A/N: Er...well, scarely eventful, rather pointless chapter because I'm feeling weird today. The rain put me to an unscheduled sleep, so I'm really crabby. Thank you for the reviews everyone! Especially the loyal livelifelarge who ADDED ME TO HER (his) FAVES!! AHH! thank you, you just boost my ego.

To Sam Carter: Yes, I am quite aware of what JKR said in that interview a long time ago, but as a writer myself (albeit not as good as her, but you get the idea) I think everything in the stories is prone to change. I mean, she also said that Lily and James were Head Girl and Boy, but that didn't happen? And I think canon is leaning precariously close to R/H, but this is a H/Hr fic. Which goes to show that ff is all about speculation. And I think my Hermione would make a very good McGonagall as well as Harry's favoritest sweety-pie cuddlebums. Now, off with the ramble and on with the fic, eh?

To h2opologal: Oscar Wilde once said (here I go again): 'Nothing is quite so bad as not so bad.' But regardless, I love you for reviewing all the same, I just can't resist the opportunity to quote Wilde. And I looked up what you said on HPL, yeah, you were right, Barty Crouch Jr. does have it. So this is what I'll do. I'm going to dedicate this chapter to you, and amend my mistakes from the last chapter.

And I'm really very sorry, but I'm 'fraid I can't really make a meany-poo Snape to save my life, so I'm going to have to do one of those revealing, overly clichéd Bad Snapey goes good scenes so he'll stay out of my way for the rest of the fic. Blame it on my inexperience as a writer.

So here it is: This chappie is officially formally dedicated h2opologal because she really knows her stuff.


"The Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Levels," Professor Snape said to his Advanced Potions class that Wednesday. "It means that most of you dunces probably WON'T pass it, and will have no prospect of a future after Hogwarts," he was glancing furtively at Harry as he said this, "And I will try my best to make your puny lives miserable if you don't try your absolute hardest to atleast do reasonably well so you do not embarrass me."

"Malfoy, What is the main ingredient for a strong Veritaserum?"

"Tomato juice?" he suggested hesitantly.

"Correct. 5 points to Slytherin."

"But Professor," A Ravenclaw girl Harry didn't recognize interrupted, "Don't you need the Ministry's permission to--"

"Do you really think that I'm that much of a moron, Miss Yarrow, to give you more responsibility than you can handle? Do you question my authority?" he asked, his pallid face glowering at her. The class was shocked quiet. The girl retreated further into the shadow of the dungeon. "Five points from Ravenclaw for interrupting class with stupid questions," muttered Snape, making a careless motion with his hands.

"Atleast we know that he's not mean only to the Gryffindors," Hermione muttered under her breath. But apparently that was a mistake because the class was so small that Snape had heard her. He turned his hawk-like eyes on her, his black robes billowing around him as he did so.

"Miss Granger, where can the bird Jobberknoll commonly be found?"

"Err-Cornwall Isles," Hermione said, hesitantly. She looked petrified, near nauseated, as Snape towered over her intimidatingly.

"And what is its stranger feature?"

"It lets out a scream when it dies, of-of all the sounds it has ever heard,"

"What are the uses of the bird to potion-making?"

"Its feather's are used for memory and truth potions, and it's tongue and stomach for Mind-Control Medleys," she replied confidently.

"And it's claws and eyes?" There was a long pause.

"I--I don't know, Professor." Someone gasped audibly. A twisted sneer contorted Snape's face. His black eyes glowed maliciously. It's claws and eyes were used for the Wolfsbane Potion which he had yet to patent, and only he knew how to make. But of course, not many knew that fact either.

"Apparently contrary to popular belief," he gestured to the side of the dungeon where the gasp had come from, "You do not know it all, Granger, so for the rest of the class I suggest you cease your incessant blathering and let me teach."

Hermione had gone very pale.

No one spoke the rest of the class but when Snape asked them obscure questions which they obviously didn't know the answers to and didn't leave them alone until they admitted so. They did not do any actual potions work, but took notes off of the blackboard and from the long lecture that they recieved, complete with prejudiced remarks to Harry and almost everyone else but Draco Malfoy, who singly earned the Slytherin house about fifty points in one class, where all the other houses together lost that much.

