The cold and blustery January was half over by the time Harry's hands recovered fully from the Christmas excursion to Godric's Hollow. There had been very little yelling, for which he was thankful, but both Dumbledore and Sirius had been very firm that what he and Ginny had done had been unacceptable. Harry, who hadn't ever seen Sirius in this role as stern disciplinarian, had had difficulty swallowing his arguments – but it had been laughable that Sirius of all people had been so angry.

"It's like he left all of his humor in 1996," Harry complained bitterly to Ginny, who was sharing all of his punishments, more than once.

"Or he's forgotten what it's like to be trapped somewhere," Ginny would mutter back. Her hands had been equally damaged by the various activities they had taken part in as part of their punishments.

"Most of our stores are supplied by Hogwarts's own greenhouses," Dumbledore had explained, then taken them to Greenhouse 5, which was full of plants of all kinds, with planters stretching up toward the ceiling. The air was thick enough that a misty fug hung heavy in the air. The aroma of all those plants mingling together was not unpleasant. "You two will help the professors do so."

Sirius had followed them. "This will keep you too busy to sneak off again," he said, lean and unsmiling.

Aside from Ginny, the smell was the most pleasant part of the experience. They were set to extracting bubotuber pus, which was simple, if not slightly horrific. When they'd exhausted the resources in Greenhouse 5, they then were set to carving the marrow out of marrowroot. There was so much of that that by the time other students began to trickle back to Hogwarts, Harry was dreaming about slicing the woody sort of root and then tossing it to Ginny for her to carve… if these dreams became thick and heavy with another sort of action, it was not precisely Harry's fault, and he did not blame himself for it.

At the end of their punishment, Sirius was far more cheerful about it. "Your dad used to have punishments like this," he said, so reminiscently that Harry wanted to hex him, but could not bring himself to bring his hands out of the bowl of essence of murtlap that he and Ginny were using. "Mr. Potter used to joke that James was responsible for half the potions ingredients at the company."

Eventually, though, once term had started and got properly going, Harry and Ginny were no longer in detention, their hands healed, and they were less inclined to have any further excursions off of Hogwarts grounds. This was all well and good, as Professor McKinnon was steadily increasing the difficulty of that which she threw at the sixth years, and Harry and Ginny both needed their reflexes to be perfect.

The third Monday after term began, class started off innocently. They filed in to find three different objects – a necklace, a set of drapes that had either been shrunk by magic or belonged to a dollhouse, and a kettle – set on small pedestals upon the professor's desk.

"Now we're done reviewing what we've learned together last term," Professor McKinnon said cheerfully, "we're ready to progress to a new topic entirely. This will be our only topic this term, in fact, as the subject is so broad."

"Well, let's hear it!" a boy in the back said loudly. Harry had not spent much time getting to know the other sixth years, but this Ravenclaw reminded him rather unpleasantly of Zacharias Smith.

"Cursed objects," said Professor McKinnon simply. She cocked her head and asked: "First, can anyone tell me the difference between a cursed object and a charmed object?"

Harry exchanged a quick glance with Ginny.

"One is good and one is evil?"

This was asked by a girl with short black hair with white tips.

"Hmm," said Professor McKinnon, tapping her lips, "I suppose that's true, but that's not what I'm looking for. I meant, in terms of magic and power, what is the difference?"

Ginny raised her hand. "Is there a difference?" she asked, cautious. Harry was watching her closely enough that he could see a red flush creep into her cheeks. "I don't mean to say that cursed objects are good, at all, but–"

Professor McKinnon was nodding her head. "Yes, I wondered if any of you would suggest that. Magic is often neutral," she said. When he'd first met her, he didn't think she looked much older than the seventh years. Now he saw a heavier sort of gravity on her features that aged her. "My family – the McKinnons – have been charming objects for quite some time… you'll know our store. Each object can be a vessel for power: the more durable the object, the more lasting the charm or curse. Again, the difference between the two, as Miss Cotler explained, is if their function is helpful or harmful. But in terms of power used, charms and curses are essentially the same."

Ginny made a face.

Harry thought she might be thinking of the diary.

"Preparing an object to be either a vessel for a curse or a charm is the same," continued Professor McKinnon. "Take… Gryffindor's sword, for example. Or Hufflepuff's cup."

"Those are both lost," said the Ravenclaw boy who had irritated Harry before. "Why not throw in Ravenclaw's lost diadem as well?"

"Thank you, Mr. Cedworth," Professor McKinnon said drily. "It's true that the Founders' objects are not readily available to us. A better example might be the Sorting Hat – an object created by at least one Founder–"

"What d'you mean, at least one?"

"It's said that Ravenclaw, whose diadem of wisdom shared similar properties in that it could converse with whomever wore it, helped Gryffindor, whose talents ran more to battle, with its creation," McKinnon explained, gesturing with her hands. She smiled. "It's a theory that my family chews on over holidays; half of us think it's true, half of us don't. But I digress. The Hat had to be prepared as a vessel: the longevity of it makes it quite extraordinary. Most charms and curses would have long since been gone."

"But it looks so battered," blurted Harry.

Everyone laughed, including Ginny, her whole face lighting with humor.

"It's true, it is an old thing, isn't it?" McKinnon asked. "I don't think I'd look any better at over a thousand years old."

