...hi. It's been a while. Life's been hard. But I'm back and ready to pick up where we left off with Cass and company. This chapter is very canon heavy and kind of boring, but it features some fun Cass/Harry sibling dynamics, some good ol' Cass/Dumbledore animosity, and the introduction of Slughorn. Next chapter, we'll be at the Burrow, and we'll get to the meat of HBP. I hope you'll all still join me for the ride.

THUD!

Not much had changed on the street where Harry lived. The houses were still all the same color, the lawns still manicured, and lights still illuminating every identical set of numbers identifying the identical houses. After getting my bearings, I turned to Dumbledore.

"He does know we're coming, doesn't he?" I called. "Surprise visits are your thing, after all."

"As a matter of fact, Harry is fully aware that I'm coming this evening," he replied serenely. "You are the surprise visitor this time around."

"Me?" I snapped. "Why? What'd you even bring me here for anyway, Professor?"

"All will be revealed," he said again. "In a few minutes, give or take. Follow me."

I wasn't one to not question Dumbledore, but since I had nothing to go, I had no choice. I ambled closely behind him as we headed for Number Four, with its perfectly manicured flower beds and pristine paint job. Dumbledore reached out his hand to ring the doorbell, which chimed merrily across the silent row of houses.

After a moment or two, we heard thunderous footsteps getting closer to the door. Suddenly, the door flew open to reveal a big, tall man in a dressing gown the color of vomit. He had a head of bushy, black hair and an equally bushy black mustache, and he scowled at us unrelentingly. Dumbledore and I each forced a smile.

"Good evening, you must be Mr. Dursley," Dumbledore said coolly. "I daresay Harry has told you we were coming?"

Judging by the stupefied look on his face, Mr. Dursley did not know we were coming.

"Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that I was coming," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "However, let us assume that you have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times."

I followed as Dumbledore stepped lightly over the threshold, closing the front door behind him. I caught a glimpse of his blackened hand, and a knot formed in my stomach, tightening around my organs. That can't be good, I though. It just can't.

I scanned the foyer of the house, which was covered wall to wall with photographs of Vernon and who I could only assume were his wife and son, Harry's aunt and cousin. Before I could follow Dumbledore into the living room, my eyes landed on the stairs, where Harry stood before me. He looked the same as ever – glasses scratched, hair sticking up in all directions, eyes wide and a little confused – but something in his eyes looked older, sadder. He looked tired.

"Oh my god, Harry!" I exclaimed, praying that he'd return my enthusiasm upon seeing him. To my surprise, he shuffled down the stairs, took two large steps toward me, and wrapped his arms around me in an unexpectedly tight hug. I recoiled slightly at the force of a sixteen-year-old boy unexpectedly hurling himself at me, but I wrapped my arms around him slowly to return the hug. When we both pulled away, I put my hand on his shoulder and searched his face. He looked even more exhausted up close. I wondered if the nightmares had returned for him, the same way they had for me.

"Cass…what are you doing here?" he asked, bewildered.

I shrugged. "Dunno yet. Dumbledore took me from head-well, from you-know-where, but didn't really say why. I know we're probably both headed to the Weasley's, but not sure where else we're going."

Harry nodded slowly, parsing what I'd just said. I motioned for him to follow me into the living room, where Dumbledore was now standing, introducing himself to Harry's aunt and cousin. Harry's aunt looked the same in her photographs – blonde hair, long face, wide eyes, mouth that was perpetually frowning – and his cousin was the spitting image of his father, only about four inches taller.

"Aren't — aren't we leaving, sir?" Harry asked anxiously. He wasn't the only one who wanted to get the hell out of the house.

"Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we need to discuss first," said Dumbledore. "We shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle's hospitality only a little longer."

"You will, will you?" Vernon snapped from the kitchen. I gave him my best death-glare, but it didn't do much to deter him from being nasty for no reason. Nevertheless, Dumbledore flicked his wand and the sofa zoomed forward, scooping up all three Dursley's and knocking them back onto the cushions.

"We might as well be comfortable," he said with a satisfied smile, putting his wand back in his robe with his blackened hand. Harry's eyes widened when he saw it.

"Sir — what happened to your — ?" "

Later, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Please sit down."

Harry complied, sitting down gingerly in the armchair behind him. I followed suit, sitting tentatively on the arm, avoiding eye contact with Harry's aunt as I did. With another flick of Dumbledore's wand, six glasses and a dusty brown bottle materialized in the air, each glass filling with amber liquid and floating over to us.