"I hope this class has taught you all that you are big-headed and stupid. That your ego is not all that matters in the game of competition, and the Head position--which I suppose all of you would kill to have. Remember, it's not too late to drop this class and take something else more mindless to suit your interest. Like...Divination, perhaps." With that he banished all the cauldrons back to the shelf as the students exchanged distasteful glances (which probably did not go unnoticed by Snape).

He assigned them all two-scrolls summarizing the notes they had taken and dismissed them about ten-minutes early. He'd also indifferently asked Harry to stay behind. "And that means only you, Potter, don't bring any of your sidekicks," he pointedly stared at Hermione as he said this, but her gaze was firmly set upon her desk and her expression was unreadable. There was an indistinct snicker which Harry recognized as Pansy Parkinson's, which Hermione didn't react to this time. The anger bubbled in him like a cauldron.

"Yes?" Harry said coolly to Snape when the bell rang.

"It seems that your Potions skills are so thoroughly horrendous that Dumbledore has requested me to resume your Remedial Potions lessons." Harry's full attention was now on Snape, but he on the other hand, was intently looking at a Hufflepuff struggling with his bag in the front row. "It is by no wish of mine to waste anymore of my time on you than I absolutely have to, so, you have one chance, Potter. The usual time and place," his glittering eyes shot back to his, "Don't. Mess. Up." he hissed.

Harry left, with the terrified Hufflepuff making a hurried beeline for the exit in front of him, trying to get rapidly out of Snape's vicious scrutiny. He thought Dumbledore was supposed to be teaching him anyway. He inadvertantly gave a derisive huff as he slung his bag viciously over his shoulder.

Outside, Harry found Hermione and Ron waiting to go with him to lunch. They were talking in low tones with Hermione's hands in Ron's and there was scarcely any daylight to be seen between them. Harry coughed quite loudly, making them startle apart.

"Oh--er--hello, Harry," Hermione said, blushing and coughing, embarrassed.

"No worries," Harry said, smiling, but feeling oddly queasy. Ron and Hermione had a better relationship than he had with either of them, and however irrational, he was still moderately envious.

"Are we going to lunch or not? Personally, I'm not too hungry, but you two have Prefect Patrol tonight, so I suppose you won't have much of a dinner. Unless we go up to the kitchens, of course, or maybe ask Dobby to get something to us in the Common Room if you're too tired," Harry chattered idly, hoping that some reference to house-elf labor would jerk Hermione out of her sullen contemplation.

"How about just eating dinner, hmm?" Hermione retorted as he predicted, "Poor Dobby! D'you ever wonder how much work he does in a day, without playing butler to you two? There are nearly three-hundred picky, ungrateful, hungry people that they serve each day about three times--" she rambled on.

The week progressed without any significant occurrence until Friday came about. Following the Midnight Astronomy class that night, Harry was very tired and looking forward to sleep, and after a week with no bad dreams, he was blissfully expectant. But unfortunately, the nightmarish glimpses into his nemesis's mind were back once more, and this time, he could physically feel what was happening in Voldemort's memories. He, or rather a twelve year old Tom Riddle, was cowering in a corner of a darkened room, and there, a shadowy figure had come in angrily. The figure, fisting and kicking, beat the younger Tom into a literal pulp, until he bled freely upon the cold, stone floor. Harry felt each cut as if it were on his own body, and tears were pouring down his face as he writhed in the other boy's agony and self-loathing.

As Harry had cast a Silencing Charm on his four-poster (knowing well that Voldemort had purposely magicked his dreams so that something like this could happen), none of the others were disturbed by his screaming and thrashing every night. Indeed, he was so sick of his dorm-mates goggling at him that he even told them that the dreams had disappeared entirely because of Occlumency classes. Ron even believed him, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

On occasion, Harry felt the dreams very vividly, but this time was different. Dangerous, even. He sat up at the end of the dream when a hard kick to the stomach had left him (Tom Riddle) unconscious. Harry keeled over, retching, and clutching a beam of the bed for support. There were rather large red stains on his bed, and he, sickened, turned away, rushing to the bathroom, and knocking over his lamp in the process.