The classroom rang with laughter again.

"So, we have three objects on the desk," said McKinnon, waving toward it. "Your task for the week is to – without touching them, thank you, I don't want to be asked to leave the school – is to ascertain which one is which. I want an inch of parchment for each object and your reasoning for the decisions you've made as to whether they contain curse, charm, or nothing. You may use any resource you like, including your friends. Well, get to it."

Harry immediately pushed his desk closer to Ginny's and pulled out his textbook. When she was quiet for longer than he expected, he looked up to find her staring – not at the objects on the desk – but out the window. Her eyebrows were drawn together, creating one tiny line on her brow.

"What's up?" he asked quietly. It wouldn't surprise him if she were thinking of the diary again. If anything had been a cursed object, that had been it. "Are you thinking about… you know?"

Her face cleared. "Oh, no," she said, leaning closer. Her hair fell over her shoulder and spilled onto her desk. Harry had the sudden, mad urge to reach out and tuck it behind her ear; what would she do if he did that?

He pulled himself back by an inch, his stomach swooping with the weirdness of his urge.

"I wasn't thinking of that," she said. "I was thinking of Mum's clock… she made it herself, you know."

Harry sat on his hands, lest they decide of their own accord to start stroking her hair. "I'm not surprised," he said, "I've never seen anything like it… not that I've spent much time at other wizarding houses aside from yours. And… you know where." A glance over his shoulder reassured him they were safe from anyone over-hearing. Then, because he wanted to be absolutely safe, he muttered: "Muffliato."

"Right, Grimmauld Place," said Ginny. "Well, she made it herself… I wonder if she's done it yet?"

"I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to spy on them," said Harry, with great sympathy. Before they'd made their escape to Godric's Hollow, they'd agreed they'd go to the Burrow as well, just to peek at the old jumble of a house. It had been a bonus to see glimpses of Ginny's family at the pantomime – and even before that, when they'd come across her uncle, a wizard she'd never met. But he could not help but remember that he hadn't fulfilled his side of the bargain.

She pulled out her hands, grimacing at them. "We'll get another chance," she said with great confidence, "just not so soon. I've got to give these"-she wriggled her fingers–"a chance to recover before Dumbledore and Sirius have got us disemboweling frogs."

Harry chuckled a little. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he took off the charm, not wanting McKinnon to wander over and suspect them of having used it. "Shall we?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Ginny. "But the reason I thought of the clock… she said something once, long ago, before I even left for Hogwarts. Before Ron even left for Hogwarts."

Harry waited, watching her.

"Well," she said, finally, "I've forgotten it. I think I'll need to pull a Hermione and spend time in the library." She lifted her shoulder. "Sorry."

"Not your fault," murmured Harry. "We've got the whole week to figure it out."

And both, with a little grimace, elected to pull out their things, spreading quills and ink and text over the joined desk.

There were several clusters of students in Professor McKinnon's class that morning; none of them seemed to make any progress. McKinnon, Harry observed several times, had an expression of placid unconcern as she observed them. "I s'ppose we weren't expected to know it straight off," Harry muttered to Ginny, as they packed away their things. Ginny'd sketched out all three of the objects with a surprising amount of detail, and that was the extent of their progress. The others, fortunately, did not appear any further along.

"You head along," she told him. "Once you're done with classes, come meet me in the library…"

Harry agreed quickly. She turned away first, long hair swinging behind her, swishing back and forth against her back. As he watched her, he wondered what Molly had taught her and Ron. It had been one of the more useful Defense Against the Dark Arts classes he'd had, in fact; the last four or five years of his life had taught him that revealing a curse upon an object would be quite a handy skill to have indeed.

Students clambered up the stairs in a merry jumble. Ginny disappeared into their number, swallowed by the sheer number of them. Harry, who had been lost in thought, turned away and joined those pressing upward. Had Sirius ever said anything at Grimmauld Place about revealing curses on dark objects? Harry was just turning onto a corridor that would take him on a short-cut toward the North Tower when a panting Remus caught up to him.

"Oi! Peverell!" he said.

"Oh… hi," said Harry, blinking. There was a fresh, deep cut on his face, ill-concealed by healing balm. "Er – what's happened…?"

But Remus did not deign to answer the question, though the skin around the wound flushed a darker red. Harry presumed it to be a werewolf injury.

"Nothing," he said severely, wiping brown hair out of his eyes. "Here – I've got this for you." A scroll was thrust into his hand. "Professor Dumbledore asked me to give it to you."

In it, was one final punishment: he was to go to the dungeons, retrieve a set of potions the seventh years had just made, and bring them to Madam Pomfrey. Harry's shoulders slumped; he didn't have all that much time to get to Divination, he'd been hoping to use the half hour buffer to relax.

"I suppose it, er, needs to be done now?" Harry ventured cautiously.

Remus blinked. "I'd assume so," he said, "but I don't know what it says…"

"All right," said Harry, spinning on his heel. "I better get going." He left, feeling Remus staring at the back of his head, likely curious as to why Dumbledore was communicating via scroll with one of Hogwarts's newest students. Well, we're both keeping secrets, reasoned Harry, retreating back the way he'd come with rather more speed than he'd come up, taking the stairs two at a time, and ducking through a tapestry to find a tiny set of moving stairs that would halve the time it took to get to the dungeons.

