Minerva McGonagall looked around at her class and frowned sternly at the stony, distracted faces assembled before her. She moved from one to the other, clocking the same disturbed, pale expression on every Gryffindor and Hufflepuff Third-Year visage staring blankly ahead. Scrunching her eyes, she cleared her throat and addressed them all as one.

"What has gotten into you all?" Professor McGonagall demanded. "I know that this is the first lesson on a Monday morning, but still ... that is the first time my Animagus Transformation has not been met with a round of applause in years. Does anyone want to tell me what this is all about?"

"Sorry, Miss," Parvati began. "But it's just ... we ... we ..."

"We had a private Divination class yesterday, Miss," Lavender took over. "And Professor Trelawney said ... she said ..."

Then Lavender flicked a fraught, desperate look at Harry ... and promptly exploded into a bout of tears, which triggered Parvati to quickly follow suit. Fay Dunbar, who was sat with them, patted their shoulders consolingly and offered them tissues, which she had shamelessly pulled from her down the top of her robes. Where had she been keeping that, Harry wondered blithely.

Professor McGonagall smirked, though it may have been hiding a sort of pitying grimace. "Ah, I think I see what has happened here. So, tell me ... which one of you will be dying this year?"

Every head snapped to McGonagall in stunned shock. Lavender and Parvati paused in their distressed weeping.

"Apparently, I will be, Professor," Harry piped up, tiredly. In truth, he was sick of answering that question from students, but having his former guardian ask it was somehow more troublesome to him. "I wasn't there, but rumour spreads fast around here ... and plenty of Slytherins have come up to me since to remind me all about it ... and to offer to help me fulfil the prophecy if I needed them to!"

Neville scoffed a derisory laugh into his hand at that. Harry just grinned at him.

"It is good to see that someone recognises the ludicrousness of all this, Mr Longbottom," said Professor McGonagall, inclining her head warmly at Neville. "Is no-one else sensible to enough to see the preposterousness of such a prediction?"

"I was dubious, Professor," Sally-Anne Perks piped up suddenly. She smiled shyly at Harry as he caught her eye. "I mean, Divination seems very woolly to me. True Seers are very rare, aren't they? And if you haven't got the gift it seems a little pointless to study omens and symbols. They have just been made up by human culture and mythology and have no real meaning beyond that."

"A truly logical assumption," Professor McGonagall nodded, approvingly. Harry felt a warm rush of thanks towards Sally-Anne just then, and grinned at her to try and communicate it.

"But what about the prediction about Harry?" Lavender fired over. "She saw his death!"

"Oh, come on, Lav!" Sally-Anne volleyed back, vehemently. "Be reasonable ... if you wanted to shock a class, you'd say someone was going to die, wouldn't you? And who would you pick to make it the most believable? Perhaps the one student who we all know has a mortal enemy after him in the world?"

Lavender went to argue, then saw the logic of Sally-Anne's statement, and pursed her lips to think about it. But not everyone was so easily swayed.

"But what about all the instances of people seeing Death Omens?" Neville asked.

"Not you too, Nev?" Harry cried. "I thought more of you than to believe superstitious nonsense like that!"

"Well, I do," Neville replied firmly, colouring a little. "Do you think they are all just coincidences?"

"Yes, every single one of them," Harry retorted, haughtily. "They are either coincidence or pareidolia ... seeing images or patterns in nature that aren't what they seem. Both are probably inspired by cultural conditioning, from fairy stories and old wives tales passed down to scare people, to tell over campfires, and as teaching tools for children. That's all they are."

"But in our first proper class of the term, Professor Trelawney said that Ron would break a mug ... and then a few minutes later, he did," Parvati argued. "How do you explain that?"

"Oh, the thing that will tax your brain later, Miss Patil, is whether Mr Weasley would have broken the mug if Professor Trelawney hadn't said that he would," Professor McGonagall cut in, shrewdly. "It is not difficult to quickly identify a clumsy member of class ... no offence, Mr Weasley ... and to put them on edge with a spooky prediction. Then you can just watch them become a self-fulfilling prophecy, as they move around a cramped classroom in a more agitated manner ... especially if you have set up precariously balanced trigger objects ahead of time.

"Now, far be it from me to criticise a colleague, but Miss Perks is perfectly right. Prophecies are quite real and genuine, but to study Divination without being blessed with the gift of Mage Sight is quite a redundant practice. I have little time for the subject, as imprecise as it is. And Sybil Trelawney has never made a single accurate prediction of any note ... so far as I am aware.

