Chapter 8:


A/N: And here's Chapter Eight. Harry's beginning to get frustrated with waiting for events to happen, so he's given in and is beginning to meddle a little early, and in unexpected avenues thanks to the unwitting suggestions of another student who has no idea what she's going to be helping Harry do.


Harry stared at Ravenclaw's Diadem. Sirius stared at Ravenclaw's Diadem. There was no Compulsion coming from it, only their natural desire to ram magical objects which promised a power-up onto their heads.

"Bastard," said Sirius.

"Yeah," agreed Harry. "I don't want to trash the Founders' artifacts this time. There's one surviving item for each of them. That seems important, somehow."

"Laden with magical symbolism I can't even pretend to understand, but there's a pattern there, and that's how old magic works," said Sirius. "Still, if we run out of time…"

"There's always FiendFyre," said Harry with a sigh. "But the horcruxes aren't our priority. The resurrection is. So we can't move openly against Voldemort yet."

"You said that happens at the end of the year. Do you plan to just sit on your hands, going to History of Magic and waiting?" asked Sirius incredulously.

Harry snorted in derision.

"Don't be ridiculous. I have to wait until my name comes out of the Goblet of Fire, then we're off the leash. Two months. It feels like a lifetime." Harry groaned, and turned to Sirius. "I can't do it. I slept through these lessons already. Now I actually know the material. That makes it worse."

"James and I felt like that sometimes. Not the deja-vu time travel bit, of course, but we were way ahead of the class in anything that needed a wand. We filled our time with some extracurricular activities," said Sirius, smirking.

"The Weasley twins have a monopoly on pranks. And a business plan for their future. I'm not stepping on that so you can re-enact your childhood."

"Forget the pranks. That was just what everyone saw us do. What did we do that nobody else knew about?" asked Sirius.

"The map? And your animagus forms?" guessed Harry.

"Exactly!" exclaimed Sirius in triumph. "We didn't just focus on the main task. Ours was school, yours is Voldemort. Same deal. We had side-projects. Deviated from the path. Because the end goal was waiting for us at exam time, and we had plenty of time to spare, prepare, and waste on our own goals."

"I have side-projects," said Harry shiftily.

"Do they all swing back into your main project?" Sirius asked in mock exasperation.

"I'm Harry Potter. Everything I do typically ends in Voldemort," Harry said wryly.

Sirius shook his head in mock disgust.

"Does that include women?" Sirius asked in jest.

Harry's mood soured. He gave Sirius a bleak look.

"Yeah. Once or twice. He didn't like it when I was happy. He liked to take my things and break them. People aren't things - but they are to him."

"Shit, Harry," began Sirius, but Harry cut him off.

"Whatever you were about to say, forget it. I've heard all the hollow platitudes before. Some things cut you in a way that words can't reach. You live with it. You move on. You carry it with you, but it's not a burden. It's who you are. Sympathy doesn't make it better," he said bitterly.

Sirius gave Harry a hard look.

"Will killing him make it better?"

Harry sighed.

"No," he said at last. "But it'll make him stop. That's more important than anyone I've lost. We've all lost people to Voldemort, and that was just his first war. It gets worse. Always, it gets worse. That's what I'm here for. To change the direction so things can get better someday. Even if we don't live to see it."

"Tell me about these side projects of yours," asked Sirius. "No, don't look at me all mopey like that. Future. Past. Whatever. Even if it won't happen again, it'll always have happened to you, right?"

"Yes," said Harry through gritted teeth. "Even if we save the world and cover it in butterflies, I'll remember when it went the other way."

"So don't let it be a burden," said Sirius, using Harry's own words against him. "It's experience. Motivation. You know his tactics and his personality. He doesn't know you. That's a massive advantage."

"I always cheat," said Harry with a grim smile.

"Attaboy," said Sirius, ruffling Harry's hair. "So. Side projects?"

"The first is the Daily Prophet. Rita Skeeter. I don't know if you know her, given that you were in Azkaban for most of her career."

"I read a few papers when I slipped out," said Sirius. "She's a nasty piece of work. Political bloodhound with nobody holding the leash."

"That pretty much sums her up. She attacks everyone for trashy sensationalist articles. But narrow her aim a bit, and you've got the power of the mob on your hands. People believe what they see in the paper, just because it's in the paper. Like 'Sirius Black - Mass Murderer'."

Sirius shifted uneasily. Harry almost didn't notice.

"What?" he asked. "Surely that doesn't bother you? We both know it's not true."

"That's the thing," said Sirius slowly. "I didn't kill Pettigrew. I was trying to, believe me, but we both saw him alive and well last year. But what they're calling me? Yeah. That's true."

"You were fighting a war," insisted Harry. "Death Eaters don't fall down to tickling jinxes. You have to put them down so they don't get up."

"I know that!" growled Sirius. "I don't care about anyone who's died with their wand pointed at me. I'm not going to lie down without fighting to the bone. But those Muggles weren't fighting me. They were just - there."

Harry looked at his godfather, uncertain. Was this an aftereffect of the Dementors; survivor's guilt warped by Dark magic? Was it just something lost in the confusion as he fought Pettigrew? Or - Harry felt ice in his stomach, cold shards driving into him.

"A lot of spells get flung around in a duel. It could have been him just as easily as it could have been you. You don't know for sure, right? It's just guilt."

Sirius was silent.

"Sirius?" Harry asked.

After a long time, Sirius finally looked Harry in the eyes.

"He was too fast. I could cast spells beyond his imagining, but I couldn't hit him with anything. I can fight, but he could run better than I could chase. Every spell, dodged by a hair, or a mile. I got mad. I got stupid." Sirius took a deep breath, and shuddered, remembering that day. "I knew there was only one way I could take him out. I couldn't just attack where he was."

"You had to attack everywhere he could be," finished Harry softly.

"I'd been chasing him for a while. I knew how far he could move after I cast a spell. The blast radius had to be that big to catch him. I doubled it to be sure."

"I've had to do something like that before," muttered Harry. "I didn't even notice there was anyone nearby until they were all dead. It was just me and my target. Nothing else was real."

"You get collateral damage in war, but I destroyed a dozen innocent lives for revenge. Because I was selfish. I had to kill him myself, not wait for the Aurors to haul him in. Voldemort had just died, and I went out there and killed Muggles because I was too angry to miss my last chance before he got away," said Sirius. "They're calling me by the right name, Harry. Mass-Murderer. And it was all for nothing, because that rat bastard got away. And again, last year!"

Harry stood in stunned silence. He had never imagined this. Sirius Black was his innocent godfather - innocent of Peter Pettigrew's murder. But he wasn't innocent, after all.

"We're all capable of terrible things, Sirius," Harry managed at last. "I won't tell you the things I've done. It's not a competition. I know that won't make it any better. But you're alive. I'm alive. That's what matters today."

"It's what matters most," Sirius said quietly. "But it's not the only thing which matters. I know you've been moving to clear my name. Don't. I could have escaped from Azkaban for a very long time. But I knew I deserved to be there."

"You can do more good out here," said Harry adamantly.

"Yes," said Sirius. "When I saw that Pettigrew was alive I had to go after him to finish the job. To make those deaths mean something. Not just random slaughter. That was more important than being punished for what I did. What we're doing now - even though I don't know the half of it - is more important than being punished."

"You don't deserve to be punished," said Harry. "Punishment isn't justice. It's revenge. You saw where that leads. Both in Azkaban - and how you got there."

"Then what is justice? Is there any, except a wand at your throat?" joked Sirius grimly.

"Justice is stopping the people who're going to do it again. The ones who do it on purpose. The ones who don't feel bad afterwards and ask themselves questions like these, Sirius!" shouted Harry.

"Don't drown in guilt, you mangy hound. You're my second favourite pet," Harry said at last, after a silence that had gone on too long.

Sirius remained silent for a while, but when he finally looked up, he no longer looked stricken by grief and guilt.

"I thought telling you would be harder than this," he said.

"Let me guess, you expected me to be outraged, and curse your name, and hate you?"

"Just a bit," said Sirius.

"Telling me was just another attempt to punish yourself, wasn't it?" demanded Harry. When Sirius didn't look at him, he powered on regardless. "But it didn't work. You've finally told me. Got rid of that horrible secret that was dragging you down. Now it's just part of who you are. It's in the open. Accept it, and live."

"You're right. It didn't work," said Sirius. "I actually feel better now. That's fucked up."

"I'm still going to clear your name," said Harry.

"I won't live a lie, Harry. I killed those people, and the Ministry should hunt down killers, not pardons them. Some Death Eaters might have bought their way out, but I'll live an honest life as a fugitive, fucked up as that might sound."

"I understand," said Harry softly.

"Then you won't do it?"

"I'm still going to do what I was planning. Get the truth out there." Harry shrugged, and smiled weakly at Sirius. "Just turns out the truth isn't what I thought, after all."

"What exactly are you going to tell people?" demanded Sirius.

"What happened. That you're not a Death Eater. You're a loyal friend who made a mistake while mad with grief. That you're not a danger lurking on the street corner. Just a man who fucked up as badly as I might do."

"None of that brings those Muggles back to life."

Harry gazed into the distance for a while, trying to push away memories of scorched flesh and screams.