Harry checked his watch as he neared Slughorn's door. He didn't have much time… he hoped Slughorn wasn't in class.

His luck was in: the heavy, wood and iron door to Slughorn's class was wide open, leaving the strong scent of mingled potions to waft outward. Harry paused just outside the door, once it became clear that Slughorn was not alone; in fact, he was arguing with someone.

"-be that as it may, Professor–"

"There is no be it as that may," snapped Slughorn. The current professor was not someone Harry liked overly much, considering how he fawned over some students and ignored others; it was noticeable, even to him, who had only known him for one term. But he had always been polite.

Harry peered around the door.

"That potion is forbidden at Hogwarts," Slughorn said, face red. "I gave you a great deal of leeway, young man, but you'll not be creating that while I'm the one to govern your work."

"But–"

"No buts, Mr. Snape."

Harry jerked backward. His bag caught on the handle of the heavy door, ripping itself from Harry's shoulder, and toppled to the floor with a clatter that disturbed the professor and the student – Severus Snape. Both turned to stare at him.

"Sorry," said a flustered Harry, "I was told to come down here for…"

"No need to apologize," Slughorn said brusquely. "Mr. Snape was just leaving; I've the potions in the workroom, if you could help me gather them."

But Harry only half-heard him. The younger Snape was much similar to the one he knew best: his skin was sallow and had the dull shine of oil on it. His hair hung dankly down to the middle of his neck, falling from a prominent widow's peak. His robes, in contrast, looked new and fitted as though made to, with expensive flourishes around wrists and hem. The look when Snape realized he, Harry, was staring was the familiar sneer. He passed Harry in a rush, leaving behind the dank scent of potions and body odor.

"Er, sorry," Harry said again, once Snape had swept off down the corridor.

"Never you mind," said Slughorn. "Come. The potions are in the workroom."

The professor was either distracted or repetitive, Harry decided, as he followed Slughorn into the small room off of the larger workspace. A crate filled with a dozen or so bottles took up most of the wooden table. Slughorn gestured toward it. "There it is," he said, "Please tell Poppy – Madam Pomfrey – that it comes with my compliments and hopes that she will find her stores replenished." After this, he made a little bow, and then hurried to the far edge of the workroom, where a lone bottle stood, its contents now being poured resolutely into a drain.

Harry, who recognized a firm dismissal, only loitered a moment longer before grabbing at the crate, hefting it upward, and heading out. He spared only one more glance at the professor, who was now mopping his brow, after having dumped the complete contents of the bottle into the drain.

Well, if he's thwarted Snape making whatever evil sort of potion he wanted, he can't be that bad, Harry reasoned, though he still thought Slughorn played favorites.

Over the next two days, Harry, who had enjoyed Snape not lurking about the dark shadows of Hogwarts, kept seeing him, still in his expensive-looking robes. Both Sirius, the Elder, and Ginny had made identical scoffing sounds when he'd told them that Snape was back and making potions that Slughorn did not approve of. "And that's not easy to do," Sirius had said musingly, "as Slughorn – like all of the professors – favors students from his own house." The discussion had devolved then, into a general discussion of Snape's many flaws, until Ginny – who finally had enough – had clapped her hands and asked Sirius's help with their Defense Against the Dark Arts project.

But then, sitting in double potions with the Hufflepuffs, Harry had cause to dislike Slughorn once more.

"And, of course," he said halfway through the lesson, "a potion's power can sometimes be increased with the inclusion of something of humanity."

That prickled at Harry's senses, startling him out of a daydream that made him devoutly grateful his potions partner could not perform legilimency. "What?" he said.

"A bit of yourself or someone else," said Slughorn, rubbing his hands together. "Hair clippings, toe nails – but those generally are involved in potions we won't be learning here – bits of skin, a quantity of their blood–"

"Someone else's blood?" Harry interjected. In his mind's eye, he saw the knife Voldemort had used to take blood from him in that graveyard. His heart gave an extra thump.

Slughorn blinked at him. "Ah, yes," he said. "Well."

"But isn't that dark?" Harry asked.

"Well, it could be," hedged Slughorn, "if one didn't ask for permission. And that is one of the keys to creating a potion that does not exploit others." This, he added very sternly, which Harry thought was for his benefit. "It's as Mr., ah, Peverell stated: it is Dark Magic to take something without permission and use it to perform magic."

"Yes, but–"

"But it is not perhaps the Dark Arts we are learning here," said Slughorn, with a tiny, deprecating smile. "I was alluding to the Polyjuice Potion, in fact, with the bits of skin. And often Healers will use the blood leeched from an ill person in order to create a potion specifically attuned to them."

Harry, somewhat mollified, now guiltily remembering the time he had taken bits of Crabbe and Goyle without permission, sank further into his chair, and tried to call up his previous daydream. But embarrassment lingered around the edges.

His outburst, however, did not earn him any points with Slughorn. Later that evening, nestled in a chair not overly far from the fire, Harry learned that the potions professor had a little club for his favorites. His parents came in hand-in-hand, bringing smiles and the scent of January snow with them. He hadn't seen as much of them this term; aside from their duties as Head Boy and Girl, his parents were often fastened to each other in ways that he, their child, did not know quite what to think about. They were rather more hands-on than he'd expected.