"But every year since her employment here, she has predicted the death of at least once student per term ... and she has yet to be correct on even a single occasion. It is true that she has correctly guessed the winner of several Quidditch matches ... but no more so than any other gambler with a fifty-fifty chance of success ... and she has broken an extraordinary amount of cheap china teacups.

"But as yet, nobody has died as a result of her dreamy portents of doom. So, Mr Potter, you will forgive me if I don't excuse you from the homework requirements for today's class. But I am not totally heartless ... so rest assured, if you do happen to die, I will refrain from giving your corpse detention for not handing it in!"

Sally-Anne laughed out loud and Harry was buoyed by the sound, even though she was one of the few who did. It was hard to be so concerned about a silly prediction with such a joyous laugh reverberating in his ears. Harry grinned at Minerva, whose mouth twitched with the hint of a smile, one she always fought hard not to give him when they were in their teacher/student guise.

The next lesson of the day was Potions, once Harry had shuttled himself back in time to secretly sit through an Arithmancy class for Hermione. As he huddled with Marici under his Invisibility Cloak, and listened to the glamourous Professor Vector boggle his mind with more number puzzles, Harry felt a little bit reticent about giving up the Time-Turner, when that event came around. He found that he had become oddly attached to the little golden necklace and wondered if Hermione would lend it to him from time to time. He might ask for it back to relive his Potions class, actually, or the first ten minutes of it at least, just to watch again as the bottom of Goyle's cauldron fell out during his brewing and scalded Malfoy with the contents inside, where he was working on the bench next to him.

"Is this a Richard Turpin cauldron?" Snape sneered to Goyle as he came over to inspect the mess. Goyle nodded that it was. "That man is such a bandit. He should be outlawed. This is what you get for shoddy workmanship and taking the cheap option, Goyle. Take Mr Malfoy to the infirmary, get those burns seen to."

Malfoy was gone and back within about fifteen minutes. His hands were heavily bandaged and he played up the injury with the dramatic aplomb of a West End star.

"Professor Snape, Sir," Malfoy simpered. "I simply cannot cut my ingredients with such damaged fingers. Could you possibly assign me a partner?"

"Very well, and I suppose Goyle will need one, too, as his cauldron is about as much use as an inflatable dartboard," Snape frowned. "Goyle ... partner with Miss Greengrass. Mr Malfoy, go and work with Potter and Longbottom."

Harry groaned in his throat as Malfoy sauntered over to the desk he was sharing with Neville, who looked equally as miffed at the new arrangement. He was also looking over in concern at the desk opposite, where the brutish Gregory Goyle had lumbered up to Daphne Greengrass, who squeaked a little in her painful shyness, hiding behind her thick glasses as the hulking boy plonked his Potion things down onto the bench next to her.

"Longbottom, fetch me my cauldron," Malfoy sneered. "On second thoughts, perhaps Potter should get it. I wouldn't trust you to open a can of lace flies that was already open, let alone to carry my finest wrought iron crucible."

"Get it yourself," Harry snapped. "I know you're faking those injuries. Madam Pomfrey can fix burns in about a second."

"Professor Snape?" Malfoy complained loudly, in mock helplessness. "Potter and Longbottom are point blank refusing to aid me in my time of need. Will you please tell them that they must?"

"You can clearly see that Mr Malfoy is in need of assistance," Snape sneered as he swept to their table. "And I expect his potion to be at least of the same standard as your own, Potter. If you sabotage him to make yourself look better, I will take ten points from Gryffindor. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Sir," Harry replied through gritted teeth, before crossing to collect Malfoy's cauldron, which he slammed down angrily in front of him.

"There, that's better," Malfoy smirked. "Now, Longbottom, squash my ice worm hearts for me, will you? I want as much blood as you can get from them."

"Why's that?" Harry fired at him. "Thirsty, are we?"

"How drole of you," Malfoy drawled. "Careful, Longbottom! I said squash the worm hearts ... not squeeze them out of existence!"

Neville scowled at him, and went back to his squashing. Harry was considering ways to squash Malfoy's head into the bench, instead.

"So, I suppose you've heard?" Malfoy began smugly. "About the sighting?"

"What sighting?" Neville asked on reflex.

"Maybe it's of his personality," Harry sniped nastily to Neville. "There's a huge reward out for information leading to its discovery, I was told!"

Neville snorted out a laugh as he began chopping up juniper berries on the desk.