"It might bring you back to life," Harry said at last. Sirius sighed, and slumped onto the floor.

"Alright. At least this will stop some people from being afraid to go out at night because I'm on the loose. They thought I was evil. I can cope with admitting I was just stupid."

"The line between the two gets frighteningly thin at times," said Harry.

Harry gazed at Ravenclaw's Diadem, still perched only feet away from them. He wondered if the horcrux had been pulling on Sirius' negative emotions, forcing this confession. He sighed, and shook his head wearily. Maybe it had, and maybe it hadn't. Maybe this had been building up for a while and needed to come out. Either way, it was done.

In a way Harry hoped it had been the horcrux. Because despite Sirius' horrible confession, Harry had seen the weight lift from him at the thought of getting his true story out there, even if it changed nothing when the DMLE came sniffing around.

"Let's get out of here," said Harry. "We can't do anything with it and it's safest here, where nobody ever comes except to lose things."

"Should we bring the snake here?" suggested Sirius.

"I don't know if I like the thought of two of them being in the same room," said Harry. "It might be nothing, but horcruxes pull at each other. They might draw on each other. Grow stronger. Combine into one. Maybe explode, or do nothing. But they could alert Voldemort to somebody interfering with them, and that might cause his plans to change."

"If you rely on him behaving as he did last time, you'll die the moment he tries something new," cautioned Sirius.

"I know," said Harry. "I'm not trying to repeat the past. Just make sure that one moment still happens. As soon as my name comes out of the Goblet of Fire, it's a fixed moment in time. He'll use the same ritual. I'll fuck it up for him. Then we fight."

"Why not just get him now, while he's weak?" asked Sirius.

"He'll find another way to come back when we don't expect it. He'll be back eventually. All we can do is prepare. Either we fight on our terms in the open, or his, with assassinations in the shadows and terror in the streets."

"Right," said Sirius. "The Horcruxes."

"We can exorcise them when we learn how, or destroy them if we never do. Strip his advantages away. This time counts for all," said Harry. "This time."

"Enough moping!" demanded Harry at last. "Woof." Sirius shifted back into Padfoot, and they left that oversized room of lost treasures and traps behind. Harry hoped he could prevent the Founders' artifacts from being damaged, but if he needed to, he'd tear down Hogwarts itself, brick by brick, to stop Voldemort.

"Oh, shit," swore Harry, realising what time it was. "I'm late for Quidditch practice."

He dumped Padfoot in his dorm, grabbed his Firebolt, and flew out of the nearest window which was both big enough and could open. It took a while to find one suitable, but was a lot quicker than walking down the stairs.

By the time he reached the pitch, everyone was packing away their brooms.

"Sorry," he said to the group. "I had a detention with McGonagall, and it dragged on way longer than it was supposed to."

"You're just lucky nobody else is stepping up to play seeker," said Angelina, in a tired voice, but not an angry one. "Your Keeper lives up to his recommendation. He's in. But I want to see you fly again before I decide whether I need to hold Seeker tryouts."

"Fair enough," said Harry, just as Fred, George, and Katie all spontaneously exclaimed the opposite.

"That's not fair!" they claimed, all at the exact same time. Harry looked quizzically at the twins.

"Did you guys do something to her? Synch your pocket watches or something?

"Not a thing," said Fred. "But we're a team, and a team thinks with one brain!"

"Shared between us, unfortunately, and it happens to be mine. Or at least that's what Team Captain meant last time I checked," said Angelina.

Harry smiled, and Alicia giggled in the background.

"How was practice?" he asked Angelina.

"Well enough," she said. "McLaggen needs a lot of work learning to play with others instead of showing off, but the twins have put on some muscle over the summer, and I've been thinking up some new plays I want to try."

"How about your Seeker?" Harry asked.

"Flew so fast I couldn't see him," she replied in a deadpan voice. "Unfortunately the Snitch got eaten by a passing owl."

"Tragic," said Harry.

"It'll be tragic if you can't handle your Firebolt, Potter," shouted Cormac.

"Let me show you how to fly so fast that you disappear, then, McLaggen," taunted Harry.

He kicked off the ground and flew full speed into the distance, quickly leaving the Quidditch Pitch behind him. He grinned, wondering what the others would think when he never came back. He imagined that it would be any moment now that he disappeared, becoming too small to see.

But that wasn't what he was here for. Harry pushed forward at full speed on his Firebolt until he passed the wards surrounding the school. He felt them wash over him like stepping through a curtain of water, and then was free. Immediately outside the wards, he landed, left his Firebolt hidden in a tree which he marked with a simple rune, and Disapparated.

He reappeared in the stairwell of the Daily Prophet office building. A light was still on in Skeeter's office. Excellent. He'd had her pegged as the type to work late, and was hoping he wouldn't have to root through employee files to find her home address.

While hidden in the shadow of the stairwell, Harry Transfigured his Hogwarts robes into threadbare homespun, and cast his age forward until he looked more or less the same age he had been when he'd first met Skeeter in this timeline. He walked along creaking floorboards, and had a hand raised to knock when she pulled her office door open.

For a moment Harry considered knocking on her face, but that didn't fit the role he was playing, so he restrained himself.

"Mister Potter," she greeted him in that sickening drawl. From her expression it was clear she thought she'd caught him, thanks to that snooping charm she'd planted on him. If it wouldn't blow his cover, Harry would have laughed at how close she was to the truth.

Instead, he furrowed his eyebrows in the pretence of annoyance.

"How'd you know?" he demanded.

"This office is closed, locked, and you come stealing in here while I'm working, the only woman in the building! Why, I really should be the one to ask the questions, shouldn't I? And if you have the answers, I won't need to call the DMLE down, now, will I?" she said, simpering.

Harry was revolted, but hid the expression under a mask of anger.

"Then Ill just tell 'em about your beetle, won't I?" he insisted.

"Oh, please," Skeeter said dismissively. "People say anything when they're being hauled off to the cells. That's the one time nobody would believe anything you said. And if you said it then, they'd never believe you if you tried to use it another time."

"At least tell me how you knew who I was," Harry grunted.

"Oh, the pieces all fit. Estranged grandfather, faked his own death so cunningly that even I struggled to trace it." Harry stifled a snort, and Skeeter gave him a firm look "Oh yes, I managed to trace your forged paperwork. Going underground to hide from the war, were we? But too ashamed to come back out when the world was put to rights and your son was dead."

"Journalists," grumbled Harry under his breath. The bitterness in his voice was sincere. The way she'd fabricated a story to deceive the fictional Charlus Potter was eerily reminiscent of a certain hate-campaign launched against Harry himself, in that it was utter bullshit, but spun a certain way, could look like the truth.

"Don't lie to me, Charlus, I'll always find out. But if you keep my secrets and give me my answer I'll let you leave here a free man. It was so brave of you, after all," she gushed, leaning closer to him. "How you finally came out of hiding to help your orphaned grandson, The Boy Who Lived, when he had that terrible accident. Tell me your story and I'll make you look good in it. If you won't give me this - aha - interview, well, I'll call the Ministry and the article will be about Charlus Potter, petty criminal and burglar, not the hero rising from the dead to save a boy!"

She cackled in pure glee. Harry shuddered. He really hated this woman.

"Don't write my story," he said. "Keep my secrets, and I'll keep yours. I came here to give you another story. Anonymous, again, mind!" he exclaimed.

"Let's hear what you have to say, then, my dear Charlus," said Skeeter, stepping out of the doorway and beckoning him into her office. "Would you like a drink?"

Harry saw the tiny gleam of a potion bottle between the glasses she was carrying towards them.

"Not tonight," he said. "Got to keep a clear head if I want to get home this late."

"Oh my," said Skeeter, raising a hand to her mouth. "That sounds like it has a story behind it."

"But not the one I brought for you," Harry snarled. "I have a better story than a lost old man. I want you to print it."

"Well?" she said, Quick-Quotes Quill hovering in the air beside her. Harry jumped at the sight of it. He hadn't even seen it appear. Her bag wasn't nearby. She must have sewn the damn things into her clothing! Harry supposed that explained how she managed to sneak them into so many controlled events.

He quickly related to her the new, true, and tragic story of Sirius Black.

"Oh that's good," she purred. "This will make the headlines sit up and dance." She paused for a second, and then gave Charlus a sideways look.

"So how's your grandson doing these days?" she asked slyly.

"You know he doesn't even know I'm alive. And I want it to stay that way," snapped Harry. "I'm a disgrace to the Potter name. He's our future. Let history say I died when my medical records say I died, and forget all about me. He'll have a better life without the shame of a cowardly old man haunting him."

"Hmm," said Skeeter, tapping her lips with the quill. "Surely you've been keeping an ear to the ground. What's he up to these days? Recovered nicely from the accident, or is he still at Mungos? Nobody saw him board the train to Hogwarts, you know," she whispered conspiratorially.

"He's at Hogwarts. Going to enter the Triwizard Tournament. That's the rumour. And if that accident back in summer really made him seventeen, he's allowed. I checked the rules."

"The last scion of the Potter family, poised to restore their lost honour?" taunted Skeeter.

Harry clenched his fists, and got to his feet.

"Look, lady, I'll get you stories, but you keep my name out of it. Out of everything. I'll pass what I hear your way if you'll just let me be," he said, his tone starting as anger, but turning into pleading over the course of his words.

