Author's note: Thank you, Miriam. As always. :)

Chapter 29: Absent-minded Eyes

Everywhere I look I see her smile, her absent-minded eyes
And she has kept me wondering for so long how this thing could go wrong
It seems to me that we are both the same, playing the same game
But as darkness falls this true love falls apart into a riddle of her heart
She's so vulnerable, like china in my hands
She's so vulnerable and I don't understand.
I could never hurt the one I love; she's all I've got.
But she's so vulnerable

—Roxette: Vulnerable

"What is it all about?" Ginny asked. "Who was… killed?"

"It doesn't say. Not yet," Seamus said.

"We'll learn soon enough, Gin. No use worrying about it unless we have a reason for it," Ron told Ginny.

"Ron's right. Don't worry, love," Harry joined in.

"Have some orange juice. It'll make you feel better," Hermione said.

"I lost my appetite," Ginny muttered.

"Virginia Weasley—."

"I've got to write to Mum," Ginny said quickly, before Ron could launch into his 'big-brother-tirade'. "See you later." And off she went.

Ron shrugged. "That's what Ginny does. When concerned about something, write to Mum."

~*~*~

Potions lessons were rather enjoyable now. Snape had stopped favouring the Slytherins all too obviously and even found it in himself to say some almost kind words to Neville who actually managed to brew a halfway acceptable ("the orange is still too yellowish—but nonetheless…") Wit-sharpening Potion (The Extra-Sharp Version) all by himself. Hermione had been glancing in Neville's direction all the time, but everything went smoothly without her having to interfere.

Professor Ravon must really have a good influence on the man. He hadn't so much as sneered. Harry also noticed—and was very amused at that—that Snape seemed to have actually washed his hair again. He seemed to do that regularly now. Definitely quite in love, the man.

"Colour's alright," Snape said, pouring a bit of Harry's potion onto a small plate and examining it closely. "Could use a tiny bit more of armadillo bile, though."

That was the moment when Harry thought he was really in the wrong movie. A potion he had made was actually 'alright.' And to hear that out of Snape's mouth… It sounded unreal. But the expression on Ron's face and Hermione's broad grin and wink confirmed that Harry had not imagined this lesson. If that hadn't done it already, then Draco Malfoy's scowl would have…

When the lesson was over, Snape swept back into his office like an overgrown bat would return to its lair—after having given them a bit of homework. Not nearly as much as he had been wont to do.

"Professor Ravon seems to have worked a miracle," Hermione grinned as they made their way out of the room. "Who would have thought a Potions lesson would end without Gryffindor having fewer points afterwards?"

"Creepy, that is," Ron said. "I know I already said this once, but what happened to the real Snape?"

"Has it ever occurred to you that this might be the real Snape?" Hermione said, pretty amused.

"Well, now that he doesn't have to keep on pretending the Death Eater anymore…" Harry pointed out. "And maybe Professor Ravon has given him a good talking-to. They hadn't been talking to each other for quite some time, remember? And then they had been bickering and then… Actually reminds me a bit of the two of you." Harry curiously awaited Ron and Hermione's reactions…

"Oh, come on!" Ron began. "You can hardly—."

"I'm going to be sick!" Harry should have known better than to think Malfoy would keep his mouth shut. "The bloody traitor…"

Could it be that Malfoy wasn't very creative? Or was he—in a case like this—just lacking the fitting vocabulary?

"Can't bear to see someone being happy, can you, Malfoy?"

"Sucking up to Snape now, are we?" he drawled, Crabbe and Goyle positioned in their usual places, slightly behind Malfoy to his right and left.

"No sucking up needed here, thank you very much. Snape's happy, we're happy, even Neville's happy, and that after Double Potions," Ron said.

"Yeah, Snape actually being happy. Ravon must be a bloody great f—."

"Ten points off Slytherin!" Ron and Hermione said immediately, looking at each other, surprised that the respective other person had the same idea.

"You can't—."

Ron looked smug. "Of course, I can. I'm Head Boy. Although my decision must be confirmed by a teacher if the… er…"

"…culprit should object," Hermione finished. "Just for your information, Malfoy, you just lost twenty points. Which teacher will it be? Snape, McGonagall, Dumbledore or even Ravon?"

"Ah, yes, I think it would be best to see Snape on that matter," Harry said mock-thoughtfully. "As your Head of House… Would you like to go to him now or rather later and explain why you had points taken away? I'd love to walk you to his office, really."

"Me too. I'd even wait for you to come back out—if you come out again," Ron said gleefully.

"You're so going to regret this," he said.

Crabbe and Goyle did nothing. Apparently, they were intelligent enough not to make their house lose even more points. Intelligent! Harry could hardly believe that he thought of that word in combination with those two thickheads.

"I don't think so. You never made me regret anything concerning you."

"Well, you have a large family. Too large for my taste, and much too Muggle-loving in the Dark Lord's opinion…" he trailed off and swept past a stunned Ron, a shocked Hermione, and a Harry whose thoughts had automatically landed on Ginny.

"Don't tell Ginny what he said," Harry whispered. "She's anxious and scared as it is."

"Oh, dear, I just hope everything's alright at home."

"I agree. We shouldn't let Ginny know about this incident. She wouldn't be able to grasp a single clear thought if we did. And that when she's supposed to prepare for her exams."

~*~*~

At lunch the same day, an eagle owl swept through the Great Hall and delivered a letter to Pansy Parkinson. It was a black-rimmed letter. With trembling hands, she took it off the owl's leg and simply stared at it for a few moments, while the owl, having fulfilled its task, soared away.

Pansy swallowed hard and then broke the seal and opened the envelope. Hands shaking and a fearful expression on her face, she removed the parchment from the envelope and slowly unfolded it.

She had hardly read it when her face crumpled, and she jumped up and ran out of the Great Hall as fast as she could, before her sobs could be heard all too clearly.

"Now they're already attacking and killing Slytherins! I'd never have thought they'd kill their own kind," Ron said helpfully.

Ginny had become white as a wall.

~*~*~

Pansy Parkinson was sitting in the back row, her eyes red-rimmed, cheeks tearstained, strands of her reddish-blond hair clinging to her face, and sniffing. Two of her friends were trying to soothe her, stroking her back and patting her shoulder. Some other students, Gryffindors and Slytherins alike, were throwing pitiful glances at her.

"Miss Parkinson?" Professor Ravon asked in a hushed voice, approaching the crying girl slowly so as not to startle her. "It is not necessary for you to be here right now. Perhaps you would like to spend some time in the infirmary? Madam Pomfrey would surely take good care of you." And in a very quiet and sad voice she added, "Merlin knows she has much practice in those things…"

"That's what happens to traitors," Draco Malfoy drawled, sneering at the two of them—Harry couldn't determine whether his words were directed at Pansy or Professor Ravon. However, he suspected the latter. "Soon you won't have to worry about anything anymore."

