"All right class. That should do it for today. Put your wands away. We'll resume work on the Impervius charm tomorrow."

            Anton Nemo, despite being rather soft-spoken, had little trouble gaining the attention of his entire class. Something in his calm, disciplined manner commanded respect from the students. Their sixth Defense Against the Dark Arts professor in as many years was a tall, lanky man with brown hair in a bowl cut. Behind thin glasses was a pair of kind, yet piercing, brown eyes.  He was the youngest teacher Harry had ever had, likely in his mid twenties. Unlike several of his predecessors at the station, he genuinely knew his stuff; he had been employed until that year as an Auror in the American Magical Government. Rumor had it that he was among the foremost experts at Wizard Dueling; allegedly he was one of the deadliest people with a wand anywhere in the world. When he spoke, students tended to listen.

            "Mr. Potter," he said casually. He sat behind the small desk in the DADA classroom, examining a sheet of paper interestedly. "A word, if you please?"

            Ron and Hermione glanced at Harry, hesitating before picking up their bags.

            "Mz. Granger and Mr. Weasley, you may wait in the hall," Professor Nemo informed them curtly.

            "Go ahead, guys," Harry muttered. "I'll catch up with you in a minute." As soon as they had left, Harry walked up to the front of the room and stood expectantly in front of the teacher's desk. "Yes sir?"

            "Mr. Potter," Nemo said in a loud, professional voice. "I wanted to talk to you about your work."

            "My work, sir?" Harry asked, confused. He had been held after class for this sort of discussion before, most often in Potions, but his work in DADA had never been in question.

            "Indeed," Nemo said quietly. "I don't mind telling you that your abilities in Defense are remarkable for your age. I think you have a better grasp of the topic, in academic understanding as well as practical application, than many full grown wizards."

            "Thank you, sir," Harry muttered, feeling his cheeks flush.

            "Furthermore, I've been impressed with the depth of understanding demonstrated by the members of your so-called DA. I know that most of the students here have suffered from… let us say… inconsistent tutelage in this subject over the years," He said, the beginnings of a smile on his lips. "Their knowledge is a testament to your teaching as well as your own skill. That said, it is apparent to me that your abilities are well below where they need to be."

            Harry nearly dropped his bag in surprise. "Sir?"

            Nemo sighed, and got to his feet. Harry had never realized how tall the man actually was; he stood at least a head above Harry. Nemo placed his palms on the desk and leaned in close to Harry. "Mr. Potter, you should know that Headmaster Dumbledore has apprised me of the prophecy regarding your future."

            Harry closed his eyes. When he opened them again a few moments later, he found he was looking at his feet. "Yes sir."

            "In light of that, it is imperative that you learn as much as you can, and as quickly as you can," Nemo went on, his voice somewhat softer than it had been previously. "As your instructor, I cannot settle to make you proficient in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I must teach you everything I know, and help you to harness the considerable ability that you have."

            Harry nodded but said nothing, preferring instead to examine his shoes in detail.

            "Therefore, I hope that you will agree to some private, one on one tutorials," Nemo said conclusively.

            "With you, sir?" Harry asked.

            "Largely. It is Dumbledore's wish that I teach you Advanced Dueling; in fact, I believe it is the reason he asked me to take this post. I am among the foremost experts in dueling in the world. I realize that may sound vain but such is not my intention; I am a warrior by trade, not a teacher – my success as an Auror relies on an accurate assessment of my own abilities. I shall teach you old, little known magic. I will show you the illegal curses you can expect from the Dark Lord and his followers. I will teach you Shield spells and Healing spells that you won't find in any contemporary text books. I will even teach you the soi-disant "Muggle dueling". But the list hardly ends there. During your tutorial sessions, you will work extensively with myself as well as Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Dumbledore himself. I imagine that the training will prove rigorous and even… painful. It would be no light undertaking."

            Harry sighed loudly. "Yes sir."

            "Does that mean you accept?" Nemo asked him.

            Harry looked up at the young Professor in front of him. "Do I have a choice?"

            "Absolutely. We're not going to force you into anything."

            Harry laughed bitterly. "No, you won't. But I can't choose about the fight, can I? Voldemort will come for me whether I want him to or not, won't he? And if I don't kill him, he'll kill me. And after he kills me, he'll kill everyone I ever cared for. He won't stop until he rules the world under his cruel fist. So, yeah, I guess I have a choice. I can either take these lessons, or die painfully and condemn humankind to misery."

