in the sky. Dawn was beautiful here, the clouds tinted in an amazing array of color, and the slow breeze held a fresh and wild smell. The only sounds were those made by nature, and it gave the scenery a peaceful feeling.

"When did you get here?"

Harry turned at the question, looking back up into Kerr's face. For a moment grief rose anew inside him, but he looked away and tamped it down, forcing his voice to neutral calm.

"Only a few minutes ago. Catching the sun."

Kerr nodded absently, before speaking in a voice choked with emotion.

"We are having a memorial. For Mr. Steel. This afternoon."

His words were halting, stiff. Harry felt a fist squeeze over his heart, but nodded.

"I have somewhere to go this morning. Paperwork. But I'll be back."

Harry turned, reached down, and grasped the case he had brought with him, passing it over to Kerr. The man held it tentatively, his confused expression clouded. Harry explained in a soft voice.

"It's got a featherlight charm on it. I think it will fade before long, so put it somewhere safe. Its money, what I think might get us started here. You will need transportation. And groceries."

Kerr nodded, his eyes conflicted. Harry turned, began to step away.

"Harry. This is not your fault."

He glanced back, the dawn light growing stronger by the minute.

"The guilty always seek to pass the blame along. I am not."

Before the man could respond to that statement, Harry brought the fire up from within and let it take him away.

With the information he had gathered from Gringotts Harry approached the civilian entrance to the Australian Ministry of Magic. It was located in central Melbourne, on the Yarra river, which had once also been the Muggle capital city before that was moved to Canberra. There were hints that wizards had been involved, feeling cramped by the growing metropolis surrounding them. If their intention was to put distance between their own seat of government and the Muggles, however, they failed. Melbourne had an even larger Muggle population than Canberra, and was just as much a modern city as London was.

Harry appeared on the outskirts of Victoria Harbor, the water still and calm. It was still early in the morning, the sun only just rising to cast long shadows from moored boats. He turned his back to the beautiful sight, eyeing the buildings across from him. Griphook had said… there. His eyes fell on a old wooden sign painted a bright red. The words, in golden script, said "Whiteant." The door beneath it was the same bright red, but the building was otherwise nondescript. He could feel the oppressive wards around it, heavy and dense. Harry glanced about, then entered.

The room was lit brightly, and straight ahead was a woman, leaning back and observing her nails while humming softly. When Harry entered, she sat upright with surprise, eyes going over his robed form with curiosity as she smiled.

"May I help you, Sir?"

Harry did not bother with a smile, his voice coming out in a gruff tone.

"I'd like a meeting with someone from Department of Housing, please."

Her eyes darkened slightly, an almost violet color that matched her long black hair in a pretty way. He tossed the thought off with a frown, wondering where the observation had come from. Why did it matter if she was pretty? The woman, obviously the secretary, sat up straight and held her hand out with authority.

"Wand, please, if you will be so kind."

Harry glumly pulled out the long wooden form, handing it over with a sigh. She set it on something behind the ledge of her desk, which began to fill a page with writing. She looked up with a smile, passing his wand back.

"There you go, Mr. Potter. Housing is the fourth door on your left, down the hall to my right."

Harry frowned further, absently taking back his wand and following the directive. So their wands were all registered? Ollivander must do so, for Harry had never submitted his information to a government agency. Would his British wand be remarked upon on foreign soil? The secretary did not seem to have recognized his name as a celebrity, so perhaps his fame had not stretched this far. He could only hope.

The fourth door was emblazoned with the Department's name. The hallways were full of doors, in such a way that he could only assume each door was a portal to a different room somewhere else in the building. They were much too close together otherwise. He was proven right when he entered the door, the world seeming to move under his feet, and as he stepped forward it righted itself into a room much larger than it should be, with windows looking out onto the Harbor. They also appeared much higher up than they could possibly be based on the building outside. Interesting.

There was another secretary here, who seemed to be expecting him. He had seen no computers, obviously, so they must have spells to alert ministry personnel to people being where they should be. It would also make it harder to sneak past without putting your presence on file. Harry followed the direction of a man, this time, who told him to enter an office three doors down. Many of the desks he saw were empty, the workers perhaps not having entered the building yet. All the walls were a neutral tan, decorated in places with moving portraits and landscape. Harry sat in a chair in front of a slim metal desk, the nameplate reading Mr. Lofton Killarn.

The man entered and a moment after he sat, a hurried look about him. A large smile came over his face when he saw Harry, shifting an armful of files from his hands to his desk so he could shake his hand. Harry did so, amused as the thin, and tall, man sat with a loud huff.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Potter, very nice. What can I do for you this fine morning?"

Harry considered only a moment, his mind analyzing the man's behavior and attempting to divine the best way to proceed. Finally he spoke, forcing a small smile onto his face.

"Mr. Killarn, my family owns a property in Western Australia that I would like to reconnect to Muggle services and get repaired. I need Muggle documents in order to get this done. Also, I require permits for three of my squib relations to relocate there, one of which will need to attend Muggle school. "

The man's excitement had faded, replaced with borderline hostility.

"I see. The address?"

Harry gave it, watching as the man cast a spell and a folder appeared, emblazoned with his family name. Loften flipped through the folder for a moment, before replicated several documents inside and passing them over in another folder.

"That should be all you require. Simply take these to the permit office in the local town, Kondinin, was it? Also included are the work and school permit paperwork for immigrants."

Harry stared blankly at the folder, speaking without thought.

"That's it?"

The man smiled grimly, his eyes having an angry tint to them.

"Your family, Mr. Potter, has a history of good standing with our government. They own quite a bit of land in that area, the profit of which is… donated out to our own very fine institution. In return, situations such as these are… smoothed out."

Harrys mind read between the lines of the conversation, the man's manner suddenly becoming clear. He thought Harry was dumping some family members here because they lacked magic. The Potter's already had arrangements in place for just such a situation it appeared, and all of the legal work was already taken care of. Harry hesitantly spoke, wondering if he should even bother to correct the man's opinion of himself.

"Then, there are also visa's and work permits….?"

Mr. Killarn grunted in affirmative. Harry stood silently, thanked the man, and left, grasping the folder. That had gone much smoother than he expected, but he was left with a foul taste in his mouth. Was it truly that easy to be rid of a squib? Simply dump them on a foreign soil, sign the paperwork, and vanish? At least no one had recognized his name. He could only imagine the speculative news articles about why the Potter Heir was in Australia, of all places. He was sure the conclusions would both amuse and anger him.

Outside he ditched his robes, and visited the local utilities office in Kondinin. The officials gave him both bored and curious glances, but asked no questions. With a sigh he returned to the house and opened the folder. There were instructions inside, stating that each blank visa required a drop of blood and the spoken name of the individual. It would fill in the rest automatically, and file them with the government. Harry reluctantly gathered the others, explained, and followed the steps. In the end, Kerr and Mike had all they needed to purchase supplies and find employment, and Tiny could easily attend a school of his choice, which in Kondinin, consisted of a single high school 20 kilometers away. The boy still had not looked him in the eye, nor offered the hugs he had been so well known for. Harry made a mental note to purchase them an owl. Perhaps that would lift the boys spirits, though it would be useless as a post owl while they were in Australia. It was simply too far to fly to Britain, and across an ocean at that.

They gathered at sundown on a small hill behind the house. Mike had made a small circle of stones as a memorial, one that seemed both too little and too much for the old man who had taken them all in off the streets. The sparse trees and thick brush secluded them from the rest of the world, and Harry found himself standing straight and silent. He only nodded in response to queries from Mike and Kerr, and felt himself made of stone. He barely heard the words Kerr said over the stones, his mind frozen in emotion. To speak would be to sob, and he refused to shed more tears. Love and hate both twisted inside him in equal measure, a poisonous snake waiting to strike.

His eyes focused as Mike gingerly pulled out a small book bound in worn red leather and tied about with a braided cord. He passed it to Kerr, and Harry felt a tremble work through him. He recognized the book, they all did. It had been one that Mr. Steel had read often, quoted frequently, and loved much. He had said it was a wedding gift from his father-in-law on the date of his wedding to his beloved wife, a first edition signed copy of the poems of T.S. Eliot. How had Kerr gotten it? As if hearing the silent question, Kerr cleared his throat and began to speak.

"After… Well, after the wizards took Mr. Steel's memory of Harry, when he got back into contact with us in London, he took me aside. He was different, oh, he was so different. Cold, calculating, gruff. I almost did not recognize him, he had lost that soft outer edge. But he talked to me, told me to take care of the boys. Then he gave me this book. He said he didn't know what the future would bring, but he wanted me to keep it safe."

Kerr paused, cleared his throat again. Tiny began to hiccup in harsh breaths, and Mike placed an arm about the teenagers shoulder. Harry stood, meeting Kerr's eyes, thinking of the Steel from before, sitting on the large sofa in the cottage, holding the red book open on his lap and reading jovially of Macavity, the Mystery Cat, the master criminal. He remembered Tiny's eyes full of laughter, and Mike sneaking up behind him to tumble the both of them to the floor in a pile of shrieks. His heart thumped hard, once, before Harry looked away at the stones, and Kerr's voice washed over him again, each word more painful than the last.

"He gave me this book. I looked through it a few times. It's, um, it's full of notes, and... comments." Kerr's fingers whitened around the book, then relaxed. Gingerly, he untied the cord and let the book fall open, its pages yellowed with age. His eyes found a premarked page, then looked up, around at all of them.

"There was one page that was earmarked. I could tell he had read it hundreds of times. The whole thing has sections underlined and marked. It's a long poem, goes on for several pages. But there was one particular section on this one page that had been carefully circled. On the edge, written in tiny letters in red ink, was 'My life is stained. But I love them.' I wanted to ask him about it, and did not have the chance. I thought I had time."

The tears were there, in his voice, in the trembling book in his hands. Kerr sucked in a breath, straightened his body.

"It seemed appropriate to read, now. Here. It meant a lot to him, he must have...must have read it a lot. He loved his poems."

Harry felt the strength it took Kerr to continue, felt the toll it took on him. It was like a cloud hanging above them all, the ominous presence of the man who had shaped their lives. Who had given them something magical, something better, perhaps, than what they would have had. Harry suddenly remembered the old saying he had heard his Uncle pompously say when he was a child, as his Aunt had painstakingly prepared a dish for a neighbor whose wife had died. 'Remember, Pet, we do not speak ill of the dead.' Harry remembered how her face had pinched tight, in both reluctance and agreement. Harry looked away from Kerr as the man gathered himself to speak, feeling unworthy to see the weakness there. Then Kerr began to read, and Harry let the words fall over him, one by one, and could only agree with the statement Mr. Steel had penned in the margins. My life is stained.

"Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort.

First, the cold friction of expiring sense
Without enchantment, offering no promise
But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit
As body and soul begin to fall asunder.

Second, the conscious impotence of rage
At human folly, and the laceration
Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.

And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
Of motives late revealed, and the awareness
Of things ill done and done to others' harm
Which once you took for exercise of virtue.

Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains."

As the last line was read, Harry turned his back on the memorial, unable to look at the others, unwilling to see the boys who made up his family descended into grief once more. His insides twisted with the mix of guilt and grief and love and anger, and suddenly he needed to escape, to get away from this place. The feeling was so strong, rising up in his throat, that for the first time in years his wings came out on their own, a metallic sound clashing violently in the silence.

"Harry, wait..!"

And for the second time, he fled without looking back, his wings sweeping him into the air with large strokes, the wind dragging any sound that might have reached him away.

Over the next week he traveled to Australia almost daily. Neither Mike nor Kerr confronted him about his behavior at the memorial, an unofficial agreement reached to leave the past behind them. He cast what few spells he was able to do without a wand before he exhausted himself, mostly broad repair charms and transformative spells. Kerr now had a faded blue truck and had purchased enough timber to raise eyebrows from the locals. Now the house had power, though there were few light bulbs wired up, something an electrician would have to be called in for, but things were brightening up. There were two window AC units for sale at the local hardware store, and Mike had gladly purchased both of them. None of the boys were used to the hot weather, though Harry did not mind it. Egypt had changed him in that respect, and his runes helped with the rest.

He practised flying as a phoenix with Fawkes every afternoon as the sun set. It was pathetic at first, every downdraft flinging him about. The tail was the hardest part to get used to. It stretched behind him in long luxurious feathers, better to look at than to fly with. His magic did not augment his flying as it did when he flew with steel wings only. He had to actually steer, of all things, with a bloody tail. His wings were also shaped subtly different, the finger feathers shorter and more streamlined, the flight feathers long and fat. Most of the feathers on his body were short wisps that almost felt like fur, thin against his body to help him be more aerodynamic.

He loved it.

The challenge of it made him grin, made him forget the recent trials he had been through. It was purely enjoyable, and any physical pain he felt only further distracted him from the pain in his heart. Arms and lung burning at the end of a long evening, he would hover high above the earth and let his mind drift on idle tides of thoughts. When it was time to return to London he did so with a reluctant sigh, his eyes observing the square fields of Australia from hundreds of feet in the air.

"Mr. Potter,

Here are the appropriate documents to file with the Ministry regarding your schooling. Please sign along the line at the bottom, and it will be filed automatically. This will remain your copy.

I hope your summer is going well.

-Albus Dumbledore"

When Nicholas Flamel came through the floo into the London property it was with a flare, a subtle spin that spoke of grace and experience. Harry almost hated him for it, but the man smiled and he found himself returning it with one of his own. This man understood him more than any other he had met, and understood the magic he held. He knew that such magic was a burden far heavier than others would suspect.

They sat at the living room table, and Harry waited for the teaching to start. This one man was to teach him a whole curriculum, a wide variety of subjects. But, he figured, one that must be simple at a third year level. Third year was also when Harry was supposed to pick the first of his electives. What would he have chosen? What had his friends chosen? Harry drug his thoughts away as Flamel spoke.

"Mr. Potter. Harry?"

It was a question. Harry nodded his permission, and Flamel smiled slightly.

"Harry. This is a preliminary meeting. Before we start, I must know what you have done to yourself. I can tell enough to know you have completed your summer ritual. I can also tell you are hiding yourself, your magic, in a complex way that is hard to focus on. A mere annoyance, but one I will not accept from a student of mine."

Flamel paused and Harry felt his fists clench. He was supposed to trust this man? As if reading his thoughts, Flamels dark eyes turned serious, his voice grim.

"If I am to trust you with my secrets, I will require you to trust me with your own."

Harry nodded slowly, mind racing through possibilities. Behind them all, though, was the knowledge he could read in the increased streaks of white in Flamels hair, in the wrinkles that creased his face. The man was ageing rapidly. How much longer would he have to study with the man? Would they even make it a year? Flamel spoke again, his voice low. He was not trying to convince, merely explaining the facts as they stood.

"I need to know how your magic works, how it is placed within yourself, if I am to help you learn to utilize it. This is important."

Harry quietly stood, and with concentration, summoned his notebook to his hand. Flamel did not comment on the wandless magic, only leaned forward as Harry slipped to the first page. Spread out across the page was a representation of two wings, etched in black ink. Kerr had drawn it for him long ago, when things were so much simpler. Harry took a deep breath, and prepared to divulge his secrets. He felt the eyes on him, patient and kind, and began to speak.

"It all began when I was nine and a half, and I was given a Muggle tattoo…"

"I'm going to kill him. Merlin, he's dead."

Draco's voice was low and filled with anger. Blaise merely hummed in his throat, his eyes once more sweeping over the hall. On the train, they had still had hope. Hope that perhaps, Harry would appear. Perhaps he was already at the school. Perhaps.

But now, with the sorting over and the food on platters before him, he finally acknowledged it to himself. Harry would not be at Hogwarts this year. Blaise sat back on his bench, observing the way Draco's fingers were clenched tight around his fork, his eyes staring blankly at his empty plate. Finally the blonde looked up, his expression dark.

"He hasn't written all summer. To any of us."

Blaise nodded. Hermione had been in a state on the train, pacing with what little room she had as the boys looked on. She had been affected the most, which did not surprise the Slytherins. Of them all, she was also the most vulnerable, on behalf of her house and her friendship with the Slytherins. Neville had met their eyes with grim solemnity, silent conversation passing between them. They had exchanged many letters over the summer, and would need to find time to meet without Hermione present to discuss in person. They had to be prepared. He looked up as Draco continued, his voice low.

"Fine. Thats just fine." Draco stabbed violently at a slice of ham, lifting it on his plate with a rough movement. Blaise sighed, and began to fill his own plate. Sudden commotion brought his attention across the room, his heart thumping once in excitement only to fade. Something was happening at the Gryffindor table.

His dark eyes narrowed as he saw Ron Weasley stand.

"Draco. Look."

The blonde turned to see. The redhead walked over to a smaller form, and they could not hear the words he spoke for the distance. But Ron placed a kind hand on the shoulder of the boy, shook once, and then walked away with a bright smile. The boy who he'd spoken turned slightly, face pale, and Blaise recognized him the same instance Draco did.

"Colin Creevey."

It was a low growl filled with malice. Blaise's own eyes narrowed, though inside he also felt a quiver of pity. No doubt the boy would regret the picture he had so thoughtlessly sold to the Daily Prophet. Blaise doubted the boy would enjoy the attention he received. At least one person would be lucky Harry was not present.

"I'm going to teach that little mudblood a lesson."

Surprise came to Blaise's expression as he turned to Draco, who was still glaring over towards the Gryffindor table.

"I thought you were mad at Harry."

Draco glanced over at him, his face changing to neutral lines. A perfect Slytherin mask, if it was not for the eyes filled with emotion.

"I am mad at him. But that idiot harmed one of us. And he will pay for it."

That coldness was settling over Draco now, and with sudden calm the blonde began to eat. Blaise shook his head.

"Leave him alone. Let Harry handle it, if he wants to."

Draco smiled coolly.

"Harry shouldn't have to deal with a little crup like that. He's not worth the attention."

Before Blaise could follow that statement, Draco turned to a girl sitting a short ways down from him.

"Greengrass."

The girl looked up, her eyes darting between the two of them with a narrowed gaze. Blaise turned away with a sigh. Let Draco start the politics. Right now, he had no appetite for it.

Flamel came every day of the week, including Sundays, but he only stayed for a few hours. He assigned Harry extensive reading, books by the dozens, some given to him, some he purchased by owl order. Sometimes it was simply one chapter, sometimes the entire book. He found himself longing for the Hogwarts library, and even more so his friends. Somebody to comment to, to share knowledge with, to simply laugh with.

Today was the day he should have started class at Hogwarts. He finally sat at his desk and began to open the letters from his friends. They started more worried and enquiring, and ended with worried and angry. Hermione's letters asked how he was doing, if he had seen the articles in the newspaper, if his ritual had gone without problems. He set those aside with a cold feeling in his chest, unsure how to reply. So much had happened he could scarcely consider how to put pen to paper with a reply.

Blaise and Draco's were much the same, without the outright questions. They hinted, dancing about the real meaning with the skill of a professional ballerina. It was Neville's last letter, however, that had him sitting up with narrowed eyes. Neville had included a copy of a letter from Blaise and Draco. His eyes ran down the numbers and names listed, his gut tightening. This couldn't be right, could it?