The girl started crying openly now and buried her face in her hands.

Professor Ravon glared at Malfoy for several long moments with this now—strange at it was, but somehow, to Harry, it looked right—completely green eyes of hers, but did not reply to this. He wondered if anyone else had noticed the difference.

Instead of gracing Malfoy's taunt with a reply (but clearly seething with anger, as the air seemed to prickle with magic), she gently put her arm around Pansy and pulled her to her feet, one of her gloved hands gently stroking the girl's back. (Harry made a mental note about the fact that the Professor was suddenly wearing gloves, when she had never done so under normal circumstances.) "Come with me, Miss Parkinson. I'll take you to Madam Pomfrey… And you," she said deadly quietly, once more turning around on her way out and scanning the classroom, "you stay where you are and be quiet if you know what's good for you!" But even though she spoke softly, her voice could be heard clearly throughout the entire classroom. She might as well have screamed them.

"Let's go, Miss Parkinson," she continued much more gently. "Come on. No need to hurry. Take your time." She carefully steered the crying girl out through the doorway, leaving the door open so that, perhaps, she would hear if something was going on for some time after she'd left the room and on her way back. Maybe Filch was sneaking around in the corridor, too…

Harry suspected that her words had been a warning—especially for Malfoy—not to gloat about the sadness and misery of a girl who had just lost her parents. And although Harry had never exactly liked Pansy very much, he felt for her.

Malfoy, however, seemed unaffected by Ravon's warning. He sneered as evilly as ever, turning to some of his fellow Slytherins and speaking in a hushed voice.

Harry noticed that the Slytherins had divided; Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott and Millicent Bulstrode were huddled together around a table, while Blaise Zabini, Morag McDougal and two more Slytherins—Harry just couldn't remember their names—stood around the desk Pansy had been sitting at only minutes ago. They all were deep in conversation.

Harry exchanged glances with Ron and Hermione. "What was that?"

"Can't be a good sign when Malfoy starts uttering threats openly in front of a teacher."

"I wouldn't want to be you the moment she comes back if you paid me a million Galleons, Malfoy!" Ron shouted over to where Malfoy was.

"You'd faint dead if you ever saw that much money, Weasley," Malfoy retorted.

"Seems like this time you've gone too far," Zabini threw in.

"If she'd looked at me like she looked at you, all that would be left of me would be a puddle on the floor," Neville said.

"One more word and you will be a puddle on the floor, Longbottom."

"Should have watched your mouth, Malfoy," Dean said casually. "Oh, that I lived the day to see you squirm under someone's gaze…"

"And the gaze of someone who's so much smaller than you," Parvati said.

"Not that much," Lavender said.

"She's so cool," Seamus whispered, amazed.

"What's that? You're actually defending this thing? Are you deaf, blind or just plain stupid? She is his daughter, for heaven's sake! Do you really think she wouldn't join him when he is in her blood?" Malfoy said, still sneering.

"Why, now he's a Death Eater and doesn't know a thing."

"Sooner or later she'll realize to whom she belongs to and will ask for forgiveness."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Malfoy. You haven't seen what I saw. If you had, you'd know perfectly well that Voldemort himself made her turn away from him. You only know what your father told you, isn't that so?" Harry said angrily.

"Yeah, I wonder which parts he left out," Ron muttered.

"I'd be careful if I were you. The next time she sees Voldemort she might just give back what he did to her. And when this happens—when, not if—you'll be in a lot of trouble."

"Right," Malfoy drawled. "And how did you come to the realization that it will be this way?"

"The prophecy," Harry continued, having stood up and walked towards the other boy, ignoring that Malfoy had interrupted him. "Voldemort," Harry noticed with glee that—despite everything—Malfoy actually winced at the mentioning of the Dark Lord's name, "will fall; there's no doubt about that. The question is only when this will happen. And I believe she'll have her say in this."

"So you actually think she'll turn against her own father?" Malfoy spoke at almost the same time that Harry had spoken.

"She already has, I might think. Not everyone acts like you, Malfoy," Hermione said.

"You've got to be kidding. She is your natural enemy, Potter."

"No matter who she is, she is Voldemort's enemy. And that makes her my best friend." Ron coughed. "No offence, Ron," Harry added quickly.

"None taken," Ron grinned. "So, Malfoy, what's it like awaiting… say, twelve years of scrubbing the trophy room?"

"Shut up, Weasley."

"You had better have kept your mouth shut earlier, I'd say. Ravon will give you detention, there's not doubt about that." Harry could tell Ron was enjoying this immensely. It was not often that he had one over Malfoy—having been made Head Boy, however, had its advantages—and Harry, too, had to admit that it felt great.

"Soon she'll wish she had never crossed the path of a Malfoy," Malfoy snarled.

"She already does, Mr. Malfoy," a familiar voice said. Professor Ravon had returned, having seemingly appeared out of nowhere. She looked a bit flushed. She must have run—or perhaps she had transformed into her Animagus form (although Harry didn't know what kind of animal she was. He had simply forgotten to enquire any further. Hermione must know. But it didn't really matter.) That would explain how fast and unexpectedly she had returned.

"I have just spoken to the Headmaster," she went on. "You will be suspended from Defence Against the Dark Arts for the remainder of the month and you will keep your distance from Miss Parkinson. You won't touch her; you won't talk to her; you won't even look at her the wrong way. Do I make myself perfectly clear? If anything otherwise reaches the ears of any Professor in this castle, you'll be on top of the list."

"You can't do this. You can't suspend me. Exams are coming up," Malfoy replied, his voice not quite as steady as it had been earlier that lesson.

"Oh, indeed they are," Professor Ravon agreed in a sickeningly sweet voice. "I am sure you of all people can do without my teaching you. However, if you think you ought to know about the content of the lessons you are going to miss, you surely have friends who'd let you borrow their notes, don't you?"

"You're going to regret this."

"Be careful, Mr. Malfoy. You don't want me as your enemy…" she whispered deadly calmly. Harry had a sudden déjà-vu of Snape speaking to Quirrell quite some time ago… Perhaps, you had to have seen some things in your life to be able to sound like that. Harry wondered what things exactly that could be, which feelings could make you sound like that if necessary? Hate? No, that didn't seem the right one. How about fear? Fear. And accepting that fear, harbouring it until it turned into something else… What a strange thought. To what would fear turn if you harboured it carefully? Deadly calm? Calmness despite fury? And she was furious; one could see it in her face. Her fury was all around her. But she didn't give in to it.