He exchanged a quick, laughing glance with Ginny, seated near him on a low bench under the window, before ducking behind his textbook.

"-oh, no! James, you have to!"

"I don't!"

"I promise it won't be so bad–"

"He always tried to get me to bring Mum and Dad!"

"And what's the harm in that?"

"Maybe I don't want to be on a date with my girlfriend in front of my parents," protested James, but he was laughing, clasping Lily's hands, and pulling her closer for a kiss. Harry, who didn't need to see it land, turned away but kept listening.

Ginny was mouthing something at him, a familiar, sly little twinkle in her eye. He shook his head, not having to know exactly what she was on about, but knew it would embarrass him.

"I'm glad Slug's doing another Slug Club meeting," Lily announced.

"More places to parade me around?" James asked.

Then they both laughed, leaning in for yet another kiss, while Harry heaved a heavy, inward sigh.

"What's Slug Club?" he asked.

Both his parents turned to him, arms still circled about each other, surprise writ across their faces. Did they not know they were in the middle of a slightly crowded common room and that anyone could see and hear them?

"It's just… sort of…"

"A place where people can get to know each other," said Lily.

Peter, who had been reclined in front of the hearth, rolled over onto his back, looking up at them with a rather pouting look. "But not everyone," he grumped. He peered at Harry. "Not everyone's invited." A fleeting, puggish look spasmed across his face; he reminded him, suddenly, of one of Aunt Marge's dogs. "Were you invited?"

"No," said Harry.

Peter's face cleared.

"It's not like that," said James, looking down at his grumpy friend. "We don't really want to go."

"We don't," confirmed Lily.

But Harry, watching his parents closely, noticed the way their glances flicked toward each other for a brief beat. He didn't care about not being invited to a party by a professor, but he could tell that they did, at least a little, even though their friend was left behind. Later, when he and Ginny were still bent over the task of discovering how to differentiate between objects that were ordinary, cursed, or charmed, he mumbled something about what he'd seen.

"They don't seem too stuck on themselves," said Ginny, hair falling between them. Her hands, small and pale, covered half the text. "Not like Percy was, anyway; he would've eaten this Slug Club stuff up."

"What about Bill?" asked Harry, remembering that her oldest brother had also been Head Boy, before either of them had even gone to Hogwarts.

Ginny pulled a face. "I don't think Bill would have gloated like Percy… but he definitely would have just expected to be invited." She glanced at her watch. "I expect your – you know, I expect they just like having an excuse to be somewhere together." Harry was nodding when she added, "But speaking of being somewhere, we've got to go…"

One of the other consequences of their escaping Hogwarts to – as Sirius put it – gallivant around Godric's Hollow was that he had instituted a weekly meeting, whereas last term he'd been so involved with attempting to get Dorcas Meadowes to talk to them, they hardly saw him. Every week, he updated them as to the progress they'd made in getting an unredacted list of whatever Gellert Grindelwald had at Nurmengard. As this progress was done in such tiny increments that Harry thought they'd made no progress at all, the meetings were more Sirius keeping a close eye on them.

This time, they found him pacing the Room of Requirement, lost in thought, not appearing to notice them. Harry cleared his throat, Ginny cleared hers; still, Sirius paced. Finally, he stopped, and said, at full volume, as though they were in the middle of a conversation: "I need more money."

"What?" said Harry.

Sirius whirled around, arms rising and falling. His grey eyes were wide. "We need more money," he clarified, after they'd stared at each other for a minute or so. "My father – whatever else he might have been – will eventually notice if I take more money from his vault. And my mother was even more cautious with money." His lips twisted downward. "They couldn't spend that amount of money in their lifetime, but… as of now, we're safe, but I'm afraid if this lasts much longer… we need more money."

"How are you going to do that?" Ginny asked, curious.

"And how much longer are we expecting to stay?" Harry asked. There had been such little progress on the Nurmengard front. A flush of guilt went through him that he wasn't overly anxious to leave the living, 1978 version of his parents behind. He ought to be flinging himself through every book in the Restricted Section in order to find a path back to his own time, and yet, he could not bring himself to do so.

"I can't even guess at that," said Sirius.

Ginny sighed; this only increased Harry's guilt.

"There's not much I can do," said Sirius, defensive. "I hate it here just as much as you, Ginny–"

A quiet little sound escaped her, but she didn't say anything.

"We've done what we could, for now," Sirius went on, turning to pace again. "But galleons… we'll need more galleons if we're to stay much longer."

"What about the goblins?" Ginny asked, tentative.

Sirius spun on her. "Do you mean borrow from them?"

She shrugged.

"That's risky," he said.

"You borrow now, and we pay later?" Harry asked. "When you've got full control of your family's vault?"

"Possible… but the interest rate could carry off everything I've got if I leave a loan unpaid for twenty years," said Sirius. "And there's no fooling goblins; they make you sign a blood oath on their bigger loans. I wouldn't be able to hide behind a disguise… they may not know my true name, but they'd still know I owed."

"That means Ludo Bagman was particularly foolish," said Harry, blinking.

