Each night for the rest of the week, Harry followed Snape through the Locked Door. Their routine became easy, practically companionable. It was a bit like having tea with Remus had been but with far, far less urge for touching or talking. Snape's long silences were comforting too, though, in their way. Once, it would have bothered him, but Harry had stopped worrying about what acidic thoughts Snape might not be voicing. He merely accepted that Snape wasn't one to speak unless he really had something to say, and typically, all he had to say to Harry was scathing and critical. For the most part, as long as Harry gave him no provocation, Snape remained silent, ostensibly so Harry could focus on his work.

It wasn't that they didn't talk at all, however. Harry found that, though he'd never had an aptitude for potions himself, he didn't need practical skill to express an interest. Before starting his nightly exercise, he'd question Snape on this potion or that elixir. The Potions Master, perhaps unaccustomed to anyone showing any interest in what he did-or to giving anyone the opportunity to voice it-seemed to grudgingly enjoy placating Harry's relentless curiosity, occasionally discussing some of the intricacies of potion-making with him.

"Potions are entirely about chemistry and compatibility of ingredients, Harry. However, it isn't as straightforward as it seems. Often times, two ingredients that seem as though they would be compatible reveal themselves to be anything but. It may be for any number of reasons. Reasons you might not discover until you try to join them, and ironically, it is precisely that unpredictability which makes potion-making and invention so satisfying. Other times, you come across ingredients which, on the surface, do not seem as if they could possibly co-habit the same formula. But again, something about their nuance compliments the other, and the results can be startling. Take Moondew and Sal Ammoniac for instance..."

Harry found that, once Snape really got going, he could speak with no need of input for long periods of time, and sometimes when this happened, Harry would forget his task entirely and pour all his mindfulness into simply listening to the sound of Snape's voice as the man himself tinkered with his equipment or carefully measured and bottled finished products. Even when Harry had no idea what Snape was talking about, the deep, rich texture of his voice, which it seemed to adopt whenever Snape wasn't commanding or berating Harry, was almost mesmeric.

The stability of their routine helped ground Harry while he still struggled with...everything else. Mostly Remus. Especially Remus. Still, he began to wonder if his detention was meant to be indefinite, as Harry had other things on his mind, as well.

Each night after leaving Snape's rooms, Harry had a ritual all his own. Through his Map, Harry had noticed that-not every night, but most-Eric Conners would be at the alcove where he seemed to wait. Whether he had company and how much varied night to night. Eric wasn't always the one in the alcove when others showed up. It seemed he was a kind of place-holder, or a look-out, or else a kind of overseer. Whether he participated or not, it was undoubtedly Eric's alcove. Harry hadn't spoken to him, though he'd seen him around campus. Or rather, it seemed Eric had seen him. Looked for him. But Harry wasn't ready yet to pay his own clandestine visit. He would want it to be when no one else was around, and he hadn't yet figured out when that was most likely to be.

He received a little encouragement Friday, however, in the form of an anonymous note dropped by his plate during dinner. Harry didn't notice it at first as he was still keeping a weather eye on Hermione and Draco. By the time he did notice, whoever delivered it seemed to be long gone. There were no pink ink or hearts this time. (Though, there had been a couple of others since, and he'd treated them the same as the first.) This one simply said: 'Shy?'

Harry wiped his hands on his jeans and looked around at the occupants of the Hall, and while his head was turned another note appeared. He discovered it where the first had been. Glancing about nervously, he opened the second with shaking hands.

'Tomorrow night. Just us. Bring the bondage straps.'

Harry swallowed, eyes wide. Well, that certainly made things simpler. Harry hadn't even needed to do the pursuing. Maybe he wouldn't have to endure a fat lip, after all. He looked around again, finally spotting golden hair and blue eyes. For a long while, Eric wouldn't relinquish Harry's gaze. Then he winked at him. It was slow and unambiguous, and Harry, suddenly light-headed, felt the urge to return to Gryffindor as quickly as possible.

The next day, Harry had his first private lesson with Professor Cobbleshot. It was no good being distracted at such a time, as Harry still didn't particularly like or trust his new professor, but he couldn't quite help himself. The previous day's invitation sat smotheringly on his mind like a patch of Devil's Snare.

She took him outside the Castle walls; alone, which made him more than a little nervous. The late afternoon sky overhead was overcast, but she still hissed when she crossed the threshold to the outer grounds. Cursing under her breath and shielding her eyes from the sun, Cobbleshot led Harry under the cover of the trees.