"Ho, ho, Potter," Malfoy smirked back. "No, I mean the sighting of the escaped Azkaban prisoner. She's been spotted near Hogsmeade, you know. She might even come here. I hope she does, and that they send the Dementors after her ... I missed your first pirouette to the floor, Potter, so I'd love to see an encore."

"Just ignore him, Harry," Neville advised, calmly. "He's lying as always ... he's just trying to goad us into pretending to be interested in his fairy tales."

"I would have thought you'd be more interested in it, Longbottom," Malfoy commented, coolly. "Considering everything. If it was me, of course, I'd be out there looking for her, myself. I'd have done something by now, not stayed in school like a cowardly baby and left all the work to the Dementors."

Harry looked sharply at Malfoy. Ordinarily, he'd not believe a word that came out of his stupid mouth, but there was a deadly sort of earnestness about him that Harry couldn't help but give credence to.

"What are you talking about?" Harry snapped.

"Oh, don't you know?" Malfoy taunted, narrowing his eyes nastily. "Don't you know who she is, or what she did ... or to whom?"

"If you've got something to say," Harry growled. "Say it, or shut your face!"

Malfoy's lip curled into a malicious sort of grin. "Funny thing about Bella Lestrange, you know. She's got a curious connection to everyone at this table. You see, her maiden name was 'Black', and you've got Potter there ... who has a Godfather called 'Black', too ... and they are cousins."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry shot, immediately on edge. "You're lying. You're making all this up just to get a rise out of us."

"On the contrary, Potter," Malfoy smirked back. "I know it for a fact ... for you see, my mother's maiden name was also 'Black' ... and Bellatrix is her sister."

"But that would make her your Aunt!" Neville cried in horror.

"Oh, well done, Longbottom!" Malfoy sneered, cruelly. "See here, everyone! Longbottom knows how families work! Have a gold star, tubby chops."

"Shut your pie-hole, Malfoy!" Harry fired at him. "Neville's worth twelve of you and don't you forget it."

"Aww, your puppy love is charming, it really is," Malfoy smirked. "What will Granger say when she gets back only to find out that she's been passed up for Longbottom?"

Harry coloured slightly, but felt Marici poke her paws into his chest flesh in his pocket, reminding him not to let Malfoy provoke him.

"Speaking of old Muddy," Malfoy went on. "She'd better watch herself, too, whenever she does drag her ugly face back here. Auntie Bella was never very keen on Muggles or Muggleborns. I know she killed at least twelve of them during the last War. I'm really hoping she might want to add Granger to the list, make it a nice, round Baker's Dozen."

Harry bit down hard on his tongue, drawing blood in his furious anger. He tasted it's coppery flavour as his rage pounded through his skull. Malfoy noticed his struggle and sneered tauntingly at him.

"Thinking of going after Aunt Bella yourself now, are you, Potter? Before she comes and drains your girlfriend of her muddy blood?"

"Yeah, as it happens," Harry retorted, off-handedly. "Or maybe I'll just get my Godfather to do it for me. He can chuck her through that Death Veil they have at the Ministry like he did with old Voldemort. My Mum and Dad told me about that. Apparently, it rips your guts out when you go though it."

"Be no good for either of you two, then," Malfoy sniped. "Sitting here and doing nothing about Auntie Bella being on the loose ... you've got no guts between the pair of you."

"So if this nutter is related to your family and Harry's Godfather, what's she got to do with me?" Neville asked. "We're only distantly related to the Blacks."

"Ah yes, but Aunt Bella had a best friend at school that is related to you," Malfoy replied in a quiet voice, narrowing his eyes cryptically. "Thick as thieves they were, apparently. More like sisters than friends. She was a Slytherin girl, Quidditch Captain, and later Hogwarts Head Girl. Her name was Alice Morgan, but you might call her a different name ... you know, Longbottom, like ... mother."

Neville dropped his cutting knife in his surprise. Harry went to demand more information, but at that point Snape called out loudly that they should have finished adding the ingredients to their potions and that they needed fifteen minutes to stew. In the ensuing wait time, Malfoy sauntered away to talk to Sophie Roper on the Slytherin side of the room.

"Do you think Malfoy was right about any of that?" Neville asked, cautiously.

"Normally, I'd say no, but there was something about him today," Harry frowned. "I'd ask my Godfather about it, but he's ... er ... away at the moment. Hey! Maybe you could ask your Mum!"

"Oh, I totally will," Neville nodded, vehemently. "I cant believe she was a Slytherin! I actually feel quite violated by that."