"Oh, very well. Champion of Great Britain it is. No attachment to the Potter name at all." Skeeter closed her notebook. The noise was both quiet and deafening as a coffin lid sliding shut.

"What!" exclaimed Harry, faking outrage. "He's a Potter! If he wins that tournament, that's glory everlasting for the Potter family! You can't take that away in a - in a nickname!"

"Oh, but I can," purred Skeeter. "Your choice, Charlus. A Potter Champion and a Potter criminal, or just Harry, the Champion."

Harry blustered and swore at her for a moment, then pretended to come to a decision.

"Fine. Just Harry. I stay out of it. You never put me in a story, ever," he demanded.

"So long as you bring me juicy tidbits like this, my dear burglar," she said sweetly. Her eyes narrowed in an instant. "Now, scat. I'm sure you can break out as easily as you broke in. I have not one but two new articles for tomorrow's morning Prophet."

"You cheated me," Harry accused her.

"Not at all. You didn't even know it was a story. I drew it out of you. Pieced it together. The story of the Champion is all mine."

"I want paying for anything else I bring you," Harry said flatly. "You swindled twice what I offered out of me tonight. I won't have nothing but discretion and coin after that."

"As you wish dear," said Skeeter. "But do be sure to close my door on your way out."

Harry slammed it shut behind himself, leaving a very smug witch. Once he'd reached the sanctuary of the stairwell he Apparated back to the edge of Hogwarts. And he smiled.

The only way to beat someone like Skeeter is to look like you've been beaten. They'll take everything you have and use it against you. So have nothing. Lose it all. Let them win. What does it matter, when their prize is going to benefit you?

Guerrilla warfare. Tabloid journalism. Plain old lying. Harry had practice. Skeeter had played right into his hands, and the only cost was the sleaziness he felt from being around her. Well, and he also felt bad for using the mistaken identity of his grandfather as a disguise and slurring his name, even if only one witch knew. Harry was fairly certain that Skeeter would guard her sources - like Charlus had now become - as jealously as a dragon guards its eggs.

Harry's remnant of a conscience twinged, and he resolved to apologise to his grandfather if he managed to get a working Resurrection Stone out of the ring horcrux. It had worked last time after being stabbed with Gryffindor's sword, so that was a safe bet. Harry doubted the enchantments on the Founders' artifacts were so resilient, and he didn't really want to leave gaping sword-holes in them. The hard part about the ring would be getting rid of the curse.

It could have been because Skeeter wrote the article herself, rather than relying on her enchanted quill, but the story about Harry didn't turn up for a week. He'd been hoping it'd wait until his name actually came out of the Goblet, but after a week of keeping his head down and doing his best impression of a bored and lazy student in classes, the Great Hall began to flood with the noise of rumours and outrage.

Harry looked wearily up from his bacon, still exhausted from tending bar at The Hog's Head until the early hours of the morning, and saw that most of Hogwarts was staring at him. Over the frantic hubbub he could hear one word being repeated again and again, by students from every house and year.

"Fuck," he said, loudly enough to make the students sitting around him jump. Padfoot growled upon hearing Harry's annoyance, and Harry slipped a second plate loaded with bacon under the table for him.

"Champions don't swear like that," said Angelina primly. Harry turned around to find her behind him, hands on her hips, and a distinctly unamused expression on her face.

"How should I swear?" asked Harry.

"Why the fuck is there a Daily Prophet article proclaiming you as the undeniable shoe-in for the role of Hogwarts' Triwizard Champion?"

Harry narrowed his eyes at her, and bit through the last of his bacon.

"You just swore with the exact same word as me, you hypocritical witch," he said.

"No, Harry, I embedded it into a sentence. You said fuck. I used fuck for emphasis. To emphasis how fucking weirded out I am by this article. I used fuck as a grammatical tool, whereas you just said a naughty word at the breakfast table. Cussing needs context, or it's not doing anything," she said, still looking as grim as before, but with a certain amused set to her lips.

"Being lectured on the correct way to swear by my Quidditch Captain is bound to be weirder than whatever Skeeter wrote about me," said Harry absently.

"Have you read the article?" Angelina asked.

"Do you see a paper?" asked Harry, raising an eyebrow. "The post just arrived. Here I sit, without a paper, without an article. So no, Angie. I haven't read it. Though I intend to as soon as I can steal a copy from someone."

"Then how'd you know that Rita Skeeter wrote it?" she demanded.

"Oh, fuck," said Harry. Angelina didn't comment on his failure to add context to his fuck this time. He could tell when he'd been caught out. "Your question wasn't rhetorical, was it? You actually think I had something to do with this," he muttered to himself.

"More and more with every word you say," said Angelina. "We've all heard you claiming that you're entering the tournament, but how the hell did you get that in the paper? On the front page!" she exclaimed, thrusting her own copy into Harry's hands.

"She tried to interview me after my accident this summer," said Harry. The accident was a good fall-back excuse. Nobody questioned it too deeply. It was weird, and it was magic, and although everyone knew there was more to the story than Harry was telling people, they weren't pestering him for answers. "I didn't have much interesting to say, but one of her questions was about whether I was going to enter the Triwizard Tournament now that I was overage."

"Explains how you found out about it early," said Angelina. Harry shrugged.

"I said something vague about how I was used to competitions from Quidditch and had a habit of doing crazy things. I didn't even know what the tournament was when she mentioned it. Dumbledore explained it properly afterwards, and I decided I was going to go for it."

Angelina frowned.

"She seems pretty certain that you're competing from a few vague quotes about you having a competitive streak," said Angelina. "Did you talk to her again?"

"Nope," lied Harry. "But I've not exactly been keeping it a secret. Most of the school has heard that I'm entering. Somebody probably wrote about it."

"You've got a big legend around you, but your classmates don't sell stories about you to the press," said Angelina dryly.

"What?" exclaimed Harry. "No! I meant in a letter to their parents or something, and then they told someone else. The rumour got around to Skeeter somehow and she put two and two together from what I said in the interview, I'd guess. Or she just made it up for a good headline," he added sourly.

"'Champion of Britain' was the headline. She went on about how your future is shaping up to be as heroic as your past."

Harry sighed, and flipped to the next page, deciding to read whatever Skeeter had written when he didn't have somebody hovering over his shoulder and watching how he reacted.

"It was easier being heroic as a baby. All I had to do was sit there and wait for Voldemort's spell to backfire," he said bitterly. "Adult heroism comes with so much baggage," he said in disgust.

"You're talking like you remember it," said Neville quietly. Harry gave Neville a startled glance, having forgotten who he was sitting with.

"I suppose I do remember it," mused Harry. "I didn't always, but the Dementors woke up my worst memory. My parents dying, calling my name, and then that flash of green light."

Neville shuddered.

"That's a lot like my worst memory," he mumbled. Harry only just caught what the other boy said, and realisation snapped into place. It had only been a few days since Crouch had demonstrated the three Unforgivables in class, and it seemed like the memory was still fresh in Neville's mind.

"I know it's an awful memory, but I'm glad I have it," confided Harry. "Before I met the Dementors I didn't remember my parents' voices. I got to hear my mother say my name."

Angelina placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, and squeezed it gently.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered, eyes glistening. Harry reached up to pat her hand reassuringly, and froze when he saw how white Neville's face had gone.

"My parents were screaming like that spider," Neville whispered. "It went on for so long, but they never told the Death Eaters where they'd hidden me. The Dementors didn't let me hear them speak, only scream. But I heard the voices of the people who did it." Neville was gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles were even whiter than his face. "They're in Azkaban for it. I wonder what the Dementors make them hear. What kind of memories would that sort of person have?"

From his tone, it was clear that Neville didn't expect anyone to have an answer. Both Harry and Angelina were silent. Angelina was struck mute, stunned by the revelation. Harry, who already knew about the fate of Neville's parents, was just astounded that Neville had told them.

"They wouldn't have any good ones anymore, even if they used to," said Harry. "The Dementors feed on the emotions until the memories are just hollow reflections. Like it happened to someone else. Spend enough time in Azkaban and all that you can remember is pain and regret," he said softly, thinking of Sirius.

"Good," said Neville firmly.

Harry almost started a discussion about how horrible it would be to inflict that on anyone who didn't deserve it, but stopped himself before the words formed. That was not what Neville needed to hear right now.

Looking awkwardly away from Neville, he caught sight of the article on page four.

"Oh, hey, the Sirius Black article is finally out!" Harry exclaimed. Angelina gave him a funny look.

"Okay, so you definitely knew that one was coming. But it's not even about you. What gives?" she demanded.

"I gave the testimony," said Harry offhandedly, and enjoyed her agape stare.

"What?" she exclaimed. "About a Death Eater who's been in prison since you were a baby? Did the Dementors unlock memories of him as well?" she asked incredulously. Harry snorted, shaking his head.

"Nothing like that. Did you read the article?" he asked. Angelina shook her head.

"I came over here when I saw the front page," she said. Harry grimaced.

"The story about Sirius should be on the cover, not Skeeter speculating about me becoming a Champion. Even if she's right for once," he grumbled. "Sirius wasn't a Death Eater. He never worked for Voldemort. He was my dad's best friend. The Ministry just assumed he was a Death Eater when they locked him away."