"Madame Rosmerta's finest oak-matured mead," he said, winking at me. My eyes widened, and I snatched my glass. Knocking back the contents, I let the honey wine coat my tongue before swallowing, the burn in my throat a welcome change from the burn that came from all the crying I'd done over the summer.

"Well, Harry," said Dumbledore, turning toward us, "a difficulty has arisen which I hope you will be able to solve for us. By us, I mean the Order of the Phoenix."

"What?" I asked. "What's happening with the Order?"

Dumbledore ignored me. Big surprise.

"But first of all, I must tell you that Sirius's will was discovered a week ago and that he left you everything he owned."

Suddenly, the whole room seemed to go silent. My ears started buzzing, and I thought I was feeling the effects of the mead already. I didn't even know Sirius had a will. Even if I did know…no. We really didn't know each other that well. Why should I have expected to inherit anything at all?

Beside me, Harry's expression remained blank.

"Oh," he mumbled.

"This is, in the main, fairly straightforward," Dumbledore went on. "You add a reasonable amount of gold to your account at Gringotts, and you inherit all of Sirius's personal possessions. The slightly problematic part of the legacy —"

"There's more than one problematic part?" I asked, trying to add a bit of levity to the situation.

Dumbledore's eyes crinkled slightly, trying to hold back a laugh. "Our problem is that Sirius also left you number twelve, Grimmauld Place."

"He's inherited a house?!" Vernon exclaimed, his eyes wide and greedy. I could have transfigured his eyes into gold coins and no one would have been the wiser. I couldn't tell which part was more stunning; the fact that Harry had inherited everything of Sirius's, or that Sirius had bequeathed him a house that I'd been living in for the better part of the last year. My mind teemed with possibilities, anxieties; was this why Dumbledore invited me along? To tell me that I had to leave headquarters?

"You can keep using it as headquarters," Harry interjected, looking up at me. "And I want Cass to be able to keep living there. I really don't want it."

"That is very generous," said Dumbledore. "We have, however, vacated the building temporarily. Hence, Miss Malfoy's appearance here tonight."

"Why?!" Harry and I asked in unison. This was the kind of information I wish I'd known before arriving, but I had to keep my expectations low when it came to Dumbledore.

"Black family tradition decreed that the house was handed down the direct line, to the next male with the name of 'Black,'" he explained, adjusting his half-moon glasses on his nose. "Sirius was the very last of the line as his younger brother, Regulus, predeceased him and both were childless. While his will makes it perfectly plain that he wants you to have the house, it is nevertheless possible that some spell or enchantment has been set upon the place to ensure that it cannot be owned by anyone other than a pureblood."

"I'm sure there is," I muttered. "Its name is Walburga Black.

"And if such an enchantment exists," he continued, this time slower and more carefully, "then the ownership of the house is most likely to pass to the eldest of Sirius's living relatives, which would mean his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange."

"NO!" Harry and I both exclaimed, jumping up from our spots on the armchair. There was no way, no possible way, that Bellatrix could – would – inherit Sirius's house. The indignity of it – the indignity of the act itself, of pureblood inheritance rules, of this whole thing happening in the first place – was enough to make my face burn and my blood nearly boil.

"Well, obviously we would prefer that she didn't get it either," said Dumbledore calmly. "We do not know whether the enchantments we ourselves have placed upon it, for example, making it Unplottable, will hold now that ownership has passed from Sirius's hands. It might be that Bellatrix will arrive on the doorstep at any moment. Naturally we had to move out until such time as we have clarified the position."

"Wait," I said, holding up my hand as I processed. "How will we know if Harry can actually own the house, then?"

Dumbledore looked at me, then exhaled loudly, turning back to Harry.

"You see, Harry, if you have inherited the house, it means you have also inherited-"

"Kreacher," I finished, my face turning hot. "You've inherited Kreacher."

With another flick of Dumbledore's wand, a loud POP! filled the living room and Kreacher appeared, turning every which way wildly, his small face red and angry. It took everything in me not to fall to the ground and shake him; this was the first I'd seen Kreacher since I learned of his visit to my mother and father. I wanted to know everything he'd told them; what he'd said about Sirius, about Harry, about me. I wanted to know why he did it. The reasons Remus gave me just weren't good enough.

"Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't!" cried Kreacher, stamping his feet and pulling his ears. "Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes, Kreacher belongs to the Blacks, Kreacher wants his new mistress, Kreacher won't go to the Potter brat, Kreacher won't, won't, won't —"

"As you can see, Harry," said Dumbledore loudly, over Kreacher's continued cries, "Kreacher is showing a certain reluctance to pass into your ownership."

"I don't care," said Harry again, with rage in his eyes. He was unable to look at Kreacher. "I don't want him."

"Won't, won't, won't, won't —"

"You would prefer him to pass into the ownership of Bellatrix Lestrange? Bearing in mind that he has lived at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix for the past year?"

"If he doesn't want him, he doesn't want him," I blurted at Dumbledore. "Do you really need to make him feel guilty over it?"

Once again, he ignored me and turned toward Harry.

"Give him an order," Dumbledore said coolly. "If Kreacher had passed into your ownership, he'll have to obey. If not, we'll have to find another way to keep him from his rightful mistress."

"Won't, won't, won't, won't –"

Kreacher's voice had reached a scream at this point, and Harry looked wildly between Kreacher, Dumbledore, and I before screaming "KREACHER, SHUT UP!"

Suddenly, Kreacher's hands flew to his throat, as if being choked by some invisible force. Harry's aunt and uncle only stared in shock and horror as Kreacher threw himself on the floor in a silent, but no less violent, tantrum.

"That settles it, then," Dumbledore said smoothly.

"Do I have to…you know, bring him with me?" Harry asked nervously.

"Not if you don't want to. Might I suggest you send him to Hogwarts to work with the other house elves in the kitchens? I expect that they will help keep him in line."

Harry and I exchanged looks. If Dobby and Winky were still there, Kreacher would certainly be in for a rude awakening. Harry turned back to Dumbledore and gulped, then turned his attention to Kreacher, who was still thrashing on the floor.

"Kreacher," he began, "I'd like for you to go to Hogwarts and work in the kitchens. With the other house-elves."

Kreacher stopped thrashing, gave Harry a disgusted look, then vanished into the air with a loud crack!

"Good," said Dumbledore. "There is also the matter of the hippogriff, Buckbeak. Hagrid has been looking after him since Sirius died, but Buckbeak is yours now, so if you would prefer to make different arrangements —"

"No," said Harry. "He can stay with Hagrid. I think Buckbeak would prefer that."

"Hagrid will be delighted," said Dumbledore, smiling. "Incidentally, we have decided, in the interests of Buckbeak's safety, to rechristen him 'Witherwings' for the time being, though I doubt that the Ministry would ever guess he is the hippogriff they once sentenced to death. Now, Harry, is your trunk packed?"

"Er-"

"Doubtful I would turn up?" Dumbledore said, cocking a white eyebrow. "Miss Malfoy, if you would be so kind as to help Harry finish his packing. Then we should be on our way."

I blinked, then nodded rapidly, following Harry up the stairs toward his room.

"It really hasn't changed much in here," I mused, looking around the bare walls and small bed. "Here, let me help with that."

Harry was on his hands and knees, fishing around under the bed for something. I reached down and helped him pull out a long, glistening, black cloak. Before I could ask what it was, Harry balled it up and threw it in his trunk. I looked around the room for something he hadn't packed, anything to throw in the trunk to keep my hands busy. All his enthusiasm seened to be drained.

"Harry?" I asked tentatively. "Are you okay?"

He paused in front of his trunk and turned to me, his usually bright eyes looking dull and tired.

"It's just…I don't wany Grimmauld Place. I don't want Sirius's things, or his money, or his house-elf. I want him back. I don't want any of it because it reminds me that he's gone, and that he's never coming back. That we tried – that I tried – to save him, and we failed."

I closed my eyes and buried my face in my hands. This was the first time Harry and I had seen one another since Sirius died, and his grief was just as raw as mine, if not more. Being bequeathed all his possessions was a searing reminder that one of his last connections to his mother and father was gone, and that so few remained that if we lost the war, Harry may be the only one left to remember them. If Harry made it out alive, that is.

