Chapter Six: guardian

2 September, 1991

The most irresponsible way to ensure the security of something is to hide it among a population of people that want nor need to have anything to do with it, endangering them not only with its very presence but with security measures that could kill them if they should give in to that ever-present variable of human curiosity.

The most ineffective way to ensure the security of something is to give each of those lethal security measures a glaring weakness that is easily-exploited.

The most ridiculous way to ensure the security of something is to make a point of telling that population to stay away from it when they had previously been unaware of its existence.

I'm almost certain Albus Dumbledore wants this hidden thing to be found.

Just probably not by me.

Oh well.

-H

…

Ron was sure there had to be better places to hold a Potions lesson than in a dungeon three floors below ground. Whatever they were brewing on any given day would be sure to give off all manner of fumes, and that was if it was brewed properly. If any mishaps were to happen, all sorts of foul smoke could fill the room, and where would it be ventilated to?

But that didn't matter to Severus Snape, or so he'd heard. There were plenty of tales of his vindictive nature, stories circulating among all three non-Slytherin houses about his total lack of teaching methods. You were expected to read the material, produce the potion, and hopefully earn a passing mark for your troubles.

"You reckon he's as bad as people say?" Neville asked fearfully from next to him as the pair made their way down a steep set of stone stairs. There was no railing, so it was slow going lest they take a tumble and make the trip much more quickly.

"Reckon he's worse," Ron said. "My brothers all say he has this way of figuring out exactly how to treat you the worst he can. It's like he can see inside your head what will make you the most miserable."

Neville's face paled, and Ron clapped a hand on his shoulder, nearly unsteadying him as they descended the stairs.

"Just push me down," Neville said. "If I break all my bones, I can go to the Hospital Wing and not have to sit Potions."

"You gonna do that every single week?" Ron asked, and Neville spent a moment looking thoughtful.

"If I have to," he decided.

"You have to accept whatever comes, and the only important thing is that you meet it with the best you have to give," a quiet voice spoke behind them. As they dismounted the stairs, Ron looked back to see a boy with round glasses and smooth, sleek-looking black hair that had been meticulously parted to the left. Ron met his eyes for a moment and wished he hadn't; Harry Potter (he had seen him along with everyone else at the Sorting) had eyes like a doll's, flat and emotionless.

"That's profound," Ron observed.

"Eleanor Roosevelt," Harry said. "Wonderful woman. Outspoken, brash, someone to admire, in my opinion."

He had a flat, emotionless way of speaking, like he was boring himself but felt the need to continue with the niceties of conversation. Neville met Ron's eyes, his expression just as unsettled as Ron felt. Oblivious to the discomfort he was causing the pair, Harry simply made his way past them, joining the cluster of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs queueing into the Potions classroom.

Inside, the place was a proper dungeon. Lit insubstantially by sparsely placed torches, the gloomy atmosphere was only magnified by the shelves along every wall stacked with iridescent jars full of all manner of pickled things floating disturbingly in the brine.

Ron thought he saw a face peering out from one of them and quickly looked away.

The pair settled at a table, and Ron noticed that most of the classroom was dominated by the Hufflepuff contingent of first-years, which was apparently always the largest. This was in sharp contrast to how few Ravenclaws there were—one girl apparently had already withdrawn, after she'd been unable to face the indignity of being locked out of her own common room after the first day of lessons.

The moment the bell rang signaling the start of class, Professor Snape himself swooped in. His cloak trailing behind him, he flicked his wand at the door, which slammed shut with a ringing sound. He was at his desk seconds later, and Ron mused that vampires must take lessons in proper skulking from Professor Severus Snape.

"There will be no foolish wand-waving or spouting of silly incantations in my classroom," he said, insulting everything about the very world he was part of by way of introduction. "I expect few of you to understand the subtle art of potion-making or truly appreciate the complexity of the craft. Properly brewed, a potion can achieve many things no spell could ever hope to. With dedication and study, those among you possessed of the necessary qualities will learn how to bottle glory, to brew luck, to even put a stopper in death itself."

He paused to let that statement sink in, his eyes sweeping the room before landing on a point just over Ron's shoulder.

"Potter," he said very quietly, and Ron heard a matching tone behind him.

"Professor."

"Our new…celebrity," Professor Snape drawled.