"Whatha--" Ron gasped, jumping awake, and Neville whined, turning in his sleep. Harry slammed the bathroom door, and closed and locked it, then proceeded to retch into the basin, a mixture of blood, phlegm and his lunch, clutching to his paining stomach.

When he was finished, he limped out, his legs sore and stomach still aching, intending to go back to bed and stare at the wall to keep awake until morning. Outside, although, Ron was waiting for him, leaning against the doorway and nearly dozing where he stood. He snapped to attention when the door opened, and hastened to help Harry out of the dormitories.

"You're going to the Hospital Wing, Harry," he whispered fiercely, and Harry could plainly hear the fear in his voice.

"No--" Harry began, but his throat was too raw to raise a significant protest.

"What's wrong, Harry?" he heard Hermione's panicked voice when they came down the stairs to the common room. She was working on some Runes Homework at one of the desks in the corners of the room, but was now standing, gripping the chair where she sat previously, and looking scared.

"He's had another dream, Hermione, would you open the Portrait Hole, he's kinda heavy," Ron said. Harry stood up, trying not to lean quite so much on Ron.

"I'm fine--" he began, but as usual, he went unheeded. Hermione followed them as they walked up to the Hospital Wing, explaining to Madam Pomfrey that Harry had had yet another nightmare.

"But this is unnatural! You can't actually feel in your dreams! This hasn't happened before, has it Potter?" She was gazing at him fearfully as he'd once seen her looking at Dumbledore when she told him that the Dark Lord had risen once again.

He shook his head guiltily, excluding that it was not totally surprising to him in the least. Ron gently moved out from underneath his right arm, and Harry was surprised to feel an excruciating pain shoot through it. Pomfrey bustled about, fluffing a pillow on the nearest bed.

"Lie down here, Potter, careful, try not to put much pressure there, I'll have to look at that ankle, hope its not a fracture. I'm going to have to reset it that way," she trailed off, helping Harry onto the bed as Ron and Hermione stared at them nervously. Madam Pomfrey gave Harry a swirly purplish thing that he knew to be a dreamless sleep potion, and it began working almost instantaneously. He saw Hermione take a seat at his side as Ron settled in the couch in front of them, looking at him directly before he closed his eyes, wincing even as the cold salve trailed down the gash on his arm.

Harry woke two days later to a bright and blinding light, hardly aware of where he was. He tried to sit up, but his head hurt from the brightness. It helped very little that all of his surroundings where also a clean white. Someone gently pushed him back, saying something that seemed very soothing, but he couldn't understand it. It was Hermione, he realized when his vision adjusted somewhat to the light. She was studying him very intently and holding a wet, off-white towel.

"It's ok, Harry, just lay back down, and close your eyes" she instructed, taking his arm. For some reason this was all very confusing to Harry because it was Ron who had taken him to the Hospital Wing and Madam Pomfrey who was supposed to be treating him. He knew what'd happened with the dream and the kick to his stomach, which from what he gathered induced internal bleeding which Pomfrey had not been able to diagnose until it was severe, but he had entirely forgotten that Hermione was with them when he came here with Ron. Harry lay down obediently, but he still squinted his eyes slightly open to observe a somewhat blurry Hermione tending to the cuts on his chest and arms.

"What time is it? Don't we have to get to classes?" he asked, thoroughly befuddled.

"It's Sunday evening, Harry," said Hermione. "It was a Hogsmeade weekend. Ron's gone to visit his mother, and Fred and George."

Harry was suddenly scared. "I hope he doesn't tell her about me," he said unconsciously. Hermione frowned.

"Harry, you can't keep things from people who care about you," she lectured, "Of course, I never believed for a second, and neither did Ron that you'd stopped having those crummy nightmares, I don't understand--is it that we can't be trusted?" Hermione squeezed the dirty towel in another bowl to the side and dipped it again in the diluted essence of murtlap. He began to say "It wasn't that," but Hermione shushed him, muttering angrily under her breath.