Then she added, almost inaudibly, her lips barely moving, "Watch your back. I know many things… about you…"

At that, Malfoy blanched slightly if that was possible being as light-skinned as he was. He had obviously noticed—as well as Harry had—that Professor Ravon had quoted what he'd said quite some time ago, when the inkbottle had exploded in his face. And she had given a perfect imitation of his tone of voice, too. In addition to that, her eyes slithered over his left forearm. The Dark Mark. And she didn't even bother to do that inconspicuously. No, even her eyes said, 'I know.' Harry could tell she enjoyed giving Malfoy, the spoilt Death Eater brat, a taste of his own medicine.

"Now if you would please leave my classroom and see Professor Sprout for your detention?" she asked, sneering at him in a way that reminded Harry strongly of the way that Snape had been sneering at him quite often in the past. "I hear the Venomous Tentaculas are teething…"

"You're so going to regret this. Once I tell my father—."

"Get out of my classroom!"

Malfoy strode out of the room with as much dignity as he could muster, not closing the door behind him. That, however, was no problem since Professor Ravon only made a small movement with her hand, as though she were chasing a fly away, and the door slammed shut.

"Right then, now that we settled this unpleasant business," she exhaled deeply, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "let's—finally—start the lesson. Today's subject: The Lethifold—another one of those particularly nasty creatures you had better know how to deal with…"

~*~*~

During the rest of the week, Ginny had been very anxious and very pale. The recent Death Eater raid worried her visibly.

Ron, Harry and Hermione hadn't told her about what Malfoy had said, just as they had decided, but instead tried to reassure her and be around her as much as possible to distract her from thinking about those things. However, that hadn't been a very successful mission since they really needed to be in the library and revise or practice some spells in empty classrooms—without stumbling accidentally over Professors Ravon and Snape (although not literally.) But somehow the few occasions when Ginny had only seen them walking down the corridor, she had to bite back obvious giggles. Those occasions and some others—the ones when she sneaked off with Harry and they went on the lookout for an undisturbed place (and it was hard to find one these days because everyone needed rooms to do some practising… Spells. Practising spells).

And of course, there was Quidditch. Every day, Harry called the team together. Every evening, they practiced. No matter what, the Slytherins would not get their filthy Death Eater hands on the cup. No way. Period.

During those hours, Ginny was almost back to normal. As soon as practice would be over, she'd slip back into her solemnity.

But other than during said moments, she was so distressed and distracted by the thought that something awful might have happened to a member of her family, that she couldn't even properly concentrate on her homework. At times, she simply sat at the window, probably scanning the sky for an owl to deliver the letter she'd been longing for since the day—the hour, the very minute—she'd sent it…

It wasn't until Friday that she received an answer to her letter. For reasons of safety, the names of the wounded people hadn't been published. There were only news of some other people dying of their injuries—and that was a rare thing in the wizarding world, as Harry learnt. Bones could be re-grown; limbs could be replaced in most cases, people who, in the Muggle world, would have died of the sheer loss of blood could be saved so very easily. That was by most of the students thought to be the most horrifying thing of all. Be wounded so severely that you didn't die quickly but instead slowly, in a hospital bed, every mediwizard trying to heal you but failing because of injuries whose description made Harry imagine terrible visions of torn and devastated dead bodies piled up in heaps.

One night, Ginny had even sneaked into the boys' dormitory and woken Harry because she had had a dream so terrible that she'd jerked awake gasping and crying, and had to stifle her sobs quickly so as not to wake up her dorm-mates. Harry had walked down into the common room with her and sat with her on the hearthrug in front of the fireplace where she had, still in tears, confided in him that she'd seen things that equalled Harry's imaginations in her nightmare. But unlike Harry, she'd envisioned the people all with red hair. They wore the faces of her brothers and parents and many more relatives of hers whom Harry hadn't even met yet.

That was above all wearing on her. After all, she had a very great family. And many of them were working in positions where they were likely targets—and 'too Muggle-loving' as Malfoy had so eloquently pointed out.

Sirius hadn't answered to the letter Harry had finally decided to write either.

But now she finally had received an answer.

After she'd read the letter—she all but rushed through it—she closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. Then, she glanced at Harry and the others, who were watching her intently, gave a small smile and read it aloud,

Dear Ronald and Virginia,

Mum told me about your letter, Ginny. She suggested I write to you directly for she had been out of her mind when she read the Daily Prophet and supposed she would have made you even more anxious than your letter indicated you are already.

By now, you may—or not—have received news already that some of us—that is Fred and Bill and me--were injured during said Death Eater raid. George and Charlie were lucky. They got out of it unscathed. In retrospect, we were all quite lucky to have survived. They were using curses that wounded you incurably, terrible, terrible inventions. I can still see the faces of the Parkinsons when they realized they had been discovered by the Dark Lord------No. I should stop right there. Especially for your young and innocent eyes and ears, this is nothing you should read or listen to, Ginny.

But do not worry (this means especially you, Ginny). We all are recovering very quickly from relatively insignificant injuries considering the fact that—well, you can imagine what you don't already know that happened. There's no need to repeat it, is there? In fact, Fred and Bill were just released and are returning home as I write this. They'll stay there for a while until they're called again. I, too, will soon join them. Mum will be happy to be able to pamper us for a while. She already threatened us she'd never let us leave the house again…

"The Dark Lord will never get his hands on a Weasley!" Mum vowed. You know she can sound very convincing when she's angry and worried at the same time…

What I actually want to say is that I love you (Yes, even you, Ron) and if everything goes well I'll be released in a couple of days to resume my work in the Ministry, which—as you may have noticed by now—does not only consist of reports about cauldron sizes and the decreasing efficacy of—. But I digress. I think I need not say any more, except that I've been thinking very much about my family recently.

What do you think of this? Should I ask Penny to marry me? It's about high time, I daresay. I think I will do that as soon as I'm up and about again. I may not be exactly the kind of guy to be considered as romantic but I don't perceive of it as very romantic if I asked her in a letter, don't you think?

Ron is probably moaning with disgust now. Let me tell you this, my dear brother, you might be in for it, too, and sooner than you might think…

So now that I've given you something else to occupy your minds with, you needn't worry about me.

Your brother

Percy Llewellyn Weasley

PS: You might want to inform Harry that Mr Black is fine. He received the letter Harry wrote but can't write back for reasons that are top secret (meaning that 'Snuffles' is on a mission).

"Oh my god!" Ron exclaimed while Harry breathed a small sigh of relief that Sirius was fine. Ginny's anxiousness had been starting to rub off on him.

"Oh, yes," Ginny said, her eyes wide. "He could've been killed!"

"No, not that! He's getting married! I don't believe it!"