"Maybe that explains why you like Daphne Greengrass so much," Harry teased. "I see her flicking little looks at you when she thinks you wont see! And you've gone redder than a Weasley Wig now that I've mentioned her! You fancy her, don't you?"

Neville scoffed loudly. "So what if I do? She's so shy that it's cute, and she's really nice, too, if she lets you get to know her. We often work together in Herbology and I told you we kept in touch over the Summer. I might ask her to go to the first Hogsmeade weekend with me, if I get up the courage for it."

"I believe in you, Nev!" Harry chuckled, slapping his back playfully. "I have faith!"

"I don't know what you're laughing about, anyway," Neville retorted with a smirk. "You can see me blushing, and in about five seconds you work out that I might fancy Daphne, but for two years you and Hermione have spent more time flushed around each other than not and you don't even realise that you're totally besotted with her."

"I am not," Harry protested weakly, his face burning as Neville stared at him.

"Harry, listen mate," Neville began, patiently. "I like you, you're my best friend, so don't take this the wrong way ... but you're as thick as two short planks where Hermione is concerned. You have been smitten with her since you first set eyes on her, and everyone knows it but you. Someone has to tell you, otherwise you might never understand it."

Harry's mouth fell open and he froze. He couldn't even blink as he tried to process the words, but Neville wasn't finished.

"You have to do something about it this year ... because if you don't, someone else is going to step into your place."

Harry was on alert in a flash, a prickly anger poking through his pores. Neville's tone wasn't vague or teasing ... it was suggestive.

"You've heard something?" Harry asked in fuming surprise.

Neville nodded. "I signed up for the Music Society, didn't I? I've always wanted to play the lyre, so I decided to try and learn this year. But in our last class I heard Michael Corner telling Anthony Goldstein that he cant wait for Hermione to come back and join the Society, because he wants to hear her sing ... and then get involved in a very different sort of duet with her tonsils, if you know what I mean."

Harry scowled angrily. "He can just do one. Hermione wont be interested in him anyway."

"Don't be so sure," Neville replied, darkly. "Fay told me that Corner sent Hermione a Valentine's Card last year, but she never got round to opening it, on account of her being Petrified and everything during the school term, but she must have by now. I'm surprised she hasn't told you about that.

"Anyway, Daphne told me most of the girls in our year think Corner is quite good looking, and he was made a Chaser for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team last week, too. He's got a lot going for him, Harry, so Hermione might easily become interested in him, if he gives her the encouragement by asking her on a date or something."

"I wont stop her going if she does," Harry huffed, crossly. "Not like she's my property or anything, is it?"

Neville shook his head in his exasperation. "You know, sometimes I think there's a spell on you or something where Hermione is concerned. Like something that's stopping you admitting you're crazy about her. I'd get myself checked out by Pomfrey, if I were you."

Harry just scowled at that. Either way he was in a very bad mood when they reached their last class of the day, which was Defence Against the Dark Arts. Fay idled over to join them, looking quite exasperated with Lavender and Parvati and the ways they just seemed to expect Harry to drop dead at any moment. But she looked quizzically at Harry as she clocked the stormy look on his face.

"Something go wrong in Potions?" Fay asked, lightly teasing. "I didn't hear Snape say that you'd added the foxglove stems instead of the petals or something, and melted your cauldron!"

"No, I was just thinking about cutting corners, that's all," Harry snapped, bitterly.

He felt unreasonably cross, as though blaming Hermione for accepting a date that she hadn't even been asked on yet. He had to snap out of this mood, but he wasn't even close to being done with it quite yet. He decided to teach Hermione a lesson she didn't know she was getting in her absence, by sharing a desk with Sally-Anne Perks instead of Neville, who had become his regular seating partner this year, as they were sharing a lesson with the Hufflepuffs again.

That would teach Hermione for singing arias to, and snogging with, Michael bloody Corner! Harry slammed into his chair in a dark, self-unsatisfied huff, riling at the world around him. He felt thoroughly miserable with life, and even ignored Marici trying to tell him in his mind that he was totally overreacting to things that had yet to, or might never even, happen.

"What was that all about?" Fay whispered to Neville as they sat down at a nearby table. She looked over at Harry in concern, but he turned his head from her.

"Don't ask, you'll only provoke him," Neville returned, dryly.

"Right then, class!" Professor Lupin announced, jovially. "You can put away your books and parchment, for today's class will be a practical one."