"Why did they arrest him if he's not guilty?" asked Neville, breaking out of the pained reverie that he'd been trapped in.

Harry scratched his head awkwardly.

"Well, it's complicated," he began. Angelina snatched the paper out of his hands and began reading.

"He was guilty," she told Neville. "Just not of being a Death Eater."

"This should really be on the front page," complained Harry again.

"Why?" asked Angelina. "It's just a makeover on old news. Killer Azkaban escapee on the loose, fudge the details."

"He killed people by accident when trying to get the Death Eater who betrayed my parents to Voldemort," said Harry quietly. "He was trying to avenge his best friend and caught a lot of innocent people in his spell. Did you ever read that article about how he was arrested?"

"I did," admitted Neville. "It said he was just standing there laughing madly, shouting about how he'd killed them. Your parents, the muggles, Peter Pettigrew…"

"Death Eaters don't confess and come quietly," added Angelina nervously.

"They don't often mention the fact that he practically turned himself in. Much more exciting to write stories about the rabid murderer on the loose than about what really happened," said Harry bitterly. "Killing somebody deliberately is not the same as doing it by accident."

"Somebody still ends up dead," argued Angelina.

"But Sirius did that in an attempt to avenge my parents, even if he fucked it up royally. He wasn't a madman killing for fun, like the Prophet claimed he was. The whole country was living in terror of Sirius Black for a year, but he's just a man with a guilty conscience the size of Hogwarts," said Harry sadly.

"Even if he did it by accident, he did a terrible thing!" declared Angelina. "And he's the first wizard to escape from Azkaban. He should still be in there, and the Ministry was right to try to catch him when he got out."

Harry gave her a sad smile, trying not to let the mix of fury and shame reach his face.

"But he wasn't a danger to anyone else. There was no need to terrify the country and slur the name of a man who's probably already tearing himself apart because of what he'd done," he said. "There was no need to set a hundred Dementors around Hogwarts. A team of Hit Wizards should have tracked him instead of surrounding a school with soul-sucking monsters."

"The Dementors were awful, said Neville, shivering. "If this article had come out last year, do you think we wouldn't have had to deal with them?"

Harry began to answer, but cut himself off halfway through telling Neville that they'd definitely have avoided that particular burden.

"Maybe. He's the only wizard to have escaped Azkaban. The Ministry was frightened. When people get frightened, they get stupid."

"But we're getting off the subject," said Angelina, causing both Harry and Neville to look up at her in confusion. "You said that you were the one who gave the testimony for this article, Harry. How did you know all this?"

"He told me," said Harry simply.

Angelina stared at him in disbelief.

"But he could have been lying! Everyone knew he was coming to kill you, and he could have said anything to make you let your guard down, so he could attack you when you'd put your wand down! Why would you believe him?" she demanded in frustration.

"The way that he wasn't attacking me was my first clue," said Harry dryly. "The way that he continued not to attack me was the second. And the way that he risked his life to save me from a werewolf made me pretty sure he was telling the truth."

"Professor Lupin?" asked Neville, sounding forlorn. Harry understood the sentiment. Remus' lessons had been a lot more enjoyable than being barked at by a grizzled ex-Auror, and didn't bring up any childhood traumas. Well, except for Ron's Boggart turning into a spider, but even that had earned some laughs.

"So the deranged serial killer saved you from the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had?" asked Angelina skeptically.

"It was a werewolf, not Professor Lupin. Even if the werewolf turns into Professor Lupin on the full moon and viciously grades essays," said Harry sardonically. "When it's the full moon, Professor Lupin isn't there anymore. Something else takes his place."

"Snape covered some of my Defence classes too, Harry," said Angelina wryly, and then she let out a long sigh. "I wish he could have stayed. But I didn't know he attacked you, so I suppose he had no choice," she said.

"He was trying to protect me from Sirius, but finding out the truth took a while. He wasn't supposed to be with me that night, but because he was trying to protect me, the werewolf almost killed me," said Harry. "Ironic, huh? But nobody really knew about that. It was just because the news got out that he was a werewolf that he had to quit. Dumbledore wanted him to stay, but Professor Lupin didn't want to cause trouble for him."

Angelina watched Harry in silence for a long time, assessing him with a look that made him feel incredibly uncomfortable.

"You're still in touch with him, aren't you?" she guessed. Harry quickly shushed her, but she waved him off with a flap of her hands.

"Oh, please. Anyone sitting close enough to hear could have guessed."

"I don't really fancy being interrogated about where he's hiding," said Harry. "Not telling anybody is probably a crime even when you take into account the real facts, and I've heard enough about Azkaban to make me never want to visit for anything more than a long weekend."

"Since nobody's ever escaped, I don't think the Wizengamot ever bothered to write a law about hiding escaped fugitives," said Neville helpfully.

Harry stared glumly at his pumpkin juice.

"I read up on his trial," he said. "Sirius should have been out after ten years. They only left him there because of the idea that he was a Death Eater."

"But murder gets you life in Azkaban," said Neville, looking worried.

"Manslaughter doesn't, even if they're two sides of the same coin. And apparently the deaths don't add up. It's not twelve dead muggles, it's one incident. One dead witch or wizard gets you life, but kill as many muggles as you like and your sentence is up in ten."

"That's not fair," said Angeline, frowning. "Either part of it. Killing muggles is still killing."

"Yeah," said Harry morosely. "But even if it's fucked up, that's the law. He's legally finished his sentence for what happened, and they should have let him out. If he'd been in Azkaban when the news came out, they'd have released him, but since he had to break out of there to tell someone - to tell me what happened…" he trailed off.

"They want to haul him back in for escaping," finished Angelina.

Harry nodded, and pushed his plate away. His appetite had gone.

"The article doesn't say whether he'll be thrown back in Azkaban or if they just want to find out how he escaped so they can beef up security, only that he's now wanted for questioning instead of Kiss on Sight."

"He embarrassed the Ministry," said Angelina. "I wouldn't be surprised if they put him back in out of spite for everything they did last year because of his escape."

Underneath the table, Padfoot whined suddenly, and placed his head in Harry's lap. Harry gave Padfoot a sad look, and then began to scratch him behind his ears.

"There's no law which lets them do that, but I don't think they'd care if they thought it'd be the way to come out looking good," said Harry. "Politicians are vindictive and narcissistic in equal measures. But you've always known that, haven't you, Padfoot?" he asked.

Padfoot growled softly, but briefly.

"I didn't know your dog was under the table," exclaimed Neville in surprise. Harry looked up at the other boy and flashed him a grin.

"He's not very fond of dog food, so I sneak him into meals. I don't know if it's actually against the rules, but I don't want to find out if it is, so he hides under the table with his plate," said Harry.

Neville smiled at that, and lifted the tablecloth to duck his head under and look at Padfoot. He immediately jumped back up again, giving Harry a startled look.

"You actually did give him a plate!" he exclaimed.

"Well even a dog doesn't need to eat straight off the floor," said Angelina sensibly.

"But why did you give him cutlery?" insisted Neville. "And a napkin?"

Harry shrugged.

"He'll never be allowed to sit at the table if he won't learn to use them properly. Until then, he's confined to eating breakfast on the floor."

Padfoot whined, and Angelina laughed.

"He'll never be able to hold anything in those big old paws," she said affectionately. "Maybe he could hold a fork in his mouth, but then how would he use it? Pick things up or eat them, but not both."

"I'm sure that he'll learn how to do it eventually. He's a smart dog. I expect he'll be sitting at the table beside me for our Christmas Dinner," said Harry. Padfoot batted Harry's knee playfully, and Harry added a few more sausages to Padfoot's plate.

A moment later, when he was sure that nobody was looking, he slid Angelina's copy of the Prophet under the table, too. It was still open to the page with Sirius' article.

"He reads, too?" asked Angelina conversationally.

"You were looking in the other direction!" Harry accused her. She rolled her eyes.

"I looked back," she said flatly.

"He's no Hermione, but Padfoot's a good reader for a dog," said Harry. A happy bark of confirmation came from under the table, and Neville laughed. Harry saw Angelina fighting the smile which was forming on her own face, too, and laughed at her stubborn refusal to encourage his behaviour.

"Even Crups and Kneazles can't read," she said weakly.

"But Padfoot isn't a Crup or a Kneazle, so that's okay," said Harry. She punched him in the shoulder and flopped down onto the bench beside him. Since students had breakfast at whatever time suited them, the tables were usually a lot emptier than at lunch and dinner.

"You're incorrigible," she said in mock exasperation.

"I don't think he could read that word," said Harry, putting on an air of mock thoughtfulness. "But maybe with some practice he'll be able to read Witch Weekly without a dictionary."

Padfoot butted his head against Harry's leg, growling threateningly. Angelina flinched, but Harry just laughed, knowing it was just him reacting to the jibe in the only way he could while in Padfoot's form.

"Quidditch practice after dinner. Don't miss this one, or Padfoot's flying reserve Seeker to get McLaggen used to our formations," she said.

"If I miss practice, I'll probably be with Padfoot," said Harry. "But I'll be there so long as I don't get a detention for wearing lily-scented perfume to Double Potions."