~*~*~

"Sariss?" Severus pushed the door to her office open. They had agreed to meet at dinner in the Great Hall. She hadn't come. "Sariss, are you—"

Yes, she was there. She stood at the window, looking out over the Quidditch pitch.

"I've been waiting for you," he said.

She didn't even turn around.

"What's wrong, love?" he said softly, approaching her and gently placing his hands on her upper arms. She didn't move a muscle.

"Sariss, what happened? Please say something. Look at me."

He turned her around, taking her face in his hands, seeking her gaze. Her eyes were distant. They were open but she wasn't looking at the outside world. She was lost in her own thoughts.

"Sariss, he's not here," Severus said. "He's not here. But I am. Please." He pressed his lips against her forehead. She was freezing.

"Severus?" She blinked in surprise. "How… I said I'd be seeing you for dinner tonight…"

He merely looked at her.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Half past seven."

"What? That's not possible. You're having me on."

"I'm not."

"But I still had plenty of time when I had finished clearing my desk…" She shook her head.

Severus felt inclined to sound light-hearted. "Maybe you got lost in your own thoughts and forgot the time about it."

"Yes, maybe—although I don't quite remember what I was thinking about."

"Maybe you were dreaming with your eyes open."

"I'm always dreaming in some way or other." Her face was screwed up in concentration as though she tried to recall the last hour. "I can't believe I drifted off like that," she muttered. "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. It's as if I'd lost time."

"What do you mean?"

"It's as if you just sat there, thinking about—nothing… and you snap your fingers—" She did so. "—and then it's an hour later. Weird." She looked at him. "You were worried about me, right? I'm sorry. Don't be worried. I'm fine. It's nothing."

"I don't believe you."

"Why?" she asked.

"I'm not blind. You're not fine. You need more sleep. I have no idea how much magic you use to appear perfectly fine. But I simply know that your recent way of life is taking its toll on you."

"What do you want to do about it? Slip a Sleeping Draught into my goblet?" She forced a painful smile. Her play-acting grew less and less convincing with every second that passed.

"Sariss," he sighed. "I'm not commanding you to tell me what's on your mind. It's your business. I'm also not commanding you to have your nightmares. But even when you had them every night, you were more relaxed." He took her by the wrist. Her hand shook, and she noticed and tried to suppress it. "See? That trembling wasn't there a month ago. Why is it there now, what do you think?"

She looked like a fawn caught in the flashlights of a car.

"Why do you think it's there?" He forced her to look him in the eyes. They looked dull and tired. She blinked too often.

She squirmed under his scrutinizing gaze. "I'm afraid," she said finally, after a very long time.

"You are what?" he breathed.

"I'm afraid of closing my eyes. Afraid that he won't let me wake up."

"It's only a dream," Severus said.

"But I can't do anything about it. I'm dying in it. When I wake up—before I realize that it was a dream—I fully expect to be hurting all over and be soaked in my own blood."

Images flashed before his inner eye.

He was horrified. "It's only a dream," he repeated mechanically.

"I hate him," she whispered. "I hate him."

"Sariss…"

"He's my father and I hate him. I hate my father. My own father," she said softly, sounding slightly incredulous. "The Dark Lord is my father and he turned me into a monster, unable to sleep, unable to live, afraid to die and yet wanting to… I am evil. I must be."

"Don't say those things. You're not."

"I am my father's daughter. I am evil. I am a monster."

"No." Severus cupped her face again, almost violently running his thumbs over her cheeks. "No. You're not a monster. You're not evil."

"But it's inside me—."

"You're not evil and you're not monstrous in any way."

"Do you like making love to me?"

"What?" he asked, startled.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes, of course. If I didn't, I wouldn't. But it also scares me a bit, I must admit, because you're so strong, so different from any other woman I've known."

"Yes, I am. I could kill you right at the spot, you know? All your strength wouldn't be of any use to you…"

"Why don't you?" he asked gently.

"I don't want to."

"Listen. Everything can be used for good and for evil. It's in our hands to decide that. You made that decision."

"Did I?" She looked him in the eyes now. Her gaze was focused, piercing, like steel. Her lips were pressed tightly together.

"Yes, because you're strong in mind. That was what I actually meant."

For a moment, she did look evil. Her face half in shadow, her eyes blazing, she looked cold and calculating. It was as if he could see her in an alternate reality, in which she had been raised to be her father's Angel of Death. He looked away. His hair stood on end. The magic poured out of her again.

"Sariss?" he asked, wary.

"I never wanted to be strong. I was forced into all of this. I only had two options. Give myself to Darkness and end up by his side anyway. Or fight it and end up… like I'm now. No, there's a third option that's out of the question now anyway. I think it would have been better if I had never fought at all. I should never have lived. So many people would live, if I hadn't."

She was being completely irrational today. "You're not saying anything I haven't heard before. What the hell is wrong with you today so you're being like that?" But as soon as he'd spoken the words, he regretted them.

She was shivering again; her deathly-pale cheeks stained with patches of salt. He hadn't noticed that before. Maybe he had been too preoccupied with her eyes. When he looked into them, there seemed to be nothing else. Now that she'd closed them, her face wasn't overshadowed by that feature anymore.

"What's wrong today? Tell me," he said much more gently. "At breakfast, you were subdued. At lunch you hardly spoke."

She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling.

"Are you… pregnant?" he chanced, not knowing what he'd say or do if she said yes. It seemed that no Snape had ever been a good father.

She shook her head. A disbelieving look flitted across her face for a mere moment.

"So that's not it. Do you want me to go on guessing? See what wild things I can come up with?" He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. She always smiled when he did that. Not now.

It was as if she asked him to help her with her whole being. Her teeth were biting down on her lower lip—not seductively, as he was almost used to by now, no, but viciously. It seemed her hands were moving to reach out for him but then withdrew. Instead, her left hand clutched her necklace in a fist, her right hand clutching it cruelly, as if she wanted to hold back something unspeakable. Her necklace…

His brain put two and two together and finally got four.

Now he saw what was wrong with her. "Oh no," he sighed. "Has it happened on this date?"

She nodded almost imperceptibly. Her eyes were tightly shut. Her knuckles had turned bone-white.

"Hurting yourself won't accomplish anything," he said, placing his hands around hers. At first he'd wanted to say, It won't bring them back. But that was why she suffered. Because nothing would bring her best friends back. And she kept blaming herself for their deaths. One year ago. And she hadn't even left the castle to be with them for a few moments. For weeks she hadn't left the castle, he realized.

Because she was afraid.

She always looked so small when she was shaken. She always looked lost.

