The sombre mood that descended on their picnic after that never really lifted, and Remus finally called the lesson to a close, sending them off with some books for Harry to peruse before next time. Harry didn't much see the point, but Hermione stowed them in her pack for him anyway.

When they headed back to the dormitory, Hermione again took his arm. He'd continued to offer it, as she seemed to draw more support from it than the obvious physical kind. Harry felt he needed something to cling to as well, and Hermione helped ground him, though he couldn't help but notice a slight new tenacity in her grip.

"It's okay," he assured her. "I probably won't even meet any vampires. At least, none intent on killing me. Remus just wants me to be prepared, is all."

"Hm? Oh, I know," she said distractedly. "It isn't that. I only..." She seemed to decide the thought was better left unvoiced. "I'm fine," was all she finally added.

Harry, however, wasn't as confident in his statement as he'd wanted Hermione to believe. There had been something urgent about Remus' lesson, as though he had wanted Harry to know how close this particular threat was without freaking him out completely. Harry had the feeling he was already a very sought after 'vintage'.

He was so preoccupied with these thoughts, he failed to notice Draco Malfoy leaning sulkily against the wall ahead of them until they were practically on top of him. Draco pushed himself off the wall as they approached as though he'd been waiting for them. Harry stiffened, ready for conflict, and Hermione gave his arm a cautioning squeeze, but Malfoy looked anything but hostile. Though he sneered at the sight of their linked arms, it was weak and habitual. Actually, Draco looked like Hell.

"Granger," he said with a barely perceptible nod. He acted as though someone held him at wandpoint and warned him to be civil. He did not acknowledge Harry at all.

"Malfoy," Hermione returned, just as stiffly.

Harry was so surprised that the two were on speaking terms, however terse, that he didn't interject. But after an awkward silence, during which Hermione seemed to be waiting patiently for...Merlin knows what, and Draco toed the ground irritably, Harry finally decided he'd had as much of the other boy's company as he could stomach.

"Sod off, Malfoy," he spat, veritably dragging Hermione with him as he left the boy behind. She seemed somehow reluctant, but she allowed Harry to lead her away.

"I'm sorry!" Malfoy blurted at their backs.

Harry's jaw dropped and he turned to Draco, stunned.

"I...I only wanted to say it, is all," Draco added (more belligerent than remorseful, Harry thought) before turning to flee in the opposite direction.

"What was that about?" Harry wondered aloud after Draco had disappeared around a distant corner.

Hermione looked conflicted. She took Harry's arm and began walking again before answering. "You missed it, Harry," she began finally. "It was...bad...after the Accident." That's how she'd been referring to it. 'The Accident'. "They took me to the infirmary, but it was so chaotic, and I was just so..." For the first time in her life, Hermione seemed unsure how to articulate something. "I just wanted to go somewhere quiet. So after they gave me a bandage for my forehead, I left for Gryffindor Tower."

This must have been what Snape had been referring to when he said Dumbledore had lost her. They had probably gone to collect her to the Headmaster's office after she'd had time to be attended to, but in all the commotion she'd simply walked off to find some peace. This was presumably while Harry was busy blowing things up and chatting with the monster who murdered their friend.

"I don't really know what possessed me," she confided, "but on the way to the dormitory, I came across Draco. He wasn't alone. There were these two girls from his House. They had him cornered, and they were making fun of him because it looked like he'd been crying. They were saying such cruel things, Harry, about his parents' divorce and Lucius being sent to Azkaban. I think it just made me so angry because they were meant to be his friends. And at a time like that, when so many bad things were happening. I tried to ignore them, I really did, but I just couldn't. I may have told them off," she confessed hesitantly, "A bit."

"You what?" said Harry, so surprised that he forgot to keep walking.

Hermione dropped his arm to hug herself, looking uncomfortable. "Well, I was emotional and confused," she said defensively, as if coming to someone's aid was something to be ashamed of. "It all just seemed so unfair, him being all alone...like I was," she added in a small voice. "But the girls weren't even bothered. They just laughed at me, and at him. Apparently, I had only made things worse, and Draco got so angry with me, he said...he said, 'F-off, will you'," she whispered, undoubtedly censoring the exchange. "'I don't need help from some filthy Mudblood.'"

Harry was livid. If he'd known about the insult while the git was still within striking distance, Draco's perfect, well-bred nose would not now be so straight. Harry'd have knocked the point right off it. He made a mental note to do so as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

"It's really not a big deal," Hermione placated. "I wasn't even very offended. It only made me sad for him," she shrugged. "I just walked off and went to bed."

Harry's murderous impulse warred for attention with his grudging respect for his friend who, even at a time of such devastating personal loss, was able to set aside years of antagonism and stand up against a perceived injustice. She was a far better person than Harry was. He certainly would not have been so charitable.

"You know, you aren't alone anymore," he told her quietly, taking one of her hands in his. She gave Harry's fingers a grateful squeeze, but her smile was evanescent.