Angelina gave him an odd look, and then opened her mouth. Harry guessed that she was going to ask if he was actually going to wear perfume to Potions, but then she snapped her mouth shut. He could almost see the moment she decided that he was actually going to do it. The way she rolled her eyes was a clue.

"Why would that get you a detention?" she asked, carefully refraining from asking why. Harry smirked, knowing that she'd deliberately held back from asking that particular question for fear of how insane the answer would be.

"Because it would be me doing it," said Harry truthfully, although not without omitting some significant details.

"Right, Snape hates you even more than the rest of us combined. Carry on acting weird around him, and he'll use you as a Potion ingredient," she scoffed. Neville nodded in silent agreement and fear. "Hey, wasn't your mum called Lily?" asked Angelina suddenly.

"That's right," said Harry. "I saw some lily perfume and it reminded me of her, so I bought it on a whim. Stupid idea, really. I'm never going to wear perfume, am I? But I figured that since I had it, I may as well wear some for my favourite professor."

Angelina gave him a long look, and then put a hand on his arm, smiling in a twisted parody of benevolent acceptance. Harry immediately began to feel nervous.

"There's no need to make up stories, Harry. It's okay to have a crush on your teacher. But I don't think any amount of perfume will help you seduce Snape," mocked Angelina. "He certainly feels strongly about you, maybe even strongly enough to risk his job - but I think you've got the wrong emotion there."

Neville choked noisily. He hadn't even been eating anything. Harry handed him his goblet of pumpkin juice, which was gratefully accepted.

"Don't worry, Padfoot would bite me if I ever decided that seducing Snape was a good idea," said Harry, rolling his eyes. "But you'd be surprised how much hatred can be an aphrodisiac," he added. "Not with Snape! But if you hate somebody enough, there's a certain passion. It just needs the right moment and something to spark it into existence."

"Like perfume?" suggested Neville innocently.

"Don't have hatesex with Snape, Harry," warned Angelina. "You've been weirder than usual this year, but there's a limit."

"That's not on my to-do list, Angie. Besides, hatesex requires attraction as well as animosity. Just hating somebody isn't enough. You have to hate somebody hot and then have her hate you back until something snaps," said Harry idly.

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," she observed. "Did you rehearse that just so you could subtly suggest that you've been getting some action?"

Harry laughed.

"I never claimed to be speaking from experience," he said, although he absolutely was. "I think the Champion story about me is enough for today without spreading wild rumours about my sex life."

"Most students would have said their love life, not their sex life," said Angelina. Harry gave her an appraising look. She was either very observant or a pain in his arse who picked apart little details. It'd serve her well as a Quidditch Captain, but would begin to get really annoying if she kept it up all the time.

"Sounds like you've already made up your mind about mine," said Harry in exasperation.

"Just commenting on what I see in front of me," she said innocently. "I didn't suggest a thing."

"Except for Harry seducing Snape," commented Neville.

If the idea wasn't so ridiculous that it amused Harry, he felt like he'd be completely revolted. As it was, he just let it go without saying anything. He knew that attempting to deny it would only encourage further teasing, and this was not something he wanted to become a running joke. As soon as it stopped being funny, he knew that his gag reflex would kick in with a vengeance.

Still, he wasn't going to be outmaneuvered and embarrassed by a teenage girl's teasing, so Harry launched into action.

"As great as it would be to see Snape sacked for sleeping with a student, I'm not brave enough to make that kind of sacrifice," said Harry. "But it's a good idea, Angie. Maybe one of the Slytherin seventh-years would work. Do you think we'll need to brew a love potion for Snape as well, or just for our sacrificial lamb?"

"For all I know, Snape's already having an affair with the Head Girl. She's a Slytherin. Gets top marks in Potions. Sometimes he even greets her in the corridors when they pass," said Angelina.

"I don't think that saying hello to somebody is a sign that they're having an affair," said Neville. "Even if Snape would never normally be civil, even towards Slytherins. He might hate us, but he looks down on them as just another bunch of brats most of the time." Neville paused, giving it some thought. "Actually, him casually greeting a student in the corridors is weird. Really weird," he said.

"But I can't see the Head Girl making a move on Snape, and he doesn't seem like the type to know how to get a girl," mused Angelina. "What a wasted opportunity. We could have gone to McGonagall about it and finally be free."

"It's like you weren't even listening to me," complained Harry. The other two both looked at him questioningly. "I asked you whether you thought we'd need a love potion for him or just for the girl. We MAKE our opportunity. Sounds like they just need a teensy dose to get them started, right?"

"Harry, you know we were joking, right?" asked Neville nervously.

"I wasn't," said Angelina. "Snape's almost nice to Arriane. And she works so hard to impress her teachers - maybe one in particular? Did you know that love potions don't work on two people who already like each other?" she suggested.

"You're still not telling me whether I should brew one or two potions," retorted Harry. "In fact, it seems like you're trying to suggest I don't need to, in a hamfisted attempt to stop me from carrying out this wicked scheme - to which, I should remind you, you are both accessories in the eyes of the law, should we get caught."

The guilty look on Angelina's face disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Harry marvelled at her little deception.

"I don't know what I'm more surprised by - your willingness to believe I'd dose a student with love potions to get at Snape, or your underhanded attempt to stop me," said Harry, smiling with no small amount of malice. "Maybe I should give you the Snapey love potion, since you think so little of me."

"That wouldn't raise my opinion of your possible sanity," said Angelina dryly. "And it would probably get both of us expelled for attacking a teacher rather than Snape getting the sack. I doubt he'd take the bait if you dosed me, and he'd know if you got him with a love potion. Potions Master, remember?"

"How about you, Neville?" offered Harry.

Neville stammered breathlessly, and turned blue in horror. Angelina slapped Harry on the back of the head.

"Don't be mean. You'll give him nightmares," she ordered.

"So does that mean we're sticking with the Head Girl?" asked Harry.

Angelina groaned, and kicked him hard in the shin.

"No love potions. I'm not going to third-party date-rape somebody."

"But you seemed so sure that they have a connection," wheedled Harry. "It'd be terrible if that went to waste. Maybe just a few drops in her goblet, to give her the confidence to act on what she wants deep down?"

Angelina glared at Harry, but then finally relented.

"Damnit, you've got me curious about whether anything would happen. But I'm not giving anybody a love potion. That's just wrong," she said, grimacing. "Love potions make feelings that aren't real, they don't enhance what's there."

"Ah well, that's a shame," said Harry in feigned disappointment. Inwardly he was jubilant at how successful he'd been at getting them away from the topic of him seducing Snape. That was one rumour he really didn't want to start floating around, even in jest.

"Alright," said Angeline, startling Harry, who'd begun to relax. "I'll compromise. No love potions, but we can give her something to boost her confidence a bit. Maybe encourage her to act out something she'd never normally do."

"Firewhiskey?" asked Harry, dubiously.

"No!" cried Angelina, mortified. "Getting somebody plastered and shoving them in Snape's bed when they don't know which way is up is just as bad as a love potion."

"I agree," said Harry. Angelina looked at him suspiciously. "And her being drunk would be incredibly obvious. He'd just give her a sobering potion or send her back to her dorms to sleep it off. The man's creepy as all hell, but he's not, you know, a creep."

"I was thinking an Ego Elixir. It makes you confident and reckless, acting on feelings on a whim, but taking things further than normal. I tried taking it to write one of my worst assignments last year. I didn't know anything that I didn't before, but it gave me the confidence to stop thinking and just act," said Angelina.

"Did the absence of thought show in your grade?" asked Harry mildly.

"Worst assignment of the year, but the best essay I've ever written," she answered smugly. "I got what I wanted against all the odds."

"Just like a hopeless crush on a teacher," said Neville. The revulsion on his face was plain to see; Neville couldn't understand how anyone could fancy Snape. Harry barely could, and that was only because he'd learnt an important universal truth: people were attracted to weird, ugly, and nasty people all the time. Snape was only really nasty, although he'd never be considered normal or to be good looking.

Harry hadn't planned on anything like this happening when he'd travelled back in time. The lily perfume to mess with Snape was one of a number of minor things he'd planned, building a foundation upon which Snape could reassess Harry Potter as an ally, and stop seeing James Potter.

But this scheme, which really belonged to Angelina right now, could prove to be a wonderful shortcut if it worked out. Snape had always been one of the hardest people to plan to manipulate. This could be Harry's opportunity to hit harder and faster than he'd planned. He grinned wickedly.

"By that smile, I take it you're in?" asked Angelina.

"So this is officially your project now, isn't it?" quipped Harry.

"I suppose so," she said, after a moment of speculation. "Although the initial idea was yours, so you get the blame if we get caught. Neville, you in?"

Neville looked taken aback at being included, afraid, and eager, all at once. He mumbled incoherently.

"If I'm taking the blame for Angie, I can take the blame for you as well," offered Harry. "No sense in all of us going down, and if I'm already caught in the act and damned, I can at least pretend that it was only ever me."

"Alright," said Neville hesitantly, before beaming widely. "Alright, I'm in."

Harry grinned at the sight of his younger friend. Last time around, Neville would never have had the courage to join in a fiasco like this. Turns out his confidence was there all alone, just waiting for an adventure to help him shake off his self-doubt. Just like last time, as a matter of fact. Harry remembered the man he knew as Neville, and resolved to help the boy grow into him a little bit faster and with a little less torture along the way.