How come she never shared those things with anyone? She should know by now that the new and (maybe) improved Severus Snape, the Severus that smiled and loved, would listen, would comfort her, would talk to her, hold her, let her cry on his shoulder.

He tried to ease her hands apart. No use. "Stop it, come on, your pain won't make anything undone. It's not in your hands."

For a moment, she gasped for air and then said, "I swear to you, at first I didn't believe them a word when they told me whom we'd lost. I laughed. I thought it an incredible joke. They were unbeatable when they were together. How could they be—And then I saw them… Oh, god, I can't…"

She made for the door.

Severus caught her.

"I think I must be alone…" she began.

"Do you need to visit them? I'd come with you if you…" She needn't know that he'd been keeping an eye on her during her journeys there. "I'd keep watch."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "You would? Yes. Yes, I need to."

"You could have asked me or Dumbledore or anyone to accompany you, you know?" he said, kissing her forehead. "It would have been much easier if you'd simply said what was going on today. Why do you still keep your pain to yourself?"

She sniffed softly. "I don't want to be more of a burden than—"

"And I want to be burdened. But I'd appreciate it if you really stopped keeping things that bother you from me."

"They're none of your concern," she blocked.

"You're my concern. They're my concern," Severus said firmly. "So, do you want to go see them now?"

She nodded.

"We'd better not use broomsticks. They can be tracked too easily."

"Apparation traces are also tracked too easily." The Auror in her was taking over. Good. Her brain worked on a problem. It took her mind off how she actually felt. "Which leaves one option. We'll fly there with our own wings."

With that, they left.

Hours later, they returned. Sariss seemed to be feeling better. Severus felt worse than ever before.

He'd merely been standing there, keeping watch—at a short distance so as to give her the necessary privacy—while Sariss had dropped to her knees, her hands running over the plate that bore the names Aurora D. Shade and Rick E. Allen—and an inscription underneath:

'FRIENDS.

BURYING IS EASIER THAN FORGETTING…'

Truer words were never carved in stone, Severus had thought when he'd read them.

"Your idea?" he'd asked, his voice only a whisper, when she'd run her hands over the stone in greeting, her tears dripping down on it, glittering in the moonlight. He'd known the answer. Nothing was more like her than that thought.

She'd nodded and whispered a very soft "Yes."

After that no more words had been spoken. But her body had been speaking for her all the time; every movement, every tear, every breath, spoke volumes.

She'd seemed oblivious to his presence. He could have left without her even realizing it.

After a very long time, when he'd noticed that she'd merely been sitting there, not crying anymore, not even moving, only staring at the headstone, he'd bent down, put his arms around her, and had pulled her to her feet. He'd decided that it had to be enough. He'd made her decision for her. She hadn't objected when he'd suggested, "We should go now. It's getting late," meaning 'We must leave. It's not safe to stay here for such a long time.'

"We can Apparate into Hogsmeade now," she'd said in a small, sad voice, "and then fly only a short distance. I don't feel like flying all the way."

Severus had nodded. If they left any Apparition traces on their way back, it wouldn't prove a risk. They'd already be at Hogwarts—or at least past the wards—and protected if someone had followed them without Sariss realizing it. She would have felt them, surely.

"We can walk from there if you'd prefer that." Severus had never before felt so much in the wrong place as he'd felt during the time Sariss had sat at her friends' grave. And when he'd pulled her up, he could feel the exhaustion in her, the exhaustion that only desperate tears gave rise to. Where had been that fierce Auror, the patient interrogator, the stubborn woman who had stood up against him, yelled at him, made love to him?

The Sariss he'd looked in the face at that moment hadn't seemed to be any of those things.

"No, I want to get home as quickly as possible at all," she'd breathed, hugging herself.

Home. Hogwarts has always been her home. True. But now it's not merely her home anymore. It has become her haven.

As soon as they'd been back at Hogwarts, she'd said "Good night" and left for her rooms. She hadn't even kissed him goodnight. She'd always kissed him goodnight. Not that night.

Severus still thought about those strange hours when he went to bed—alone—and willed himself to fall asleep. However, he felt he hadn't been sleeping very long nor very deep when he awoke. He thought he'd heard a noise.

There was another one. And another. Light footsteps and the rustle of something that reminded him of a quite familiar satin nightgown.

"Sariss?" was his first thought, and he voiced it.

"Yes," came her whispering voice. Her clothes made a rustling sound as she took off her dressing gown and slipped out of her shoes.

Another set of soft rustles indicated that she was moving towards him.

He felt the covers drawn back from him, felt her climb into his bed and draw the covers back up. Her arm slid around him as the cool silk of her nightgown and her cold body made contact with his back and she kissed his shoulder, snuggling into him, her little hand splayed against his chest.

He turned around and drew her into his arms. Wordlessly.

~*~*~

The Gryffindor team had been practicing almost excessively during the last weeks so as not to lose the cup to Slytherin in this last game. Harry felt his entire life consisted of practising Quidditch and preparing for the N.E.W.Ts. They needed to win by at least one hundred and fifty points, since Slytherin had all but flattened Ravenclaw.

"This is Quidditch! Welcome to this year's last game of Quidditch! It's Gryffindor versus Slytherin!"

The two teams rose up in the air as their names were called. Madam Hooch released first the Snitch—it disappeared immediately—and then she threw the Quaffle in the air to be caught by one of the Chasers. The two Bludgers swished over the pitch on the lookout for an unaware player.

Harry had immediately risen high in the air and slowly circled the pitch, his eyes scanning for the Snitch—when he wasn't colliding with Malfoy, that is.

"Ouch! Stop that, Malfoy!"

"Keep out of my way, Scarface!"

Madam Hooch's whistle ended their row before it had really begun. "Penalty shot for Gryffindor, Mr Malfoy. You know why."

Within seconds, Ginny had gotten hold of the Quaffle and sent it through one of the Slytherin goal's hoops.

She paid dearly for it. She was hit by a Bludger when she successfully avoided being hit by the other one. But that didn't stop her from scoring again.

Harry turned his attention back on looking for the Snitch, systematically circling the pitch. One moment he thought he saw a golden glint but it was gone again after a second—because Malfoy had blocked him by slamming into him once more. It resulted in another penalty shot.

It went on like that for minutes on end. Every time Harry thought he saw the Snitch, Malfoy prevented him from going after it.

Soon Gryffindor was eighty points in the lead. Then ninety. Then—.

"He slammed into Weasley, that pompous a—!"

"Hold it right there, Mr Cauldwell!" McGonagall admonished him.

"Sorry. As I was saying, Malfoy, that ahem censored—alright with you, Professor?—he slammed into Ginny Weasley, girlfriend of Harry P—."

"If you wouldn't mind to concentrate on the game?"