Harry closed his eyes, relishing at the soothing touch of her hand against his heart and inhaling her very Hermione-ish scent, unaware of the taboo of his thoughts. The sleeping draught was still barely in his system, and he enjoyed the dizzy sensation it left in his head. He opened his eyes again about an hour later to see that Hermione was emptying and cleaning the bowls and the washcloth. His eyes fell then on the autumn sunset that he could see from the open window in front of him, in between a turret to the right and the Gamekeeper's Hut and the Forest to his left.

A breeze blew, carrying with it the dead leaves piled upon the grounds that looked miniscule and blurred from Harry's perspective. He looked for his glasses so that he could enjoy the scene better.

"D'you have my glasses Hermione?" he asked quietly (his throat was still sore), not taking his eyes away from the entrancing orange and purple of the twilight. He had never been one to admire nature and save trees, but being almost telepathic to Voldemort had given him an entirely new perspective to life.

He thought, Snape, even, was somewhat like Voldemort, being so abused by his circumstance that he sought revenge upon the world. But Voldemort, instead of berating himself, and likening the treatment bestowed upon him a cause of his own faulty personality or misdeeds-as Snape did-blamed his father, who really was the one to blame. But Voldemort now, was the power-hungry villain, whereas Snape was on their side. Snape and Sirius both were 'good', in essence, because they thought they deserved the burden of shouldering everyone's abuse. Harry thought it was really depressing how the world worked, and he finally understood why people were as unhappy as they were. All his thoughts, which he knew to be more than childish, deprived him off the innocence he'd possessed as the eleven-year old first year, and that made him a different person entirely.

Hermione handed him his glasses, and wordlessly sat down beside him upon the bed, studying him as he gazed at the darkening sky.

"We're both alike, aren't we Harry," he recalled his half-giant friend's words long ago. They were, now more than ever he thought.

Hagrid saw the beauty of the world in his pets--however ugly or monstrous they were, and likewise, Dumbledore saw it in his students. He himself had said once that 'Our choices make us who we are'. They were all allegedly good because they had managed to see what Voldemort didn't, not because they were somehow more talented, or better at being human.

And at some point in each of their lives, the choice was given to them to avenge the wrongdoings dealt to them or to let it go, and Voldemort hadn't let it go. Revenge, being a hollow pursuit, had robbed him of all aesthetic faculty, and Harry took in the scenery almost hungrily, letting all his fears, and anger go for a brief moment. He was suddenly groundlessly afraid to lose the chance to choose, afraid that he'd be too blinded by rage at the moment the opportunity was offered to him to choose the right thing. Afraid of turning into another Voldemort. Of being a murderer...

"It's beautiful," Hermione said meekly.

Harry looked at her, as if he were someone else, and as if he were looking at her for the first time. Whether it was that sleeping draught, or some other bewitchment cast upon him by whoever, Harry saw Hermione in a new perspective than a mere adolescent amity. Was she going through the same things he was deep inside? She was always so constant in his life, and he'd brushed her off under the label "best friend", but she was more than even that. She belonged to no label. She represented all that he'd neglected to see when he was mourning for Sirius or for all the injustice of the Dursleys, or Dumbledore. She represented the million sunsets he'd missed in his rush to get to a Quidditch game, or finish that Potions essay, or wallow in his self-propelled misery.

Hermione met his curious gaze with her own bemused one. She was smiling slightly, and her hair fluttered around her by the breeze blowing in from the window. Her eyes were brown, and her expression child-like. The freckles on her cheeks and small nose gave her round face a very innocent appeal, and Harry carefully beheld her visage as if it were the fleeting sunset, which he'd surely never see again as he had seen it that day. And Hermione became increasingly irritated, unable to cut off eye contact or break away from her friend's meticulous inspection. There was a noise as the door opened and Ron Weasley entered. Harry blinked, losing the ephemeral moment that he'd hoped to prolong.