"Harry…you can't let yourself think like that-"

"I can't help it," he snapped, throwing a jumper and a jar of color-change ink into his trunk forcefully. "I know I shouldn't blame myself, especially not after what Dumbledore-"

"What about Dumbledore?" I asked warily. Harry averted his eyes, busying himself with locking up his trunk. I leaned over and put my hand on his arm, forcing him to stop what he was doing. He looked up at me blankly and I forced a smile, tentatively giving him another hug. To my surprise, he actually hugged me back.

I suddenly felt strangely protective over Harry, like the fact that we'd lost two people we knew and cared for in the last year bonded us in only the most bizarre, perverse ways grief can bond people. That, and I wanted to make up for how horribly my family had treated him over the years. I wanted him to know that not all the Malfoy's were horrid blood supremacists; that some of them, one of them, were in his corner. I wanted him to know that I was on his side.

"You know, what I said last year still stands," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder in a big-sister sort of way. "You can talk to me about anything, Harry."

He nodded awkwardly, like he wanted to believe me, wanted to answer, but didn't know what to say. Instead, he gave me a small, grateful smile, then picked up his trunk and headed down the stairs where Dumbledore was waiting.

"You're ready? Good," he said, before turning to Harry's aunt and uncle. "Now, as you may know, Harry comes of age in a year's time-"

"No," Harry's aunt cut in, speaking for the first time all night. "Harry's a month younger than Dudley, and he doesn't turn eighteen until the year after next."

"Ah. But in the wizarding world, we come of age at seventeen," Dumbledore corrected.

"Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort has returned to this country," he continued. "The Wizarding community is currently in a state of open warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on a number of occasions, is in even greater danger now than the day when I left him upon your doorstep fifteen years ago, with a letter explaining about his parents' murder and expressing the hope that you would care for him as though he were your own."

As he spoke, I could sense a chill coming over the house. Not quite like the chill that came with Dementors, but an unpleasant, unnerving chill, nonetheless. I wondered where Dumbledore was going with this.

"You have never treated Harry as a son. He has known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands. The magic I invoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful protection while he can still call this house 'home.' However miserable he has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least, grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate the moment that Harry turns seventeen; in other words, when he becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the protection continues until that time."

The already quiet room somehow fell quieter. Harry's aunt, uncle, and cousin all looked at each other, unsure of what to say or do. I had no idea what Dumbledore meant by any of that, what 'magic' he invoked when Harry was a baby, or why Harry had to stay with people who clearly hated him. All questions I would no doubt get zero answers to. I wasn't even sure why Dumbledore brought me along for this.

"Now, the three of us must be off," he said coolly, before opening the front door to let Harry and I out. The cool, night air hit me square in the face and I breathed deeply, letting it fill my lungs and clear my overthinking, nervous, confused mind.

"We do not want to be encumbered by these just now," he said, pulling out his wand again. "I shall send them to the Burrow to await us there; Miss Malfoy's bags are there as well. However, I would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak . . . just in case."

Harry hastily pulled the glistening, black cloak we'd pulled from under his bed out of the trunk and stuffed it into his jacket. Dumbledore then waved his wand and the trunk, cage, and Hedwig vanished.

"And now, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress: adventure."

THUD!

We landed on an unlit street in a village of thatched roof cottages with brightly colored front doors. I walked behind Dumbledore and Harry, trying to not impede on a conversation that I probably wasn't meant to hear. I still wasn't sure why Dumbledore brought me along on…on whatever this was. All I could do was fade into the background and wait – two things I was bloody horrible at. I tried my best to listen in on the conversation, picking up bits and pieces of information that Dumbledore relayed to Harry.

"Ah yes, of course, I haven't told you," said Dumbledore. "We are, once again, one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts."

"How can I help with that, sir?" Harry asked.

"Oh, I think we'll find a use for you," said Dumbledore vaguely, walking ahead of Harry a little bit. "You too, Miss Malfoy. I have a feeling Horace would thoroughly enjoy meeting you."

I looked around at the houses that lined the eerily quiet street as I pondered what the hell he meant by that. All the windows were dark, and the air was as chilly as it was at Privet Drive. I watched Harry reach into his pocket and grasp his wand firmly, and I wondered if I should do the same. I kept listening in as Harry asked Dumbledore questions about all manner of things; about the new Minister for Magic (I drank a toast to Fudge's resignation when I read the headline in the Prophet), the safety pamphlets the Ministry sent out, and something about…Inferi. Dark creatures, whatever they were.