He stood abruptly, pacing to his bed and back, fingers clasped tightly together. He had not imagined the government to be so corrupt. Sure, he was not naive enough to think that all members would be pure-minded, but to know the real damage being done….He stopped, eyes going to the window. Black escaping would put the Ministry in an uproar, at least for a short time. Keep them busy. That would give his friends and himself more time to consider a plan. Neville speaking of emancipation had gotten his mind turning. It was possible, if the circumstances turned out just right. However, Harry had some political clout even without being declared a Lord. Being the Boy-Who-Lived had its advantages. But how to use it? He simply did not know enough. Dumbledore had obviously been working behind the scenes for a long time, manipulating the environment for his own ends. The Headmaster was the obvious choice to ask for advice, but Harry could not bring himself yet to approach him. He was still too angry, too hurt.

He sat again, staring at the letters on his desk. Then, with a final movement, he placed them carefully in his desk drawer. He would reply to them later. He didn't doubt he would be receiving more letters soon, once his absence was realized. He would write to them then. Absently, he reached up and felt the wetness on his cheeks, an outward sign of the feelings he refused to act upon. Harry did not waste time considering the weakness they showed. He merely turned his face away, and opened his reading for that night.

"Ankh was the beginning, of course, as it must be. "

"Why? If the other runes could be changed, why not this one?"

Harry paused at the question, wondering how Flamel already knew such things, wondering how much to say. Harry finally spoke, the truth stark and incriminating.

"I never considered. Regardless, it was first…"

What free time he had, an hour or two a day, was spent in Australia. He would sometimes attempt to visit with the boys, to see how the house was coming along. Fresh paint and a cleaning had done a load of wonders already. Tiny smiled, occasionally, but never at him. Harry often left after only a few minutes to spend the rest of the time in the air with Fawkes.

He was getting better, faster. He found himself able to fly farther, and when transformed back into his human shape his arms were stronger, tougher. Kerr told him his eyes glowed golden immediately after a transformation, the one time he allowed the others to see his new form, hoping to cheer up Tiny. It hadn't worked.

With a sad warbling song, Harry called to Fawkes, who answered his melody with an echo of his own, and together they serenaded the setting Sun, their voices joined, one running into the other and back again, and Harry found that with the song their communication was at another level, that together they could think thoughts to one another, their magic entwined. It was peace.

"No, Harry!"

Flamel burst out, impatient. Harry sighed, slumping. He was trying to demonstrate his version of wandless magic while the alchemist watched, eyes stern. However, he was pulling directly from his portion of magic closest to his hand when he made a gesture; Flamel, instead, wanted him to pull with his whole body. He likened it to tightening the whole body at once; easy, in theory, but much harder in practice. He steeled himself as the red-haired man spoke.

"Again!"

After a week with no letters from his friends he needed to get away. Harry asked for a day off, and received it with only a questioning glance. Flamel treated Harry like an adult, and he appreciated it. He had convinced Harry to subscribe to the wizarding newspaper, The Daily Prophet, though the subject material was mostly about the escaped convict. Harry ignored it as he had ignored those articles about himself, throwing it down on the table. With a last glance at a scowling Sirius Black, he turned away and jumped into flame.

He reappeared in Australia, and spent a minute looking the house over. What was once derelict wood and overgrown lawn was a nicely painted two-story house, with a large dog run through the middle. The painting was finished, the electrician had been by, and Kerr's truck was parked in the front yard. Harry's money he had given to the boys had been well spent. He entered the house, noting the door no longer squeaked and the porch was swept.

The boys looked up when he entered. Harry attempted a smile, and received two in return. Tiny turned, looking out the window. Harry was abruptly tempted to walk over to the boy and shake him, yelling, just look at me! But he didn't. Instead, he joined them at the table, accepting silverware from Mike. He was determined to enjoy a day with them, no matter how awkward. Kerr smiled overly brightly, one that did not reach his eyes, and began an idle conversation about the different jobs available nearby.

"Farming, farming, and more farming. You can farm in a tractor, farm with a hoe, farm with a…"

Kerr began to laugh at Mikes comment, nodding. Harry grinned.

"Is it that bad?"

Mike turned to him, eyebrows raised.

"Didn't you know what kind of town you were bringing us to? Look around! Everybody seems to farm! Or, they sell things to farmers. In any case, it is about as far as you can get from London."

Harry abruptly looked down, and the room fell into silence. Kerr cleared his throat, breaking the chill.

"I think I might have found something. I'm decent with woodwork, after helping in the shop all this time. The local carpenter heard of my work from the electrician. He says he might need an assistant."

"Yeah, probably building barns." Mike sarcastically quipped, and Harry laughed. If he ignored Tiny sitting in silence, he could almost imagine everything was alright again.

As he left, Kerr pulled him aside.

"Don't take his attitude too seriously, Harry. In a way, he is a typical teenager, and moping around is beyond normal. When you consider recent events, it's even more so. Give him time."

Harry nodded, eyes dark. Quietly, he spoke.

"I'm a teenager now too."

Kerr smiled, a hand reaching out to fondly grasp his shoulder.

"But there is nothing typical about you, Harry."

Harry stood, concentrating, beads of sweat running down his forehead. They were engaging in a contest of will and magic. Harry attempted to move a flat piece of wood to the ground, while Flamel was trying to lift it to the ceiling. He pushed, harder, physically leaning forward. His magic coursed from every part of him, an ache setting up in his body. He could see the magic within Flamel, a light brighter than a thousand suns, streaming forth from every part of his body. It was like struggling against the wind itself, futile. With a gasp, he fell back.

The board did not move, Flamel's will absolute and strong. For a moment he stood there, eyes focused, before the board fell and the older man walked over.

"What did you do wrong, Harry?"

Harry thought frantically, trying to figure out the trick to this, as well. Nicholas Flamel had a way of giving problems with no obvious solution, impossibilities and irregularities. He looked up at the calm man.

"I played by the rules."

Flamel smiled, teeth white and perfect. Harry continued.

"Instead of doing what you said and fighting someone who obviously possessed more power than I, I should have instead tried distracting you, perhaps yanking in a different direction, perhaps trying to sever your connection to the board."

Harry stood, determination settling inside him. Flamel stepped back as Harry lifted the board, meeting the mans eyes.

"Let's try again."

The next day Harry received one angry letter from all his friends, written jointly, full of accusation and pleading. He tamped down on his relief, and abruptly realized he had not spoken to them since they had been petrified, had not explained what really happened, had not even told them about receiving private tutoring. They deserved to be angry. Harry mentally took a step back, closing his eyes, viewing the situation from another perspective.

He had, truly, been acting just like Tiny. He had ignored those who in his mind represented what he was fleeing from, and in way had been moping. Resolutely he opened his eyes, reaching for a long sheet of parchment. With a grimace he began to write, giving Hermione permission to tell the others of his tattoo, then explaining from the slaying of the basilisk and Tom Riddle, unedited with simple facts, to his decision to receive private tutoring from Nicholas Flamel. Who would deny such an opportunity? He told how he had visited Egypt, as a tourist of course, touring his estates on the advice of his Gringotts Estate Manager. He wove in the half-truths, making sense of his erratic behavior. Hermione would see right through it, of course, but perhaps the others would be satisfied. She had wanted to help with his runes this time, and would probably guess what he had been up to that summer. He simply wasn't ready to tell them all the entire truth, speaking of his wings was bad enough. He did not envy Hermione that explanation, but the others deserved to know now that not only the Headmaster was aware, but the Weasleys. He wouldn't put it past Ron to rub the knowledge in his friends faces.

Harry finished the letter with a simple statement.

I do not know if I will return to Hogwarts for my fourth year, but I do miss you all.

"What?! And he is not a squib?"

Hermione sat back with a weary sigh, Harry's letter clasped in her hand. She wanted to be angry at him for putting the job of explaining this to her. But she couldn't be, because he was alright, and he had written. A part of herself had finally relaxed for the first time in months, and it almost left her giddy with happiness. She looked at the shocked and disbelieving faces across from her, and grit her teeth.

"Obviously he is not a squib! He has had it since he was nine."

Draco crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed. Blaise was leaning back almost indolently in his chair, eyes half-closed in thought. Neville was simply gaping. The shy boy spoke, his eyes wide.

"So he is not afraid of heights?"

Draco gaped, his face flushed as he turned to the Gryffindor.

"You just hear this reidiculous story about Harry having a Muggle tattoo that somehow gives him huge wings made of razor sharp steel, and all you can say, is 'Wow, he's not afraid of heights after all!' How splendid!"

Neville flushed, his eyes narrowing with anger as he muttered under his breath.

"I didn't say it like that."

Draco turned back to her again, his mouth pressed in a tight line.

"And he never thought we might like to know about this? Why did he tell you? We are his housemates! We lived with him, Merlin! "

Hermione forced her temper down. She loathed the spoiled brat, and a part of her really wanted to jump up and slap him across the cheek a few times to knock some manners into him. He never did reply to her letter.

"He didn't tell me on purpose, Draco. It was that troll, you know, back in first year."

Blaise sat up, his face clearing.

"Its hand. He claimed it was accidental magic."

Neville paled, and Hermione did not blame him. The whole school had heard about the mutilated fist that had been torn to shreds. It wasn't easy knowing a friend was capable of such a thing. Hermione continued, her voice soft.

"He was trying to protect me, and didn't have much time to work with. Those wings of his are pretty impenetrable. I never really got to see them much up close, though. Just that one time. I wanted to, well, study them I guess, but Harry was never comfortable talking about them."

Draco snorted, folding his arms again and leaning back.

"Not comfortable is putting it mildly. The boy is a brick wall when it comes to his past."

Hermione wanted to squirm in her chair. If they were this mad over the wings, she didn't want to see their reaction when Harry finally told them about his runes. This wouldn't even hold a candle to it. Well, it wouldn't be her next time! Harry could do his own dirty work!

Blaise looked up, eyes soft.

"Well? What else was in the letter, now that we've gotten this out of the way."

"Not nearly out of the way enough. I have a lot of questions for our Savior."

Draco muttered sarcastically, his eyes cold. Hermione shivered despite herself, then looked down at the crinkled letter in her hand with reluctance. Harry's brutally honest account of what happened in the Chamber was very different from the one she had read in the paper. And it put much more blame on Harry for Ginny death, while placing him, in some ways, as a murderer. Is that what Harry thought? She had felt nausea rise in her throat at the brutal description of Tom Riddle's death, and the way Harry had taken the boy out. Diffindo, for heaven's sake. She would never use that charm in the careless way she had again.

"I'm just going to read it, okay? I'm.. it's.."

She drifted off, reluctance rising in her. She wanted to protect Harry, didn't want anyone to think ill of him. He was her friend. Dark hands entered her vision, plucking the letter from her hands. She looked up, surprised to feel tears glimmering in her eyes. Blaise smiled gently at her, and began to read in his smooth cultured voice. She sat back, closing her eyes, and let the scene replay once more in her mind.

She wished so hard that Harry would allow her in, let her support him, help him. No one should have to deal with this alone. When Blaise finished reading, Hermione let the silence wash over her. To her surprise, it was Neville who spoke first, his voice rambling.

"Wow, Nicholas Flamel. That's, umm, cool. I mean, that he forgives Harry for the Stone and all that. Well, I guess he forgives him. He has to, right? To tutor him? I've never heard of him tutoring anyone. I bet Harry's stoked about it. I would be. No wonder he hasn't come back…."

Draco's voice cut the boy off as if he hadn't even heard the Gryffindor speak. His eyes were blank.

"I still don't forgive him for not writing to us sooner. And not coming back to Hogwarts."

Hermione saw Blaise reach out, lay a gentle hand on Draco's shoulder for a second before the arm fell. She turned away, not wanting them to know she had seen the gesture. She cleared her throat, sitting up straighter in her chair.

"He says Ron knows about the wings, and I doubt the boy believes the newspaper version of events. I've already gotten some pretty evil glances, honestly. I don't doubt he has something planned..."

Draco's head, which had been bowed, whipped up. The sudden fury in his gaze made Hermione flinch.

"Just let him try something."

Hermione stared, eyes wide. Neville laughed nervously, pulling his hands through his short hair in a gesture that reminded her of Harry. His voice, when he spoke, was incredulous.

"I don't think I'm even going to use Diffindo the same way again. Merlin, this is surreal. A cutting charm! Even I learned that in first year!"

Draco made an aborted movement, and she could see him struggle not to say something sarcastic. She found humor rising within herself as well, and chuckled with her fellow Gryffindor despite the dark feeling buried in her chest. It felt good to let it out, the stress bubbling up out of her throat. She found herself relaxing in her chair, shaking her head helplessly.

Across from her, Blaise shared a glance with Draco, a smile tugging at his mouth. Draco's eyes rolled, but the anger drained from his posture, and a smirk moved his mouth as he spoken a single word.

"Gryffindors."

"This time, do not rush your syllables, and correct that wand movement. A quarter turn, not a half."

The rebuke was in the tone, if not the words. Harry gripped his wand tighter, inwardly scowling. He hated wand magic, hated the rules and restrictions. They were useless! Unnecessary! Yet… they were necessary, if he wished to hide his prowess with magic. With a scowl, he cast the spell again, waiting.

"Much better." Flamels eyes observed him with a slight twinkle that reminded him of the Headmaster. He snorted, and the older man grinned, reaching out to flip a page on the book in front of him. Flamels smooth voice began to speak as his green eyes moved over the page.

"Your problem isn't your ability to perform the spells, but that you do not cast them correctly. You simply point that stick and make things happen, which while effective, is sloppy. It requires much more willpower to do things your way than to cast them as they are meant to be done. If you are in a battle against an average wizard you should not have to tax yourself with wandless magic, but should be able to easily defeat them with simple spells, correctly cast. Save up your energy for more worthy foes. Now."

He paused, tapping his book, before looking up to meet Harry's eyes.

"Lets start the defensive round again. Seven spells to make a chain. Remember, one twist can go into quarter turns of the wand, but you have to chant the syllables."

Harry inwardly groaned, before straightening and lifting his wand once again.

Harry Potter Receives Private Tutoring!

A week after the letter he had written to his friends Harry opened the paper to see, not the usual Black sighting, but his own face staring grimly up at him. He skimmed the article, and quickly put the pieces together. Somehow his friends had unknowingly given away the reason for his absence, and whomever heard, an 'unnamed source', had contacted the papers. Harry snapped the article closed, searching his feelings. Did he care? Should he? It wasn't as if it was a crime. He hadn't ever really intended to keep it a secret, how could he? Students surely had talked, written to their parents, told that the Savior was not present.

That afternoon Harry received another letter, from Hermione.

Harry,

I saw the paper, and I am so sorry! It was totally unintentional, some students were questioning us and it slipped out. Please do not be angry!

It has not been easy here. The Ministry has assigned Dementors to guard the school, and also to guard yourself, though now that you have not come here I wonder if that will change. I hope so. These gloomy things are horrible, on the train ride in some students even fainted. They make you feel depressed, and the very air has a chill to it.

-Hermione

The letter was quickly written, the letters slanted sideways and closely spaced. She must have written it between breakfast and class. Harry frowned at the mention of Dementors, bringing up a mental image of a dark being in a long black cloak. Soul-Eaters, the book had said, relatives of the Lethifold who smothers wizards in their sleep. Dementors drain an individual of their very essence, leaving behind a lump of breathing flesh to waste away, empty. They guard the criminals of Azkaban, and also are used as "humane" executioners. There was only one charm that could kill them, the Killing Curse, as it would sever the Dementor's eaten souls from its substance, in effect tearing its magic in twain and leaving the pieces to scatter, lifeless. As it could take more than one to do such, depending on the age and power of the Dementor, many Aurors preferred instead the Patronus Charm, a repelling charm focused on dark creatures, and in fact its casting was a requirement for joining the aurors.

Harry cut off his runaway thoughts. Perhaps he should mention that charm to Hermione, to tell his friends. Maybe he could visit them, help them with it.

He looked down at his open palms, the runes clearly visible there. Flamel had been working him hard, mostly in transfiguration, charms, and defense. Herbology was taught out of recommended books full of facts, and he was more grateful than ever for his increased memory. But he was also to read books on philosophy, history, and politics. Anything the great Alchemist had found useful. His mind was full of endless pages, and it was not even a month into tutoring.

He did not have time to visit Hogwarts now. Perhaps winter break they could visit him here one day. Flamel had given no sign that he himself would have a winter break, but he was sure he could ask for a day. Yes.

Harry quickly composed a letter, waving off the apology and mentioning the charm. Then, he offered for them to come visit during winter break. After signing his name, he handed the letter to Hedwig, who had appeared as soon as the Hogwarts owl had dropped off the letter, yellow eyes hopeful. With a smile, he watched her wing away.

The Hounds are always efficient.

Only a week after the 'incident', the Steel base was completely dismantled. Every magical artefact was meticulously recorded, details uploaded into the vast online information network. Notes were scanned and copied, books following. There was a wealth of material the Hounds had never seen or been informed of, much of it reeking of darkness. Books bound in human skin, written in blood that still glimmered in the light. Books on how to manipulate non-magical people, books on torture and the art of pain. It was as if Gerald Steel had sought to keep the worst, the dregs of wizard kind, from the view of the society. With their discovery, the Hounds gained momentum in their quest.

After removing every iota of evidence, the building was boarded up and closed off, owned by the state and to be auctioned off. Its owner was dead, after all, with no living heirs. The last legacy of Gerald Steel, an empty warehouse and shop.

They planned to find the criminal all of Britain was seeking before the wizards could do so. Who would miss him, after all, a convicted murderer? Who could blame them for what they planned to do? They needed more information, needed to know what normal weaponry could do against the magical kind. Could a wizard still be hurt as a human could, could it be killed the same ways? Would it's magic protect it, would it heal faster? These were questions they needed answers to, if they ever hoped to be able to truly fight against beings so powerful.

Their eyes into the wizarding world had turned on them, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. But they, knowing the fickleness of politics, knew it was only a matter of time before the wizards turned against their hero, and where then would the boy turn? The seeds were already there, of treachery, distrust, fear. Their only mistake was threatening the boys family, one they would not make again.

If he could not be controlled, he could be led.

"How is the boy's tutoring proceeding?"

The question was stated in an offhand way, but the black eyes gleamed with interest. Albus smiled slightly as he absently sipped his tea, before placing the cup in its saucer with a gentle click. Severus tried to pretend he did not care, but Albus knew better, and had seen the man's fervor when Harry had been missing. And Harry was one of his Slytherins.

"Very well. Nicholas tells me Mr. Potter is exceeding all of his expectations. I quite think he is working the boy to the bone."

Severus's mouth twisted in silent amusement, but his eyes flickered in emotion.

"Good."

Albus smiled, and allowed the subject to drop.