Ron couldn't resist the urge to turn in his seat, and when Snape passed by him on his slow prowl to Harry's table, he had to do so in order to keep his eyes on the Potions master. The professor was glaring at Harry, who only stared back with the most disaffected expression Ron had ever seen on a person. He looked positively bored by the theatrics.

"Tell me, Potter, what would I get if I were to add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" the professor asked.

"A sleeping potion," Harry said after a brief pause. "A Class IV one known as the Draught of the Living Dead."

"And where, Potter, would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?" Snape went on, clearly unimpressed (and if anything, even more bizarrely angry) at Harry's knowledge of the answer to his question.

"Well, in the context of potion-making, I assume you mean a bezoar from a goat, since it's a known cure for just about any basic poison," Harry said. "Anything with a stomach can get a bezoar, though."

"Do not sass me, Potter," Snape said. "What is the difference, then, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"They're different names for the same plant," Harry said.

"Also known as…?"

"Aconitum, mousebane, devil's helmet, it's got a lot of them," Harry said. "I thought you were supposed to be the one teaching us?"

A shudder of nervous laughter ran through the classroom, and Snape's lip curled in a sneer.

"I will not be disrespected in my classroom," he said in a tone that made Neville quiver in his seat next to Ron.

"But you can disrespect your students all day?" Harry asked, obviously unimpressed. "It's a two-way street, you know."

"Ten points from Ravenclaw for your lip, Potter," Snape said.

He whirled away from Harry, who stared after him with the same lackadaisical expression.

"Good talk," he muttered, and Snape stopped in his tracks.

"Something to say, Potter?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Good talk, Professor," Harry repeated in louder tones. "Very illuminating."

"Open your books to page forty-three," Snape snarled at the class. "Complete the Boil-Be-Gone potion found there, to be turned in by the end of class. If you have not completed the potion, you will receive no marks for the day. Get to work."

Ron rushed to withdraw his book from his bag, as did the other students. Boy, he was moving things right along, wasn't he? Opening to the indicated page in his textbook, he found a complicated scrawl of numbers and symbols interspersed with the occasional block paragraph of instructions. It was an intimidating sight, and Ron wasn't alone in the opinion, judging from the mutterings he was hearing around him. He had expected something of an introductory lesson, a primer where the professor actually went over what these terms meant.

Snape had different plans, it seemed.

When Ron looked up to see if anyone had made any progress (finding Harry already beginning to heat his cauldron), he saw only several other confused-looking heads glancing similarly around, as well as a single hand in the air, belonging to one brave Hufflepuff girl.

"Yes?" Snape drawled, staring down the girl from behind his desk.

"Um…Professor, I don't…really understand what some of this stuff means," the girl said, quailing under the professor's sustained gaze. Ron thought she was quite brave to even raise her hand in first place; there had been (likely exaggerated) accounts of Snape chopping any hand that went above shoulder height in his classroom.

"Did it not occur to you to read chapter one's 'Introduction Into Commonly-Used Abbreviations And Terminology'?" he asked, setting off a flurry of page-flipping among the students as they did exactly that.

"I tried to, but some of it was a bit, um…confusing?" the girl went on.

"It's no fault of mine if you're simply too dense to understand the course material," Snape said with a roll of his eyes.

"It literally is," Harry said after a moment. "Your job is to help us understand it. If all you're going to do is assign us a potion, sit and watch and occasionally insult us, why are we even here?"

"Ten more points from Ravenclaw, Potter," Snape said coolly. "And you're free to leave if you feel that – "

Snape didn't even get to finish his sentence before Harry got to his feet, packing away his barely-started potion and making straight for the door without even a backward look. The door shut behind him, leaving a ringing silence in his wake. Even Snape looked a bit surprised, a single eyebrow arched at Harry's daring. Ron highly doubted anyone had ever simply walked out of his class before.

But Harry Potter just had.

…

"He walked out of Potions?" Fred asked in disbelief.

"First ten minutes of the lesson," George said, leading the way up the shifting staircase on the first floor. "I guess Snape was doing his usual Snape thing and Harry took issue with it."

"What a trailblazer," Fred said admiringly. "I don't reckon anyone's ever just told Snape to stick it and left like that."

"Which just feels wrong, really," George observed. "You'd think someone would have taken a stand by now."