"Hello, Ron," Hermione said, standing to kiss him. Harry turned his eyes away, feeling suddenly as if night had come again, with nightmares of revenge, to smother him. He forced the muscles of his face to smile and greeted Ron in a warm tone, chastising himself for momentarily being so inconsiderate.

"How're you Harry? Mum sent you some fudge to feel better. She added some Placation Potion in the glaze, I took one of them, hope you don't mind." Harry took the package Ron offered him, clutching it in his lap as he unwillingly followed the strains of the conversation. They were talking about Ron's visiting Hagrid and how he'd managed to almost tame Grawp-his younger brother. Harry nodded occasionally as if he were listening, but he was lost in thought. Ron and Hermione hardly noticed his preoccupations, or if they did, they said nothing--possibly attributing it to his physical exhaustion. From what he gathered, they were planning a visit to Grawp during Christmas if Molly, or the Grangers, didn't want them to come home.

This new Hermione was a source of great discomfort to Harry as he sat in his bed that night, thinking, and trying not to fall asleep. Her birthday was close (the Thursday after the next) and it was the same day as Quidditch Tryouts. And there he'd have to see all the captains--including Cho, and things still needed clearing up with her. He frustratedly ran his hand through his already messy hair, getting up from bed to his trunk to get his invisibility cloak. A nice stroll around the grounds on such a clear night would mollify his rampaging mind.

Harry was wrong. He could hardly even exit the castle because Argus Filch's stupid cat constantly followed him wherever he went. And between avoiding the caretaker and trying not to walk through any ghosts, he was spent.

"Go away you mangy feline!" He whispered hoarsely. He heard heavy footsteps and a distant, disconsolate muttering from the dark end of the corridor, and assuming it was Filch, he hastily jumped behind a suit of armor.

"Whut's wong, Missus?" Filch cooed, and Harry was disgusted just to hear his voice dripping with love and care. He peeped to the side to see that the intimidating caretaker was smiling widely to reveal his tarred and rotten teeth and gums almost a brownish color. He resisted the urge to gag, and while cat and owner coddled, used the opportunity to return to the castle. As he walked back to Gryffindor Tower, although, he was met with an even more disgusting sight. More disgusting that Filch's dental hygiene there were very few things, but this one, Harry thought, there was nothing more disgusting that this.

It was Ron and Hermione, fervently making out, leaning against the dark, shady nook in the wall. He ran straight into a knight standing in the corner where he was supposed to have turned.

"Oww!" he cried, without thinking.

"Harry?" Hermione cried frantically, disentangling herself from Ron, much to his disappointment. "This isn't what it looks like!" she promised. Harry suddenly felt an irrational bout of anger. It can't be much else, he thought to himself.

"Have fun patrolling you two," he said, trying his best to suppress the bitterness that he could almost taste in his mouth, and walked as fast as he could, back to the Tower. But as he was climbing a staircase that lead him to the corridor where the Portrait was, it slowly rumbled and moved to the right. And it settled there in the opposite direction from his warm, inviting bed. It was as if the pit of Harry's stomach had fallen in. He sighed and climbed up the rest of the stairs; he had atleast another hour of walking to do yet, if he wanted to get back to the Tower and pretend to have been sleeping.

Mrs. Norris caught up to him about fifteen minutes later a few more hallways parallel (and identical) to one another, where Harry was hopelessly lost and considered turning himself in anyway just to lie down someplace to soothe his aching feet. When he saw the glowing yellow eyes of Filch's cat in his way, Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. He knocked down a burnt out torch in the process, making a lot of noise.

"Ah-hah! There you are, Potter," he spat, "underneath that illegal invisibility cloak of yours--"

"It's not illegal," he protested childishly, taking it off.

"A thousand points from Gryffindor for doing illegal things!" Filch declared, his nostrils flaring, "Come with me, Potter, you deserve to go to the Headmaster. Hope he expels you!" Harry almost happily obliged, figuring that a few detentions couldn't harm him any. And as for expulsion--if it were meant to end that way, Harry would've been more than ecstatic. When they reached the gargoyle, Filch just stood there for about an hour trying to remember the password, but unwilling to admit it nonetheless. Harry was sitting on the floor nearby, braindead, sleeping with his eyes open.