Hermione walked the halls, face grave. The aftermath of reading the letter had been about as well as she should have expected. They were all out of sorts, off balance. Knowing what Harry had done, and reading it in his own words, had had an impact. Knowing about his tattoo had only complicated the matter further. Harry was different, wasn't normal. He had defied the laws of magic that they had all considered fact. But he was their friend. Hermione grumbled under her breath, thinking of the boys reaction to Harry's invitation to visit over Winter Break. She had been ecstatic and expected the same from the others, but the stubborn blonde prat had surprised her with his venomous response. She wanted to bash his pretty face in and show him some sense. It didn't help her mood either once she hit a dead end with research into the Patronus Charm. She hated those dementors with every fiber of her being, and hated the way they could influence her. Shaking her head, she turned another corner, determined to put the charm out of her mind. She had enough on her mind as it was, especially with all her extra classes this year.

The term had not started as planned. At first the students had kept their distance, speaking of dark threats and evil glances. Within a week, however, when it was clear that Harry would not be returning, they grew brave. They were cowards, all of them, weak, spineless. They allowed themselves to be poisoned by the few who spoke loudest, mean-intentioned fools like Ronald Weasley. Her own house, the Lions of Gryffindor, were supposed to be the best, the most courageous, but had turned into a pack of dogs. Not all, of course. Most ignored her, in truth, but to her doing nothing was just as bad.

The pranks were silly things, of course, designed to hurt the spirit, not the body. A trip jinx here, a ripping hex there. Laughter when she turned, silence when she entered a room. Neville was her only solace, and more and more often she only went to the dorm to sleep. Her time turner was her greatest weapon, given to her by a smiling Professor McGonagall, allowing her to spend more time studying with their group of four.

Harry had saved the school, but not the girl, and Ron hated him for it. In his blind hate, he made the others hate him too, and by extension, those who supported him. She just knew that somehow he was behind the papers learning about Harry's tutor. He was following her and always snooping about. Harry wasn't here, and she figured was an easy target. Hermione now lived on edge, wary, waiting. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff seemed content to stay out of the fray, but Slytherin used it as an excuse to do their favorite thing: bait Gryffindors. What better excuse than protecting one of their own's friends?

She turned another corner and stopped, dread pooling in her stomach. She had hoped hopping back in time five minutes would allow her to reach her next class before the Gryffindors were released from Potions class, but Ron was no idiot.

They waited for her, Ron and Dean and Seamus, smirks on their faces, and Hermione wanted to scream in frustration, wanted to tell them just how idiotic they were being. She backed up and they followed. Her heart was in her throat, her hand reaching down to wrap around her wand, the wood solid under her fingertips. Perhaps it was time to show her prowess, to hurt them before they could hurt her. She felt the magic inside herself, a warm heat, and paused.

"Now, what is this?"

Her eyes closed, the anger fading into resignation. She turned her head slightly as Draco walked up beside her, grey eyes glittering. The Slytherin had fared well, now the leader of his class with Harry gone. He had taken to openly walking with Blaise and Neville in the hallways, and shadowing her when she was alone. Like now. How did he know where she was? Did he know of the time turner? He was just looking for an excuse to attack Ron, and it looked like he was about to get his chance. She tightened her fist, and grit her teeth.

Ron's face slowly reddened, but his eyes still told him that it was three of him and two of them, and therefore the bullying was still viable. Hermione could see the thoughts turning in that red head of his, and wiped the emotions off her face. She was growing a Slytherin mask of her own, in part to guard her pride. She would not let them know how much they got to her, just as she would not tell Harry just how bad it was for her without him there. He needed his space, not to be here guarding her. She could handle herself. To prove it, Hermione gathered herself and cast the first hex, not waiting for the boys to posture at each other. This needed to be won, now, before it escalated, before reinforcements could arrive.

Her spell hit Ron directly in the chest, sending him dancing across the floor as the Gryffindors shouted. Draco casually spoke, his wand twitching in his hand, and Dean began to laugh, loudly, face red. Hermione cast again as Seamus cast a counter curse on Ron, catching the brown haired boy in the side with another tarantallegra. Ron did not save his classmate, but turned to her with narrowed eyes, his face a mask of malice.

"Confringo!"

She recognized it of course, and the back of her mind that was not surprised catalogued that the spell was only a light violet, extremely weak, and she probably wouldn't explode she would just be flung away, painfully no doubt, perhaps only a broken bone or two…

"Protego!"

The bubble sprang up before her, the curse echoed back to hit the stone wall with a fiery crash, bits of stone flung lose. Draco stood beside her, wand outstretched, face set in neutral lines now, though his eyes were tight with fury. Hermione felt herself breathe again, speaking in a now loosened tongue.

"How did he learn that? That's a dark curse! I mean, we are only third years! He's a Gryffindor!"

Draco cut her off, the protective wall still before them, eyes locked on the Gryffindors who were setting themselves to rights.

"Since when does being a Gryffindor make you a good person? I've known that spell since first year, got it from a book. No doubt, little Gryffindork did the same. Was probably saving it for Harry, I imagine. Pitifully weak though. Are you alright?"

Hermione nodded, realized it could not be seen from where she stood behind him, and cleared her throat to speak. "I'm fine."

"What is going on here!?"

A stern voice, and the protego dissolved as they turned to see a frowning Professor Lupin. He was their new Defense instructor, and they all loved him and his style of teaching. She was sure Harry would have liked him too, and was tempted to tell him so. But with his previous track record, she doubted he would be thrilled to hear about another defense teacher.

Draco spoke calmly.

"I apologize, Professor Lupin, we were merely demonstrating advanced shielding charms to the dear Gryffindors."

Hermione glanced behind her. Ron and his friends had vanished. Typical. Professor Lupin spoke harshly.

"I do not see any Gryffindors."

He hesitated, eyes on Hermione, before clarifying.

"I mean, no others…"

Draco smirked, his robes immaculate as he stood tall.

"No worries, sir, Hermione is practically a honorary Slytherin herself, after all."

Hermione flushed, tongue tied. What? Her, a muggleborn? She glanced at Professor Lupin's slightly red face. Did even the teachers forget which house she belonged too? Professor Lupin gathered himself, then with a quick admonition, turned and left. Hermione whirled to face the smug Draco, pointing a finger at him.

"What was that about!"

Draco raised his eyebrows. "Me defending you, or me saving our skins from losing points?"

Hermione growled out. "You called me a Slytherin!"

The blonde grinned again, idly shoving his wand in a wrist holster. "Well, you did attack them before they could attack you. Sounds Slytherin to me."

She was at a loss. She felt her shoulders droop, going over the fight. That was exactly what she had done. But that was just quick thinking, right? Draco sensed her conundrum, and his face softened slightly. He stepped closer, voice lowering.

"Don't worry about it Hermione, it was also a pretty brave thing to do." Draco turned and began to walk to his next class, calling back over his shoulder. "So you are at least half Gryffindor!"

He chuckled, and Hermione gritted her teeth. That boy was so full of himself! With a huff, she trotted to class, almost late. Another confrontation down, a million more to go. She made a mental note to find more books on protection charms and offensive curses. If her enemies were going to play dirty, she saw no reason she could not as well.

Harry stood, his body braced with his legs spaced apart, his wand held in front of his face in his right hand. Flamel smiled, his robes draped over his form with a regal bearing. The shield in front of his face glowed golden in the low light, and his voice when it spoke was slightly hazy, as if spoken through a thin wall.

"Now, Harry. Do not hold back. Offensive chain please."

Harry took a deep breath, his body rigid and still. His magic gathered under his skin, humming along his veins with giddy happiness, stretching its joints like a cat waking from a nap. Sometimes it seemed almost sentient all on its own, a large presence within himself that desired to be free, to run loose, to create and destroy and change in an explosion of manipulation. He rocked onto the balls of his feet as it left his skin, rising like wings behind him, pure magical will and power, and he began to speak the chain of seven, one syllable morphing into another, chanting to the pulse of his magic, and inside his voice he could hear a hint of phoenix song, his wand moving in elegant swift movements, an offensive chain meant to totally incapacitate an enemy force.

"Impedimenta-Silencio-Obscuro-Muffliato-Stupefy-Incarcerous-Expelliarmus!"

Each spell building upon another, and behind each word his mind echoed it with a thought, a note of song.

-stop-silence-blind-deafen-stun-bind-disarm-

The chain would cause total sensory blackout, take from the foe everything they relied on to fight, and then stun and bind them, before as a final insult taking the very wand with which they relied upon. Harry relished the smooth feel of the spell, loved the way his magic responded. He could even forgive the fact that each wave of light merely washed over his opponent's shield, barely causing a flinch from Nicholas Flamel. When his wand fell, his heart racing, the shield across from him did as well. Flamel smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

"Well done. Flawless."

Harry grinned, shaking a lock of hair from his face, his expression fierce.

"That was…a rush."

Flamel began to walk over, eyes alight.

"Indeed. Spell chains are difficult to implement, and require more time to cast, but are without a doubt extremely effective. Overwhelming force, it is called. Was it worth learning, then?"

The smile was in his voice. Harry fought not to roll his eyes, and relaxed his posture. It bothered him to admit it, but his mentor was correct. Despite Harry's reluctance, wand magic was not totally useless after all. He answered, grinning unashamedly.

"Without a doubt."

Draco, Neville, Blaise, and Hermione had taken to meeting every day in a classroom on the third floor, right down from the room Fluffy had been in. Students still avoided the corridor, so it suited their purposes. A bond held them all together now that they were the ones who had been petrified, that they were Harry's friends. Despite how turbulent the previous term had been, the attitude of the school had given them only more reason to remain together. Harry would return, eventually, and they would be waiting.

At first it was helping each other catch up with missed material. After the latest skirmish in the halls, they had turned their focus from studying to dueling. Draco had books that were not in the library, useful ones on curses and counter-curses. They took to pairing up against each other, focusing on correctly casting spells under fire. They knew that it would rarely come to an outright fight, with patrolling prefects and lack of opportunities, but they knew they all needed to be prepared. It did not help that a mass-murderer was supposed to be wandering the area. It mystified Hermione that the Ministry still seemed to think Sirius Black would be attacking Hogwarts. Now that the papers had released Harry's absence, surely the criminal would go seeking him elsewhere. Perhaps they thought he didn't know. Regardless, they practised and studied, determined. Next time Harry needed them, they would be ready.

The letter they had received had only highlighted that. What would they have been able to do if they went with Harry into the Chamber of Secrets? Would they have only been a liability on the side, someone else for the boy to protect? Draco had not spoken of his own father's role in things, though they could all tell the blonde was tense. The one thing they could all agree on was that they needed to get stronger.

Neville was the best at defensive charms. He could hold a shield against all three of the others, and could make it larger and stronger. Draco excelled at curses, though he was also decent at protection charms. Blaise was the best at figuring out what curse or jinx was best against an enemy, a born tactician. He was quick as well, responding fast to any situation. Hermione's asset was her extensive knowledge of spells and charms, being able to identify and counter most common charms based on incantation or color and shape.

They were becoming a team, though they missed one thing.

Their leader.

Harry felt sweat begin to drip off his brow as he carefully, so very slowly, lifted the pieces of wood together, some small sticks and other large wooden rods, bringing them together, stacking, leaning, creating a wooden structure so very fragile. His magic was an amorphous thing as his mind forced it to perform multiple tasks, strained as he did something as simple as building a child's castle. He had scoffed at the assignment, had thought it would be easy. That was three hours ago. His magic had to be soft, tender, with the pieces, couldn't knock them together, couldn't make a wrong move.

Beside him Flamel stretched out on his sofa, long legs crossed at the ankle as he watched. Harry put his audience out of his mind, placing the last block, before standing back with a proud grin. The thing was only four by two feet, but he felt as if he had moved a mountain to make a valley. Flamel sat up with a smile, looking the thing over.

"Excellent! I was worried you were going to fail at one point."

Harry frowned, his eyes narrowing.

"You gave me over a hundred pieces of wood! That's a lot to move!"

Flamel raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying this was too difficult?"

Harry's mouth snapped shut, and he looked away with a grunt. Flamel's smile widened, before he jumped up with a clap of his hands.

"Well! Now that you are through whining, lets move onto the next tedious child's play."

Harry rolled his eyes behind the mans back, before feeling a reluctant smile touch his cheeks. The Alchemist had an odd way of teaching, and an even stranger idea of child's play, but his methods were nothing if not effective. Harry had learned more in the last month than in an entire year at Hogwarts.

Draco sat in a quiet corner in the library, an alcove cut into stone surrounded by shelves of books. It was infrequently used, being out of the way and most of the books nearby on obscure history and foreign lands. It was a place he could come to think by himself, alone with his thoughts.

He was angry with his father, and that conflicted him. Though Harry had not said so explicitly in his letter, Hermione's proof had been enough for him to know that his father had placed the book in the young Weasley's hand. His father had been an accomplice to murder, and in a way the force behind his own petrification. He had sought to resurrect the Dark Lord, and Draco could only assume his father had known of the diary's attributes. Lucius knew Draco was friends with Harry, and despite having once extolled the political advantages now disapproved, at least in part because of Hermione. Neville could be tolerated because of his pure blood, but not the muggleborn.

In a way, remaining friends with her was a way to snub his nose at his father, to show that he was his own man, could make his own decisions. He was sure his father knew of it by now. Slytherin might be a more respectful place, but there was constant jostling for political position. It was a game, of sorts, one that echoed the real world. While they were not brave enough to challenge him directly, they would seek to undermine him through his father.

He had always looked up to his father, and one side of him could see that his father had done what any follower would have, sought to bring about the return of his Lord. He could also tell, based on events, that his father had never expected for Draco to be harmed. Still, he had brought about the death of a student, and he could not explain that away. Lucius had known what happened the last time, obviously, and in releasing it upon the school had threatened half the student population. Including Hermione. He turned his thoughts away from the bushy haired girl, where they more and more often seemed to go to. He respected her, admired her tenacity and stubbornness. She was worth ten of many other pure blooded girls he knew. It did not make sense!

Draco looked down at the book in front of him, eyes staring unseeing at the open page. He knew something had happened though, something between Harry and his father. Lucius would not speak of it, but he could see the tightness around his eyes, and could see that his fathers personal elf was no longer present. What had happened? Harry had obviously confronted the man, and had somehow come out on top. It dug at him, a thorn in his mind. Personal elves were valuable to any pureblood Lord, a constant attendant who was often trained in personal defense and used for secret letters and apparition-less transportation. For the elf to be gone was telling, and a large liability if it still lived. It would've been privy to many secrets, and if released allowed to speak of them. What was Harry up to?

He closed the book with a slam, standing. He did not approve of Harry leaving the school, no matter if one of the most famous wizards of all time was tutoring him. Harry had abandoned them, in his opinion, and he did not care if it was justified. Once he saw the Potter Heir, he would show him the sharp side of his tongue. It was about time to write a letter and inform Harry that one of his best friends was being harassed, and Draco was owed a large favor for keeping an eye out for her.

"Finally. We've been waiting for ages."

Draco scowled at Blaise as he entered the room, the boy lounging on a plump chair. Its edges resembled a desk more than a chair, which hinted at transfiguration. Beside Blaise Neville shifted, brown eyes steady. Draco sat across from them, immediately folding his arms in a defensive posture.

"It was more difficult than you think. Something is up with that girl, I swear. She is taking multiple classes at the same time. It would take an imbecile not to conclude she has got a time-turner. Teachers pet."

He bit out the last with a scowl. Neville gawked, then slapped a hand on his knee.

"I knew it! Just knew it." Blaise rolled his eyes at the outburst, before sitting up straight, his voice serious.

"Ron is targeting her on purpose, more than any of us. This is making it much harder to stay near her without her noticing."

Neville shook his head slowly, glancing between them

"She has noticed already, and doesn't appreciate the attention. She thinks she can handle herself."

Blaise raised an eyebrow, smirking.

"I don't doubt she can wrap Ron up in a bow and turn him pink. It's his posse he is gathering that I do not like. He doesn't fight fair."

Neville grimaced, nodding. Draco scoffed.

"We are not here to discuss her. Neville, where has your research progressed?"

Neville sat up, pulling a notebook from his bag and rapidly flipping pages. He cleared his throat, eyes going over notes written painstakingly.

"Obviously Fudge is useless. If his ignorant pride doesn't kill us all, his greed will. Of the fifty seats on the Wizengamot, twenty-eight are appointees. Sixteen of those were appointed by Fudge, the other twelve left over from the Minister before him. Of those twenty-eight, my grandmother says she suspects ten are being bribed. She likes my new-found interest in politics."

Neville said the last in an offhand way, flipping his page over before he continued to speak.

"She's told me six are known muggle-rights activists. They are always the odd wizards out, but were appointed by Fudge to improve his reputation with Muggleborns. Not enough to influence a vote, but it did raise his ratings with the people."

"More like sheeple." Blaise murmured under his breath. Neville spared him a brief smile, before continuing.

"So, anyway…. the other six he appointed are pureblooded cousins of bloodlines that are known supporters of the Dark Lord. When you combine them with the ten other appointees who support increased regulation of Muggles, you can get a big picture of the overall scene. Of the twenty-eight appointees, sixteen can be called "anti-muggle", and twelve "pro-muggle." Once you add in the twenty-two pureblood seats, of which twelve are "light" families and ten "dark", you can see the tally falls almost dead center, leaning towards dark with 26/24. This is how a lot of pro-muggle legislation is getting passed, by a thin margin. However, two pureblood light seats are about to be vacated, and three of the previous ministers appointees who support Muggles are hinting about retirement. Advanced age. This would give us a gap of seven seats on their side."

Draco snorted, his arms falling to his side to grip his armrest in agitation. Neville cleared his throat, sitting up straighter.

"Harry never replied to me about emancipation."

Blaise shook his head, reaching over to snag the notebook from Neville's hand, his eyes glancing over the names. "We would need a minimum of thirty-four votes to impeach the Minister, and through him his appointees. As of now, we have maybe twenty-four. There is no guarantee all those who advocate for muggleborns would be willing to take such a drastic measure. Sirius Black complicates things as well. There will be those who advocate that the government needs to put on a strong face in order to prevent a panic."

"I disagree." Draco leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "I think this Black fiasco is hurting Fudge and his reputation. He has bungled this whole thing. The dementors flying about our school this very moment shows his desperation. I think we could turn this to our advantage."

Neville leaned back, thinking back to his grandmothers words.

"Many of the dark bloodlines are unhappy with Fudge." His gaze landed on Draco, hovered. "With the exception of Lord Malfoy."

Draco scowled, but said nothing. Neville continued, looking away.

"My grandmother says that many of the recent legislation is hurting profits that the pureblooded families rely on. Business are feeling the pinch. The anti-muggleborn legislation in particular is crunching sales and hurting the labor pool. I think we have a two issues here, societal and fiscal. It's not as simple as dark and light."

Blaise's eyebrows were raised, before a grin came onto his face.

"What do you suggest, Lord Longbottom."

Neville flushed, but smiled. "I think we need to look beyond muggle and anti-muggle. Those are issues, for sure, but there is a lot of neutral ground. Those in the middle are almost antithetic to the problem, couldn't care less. However, they feel strongly that many of our current laws are outdated and prevent change that could be profitable. I think we should approach from that angle. We could swing this thing in our direction if we capture those seats."