"Shame it won't make any difference," Fred said, leaning against the wall next to a painting that they both knew was just a door pretending. "Snape is Dumbledore's favorite."

"I'll never understand why he seems to be so fond of that man," George shook his head.

"Probably vice-president of the Knobby Nose Club," Fred said. The door soon grew tired of their persistence, opening with a groaning of hinges that sounded like an exasperated sigh.

"With Dumbledore as the founder," George snickered, climbing through. "Reckon Mad-Eye Moody is a member?"

"He was, but he got banned after he lost that chunk of his nose," Fred nodded. "No nose, no membership."

"Real shame, he was one of their most dedicated members," George sighed.

"Can't make exceptions, or anyone could get into the club," Fred pointed out.

They soon emerged from the passage onto the third-floor landing, and Fred peered around to make sure no one was behind them while George rummaged in his pocket. Fred heard him muttering in a low voice as he scouted the area.

"I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good."

"Anything?" Fred asked after a few seconds.

"Kowalski's two floors down, probably seeing to that flood Myrtle set off," George said.

"Isn't he so diligent?" Fred asked. "It's almost a shame. With Filch, breaking the rules just felt like the natural order of things."

"No, I get that," George said. "With Kowalski, he's just such a nice guy, you almost feel bad."

"Almost," Fred said with a smirk as they set off down the right side of the corridor. Dumbledore's warning had been all but an invitation, a challenge to the school to test their bravery by meeting this painful death he had promised and living to tell the tale.

For him to have been expecting anything else, Fred mused, was simply the height of foolishness.

Fred and George had already heard plenty of mutterings among the students about checking out this mysterious "painful death" and staring it in the face, and there was no way they were letting someone else be the first to do it. Their reputations as Hogwarts's premier troublemakers in over twenty years was on the line.

Unfortunately, there was someone quite a bit more enterprising already on the case.

"Oi, is that who I think it is?" George asked, checking the map before tucking it into his pocket.

"Blimey, he's a little bit of everywhere, isn't he?" Fred said.

Making his way toward the pair was none other than Harry Potter himself, toting what looked like a muggle portable radio that bounced gently against his leg as he walked. Under his other arm, a worn-looking cloak of a nondescript brown shade swayed with his movements. His eyes gleamed flat and caught the torchlight off the walls in a strange way that unsettled Fred. When he spotted the twins, he raised his chin in a single motion that was likely meant to constitute a wave.

"Afternoon," he said flatly.

"Hiya, Harry," George said. "Did you come up here to check out the 'painful death' Dumbledore was on about?"

"Promises, promises," Harry said in a dry voice. "You have me at a disadvantage, though. You are…?"

"I'm Fred, that's George," Fred said, gesturing to himself and his twin. "Weasley."

"The pranksters," Harry said with a nod. "Troublemakers. I've heard about you."

"Oh, I always like to hear that," Fred said with a grin. "Takes a lot of hard work to cultivate a reputation."

"We've been doing our best," George said.

"The work is its own reward – "

" – but it's nice to know you're efforts are being rewarded by others," Harry finished for Fred, and the pair fixed him with a shocked look. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt a moment."

"So, what is it?" George asked. "The 'painful death'?"

"A cerberus," Harry said. "Massive three-headed dog, like the one that guards the gates to Hades. Ever read the tale of Orpheus?"

"…Right, but why?" Fred asked after a lengthy pause. "What's the angle?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" Harry asked. "It's obviously a guard dog, and it's definitely protecting something. But what? And why? Why here? There's so much we're not being told that we deserve to know, don't you think?"

"Dumbledore's always been a man of secrets," George said with a shrug.

"And that's his prerogative," Harry said. "More power to him if he likes to play things close to the chest. So do I. But there's a difference between a secret and a deadly secret. And a deadly secret isn't something you should stash in a school full of kids."

When put that way, it was hard to argue with such logic. Fred glanced over and saw George looking back at him with the same dubious expression he was likely wearing.

Was this kid really only eleven years old?

"A massive three-headed dog?" Fred asked.

"Staffordshire bull terrier," Harry concluded. "Big as a house, easy."

"Well, damn," George said with a glance at his brother. "We were gonna be the ones to break the news, weren't we?"