"AH! I've got it! POO!" he cried triumphantly, "Not that I hadn't known it in the first place, anyhow, I just wanted yeh to suffer in your guilty-conscience." The gargoyle jumped open and Filch harshly pushed Harry in so that he almost fell on his face. He swore to himself as the entrance sealed behind him. He stood up and brushed off his robes, climbing the stairs and walking to Dumbledore's office. What sort of numbskull couldn't remember "Poo"?

The fire in the room crackled and all the ex-Headmasters snoozed, snoring softly. Fawkes was purring in pleasure--he stood on Dumbledore's desk, bowing his head as the Headmaster stroked his shining red feathers.

"Hullo. I've been waiting for you to come in almost since you left your Dormitory. I would've come to get you myself, but you know, I'm just really lazy these days. My years have caught up with me, Harry Potter." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he spoke and Harry couldn't help but smile in return.

"Filch has been chasing you around since, Merlin's beard-- almost midnight, I think. I thought he'd've chained you up in that little office of his he fancies a dungeon or something, but luckily--" Dumbledore trailed off. Harry wondered how Harry could even know he was out of the Gryffindor Tower, and his eyes automatically strayed to Dumbledore's desk almost as if someone had led his gaze in the direction.

There was a very familiar looking piece of parchment lying there, dots moving about and staircases wiggling round and round.

The Marauder's Map lay there.

The beautiful Marauders' Map--the life work of his father, and Remus, and-and Sirius. A sudden inexplicable warmth filled Harry's heart and he was hardly aware of the burning sensation in the back of his eyelids. He sniffed, feeling stupid.

"I'm sorry--" he began.

"Marvelous contraption, isn't it? I imagine it must've taken them atleast a year to do it all. And after they were Animagi--well, it must have come in really handy," Dumbledore mused. Harry was looking at him almost in awe.

"You mean you know who made it?" Harry asked, stuttering.

"Of course-Padfoot? Prongs? Moony? They used to call each other that around school. And Lily Evans--she did too, as a matter of fact." Harry could hardly believe it. Dumbledore-his parents-Sirius--

"My mother?" he said, too confused to be coherent.

"Yes. She was almost friends with Pettigrew and Lupin, but she loathed James, and constantly told Sirius to stop being 'Potty-wipe,'" Dumbledore grinned goofily and Harry couldn't help but let out a choked laugh. The old man had gone mad!

"I'm sorry for keeping it for so long," Dumbledore said, a while later, "But it has come in handy. I daresay if it weren't for this map, I would never know not to put the two Gryffindor Prefects on Patrol together." Dumbledore smiled, but he noticed Harry's face darkening at the mention of his two best friends. Dumbledore said nothing, although, just held out the map toward Harry.

"You're going to give it back to me? Why?" Harry said, "Aren't you afraid I'll sneak around school at night? Go to Hogsmeade, and get killed by Voldemort? Upset the peace of the world? Aren't you going to expel me? Give me detention, at least?" he rambled, not seeing the logic of it all.

Dumbledore smiled again, annoying Harry further.

"It's your inheritance, isn't it? It's not for me to confiscate?"

"Yeah, but--"

"But what? It's simple Harry. If I keep it, you'll sneak around anyway, as you've proven today, so why not save everyone the trouble of punishing you and keep out of all our ways with the Map?"

"But I--"

"And as for sneaking off to Hogsmeade, nothing's open at night, so why would you want to go? If you know that you're in potential danger, why would you risk it for a bunch of closed shops and empty streets and a haunted house that's not even haunted?"

Harry couldn't think of an argument for that. But--well, it just seemed wrong to have an unfair advantage over all those other students to be able to sneak about when they weren't.

As if reading his exact thoughts, Dumbledore said, "Your father made it for you. He purposely let Filch find it so when you went to Hogwarts he could tell you how to find it and follow in his footsteps as the greatest troublemaker to come to this school. But the Weasley twins practically robbed you of the honor, so don't you think you deserve to sneak around a bit to fulfill your father's dreams for your future?"