"Alright, alright. Professor. Just giving a bit of background information."

McGonagall sighed loudly. "I should never have let Jordan take you under his wings…"

"Bastard!" Harry hissed and flew towards Ginny who could hardly stay on her broomstick. "Gin? I'll call a time-out, alright?"

She shook her head. "No, no, I'll be fine in a moment. You go and catch the Snitch. They can still beat us if Malfoy catches it now."

Harry nodded. "Alright, but you'll see Madam Pomfrey straight after the game. You've taken enough Bludgers to last you a decade."

"Okay."

And Harry swerved away, eyes darting from left to right and up and down, frantically looking for the Snitch to catch it before Ginny would fall off her broom, hit by another Bludger.

The stands erupted in cheers when Ron made a spectacular save. Although Harry hadn't been watching him, he had a vivid image of it, painted in lively colours by Owen Cauldwell, who did a job that rivalled Lee Jordan's by now. He was getting the hang of it…

~*~*~

Sariss winced when Malfoy slammed into Harry Potter for the umpteenth time. It looked like it hurt and it didn't do Slytherin any good either. Gryffindor was awarded penalty shots constantly.

"Is it just me or was foul play done a bit more subtly when I was a student?"

"I must admit," Severus said, "Mr Malfoy is particularly aggressive today."

"No wonder Slytherin hasn't won against Gryffindor for—well, this year included—six… seven years, is it? Look at that. Potter is having the time of his life when on a broomstick, while Malfoy's goal is winning at all costs."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is when you, like him, want to win not only for the sake of winning itself, but for the sake of defeating your enemy. He wants to defeat Potter; he doesn't care about Quidditch. He doesn't enjoy it. To him it is a battle."

"Then he wants to win a battle. It's not that much different from a game, is it?"

"If your thoughts are clouded by other things that are on your mind. He's not concentrating on the game. Only on Potter," Sariss said. "He wants everything for himself, not for the team, not for his house. He only wants to beat Potter. Nothing else. That's why he's fouling him all the time. If he cannot beat him in the game itself, he wants to beat him physically—which he, aside from when they're on the pitch, can't do without being severely punished."

"So you think he's compensating? Maybe. But the thing is, by being close to him he's not giving Potter the chance to go after the Snitch without him, too, knowing where it is. He'll go after the Snitch as soon as Potter makes an attempt at reaching it. You should know his strategy by now."

"He'll smash headlong into the ground if he does that," Sariss said casually. "Potter's very good at performing the Wronski Feint. You should know that by now…"

And as though the boy had heard her speak, he pulled of a—as even Severus had to admit—rather spectacular Wronski Feint—and as Sariss had just predicted, Malfoy tore after him and into the ground.

"Very well. I bow my head before the expert. You, that is."

She didn't answer. Wasn't she supposed to smile at him now? But she did neither smile nor speak.

Indeed, she didn't speak for several long minutes. She only stared at the game, but if she really followed it was an entirely different matter.

Once again, she seemed to be daydreaming—or rather day-nightmaring or day-remembering as it should be called, in her case.

"Love," he whispered. "Snap out of it. Don't let him drive you insane."

She had those—Severus was almost tempted to call them blackouts—she had those blackouts on a regular basis now. He'd wake up to find her neither in his arms nor next to him but instead standing at the window staring out—in that case, he'd lead her back to bed. She never even so much as resisted when he tucked her in. Then he'd wait for it to pass. And when it did, she'd smile up at him and ask why he looked so worried, if the Dark Mark had twitched or something.

On other occasions, she'd be sitting in an armchair at the fireplace staring into the flames, or having a book on her lap, open, so she looked as though she were reading—without ever turning a page for an hour or so, depending on how long it took her to return. Even Oberon—Severus had been introduced to him one morning when he'd woken him and Sariss up, suspiciously eyeing the Potions master. Sariss called the bird her winged guardian and insisted that he must never be spoken of as it—which Severus had been glad to hear. If she insisted that the bird wasn't her pet, but her friend, it should always be referred to as he. There was some unmistakable logic in it.

Be that as it may, even Oberon had noticed that something was wrong. She hadn't even reacted when the bird had landed on her shoulder and nuzzled her hair with its beak. He'd croaked somewhat disappointedly and then settled on an empty topmost shelf, waiting. Waiting just like Severus had been waiting.

During those moments, she scared him to the bone. She looked so lifeless; she didn't answer when he spoke to her. Never. She'd never spoken a word.

The first time she'd had something remotely like those blackouts, had been when she had told him how she remembered the worst moments in her life. But back then, she had reacted when he'd spoken to her; she had wanted him to hold her, to make her 'feel alive', as she'd said. She had snapped out of the blackout after only a few moments.

Now that was different; they had an eerie resemblance to her dreams, those blackouts. It took her longer to come back every time she went into that state. But she didn't even remember them. Severus feared for her more than he could say. He'd come to actually fear for her sanity as she'd always feared for it herself. He forced himself to spend the time he had with her not in dread of the next blackout but enjoying her presence as much as possible. He didn't have the heart to show her how much he actually feared. He hid it well—or so he thought at least.

"The next time I meet him will be the last," she said, her voice soft and distant. "I'm going to try and kill him as soon as I'm given the opportunity to do so; and I don't care what happens to me."

"Sariss," Severus said, faintly surprised that she spoke at all and thus feeling obliged to answer, "he can't be killed that easily, you should know that. You saw him being vanquished once already and he came back again. Even you won't be strong enough."

"It took two rebounding curses to vanquish him for fourteen years. He even needed help to come back to life. I will see him again. I can smell it in the air, I can feel him in my veins—."

Severus gently took her hand in his. It was totally limp and yielding. Although she wore short gloves that stopped right before her wrists—to hide the scar from curious eyes—the coldness of her skin seeped through the black satin when she had always been somewhat warmer during a Quidditch match. Covered in goose bumps was the patch of skin that was visible of her arm. He ran his fingertips over the visibly throbbing vein of her pulse. It was racing.

"But you fear him, Sariss. Even more than you let on."

"No," she said softly, looking not at him, but watching the game, although her mind was not in it.

"You do. Every time I have to shake you awake, I can see that fear."

"That's why I hate him." She was apparently much more conscious than ever before although she was clearly still far away. "He fills my nights with fear. I fill my days with hate for him."

"Love, if I learnt anything in my life, it's that hate leads to suffering."