"Oh, you still can be," Harry said with a shrug. "I hardly like to be the center of attention, and I don't like to brag, but it's something I can do without going around blabbing about this. In fact, I'd rather not be involved in this whole fiasco, so if you'd like to take credit for being the first ones to see the dog, go right ahead. I won't dispute it."

"And in return?" Fred asked.

"Just don't mention my name or that you saw me at all," Harry said. "As far as the pair of you know, I wasn't here today, and we'll be square, and you'll be Hogwarts celebrities."

"Why don't you want anyone to know you were here?" George asked, and Harry turned to gaze up at him. "Um…just asking."

"If you want my opinion," Harry said, "spin the whole thing. Don't just run around saying you saw a three-headed dog, make it your own. Anyone can see the thing, it's hard to miss. You go around, you give the people an angle. It's a three-headed dog, but it's still a dog. Does it deserve to be cooped up in a windowless room on the third floor of some…some castle? You're not pointing fingers at Dumbledore for any secrets he's keeping or the garbage he's gotten away with, you're just concerned about an animal and it's inhumane treatment."

"That's…bloody brilliant," Fred said.

"Thank you," Harry said. "I try to be so. Now, I've got to send a letter and go see the headmaster. Apparently, he's keen to find out why I walked out of Potions."

"Who could imagine?" Fred asked.

"With such able instructors," George added.

Harry bade them one last wave of farewell as he headed back along the corridor, leaving the twins to ponder their next move.

"I'm gonna pet its heads," George said.

"No," Fred told him flatly.

…

Fred had of course seen dogs before, and he'd even seen some on the fairly large side. Hagrid's dog, Fang, was a boarhound the size of a small horse (though like his owner, he was a big softy).

Even Fang, however, would have looked like a trembling Pomeranian next to the three-headed terror lurking behind a badly-locked door on the third-floor corridor. One paw was about the size of Fred's bed back in his dormitory, covered in shiny brown fur that looked like a muddied shag carpet. Its body was thick with corded muscle, and all three of its heads (which just seemed like too many for any creature to possess) fixed on Fred and George as they pulled the door open.

And in horrible stereo, they heard an agitated series of short breaths, followed by a low, rumbling growl.

"Okay, we've seen it," George said in limp tones.

"That would certainly be a painful death," Fred agreed.

Fred felt a grip of absolute panic as a chorus of ear-shattering barks boomed through the corridor, but he managed to move enough to pull George back and shove the door shut. Thunderous footfalls began to grow closer to the door, followed by a huge snuffling sound, and Fred could just imagine all three heads jockeying to sniff out the intruders.

"Georgie."

"Yeah, Fred?"

"This is going to be a fun year."

…

When Albus had first hired Severus Snape, he'd been a bit apprehensive about the decision. After all, Severus was far from a people person and indeed often expressed a certain level of disdain for nearly every other living person in existence, including Albus himself at times. But Severus needed to be kept close at hand; his status as a former Death Eater and current loyalty to Albus himself (as well as his particular set of skills) put him in a perfect position to resume his duties as a double agent, should Voldemort return to life as Albus was sure he would.

The only issue was his approach to the work.

Oh, his subject-matter knowledge was without compare, and Albus was often shocked at the innate grasp Severus had of potion-making despite only barely being into his thirties. He was sure, if Severus had the mind for it, he could literally write the book on potion-making and retire on the money made from it. However, even putting aside the Potions Master's aforementioned and utter disdain for everyone else in the world (and therefore his reluctance to share his secrets with the "undeserving"), he was simply too useful for Albus to let him leave Hogwarts.

This put him in a rather thorny position at the beginning of every school year.

Every year, absolutely and without fail, Severus Snape spent his first week of classes displaying exactly what awaited the first-year students for the next five to seven years of their Potions education, and every year, no less than seven or eight of them went to their heads of house—they were exclusively from the three houses that Severus did not preside over, as he was at least tolerable to his own Slytherins and often showed an alarming amount of preferential treatment—with perfectly understandable and often sympathetic complaints.

And every year, Minerva, Pomona, and Filius sent the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws (respectively) to Albus, deciding that it was his duty to explain why they had to endure Severus's teaching methods. The three of them had collectively determined that there was simply no good reason to allow Severus to continue in his treatment of the students, thus if it had to continue, Albus would need to be the one to assure the students that it was a necessary means to their education and send them along. In most cases, this was rather easy for Albus, whose grandfatherly air and generally friendly demeanor put students at ease and made them amenable to his logic.