            Professor Nemo was silent for a moment. He stood up straight, turned away from Harry, and began pacing the room slowly. He ambled over to the window, and looked out on the green lawn below. "It's hard to believe in evil on a day like this," he remarked, so lowly that Harry wondered if the Professor was talking to himself. "Out there, your classmates are eating lunch on the lawn, giggling and laughing. They talk about final exams, they gossip about who is dating who, they speculate over Quidditch matches. They are free to ignore that the fact that evil exists, and you are free to envy them this. But you must not join them in their ignorance. In fact, you cannot; are not able. Every time you look in the mirror, you see the evidence of evil, right their on your forehead."

            Instinctively, Harry put his fingers to his head, parting the wild, dark hair and fingering his scar tenderly.

            Professor Nemo meanwhile, was unbuttoning his shirt. One, two, three buttons; then he turned to face Harry. On his right breast, directly over his heart, was a three-inch lightning-bolt scar. "You have your reminder, and I have mine. You have a choice to make, just as I did. On one hand, you can spend your life regretting that you are not outside with your classmates in blissful ignorance. You may envy them, but I can assure you that you will never be able to lead a peaceful life like that. It isn't possible. Your other choice, then, is to fight for them, to insure that they may enjoy beautiful days like this one. Your choice, Harry." Professor Nemo buttoned up his shirt quickly, and returned to his desk.

            Harry nodded grimly. "When do I start?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXxxx

            A delicate rustling noise stirred Harry Potter from his slumber. He opened his eyes slowly, marveling at the brightness of his bedroom. He blinked his eyes dumbly as the Hospital Wing swam into view. Startled, he sat up quickly in bed. Pain flared up his right side, starting in his ribcage and terminating at the base of his skull. He was dizzied for a moment, and nearly toppled over out of the bed, catching himself at the last moment.

            "Mr. Potter, you should lay down," Madame Pomfrey said in a stern voice. She was remaking the bed immediately to his right. She ceased her task and stepped to the side of his bed, hands on her hips, a severe look on her face.

            "Where… What am I doing here?" He asked, looking at her in alarm.

            "Mr. Potter, lay down," She repeated simply.

            "No, I'm fine, really," he protested. He reached out his left hand for a glass of water poised on the table there. His arm wavered feebly in midair, and he felt the dizziness returning. "Okay, maybe you're right." He lay back down.

            Madame Pomfrey took the glass of water and held it to his lips, allowing him to drink his fill. "There ya go," she said in a gentle tone. "Just take it easy."

            "Madame Pomfrey? Why am I here?" Harry asked again, at one time feeling silly for laying in bed so helplessly and likewise being convinced that he was unable to stand.

            "I'm not entirely sure myself," she said angrily. On her face she wore her famous "Don't know what this school is coming to" frown. "I know you ended up on the receiving end of a Concussion Curse from Professor Nemo."

            Harry's memory clicked back into place. He had a vision of dueling with Professor Nemo, and suddenly, a wide arc of orange light-

            "I don't know why he did that mind you," she went on. "That's not magic to be messed around with. I told Professor Dumbledore, of course. I've never had to treat a student for this sort of thing before. That's not the sort of thing one generally encounters in a school. A battlefield, maybe, but not in a school."

            "Professor Dumbledore," Harry said quietly. "He didn't tell you what happened?"

            Madame Pomfrey frowned again. "No, just told me to treat you and not worry about why."

            "Then I probably shouldn't tell you, either."

            Madame Pomfrey nodded. "Very well. I trust Master Dumbledore implicitly, so I guess it must remain a secret." She got to her feet and went back to her duties in silence. She finished making the nearest bed, then stopped and looked at Harry delicately. "I must say…" she stopped, looked at her feet, and then went on. "If I were you, I would do my best to avoid any more Concussions Curses that came my way. They simply aren't very good for your health."

            Harry nodded glumly. "Thank you, Madame Pomfrey. I promise I'll do my best." After a few minutes, she finished her tasks in the recovery room and left for other matters. Harry readjusted himself painfully in the bed and tried to sleep. A few hours later, he was interrupted from his shallow rest by the arrival of an unexpected guest.

            "Hey, Harry," Ginny Weasley said in a quiet voice. She sat on the bed to his right, somehow looking smaller than she should have. "How are you feeling?"

            "Pretty well, provided I don't try to move too much," he said, laughing slightly. He was assailed by a fresh wave of pain, which he managed to keep off of his face.

            "What happened to you, anyway?" she asked in a concerned tone. "I saw Professor Nemo carrying you down the hall yesterday afternoon, but he wouldn't tell me what had happened."