"Yes, it does. Too true. To his," she snarled. The expression she wore convinced Severus that Voldemort should indeed fear her. As of yet, he hadn't taken the last steps of what had led to his latent immortality such a long time ago. He had a body. A magical, well-protected, but nonetheless mortal, body. He was powerful, but as of yet not as invincible as he had already been once. Could it be that Sariss already had a plan? Could it be that she was only waiting for the right moment to strike, the way Voldemort had done when he'd sent Lucius Malfoy and Armand Lestrange to capture her in Hogsmeade? Something about her told Severus that it must indeed be so. After all, if everything went as it was destined to be, it would only be a matter of time. Like father, like daughter—and Severus meant it in a good way.

"What are you intending to do about him?" Severus asked, hoping against hope that she'd answer. He knew she wouldn't. All her life, so many secrets had been kept from her, by so many people. Her mother, her father, Dumbledore, Severus… She deserved to have one of her own. This single secret he'd grant her.

"I'm going to kill him," she said as though she were alone, nodding hardly perceptibly, a fierce, determined expression on her face. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But I can wait. I can wait for another seventeen and a half years if necessary."

She had told him more than he would have expected. More than he would have liked to know. He felt sorry already for asking her that question, for using her talkativeness to his advantage—although he had been asking the very same questions, cleverly disguised as general enquiries about how she felt, for quite some time already. For a moment, he actually wondered why she'd never even come close to giving him something that could remotely be called an answer; moreover, why he'd never noticed that she hadn't answered.

Strange…

Yes, she was mad. But no more than anyone else who had gone through a certain amount of suffering, whose glass of suffering had been filled in abundance and overflowed.

It was her very own unique way of madness. The madness one would call obsession.

Sariss was obsessed. Severus had known it for a long time, although not consciously. It was part of her.

She was obsessed with revenge. That, he had always known. And now she had even more reason for it to be so.

She was obsessed with death. She longed for peace and quiet, and to her, peace and quiet meant death—of which she was afraid despite her longing for it. But Severus didn't fear that, as long as she had her thirst for revenge. It kept her alive—along with the third thing she was obsessed with.

Love.

And Severus didn't mean the act of making love in itself. It was much more than just physical contact. It was beyond comparison, beyond description. It was as though she tried to squeeze more hours into the day than it actually had, as though she'd be running out of time any second, trying to compensate for the time they'd lost, or so it seemed. Every word, every look, every touch, even the smallest touch, seemed so important to her. She seemed to use every opportunity to at least brush his hand with hers. When she kissed him, it was passionate; when they made love, it was intense. In fact, it was that, when Severus had begun to think it couldn't get more intense, it did just that. Everything she did, she did with a passion, as though she wanted to force herself to live despite her yearning for peace and thus death. More every passing day. He could feel it. She lived with a vengeance.

Revenge, death, love. Was there any emotion that was as strong as those and the ones connected with them, their counterparts, forgiveness, life, hate? Three of them, she'd given to Severus. She'd forgiven him everything. She'd made his life worth living again. And she'd given him her love. Him, who of all people in the world might be the one to deserve it least—Tom Riddle excepted, of course.

The last one, hate, she reserved solely for her father, who deserved it like no one else. And hate, she did with a passion, too.

She passionately hated Voldemort. And that, too, she did with a vengeance.

Yes, Tom Marvolo Riddle, fear your creation, when the traitor, Severus Snape, doesn't have the slightest reason to fear her—

Only a reason to fear for her because of some of her obsessions… She's going mad, I'm telling you. She told you! You heard it spoken out loud by her very voice numerous times!

"I can wait—."

"POTTER'S GOT THE SNITCH!" Owen Cauldwell's magically amplified voice echoed through the stands, ringing in Severus's ears.

And Sariss jumped slightly as if she had just woken from a deep sleep.

"What a catch! Did you see that? Score's 380 to 200! Gryffindor win the Quidditch Cup!"

"Damn," Severus muttered automatically.

Lost again.

Who cares about a stupid game?

It's not stupid. But… Right. Who cares when there's so much more to life than that?

"What? We lost?" Sariss asked, a bit confused.

"Gryffindor Captain Harry Potter steps forward to accept the Cup!" the Hufflepuff kid shouted. "Well done, Gryffindor! Great match there! Wouldn't let those Slytherins win if…"

"Yes," Severus replied as if she hadn't acted so weird. He'd speak to Dumbledore about her. Maybe he knew a solution; something, anything, that could keep her from living with her body right next to Severus while her mind was far away, remembering—and planning and plotting a murder that would never take place.

"How hard are you intending to take it?" A smile played around her lips. She knew very well that Severus hated losing, no matter what.

"Oh, I think I'm over it," he said, trying to sound casual and unaffected by everything he knew she'd told him whereas she clearly didn't. If only he could squeeze Voldemort out of her head… "After all, there's next year look forward to. Potter as well as Mr Malfoy will be graduating this year and then the deck will be shuffled to deal out new player cards."

"Cards? How come you compare that to a game of cards? Do I detect an infatuation with games in that hidden corner of your soul you reveal to nobody?"

"Games of any kind. But, as you should have realized, I'm not terribly fond of losing."

"Then we'll have to find something to make you feel like a winner again," she said suggestively.

~*~*~

Ron slammed shut Hideously Advanced Charms and Spells. "I'll never learn how to do a proper Colour-changing Charm on a whole room. I don't even grasp the theory. You saw me try in Charms lessons. This is so useless."

"Ron, people are paid to perform them," Hermione said. "You'll save a lot of money if you know how to do them on your own—not to mention that it'll help you pass the N.E.W.Ts."

He groaned in reply and said, "Flitwick'll probably not even mention them when he's testing us."

"I'll show you how to do one," Harry offered, "if you show me a way to remember roundabout five hundred goblin rebellions without mixing up their leaders."

"Okay, deal. Let's do that later. And that Micro-waving Charm Flitwick mentioned last lesson is simply beyond me."

"You should have taken Muggle Studies. It's amazing how that charm is worked into Muggle microwaves so they won't notice that it's magic."

For days on end, they had been sitting in the library every single free second they could find, poring over books about spells, Charms, curses, History, Divination—well, not really, DADA, Transfiguration… And for hours, Harry had been trying to memorize the goblin rebellions. Binns had all but told them that those would be the main part of the N.E.W.Ts. Not for the first time Harry wondered why Binns concentrated on those—in Harry's opinion—minor matters of history, when he could teach them about the Founders or Grindelwald—in essence: something interesting. The man—or ghost—should have noticed that he'd have much more attention if he did that. Harry clearly remembered him not quite eagerly telling them about the Chamber of Secrets in their second year. That had been an interesting lesson—although, according to Binns himself, he didn't believe in such myths.

"Have you seen that water-to-wine-essay somewhere?"

"You mean How to turn Rainwater into Brandy that can be drunk without going blind after having drunk three gobletfuls?"

"Yes, exactly."

Hermione rummaged around on the table, lifting and shifting some of the books and then pulling said essay out of the heap. "There it is."