For a minute there was silence, then Draco grinned viciously.

"Sounds easier than imperoing the lot of them. Even legal. Count me in."

Blaise tilted his head, his fingers beginning an idle tapping on the soft lining of his chair.

"You are talking anarchy, if you follow the deregulation argument."

Draco rolled his eyes in a decidedly flamboyant move, but Neville nodded slowly.

"I know it seems that way, but that's not what I'm leading towards. Obviously the world needs laws. To say different is to risk the path You-Know-Who was on, dictatorship. Telling people what you think is best with no input from themselves. True anarchy does not work either, you have mayhem, chaos. You can't have trade, peace. No, I'm talking freedom here, but not total freedom."

Blaise shook his head, beginning to speak, but Draco cut him off, eyes grim.

"Blaise, no one is ever going to agree completely on everything. But we've got to work with something, and this is doable."

Blaise frowned, eyes narrowed as he spoke.

"I wasn't going to be nasty. And I'm not saying we can't roll with this angle. But some of those dark creatures need to be regulated. They are dangerous. Sure, muggleborns are decent folk, but you could be taking jobs from those raised in the wizarding world. Its like an unfair advantage. Next, you will be advocating to tell Muggles about us!"

There was another silence, one that grew more and more awkward. As one, the three boys turned to see Hermione standing at the door, her face pale. She spoke in a quick, clipped tone.

"I see I was not invited to this little… meeting. Next time remember to put up silencing charms. I'm sure you would hate for someone to listen in."

She turned on her heel, marching out with a vicious stomping of feet. Draco scowled over at Blaise.

"Now you've done it!"

Blaise sighed, turning to look at Neville, who shrugged helplessly.

"She is right about those charms. We should've thought of that."

Draco stood abruptly, eyes narrowed.

"Well, while you two figure that out I'm going to go convince Her Highness that we aren't Death Eaters."

He stomped out just as viciously as the girl before him.

Neville abruptly began to chuckle, soon joined by Blaise.

"I swear, them two are too much alike. That must be why they fight so much."

Blaise nodded, before passing the notebook back to Neville.

"I'm sorry. You've done a great job."

Neville lifted his shoulder again in an embarrassed manner, before stretching out his legs with a sigh.

"I never realized just how hard this whole, you know, government thing is. Complicated."

Blaise looked at the door, face blank.

"Yeah. No progress without pain."

"Light."

Flamel stood, the block of wood in front of him. Harry stared at it, eyes focused, and reached out with magic to surround and infuse the object, transmuting it to light. Flamel spoke again.

"Liquid."

Harry let it morph to droplets of water suspended in the air, a subtle swirl running through them.

"Gas."

It changed, almost clear but with slight white vapour. He concentrated harder, and that too vanished, and it was odd to hold something that could not by its nature be held, his mind wondering about molecules and science, the difference between oxygen and hydrogen and carbon dioxide. Was this how one vanished an object, transfiguring it to air?

"Blood."

Tricky. Harry struggled with it, his magic pulsing, and the form rapidly changed, from wood to metal to water to silver to crystal and then it shattered, Harry quickly raising a shield. He lowered it, looking over at Flamel with a red face. The alchemist gave a small grin, and he relaxed. So what was he to guess here? Finally, Harry spoke, knowing his teacher wanted him to reach his own conclusions.

"Blood can not be transmuted because it is a magical substance."

Flamel hummed in his throat, before speaking.

"Not quite. In one aspect you are correct, in that magic can not be created from another non magical substance. In essence, this also is true of a wizards blood. There are some healing spells to multiply blood, and transfusion charms from other wizards, but when dealing with blood things get extremely complicated. However, if you had sought to create simple animal blood, or Muggle blood, you would have succeeded. This is how a wizard can transform a goblet into a mouse, after all. The mouse would still bleed, if you cut it."

Harry nodded slowly.

"Then, why ask me to create it?"

Flamel only looked away, lifting another block of wood. Harry sighed as the wizard spoke.

"Rock."

It was the loud voices that drew her attention. Hermione was tempted to keep walking, to avoid the conflict, but something within her still wanted to help others, even when time and again it was rebuffed. And so she turned down the hallway and followed the voices, brown eyes taking in the scene.

A young blonde Ravenclaw girl stood, arms limp at her side, as two older Ravenclaw girls tore through an open backpack, making rude comment to one another.

"Look at what Loony Luna's got this time."

The girl merely looked away, wide silvery grey eyes almost vacant as they met her own. It was if the girl did not care about the mean words, perhaps was not even present at the scene. As the girl looked away, Hermione's eyes fell on the girl's bare feet. Anger suddenly rose up in her, anger at the scene before her, anger at all the little petty cruelties children were capable of. She found her fists clenched, her steps falling heavy as she stomped over. The two girls looked up, cruel smiles on their faces.

Then their eyes met her own, and the amusement faded into fear. Hermione spoke before her anger could change to confusion at their expression.

"What are you two doing?"

The two girls traded glances, before the brown haired one suddenly dropped the bag with a twisted grimace, then turning and marching away without a word. Hermione halted in confusion. The blonde knelt, beginning to gather her things together. Hesitantly, Hermione walked over, stopping to bend down and help. She was uncertain what to say, before suddenly her mind placed where she had seen the girl before, and she spoke before her mind could catch up to her.

"You were Ginny's friend, weren't you."

Hermione could have slapped herself. Were. What a callous thing to say. The girl did not seem to take offense, standing up with her bag in her hand, slinging it casually over her shoulder. Those ethereal eyes met her own again, and a smile slowly appeared across her face.

"Yes. I was."

Hermione found herself blushing, looking away. She mumbled a quick apology. The girl waved her off, speaking again.

"Are there Wrackspurts in your head? You have the most odd look on your face."

Hermione blanched, confusion tinged in her mind. Wrackspurts? Was that some creature she had not heard about? She cleared her throat, ignoring it as she spoke.

"Why did you let those girls do that to your bag? And… where are your shoes?"

She looked down at the bare feet of the girl across from her. The Ravenclaw spoke.

"They don't really mean it, I think. They think I'm odd, you see, and oddness is alike to badness, in their eyes. I think the Nargles took my shoes, they were there one night and gone the next morning, they were green you see. Like mistletoe."

Hermione found herself gaping, and quickly shut her mouth. No wonder the others called her Loony. Still, that first part, it sounded like something Harry might say. Hermione thought back to the girl's reactions.

"Luna? Why did those girls just walk away when I came up?"

Luna shrugged absently, walking over to the nearest wall to observe it, as if looking for something. She spoke in a quiet tone.

"Its because of Harry, of course."

"Harry?"

Hermione blurted, another flush rising on her face. Luna turned, eyes looking her over with raised eyebrows. Hermione spoke again.

"What about him? I mean, the Gryffindors don't seem bothered by him. He's not here, anyway."

The blonde girl turned, beginning to walk. Hermione walked beside her, waiting for a response. Luna replied.

"Ron hates you because of Ginny. Hate conquers fear, in most cases, I've found. However, others remember Harry's threat. They fear you will tell on them. That picture in the newspaper was quite striking, I admit."

Hermione's eyebrows drew together, and she stopped in the hall. Luna walked a few paces, then looked back. Hermione quietly spoke.

"You don't seem mad at Harry."

A soft smile came over the Ravenclaw's pale face.

"Harry was always nice to me when he saw me. I think we were friends."

Hermione was shocked. Harry had never mentioned that he knew Luna, or had any other friends. That didn't mean he didn't have any, she supposed. A thought suddenly occurred to her as she saw the young girl standing there alone. She blurted it out before she could really think about it, knowing Draco would be cursing her later for her haste.

"Do you want to join our study group? We meet occasionally….."

A look came over the girls face, one of startled surprise. It was the first time Hermione had seen her break her serene disposition. Hermione already felt regret that she had been hasty, considering all the repercussions. Could this girl be trusted? What if she wasn't really Harry's friend? What would the others think? She looked up as Luna spoke.

"Perhaps."

Then the blonde girl turned and walked away. Hermione found herself almost angry. She hadn't really thought it through, but still, who would turn down the offer? and why? She forcibly unclenched her fists, making herself laugh softly. It did not matter, anyway. She would mention the Ravenclaw to the others, and watch their reaction. It was probably for the best that they stay a group of four anyway, and a second year would only get in the way.

"Hermione!"

She whirled around, her eyes narrowing in anger.

"I do not want to talk to you."

She turned, being to walk away, but a rough hand grabbed her and swung her around.

"Quit acting like a bitch."

Her face flushed at Draco's words, anger tightening her grip on her bag.

"How dare you…"

"Shut up and listen!"

Draco barked. Hermione's mouth snapped shut, and she glanced about in mortification. The blonde began to speak, his eyes narrowing.

"You walked in on a private meeting, and did not even ask what it was about. We were discussing ways to help with the current poisonous environment for muggleborns. Blaises and my personal views aside, neither of us want to see the Dark Lord in power again. He will use these anti-muggle supporters vicariously, and seek to make things even worse for people like you. So don't give us attitude because you are 'oh so offended'. I dont want to hear it!"

Hermione stared at his face, shocked at the furious words. Where had the cool, calm Slytherin gone? She glanced about again, and Draco shook her.

"Look at me."

Her eyes narrowed at him, anger beginning to swirl through her again.

"I am not your slave. You can't tell me what to do. Now get your hands off me."

Draco's eyes widened, and he looked down at his grip on her arms as if surprised. He released her and stepped back, reaching up to idly smooth back his hair. Hermione stood straighter, and swallowed before speaking.

"I'm sorry for not getting all the facts. But you three should not keep things from me."

Draco folded his arms across his chest, eyes narrowing again in annoyance.

"You are one to talk. When were you going to tell us about your little time-turner?"

Hermione paled, her hand inadvertently going to her neck. Draco smirked, eyes alight.

"I thought so."

Hermione scowled, dropping her hand.

"That's different! Professor McGonagall told me to tell no one. Its a special privilege."

Draco lifted his chin.

"Is that so? I suppose its good you are such a good little girl and do what you are told."

Hermione stepped forward, jabbing a finger into his chest.

"Don't talk to me that way."

Draco stepped back again, his smile widening in victory.

"As you wish, Hermione."

He bowed elegantly, and then turned and walked away, pace slow and unhurried. Hermione stood there in the hall, alone, and wondered how she could have the last word and still feel like she lost. Damn Slytherins!

"We heard what you did, Ron."

Two identical pairs of resigned eyes lock with another pair of anger-filled brown. Ron crosses his arms, looks down and away, his face set.

"So? They deserve it."

The twin of the left speaks, his voice low as they talk in one of the many corridors of Hogwarts.

"How so?"

Ron glances up with fire in his eyes, on his face, radiating out from his form.

"They are friends with that, that, freak!!"

"We talked about this."

"I don't care! He killed her!"

The taller two exchange glances, filled with pain and resignation, and speak as one.

"He did not kill her. That diary did."

Petulantly, the smaller red-headed boy crosses his arms, sets his feet in defiance.

"He let her die. Isn't that enough? How can you take up for him? He is a monster! A freak! He lived, and she didn't!"

The last was thrown out like a spear, and Ron turns on his heel, shrugs off the hand on his shoulder and marches away. The brown eyes watch him go, before the twins turn to each other, eyes meeting, thoughts and words flowing between them as smoothly as water, their magic intertwined and seamless so that it is hard to see where one ends and the other begins.

"He will get in trouble.."

He's not guilty.

"..Harry will find out…"

They do not deserve this.

"Can we do anything?"

We warned him.

"Father will…" "...Be very angry..." "We can't..." "... Stop him, I know…" "Percy?" "Depressed, useless…" "Charlie?" "Too angry…" "Can we…" "Protect him? No."

The eyes break contact, and Fred looks away toward the floor. George reaches out a hand, roughly clasps him about the shoulder, squeezes. They grieve deeply, the both of them, and in their way turn to each other for solace. They know their brother Ron resents them for their laughter, their jokes, not realizing that it is their way, their outlet. They desire to make others happy, to spread joy. Ginny would have wanted that.

"He doesn't want to blame himself…" "...So he blames someone who is not here." "Easy target…" "..Yeah."

Murmuring softly to each other, they begin to walk away, leaning close together, mutual support.

Harry put down the letter, a scowl passing over his face. Draco's words had been blunt, but effective. Things were difficult at Hogwarts. He leaned back with a grumble, passing his hand over his face in a frustrated gesture. He felt torn in two. He longed to be with his friends, helping them, studying with them. But he had a responsibility to Flamel now, one he felt he could not break. The Alchemist was willing to teach him, and had done so brilliantly so far. He was more than just a tutor, he was a mentor. The talks they had had helped clear his mind, helped him get his thoughts in order. Flamel was a genius in many ways, and Harry felt he had been given a great gift.

He would have to trust that Draco could take care of Hermione. He pulled out a piece of parchment, dipping his quill in ink and beginning to write across the page. It hurt to delegate such a thing to someone else, and he tamped down his worry with a strong hand. It would do them no good for him to give up this opportunity, and Hermione did not seem to be in any real physical danger. He doubted Ron could get away with much. But if anything did happen…. his pen paused on the page, and his expression darkened. With a grimace he wrote the last lines, his knuckles white around the quill. Hermione had already written him a letter, assuring him that things were going well, and that she was holding her own. She could have lied to him, or withheld the truth so that he wouldn't worry. He wouldn't put it past her to do so, and he doubted Draco would lie. He had no motive to do so.

He finished the letter, and whistled sharply for Hedwig. The snowy owl swooped from her perch in the corner of the room, her feathers ruffling in excitement. Harry smiled, running a hand over her smooth feathers, before tying the letter securely to her extended foot.

"To Draco Malfoy, Hedwig. Hogwarts."

The owl glared balefully at his last word, and he shrugged apologetically. With a flash of her tail the owl launched from the window, letting out a loud screech. For a moment he stood beside the sill, looking out into the long street. Below, Muggle vehicles lumbered up and down the road, passed by crowds of people walking, on bikes, and looking about. He looked down on them, his eyes taking in the myriad of people, the different ages and statuses and personalities. So many people, unknowing of the world that existed all around them, looking at them from hidden wards.

How would those crowds react? How would the world react?

Harry turned away, stepping back to his desk. He sat silently, picking up another book. He needed to get back to work, needed to put his mind back where it belonged. He needed to learn, and fast, as much as he could take in. Time was no longer on his side.

Harry marked the passing of Halloween with only a small amount of longing.

The elves had prepared a lavish dinner, as if to help him forget that he was here and not at the Hogwarts feast. This day, two years ago, he defeated a troll. Why did it seem so long ago? He felt as if he had aged a decade, his entire point of view altered.

The last week had been spent exploring the control Harry had over his own raw magic. It was not something many wizards ever cared to learn, as most could not utilize it the way Harry could until well into their second century. But Harry could, and learn he must.

Flamel had sat, watching, eyes piercing. He had been dressed in elegant red robes, lined with velvet. Harry had wondered at the get up, but passed it off as insignificant. Instead, he had stood, focusing, his magic rising up out of his skin.

The two had explored his connection between wings and magic extensively. Most magical tattoos of their nature would render a wizard into a squib, but his had… malfunctioned. In his ignorance, he had managed to instead duplicate his core into his wings, though significantly lowering its stature. However, with a few years gone by, each tiny speck had grown into suns of their own, and his power had multiplied. With wings extended they found his magical stamina to be greatly increased, though he lost a lot of his fine control. Much like wielding a hammer instead of a surgical knife. Stronger, but messy.

His wandless abilities were no longer in question.

While his wand increased his potency and control, it was not as fast as his natural ability or as creative. Harry still liked the length of wood, its connection to Fawkes something he admired. Still, most of his time spent in practice now was without the wand, something Flamel encouraged.

"We need to find your limits, Harry." The man had said, leaning back in his chair. And so, they did so.

He could not change the rules of nature. Magical blood could not be created, something Flamel had tested before in a roundabout way. He could not create true gold such as the Philosopher's Stone was capable of doing. He could not create true sustenance from air. The Rules of Magic still stood firm, immovable. They went on and on, Harry being worked tirelessly until the aged Alchemist finally retired for the day.

The list of limits was not short, but the list of possibilities was limitless.

"Stop!"

Harry jumped to the side as a thick piece of wood was thrown his way. Flamel grimaced, lowering his wand.

"Harry, the whole purpose of this exercise is to test your magical dueling abilities, not your, albeit admirable, reflexes."

Harry slumped, sweat dripping from his brow. They had cleared out the living room except for a single chair that Flamel sat in. His teacher had taken to flinging various objects his way to test his offensive and defensive spells, but Harry had found it easier to just dodge. He was unsure why Flamel thought it important for him to learn dueling, but had been with the man long enough to know that questions were useless. He stood up straight, braced himself, and nodded. It was stone this time, perhaps an amorphous statue, flung towards his right side.

He made his magic into ice, freezing the statue, a pulse behind it shattering the metal into a thousand pieces. Suddenly the shattered pieces hovered, sharpened edges turned towards him with ferocious intent. His magic met them, a force full of water that blasted them away. Then another presence was taking his magic, grabbing it, pulling, and Harry almost screamed, falling to his knees in pain. He came to with his cheek pressed against the soaked carpet, soft footsteps walking forward.

"You alright?"

That wouldn't be the words he would have used. Harry slowly sat up straight with a groan. A chuckle caused him to look up and meet Flamel's crinkled eyes. More wrinkles had spread across from each side of his face. Crows-feet. Harry tried to rise some ire up, but settled on a sigh as he asked his question.

"What was that, Sir?"

A hand grasped his, pulling him to his feet. Harry swayed slightly, his magic swirling loosely in the air until he pulled it back inside himself. Flamel gestured for him to sit, doing so himself.

"That, Harry, is exactly what Voldemort will do to you if you flimsily extend your magic about yourself. He will sink his own magic into your own, and tug. Best case, you are thrown off balance, as just now. Worst, he tears your very magic itself, and either destroy it or gather it for his own purpose. A brute method, but one that was taught in an older time. It was perfect against the kind of wizard you are."

Harry thought back to his first year, and the way the magic from Heth had been drained. Had that been similar? He had restored the spent magic, however, so it must not have been broken. Still…

"What do I do to stop it?"

A smile spread across the man's weathered face, and his teeth gleamed white against his lips.

"Control, my boy. Control."

One day was spent in learning human to animal transfiguration. Another was spent with animate versus inanimate. Time was spent learning to cast spells wordlessly, and time to memorize every motion and word for wand magic, so none could doubt his mastery.

An entire week was devoted to meticulously building a miniature ecosystem using only transfigured objects. It was a large glass dome that took up the living room, one he made himself of thin sheets of clear glass, the base sitting on transfigured metal legs. It had an entire landscape of wooden and stone buildings, each block crafted with his very magic into the shape of a village. He created a forest beside it, each tiny tree a living thing, then he placed a stream here, a waterfall there, then rigid mountain peaks capped in transfigured snow across the top, his magic a thing of creation. He made small animals, anatomically correct, flocks and herds and predators. Leaves ruffled in a wind unseen, and he made clouds float in the air above it. One day for pure pleasure he created rain coming down from the mountains to water the ground in the valley, and watched as the deer pranced about the tall grass. Transfiguration of every type, a masterpiece of art, a little living slice of nature.