"Well, when you put it that way--" Harry started, but suddenly stopped, noticing the absurdity of the situation. "Wait a minute. Just wait a minute," he said, "You're the teacher, and I'm the student," Dumbledore nodded, his eyes merry and crinkled, "And you're trying to convince me as to why I should break the rules?"

"Life is strange," Dumbledore replied, as Fawkes hooted in apparent agreement. "But if it's your concern for rules," he said sarcastically, "Then I'll sentence you to spend a week with Hagrid and try to convince him to take his brother back to his home with the other Giants." Harry was speechless for the nth time that night.

"You know about Grawp, too then?" he said wryly. Dumbledore gave a slight nod.

"You know, I think I and Lupin should collaborate and make a map of the Forbidden Forest. I've been lost in it just countless times, it can get very annoying. Maybe when it's finished," he said to Harry, " and if you ask nicely I may even agree to a temporary trade-off."

"Erm..Sure, Professor Dumbledore, er, sir," Harry said slowly, convinced that all the man's nuts were loose and his brain dissembled and half flown off somewhere. "Mischief managed," he said to the map, and it was yet again, a worn piece of parchment.

"So those were the words!" he exclaimed, startling Harry so he jumped.

"Sorry," Dumbledore said, grinning. Fawkes flew and adjusted himself on Harry shoulder, softly pecking at his ear.

"I swear," Dumbledore was saying, "I've tried to reason with that man about Grawp, was it? But he just won't give it up. It's like the only classifications for him and his animals is 'cute' and 'cuddly'" Harry looked in the direction that Dumbledore was looking, at the Gamekeeper's Hut, where the lights were still on, though it was about five in the morning. Harry thought, did anyone sleep at Hogwarts at all? He knew Ron would be in bed about now and felt unbelievably sleepy, but what did Dumbledore do all night?

"Pardon me, but do you sleep, sir?" Harry impulsively voiced his thoughts, yawning.

"Well, yes, but like you, lately, I've been afraid of my dreams." Fawkes clicked its tongue in its birdish manner.

"The one I had last night was really interesting. Voldemort had somehow managed to enlist Percy Weasley and use all the muggle secrets that he'd had instilled in him by his father, you see, and he'd had Percy conjure up this army of muggle stationary: live, evil looking pens and notepads and the like, to come 'erase my beard, and sharpen my pencil' and I'm very fond of my beard. Not my pencil quite so much, but my beard is very dear to me," he looked at Harry very seriously at this, and Harry nodded, also trying to look grim, but soon breaking helplessly out into sniggers at the mere thought of a beardless Dumbledore running from The Pencil Militia.

"And now I can't stand the notion of going to bed because I thought maybe Percy was controlling my mind, and after what happened to you, I'm terribly afraid I'm going to lose my poor beard," Dumbledore complained gravely, his face completely serious, despite Harry's rolling on the floor in uncontrollable mirth.

When Harry calmed down, and he recognized what Dumbledore was actually doing, Fawkes hooted consolingly from his perch where he'd retreated when he had fallen off his chair. Harry noted how sleepy he really was, but he'd just been so afraid--afraid for Poor Voldemort and his crazy father. He looked at Dumbledore, smiling grimly back at him, and realized that it had all been an apology; an attempt to cheer him up. And Harry thought all the while that Dumbledore had been a mad old fool, but he was almost inhumanly wise.

"Go have some Breakfast in the Kitchens, Harry, and get some sleeping draught for the week, and some Pepper-Up from Madam Pomfrey on your way to Potions," Dumbledore suggested.

"Yes sir," Harry said, "Thank you."

"Of course," said Dumbledore warmly, "Don't forget Occlumency lessons this evening. I have some business at Headquarters with...er...the Lovegoods, who are offering an army of Heliopaths in exchange for an inside look of the Order so I won't be able to teach you myself," he gave Harry an apologetic look from the top of his half-moon glasses.

Harry nodded, yawning and stumbling out of Dumbledore's office.

Insomniacs were the oddest bunch in the world.