"We need privacy for what I'm about to teach you, My Harry," she explained in her jagged voice. Harry eyed her dubiously but followed her further into the copse, unsettled but telling himself that surely the people Harry trusted must trust her, or else the two would be supervised. She moved easily, almost gracefully, through the grasping underbrush and between the trees as if she were in her natural habitat. Judging by her tough, practical clothes, Harry supposed she was used to this sort of thing. Harry was not so much, and he cursed softly each time the greedy, grasping twigs and branches ripped another small hole in his new clothes.

"This will do," she informed him when they reached a small clearing in the trees. Not only were they out of sight of the Castle, Harry wasn't entirely certain which direction led him back to it.

Cobbleshot did not immediately begin. While Harry picked bits of twig from his jumper, she regarded him very like she had that night in Grimmauld Place, almost as if he were a juicy cut of meat. Forgetting his jumper, he cautiously drew his wand as she stalked around him like a circling shark.

"No wand today," she said, easily taking it from him. She'd been mostly behind him, and by the time he noticed her movement in his peripheral, she'd already snatched it from his hand.

"Hey!" he objected, trying to take it back. There were few things in the Wizarding World that showed worse manners than taking another Wizard's wand. She danced back with a wicked look of amusement and still would not return it. Harry's temper flared and his scar began to prickle.

"Uh-uh," she chided, wagging a finger at him. "Temper, Harry. Do as Dear Severus taught you, now."

Harry ground his teeth, glaring at her, but obeyed. He took a deep, mind-clearing breath a d focused on the sound of the breeze twisting through the dying leaves overhead, on the stirring of some animal in the brush. He made himself mindful of the texture of the ground beneath his feet and the musty smell of decaying leaf litter. He made himself mindful of his own breath and heartbeat, and eventually, they slowed. His scar stilled.

Cobbleshot cackled again, but softly. "Too good. Now. I know you won't like it, but I'll be staying behind you. Try not to look at me. We don't want to give me away to the Dark Lord." She said the name mockingly.

Harry made sure to keep his eyes averted but scowled as he asked, "How did you know-?"

"I need to know, and so I do," she said plainly. "Now, why do you think we are here, My Harry?"

"You're training me." That much was fairly obvious. At least, he hoped that was the reason they were there.

"Yes, but to do what?"

If everyone wants me to be psychic, why aren't I training with Trelawny, as well? he thought irritably. Harry focused on the trees again. "To protect myself against Voldemort."

His completely lack of hesitance to say Voldemort's name seemed to excite her again. "Yes," she hissed, "but what if he disarms you?" She waved his wand just within Harry's sight then withdrew again. "Conventional thinking is you'd be snake-food, yes? But we'll show him won't we, my beauty?" she whispered, suddenly close, caressing Harry's hair.

He batted her away like a pesky fly. "Can you try to not be so weird and touchy and stuff? It's really putting me off," Harry said petulantly.

"Apologies, Harry," she said sincerely. "I've just waited for you for such a long time." He could hear the crunch of her footfall in the dead leaves as she stepped back. "Now, you're before the Dark Lord. You have no wand. You're at his mercy. What do you do?"

Harry tried desperately to think of breezes and creaking tree limbs and birdsong, but all he could envision was exactly what she'd mentioned: Being bound and wandless. Watching helplessly while Voldemort commanded that Cedric be killed. Killed effortlessly, as if he were an afterthought, like tossing a piece of rubbish.

"Yes. You know this pain. You know. But do not succumb to it. That's what he wants. Remember, Harry, you aren't so helpless anymore."

Harry felt helpless. If she didn't have something really fantastic to teach him...

"What do you know about Wandless Magic, Harry?"

Harry shook off the vision, ignored the tear on his cheek. "Wandless Magic?" he asked absently.

"Remember when I turned up the lights that day? No wand. Several powerful Wizards can do similar small parlour tricks. Wandless Magic is seen as a kind of novelty by most. The average Witch or Wizard cannot perform it at all, and even the strongest of us can do little more than make candles flare. But you are unique."

"How so?" Harry asked, his heart skipping a beat. Hope was beginning to override his scepticism. He'd done Wandless Magic before. And he'd done so much more than bring up lights.

She did not respond, but he could almost feel her grin on the back of his neck. "What purpose does a wand serve, Harry?"

"Can't you just tell me what to do?" Harry sighed.

"Allow me this small pleasure. I've had so few these past fifteen years," she said.

Wind. Leaves.

"Fine," he said. "A wand is a conduit. It concentrates and directs."

"Is there not something uniquely in your possession which might do the same?" she asked slyly. Harry tried to resist the urge to bring a hand to his scar but couldn't prevent his fingers from twitching.

"That's right, Harry! The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not! " Again the cackle and, from the sound of it, a small dance of glee.

"Okay," Harry said, wetting his lips, "but we can't. I mean, he knows when I use it. I can't really practice."

"Hence not looking at me, but practice we must. Don't let him in, Harry, and he won't understand."