There had never been any doubt that Harry would need Snape. Not just as a spy, but also for his formidable prowess with Dark magic. The cursed ring was a prime example of Snape's more practical skills - Harry knew of only one other wizard who could remove it, and that was the one who'd cast the curse.

This idea had come together as idle joking over breakfast, but Angelina's curiosity had been roused, and Harry had the expertise to put the whole thing together. The one hitch in the plan was whether the Head Girl actually did have a secret crush on Snape. Angelina seemed to think it was possible enough to warrant trying, but Harry didn't even know who she was, let alone what her most embarrassing secret might be. He could find out easily enough, and if she didn't - well, the love potion idea was morally reprehensible, and easily recognised when the potions wore off, but Harry had worked with less material on more dangerous missions before.

The three of them left the breakfast table soon after Neville had agreed to their pact. Angelina had a free period, so Padfoot bounded after her outside, eager for a walk, but with the Daily Prophet he'd been reading held tightly in his jaws. Harry and Neville headed towards the dungeons - and Snape.

For once, Neville's steps to Potion weren't reluctant and dragging. He had a spring in his step, and an evil smile on his face. Harry felt proud.

"Think he'd really get fired, if something happened?" he asked Harry.

"If he was caught by the wrong person, and word got out, he probably would," said Harry. "But depending on who catches him, the reaction could change. Might be hushed up, might be a firestorm of gossip but no facts. Mind you, even if he doesn't get caught, it might put him in a good mood for once, and we'll know that we got one over on him, right?"

"Yeah," agreed Neville, eager to beat Snape for once. Harry chose not to point out the irony in getting revenge by possibly getting Snape laid, as he didn't want to ruin Neville's mood, but he found the idea perfect. A little give, a little take. Snape and the girl would be happy, and Harry would have blackmail material - or they'd both be very unhappy, and Harry would have lots of blackmail material. Hell, he might not even need blackmail material if he continued with his other machinations. A willing ally in Snape was much safer than one under duress, as Voldemort had gradually learned.

Harry dug in his bag for a while, until he finally found his perfume bottle. He sprayed it heavily on his wrists and neck, then put it away. Neville gave him a weird look.

"So you really are wearing lily perfume to potions. Why?"

"Same reason we're doing the other thing. To mess with Snape," answered Harry.

"I thought we were trying to get him fired?"

Harry shrugged.

"Best not get our hopes up. That might happen. But we know for sure that we can mess with him and have a laugh at his expense, even if it's just watching him awkwardly turn down the Head Girl coming onto him. That's good enough to begin with, for me."

"I want him fired," said Neville gloomily, "but I'll settle for humiliated if that's what we can get."

"That's the spirit!" exclaimed Harry.

A small mob of Gryffindors came around the corner at that moment. Their classmates for Double Potions. Fellow souls suffering torture in the Hogwarts dungeons.

"What's the spirit?" asked Ron.

"Neville's not afraid of Snape anymore," said Harry.

Neville looked puzzled, and then looked at Harry wonderingly.

"I guess I feel kinda like I'm not. Why is that?" he asked.

Harry grinned.

"Because you know that in the end, you're going to beat him in this game," he said. Neville grinned in reply.

"Classes aren't a game, Harry!" cried Hermione, rushing over to him from the far side of the mob.

"They seem like a game for you," he teased. "Is it fun because it's easy, or is it easy because it's fun?"

Hermione sniffed.

"If you just applied yourself harder and actually studied, you might enjoy classes a bit more, too," she snapped.

"That's probably true," admitted Harry, surprising Hermione. "Come on, we don't want to be late," he said, forestalling any further lecturing, despite the fact that they were still early.

The class started innocuously enough. Harry zoned out, only paying enough attention to stir his potion and repeat "I don't know" and "sorry sir" at regular intervals when Snape came swooping by.

It was only a matter of time before Harry caught Snape lingering nearby slightly longer than usual, a confused expression on his face. Harry grinned into his cauldron. He'd caught the bait.

Snape made several utterly false excuses to check on Harry's potion, which was nearly good enough to earn a fourth year an O grade. Harry's original potions had been flawed enough that Snape could find legitimate reasons to swoop in and berate Harry, but this time around, Snape was spouting bullshit in a threatening voice as an excuse to be near Harry.

In the end, frustration got the better of him. Harry had been wondering if he'd figure it out himself, give Harry a detention and demand a confession, or brood about it. He hadn't expected Snape to simply ask.

"Potter!" he snapped. Harry looked up glibly. "Since correcting the flaws I pointed out earlier, your potion has become almost usable. But it seems to be emitting completely the wrong odour. What extra ingredient did you add?"

"I just followed the instructions, sir," said Harry, gesturing at the blackboard.

"That's not possible," snarled Snape, marching over to Harry's cauldron. "No amount of mis-stirring can cause this particular potion to emit a floral scent. You've added a wrong ingredient, displaying the astoundingly resilient inability to follow basic instructions."

Malfoy laughed from the other side of the room, but Harry ignored what he was sure was the wittiest insult imaginable, just as Snape did.

"Somehow it has not ruined your potion, only changed its odour. From this we can infer a change in the final potion's properties, as you well know. Review the correct ingredients and discover what else you added, and when. In addition to today's homework, write six inches on how it has altered your potion, and the effects you expect that your deviant brew will possess. Be sure to compare the new effects to the results of the potion when properly brewed," demanded Snape.

Well that was unexpected. But Harry supposed that an odd smell appearing in a Potions Lab wasn't entirely implausible.

"Actually, sir, it's not my potion," said Harry.

"What are you blathering about, Potter?"

"The flowery smell. My aunt gave me something of my mum's this summer. I left it in my school bag by accident and it leaked everywhere. Sorry Professor," he said meekly, looking at Snape sheepishly, like a teenage boy who'd accidentally spilled a flowery perfume in class. Hook, line, and sinker.

"Lilies," Snape said quietly. None of the other students could hear them, save for Hermione, who Harry had partnered with. She gave Harry a startled look.

"My aunt said that their parents gave Mum a bottle of the same perfume every birthday. She kept some as a keepsake, and gave me one of them. Sorry about the smell, sir," said Harry, trying to look guilty.

"She always hated that tradition," said Snape quietly. "She smashed a bottle on your idiot father's head when he noticed and bought her one."

"Sir?" said Harry, prompting Snape to continue without wanting to interrupt his thoughts or remind him of who he was speaking to.

""I am more than my name"" is what she said to me afterwards. Although she did like the perfume, she hated being given it."

"So you knew my mum as well as my dad?" asked Harry innocently.

"We were in the same year at school," Snape said, curtly, breaking out of his memories and back into the present. He looked set to march away as fast as he could without appearing to flee, so Harry interrupted his withdrawal with a question.

"Aunt Petunia mentioned a wizard who lived nearby when they were kids," said Harry. "Was that you, Professor?"

Snape curled his lip in distaste, looking disdainfully at Harry.

"And what on earth made you leap to that distant conclusion? There are not so few wizards in Britain that only I could have grown up where your mother did, Potter. There were thirty wizards in our year group. I do not care to know where they spent their youth."

"My aunt was...descriptive," said Harry, awkwardly. "It sounded like it could have been you."

Snape glared at him, no doubt guessing what the description might have been like, all grease and sallow skin and that giant nose. But, still glaring, he finally relented.

"Yes, it was me," he said. "I knew her before we attended Hogwarts. Now cease your inane prattling, and bottle your potion. It's clearly finished, and simmering it further will serve no purpose," he snapped, stamping away in a swirl of robes and regret.

"Harry, what was that about?" whispered Hermione. Harry just shrugged, looking blankly at her.

"You heard as much as I did. Weird, huh? He was friend with Mum but hates Dad and me so much. I wonder how that happened," he mused.

From her expression, Hermione had guessed the obvious reason - the actual reason - but didn't say a word, pressing her lips firmly together as if afraid that her thoughts might escape out of her control.

"You look like you've got an idea," said Harry, understating the blatantly obvious.

"Just a guess, really. I shouldn't say. Not unless I'm sure," babbled Hermione.

"What is it?" asked Harry, leaning closer and whispering. Hermione bit her lip, and then gave in.

"I think maybe - don't hate me for saying it - but maybe your mum broke up with Snape to go out with your dad," she whispered guiltily, as if she was accusing Lily Evans of dating Voldemort. Alright, Harry reasoned, to his younger self, it might have had the same feeling of horror and betrayal as that implausible scenario, so maybe Hermione was right to be wary about telling him.

"All I know is that they started going out in their sixth or seventh year, but Mum couldn't stand Dad until then," said Harry.

"You're not mad about what I said?" asked Hermione, breathless with worry.

"Of course not," said Harry. "I doubt Snape ever went out with my mum, but if he did, she had the sense to dump him and move on quickly. How old are people when they start dating, anyway?"

"It depends," said Hermione. "Some people grow up quicker than others. Maybe around fifteen? Sixteen?"

"So maybe Mum went to one Hogsmeade weekend with Snape, broke his heart by telling him that she thought that they were going as friends, and then got together with Dad," suggested Harry with a slight smile. "I won't hold it against her, or you for thinking it."