On the last day, Flamel looked it over, his voice speaking gravely.

"Well done. Now, vanish it."

Harry looked over, eyes wide, denial rising on his lips. But he stopped, his mind whirling reluctantly. He looked down at the small creatures he had labored so hard to make, at a small rabbit barely larger than a pencil point, at a majestic eagle almost reminiscent of Fawkes as it swooped. Where would he keep such a thing? What would he do with it? Could he not, simply, create it again?

"I've worked so hard."

He muttered under his breath, a feeling of sadness coming over him. Then he straightened, and his magic rose as bid and fire descended from the air and devoured, until even the glass had melted under its heat.

It was the screaming that awoke Hermione from her bed. Bleary eyed and frightened, she tumbled down the stairs after the other girls, listening to the shrieks spreading through the room like poison.

"Black! Black!"

For a second the word refused to register in her mind, and then she knew. Sirius Black. The murderer. Frantic words were tumbling over themselves one after the other, students whispering and yelling, and slowly she pieced together the event itself. Sirius Black had attacked the portrait guarding entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room with a dark spell, but had failed to gain admittance. The relief at that was short, right on the heels of the terror at the act that the man had managed to get past the dratted dementors in the first place and into the school. Hermione sat heavily, watching the milling students, before a harried Professor McGonagall called them to attention. With a stern stare she ordered them all to bed after a brief explanation that did nothing to calm the nerves.

As the other girls sat up and excitedly talked over events, Hermione cast a dim Lumos and wrote a quick letter to Harry, her fingers trembling. She was not sure what was going on, but it was obvious that Black thought Harry a Gryffindor, and inside the castle. Why else would he have come? Harry deserved to know what had happened.

And perhaps he would know what, if anything, she should do.

Albus Dumbledore sat slumped in his chair, absently tapping on the papers strewn across his desk. In front of him Remus Lupin paced back and forth, his hands twisted together, face drawn tight. Severus Snape sat in a chair with his own hands clasped, anger shining from the dark depths of his eyes.

Remus finally exclaimed, stopping with a sharp motion. "Why, Albus?! Why Gryffindor? I don't know why! I suppose there is always the chance he thinks Harry is there... "

Severus snorted, his voice biting with sarcasm.

"Sure he does, after apparently having staked out this castle for the last two months with no sign of the boy. And why anyone would think that boy belongs in Gryffindor is beyond me.."

Remus glared, closing his eyes and taking in deep breaths. When they reopened, the amber glow in their depths had dimmed slightly.

"As much as I hate to agree, it is true. Sirius has been here long enough to surely know Harry is not here. He must have another motive."

Albus sighed, leaning forward. "There is always the chance Azkaban has driven him mad. Perhaps in his mind Harry must have followed in James's footsteps. He might even.. have hallucinations."

Severus snorted again. "I'm sure he is quite barking mad, don't you agree, Lupin?"

Remus frowned in the man's direction, brutally tamping down on his rising anger. He could not afford to be baited. Instead, he clenched his hands into fists, wracking his mind.

"There are no secret passages I have not told you about already. You know of his animagus form, and we have all heard of the Grim sightings. He might be mad, but he is also clever. There is something here he wants. The guards said he was muttering in his sleep, "he's at Hogwarts", over and over again. If not Harry, who?"

The three stared at each other, at a loss. Finally Albus sat upright, steepling his hands together.

"I have assigned a new portrait, one with more...armour, so to speak. I will also assign patrols for the teachers at night through that hallway. For now, Remus, please, think back to your younger days. You knew him, you are our only key into his mind."

The brown haired man slumped in place, sadness rising over his face like a cloud covering the sun.

"I'm not sure I ever knew him, Albus."

Harry could now fly as a phoenix with little problem, and enjoyed the warm air of Australia as often as he could manage. The transformation was still brutal and often left him shaking, but with Fawkes at his side and sometimes even Dread he had flown through large pillars of clouds, misty and glowing orange and red as the Sun set. Dread had gotten to prefer Australia's climate, and more and more Harry found himself trusting the serpent away from himself. The Quetzalcoatl had more than once implied a visit to South America would be wonderful, one Harry had ignored until recently. Perhaps he did need a change of scenery.

On his last few visits to Australia Tiny had finally began to meet his eyes and give small smiles at jokes told around the dinner table. The boy looked happier, more relaxed. Still, whenever Harry first arrived the teenager would look aside, his eyes haunted. Harry longed to slip inside his mind for just a moment, to read the truths hidden there. Was he forgiven? Would he ever be? Harry mentally turned away from that thought as he embraced his own flame, allowing it to carry him back to London.

When he arrived he was met by Blossom, the young elf handing out a letter gravely. Harry thanked her, was answered with a curtsy, and began to walk to his room. Hermione. He carefully opened the letter, his eyes narrowing. As his eyes flew over the words, anger boiled in his chest, hot and painful. Sirius Black.

He could care less about the man and whatever reasons he had for being out to kill Harry. As far as he had gotten with Flamel, he doubted the madmans ability to harm him. But his friends… that was different. Whatever the criminal wanted, he was putting his friends at risk, by attempting entrance into Gryffindor. But he couldn't return to Hogwarts, not yet, his tutorship was going along so well. Still, perhaps a visit... no. Harry shook his head with a grimace. If he visited it might give the man the idea that he could take a hostage as bait. More fuel on the fire. What could he do, then?

Harry sat down at his desk, pulling out parchment and quill. With a frown he quickly began scrawling a letter, thoughts turning upon themselves. If he could not help his friends personally, he could help them help themselves.

They all met up as soon as they could in the large classroom on the third floor corridor. Hermione had quickly motioned to the others once she had received the letter from Harry addressed to them all. She had glanced over the letter, and frowned at the books listed in consternation. She did not recognize many of them. Her thoughts were drawn away once the others arrived, and Hermione dragged out a chair and sat, looking them all over before reading both her letter and then the reply from Harry aloud.

The letter contained a detailed description of five books on wizarding self defense, defensive shields, and runic protection algorithms. Harry had written the exact paragraphs and page numbers of the things he wished them to look up, and Hermione had already retrieved the books from the library, with some difficulty. Harry recommended they immediately gather materials useful for warding their beds and desks in their rooms, and also advised they travel in groups.

At this point, Draco hummed in his throat, reaching forward to tap the book on runes, his voice slightly rueful.

"He does know these wards are borderline dark, right? I'm surprised this book was even in the library."

Hermione suddenly flushed, and the others looked at her in surprise. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin, speaking softly.

"I might have gotten it from the Restricted Section."

Neville blanched as Blaise and Draco erupted in laughter. Neville stuttered out, "H-how did you get permission?"

Hermione flushed further, lips pursing together.

"I obviously need this book for research in my Ancient Runes class, extra credit of course."

Neville joined in with the laughter, incredulous. Hermione, who considered the rules so important, lying? It was unthinkable. Blaise clapped the brunette on the shoulder, his dark hand firm.

"That's our Hermione!"

Our? Hermione thought, and contained another flush by holding up the letter authoritatively and continuing on.

Harry had listed out the spells he considered most useful for defense, and stressed defense only unless another one of their group was being harmed, in which case he listed three offensive spells that were both basic, and effective. Expelliarmus, Immobulus, and Stupefy.

"One worders, yes. Mom always preferred Immobulus over Petrificus Totalus, much quicker to say."

Blaise spoke up, before paleing a bit as he was looked over by three curious pairs of eyes. He gestured Hermione to continue, avoiding their eyes.

Harry ended his letter with polite avoidance as to what he was learning, and a warning to be careful. Hermione placed the letter in her lap, unsure where to start.

"Well." Draco cleared his throat, standing up straight. "Let's look over those wards, then. We will need to purchase any ingredients we need. These make me wonder just what Flamel is teaching him."

Hermione looked away, fighting not to show any reaction. She knew it wasn't just Flamel that would give Harry reason to study runes. And the dark nature of the books, some of the descriptions, only increased her worry. How was Harry handling himself? Was he lonely? Would he ask for help if he needed it? A movement in her direction brought her attention up, to see grey eyes watching her warily. She frowned at him on principle, and the blonde smirked. She rolled her eyes, and reached for paper, preparing to write out ingredients. She just had to trust that Harry was fine.

Without a single complaint, they opened the books and began.

Blaise began the descent to his dorm with slow steps, eyes slit in focus. It had been several weeks since the letter from Harry, and the spells they had been studying had taken a lot of their time away from any extracurricular activities they would have had. Draco still played Quidditch, but for Blaise there was nothing but the next book to read, and the next spell to learn. He had once more declined to visit Hogsmeade, preferring to spend the time alone in his dorm where he could focus completely on his work.

He wanted to begin learning spell chains, and hoped fervently that Harry would be willing to help. He had written the boy on the matter after he saw it mentioned in one of the books recommended, and the reply had been fast but slightly disappointing. Harry had not outright declined, but instead told him that he must first master the spells within a chain, and by master he meant being able to use them nonverbally, relying only on wand movement and internal incantation. Blaise did not completely understand this, as during a spell chain it was necessary to speak, but he was willing to practice regardless. But he also did not want his classmates knowing of his practice with nonverbal spells, and so required privacy. A sliver of him did not want to be seen failing, and it seemed all he did was fail at nonverbal spells. How had Harry done them so easily?

He turned the edge into the third year boys dorm, and froze.

There was a sound, like a puppy whimpering, and upon the floor a trickle of blood. Blaise felt a vise squeeze around his heart, and his wand was in his hand faster than thought. The room was brightly lit, but at first he did not see it. Then he walked a step further, eyes thrumming with the sound of his heart, and saw him. His breath caught, eyes widening, and he froze.

They had finished the wards around their desks and beds a week before, and both Blaise and Draco had gleefully used the full ward scheme that Harry had recommended over the tamer version that Neville and Hermione preferred. It was a nasty thing, keyed to their blood, and extended to anything placed upon the surface of the wood that made up the desk, or the cloth that covered the bed. In that way they could both add and take away things without having to transfer protection. It would also keep them safe while they slept, as long as the curtains were closed. But the ward had seemed so academic on the cold page of the book, the descriptions of the punishment for a thief appropriate.

But to see it.

"Help…"

It was a weak murmur, and Blaise carefully knelt, unable to speak as his eyes surveyed the damage. Nott was curled upon the floor in a weak pile of robes and pale skin, tears leaking slowly from the corner of his eyes. His wrists were wrapped in thin slices that slowly trickled blood, and in his fist was curled the letter from Harry. His body was completely immobilized, his eyes widened in fearful pain, his lips parted. Again the sound trickled forth, slurred, desperate, soft.

"Please, sorry…"

Blaise felt himself catch his breath, calm spreading over him as he abruptly stood, stepping over the boy to walk a few steps over to Draco's desk, opening drawers quickly until he found the book on wards. They had keyed into each others wards, and had specifically warned Nott about the protections now around their desks. He did not know if the thin boy had tested them on purpose, or had been invading their privacy all along.

He flipped pages, ignoring the pathetic groans from behind him. When he came to Sanguinem Flagellum, he quickly read through the release segment of the ward, his thoughts tumbling upon themselves.

"Bloody Hell! Blaise!"

He flicked his eyes over to the gawking Draco in the doorway, and snapped out a command.

"Close the door, fool! Quickly!"

The Slytherin stepped further in, eyes wide, and slammed the door behind him, staring down in a mix of disgust and amazement.

"What are you going to do?"

Blaise grit his teeth, and carried the book over to his desk, looking down at Nott as he spoke.

"I'm going to release the idiot, and try to fix the damage." A snort brought his attention up to Draco, who had crossed his arms in anger.

"Why? Let him lay there for awhile."

Blaise glanced down at Nott, saw his eyes were closed, and stepped closer to Draco, lowering his voice to a murmur as he whispered furiously.

"Need I remind you that this is a highly illegal blood ward? If he squawks, we could be expelled!"

Draco leaned closer, eyes narrowed as he replied.

"He shouldn't have touched our stuff. That is Harry's letter."

Blaise leaned back, and pointed towards the book with a stabbing motion.

"We can not afford to have teachers digging through the things in our desk! Including the books we are not supposed to have!"

Draco looked away, his face mutinous, but he did not speak again. Blaise turned back to the book, looking over the procedure carefully. He couldn't afford for this to go wrong. Absently, he murmured under his breath to Draco.

"We should have thought this through further. If we did somehow catch a certain someone, it would be hard to explain how without putting ourselves under scrutiny."

"I understand."

The words were hissed through clenched teeth. Blaise put the book down, shaking out his hands and relaxing his shoulders. It was a good thing his mother had insisted he learn Latin as a second language. He reached into his desk and pulled out his letter opener, the same implement he had used to create the blood ward in the first place. He did not look over at his friend, but focused on Nott. He felt pity stir inside him as he saw the obvious pain the boy was in. He hadn't had much contact with Nott since it became obvious Harry disliked him. They remained stoic and civil to each other, but that was about it. But he had been messing with his property. Blaise grit his teeth and shut his eyes, then drew the sharp edge across his palm and began to chant the words.

"Sanguis pro sanguine. Satis est."

Blood for blood. It is enough.

Blaise opened his eyes as he felt heat pass through him, looked down at his unmarked palm, then over to Nott. The boys stiff form was slowly relaxing, but the wounds about his wrist and forearm still oozed blood freely. He gritted his teeth, reaching down to roughly jerk Nott to his feet, sitting him on the bed when he swayed. Nott's eyes slowly focused, his mouth opening and closing as if amazed at the ability to move, flexing his fingers and letting out a small groan at the pain the motion brought. Blaise passed the ward book to Draco with a glare, before placing his small blade back into his desk. Then he turned to meet Nott's eyes, folding his arms across his chest and watching him slowly regain his bearings.

"Well. What were you doing looking at my letters? I warned you about our wards."

Blaise kept his voice level, and watched a flush rise up Nott's neck. Nott cleared his throat a few times, before speaking in a hoarse voice.

"I was expecting something more along the lines of a shock. That was… much more."

Nott drifted off, looking down at his wrists. Blaise followed his eyes, seeing the symmetrical pattern of thin cuts that wrapped from wrist to forearm. Nott looked back up with a flinch.

"Did you know what it would do?"

"Of course we did, you prat."

Draco hissed from behind them. Blaise gestured him to silence, but Nott's eyes were narrowing, his mouth hardened.

"Is that so? All I did was pick up that bloody letter, and out of no where that, that magic, it felt like it whipped me, like it… that was a blood ward, wasn't it? Your illustrious father teach you that, Malfoy? And then it bound me, from head to foot! All I did was pick up the damn letter! I could not even call for help! I could barely breathe."

Nott's breathe coming in large gulps, his eyes wild. Draco drawled calmly behind him, and Blaise glanced back to see the blonde smiling sweetly.

"Actually, we got the book from Harry."

Nott flinched. Blaise angrily stepped between the two boys, blocking the view of Draco.

"Nott. I consider us even. You touched my property after being warned, and you were punished. I released you immediately. Is it enough?"

For a moment there was silence, then Nott's face smoothed, and he looked up at him with cold eyes.

"Heal these, and we will… forget this misunderstanding. Unless you want me to go to the Hospital Wing."

Draco let out what sounded like a growl, but Blaise did not move, lifting his wand to point down at the uplifted wrists.

"Tergeo. Vulnera Sanentur."

The blood vanished first, then the long cuts mended together with swift efficiency. Blaise lowered his wand and stepped back as Nott stood, reaching a hand out to hold the bedpost as he swayed at the motion. Then, standing straight and lifting his chin, Nott marched from the room without another word, the door shutting with a gentle click. For a moment Blaise stood and watched the door, before he turned to meet Draco's gaze.

"You need to get that temper of your in check, Malfoy."

Blaise knew his voice was cold, but he was angry with the blonde. As Draco's eyes widened at the use of his surname, Blaise continued to speak.

"Think before you speak. You were purposefully baiting him. None of us need the trouble Nott could cause."

Draco regained his voice, eyes sparking in anger.

"You were just rolling over! We are the strong ones here, and he was in the wrong! You are acting weak!"

"No."

Blaise broke in, placing his wand back in its holster. He kept his tone level, refusing to respond with the same volume that the boy across from him was using. He thought of Harry, and knew exactly what to say.

"I am acting like a Slytherin."

Draco paled at the insult, and Blaise turned, leaving the room to ascend up into the common room. Perhaps he would go to Hogsmeade after all.

"So we are all going home for winter break."

Hermione said weakly, glancing about at them all. Neville shrugged, and the two Slytherins simply stared silently. Hermione could see that something was wrong between the two of them, but couldn't make heads nor tails of it. She straightened, looking down at her hands.

"Well then. Harry says get there in the morning, on the thirty-first. Um, I guess I'll see you all... then. Don't forget the address."

"Yes, mother." Draco mumbled. Hermione tried not to flush, and stood too quickly, knocking her chair back. She felt her embarrassment changed into anger as she heard the chuckles. She looked over at them with a glare.

"All of you are insufferable. Please rediscover your age over the break. Good bye."

With her chin in the air and a bounce to her step, she exited the room. Behind her, she just caught Neville's soft murmur, and sighed.

"I didn't say anything…."

Why on earth was she overreacting all the time? Hormones, her mother had said. Well, she was sick of them!

For Harry time seemed to pass in a haze of books and spells. His mind churned nightly with the information he had soaked in that day, and he found himself muttering incantations in his dreams. His magic was a constantly roiling presence within him, awakened to a state of constant use. Dread had said the very air around him tasted different, full of metal and lightning.

"It's called Ozone." Harry had hissed softly in response, before reaching out a loose hand to the serpent. The smooth feathers slid over his skin, the muscles clenching rhythmically about his arm as Dread slowly climbed his arms to become level with his face.

"Ozone. I like these new words you teach me."

Harry had nodded absently, looking away from the bright green gaze so like his own. The snake did indeed speak greatly different than it had when they first became acquainted. Concepts it had never known were now familiar, and its speech was falling into patterns similar to humanity's. Idly Harry caressed the sides of the Quetzalcoatl with his fingers, smiling at the pleased hiss. He admired the beauty in the snakes feathered wings, and absently compared them to both of his own.

"Master?"

His eyes refocused, glancing into the snakes eyes with a frisson of surprise.

"You have not referred to me like that in many sunrises."

The snake swayed in a familiar rhythm, and its tongue flicked out and returned as its cold gaze held his own. Harry again thought of the futility in reading emotion in a snakes from, its face unable to portray the feelings it felt.

"It is what you are. I do not forget."

Harry smiled slightly, and leaned forward gently to place his head against the snakes own, feeling the soft feathers and leathery scales against his cheek. He felt the spider quick dart of its tongue, and a weary sigh worked from his mouth. He leaned back and yawned widely, eyes half-closing. Dread shifted in his arms, its wings stretching and lifting to allow it to hover above his fist. Harry released the snake, and fell back on his bed, the snake resettling upon his chest with a slithering descent.