            Harry did not speak for a moment, but instead looked at Ginny in silence. Her green eyes, remarkably large for such a small face, were rimmed with bits of red. Harry realized suddenly that she had been crying a lot lately. "I… don't want to talk about it," he told her. It was, after a fashion, the truth. While he very much wanted to tell her all about it, he could not. He had not told any of his friends, not even Ron or Hermione, about the contents of the Prophecy. It was a well known fact that Voldemort was trying to kill him, but the other half of the Prophecy was a closely guarded secret. Harry Potter was being trained to kill the Dark Lord. It was a terrible burden to bear; it took all the strength he had to carry it. As much as he needed to tell someone about it, he could not allow himself to foist that upon his friends.

            Ginny blinked in surprise. "Um… okay," she said stiffly. "So, are you going to be out of here soon?"

            Harry nodded. "I think so, anyway."

            "That's good."
            They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment. "So… um, have you seen Hermione and Ron?" he asked hesitantly.

            "More than I care to," she laughed. "Seems like they're everywhere these days. If they're not making out in a janitorial closet, they're cuddling on the couch in the common room. I don't think they've left each others side since they got together."

            "Oh, I see," said Harry sadly, looking away.

            "Oh, don't be like that," Ginny snapped, perhaps more harshly than she had intended. When she went on, it was in a softer voice. "They were here, you know. All night yesterday, until Madame Pomfrey kicked them out. They've been stopping in today between classes, even. But you never woke up. Just because they're dating now doesn't mean that they've forgotten you, you know."

            Harry nodded, embarrassed. "You're right," he said lowly.

            Ginny sighed, and then changed the topic. "I guess you didn't even see Millicent Bulstrode, did you?"

            Harry looked at her without comprehending. "No, I didn't. What happened?"

            Ginny's eye went a little wide. "She got into a dirty fight with Pansy. Right in the middle of the Great Hall, at breakfast. Pansy hit her with a nasty Stunning Spell, I think. Put her right out."

            "Wow," Harry breathed. "That Pansy… she's a pretty tough girl."

            "Yeah, she really is. Professor Dumbledore was livid. Apparently they're both in for some serious detentions."

            "No kidding," Harry said, impressed. "I thought they were friends."

            Ginny gave him a surprised look. "Not all Slytherins get along, Harry."

            "I guess not," He said. "What was the fight about?"

            "I have no idea. A lot of people are saying it was a lovers' quarrel, but I don't think so."

            "Don't think Pansy, um, swings that way?"

            "It's not that. I just don't think she's interested in Millicent."

            "Oh," Harry said dumbly. "Is Pansy a… lesbian?"

            Ginny fidgeted. "I don't think so, but I think she's… well, batted for both teams, if you know what I mean."

            "You seem to know a lot about the Slytherins, Ginny," Harry said quickly, then immediately regretted it.

            Ginny's face contorted for a second, and it looked as if she was about to cry. She regained her composure and went on. "Well, you know, you pick up on a thing or two when you date a Slytherin."

            Harry nodded solemnly. "How, um, how was that, exactly? Was it that hard on you?"

            Ginny dabbed at her left eye. "No, it was… uh, pretty good, until the end."

            Harry nodded again. "Look, I'm sorry-"

            "No, it's okay," she said. "I was meaning to tell you… Thanks."

            "For what?" he asked, perplexed.

            "For coming to get me out of there. I don't know that I would have made it on my own."

            "Oh, that was nothing, Ginny. I was glad to help."

            Ginny nodded, still seeming on the verge of tears.

            "Ginny, if there's anything I can do for you," Harry said slowly. "You just have to ask. You know that, don't you? Even if you just want to talk. I'm there for you."

            "Thanks, Harry. Look, I'd better go. It's almost dinnertime." She got to her feet.

            "Yeah. No problem. Hang on a sec," he said. He took a deep breath, swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up shakily. It was not as bad as he thought it would be. He wrapped both of his arms around the younger girl and squeezed her as tightly as he was able. She finally let loose the waterworks, wetting the front of his smock with her tears. He held her there for a moment, letting her unleash the torrent of emotion trapped inside of her. After a few minutes, his knees buckled and he fell back into bed, nearly pulling Ginny on top of him in the process.

            Ginny laughed a little, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "I guess I'd better let you rest."

            "Yeah, looks like it," he said, laughing in spite of the pain.

            "Thank you, Harry."