Hermione managed a smile in return. Harry was surprised by how nervous she was about telling him that. He supposed that children were a lot more easily shocked than adults and time-travellers.

They'd finished their potion early, so the two of them packed away their things and waited for the rest of the class to finish.

And that was when opportunity figuratively dropped in his lap. The Head Girl bustled into the classroom with a stack of papers. She drew a few gazes, especially from the boys, as she entered, but the difficulty of the potion meant that they couldn't keep their attention on her for long.

Harry looked her up and down leisurely, his potion safe and pink within a stoppered glass vial. She was certainly attractive, in a lean, athletic sort of way. Harry was surprised that he didn't recognise her from the Slytherin Quidditch team, but then remembered that their team had a boys-only policy at the moment. He idly wondered what she did to get that figure. That wasn't the kind of body gained through ordinary dieting and exercise. It was an athlete's body; honed to a purpose, to be used, not just to look pretty.

She moved to place the papers on Snape's desk. Before she could set them down, Snape grabbed her hand almost gently, stopping her.

"I'm afraid there's been a rather infectious stain on my desk since Finnegan decided to explode his cauldron in my direction. I'll take those."

The Head Girl handed the stack of paper wordlessly to Snape, who nodded emotionlessly at her in thanks.

"Thank you for delivering these to me, Miss Cauderdale," said Snape in the same measured, civil tones he used when addressing another teacher.

"I'm surprised you can thank me when I've just given you a huge stack of first-year reports to read," she replied.

"I thanked you for bringing them to me, Miss Cauderdale, not for what you brought. I assure you, no teacher is ever grateful for more paperwork, though we can be grateful for those who save us the arduous task of collecting it to begin with," said Snape. Harry held back from staring. That - that was not the same man who he'd been in a room with for ninety minutes.

"Yes sir," said the Head Girl. "Do you need anything else?" She touched her left hand with her right, in the exact spot where Snape had touched her.

"Not at the moment. I suggest you return to your studies. Your NEWT year has only just begun, and you are better off learning what you can now, and not in June."

"Yes sir," answered Cauderdale, before turning around and walking swiftly out of the room.

Harry leaned as far back as he dared on his stool, and wished the room was empty so he could let out a long, low whistle. Angelina be damned, the witch's hunch was right. Cauderdale was into Snape, and Snape - well, he thought of her as a person, and not one of the sweaty useless throngs of students, that much was clear.

He could work with this. Snape probably wouldn't go along with Cauderdale's advances, even if Harry and Angelina managed to prompt them. He was too distant, too wary, and clung to his ancient hurt over Lily Evans as if it was a shield. But Harry knew ways of lowering inhibitions and fogging the past. He was a wizard who worked in a bar, for Merlin's sake! If he hadn't already begun to specialise his magic in Chronomancy, he might have made that his field of study.

Best of all, Cauderdale was overage. An adult. That made things both more practical and more ethical, luxuries that Harry could do without, but preferred to use when possible. And now he even knew her name! That was the most important missing piece of the puzzle, so readily supplied by an unaware Snape.

"They should have given you the front page," argued Harry. He was still annoyed about the morning Prophet. Couldn't Skeeter at least have published them in separate editions of the paper, instead of sidelining Sirius' true story?

"It doesn't really matter," said Sirius, and yawned. "After a year of wanted posters, it wouldn't make much difference which page they put it on. As far as the world is concerned, I'm a dangerous lunatic."

"You are a dangerous lunatic," retorted Harry. "But not because you like to go on muggle killing sprees."

"How do you know I don't like it? I've never tried going out and killing muggles for fun. Maybe the Death Eaters were right, and it's hilarious," said Sirius idly.

"You didn't seem to enjoy it the last time you killed muggles," Harry replied, giving his godfather an evil look.

"But that wasn't on purpose. Just a big explosion. Maybe we should do it properly. Get some big nets and stampede thestrals through central London, chase the muggles into a pit full of spikes and snakes."

"And spiky snakes?" asked Harry

"Only at the mouth," answered Sirius.

"That sounds more like a prank with a bloody finish than muggle baiting. You don't want to hurt people, you just want to mess with them and generally cause havoc."

Sirius folded his arms and leaned against a tree. He looked almost petulant.

"I could do both. I could murder people and cause havoc. They go quite well together, you know?"

"Your heart's not in it," said Harry.

"You don't know that!"

"Yes, I do. I can tell by the fact that we're having this ridiculous conversation. Besides, muggles are too easy to screw with, and too easily frightened to cope with you letting off some steam. You wouldn't be satisfied unless it was witches and wizards that you were terrorising."

Sirius grimaced, and let out a piercing whistle.

Buckbeak descended from the sky in a maelstrom of feathers and talons.

Harry blinked.

"Huh," he said. "That familiar thing is working out for you, then?"

"I reckon so," said Sirius. "Look at the magnificent creature! He wouldn't just come when called like a pet, but he'd recognize the call of his partner. I'm pretty sure that distance isn't a factor here, either. Buckbeak can probably hear better than either of us, but I've yet to find a limit on how far away I can be and still call him."

Harry bowed to the Hippogriff, and Buckbeak bowed immediately in return.

"Good, good, show some respect to the house of Black, man and beast alike!" cackled Sirius. Harry looked at him oddly, but Sirius didn't stop laughing.

"I'm not bowing to a mangy old dog who sleeps on my dorm floor, so get that thought out of your head," he said firmly.

"How about a quick grovel? Plea for mercy and benediction? Anything?" pleaded Sirius.

"Grovel?" repeated Harry incredulously. "Mercy? Who do you think you are, King of the Hippogriffs?"

"Is that a thing?" asked Sirius.

"No," said Harry firmly. Sirius opened his mouth. "And no again. It will not become a thing."

"Hey," said Sirius. "I'm your godfather. I'm older. Sort of. I should be the one in charge. Why are you the one telling me what I'm not allowed to do?"

"Think of me as a cross between your only friend and a straightjacket," said Harry dryly. "I imagine you were fucked in the head before Azkaban, because I'm fucked in the head and I've never been to Azkaban, but now you make a better dog than you do a person, so I have to babysit you until you can learn how to behave again."

"Behave?" whined Sirius.

"Alright, fine. Hide your madness beneath a facade of charm, wit, and debonair good looks. Does that sound better?" asked Harry, exasperated.

"Aside from the hiding part, I like the sound of it. But at least I have Buckbeak as my second best friend to make up for you being a lousy first best friend and mothering me like this. I swear, you're worse than Remus!" exclaimed Sirius.

"I promise that I'll stop once you're sane," said Harry.

Sirius glared.

"Hey, that's not fair."

"No, I meant literally. As your mind heals, your leash grows longer. But it's better if you stick close for now. It's pretty delicate underneath that thick skull of yours right now, and I only have guesses and experiments to fix it with."

"Sounds risky. I'm in," said Sirius without a second thought.

"You realise that some of the ideas I'm contemplating using to heal you will explode your head if they go wrong? Or are wrong to begin with, and will explode your head no matter how well I perform the magic?"

Sirius looked contemplative, and then patted Buckbeak on the shoulder.

"Beaky will avenge me, and then complete your destiny to slay Voldemort, as you'll be dissolving in his gut."

"I see you have it all thought out. I'm impressed," said Harry. "It's almost as complicated as my plan to travel back in time and hit Voldemort with a brick when he was a baby."

Harry had actually tried to do that. It hadn't worked. And now that he'd mentioned it, he just knew that Sirius was going to pry. He sighed, and waited for the inevitable question.

"Would that work?" asked Sirius.

"I can't travel that far back without some side-effects. The not-good kind. There was a chance I could have fixed them by completing the ritual, but I decided to go back to the present instead of risking everything on a long maybe."

"What sort of side effects were so bad? You'd be stuck there?" said Sirius, hazarding a guess.

"Being stuck there would have been a fair price to pay. No, it wasn't that. When I went back that time, I had a failsafe. Like a bungee rope tied around my soul, waiting to pull me back. I turned up in the right time and place, but I had no body. I was a ghost." Harry shuddered at the memory. That had been one awful experience.

"Seriously, a ghost? You're not just talking astral projection, are you?" said Sirius.

"Nope. Not a sending. An actual ghost, because I had no living body. My soul thought I was dead, so the only way I could exist on the mortal plane was as a ghost. It works the same way if I go too far into the future, after I die."

"Well, shit," said Sirius. "I can see how that would make hefting a brick problematic. And be a bitch to deal with for eternity."

"I had a theory that I might be able to form a body if I broke the tether that let me return, as if it was holding me back from fully materialising. There was a chance it would work."

"A good chance?" asked Sirius softly.

"As far as I could work it out, I had maybe a one in fifty chance of succeeding. But almost a fifty percent chance of being able to use my Chronomancy as a ghost, return to a time when I was alive, and retake my body," explained Harry. "I nearly did it. It was a chance to stop everything before it began."

"Why didn't you?" asked Sirius. Harry hesitated. "C'mon, Harry. I know that it wasn't the danger that put you off. You're like your dad. Like me. We like facing impossible odds."

"Being a ghost made me experience things differently. Everything which seemed so important before suddenly became immaterial and insubstantial, like everything except for me was the ghost. I was there for an hour. I almost stopped caring. About everything I was trying to accomplish."