"That's it!" said Ginny, triumphant. "Quidditch!"

Sirius whirled on them again. The ends of his long hair spun with him, though the rest remained stuck to his head. It reminded him uncomfortably of Snape, who let his hair grow greasy and matted. But the next instant, the observation washed away. "What d'you mean, Quidditch?"

"And betting," clarified Ginny. Then, folding her arms, she said: "Surely you remember some of the winners of specific games?" There was a teasing sort of censure in her tone. "You could bet on them… and if any one of the winners are the underdogs… did you follow Quidditch?"

"I…" Sirius paused. Expression flickered across his face, as though he was having an internal conversation with himself. "That's… I think that's it, Ginny. An excellent idea!"

"I have them from time to time," said Ginny, amused.

Harry stepped back from her, flicking his gaze up and down, a wordless sort of surprise filling him. "That's smart," he said.

"You can tell me how smart I am later," she said, grinning at him in a way that made him remember the certain sort of dreams he'd had, the ones he was trying not to allow into his waking life.

"It is smart," said Sirius. "I may have to dredge my memory, but that's quite a good way to earn a lot of money very quickly."

"All I ask is that you share with me," said Ginny, quite loftily.

"We'll split it in thirds," promised Sirius.

There was little to say after that; Sirius was too distracted. He did manage to help them with their Defense Against the Dark Arts project, mumbling "just do Revelio, Harry," before he shooed them out, claiming he needed to concentrate.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

The next day, they discovered that Sirius's solution only eliminated a third of their task. Feeling confident, Harry had approached Professor McKinnon's desk, Ginny remaining behind at their desk, and said: "Revelio!" in a clear, strong voice. Two objects set up an identical sort of glowing, as did many of the other objects in the room.

"Well done," said McKinnon. "You've eliminated one of them… now which one is cursed?"

Of the three objects on the desk, only the miniature set of drapes remained dim.

Harry had thought Sirius was going to be more helpful than that. "Erm," he said.

"And," added McKinnon, not unkindly, "you'll want to learn to use more precision; we don't need to know everything that's magicked in the room. Just these two."

Harry returned to his desk and slumped next to Ginny, who was reading a book she'd dragged out of the library a couple of days previously. On their way back to Gryffindor Tower, she'd confided that she wasn't sure of that answer.

"Well," said Harry, "he was sort of right."

Ginny made a sympathetic sort of noise. "I thought he was distracted," she said. "But he pointed us in the right direction, I think… I've just found a spell – look, see, it reveals humans – it's homenum revelio, so maybe we've got to find a way to differentiate curse and charm and tack it onto revelio."

Harry mulled this over. "Am I meant to tell you how smart you are now?" he asked, nudging her with his elbow.

Her laugh made him grin. And despite the fact they didn't make as much progress as he'd wanted to, he was rather cheerful when the bell rang, even smiling at Professor McKinnon, who'd ducked behind a copy of the Daily Prophet. Half the cover was filled with just one word: POX! It reminded him of the punishments they'd done, and he grimaced, turning away, and following Ginny out of the classroom.

"I've got to go," he said, ten minutes later, knowing he'd have to run for it. "I don't want detention from Old Bones…"

But it was not Old Bones sitting atop his flying carpet that greeted them when they finally arrived at the top of the North Tower, needled onward by Sir Cadogan, who was taking great relish in brandishing his sword at Sirius and James. Instead, at the center of the octagonal room that looked out over the grounds of Hogwarts, stood Albus Dumbledore, hands clasped in front of him, wearing burnt orange robes and a stoic sort of expression. Harry hung back at the door, bag slipping from shoulder to crook of elbow, as his father and his friends barely paused. It was ominous, somehow, to find the headmaster here in place of Old Bones.

"Good afternoon," said Dumbledore, pleasant enough.

"Afternoon," said Sirius, cheerful. "Where's Old Bones?"

"He had an unavoidable appointment, I'm afraid," said Dumbledore, smiling a little.

"With what?" asked James, astonished.

Harry pushed himself away from the door and found his seat, settling into it, as Dumbledore claimed that even professors deserved some amount of privacy from their students.

"He did, however, ask me to deliver a message," said Dumbledore, continuing to stand. "He said he has seen that despite his absence the next few days, you will all pass your NEWTs in his subject… and that you may spend the time looking into the future to discover what you might do on your upcoming Hogsmeade weekend."

James Potter exploded from his chair. "What?! We're having one?"

"And it's about time," said Sirius, with great relief. "I thought we'd be trapped here all year."

"Hogsmeade is the local wizard village," said Peter, looking over at Harry and straightening his shoulders. "In case you didn't know."

Harry forgave him his little smirk. Who could blame Peter for wanting to lord it over someone a little? He was constantly in James and Sirius's shadow, after all. Feeling rather magnanimous, Harry did not remind him that Hogsmeade was mentioned often and with great enthusiasm by the others, and Harry would have had to be pretty dim not to have made the connection before. "Thanks," he said instead.

The smirk disappeared, only to be replaced by a tiny frown.

"And on that note… I am afraid that I am quite unqualified to teach you anything you do not already know about prophecy and foretelling," said Dumbledore. His gaze flicked to Harry, and just as swiftly moved away. "I thought, instead, I could indulge myself in something I do not often: time together with some of my older students – without it being due to… disciplinary reasons."