"Ah, this is the place," Dumbledore said, inclining his head to a stone house just at the end of the street. I saw Dumbledore's expression turn stony as he surveyed the house; the garden was in shambles and the front door had been ripped off its hinges. It wouldn't have looked out of place in Diagon Alley, at this rate.

"Wands out and follow me," he said quietly to the both of us as he walked slowly up the garden path to the door. "Lumos."

When we entered the house, it looked as though a very bloody battle had taken place there, not long before we arrived. A grandfather clock lay tipped over in the entryway, and the glass from the face cracked beneath my boots as I climbed over it. A piano was tipped on its side, armchairs and sofas knocked over, pillows ripped open with feathers strewn across the floor. I raised my wand a bit higher and noticed that the wallpaper was stained with what appeared to be blood. I tried my best not to imagine if any remains of whoever lived here were still here, and what they might look like.

"Not pretty, is it?" Dumbledore said solemnly. "Yes, something horrible has happened here."

"Maybe there was a fight and — and they dragged him off, Professor?" Harry suggested, trying not to imagine how badly wounded a man would have to be to leave those stains spattered halfway up the walls.

"I don't think so," Dumbledore said under his breath, peering at an overstuffed armchair to his right. Without warning, he plunged the tip of his wand into the back cushion, and an irritated voice emanated from it.

"OUCH!"

I shrieked and jumped. Harry's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Dumbledore merely smiled.

"Good evening, Horace," he said, putting away his wand with a satisfied expression. Before us, where there once was an armchair now sat an old, mustachioed man, bald and short and wearing lilac pajamas under a maroon dressing gown, and glaring at Dumbledore with an annoyed, aggrieved expression.

"What gave me away?" he grumbled as he lumbered to his feet. Now that he was standing in the light, I could see that he wasn't much taller than me.

"My dear Horace, if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house," explained Dumbledore, as if it were obvious.

"The Dark Mark," the man muttered. "Knew there was something . . . Wouldn't have had time anyway, I'd only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room."

"Would you like our assistance clearing up?" asked Dumbledore.

The man – Horace, his name was – nodded. Dumbledore, Horace, and I lifted our wands and waved them about the room, putting everything back in its rightful place. By the time we were through, it looked as though nothing were ever out of place, and like no one had ever been there.

"What sort of blood was that? On the walls," Dumbledore asked.

"Dragon's blood!" Horace called over the din of the chandelier screwing itself back into place on the ceiling. "My last bottle, and prices are sky high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable."

Suddenly, my hand flew involuntarily to the inside pocket of my leather jacket.

"You're quite right about the price of dragon's blood, sir," I said casually, causing him to turn in my direction, his expression saying that he hadn't even realized I was here until now. "I think I have an extra bottle on me, though. I can't say I've got a use for it, so you're welcome to have it."

I fished around in the inside pocket of my jacket and pulled out two deep maroon vials and handed them to the man Horace, who reached out and took them in his trembling hand.

"Thank you, my dear, thank you kindly," he muttered. "Who-"

"Horace, may I introduce Miss Cassiopeia Malfoy?" Dumbledore said. I forced a smile and stuck out my hand, which Horace took tentatively, searching my face as he did so. Probably trying to decide which of my parents I most resemble, I thought.

"Malfoy, you say? Ah, yes, your father-"

"Miss Malfoy has not seen or spoken to her father, or her mother, in many years, Horace," Dumbledore continued. "I brought her along because I thought you might wish to meet perhaps the finest young Potioneer Hogwarts has produced in quite some time."

Horace's eyes widened and he dropped my hand, his lips curling into a smile beneath his wispy, gray mustache.

"You're Claudius Mulpepper's girl, aren't you?" he exclaimed. "My dear, I know exactly who you are! I must say, when old Claud wrote to me and mentioned his new apprentice, how bright and lovely and more talented than most potionmakers twice her age, I was quite skeptical. Not to mention a Malfoy-"

"Potionmaking doesn't exactly run in my family," I said. "I know all about that."

"Well, be that as it may, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I take it you heard about what happened to old Claudius?" he asked, his wiry brows furrowing wildly.

I nodded. "I dunno what happened to him. I just hope he's alright, wherever he is."

"Yes, yes," Horace mumbled, before turning his attention to Harry. He did a double-take upon seeing his scar, and he gasped. Dumbledore only smiled, as he always did.

"Harry, I'd like to introduce an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn. Horace, this…well, you know who this is."

Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd. "Don't think I don't know why he's brough you – the pair of you. The answer's no, Albus."

Dumbledore merely shrugged as Slughorn walked away, as if he'd expected this sort of outcome. I was still bewildered; persuade him to do what? Join the Order? Become a spy? When Dumbledore was asking, the possibilities were truly limitless.

I suppose we can have a drink, at least?" asked Dumbledore. "For old time's sake?"

Slughorn hesitated, his eyes darting back and forth between Harry and I. He heaved a sigh, giving up the fight.

"All right then, one drink."

I didn't pay very much attention to the conversations between Slughorn, Dumbledore, and Harry. I mostly just sipped my mead and focused on my final destination. As I drank, the realization hit me once more that I had never been to the Weasley's house, and I had no idea what to expect. Fred hadn't told me much about it, and he had no photographs to show me, so I only had my imagination.

I pictured a tiny cottage with a thatched roof that was much larger on the inside, just like their tents at the Quidditch World Cup. Each of the Weasley kids sharing rooms, running about the house from Fred and George's pranks, broomsticks leaned up against the door that would come and go as the kids would leave and play Quidditch in the fields next to the house. I wondered what it would be like to be a guest in their house, a spectator to their day-in and day-out life. I wondered if I'd be staying in Fred's childhood bedroom. That thought alone nearly sent me into a panic.

Slughorn's and Harry's voices suddenly brought me out of my head and back to earth as I watched Slughorn gesturing enthusiastically at a dresser cluttered with photographs, with Harry looked on blankly. Slughorn seemed like a social-climbing collector of people, who only cared for what other people – ambitious, powerful people – could give him. A Slytherin in his own right. All I wanted to do was get out of there – I still didn't know why we were here, and I'd already accepted the fact that we probably wouldn't find out.

Before I could ask where Dumbledore had wandered off to, the man appeared in the doorframe, smiling at Harry and I.

"I think it's time for us to leave," he said to Harry and I. "I think I know a lost cause when I see one."

Slughorn's smile faded. "You're leaving already?"

"Well, I'm sorry you don't want the job, Horace," said Dumbledore, waving goodbye slightly. "Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again, and you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to."

"Good-bye, then," Slughorn said quietly, twiddling his mustache between his fingers.

"Bye," said Harry.

"Nice to meet you," I mumbled, following Harry and Dumbledore toward the door.

We were halfway down the stone path when we heard footsteps rushing out behind us.

"All right, all right, I'll do it!" Slughorn exclaimed. "I must be mad, but I'll do it."

Dumbledore smiled at us slightly, a secretly satisfied smile, then turned back to face Slughorn.

"Wonderful. We shall see you on the first of September, then," he said serenely, before leading Harry and I down the path and out of sight.

"Well done, Harry," he said, beaming. "You as well, Miss Malfoy."

"I didn't do anything," Harry and I said in unison.

"Oh yes, you did. Harry, you showed Horace what he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts-"

"So that's why we were there? To get him to come back? But why?" I asked. "Sorry, I kind of tuned out and missed a lot of why we were there."

"Quite alright, Miss Malfoy. If the both of you hadn't already noticed, Horace fancies himself a collector of people. He had a history of handpicking his favorite students at Hogwarts, and had quite a knack for favoring those who would go on to do great things. I brought you along, Miss Malfoy, because Horace and Claudis Mulpepper were good friends, and he's wanted to meet you for quite some time. I thought that meeting you might put him in a far better mood before asking him to return to Hogwarts."

"So…you brought me along because you wanted to give him the impression that he could…collect me?" I clarified as I picked up my pace, trying to catch up with Dumbledore and Harry's long strides. "I was the prize to be won before you showed him the real prize?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. I wanted to gouge them out.

"You said it yourself, Miss Malfoy: you didn't do anything at all," he said simply, before stopping in front of large stone fountain with a cherub at the top of it. "This will do. Harry, if you could grasp my arm?"

I glared at Dumbledore, hating myself for letting him put me through this whole charade. I wasn't a prize to be won or to be collected, and I certainly wasn't going to let Dumbledore – or some potionsmaster I'd never met until thirty minutes ago - treat me like that was all I was good for. Instead of nearly throttling him, like all my worst impulses were telling me to, I merely grasped Dumbledore's other arm, squeezed my eyes tight, and spun on my heel, hurtling toward our destination with a knot in my stomach.