"A self-applied Dementor spell, huh?" said Sirius, raising an eyebrow.

"Damn well felt like it," said Harry. "If I'd become a ghost, I doubt I'd have had the strength of will to return. I'd have the ability, but I just wouldn't care." Harry shivered again. "I can accept failure. Not easily, but I can understand that Voldemort might be too powerful for me to beat. I can't accept myself not trying. I can't understand a world in which I don't fight him until he's gone or I am."

"It's good that you can accept the fact that he's got a good chance of winning, even with your Chronomancy," said Sirius offhandedly. "A lot of people never got that, the first time. But your dad knew from the start. Sometimes you fight even when you know you're going to lose, because you have something precious to leave behind."

"And I'm just so precious, aren't I?" said Harry sarcastically.

"You can accept losing to your worst enemy, but refuse to lose to yourself. That's a precious form of conviction, Harry. Don't ever lose it."

"I did." Harry's voice was flat, and his eyes were closed. He hated thinking of that time, of the muted colours and hollow feelings. He'd damn well pass on when he died, not cling to the earth as a ghost.

"You were dead. Get over it," said Sirius, as seriously as Harry had ever heard him be.

"I did," said Harry, and opened his eyes. Buckbeak pushed his head into Harry's chest and made an indeterminate noise of affection and comfort. Harry smiled, and buried his hands in the Hippogriff's feathers. They were warm. Alive.

"It sucked that badly?" asked Sirius.

Harry nodded.

"Hn. Good thing I have no intention of sticking around as a ghost. It'd be so boring, floating about unable to do anything. Dying seems far more interesting. Anything could happen!" he enthused, with slightly more cheer than most people would be comfortable with when discussing dying.

"You're not looking for your next great adventure already, are you?" asked Harry, only partially joking.

"Nah," said Sirius, and grinned. "I thought about it in Azkaban, but now I've got you, and Buckbeak, and the Forest." He laid a palm on the trunk of the nearest tree. "Funny how much you miss trees. I never gave any thought to why wands were made of wood before Azkaban. I just thought it was the most convenient thing for pointing and waving - a stick. But it's more than that, isn't it?"

"There's more magic in these trees than any other forest in Britain," said Harry, "but all trees have their own magic. One of the few magical plants that muggles know exist. Thing is, wizards know less about them than muggles do, except a half dozen wandmakers spread over three continents."

"Speaking of wands…" said Sirius, teasingly.

"I'm not making you one," said Harry.

"Why not?"

"You have one. Ollivander's a better wandmaker than I am by a long way. Stick with it."

"I won't use it if it's no good. But I want you to make me one anyway, just so I can have a wand my godson made," said Sirius. "Like you said, half a dozen wandmakers. And you're one of them."

Harry waved a hand dismissively.

"An apprentice. I can make my own wand, shaped to my magic, but I'm decades of practice away from making a proper wand. I could probably make you a wand that you can cast a single spell through effectively. Fancy a one-spell wand?" he asked, sneering at his own lack of ability compared to professional wandmakers.

"That'd be great," said Sirius sincerely.

"What?" asked Harry, surprised.

"Can I choose the spell?"

"You'd have to," said Harry. "But why would you want one? It'd be useless in almost every situation."

"I told you already. I want it because you'll have made it. Something to remember you by when you're not with me," he said.

"Oh, alright," said Harry, finally relenting. "But don't complain when you try to cast another spell with it and it leaves splinters up to your elbow. What spell do you want?"

"The Patronus Charm," said Sirius quietly.

Harry looked up at him sharply.

"Yeah, I see why you'd want a Patronus handy at all times. Can you cast one?"

Sirius made an attempt, but only managed to produce white mist. He frowned, obviously frustrated, and the mist flickered as he lost his focus. Within second it had dissipated.

"That memory always used to work for me," he said quietly.

"Was it from before Azkaban?"

Sirius looked at Harry, remembering their earlier talks about the damage to his mind. He grimaced, then turned away, staring into the forest.

"Sirius…" began Harry.

"Expecto Patronum," declared Sirius confidently, turning around to face Harry, smiling widely. This time a distinct shape shot forth from his wand, coalescing into a familiar figure. The Patronus circled them several times, and then landed in front of its twin. The silver Buckbeak bowed. Buckbeak bowed back. Sirius released the spell.

"Not bad," said Harry. Sirius, however, was looking at his wand and frowning.

"It always used to be my Animagus form. Not that I mind. Buckbeak is way cooler than a clone of myself. But the memory I used was flying to freedom on Buckbeak's back. Do you think that they change depending on the memory you use?"

Harry laughed, loud and bright.

"Sorry, Sirius. You have no idea how wrong that is. The Patronus comes from your soul as a whole, not a specific memory. You've changed as a person since you first cast this charm," he said.

"I guess that's another vote for Hippogriff familiar, isn't it?" asked Sirius, with the sound of victory in his voice.

"Or a symbol of a life changing moment," said Harry. Sirius pouted. "But you're probably right. They're not mutually exclusive. The opposite, actually."

"So when do I get my new wand?" asked Sirius eagerly.

"I'll make it sometime this month," said Harry vaguely. "I'll have to figure out what to use first, and it's not high on my list of priorities."

"What is?" asked Sirius.

"What?"

"Your list," he prompted. "What's at the top of your little list of priorities?"

"Mostly waiting, actually," Harry admitted grudgingly. "But only until the Triwizard Tournament starts. I can't move openly until then. The horcruxes are either safely stored where we can get to them, or out of our reach. And they're not a priority."

"Don't fancy destroying the ones we have now, just in case?" suggested Sirius.

"If it was just about preserving the Founders Artifacts, I already would have," said Harry, after giving it some thought. "But I want to make specific changes to Voldemort's ritual. The number of horcruxes still extant in the world might affect it in ways I can't predict."

"So our best bet is destroying them after he resurrects, but before we destroy him," clarified Sirius.

"Sounds so simple, doesn't it?" asked Harry.

"So what else is in the works? Trying to reduce the size of the war?"

Harry laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh.

"No, Sirius. I'm afraid that wouldn't work. We tried that the first time. We're going to make the war bigger. Draw in all the help we can get. He's not going to assassinate us from the shadows without risking himself, not again. He's going to have to face the entire magical world in open battle. Subterfuge was always his play, despite how powerful he might be. I won't fight him on his terms. He's going to fight me on mine."

"We might need more than the Order," mused Sirius.

"That's what this year is all about. Do you think I'd look pretty on a recruitment poster?"

"We can hang it next to my wanted poster in the kitchen!" exclaimed Sirius.

"I'm not setting foot in that house until we get a house elf," said Harry. "But no selling Kreacher. We're going to need him for one of the horcruxes."

"I hate that elf," muttered Sirius.

"Elves are fucking weird. Kreacher's an arsehole as well," added Harry.

"Know many elves, do you?" asked Sirius.

"My number one fan, an alcoholic after a bad break-up, Betsie the goat, and Kreacher. A wide and varied world. Try to find a normal one, if you can. A quiet one."

"Don't milk it," warned Sirius.

"Go milk Buckbeak, you wretched vagrant. I'll make your wand so long as you never mention house elf milk again, deal?"

"That's a deal!" said Sirius happily. "So what are we going to do while you wait for the Tournament to start?"

"Now there's a question," murmured Harry. "I was thinking about breaking into Azkaban."

"I have to lick my balls that night," said Sirius nervously. Harry laughed.

"Oh, don't worry. You can stay right here with your bird and your balls while I do it. I won't be gone long."

"How hard do you think breaking into Azkaban is going to be?" asked Sirius, surprised. "I'm the only one to have ever escaped. It's infamous around the world."

"Well, you were there. You saw what the security is like."

"Up close and personal," growled Sirius. "Breaking in -" he broke off in sudden realization.

"That's it. It's going to be one of the easiest infiltrations I've ever done," said Harry. "I could probably pull it off and be back for dinner."

"Aren't you supposed to be in History of Magic right now?" asked Sirius.

Harry nodded.

"That gives you about an hour and a half. I'll start counting when you leave the ground."

"What?" exclaimed Harry, laughing. "Now?"

"If it's that easy," said Sirius, "May as well make the most of the moment. Take Buckbeak to fly over the wards and Apparate once you're out. I'll see you at dinner."

Harry stared at Sirius for a while, wondering what the mongrel was up to. Sirius smirked.

"I knew you were just bluffing," he said in satisfaction.

Harry shrugged.

"Alright," he said. "See you at dinner."

In one smooth movement, Harry pulled himself up onto Buckbeak. The Hippogriff tensed at the sudden weight, and then burst into a gallop. When they were running fast enough, Buckbeak leapt into the air, and Sirius' excited whoops were muffled by the steady thwump of wingbeats.

Harry landed Buckbeak before he Apparated, unwilling to risk a mid-air cross-species Splinching. Solid ground became a tall black pillar, rising from the crashing waves. The wind was almost strong enough to bow Harry over, all the way up here. He was standing still, but being buffeted by the gale-forces of an intense Quidditch match.

As he gazed around the top of the tower, Harry saw the immediate flaw in his plan. Azkaban didn't have any rooftop access.

He pointed his wand at the inhumanely smooth stone.

"Alohomora, Azkaban," he muttered.

That was when the roof exploded.