James and Sirius laughed.

"But Old Bones didn't mention he was leaving," piped up Peter. "I was meant to meet with him…"

"As I do not wish to invade his privacy, I will only say that he had a family situation to deal with," said Dumbledore, with clear reproof.

"I thought he hated his family," muttered Peter.

But Dumbledore did not seem to hear him – or was pretending not to – and busied himself with summoning a teapot and the appropriate number of cups. Each one bobbed to a different boy. Harry took his from the air. It was cool and heavy in his palm, made from a dense porcelain. Were they really to have a tea party? With the headmaster of the school?

"I thought, for propriety's sake, we could at the very least read our tea leaves once we are done," said Dumbledore, cheerful. "I don't wish to confess to, ah, Old Bones that I allowed his class to run amok."

And that was that. Instead of a lesson on oneiromancy, they were to have tea with Dumbledore. Harry sipped at his, remaining silent, while the others chattered to each other. James and Sirius were particularly exuberant, spinning a tale for Dumbledore that hardly seemed true; and, in fact, ended with the sort of punchline that belonged to a joke. Dumbledore, for his part, nearly spat out his tea at the appropriate moment. And Harry took it all in; soon, these people would be recruited into Dumbledore's secret society to help fight Voldemort. And he could see why: despite the age difference, they seemed to enjoy each other a great deal.

Harry drank half of what was left of his tea. It burned down his throat, but it was a welcome distraction from the sudden wave of sadness he'd felt. In just a few short years, Harry would be born, his father would die, Sirius would be imprisoned, Remus would have difficulty finding work due to being a werewolf, and Peter… his brow furrowed. What would happen to Peter? He ought to know this. But if anyone had ever told him what had become of Peter Pettigrew, Harry could not remember.

The rest of the tea was swallowed in one gulp. Voices rose and fell around him; still, Harry held his tongue. It was not until ten minutes before the end of class that he rejoined the others, peering into his cup and searching for meaning in its dregs. For a moment, a sudden, sharp ache reminded him that Ron was supposed to be at his side. Then, he shoved that aside, tilted the teacup this way and that, and blinked rapidly until he found a shape.

"I see Lily, looking over her shoulder at me," said James, sounding smug.

"You do not," said Sirius, snatching at James's cup. "You just wish – oh."

"I told you," James sang.

Sirius looked at him in disbelief. "It does look like her. Did you do that on purpose?"

"Let me see!" crowed Peter. A moment later: "Wow!"

"I see you will continue to have fortune in romance," said Dumbledore. "I am certain Old Bones will be delighted to hear it." Again, his eyes caught Harry's and shifted away.

"I can't tell what mine is," admitted Peter. He held it out to Sirius, who took it, and peered into it, twisting it this way and that, revealing a certain expertise.

"It looks like an Order of Merlin," announced Sirius. He reached out and ruffled Peter's hair, and pretended to wipe away a tear. "Looks like our little boy is going to grow up and become a hero."

All of them laughed, Harry included. Sirius claimed his looked like both a wreath and a cloak, causing even more general hilarity while Dumbledore looked on indulgently. The others seemed to forget him as they enjoyed each other. Class was nearly over when Sirius looked over at him.

"And what've you got, Peverell?" he asked.

"Just a cup," said Harry. In fact, if he tilted it another way, it reminded him of a basilisk rearing upward, ready to strike. But he was well and determined to see a cup.

At that, Sirius slapped his hand on the desk. "Sounds like you'll have an excellent Hogsmeade weekend," he said. "Me, I've just got a wreath…"

"It could be a cr–"

But whatever James was about to say was swallowed up by the ringing of the bells that signaled the end of class. He leapt to his feet, scattering his things everywhere. "It's almost time!" he said, suddenly wild-eyed.

As one, everyone turned to Sirius for explanation. He heaved a sigh, and said, "He and Lily have got that Slug Club tonight. He wants to dress up for her, bless him."

"You don't have to talk to me like I'm three," said James, indignant, now stuffing his things in his bag. His hair was sticking out every which way, even messier than usual.

Harry hung back, letting his father and his friends exit the North Tower like a gale of wind, gathering up chatter and laughter as it did. Dumbledore remained quietly where he was, apparently having guessed Harry would want a word with him before Harry even did.

"Yes, Mr. Peverell?" he asked calmly, once the noise of the others's passage had died down.

Without even thinking, Harry blurted out: "I think Ginny and I ought to be allowed to go to Hogsmeade."

White eyebrows rose. "That… was not what I was expecting to discuss," said Dumbledore. "I thought you were anxious to hear about the — other matter." Even safe as they were from prying, Dumbledore did not speak aloud of the time travel.

"Not really," Harry admitted. As curious as he was as to why he was here, he could not help but be happy to enjoy the results. "I'm sure… things are moving forward."

"Hmm," said Dumbledore.

"I'll be cautious," Harry swore. "We will be cautious."

Dumbledore remained silent a moment, peering at him steadily. "I do not believe your godfather will like it."

"We'll talk him around," said Harry. "He knows we can't be locked up here. He knows that." He swallowed. "And it'll look suspicious, you know, if me and Ginny are never allowed to go anywhere. People will wonder why."