"What haunts you, Master?"

He felt his lips curve in amusement at the repetition of the title, but closed his eyes as he replied.

"Haunts? Another new word?"

He felt the snake shift, burrow under his half-opened robe to coil against the heat radiating from his body.

"What bones can not be moved from your den?"

The hiss had a sarcastic overtone, and Harry chuckled, the bouncing of his chest turning the hiss to annoyance.

"I am beginning to think my den is made of bones."

Dread shifted, and Harry cracked his eyes open to see the head of the serpent peeking from underneath the metal clasp on his overrobe.

"Then you are fat on flesh."

The odd wording gave his mind something else to think on, searching about for the meaning of the statement, a small distraction, and welcome. Harry took the challenge up with grace.

"This flesh is rancid."

Dread's head tilted, the red feathers on its crest lifting and falling in something resembling a shrug.

"I do not see you perishing. Though, perhaps, there is a bone caught in your fangs."

Harry closed his eyes, letting his head fall back onto his pillow, a reluctant smile lighting up his face. As he felt sleep rising up to take his mind into darkness, he hissed softly in reply.

"The word for that is unpleasant. It describes the situation perfectly."

Harry wasn't offered a winter break, and it did not surprise him in the least. Flamel was determined to saturate Harry's mind with every iota of knowledge he had in the time he had left, an endeavor that was futile but rewarding. Harry could not find it within himself to complain, not as he watched the wizard age with every day he came in by floo, the white growing broader in his dark hair, the skin becoming mottled and thin.

By Christmas, they no longer practiced dueling, and Harry knew in his heart that he would never again see Nicholas Flamel spring across the room, wand alight with spells. Instead, the focus turned to potions and alchemy, though they quickly discovered that Harry had no talent in that area.

"Well, my boy, even the best of us have to be horrible at something." The wizard had wryly commented at yet another failed experiment. Alchemy was an advanced form of potion making, one that required direct manipulation of the brewer's magic as well as the ingredients within the cauldron. Even being a master potions maker did not make one an alchemist, and vice versa. Perhaps if he had never begun his rituals with runes, he might have developed some skill. But Harry's magic simply was not tuned to the elaborate art of alchemy, and with only a sigh Flamel had stopped that portion of his teaching. Harry spared only a fleeting wish to discover that coveted secret of the Philosophers Stone, but knew it would only be more of a burden than it was a boon, so he rapidly discarded the idle thought. Instead, from potions they moved to written magic.

As useful as spells were, to write magic upon a page and have it wait, potent, to be activated was a huge advantage. When you considered wizards who did not have access to huge amounts of magical power, with proper planning an average wizard could outduel a strong one with but a modest amount of pre written spells. Writing spells however was not as easy at it seemed. There were different papers, and different inks. There was also the ability to carve into wood, or stain into clothing, or melt into stone. Just the material alone could affect both longevity and usability. Not just any word would do however, and for this use wizards had developed their own language of symbolism, simply called Ancient Runes.

Not too much unlike runes Harry was familiar with, in vague ways. The runes he had carved upon his skin was perhaps one of the oldest usages of such written spells, and one that was not mentioned in the books Flamel had. Instead, it was smaller runic symbols that wizards had made up on their own, not truly resembling any runes that Harry had researched in his study of languages. These runes could be mathematically calculated in certain placements to create unique spells, or have time-released properties. They could be used to ward objects or people or buildings, and had as many different usages as there were stars.

And here it was that Harry excelled above all else. Perhaps it was his background, perhaps merely a talent. In any case, he could instinctively set runes in the correct place, hardly bothering with formulae and rules. He simply knew, the way he knew about breathing and walking and seeing. It was something to be done, and properly. Harry had a talent with the pen, drawing complex arrangements upon the floor to trap in air, or keep out smoke, or recreate a Protego spell. He wrote wards against certain things, like flies and house elves, and then created wards to attract the same creature. He then made forcefields that were not only defensive, but also attacked with stinging sensations or laughter or loud sirens that could burst eardrums.

Flamel filled his mind with knowledge and most of all with possibilities. The world of magic was so much wider than he ever imagined, and full to the brim with things that had not been tried yet. He found himself eager for each lesson, eager to strain his mind in a mental conundrum, to strengthen his magic with some sort of exercise. The older man pushed him to his limits and did not ask if it was too much. It was respect given and taken in return.

And on the last day of the year, Harry informed his tutor that he would need the next day off, and received only a nod in return before the man vanished into green flame.

His friends stumbled through the floo one at a time, minutes apart from each other. First was Neville, who hugged him gladly and began to launch into a jubilant description of the wards they had painstakingly painted around his bed, and which had stopped Dean from stealing his last Chocolate Frog by delivering a sharp stinging sensation. About the time Neville got to this part of his story, Draco stepped through followed immediately by Blaise, the two obviously departing from the same place. Both glanced around, cataloging the elegant interior for what it was, wealth. Harry greeted them both, the realization that he had not seen Blaise awake in over a year suddenly imprinting on him. He turned his face away in sudden shame, but the dark skinned teenager reached out, gently nudging him in the side and smirking when Harry met his eyes.

"It's alright, Harry. Good to see you."

Harry was not sure if Blaise knew what he was thinking or merely assumed, but he appreciated the forgiveness, such as it was. Draco frowned immediately, the blonde folding his hands across his chest.

"Alright? It most certainly is not! There we are slaving away living in a dorm, and Potter here is living in luxury!"

Harry felt his brow wrinkle at the use of the last name, and straightened, meeting the silver eyes of the Malfoy Heir. He observed the boys stance, the repressed anger and buried beneath it something that seemed to hint at sorrow. Slowly Harry spoke, seeing both Blaise and Neville back up slightly from between them.

"I am receiving rigorous instruction, I assure you, Malfoy."

Draco's frown faded and his face smoothed, and now the two stood and stared at one another, waiting for the other to give some cue that all was still well between them. Into this Hermione stepped, brushing dust from her faded jeans with a whispered curse. Harry turned to her in surprise at the language, only to feel his breath catch in his throat.

Hermione had grown in the last six months, in more ways than one. Sure, she was a bit taller, her hair a bit longer, her face having lost a little of the roundness of children. But her form… was certainly more womanly. Harry felt a flush begin to work on his face, his eyes unconsciously roving her apparel. Even before he had left she had always went about dressed in robes, though of course when he had visited her at her house she had worn jeans… but still. She hadn't looked like this, then!

"What? What are you all staring at?" Hermione frowned, looking up and meeting their stare. Harry quickly looked away, and saw the others doing so as well. Harry felt a scowl growing and forced it down. He couldn't be angry at the others for doing exactly what he had just been doing, and that was ogling his best friend. His friend! Harry cleared his throat, allowing her to draw him into a hug that he purposefully did not think too much about.

Without meeting her eyes, Harry gestured them to follow him into the kitchen, where the house elves had made a small lunch for them. With an awkward silence Harry looked around over his friends, uncertain what to say after all the time that had passed. Conversing in letters was nothing like face-to-face, and the last time he had seen his friends they had all been petrified. How do you bridge such distance?

"So this is your family's London property? Very good placement."

Draco idly commented, eyes roving the table absently. Harry hummed in acknowledgement, and Blaise spoke up to carry the conversation.

"Much better than the Malfoy one, I see. It's at least three blocks further away from the wizarding part of town."

Draco scowled, and picked up his fork with an abrupt motion. Neville timidly began to ask about family estates, and the conversation took off from there, with the other two purebloods describing various estates around the world. Harry tried to interject his own information a few times, but for the most part was silent, toying with his food. Hermione was fascinated by the insight into wizarding buildings and investments, especially about other markets in foreign countries. Harry watched them all chat and interact, and realized that by staying away from Hogwarts he was losing that closeness with his friends. He didn't quite know what to say anymore, didn't get some of the jokes, didn't understand some of the references. It depressed him on what should have been a happy day.

Hermione abruptly turned towards him, her face inquiring. Harry started, realizing he had gotten lost in his thoughts.

"What's that?" He asked, and Hermione frowned before continuing.

"I asked if Flamel tutored you here or if you had gotten to see his own family estate."

Harry shook his head negatively. "He comes here, by floo."

Neville looked up, eyes bright. "What kind of stuff does he teach you? I bet its awesome!"

Harry found himself smiling, and allowed himself to be pulled into the conversation gladly, describing a few of the exercises that would not give away too much of his abilities. He could tell Hermione was dying to know more, and suppressed a smile.

After lunch they went to the living room, where Harry asked them how their wards had all worked. He immediately noticed Blaise and Draco freeze, though no emotion flickered over their faces. Hermione smiled as she spoke, eyes bright.

"Oh, only Neville's been tested, but it worked perfect! Tell them, Neville."

While Neville began to cheerfully describe his roommate's reaction, Harry carefully watched his own housemates. They did not give any other reaction away, but he could tell there was something there. Something they must not have told the Gryffindors. He filed it away mentally, listening as Neville described the particular ward design on his bed. It was called Mordax Aer, roughly translated to stinging air. Neville had used scraps of aged parchment, written in invisible ink, magically pasted in a pentagram pattern about the floor to ward the bed itself.

With a glance between the four of them, Harry spoke up, recommending wards about the doorframes as well, though doing those without notice would be difficult. They would also be a lot more complicated, as they would have to allow access to many more people. He saw the flicker pass over Draco's face even as Blaise agreed, and leaned back in his chair.

"Better they not enter at all than enter and test the wards on your bed."

Harry nodded, and Draco sighed dramatically.

"I'm not sure why we bother. Seems he's only interested in Gryffindor."

Harry frowned, but not at the gallant attitude. Quietly, he spoke aloud.

"Why is Black interested, do you think? I doubt he thinks I'm there, after all. Seems an odd place to be breaking in to."

Draco shrugged, though Neville looked contemplative.

"I've heard he was a Gryffindor, you know. Maybe he left something behind during his school days, in case something went wrong."

"A Gryffindor? Following the Dark Lord?" Hermione chirped, and flushed when Blaise rolled his eyes.

"Honestly, next thing you're going to say is all Slytherins are dark and evil."

Hermione groaned, but Neville spoke up again before she could be ribbed further.

"Well, it is a good question. Not the follower bit, I guess, but, well, he was a Black, right?"

He said this looking at Draco, who nodded and spoke haughtily.

"Yes, He was my mothers cousin, if you must know."

Neville nodded, and then glanced at Blaise before speaking again.

"And didn't all Blacks but him go to Slytherin? Obviously he came from a dark family."

This time it was Draco who was sarcastic.

"Same way its obvious all Potters go to Gryffindor. He must be a light wizard at heart too."

He said this with a leer in Harry's direction, and Harry laughed despite himself. As the conversation moved on, however, the doubt had already grown larger in his mind.

Just what was Black after, and why?

By the time dinner rolled around Harry was once more talking animatedly with his friends as they showed him things they were working on together in their study group. Blaise especially loved explaining complicated strategies he had to hold off multiple groups of enemies in tight corridors. Harry found it all interesting, but he spoke up with a grin when the boy gave him space to comment.

"This is all great, really, but you guys act like you are at war or something."

Silence fell, the boys looking between one another and then over at Hermione, who squirmed. Harry's eyes narrowed, a bite coming to his voice.

"Have more of the students been bothering you guys? I thought only Ron was the problem."

Hermione did not meet his eyes as she tentatively spoke.

"Well, no, I wouldn't quite say that. If anything, they are afraid of you. We are just, well, getting prepared and all. In case of this Black or some of his friends, you know, doing something…."

She drifted off, rubbing her arms. While Draco and Blaise kept up a neutral face, it was Neville who flushed. Sensing the weakest link, Harry turned to the round boy, noting absently that Neville had grown a good foot in the last year.

"Neville, has anyone been bothering you?"

Neville gulped. "Me? Oh no, I'm fine."

Harrys eyes narrowed further. Suddenly Hermione spoke up quickly.

"Harry, do you know a girl named Luna?"

Harry's brow furrowed, his mind calling up the ethereal Ravenclaw he had spoken with several times before. "Yes, she was a First Year Ravenclaw last year. Why?"

Hermione's brown eyes were confused. "She said she was friends with you."

Draco and Blaise looked over in interest, while Neville began to relax. Harry allowed himself to be distracted, curious about why Hermione was mentioning the blonde girl.

"She is, I suppose. Sort of. She's a bit…"

"Yeah." Hermione agreed to his unspoken comment. Then she bit her lip, glancing at the others. Draco grimaced. "Don't even start, Hermione. We do not need another girl in this group. One is more than enough!"

Neville spoke up, fiddling with the edge of his robe. " Well, I've met her before a few times. She's real smart, used to be friends with…"

He drifted off, suddenly looking down. As the Slytherins narrowed their eyes and Hermione looked mildly guilty, Harry gently spoke.

"Yes, she used to be friends with Ginevra Weasley. I'm surprised she still considers herself my friend."

Hermione looked up, earnestly meeting his gaze as she spoke.

"I asked her the same thing. She told me you were always nice to her. I encountered her in the halls, she was being picked on by some older girls. I could tell she doesn't have many friends."

"She doesn't have any." Neville spoke again, his mouth twisted in sympathy. The boy knew what it was to be an outcast. Blaise spoke up, eyeing the others.

"We have room for one more."

Draco folded his arms.

"Absolutely not! A second year? Its ridiculous!"

Hermione grimaced again. "Actually, I kind of already invited her. She didn't agree to come."

Draco looked shocked, then tossed his head. "Well, she's not as loony as they say then."

Harry felt a stirring of anger in his stomach, but tamped it down. It was up to his friends to decide, Harry was not there. If he was… but he wasn't. Hermione glared at the blonde, her teeth gritting.

"That is such a…. Slytherin thing to say!"

Blaise snorted in laughter, and Neville joined in. Draco looked a bit startled, then smiled.

"Thank you for the compliment."

Hermione glared even harder, trying not to join in with the laughter directed at herself. Her eyes met Harry's, and he realized that this was what he was missing, this camaraderie. He longed in that moment to return, to go back to being a child among children. To simply learn and play.

A sudden chime caught his attention, and he was startled to realize their time was up. Harry shook himself free of his sudden turn in thought, standing. Reluctantly the others gathered their things. Harry placed a hand up, reaching over and pulling out a box and passing it to them.

"It's my christmas present, to all of you."

He had received his own gifts from them the week before, and had wondered if any of them would mention his own lack of giving. The glances they shared told him they had not planned on confronting him about it. Hermione gingerly reached out and opened the box, pulling out a large sphere.

Harry explained as he reached out and touched it.

"I made this, in my studies. Its a notification sphere, of sorts. If there is any emergency, you have but to speak my name while holding the sphere, and it will vanish and reappear at my side. I will know something is wrong, and will return."

Hermione glanced at the others, before pulling him into a hug. Harry closed his eyes, before straightening. Hermione gently placed the sphere back into the box.

"Thank you, Harry."

He nodded, and after saying goodbye to the others watched as, one by one, his friends vanished from his apartment. Then he sat, staring into the orange and red flame crackling in the fireplace until late in the night.

To be in Malfoy Manor was to be on constant edge. Draco knew his father expected proper decorum at all times, and the portraits stared him down as he walked the vast halls of the estate. His parents had not spoken in months except with polite civility after the debacle at Hogwarts, and the atmosphere was tense.

He had almost been tempted to remain at Hogwarts over Winter Break, but with all his friends returning home had reluctantly declined the notion. Blaise had provided some distraction with a few days visit, but once the boy left Draco found himself pacing like a ghost across polished marble floors. It was so quiet, his footsteps echoing around him, and he knew that something dire was happening.

He was not involved enough in politics to know the real cause, but something about Black's escape did not add up. His father should be happy that another follower was loose, but he wasn't. He had scowled when he heard Black was at Hogwarts, and instead of worrying for his son's safety had muttered about liabilities. Surely his father, as clever as he was, had seen the implausibility of Black believing Harry was at Hogwarts. So why, then, did he act as if it was expected? What did his father know that he did not?

And why did his father speak as if Black was not on his side?

Flamel reclined in the chair as Harry struggled.

He fought not to look at the older man, attempted to stop cataloging the daily ravages of age. His fists clenched in frustration, and Harry stepped back a foot, his magic rising from his skin in wisps of fragmented light.

"Keep it under wraps, Harry!"

Flamel commanded sternly, and Harry immediately pulled it back in, the sensation akin to grasping water. He felt the sweat forming on his neck, his muscles trembling. The pressure extending from Flamel only increased, his magic a heavy cloak, suffocating and hot.

"This is only a taste of what it will feel like! You will meet your equal in power, Harry, and they will seldom fall on your side of the line. This is how they will press upon you. This is how they will seek to overcome you!"

His voice was stern, and with every emphasis he pressed harder against Harry's boundaries. It took all he had not to struggle back, not to strike out against the thing that pained him. His eyes closed, Flamel's voice tethering him to reality.

"Concentrate, boy! You let out those pretty lights of yours and they will be taken from you! Riddle was never a fool, and he always had a will of iron. If he has you, here, he will surround you and attempt to draw you out, you have to be ready, you have to wait."

"For what!" Harry's voice was high and broke on the last word, and to his shame he felt wetness begin to creep down his cheeks.

Harry heard the movement, opened his eyes to see Flamel slowly rising to his feet, light streaming from every pore of his being, a galaxy of unconquerable power. Harry felt his legs collapse, his knees hitting the floor with a harsh spark of pain, but still he held his roiling light back inside, trapped within his body. Flamel's green eyes seemed to be alit from within, his face alien as it was warped by the magic in the air.

"You contain yourself, Harry, and you wait for that moment the enemy thinks he has won, when he sees you there kneeling before him, crying like a pathetic child. When your enemy has his own power fully extended, pressing upon you, oppressive. That is when you strike, Harry, when you rise up yourself to cut him from his own strength!"

But Harry did not rise, his own eyes full of reluctant love, unwilling to attack.

"Strike, Harry!"

Anger simmered in Flamel's words, in his form, a red rash swirling through the air. Harry shook his head slowly, his body shaking from strain. Flamel stepped forward with a cloud of dark blue and violet, and his fist came up to strike across his face, and as Harry's head whipped to the side and he looked away he could forget for a second that this strong man was frail, was dying, and it was his fault, all his fault.

Harry sprung to his feet, his magic rising like wings to cut through the colors around him, bellowing out in burning light, pushing and pushing and pushing the foreign magic and with his anger he held his hands out in front of him and began to scream with frustrated grief.

"Harry."

His vision abruptly cleared, and Harry found himself standing with fists clenched over Nicholas Flamel, an old man bowed down with age, leaning upon the sofa. He looked unharmed, but Harry could see the trembling in the mans hands, and felt guilt rise up in his throat like bile. Harry looked down at himself, made himself relax his face from the snarl it had imprinted upon it, made his hands relax, his shoulders droop. Slowly, he sat down, eyes roving over his mentor.

"Sir? Are you alright?"

Flamel gave him a small smile, before easing into his previous seat. Harry felt at a loss, embarrassment and anger running together. The Alchemist sighed, stretching out his legs in front of him, before meeting his gaze sternly.