Harry turned his ire and suspicion on Professor Lupin a moment. What was he doing here, teaching a class after Snape warned him not to just twenty-four hours ago? Was he just searching for his latest victim? Harry decided to keep a close eye on the threadbare Professor, who looked more gaunt and pale than normal.

"Behind me, as you can see, is a wardrobe ... and a very noisy wardrobe at that," Professor Lupin went on. "But you needn't be afraid of what's inside ... yet ... for there is just a Boggart in there."

The class let out an accumulated gasp, as though the presence of a Boggart actually was something to be concerned about. Sally-Anne shifted closer to Harry in the ensuing silence, shivering slightly ... and Harry was hit with a vision of Hermione angrily frowning at her from a whole other world away. Harry felt a horrible person for being so ridiculous to his absent best friend, but cheered slightly that she might be cross that another girl was sitting right by him instead of her. Maybe that would make her tell Michael Dickhead Corner to sod off and do one!

But speaking of ridiculous things ...

"Now, the first question we must ask ourselves is 'what is a Boggart'?" Lupin went on.

It came as no surprise to anyone that, without Hermione's hand to shoot into the air first, it was Harry who actually answered the question.

"They are shape-shifters," he replied, when prompted by Professor Lupin for an answer. "A Boggart assumes the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us the most, using fear as a defence mechanism."

"Very good, I couldn't have put it better myself, Mr Potter," Lupin smiled, pleasantly. It confused Harry, that a man who was seemingly stock piling dead bodies in his wooden house could seem such a cheery sort. But seriall killers were always the last person you'd expect, wasn't that what people generally said? Harry decided a course of constant vigilance was the best form of action.

"Anyway, as Mr Potter correctly described, a Boggart is a shape-shifter," Lupin continued, turning back to the class. "No-one knows what a Boggart looks like when it is alone, as it only takes form when exposed to a person. They like dark, enclosed spaces ... wardrobes, the gap under the bed, the cupboard under the stairs, things like that.

"This one took residence in this wardrobe just as term started, and I requested he be left there to allow my Third-Years to study him. So, today, we will all be exposed to the Boggart to see what you make of him."

"We have to face our worst fears?" Ron squeaked in a trembling voice. Harry knew he was thinking about the biggest, hairiest spider the he could ever conjure from the recesses of his imagination, and he couldn't resist a grin at Ron's anxiety.

"Indeed, Mr Weasley," Lupin smiled, jovially.

"But how do we beat it?" Hannah Abbott asked from the front row.

"The Charm to repel a Boggart is fairly simple," Lupin replied. "The incantation is Riddikulus. Try it now."

"Riddikulus!" the class cried in disjointed voices.

"Very good. But in order to drive a Boggart away, the thing it fears most is laughter."

"So, what?" Ron yelped. "We have to tell it a joke or something? I know a good one about a hag, a Muggle, and an Engorgio Charm ... I hope that'll do ..."

"Perhaps another time," said Lupin, gently. "No, it is not the Boggart who must be hit with mirth, but us. We must use our laughter as a repellent force, causing it to flee. And to do that we must force it to assume an amusing shape, which we hold in our minds while casting the Charm. But we have an advantage today, can you guess what it might be, Harry?"

Harry looked over at the Professor, surprised to have been so singled out and also for the Professor to have used his first name. He tried to think of an answer, but it wasn't easy with the friendly smile Lupin was giving him. This was all very odd. Maybe he'd seen him from the Shrieking Shack window and this was his attempt at a charm offensive. Yes, that would be it. Harry determined not to be swayed by the simpers and smiles.

"Um ... is it because there are loads of us?" Harry chanced. "It wont know who to try and scare, or what form to take."

"Very good," Lupin smiled. "Take another ten points. It is always advisable to face a Boggart in groups. Strength in numbers confuses a Boggart. I once saw one trying to scare two people at once ... by becoming a mummy and a broomstick at the same time ... but it merely ended up as a flying roll of bandages, which was not at all frightening.

"So, if you would please form a line, we will see how you get on. Remember the incantation, get the image in your mind of your scariest thing, and what would make you laugh at it, and prepare yourself to face it."

Harry stood and swallowed hard. What was the scariest thing he could think of? Well, there were lots, really ... being Separated from Marici, though he couldn't picture what that would look like or how to make it funny; then there were images of bad things happening to Hermione, particularly when he thought she had died in the Chamber of Secrets last year ...

And then it came to him ... the thing he feared above all else ... he could almost see the rotting flesh in his mind, feel the cold, smell the putrid stench of the foul creatures ... he broke out in a cold sweat just by thinking about it.