"Well," said Dumbledore, "I'm minded to think a trip to Hogsmeade with the other students is safe enough… you give me your word you will be cautious?"

"You have it," said Harry, holding up his hand. "I'll talk Sir-Sol around."

Dumbledore nodded. As one, they moved toward the door; Dumbledore offered him a rather cordial bow, allowing him to exit first. His spirits were lifted enough Harry grinned and offered him a little bow back, resisting the urge to leap up and click his heels together.

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"You want to do what?"

Harry grimaced at Ginny's general astonishment. "I was going to take my cloak and have a look around," he mumbled. At least they'd already done Muffliato. "I want to see what this 'Slug Club' is like… Slughorn's Head of Slytherin, you know, what if…?"

"What if he's evil, and is at this moment poisoning your parents?" asked Ginny.

"Well, when you put it that way…"

"Your parents presumably survived other Slug Clubs," she pointed out.

Harry shrugged. He didn't know how to explain to her that despite his promise to Dumbledore, he felt restless in his own skin, and had since his Divination class. "I just want to…"

"We could work on our DADA project," she suggested. "Or go for a fly?"

At that, Harry perked up. "You don't think it's too cold?" he asked. "Oh, but I still wanted to – what if we met after I just had a quick peek? I'll use my cloak, I won't even stay long."

"Go," said Ginny, amused, eyes twinkling. "Come find me after."

"I will!" promised Harry, already whirling away.

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Harry slouched against the wall, having finally determined there was nothing sinister in Slughorn having invited James and Lily to a gathering. Rather, he'd paraded them about like a proud parent, beaming at them with what could only be uncomplicated happiness. The weight of the invisibility cloak shifted as Harry checked his watch: it was still too early to meet Ginny, not unless he wanted to show up an hour early.

A soft, furtive sound intruded into his thoughts.

Quidditch forgotten, Harry stared down the empty corridor. That sound had come from outside the room. And there it was again, the unmistakable sound of quiet, gliding footsteps.

Harry straightened, wand in hand, careful to be quiet. Whoever it was, there was no sign of them. They were as invisible as he, Harry, was. His heart kicked forward, thudding in his chest.

Perhaps not quite as invisible, thought Harry. There, ten feet away, under a lit wall sconce, was a distorted shimmer in the air. It had an odd sheen to it; there was a subtle, corrupted rainbow, the kind found in oil slick after a rain. Eyes narrowed at it, Harry did not give himself time to think: instead, he whispered: "Revelio."

The oil slick dripped down to the floor and disappeared, revealing the younger, sallower version of Severus Snape. His hair flung back, he snarled, searching for whoever had removed his spell. Harry remained silent. What was Snape doing here, lurking outside his Head of House's personal rooms?

"Who is there?" The younger Snape did not have his older counterpart's sort of sneering command, though he tried.

Silent as he could, Harry moved closer to him.

Snape, who must have been alerted by some subtle gesture, snapped his gaze toward him. "Revelio," he hissed.

The cloak fluttered at Harry's ankles.

"Specialis revelio," Snape insisted.

The spell, powered by Snape's seething hatred of anything that attempted to thwart him, slithered toward Harry. He tried to step away, but seemed to step directly into it. It slid in under his cloak and washed over his feet. It licked like flames up his body. Harry scrambled backward.

"Reveal yourself!" Snape ordered, almost in a shout. "I said, reveal yourself!"

Harry very much feared that was exactly what was happening underneath his cloak—

"Have an invisibility cloak, have you?" Snape sneered. "I suppose a little bird leant it to you?"

Snape's face was especially sallow in the torch light.

Harry stumbled a little, trying to go backward, his skin still unpleasantly tingling.

"Accio cloak!" Snape said, triumphant.

Harry grabbed for his cloak, holding it closer to him. It swayed as though it was caught on something. But it remained on Harry, protecting him. The door to Slughorn's personal quarters, which had been nearly shut, opened fully. Music and light spilled out onto the corridor; curious faces, including those of Harry's parents, peeked out.

"What," said Slughorn, at the center of it all, "is going on out here, Mr. Snape?"

Snape drew himself upward. "There is someone out here," he declared, face twisted. "Someone is wearing an invisibility cloak."

Slughorn blinked in surprise.

"It's probably one of Potter's friends," Snape spat.

"Not likely," said James. Harry stared at him: The cold, closed off look on his father's face was new to him. James and Snape looked at each other with deepest loathing. "Professor–"

Slughorn lifted his hand. "I've got this, James," he said warmly. Then, to Snape, "Mr. Snape, you have been warned before."

"But–"

"Good evening," said Slughorn, motioning to his other students. They all retreated back into the room; this time, the door was shut rather firmly, like the end of a sentence.

Harry took the opportunity to leave, walking backward a few steps, watching Snape, who remained behind, staring at that closed door with a hateful, angry look. He scratched at his forearm. But there were greater worries than Snape, and Harry retreated around the corner, moving faster and less cautiously. His footsteps echoed now. A glance at his watch told him he might just catch Ginny in the entry hall. She could tell him if what he feared was true, that Snape's spell had washed away the disguise Dumbledore had given to him.