"There will come a time, Harry, when you will lose. You will not be strong enough, fast enough, smart enough. You will be alone, and at the mercy of someone else. And when you find yourself there, you must bend, must allow yourself to submit, to hold within the ravages left of your power. Then, when your enemy stands over you and gloats about his triumph, you will have one last chance at overcoming. Learn control, Harry, learn not only to expend power but to save it, to hold it inside so tight it can not be taken from you."

Harry watched Flamel seem to wilt into the sofa, his eyes closing in weariness. Harry looked away, stood and marched over to the doorway.

"Dobby."

The elf looked up from where he sat in the kitchen, wide eyes bright with joy. That happiness faded as it saw the state of his Master, but Harry spoke before the elf could begin to blubber.

"Bring two glasses of water, please."

"I'd prefer a shot of Firewhiskey, if you have any."

Flamel's slightly hoarse voice called from behind him. Harry's face did not change as he clarified.

"Bring a bottle and a glass, please." Harry turned, ignoring the obeisance of the House Elf, returning to sit beside Flamel.

"Should you have alcohol right now?"

A green eyes peaked open to look at him with amused disgust.

"You want to tell me I can not have it?"

Harry smiled slightly, shaking his head. Then he paused, eyes serious.

"Why did you do that, sir? I hurt you."

Flamel sighed, sitting up again and running an absent hand down his wrinkled robe.

"I forget that I am not the man I was. And you needed to learn the lesson."

Harry frowned, voice hoarse as he spoke.

"It felt like… like a blanket, smothering. Like being able to breath, but running out of air. As if… the very air itself was changed. The smell was overpowering, like muggle electricity before it bursts into flame. It was hard not to react, not to struggle for space. I do not think I could restrain myself if it was a true enemy."

Flamel met his gaze, reaching out a hand to gently pat his knee.

"In another age, there were classes of wizards. You had hedge-witches, who could brew simple potions and cast spells of love and luck. Then there were the average magic wielders, usually coming from a notable family and taught the bloodline's Grimoire, learning to manipulate their environment in both small and large ways, spells to affect every part of life. They would usually posses a family wand, passed from a deceased ancestor. From those you would sometimes get a Sorcerer, the staff-wielders, famous for their weather-magic and the ability to foretell the future. Merlin was one of those in the beginning, making his own staff from the fragments of his English oak wand, imbuing it with stones and dragon heart strings. But even that was not enough."

Harry waited as Flamel drifted off, and turned to accept the bottle Dobby handed him. The elf did not speak, but quickly vanished from the room. All of the elves seemed in awe of the Alchemist, and Harry did not discourage them. He quickly poured the whiskey into the small glass, then handed it to Flamel, who tipped it back in one smooth motion. The wizard then paused, idly turning the glass in his hand, his eyes dark. When the gaze lifted to meet Harry's, it seemed to stare right through him with all the memories of a long life.

"Merlin broke his father's wand, you see, while he still attended Hogwarts. So, under the tutelage of Salazar Slytherin, he created his staff. At that time, it was supposed that staffs were more powerful because of their larger shape, and the gemstones that were traditionally present. Now, of course, we know much of their abilities came from within the wizard himself, his mental state setting boundaries that do not exist. They were more powerful, make no mistakes, with the multiple cores and then stones… but even a staff could not contain Merlin's power. The books say it grew, and continued to grow, until the wood cracked under his fingers one day when he stood in his tower and heard the messenger say that Rowena Ravenclaw had died of a broken heart, and Slytherin had left Hogwarts behind. That day he burnt his staff with his own power, and walked the earth as the first named Master Mage."

In a sudden burst of energy, Flamel leaned forward and slapped his glass on the table, reaching for the bottle to pour another shot. Harry dimly wondered if he should put a limit on the stuff, but didn't have the courage to speak up. Flamel continued, voice low and dark.

"There had been mages before, of course. One could argue that before wands became popular, any who could cast magic at all were mages. The Pharaohs of Egypt certainly were, as were the Dragon-Speakers of Asia. All those runic wizards over the ages could be called mages. Perhaps even Gryffindor would have been one, if he did not rely so exclusively on his sword. But Merlin was the first to put a name to it, to rise above the tradition of wand and staff, to break those bonds of rules, and set a new standard. Modern wizards have idolized him, made him to be someone beyond powerful, perfect, while they also set in motion teachings and laws to prevent another such as him coming to pass. You see, they love such men after they are gone, when they can no longer make movements politically and culturally. While they live they are dangerous creatures, too dark, too human to be allowed. With such power, imperfection can not be tolerated. And everyone's idea of perfection is different. Do you see?"

Harry did not, and his expression must have shown it. Flamel grunted, and poured a third shot. His eyes were red now, and Harry's fingers clenched in a desire to stop the man from drinking. Flamel tossed his head back, and Harry could almost feel the fire in the whiskey burn. When Flamel spoke again, his fists were clenched in anger.

"Of course you don't, not yet. But you will. You see, Harry, there have been more mages since Merlin. Some, the foolish or arrogant, style themselves 'Lords', whether of light or dark, and seek to outright overthrow the government, or strike back at those who seek to control them. Those like Grindelwald, and your Voldemort. Then there are those like your Headmaster, Dumbledore, who hide behind their wands while working within the system to create change. He no more needs a wand to cast spells than Tom Riddle, but would not show it outwardly."

Harry spoke up quickly, stopping Flamels forward motion as he leaned towards the table once more.

"Sir. Voldemort did use a wand."

Flamel smiled, and with a tip of his head nodded.

"I did not say wands were useless. Our own studies have proven otherwise. But it is not a crutch, it is a tool. One in his arsenal, and one that allowed others to think him weaker than he was. Where wizards rely upon a wand, mages deign to use them."

Harry smoothed his face into neutral lines, nodded. Flamel stood, wobbling slightly, and Harry supported his elbow with a quick motion. Flamel steadied, his eyes clear and kind.

"Forgive an old man his wanderings. I say all that to say this: the wizarding world will only accept a mage that is beyond this living realm. If they knew how powerful you truly are, many would fear you. Some might idolize you, seek to set you up as the next Merlin. But as soon as you disagree with them, you will be the next Dark Lord. You are too powerful to easily control. Anything you wish to accomplish will be picked apart for motive, and you will find yourself running against laws that were never there. You are a threat already, but one they think manageable. I have been there, Harry, before I withdrew from the lives of the average wizard. I fled, you see, fled the expectations and hopeless desires of the populace. They wanted me to solve every problem, slay every monster, create unlimited supplies of money for the poor. The Stone became my curse, an object I could not use without dire repercussions. So I left. I faded from sight, and soon, from memory. They knew I was still out there, of course, but I wasn't dangerous anymore. A nightmare only, a dream. Sometimes a hero, and sometimes a boogeyman in stories women tell their children."

Harry nodded slowly, escorting the man over to the floor, tossing a handful of green powder into the fireplace. As the flames rose, Flamel turned and met his gaze, grasping his shoulders in a hard grip.

"Perhaps the firewhiskey was a bad idea. Perenelle always told me it is, but I never remember it…Harry, I'm sorry, for pushing you so hard. But I want you to be better, I think you can be. You are strong, stronger than I was. Perhaps you can be another Merlin, throw off the yoke of expectation and make your own world. Maybe you even deserve to do so. Voldemort is only the first of your enemies, child. After him there will be another, and another, and another, until the day you take your last breath. For your sake, I hope it comes quicker than my own. Power like ours is a curse all its own, a burden as much as a blessing, because with the power to accomplish comes the responsibility to do so, and everyone will be watching, waiting for you to fail. Oh, Harry."

The man turned away, his hair gleaming white, and pushed Harry back a step as he stumbled into the flames, disappearing with a whispered word.

For a long time Harry stood there, watching the flame die in ribbons of red and orange and yellow. When he turned, Dobby was watching him with wide eyes, his pleated pillow case twisting in nervous fingers. Harry brought up a smile, shaking his head slightly.

"That is all, Dobby."

The house elf stood, and the twisting of his fingers increased.

"Master Harry Potter, sir, if you wish dinner we has it ready.."

Harry merely grunted, falling into the seat Flamel had vacated. He stared at the half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey, then down at the single glass.

"How old do wizards have to be to get drunk, Dobby?"

The house elf's eyes widened comically, his mouth immediately opening to spew words forth like a fountain.

"Oh, Master Harry, sir, you not want such a thing! The drink is bad, very bad, fiery stuff it is! And Master most certainly is underage, sir! Young wizards has seventeen years before drinking Firewhiskey."

Harry hummed in his throat, stared at his hands, and considered. Why the hell not? He reached out and grabbed the bottle, pouring him a glass. Dobby shifted his weight anxiously from side to side, pulling on his ears. Harry raised an eyebrow, a smile coming to his face.

"Honestly, Dobby, are you saying Draco never snuck a glass of Firewhiskey?"

The house elf groaned, tugging harder on his ear before disappearing with a sharp crack of disapproval. For a minute Harry waited, before with a glance at the amber liquid, tossed it back with the same finesse Flamel had shown. Barely a second passed before he bent over, choking and coughing as his throat erupted with fiery sensation. A sharp crack brought his watering eyes up to Dobby, the elf solemnly holding out a glass of water. Harry gratefully took it, letting the soothing water stream down his throat. Dobby began to speak primly, glancing from narrowed eyes as one foot tapped the ground.

"Young master Draco did same thing. Dobby will take care of this."

With a quick grab, the elf clasped the bottle and disappeared again, leaving Harry gaping, before a reluctant laugh began to spill from his throat. He wiped the tears off his face and leaned back in his seat, still holding the shot glass in his other hand. He took another sip of water and sighed, looking up at the pattern inlaid across the tiled ceiling of the living room. He had never noticed how beautiful it was before.

Harry stared out his window at the falling snow, fingers tapping a calendar laid out before him.

The students would be returning to school, starting up classes and turning in homework. Hogsmeade weekends would have continued for the third years, and he supposed his friends too would be going down to the village to shop and eat. The longing in his chest grew, and he turned away, walking absently to the living room to await the arrival of Flamel.

The ancient wizard slowly stepped through the fire, slightly stooped, the vitality that had filled his body ebbing away with excruciating finality. Harry bit his lips as he saw the wizard held a short cane, and Flamel caught his gaze. A small smile came upon his lips, and as Flamel sat he spoke.

"I am sorry about yesterday. The drink has always been a weakness of mine. Do not worry over me, Harry. I have enough from my grandchildren. Well, several descendants past that but adding all the greats got tiring four centuries ago."

Harry ignored the apology and followed the distraction, turning his eyes away from how the man's fingers continued to tremble slightly.

"Does it still hurt, sir? Having lost so many of your family?"

Flamel let out a long sigh, his wrinkled hands clasping each other on top of the cane that he held before him.

"Dear boy, one never loses the hole left in ones life when a loved one is gone. It only fades with time, like a picture left too long in the sun. A bit fuzzy, a bit fragile, a tattered thing. I have lost more than many ever have at all, but I count only the blessings of having them in my life for a time, not the loss of more time when they are gone."

Harry sat in front of him, eyes lowered.

"Then why live forever?"

Flamel leaned back, a hint of a smile on his face.

"Exactly, Harry. Why?" Flamel looked up, as if seeing some other landscape, some other time. "I have asked myself that question many times, and been asked many more. Why, indeed?"

Harry sat in silence a while longer, considering the motives of men. Money, power, love. A gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder, and the old man's voice whispered with calm purpose.

"All things end, child."

Harry looked up to meet Flamel's gaze, and did not know what to say.

"Like this. Slowly."

Harry leaned over their cupped palms, the tiny spark of magic glowing dimly within. Flamel's power seemed made of sharp crystalline shards of light, and as Harry watched a tiny portion separated from the main, reaching down to the spark of light and fanning it, making it grow larger and brighter with every second. Then the fragment withdrew, smoothly sliding back to his teacher. Flamels breath stirred Harry's hair as he spoke.

"To store magic within a gem is a task that requires patience. This small diamond, here, can store more magic than you yourself hold. However, it must start as only the tiniest portion of power, smaller than a grain of sand. Then, with gentleness, you must impart to it a portion of yourself, bit by bit, all your concentration set on making it know that its new place is not within yourself, but without. That this gem is a part of you, like a arm or leg or strand of hair."

Harry nodded, reaching out to feel the gem with his own power, seeing the way its patterns reflected the wizard across from him. Clearing his throat, he softly spoke.

"Can anyone use this power?"

Flamel leaned back slightly, still looking at the jewel.

"Not just anyone, no. Perhaps one that is bound to you, like a child or spouse. Sometimes such gems pass along family bloodlines for just such a reason. A magical heir, one adopted by blood, could also qualify."

Harry tilted his head, running a finger over the diamond, feeling the foreign magic trapped within.

"How about Voldemort and his death eaters? They are bound."

Flamel tilted his head in thought, before slowly shaking it.

"No, I do not think so. He has marked them, yes, with his magic, but he holds no sway over their own magic. To be bound, truly bound, goes both ways. While you give something, you are also getting something back. Two spouses will willingly share a portion of power, two siblings will be bound through their parents. Parents are bound from the blood given to the children, though to me they only get back the hassle of parenthood."

Flamel smiled as if at some private joke, before continuing.

"Now, see if you can take this magic for yourself."

Harry frowned, then reached out to gingerly clasp the gemstone, holding it in his palms the same way Flamel had. He leaned over it, letting his magic stream out to circle the stone, trying to press within. He pressed harder, then harder, his body straining unconsciously with the mental effort. Finally, he looked up, his breath coming fast.

"I can not do it."

Flamel nodded, before gesturing with a finger. The diamond rocked back into his grasp, like metal to a magnet.

"It is for the same reason that you can not steal the magic from another wizard, at least while such magic is held within their body. Even a soulless man can not have his magic stolen. There is something about the body, like a glass, it holds power within like water, and while it is whole it can not leak. However, if you were to break the glass… the same is true of this gem. If it were smashed, it could no longer hold the power within, and it would leak into the air, to eventually fade away... unless another were waiting to gather it up again."

Harry nodded, before a frown worked its way onto his face.

"What then, about the body? What if it were broken?"

Flamel slowly placed the diamond into his pocket, observing Harry through lowered eyes.

"I see your thoughts lead you down much the same path as Voldemort."

Harry straightened, eyes alight with anger, but the alchemist waved his hand in an abrupt gesture.

"Don't get upset now, Harry. That is not what I meant. Merely, that is the thought process that your Dark Lord used, during the last war. He tried, many times, and many different ways, to break the body enough to drain the spirit of power. Physically and mentally. He could not. That is not to say it is impossible, I'm quite sure it is. But it is a question that has not yet been answered."

Harry nodded, though he still felt annoyed with the comparison.

"Sir, magic is held within the blood. So, then, it is not the body that needs to be broken, so to speak, but the blood."

For a long minute Flamel watched him, his eyes dark and mouth firm. When he spoke, it was in low tones.

"Always has magic and blood run together. Always there was an importance in it, whether in ritual or sacrifice. Tell me, can blood be broken?"

Harry knew there was a question beyond what was being asked, and wanted to answer it. Instead, his mind immediately went to another loose end, something they had practiced months before.

"To create blood is to create magic itself."

Flamel leaned back, eyes unreadable, and Harry felt his heart race as he continued.

"When you asked me to create blood, from air. Or liquid? In any case, it couldn't be done. You said there was a difference between muggle and magical blood. It is the magic itself. Where does it come from? What inside us creates it? What truly makes us so different from muggles? We have the same form, but our blood flows differently. Muggles speak of genetics, they have tools to see. Has anyone looked? Has anyone tried to know?"

Flamel gently reach out, laying a hand on Harry's wrist, and he felt his excitement dim.

"No one has looked, Harry, because it is illegal. Common sense tells us someone, somewhere, must have. Why else would the government make a rule against it? But would you know what to look for, or would you have to convince a muggle to look for you? What would the muggle do with the knowledge? What has been done?"

Harry's face fell, his thoughts tumbling upon one another.

"You do not know?"

A smile hinted around the corners of Flamels face.

"Contrary to popular belief, child, I do not know everything."

Harry waited a beat, smiled in return, but it was a smile that only showed on the surface. In his heart all he felt was turmoil.

"You could have limitless power."

Flamel's own smile faded, and the old wizard reached out to gently tap Harry's hand.

"You have already gotten farther than most wizards with such questions. My time grows short, Harry, and such mysteries only make me fear. And I am afraid, of what someone could accomplish. I have already solved one riddle, that of eternal life. I do not need to discover the one to eternal power. Or are they the same?"

Flamel drifted off, eyes locked with Harry's own. Then he dropped his gaze, beginning to stand with a careful stance that Harry had never seen before. It was ginger, tentative, as if the very earth moved beneath his feet. With a kind look, Flamel smiled again.

"I am afraid I must call the day to an end. I am tired."

Harry nodded, and reluctantly lead the way to the fireplace.

From that day onward Harry could visibly mark the passing of years in a days time. Rapidly time seemed to be catching up with Nicholas Flamel. Harry transformed his worry into urgency, focusing his will on learning.

They worked on techniques, on the fine art of spellcasting, on the tentative relationship between magic and the world. Flamel watched as Harry delicately extended a single strand of magic and made a flower bloom before its time, his eyes drooping slightly with fatigue. Another day they worked on ward breaking, on how to disrupt and dismantle both physical wards written on paper and stone, and magical wards invisible to normal sight written on the very air itself, like anti-apparition wards and muggle-repelling wards. More and more often Flamel sat, and more and more Harry was given books to read, pouring over tomes both ancient and new.

He received letters from his friends, but his time was precious now that he had little left with the Alchemist, and Harry put aside his worries to spend every waking moment in study. He stopped visiting the boys in Kondinin as much, and he no longer wasted time flying. By February, the once vital man was only an echo of himself, only a breath away from being a memory.

And on Valentine's day, Flamel did not appear.

Harry paced, back and forth, back and forth, his emotions raw. When the fire flared, he whirled around, worry etched on his features. Stepping through was not one man, but two. Albus Dumbledore, eyes sorrowful, gently supporting a wizard that looked to be his elder now in truth. Flamel's hair was completely white and thin, his face sagging with the burden of too many years in the sun. He was an old man who had lived too long, laughed too much, and the years had now come calling their due.

The Headmaster helped Flamel sit, the elderly wizard wheezing slightly. Harry waited, swallowing his questions, ignoring Dumbledore to focus on his teacher, his friend and mentor. Flamel's lips twitched into a smile.

"That's enough, Albus. You may leave us."

The Headmaster gave Harry a cordial nod, and Harry returned it without looking away from the Alchemist. For a minute he simply sat, waiting, respect rising inside him at this man who was ten times wiser than he could ever consider himself to be.

Finally, Flamel spoke.

"I regret to inform you, Harry, that this is the last time I will come here. Time has me now in her grasp, and mortal men cannot fight such a creature."