Despite the unease brought about by their encounter with Malfoy and Remus' lesson, the rest of the day passed much more comfortably than the one before. At least Hermione seemed restored to herself. A melancholy version, but herself nonetheless. They spent most of their time making up Harry's schoolwork and carefully avoiding mention of absent friends and recent events in general.

Harry wondered if Hermione felt the same subtle guilt he did at finding it so easy to function at all so soon after 'the Accident'. Harry realised with a pang that he didn't even know what had happened to Ron. He knew he hadn't 'died', not in a traditional sense, and he tried very hard not to imagine Mrs. Weasley tending to his soulless shell. Surely they would not allow it to be sustained. But did they let the body wither on its own, or did they humanely stop his heart? Or did they bury him, still breathing, in the family plot?

The morbidity of these thoughts threatened to make Harry physically ill, and he shoved them aside. It didn't matter, he told himself. Ron was gone. That was it. And though he didn't try to run from it anymore, Harry's grief found him at odd times. Like as he was finishing his Transfiguration essay and couldn't understand why his ink kept running, only to realise he'd been crying on his parchment. To her credit, Hermione always pretended not to notice when Harry discreetly wiped his cheek on his sleeve.

Harry visited Remus again that night. His guardian appeared to have been expecting him, as the tea had been ready to pour when Harry arrived. Harry slept soundly that night and woke the next morning all that more confident that Remus was right. Harry was strong enough to make it through this. His life hadn't ended with Ron's.

Harry and Hermione dispensed with the umbrella on Monday. Harry was almost sad to see it go but honestly had begun to feel a bit silly. Hermione, however, continued to reach for his arm. There were whispers in the halls, but Harry didn't care. There would always be whispers. At least this time he was choosing what they were whispering about.

They were on their way to Defence Against the Dark Arts that afternoon when Hermione unexpectedly tugged Harry toward the dungeons.

"Where are we going? I thought DADA was next period."

"Haven't you heard?" she asked as though she wished she hadn't. "Cobblesn-...I mean, Cobbleshot has moved it to a different classroom."

"What? Why?"

"Oh, who knows," she muttered crossly. "She certainly seems like close friends with Snape. Maybe she has a crush. We haven't had Defence Against the Dark Arts yet. Perhaps she'll enlighten us." Hermione hardly seemed to be holding her breath.

They were among the last to arrive and met the rest of their classmates outside their new room. They drew their share of dirty or curious looks, but most of the group was too busy buzzing about their new professor and change of venue to pay Harry and Hermione much attention.

"What do you suppose she'll teach us?"

"She couldn't possibly be as vile as that Umbridge woman."

"Oh my gods, have you seen the state of her hair? Don't they sell moisturising potion where she's from?"

Typical speculation, really. Though, no one seemed to want to be the first inside, not even Hermione, which Harry reckoned had to be a first. Eventually, as the official start of class drew closer, the crowd began to file in with Harry and Hermione bringing up the rear. Even from outside, Harry could tell that it was unusually dark in the classroom, even for the dungeons. The room seemed to be lit with only a handful of low-burning candles levitated around the perimeter.

Harry had barely crossed the threshold, and his eyes were still struggling to adjust to the change in illumination, when there was a sudden burst of blinding light. A forceful spell exploded against the back wall of the room, directly above the group of students in front of him. The classroom erupted into screams and curses. In an instant, Harry had drawn his wand, and he ploughed his way to the head of the gathering, searching for the assailant.

All he found when he got there was Professor Cobbleshot, sitting cross-legged atop her desk, looking almost bored.

When they finally realised they weren't really under attack, the rest of the class quieted and turned to watch whatever seemed to be unfolding at the front of the room. Professor Cobbleshot studied Harry in that strange, blank way of hers and then, to Harry's surprise, she began to slowly applaud. Harry's heart was still hammering in his chest. He was beyond annoyed.

"Ten points to Gryffindor," she announced quietly. Harry wondered if she was even capable of raising her voice or of expressing anything other than mild apathy. She stowed her wand, but Harry was still hesitant to lower his own. He was beginning to understand Hermione's animosity.

The rest of the class muttered as well, casting both Cobbleshot and Harry strange looks as they brushed the smouldering ash from their hair which was still drifting through the room from the parchment poster destroyed by the blast.

"Take a seat," Cobbleshot instructed.

Harry and Hermione claimed the two very furthest from the front, and so furthest from the odd woman they both had reason to dislike, and no one bothered to fight them for the spots.

"There are what? Close to twenty of you here?" Cobbleshot observed when everyone was settled, "And the only one of you with enough presence of mind to draw their wand was Mister Potter."

Harry sank lower in his seat to avoid the sudden attention cast his way. He was almost embarrassed, having acted on an instinct no one else present had had any cause to develop.

"What that tells me," she went on, "is that you have learned precious little in this class save complacency."

Cobbleshot waved her hand and the candles along the walls shone a little brighter, causing everyone to flinch as if expecting another spell. But it seemed Cobbleshot merely wanted a better look at her students. Or else, she was allowing them to see her better.