His luck, which had deserted him in the corridor, returned. Ginny was just stepping down the last few steps when he reached the bottom of the moving staircase. Her hair swished around her; her step was jaunty; and there was a pleasant near-smile on her face, even though she was alone, as though she were very much looking forward to where she was going.

Harry ignored the pleasant sort of tumble his stomach was currently doing.

"Ginny," he whispered, once she was close enough to hear him, "it's me. I need your help…"

She played it cool; to any onlooker, she must have appeared blithely unconcerned, walking at exactly the same speed as before he spoke. There was only the briefest of pauses at the bottom of the staircase; where she would have continued on out the heavy doors had he not hailed her, instead she pivoted a quarter turn, and led him away from the doors, to a tiny corridor that must mostly be used by elves. There was a curtained alcove just a few steps in.

"What's going on?" Ginny asked, after casting Muffliato.

Harry pulled off his cloak.

Her gasp was confirmation enough.

"So it's happened, then?" he said grimly.

"But how?"

"Snape," Harry muttered. He peered down at his hands; was it his imagination, or did they look different? Had Dumbledore's disguise been so complete? "He was in the corridor… he was invisible, must've used the Disillusionment Charm… I used the spell on him first. Then he did that, he did specialis revelio, and I think that's what did it."

"Snape broke Dumbledore's spell?" Ginny asked, astonished. Her eyes were very wide. In the breath that happened next, Harry grew aware of how close they were standing to one another, close enough to realize that her irises were not simply brown, but had a ring of a greenish sort of brown around the edges.

His stomach did another tumble. "Yeah, he did. It did. But it was under the cloak; I was still under the cloak, so it wasn't like he saw me change. I just felt it. And you know, I think the cloak almost protected me, it sort of came under the cloak, where my feet were." Harry spoke very quickly in the hopes that it would distract himself from his sudden, dizzying sort of awareness.

Ginny moved closer to him, standing on her tip-toes. Very lightly, she touched his jaw, and then let her hand fall to her side. "I haven't seen that face in a while," she said.

It was January and uncommonly cold even for Scotland. But heat rose up in Harry's body, spreading through it, and congregating in a most inconvenient spot. Unable to stop it, he grew hard; once again, he was devoutly grateful for robes and what they could conceal. Swallowing, he said, "Yeah, but I'm not supposed to – I look too much like him."

"You'll have to go to Dumbledore," said Ginny.

Harry stayed quiet.

Her eyes rolled. "He'll do another spell."

"I know, but what if it's not the same?" Harry asked. "What if they notice?"

"Oh, that's why you looked worried?" asked Ginny. Her lips quirked. "I thought you were hoping to keep this from him, too."

"No… no, I wasn't," said Harry. "I'll just tell him I was in the corridor because I was stalking my parents–"

"-which you were," said Ginny, with a tiny chuckle. It faded swiftly in the small space; the walls swallowed the sound.

"I knew I'd have to get his help," said Harry. The fortunate thing about this topic of conversation was that his erection was retreating. Perhaps whenever this happened, he could introduce Dumbledore as a topic of conversation. "You're still upset with me?"

She tilted her head. "About keeping things from him? No… not upset, exactly." Her eyes searched his. "But I also know that if you had to – if you really had to – you'd go to him. I know you won't keep anything from him if it meant anyone getting hurt, right then, when you could do something about it. Keeping the future a secret from him is one thing…"

Harry hoped she was right. He was about to tell her she was right, that he would go to Dumbledore if there was something that needed his immediate attention. But his assurance caught on the tip of his tongue when he remembered the dream he'd had on Halloween, after he'd glutted himself on scary stories: Voldemort had entered Hogwarts through a door that had been left open for him. It was just a dream, he reminded himself.

"Yeah…" he said, finally. "I would…"

She didn't make him promise; instead, she took him at his word. After clearing her throat, she said, "Well… I'm still going to go have that fly… you'd better go find Dumbledore."

Fortunately, it took little effort to find Dumbledore; Harry merely had to lurk outside his office, hiding his cloak under his robes and his face from anyone who passed by, before he turned up less than an hour later. The headmaster took his word with equanimity; when he was finished, he announced that he'd made it stronger, that it should withstand another schoolboy. The transfiguration settled into Harry's bones. Over the next few days, he experienced a certain itchiness, but that went away eventually.

It was perhaps for the best that Snape had forced Dumbledore to settle a stronger spell on him, Harry mused later. It was definitely for the best that he'd learned the incantation to reveal a charm; he rather thought that it had impressed Professor McKinnon, when the next day, he'd revealed which of her objects was charmed.

"Well done, Mr. Peverell, Miss Peverell," she said, lingering by their joined desk. "Now you've discovered how to reveal the charm, you'll start learning how to disable curses – very minor curses – starting next week. You two are a little ahead of the class, well done."

When Professor McKinnon turned away, Harry saw his own feelings of a smug, laughing sort of pride reflected in Ginny's expression. Yes, they were outside their own time and Ginny was a full year younger than the rest of the class and yet they, as a team, were still ahead of others when it came to Defense Against the Dark Arts.

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Author's Note: Hi, hello, good morning! I hope you enjoyed reading this. I'm nearly done with this arc of Master of Death, so I've decided to post. You can expect fairly regular updates until these seven chapters are posted. :)