"Thanks." Ron sighed and began to read the essay once more. For quite some time they worked quietly, the silence only disrupted by the scratching noise of furiously scribbling quills on parchment and the faint rustle when a page was turned.

"I fear my head's going to explode soon enough," Ron said, burying his face in his hands and massaging his temples. Harry, too, had been doing this quite often during the last days or weeks or however long it was that they had agreed on revising for the N.E.W.Ts on a daily, scheduled, basis.

"Good for you. Then you won't have to take the exams," Hermione muttered, not even looking up from her Arithmancy book and parchment on which she added a few notes to the ones she already had. It seemed that as soon as she'd written it down she had memorized it. Harry found himself envying her with all his heart. She made everything seem so easy. But the good thing was that she was also good at explaining it to others so they'd understand it fairly quickly.

Of course, Ron and Harry had joked about Hermione knowing Hogwarts: A History by heart. She could quote it forwards and backwards. But she also knew the books on Potions and DADA by heart, and who could tell which ones she also knew. But the thing that annoyed Harry and Ron as well mostly, was that she knew every single charm and spell that was in Hideously Advanced Charms and Spells, the very book that really lived up to its title. It wasn't just a mere book. It was a compendium, weighing approximately three tons, that was used in Charms as well as in Transfiguration, combining those two subjects into a mixture that was not to be easily swallowed, so to speak.

Ron had nightmares in which dozens of those books rained down on him. Harry could understand him very well. Recently he had dates and names of goblins and their respective rebellions swirling around him every time he closed his eyes—although it was a considerate relief that those dreams had nothing to do with a pair of red eyes and a hissing voice.

"The library is closing," said Madam Pince, "in a few minutes. I understand that you're very busy but, well…"

"Is it already that late?" Hermione asked, stunned.

"You've missed dinner," the librarian pointed out. "I've got to admire your diligence. If you keep this up there's no way for you to fail—unless, of course, you fall asleep over your exams."

The three gathered up their books and parchments and stuffed them into their bags.

"I haven't spoken five words to Ginny today," Harry muttered. "And yesterday and the day before, it hasn't been much more. I'll have to make up for it as soon as the exams are over."

"I daresay, otherwise you'll suffer the Weasley temper," Ron grinned. "Ginny has more of it than is good for her."

"Only a month and then it'll be over. I swear I'll never touch another book after that."

~*~*~

"That's all for today," Professor Ravon said, "and also for the year. Well, almost. Your exams lie before you. They will consist of two parts. The first part will be a written test. It will take you one and a half hours. And after that, I expect to see you equally well prepared for the practical part. I will set up a timetable. Each one of you will be tested for about fifteen minutes. I intend to see you separately. As that would take a very long time, I asked Professor McGonagall to assist me. The Gryffindors among you will be tested by me. Professor McGonagall will test the Slytherins. That way we make sure that no one could be accused of favouritism."

Malfoy snorted softly. Wisely, he had chosen to sit in the back row as soon as the time of his suspension had passed. Professor Ravon had ignored his presence completely during the last month.

She looked pale—paler than she generally looked. It seemed that every day that had passed she had become a shade paler, making her eyes shine even greener than usual. A slight trembling was constantly present in her hands when she wrote something on the blackboard. But she didn't seem ill or something. Maybe she was just tired. The way she sometimes massaged the bridge of her nose indicated that this might just be true.

But she was smiling faintly and the way she'd taught the lessons recently indicated clearly that she was feeling quite all right.

"And don't be scared. The N.E.W.Ts may live up to their title, but they won't kill you—and I won't bite. See you again on Friday next week right after your Potions exams. I feel almost sorry for you," she said, not looking it in the slightest. "But then again, it's only Potions, is it?"

Only Potions? She must be kidding. Well, of course she was. However, once they'd come that far, the exams would be almost finished. That, at least, was something to look forward to—and that Harry could then spend some time with Ginny again, who had also been very busy with preparing for her exams. Harry remembered his sixth year exams. In retrospect, they looked fairly easy—although back then Harry had constantly felt as though he'd eaten something very wriggly for breakfast as well as lunch and dinner—just like it had always been before something big was coming up. It was hardly credible that an entire year had passed since then. And now he'd be taking his exams and then leave Hogwarts forever…

Fortunately, Harry had, with some help by Ron, managed to memorize the goblin rebellions, and Ron in turn could now turn everything blue, pink, green—any colour—much more effortlessly than ever before. Those had been the biggest problems. Transfiguration and Potions had been rather easy to practice. Hermione had been of great help. For Transfiguration, the most important thing was always to use your imagination when you did a spell. If you got the spell right and concentrated hard on what you wanted to make of your object, it worked much better if you had a picture of it in your mind. To do that, Professor Ravon's wandless magic lessons had been very useful. Harry had learnt to shut out everything and only concentrate on what he was doing in those lessons.

And Potions—comparatively enjoyable as it had become—didn't worry Harry as much as it had done the last years.

What he was most confident of, however, was DADA. Somehow, he had the feeling that above all that subject had imprinted itself into his brain firmly and irreversibly. Thanks to her revision lessons, Harry had hardly needed to read his notes for a second time to be able to reproduce roundabout everything he had ever written down during her lessons. And it wasn't only so with him. Many others, too, had that impression. It must have been the wandless magic lessons. Professor Ravon had always been telling them that if only they'd keep in mind to concentrate properly on what they were doing and wanted to happen, everything would come to them. That philosophy worked. And if she wanted to test their Duelling skills, Harry was ready. He had practised those hexes and jinxes with Ron when their brains dreaded to explode. Sometimes Hermione, too, had joined them. And on rare occasions, even Ginny had duelled with Harry (mostly, when Ron and Hermione had sneaked off to do some other kind of duelling…). Well, actually, they'd first practiced duelling curses and then… then, they'd followed Ron and Hermione's (supposed) example.

To make a long story short, Harry felt well prepared. He knew that he knew more than ever before. His brain was filled with knowledge. He could hardly wait to empty it on his exam parchments. Only a week, he kept repeating to himself. In a week, everything will be over and everyone will be relieved, happy and celebrating.

The exams would start on Monday the following week. Their first test would be Care of Magical Creatures. A nice start-up as Hagrid had all but told them what they had to do. He, too, had scheduled a written and a practical part—although the practical part would most likely be only a bit of talking about dangerous animals and exchanging some encouraging words concerning the following exams.

Next chapter:

Dumbledore speaks to Sariss upon Severus's request, Sariss thinks she's going insane, the students take their exams, Harry and Sariss have a little chat, our favourite couple exchanges some kisses. And Malfoy—now that would be spoiling.