"What's your scariest thing, Nev?" Harry heard Fay whisper, some way down the line behind him.

"Easy ... Professor Snape," Neville replied in a shaky tone. "He scares the living hell out of me. What's yours? A bra with only enough cup space for one roll of toilet paper?"

"Shut up, Neville," Fay retorted, crossly.

Harry turned and caught Neville's eye, and they shared a smirk as he did so. Then Parvati was urged forwards as the unfortunate first in line by Professor Lupin. He gave a count of three and opened the wardrobe. A terrifyingly scary clown stepped out. He had blood-red eyes, a mouth that looked like it had been cut into the flesh by a rough, serrated knife, and two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. It stalked forward towards a trembling Parvati.

"Miss Patil! Cast the Charm!" Lupin called over.

"R-Riddikulus!" Parvati screeched.

There was a sharp sound, like a whip-cracking, and the scary clown suddenly had a baby's head, where it started gurgling and cooing. Parvati laughed out loud at the sound, then hurried away. Ron took her place.

Crack. The clown became a giant, hairy spider with drooling, metre-long fangs. Half the class jumped in their fright at the sight of it.

"Riddikulus!" Ron bellowed.

There was another crack and the spider's legs became red rope liquorice and it fell, flailing, to the floor. Crack ... and the Boggart was a bloody skeleton for Seamus ... crack ... and it was a rabid bloodhound for Lavender ... crack ... and it became a sinister looking ghost for Ernie MacMillan. Sally-Anne defeated a basilisk, which made them all look at her in recollected pity, and then it was Harry's turn.

Lupin moved forwards half a step, as if he were about to stop Harry facing the Boggart, but he changed his mind and eased himself back. Harry looked at the basilisk, and the star-shaped pink sunglasses that Sally-Anne had conjured over its eyes, then it slowly began to change.

Harry saw the slimy, mottled flesh of the hand, slithering out menacingly from under its cloak ... then heard the rattling breath from a mouth unseen ... felt that penetrating cold that was so dense it was like drowning ... and then there was another sound, one that didn't belong to the Dementor at all.

For it was Neville ... screaming in high-pitched terror from his place down the line.

Now there were two things about this sound which were quite unique. The first one was that it was the single most horrific and heartbreaking sound Harry had ever heard in his short life. Neville simply shouldn't have been able to make, should never have had the need to make, such a terrified and frightened shriek. And the second unique thing, was that Harry never wanted to hear it again.

He had to make it stop, so he turned to Lupin in desperation.

"Professor! I'll leave the Boggart to you!" Harry cried.

Lupin raced forward, Harry briefly saw the Boggart change into a bright, silvery orb, but he didn't care what it was or how Lupin finally defeated it. For he was sprinting down the room to Neville. He broke from the line and fell to his knees, covering his balling eyes as Harry reached him.

"What is it, mate?" Harry demanded anxiously. "Tell me what's wrong."

"That ... that thing you're most scared of ... the Dementor," Neville sniffed raggedly, his voice oddly wet as though covered in drool and tears. "It is gone?"

"Yeah, it's gone now, it wont hurt you," Harry reassured him. "I was about to use my Patronus Charm on it, to show you, when you started screaming."

"You can produce a Patronus?" Lupin asked, quietly. Harry nodded, and the Professor looked impressed. "A corporeal one?"

"Yeah, my parents and Godfather taught me," Harry replied. "It takes the form of a stag."

"Ah! James' Animagus form," Lupin remembered, fondly. "It has been a long time since Prongs rode for me ... perhaps you can show me one day."

"Perhaps," Harry scowled, his expression making it clear to Lupin that he had far more important things to do right now that indulge his reminiscing whims. He turned back to Neville. "What happened?"

"W-when the Dementor came out, I looked at it," Neville replied in a fraught little voice. "And I heard ... I heard ..."

"What?" Harry urged.

Neville pulled his head back, and looked at Harry with moist, puffy eyes. He looked shaken to his foundations.

"I heard my parents again, Harry ... I heard them when they ... when they were tortured!" Neville whimpered. "Only it was much clearer this time, Harry! It was so awful ... so, so awful! They suffered so much! I ... I could hear them ... begging for mercy, begging for their lives ... begging for my life. And I heard who they were begging to."

"And who was it? Who was torturing them?" Harry pressed, urgently.

Neville turned his haunted eyes to Harry. "It was her ... my Mum's best friend ... it was Bellatrix Lestrange!"