She was Umbridge's antithesis. Cobbleshot was thin and pale and decked in black from head to toe, and not in traditional robes, either, but in a Muggle-looking shirt and trousers that appeared sturdy and well-worn. She also apparently was little concerned with Magical Theory. In fact, as several of the students began to pull out their textbooks and quills, she tapped the top of the desk she was seated on with one of her longish nails to call their attention.

"No books today," she announced. "You've proved to me you aren't ready for them. No quills and no parchment."

Rather grudgingly, Hermione returned her things to her bag, eyeing the professor suspiciously. Harry knew that look. She was contemplating more than just Cobbleshot's prohibition on parchment.

"Your first lesson here will be on instinct. Tell me," Cobbleshot addressed an unfortunate Ravenclaw in the front row, "do you expect me to teach you spells?"

The girl shifted uncomfortably under the woman's scrutiny. "Well. Naturally," she said in a small, hesitant voice.

"Naturally," Cobbleshot repeated in a way that made it impossible to tell what she thought of the answer. She continued to stare at her until the girl became so uncomfortable she looked away.

"And why," Cobbleshot said then, addressing the rest of the class, "do spells work?" When it was clear no one was going to volunteer an answer, she continued. "Is it the motion of the wrist?" she hypothesised, pantomiming, "Or perhaps the pronunciation of the words?"

"Of course," Hermione said, unable to hold her tongue any longer. Harry could hear the challenge in her voice even if he could not have read it on her face. "Everyone knows that without both being done properly, a spell will not succeed. It's the first thing they taught us as First Years."

"Is it indeed?" Cobbleshot asked, the corner of her mouth twitching into an almost smile. "But what if I told you those are merely crutches, training wheels for novices? When I brought up the lights, did you hear an incantation? Had I even drawn my wand?"

Hermione clearly resented the implication that her extensive knowledge was an elaborate indication of some weakness, but she bit her tongue.

"A spell works because it triggers an innate ability within all of us," Cobbleshot explained to the class. "No matter how impressive the wand, no matter how perfectly delivered the incantation, a Muggle could no more Levitate a feather than could a chimp. But we...we are special," she said looking at them each in turn.

Her words disturbed Harry, and when she met his eyes, he shuddered.

"How many of you performed spontaneous magic before you were toilet-trained? Before you could even say the word Incendio, how many inadvertently set fire to the draperies?"

From the sheepish looks she got, apparently several of them. Or if not the draperies, then perhaps the rug or bedsheets.

"Incantations are tools," Cobbleshot said firmly. "They allow us to tap a very specific aspect of the raw, primal power within us. The words access it and the wand channels and magnifies it. Yet, as children, we simply had to will a thing strongly enough and, 'poof', it happened."

Harry thought about his own experiences with accidental magic. Growing his hair overnight. Vanishing glass. Leaping to the school roof to escape Dudley's gang. Cobbleshot might be off-putting, but despite himself, he found what she was implying intriguing.

"As we grow older, our minds become more structured. We're taught rules. We're taught self-control. We're told how the world works and how to function in it. These structures act like walls, restricting our access to that which once flowed free and untamed in our youth. In some ways, this is a good thing. Much safer for those around us, to be sure. But at the same time, it limits us. And having reached an age where we can use our gifts responsibly, we find we are unable to do so without the aid of wands and words. But when one is faced with a more skilled, more powerful opponent, the fraction of a second that it takes to swish and flick, to mutter a string of syllables, could very well cost us our lives. Against what awaits us out there, beyond our wards, directed with malice in ever increasing magnitude by a Dark genius...that time is a luxury we cannot afford."

Everyone in the room, Hermione included, was captivated by this speech. Cobbleshot's words, lilting in a subtle accent Harry couldn't quite place, had veritably enchanted the entire class.

"And so, the first lesson I will teach you is on instinct. We will map the labyrinth you've constructed around your potential so that you can access that raw power without thought, without doubt, without hesitation. You will still speak the words, still wave your wand, but when we're done here, it will be an action simultaneous to the casting, not the catalyst of it. There is a spell written on the chalkboard," she informed them. Harry hadn't noticed it until she had pointed it out and wasn't sure it had been there before she had spoken. "Memorise it. Write it down later to contemplate the shape of it if you like, but do not," she said with a knowing glance to Hermione, "look it up. And do not cast it. Your homework is to become acquainted with this spell. Let it tell you what it does. Stare at it. Repeat it in your mind. Whisper it aloud and taste the sound of it on your tongue. Slowly, it will reveal itself to you. Write down all it tells you. As you begin to know it better, it will show you what colour it is, what shape, what sound, what smell. Record all your impressions-you'll be turning them in to me later-but do not share them with your classmates. There is to be no discussion between you. Trust me. I'll know. And when next we meet here, you will cast this spell for me, and we shall see what it has taught you. Class dismissed."

The instructions had been so detailed and intense, and the dismissal so abrupt and unexpected, that for a moment no one moved. Cobbleshot's spell had been so potent that it took them a moment to wake back to the mundane world around them. And quite besides that, it was still ages until next period.

Finally, without a word despite the fortune of an early dismissal, the class gathered their things and filed back out of the room. Cobbleshot sat on her desk and she watched them go, looking as though she were absolutely bored to death.