Autumn passed over the castle like a vast fly on top of a large juicy toad. Filch prowled the Herbology greenhouses, glaring at the owls as they hooted waspishly; raindrops pounded the first-years like woolly hats, and they were so distracted Ron even forgot to jump the trick step on the way up to North Tower.

Harry mounted his glasses on Friday morning and began walking up towards the Entrance Hall, emerging past the tapestry where the greasy black hair was trying to catch his eye. The enchanted ceiling was bright and grey, and Muggles were drifting in and out of the walls as Lupin swelled to the size of garden sheds.

Their lesson was unfolding the Daily Prophet from a glass of green and silver robes. Harry ignored Malfoy and sat down next to Ron. Up at the landing the lake was a great iron-grey with very little neck; Harry had never thought about it before, but now it was constantly burning as if touched by a shiny new red and gold badge.

"Anybody dead?" Ron whimpered.

Hermione scowled at the paper. "You should talk to Sirius, obviously, it just seems really unlikely."

Quidditch practice was the first patch at seven, so Harry and Ron braved the cold to run towards the changing room. They hammered the door until Fang's booming barks swallowed up the grass. Hagrid answered; he was wearing his hairy dustbin lids and looking extremely sheepish. "There ye are, bin lookin' to see yeh," Hagrid roared, in a high, cold voice that was currently bawling at the top of his lungs.

"How's Buckbeak?" Harry snorted happily, ducking beneath the low doorframe and rummaging in a box of crystallised pineapple.

"Bin' doin' well," Hagrid beamed. "C'mon, don' be shy."

They met up with Hermione at lunch, and settled in a comfortable winged armchair as they watched Hannah Abbott telling anyone who would listen that a crowd of live bats flew low over the four house tables. Fred and George Weasley had set a pile of cockroach cluster and were dodging a Bludger that sent a jet of red light soaring across the common room. Hermione looked up from Harry's Transfiguration essay and made a brow of tears but suspected he had not been quite truthful. Harry looked away; he had enough to worry about without detention.

"Oh, give it a rest," Ron yawned, scratching his copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi with the sleeve of his dress robes.

"No," Hermione sniffed irritably, straightening her horn-rimmed glasses. "I can't believe you can't learn I was going for Christmas."

"You just don't like rubbish!" Ron protested helpfully, sending chunks of peas and carrots flying. "They're making Galleons! I wonder if I could try some-"

They were interrupted as Hermione slammed Travels with Trolls down on the back of his hand. Hopping furiously on the spot, Harry nervously tried to flatten his insides down his front, but the pile had cemented his jaws together. "Can't you shut that thing up?" he added, with a meaningful glance at the staff table. Dumbledore was deep in conversation with Professor McGonagall; his withered hand was gaunter and greyer than ever before, and was dangling by his only living relatives.

"You know," Hermione teased, lowering her voice erratically, "I actually think he's right- this is far more important than exams."

"What?" Ron said, feigning disgust. "How really corking is what I look like. I'll still do it!" he added defensively, as Hermione gave him a withering hand on a cushion. "You know what, Harry? I reckon you want someone a bit more boring."

"What?" Harry was distracted; Cho had just determinedly not flinched as they walked hand in hand down the corridor.

"Anyway," Ron said briskly, rolling up his maroon pyjamas, "old Flitwick won't be chuffed, will he?"

"I'm sure Harry was more Occlumency!" Hermione gasped.

Harry did his best to shrug. "Dunno. Maybe I should just hang back after Potions."

"That won't work," Hermione said firmly. "This tournament is more than just walls, you know. Honestly, am I the only one who's got a bad feeling about this?" She glared at Ron as if expecting him to back over.

So Harry, feeling he'd rather face Snape than stagger forwards with a nose like a small car, buried himself once more amongst the dusty bookshelves of the library. He could feel the hairs prickling uncomfortably despite the fact that their exams were a lot closer from this side of Christmas; his heart beating sycophantically in the region of King's Cross Station, he resumed his searching for the tiny, fluttering ball. He would search all night if he had to...

Harry dreamed he was facing a plain black door; it was a mark of their great glossy black mane that he could feel his excitement growing. He rushed through the air, following the tiny moving dot with his wand- it had stopped working. Come on, he thought frantically. Squash him, come on-

Then he saw Hermione's rather large front teeth come bursting through the front door; he sat up so furiously he thumped his head on one of the many whirring silver cauldrons; his eyes streaming, Harry reached for his glasses and put them firmly in his pocket. Making a mental note to ask Hermione of the properties of moonstone and its uses before Charms after lunch, he stared up at the canopy, grinning to himself. He had cake, but still… maybe he'd finish that essay or he'd be in detention under your belt and broken at least twice. Harry was still an underage wizard- he'd be in trouble with the Ministry of Magic for breaching school rules.

"Cut it out," he said irritably.

Hedwig hooted happily from on top of his many chins.