Today, he hoped, would go no differently, though was anticipating that this particular student would be a little harder to convince than the average youngster.

Harry Potter was far from the average youngster, Albus was learning.

Still, Albus was over a century old, and if there was one thing even the most seemingly-mature child tended to quail under, it was the presence of someone of such advanced years that they had to have worked out some secret to the world and were thus to be listened to and heeded. It would be a simple matter to play the role of the kindly mentor to the boy, to insist that he take Albus's advice to heart.

Harry had also never known the magical world before, and being told that he'd need to tolerate Severus in order to remain at Hogwarts would likely spur him towards cooperation.

Perhaps it was an underhanded outlook, but Harry would come to understand in time.

A knock sounded at the door, and Albus put on his most peaceable smile.

"Enter," he called.

The door opened, and the Boy-Who-Live himself strode in, with an air of such calm that Albus was even a bit taken-aback.

And that was a rarity in his rather considerable years.

Knowledgeable and shrewd as he evidently was, Albus had been expecting Harry Potter to also be brash and perhaps even a bit overconfident, not unlike his father had been during his school days. The boy that made his way into the headmaster's office, however, wore only a flat expression that was perhaps slightly expectant, a bald gaze that spoke of someone that had already decided his course of action and was waiting to see how many feathers would be ruffled by it. Albus was most surprised by how well put-together Harry seemed. His tie was perfectly straight, his uniform's collar poised and situated perfectly. Even the famously uncontrollable Potter head of hair was neatly combed and parted, no doubt with the assistance of some Sleekeazy's.

Behind his glasses, those emerald green eyes (such a lovely color) gleamed dully, flat and shallow so as not to give anything away. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, Harry Potter's had been boarded up and bricked over.

Harry made his way to one of the chairs before Albus's desk and sat without being directed, fixing Albus with the cool mask of his expression.

"Good afternoon, Harry," Albus said, figuring the best place to start was with introductions. "I am Albus Dumbledore."

He met Harry's eyes, hoping that despite the Sorting Hat's report of the closed state of his mind he might glean even a small bit of insight into the boy's mental state. After all, Albus was rather a formidable Legillimens in his own right. Maybe if he simply tailored his approach…

But as soon as Albus's mental probe encountered Harry's mind, it found itself shut out by a steel trap of a wall. Such a smooth and featureless barrier would have been impressive from even the most practiced Occlumens. From this eleven-year-old boy, it was downright troubling.

How had he learned to shut out others so completely?

The exchange took only a second or so, and even if his Legillimency attempts were being rebuffed as they were, Albus was quite able to keep his expression impassive and genteel. To Harry, he was merely waiting for the boy to introduce himself in kind. When he didn't deign to do so, Albus simply forged forward.

"How have you been finding your time at Hogwarts?" he asked.

"Mostly positive," Harry said after a short pause. His tone was flat bordering on emotionless, his words sedate and thoughtful, like he was picking each one before saying it.

"Have you taken to exploring the castle and our facilities?" Albus asked. Surely the boy had to have gone on a few excursions under that cloak of his father's already.

"Oh, yes," Harry said, nodding and letting the silence drag on without elaboration. Even more than letting the conversation slow, he seemed to go a step further and drag it to a halt himself, leaving Albus feeling obliged to move things forward again.

"What have you found so far?" he asked.

"Plenty," Harry said, blinking precisely twice before speaking once more. "I really enjoy the library."

"You're well-suited for Ravenclaw, then," Albus said. "Perhaps…not well-suited for Professor Snape's tutelage."

"If you can call what Snape inflicts on his charges 'tutelage'," Harry said.

"Professor Snape, Harry," Albus corrected him. "He is a teacher and should be given respect."

"Respect is best given when earned," Harry said immediately, still in a flat but perhaps slightly more earnest tone. "It's one thing to hold a position of power over others but another to actually embody that position with any real competence."

"Severus Snape is one of the most skillful potion-makers I have ever seen," Albus said. "And I've met rather a few in my time."

"I'm not disputing his skill," Harry said, blithely ignoring Albus's implications of his age and considerable experience. "But I've actually looked up some metrics in the library and sent for a few other public records through my regents."