"Can you do it?" Harry asked, wondering how it was she was such an authority.

"We don't all have such powerful gifts. But some of us, with enough training, are not so helpless as most."

"Show me," he demanded, pulse racing.

She moved back into Harry's line of sight with deliberate steps, locking eyes with him like they were engaged in some sort of dance. Her smile was slow and mysterious as if to say, 'just wait until you see this'.

She turned to one of the trees in front of them, letting her arms fall to her sides, palms out, and closed her eyes. Cobbleshot inhaled deeply, throwing back her head in a manner that was almost obscene, and on the exhale, her head snapped back up, her eyes flew wide, and she breathed the spell.

"Animus Secretum.''

Harry saw nothing leave her, but pieces of splintered bark burst off the surface of the tree directly ahead, flying in all directions. Before they even finished hitting the ground, Harry rushed forward to examine it. It looked as though the tree had been used for knife practice. Half a dozen shallow slashes scarred the surface; superficial, but no doubt highly uncomfortable had this been a person instead. Harry touched the scarred wood almost reverently, then turned back to Cobbleshot with bright eyes. "You can teach me to do this?

"My Little Harry," she whispered affectionately, "I have no doubt I can teach you to do so much more."

Without having to be told, Harry quickly resumed his original position several paces from the tree. Cobbleshot stepped back out of sight, her eyes never leaving Harry as she went, every line of her body screaming in anticipation.

"Focus, Harry," she instructed. "Be here only. Find the power inside you and allow it to come. Don't think about how, just give it permission. See what you would strike and remove the leash. Are you ready?" She sounded ready. She sounded almost manic.

Harry nodded. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Harry reached within himself. There was the spell he'd courted the week before, full of contradiction and power. He greeted it like a friend.

"Be here, Harry. Open your eyes. See your target."

Harry did. He chose a spot on the tree ahead and focused, solidifying his intent.

And then, he breathed.

"Animus Secretum."

Without the aid of his wand this time, the air in front of his scar began to swell with light and shadow, but it did not obstruct his vision. He felt Voldemort stir, but he filled himself with here, now, giving him no foothold. His scar burned with cold fire.

"Now, Harry!" Cobbleshot cried.

He let go. The orb shot across the distance, striking the tree and blowing a crater in its trunk the size of an apple. Splinters flew all the way back to rain over Harry where he stood, swaying. Harry's vision darkened around the edges, and he felt himself falling, felt himself being caught by strong, thin arms before he hit the ground. He was beyond spent, and his vision swam. He was vaguely aware of spindly fingers gently stroking the hair from his brow.

"Perfection," Harry heard Cobbleshot whisper, a smile in her voice. And just before he lost consciousness, Harry smiled as well.

He slowly came to to find himself floating through the hallways, unsure how he'd gotten there. He realised Cobbleshot must be carrying him, and then that that shouldn't have been possible, but he was too dizzy still to focus on it.

"What-?" he asked groggily, trying to lift his head.

"Are you awake already?" she said, pleased. She set him on his feet but too soon and too quickly, and he almost found himself on the floor. "There now," she said, supporting him with an arm around his back. "I know. It's difficult at first, but before you need it, we'll be sure you can keep your eyes open afterwards."

"Did I really do what I think I did?" he asked.

"Oh, indeed you did." She handed him a chocolate frog, and he accepted it but was surprised. "Did you think it was only good for Dementors?" she asked with a quirk of her eyebrow. "Eat it, and then to bed," she insisted, pulling him faster than he cared for down the corridor.

"Mm-Mn," he grunted around his chocolate, shaking his head. He swallowed enough to allow him to speak. "I can't go to bed," he explained thickly, "I have detention."

She scoffed. "You leave that old toad to me," she assured him.

Harry almost choked on his chocolate. He didn't know of anyone who had ever dared refer to Snape as a toad. Harry barked a short laugh despite himself, and she gave him a brittle smile.

"Don't you worry, Little One. I know how to handle that one. But here we are. To bed," she repeated when they reached the Portrait Hole.

Harry had regained most of his strength, the chocolate having helped immensely, and he stood on his own and regarded her. "Thank you, Professor," he said sincerely.

"My friends call me Cobs," she croaked, winking at him.

"Does that mean we're friends now?" he smiled back cheekily.

"Oh, My Little Harry," she sighed, running a fingertip down his cheek, causing him to flinch. "I'd like us to be best of friends." Harry's good humour was abruptly extinguished, and he swallowed uncomfortably, but his expression only seemed to tickle her. "Go to bed now. Unless you'd like me to tuck you in?"

No threat could have been more effective. Harry scrambled through the Portrait Hole without another word, hearing her soft chuckle fade as the Portrait swung to a close behind him.