Harry felt the tears rising and forced them down, his throat suddenly clogged with too many words. He nodded, too quickly, looking down and letting his shoulder length black hair fall down to cover his face. He heard the rustling, and felt the hands touch his chin, the skin paper-thin and soft.

"I have taught you what I could, in the time we had. If you wanted I firmly believe you could test out of your classes if that was your desire. Even emancipation if you were so inclined. You are a genius, Harry, and such ability should not be squandered."

Harry finally looked up, meeting the man's dark hazel eyes, seeing the kindness and wisdom there. He spoke, softly, his voice hoarse with unshed sorrow.

"What would you do, sir? If you were me?"

The man let out a chuckle that turned to a rasping cough. Harry sat forward, but the man grasped his hands in a tight grip, his strength not yet spent.

"Me, Harry? I would return to school and be a child, for you will never again get such an opportunity. The world will come for you quick enough without you running towards it."

Harry shook his head, croaking out the words.

"How can I be a child any more? With what I have done, with what people want me to do?"

Flamel pulled him into a hug, and Harry allowed himself to be wrapped in those arms, the feeling of safety and caring enveloping him.

"Perhaps you can not be considered a child. But you are never too old to learn to be one."

Harry smiled at the twisted words, his eyes moistening.

"There, there, my boy. There is a time for everything under the sun."

Harry laughed weakly, the tears now falling in earnest. "I never pegged you for a christian philosopher."

Flamel chuckled, and he clutched Harry tight, his voice speaking above him with a hint of laughter.

"Solomon was said to be the wisest man to walk the earth. Who am I to turn away such wisdom? Besides, he was a jew and a king, perhaps the greatest one of that ethnicity. Alas, his downfall was his many women. The end of many a wise man."

Harry found himself laughing along with the wizard, a wet sound through his tears, and Harry leaned back, wiping his face on a sleeve.

"Thank you sir, for everything."

Flamel smiled, and drew out his wand, gesturing towards a chest Harry had not noticed until that moment.

"One more thing, then, to add to your everything."

Harry stood, opening the old and battered leather trunk. Inside were stacks upon stacks of papers, many tied with leather thongs, and some bound in leather covers. He looked up at Flamel as the man began to speak.

"My descendants will inherit my wealth, but this is what I leave to you, my last apprentice. The stacks are my notes on manipulation of raw magic, a trait we know you are inclined towards. There are also historical notes about other foreign wizards who used such. The leather bound stacks are my notes on runic circles and implementation, including what study I have done on your own unique sets. I've created some future pentagrams and circular loops as well. You are nearing the risky portions of your own unique pattern. There is a reason most ancient wizards did not get past their third sets, let alone a fourth. That you have done so is not just attributed to your abilities, but to your friendship with that phoenix. Without him, you surely would have perished."

Harry found himself nodding, even as he was shocked by the wealth of knowledge in front of him. There was enough for several large books, perhaps a dozen. He shook his head, unable to speak. Flamel continued, his voice suddenly grim.

"Harry, the only limit you truly have is your mind. If it can be conceived, it can be created."

Harry finally found himself speaking, looking up.

"But that's not true sir. I could not create magical blood."

The elderly man smiled, his eyes alight. He leaned forward to rest a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Only because you have not yet discovered the way to do so."

Harry sighed, looking down, lost in through. Finally he looked up, meeting the man's gaze.

"Sir, do you think the Muggles may be ready to know of us once more?"

The Alchemist looked surprised, and for a moment was lost in through. Finally, he spoke.

"It would take a great wizard to be bold enough to propose such a thing. We are all human, Harry, and if you have learned anything it is that humans desire power. Wizards, by right of birth, already possess more than their mundane counterparts. By being put at a disadvantage, the muggles by majority react with fear, and from fear comes hate and distrust. I was there, Harry. I saw the killings, on both sides. I saw whole villages raided and pillaged, and I saw wizarding children brutally slain. I lost some of my own."

He paused, his eyes gentle.

"But we wizards returned our anger with equal measure. Tell me, if the Muggles learned of us, how many would seek to identify us all, to keep tabs on us, to monitor our presence? How many will wish to segregate us out of fear and misunderstanding, and how many other would wish to exploit us? And how many unjust treatments would wizards take, being proud and superior? One wrong move, and the whole house of cards collapses. One child murdered on either side, one family slain. One diplomat assassinated. We are hopelessly outnumbered, and even more hopelessly outgunned. How would you overcome this?"

Harry looked away, eyes dim. Flamel reached out, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I helped propose the laws that stand today. I know our system has its faults, but it is a law to maintain peace. No matter how unjust it may seem, it holds back a tide of bloodshed."

Harry shook his head abruptly, anger rising in him.

"Why don't we ever give the Muggles credit? What if they want to live in peace, what if they want to be able to take advantage of our potions, and pay good money for them? What if Muggle business would like to pay wizards to ward offices and homes, think of the possibilities! Wizards could offer legitimate services and benefits, and Muggles could also do the same for wizards! Their technology is far superior to our own, and their quality of living is as well, for the most part. Why not merge our worlds?"

A smile teased the edge of Flamels thin mouth, and Harry realized his hands were clenched and forced himself to relax. Quietly, Flamel spoke.

"Well, Harry, I told you the only limit was your mind. Why not, indeed? If anyone could make it work, it would be you. Tread carefully, however. You will need to overcome enemies on both sides of the divide. I am only sad I will miss seeing it."

He spoke as if Harry had already decided. With a start, he realized it was true. He had decided. One day, the Muggle world would no longer be separate. One day, muggleborns would be able to openly talk of their good fortune in being born a wizard, and parents could be proud. One day, wizards and muggles would work side by side, together. He just had to find a way to get there.

The last time Harry saw the famous Nicholas Flamel was the man stepping forward to take the extended hand of Albus Dumbledore, the two old men standing there side by side. The Headmaster in glittering robes of blue with shooting silver stars, Flamel in rich scarlet robes with golden trim, both white haired with wrinkled skin. Flamel stood straight up, though it must have pained him, and met Harry's eyes with solemn bravery. His magic swirled around him suddenly in a suffocating cloud, and Harry saw it for the ancient creature it was, a force swollen by time and willpower, larger than Dumbledore's by leaps and bounds. Harry resisted the urge to kneel, instead he bowed low, his own magic rising to meet that of the ancient philosophers, an embrace that consisted of mind and soul.

"Farewell, Harry Potter."

His voice had an odd echo to it, as if three men spoke instead of one. Fawkes swooped down from the corner of the room, landing on the Headmaster's shoulder, his voice rising in a warbling song that copied the powerful pulse of the combined magic. Then Harry saw the flames rise from the phoenix in waves of heat and magic, and the two man vanished into flame.

In the absence of the opposing force, Harry fell to his knees, and the sobs began to wrack his form.

Hermione caught up with Luna as she was walking towards the Great Hall early Tuesday morning.

"Luna! Wait!"

The Ravenclaw had her shoes this time, and looked a bit more respectable, though she saw with some amazement what looked like radishes dangling from each earlobe. Pulling her eyes away from them, she met the bright silvery grey gaze.

"Um, Hi."

"Hello." She said simply, waiting. Hermione groaned internally, then spoke again.

"Have you, um, given any thought to our study group? I talked with Harry over the break, and he said…. well, that you were friends."

She finished lamely. Luna's head tilted and she absently raised a finger to loop a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She spoke softly, eyes looking away.

"Well, that's good then."

And started walking. Hermione quickly followed her, stamping down the anger and doubt with pure force of will.

"Well? The study group?"

Luna looked over at her. "You seem most concerned. I am getting along quite well, thank you."

Hermione was about to reply with perhaps a bit more force than necessary, when the Ravenclaw looked over Hermione's shoulders and tilted her head again.

"It seems we have company."

Hermione turned, and dread settled in her stomach like a stone.

Ron Weasley was waiting for her. His face was splotched with red, as if he had been crying, and anger was burning bright in his eyes. She found herself taking a step back despite herself at his fury as he held up a finger to point in her direction.

"You! And! That! Cat!"

Each word was punctuated with a stab. Hermione felt the dread grow. He had to be referring to Crookshanks, the large ginger feline her parents had purchased for her that summer in Diagon Alley. What had the blasted thing done this time? He had been acting a bit weird lately, but he was the cutest cuddliest ball of fur she had ever laid eyes on. Haltingly she spoke, afraid the wrong word would set the boy off.

"Surely it wasn't that bad?"

Ron stuttered a moment, eyes afire, before spitting out four more words in quick succession.

"He killed my rat!"

Hermione paled, and beside her Luna hummed in sympathy. Oh, no. Ron suddenly was fumbling with his robes, before whipping out his wand, the length of wood trembling slightly with its owners emotion. Hermione stepped back again, grabbing Luna to pull her along with her, but Ron thrust his wand out, his voice high with hot anger.

"Locomotor Mortis!"

Hermione barely thought, weeks of practice ingrained in her already as she raised her wand.

"Protego!"

The light bounced of the shield. Hermione held it up, watching as Ron flushed bright red at his failure, casting spell after spell in anger.

"Impedimenta! Petrificus Totalus! Locomotor Mortis! Reducto!"

The last spell was strong, and Hermione felt her shield waver and fall as the curse disintegrated. She hurriedly raised another one, but Ron's eyes had narrowed.

"So you've been practicing, have you? Well, so have I! Repello! "

Hermione braced herself, but Ron had not targeted her but the suit of armor beside and in front of her. The thing blasted apart, hurtling towards her with a speed she could not match. Hermione ducked down, pushing Luna to the floor, waiting for the impact.

"Tintinnabulum Scuto!" A voice cried out, and Hermione looked up to see a silvery shield springing into place where her Protego had been. The armor rammed into the shield, and a loud gong sounded, causing her to grasp her ears in pain. It echoed as if one had struck a large bell with a metal pole, and the noise made her entire body quiver. When the noise finally faded, she slowly stood up, seeing Blaise walking forward with a thunderous expression, his wand raised. She quickly shook her head, trying to speak but realizing her ears seemed fuzzy. She turned to see Ron, eyes wide and face pale, turn and run.

Hermione shook her head, mouth opening and closing as she spoke, testing her ears. Suddenly they cleared, and she turned to see Luna moving her wand from Hermione's direction to point at herself.

"Episkey." The Ravenclaw looked up with a slight smile at her gaze. "Minor healing spell."

Hermione nodded, speaking faintly. "I know."

Blaise was growling under his breath, and kicked a piece of metal armor away from where he stood. Hermione shook her head in amazement, eagerness replacing shock. She began speaking without thought, eye bright.

"I've heard of that spell! The Bell Shield, named for the sound it makes when it's hit by physical objects! It was discontinued for obvious reasons, namely being the fact that the noise usually does more damage to the castors that taking a curse would. How on earth did you know that one?"

Her shame on Crookshanks behalf had faded in her excitement at seeing such a spell in action. Blaise had never really struck her as the kind to look up arcane spells. The boy looked over at her with a sigh, his hand raising to scratch the back of his neck.

"Well, actually my mom used the spell as a tuning scale-sphere, she loves to sing you know. If you have the right piece of metal, you can tap the shield and make every range of sound you want. Great for getting the A note. That there was more of a… erm, low C. Or maybe D."

Hermione gaped. "Did you even know if that would stop that suit of armor?"

Blaise sheepishly grinned, placing his wand back in its holster.

"Well, it worked, didn't it? First thing that came to my mind, to be honest. Didn't know any other shield that can stop physical objects right off hand."

Hermione sighed, brushing off her robes.

"Well, it did work." Hermione turned to Luna. "You alright? I'm sorry about that."

She told Luna, but the blonde merely shrugged, beginning to walk in the direction of the Great Hall. Hermione shared a look with Blaise, then sighed and followed. Neville joined her, looking curiously at her companion. Hermione whispered to him the events that had happened, and the brown haired Gryffindor grimaced in sympathy, and shared a congratulatory look to the dark Slytherin. When they entered the Hall, Hermione and Neville split off from Blaise and headed towards the Gryffindor table. Suddenly Ron stood, his angry eyes meeting hers.

"Just stop right there. We don't want you sitting with us."

Hermione faltered, stopping. Further up the table, another red head looked up and over. Hermione saw it was Percy, the Head Boy that year. She waited for him to rebuff Ron, to defend her right to sit at the table. But the freckled boy turned away. Hermione felt her heart sink, looking over her classmates. Many did not meet her eyes, the first and second years looking confused, the upper years ambivalent. Internal problems in Gryffindor were usually solved within the yearmates, and seldom were interfered with. Factor in her friendship with three Slytherins, one of which was hated, and all bets were off. Still, it was against the rules for them to deny her a seat. Hermione pursed her lips, looking behind at Neville's angry eyes, and started to walk towards the table.

"You can sit with me, if you like."

The voice came from the side. Hermione turned to see Luna standing there, gaze focused on something only she could see. Ron's face twisted into a scornful smile.

"Yeah, go sit with Loony Lovegood. You two will fit right in."

Two. So Neville then was included in this childish game. Hermione knew if she pushed it she would win. The teachers would not allow Ron to deny her a seat at her own table. However, to sit at Ravenclaw might just make a point to the others. She didn't need Gryffindor's support, and she didn't want it. If they decided she wasn't welcome, then, so be it. She had better places she could go. With a last glance at the triumphant redhead, she followed Luna over to Ravenclaw and sat.

For a second there was a shocked silence, before voices began to pick up again, the sound of forks on places rising. Hermione looked around at the Ravenclaws who were giving them a wide berth. Suddenly she had a thought, and a giggle came out despite herself. Luna smiled, but Neville looked morosely confused. Hermione explained, shaking her head.

"We are now outcasts of Gryffindor with an outcast of Ravenclaw. Where do we go from here? Hufflepuff? Merlin knows Slytherin wouldn't take us."

Neville glanced over at the black and green table on the far side, seeing the inquisitive glances of Draco and Blaise.

"I don't know. If Harry was here, they just might."

Hermione violently stabbed a piece of chicken, her voice low.

"Well, he's not, is he?"

Neville sighed, and began to eat.

"Of course he won't mind, dear!"

When he had first gotten his letter to attend Hogwarts he had known in his heart that the luster of magic would never fade. His lifetime dream of being a photographer even held an extra shine to it, as he poured over books on magical photography processing, how to set up spells for protecting photos, the various potions that could be used to create both life and movement. And as a precious gift, his parents had purchased for him a top-of-the-line magical camera, silver and new, from Diagon Alley right after a wand had chosen him as its own.

"The people deserve to know!"

As he knelt on the cold stone floor of Hogwarts, Colin cradled the pieces of his beloved camera, and cried. Months had been spent in practice, learning to use wizarding film, learning technique and style. He had carried it everywhere, an extension of himself, taking pictures of all he saw that amazed him, barely able to help his excitement that brimmed over and spilt like water from an overflowing bucket. He was a wizard! He was magical!

"I know its not for the money, but…"

The tears ran down his face, dropping on his pale hands.

"Why, The Daily Prophet, of course!"

When he had seen Harry Potter walking down that hallway, seen the expression on his face, he had not even considered. He had been shocked to his core, and afraid, and his reaction had been to picture his fear behind the lenses of his camera, where things were safe and distant. He had snapped it, had felt his arms go limp with fear, had waited for the anger and accusations. They never came, and he had relaxed, had returned to his dorm shaking, unable to speak, and no one had noticed as they spoke of Ginny, sweet Ginny, and the Monster, and the Chamber of Secrets.

"Everyone will know your name, dear!"

He had walked out that night for Dinner, anxious and sweating over the photo he held, and there she had come upon him, her red lips stretched into a wide grin, her green eyes bright and shining. He had felt overwhelmed by the words tumbling from her mouth, smooth and sharp, like sweet poison. He had been swayed, had been comforted, and had given in with relief to the will of an adult who must have known what she was doing, she was a reporter, she told the truth.

"Rita Skeeter, top journalist."

He was an idiot. He had read the article accompanying his photo with painful dread. Had read the words with horror...dangerous...dark…powerful...doubts. Had felt his breath stop, his skin pale, the hair rising on his arms. People had patted him on the back, whispered congratulations, and he had looked up blankly and met dark silvery grey eyes filled with fury, felt the world sway under his feet.

"Don't you want this to be your career?"

He had ran, and not stopped running. He had sweated the train ride home, had only collapsed once he was safe in his room at home. Had hidden the galleons the owl delivered late one night. Had allowed himself to relax, to think it was all over now, that he was fine. When his brother received an acceptance letter as well, he made himself smile, made himself play the part of the happy older brother, but inside he quailed, he wanted to grab Dennis, shake him, tell him the magical world was not magical, it was a dark place, it would swallow your dreams and dump the pieces to rot on the ground and leave you alone. But he hadn't. He was a coward.

"I have connections to everyone who matters in our business."

When he returned nothing had changed, and everything was different. He distanced himself from Dennis, who looked up with wide wounded eyes, made himself turn away for his brothers sake. He was avoided in the hallways as if he might explode at any moment, as if he was a plague, and still he carried his camera as if it were armor. Protection against the stares, the whispers, the anger, the fear. It was his lifeline, his purpose, though he had not dared to raise it again, could not bring himself to capture another soul as he had The-Boy-Who-Lived in his darkest hour. He waited for the attack, had begun to think it wouldn't come. Ron had shaken his hand, smiled, and Colin tried to smile back but couldn't for the nausea rising in his throat. He thought about apologizing to Harry's friends, saw how ostracized they were, and his fear rose ever greater.

"We are professionals, you and I."

Then he had walked down this hallway, slowly and haltingly towards his destiny, his heart racing as the footsteps echoed behind him, had turned to meet those eyes that had haunted him since the end-of-year feast, a silvery grey that were dark with purpose and cold anger. The perfect smile on the angelic face, and he had not fought, because he was guilty, because he deserved this.

"It's just one photo."

The hands had grasped the camera from around his neck almost gently, lifting the leather strap over his head, holding it in pale slender fingers, gently running over the silver and black frame. His heart was no longer beating in his chest, but cradled in those very arms. A voice had echoed behind them, questioning. Draco? And the silvery eyes had turned, met dark brown, the anger rising, the words echoing over Colin's ears and running together so he could not even understand them, could not even realize who was speaking what. His eyes, his heart, was locked on the camera, on his dreams. He wouldn't want this, He wouldn't want you to. He's not here! Let him handle this. He's hasn't yet! Can't you see he is tortured enough? Look! I dont care! He hurt him! We stick together, Blaise. Slytherins!And the voice had risen, high and chilly like a song, a dirge, and the hands had lifted violently, Colin's eyes following the glint of torchlight on the metal frame, and then the crash, the segments splintering into a million sharp pieces, the bulb shattered, the frame twisted with the impact. He felt his knees hit the ground, the painful ache spreading up his chest to his head, and a film came over his eyes, the sobs rising violently to shake his frail body.

"That's a dear, now look at that portrait! That's just perfect. Perfect!"

The footsteps faded away, violent and angry, and he was left alone to pick up the pieces of his hopes and dreams, and he knew now that only the foolish thought magic held any luster at all.

"No harm done, Mr. Creevey. No harm at all."

~*~To be Continued: The Hunt~*~

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