"Oh, have you?" Albus asked as Harry fixed him with that same expressionless façade.

"In the ten years that Severus Snape has been the Potions professor at Hogwarts, the number of students progressing to his NEWT level classes has steadily declined, year after year, with several students opting to simply drop out of Hogwarts and pursue their education elsewhere. Rarely do they actually return to find employment in the British Isles. Further, Slytherin has been the recipient of the Hogwarts House Cup eight out of his ten years of teaching, due to his blatant and flagrant favoritism of his own house. He has never once deducted points from his own house and has only assigned four detentions to Slytherins in a decade. Shall I go on? There are several letters written by concerned parents to the Board of Governors that have gone unaddressed by you despite – "

"Thank you, Harry," Albus said. Had Minerva intercepted the boy on the way to his office and given him a prepared speech to recite? "Life is not always going to hand you the perfect mentor figure. There will always be a Severus Snape to deal with, be it at a job, at higher education, or even in the form of your next-door neighbor. And you'll find it seldom that you can actually do anything about him other than practice tolerance."

"…And that's your justification for subjecting hundreds of students to seven years of emotional and psychological abuse?" Harry asked, though his tone remained perfectly level and calm, if politely intrigued. "The world is a terrible place and nothing can be done to fix it? Don't even try, just knuckle under? Rather than prepare your students for such a cruel world, why not build the foundation to something better?"

"Sadly, Harry, such idealistic intentions—noble as they are—matter little in the face of a world that is determined to follow its path," Albus said.

"For a man so committed to stopping the evils in the world, you sure seem content to let a lot of them go," Harry pointed out, and Albus chuckled to himself.

"There's a fairly well-known idiom among the muggles," he said. "You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make it drink. Do you know it?"

"All the opportunities for change and betterment mean nil in the face of someone who refuses to do so," Harry said. "Rich bigoted purebloods will do what rich bigoted purebloods will. But what about the people who want change but can't make it happen because of the gold ceiling?"

"That, Harry, is a philosophical debate for another time," Albus said with a smile. "One that I will thoroughly enjoy having with you. For the time being, and returning to our original point of discussion…can I trust that you'll return to Severus's Potion's class?"

"If I don't, I assume it's a failing grade," Harry surmised.

"Indeed," Albus said gravely. "You will—for each lesson you do not attend—receive zero marks and be forced to retake your entire first year of lessons. And unless you can convince your family to enroll you in a different school, you will find that is the only other course."

"It would seem," Harry said in that slow and deliberate way of speaking, "that you have me cornered."

"Oh, I hardly like to think of it like that," Albus said with a chuckle. "Rather, I choose to fall back on the grown-up standby that you will understand when you are older."

"…I see," Harry said. "Well. Please pass along a request to Snape that he attempt to be a little more polite next time around."

"I can certainly do so," Albus said, though he imagined the surly Potions professor's response would constitute little more than a scathing peal of laughter. Considering the subject as closed, Albus nearly questioned Harry about his recent whereabouts, but decided against it. To open up a topic of discussion that would inevitably lead to Albus telling Harry that he had to return to the Dursley household at the end of the year seemed unwise in light of his comment about feeling "cornered".

"Is that all you have for me, sir?" Harry finally asked, and Albus gave him a nod.

"That was all I wished to discuss today, Harry," he said. Harry stood, smoothing out his robe before glancing up at the headmaster.

"Professor Dumbledore, may I ask you a question?" he asked.

"Of course, Harry," Albus said with a genial nod.

"Who was it that decided to place me with the Dursleys?" he asked. "How did I wind up there?"

"Me, Harry," Albus said with a small sigh. "I was aware that you would likely face your share of hardships growing up in the Dursley household, but it was only appropriate that you be placed with your last living family."

Harry's expression didn't change, and there was no palpable shift in his demeanor as he gave a nod, though Dumbledore felt a distinct shift in the mood of the room. Nodding once, the boy spoke one last quiet phrase.

"Thank you, Headmaster."

With that, he strode across the headmaster's office and left quietly through the door, leaving a ringing silence in his wake.

"Isn't he just charming?" Phineas spoke fondly.

"Thank you, Phineas."

It gets really fun in the next couple of chapters.

Harry and Hermione will eventually meet. Probably.