            "Any time, Ginny. Any time." After she had left, Harry laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling with a single thought running through his mind. He was going to have to do something particularly nasty to Draco Malfoy.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

            Harry hobbled down the wide stone corridors to the Dungeons. He was already running late, and the fact that he was still rather weak was not helping matters. He had left the Hospital Wing that morning, over the protests of Madame Pomfrey of course, knowing full well that Professor Snape was going to tear him a new Spell-hole.

            "Harry!" Professor Nemo shouted, spotting him from across the hall, and walking over toward him. "How are you feeling?"

            "Better," Harry said. "Thanks."

            Professor Nemo looked around quickly, making sure that no one was around to hear their conversation. "Listen, Harry, I'm very sorry about that."

            "Don't be," Harry said, trying to sound tougher than he felt. "It'll teach me to keep my guard up."

            Nemo nodded grimly. "I have been looking over some of the notes left by Mad Eye Moody – or rather, from Bartemius Crouch Jr. – and I found something interesting. Is it true that you have some degree of resistance to the Imperius Curse?"

            "I believe so, sir," Harry answered.

            "Fascinating," Nemo said, his face showing something like awe. "If this is true, it could be a potential weapon for us. If Dumbledore is willing, we will have to experiment with that. Will you be ready for another session?"

            Harry considered it. "Yeah, no problem. We'd better make it tomorrow, though. I'm still running a little slowly."

            "Of course, Harry," Nemo said sensitively. "Have you been reading those materials I gave you?"
            "As much as I can; I've been reading them on the sly," Harry answered. "Was I right in suspecting that no one is to know about these training sessions?"

            Nemo nodded sullenly. "I think that would be for the best."

            "I'll give them as much time as I can, sir," He said politely. "I had better get on to class. Snape will eat my lunch for being late as it is."

            "Here, hang on a second," Nemo said. He pulled out a slip of paper and a quill and scribbled furiously on it for a second. "Take this."

            Harry accepted the Hall Pass and made his way down into the dungeons. He stepped through the door to Snape's classroom and found his way to his seat, right next to Hermione in the back of the room.

            "Ah, Mr. Potter," Snape sneered. "Tell me something, will you? How is it that you have the nerve to show up late to my class after missing the entire period yesterday?"

            "Sorry," Harry said without conviction. "I have a note from Professor Nemo." He held up the slip of paper.

            "Accio," Snape hissed. The note zoomed across the room and into his waiting hands. He read the note in a flash, then wadded it up and threw it in the wastebasket. "Ten points from Gryffindor."

            Harry thought he heard Hermione squeak. Knowing better than to press his luck, Harry took his seat and pulled out his notes. During his first five years at Hogwarts, he had thought that Snape's Potions class was the least pleasant experience one could have. Now in his sixth year, he had to revise that opinion; Snape's NEWT level Potions class was worse than any class he had previously gone through. While most of the student body had dropped Potions that year, he had signed on to find himself in a class of eighteen students, of which fifteen were Slytherin. Hermione had signed up for the class principally because she was not sure what her career would be, and wanted to keep her options open. The only other non-Slytherin in the room was Mandy Brocklehurst of Ravenclaw.

            "Now, before that rude interruption, I believe we were discussing Contortion Potions. As those of you who were good enough to show up yesterday are aware, these are extremely complicated potions. Can anyone remind me what they are used for?"

            Half a dozen hands raised in the air, including Harry's.

            "Potter? I doubt you would have been able to tell me even if you had been here yesterday," Snape spat out. "Mr. Malfoy?"

            Harry lost control. "Sir! Contortion Potions are used to reshape or at least soften mediums that are naturally resistant to conventional Transfiguration spells!" He shouted. A few heads turned to look at him in awe. Pansy was looking at him with a mix of surprise and respect.

            "Harry? How did you know that?" Hermione whispered.

            Harry ignored her, locking eyes instead with the Potions Master.  

            "Mr. Potter!" Snape hissed. "Did you not hear me call on Draco?"

            "I was right, wasn't I?" Harry pressed.

            "What are you doing, Harry?" Hermione asked, a little more loudly than before.

            "That isn't the question. The issue here is one of discipline," Snape said sinisterly. "An additional twenty points from Gryffindor." He turned away from Harry and took a step toward the front of the classroom.

            "You're a pathetic, little man," Harry said loudly and plainly.

            "WHAT?" Snape roared, whirling back around.

            "I said, YOU ARE A PATHETIC, LITTLE MAN," Harry repeated, enunciating each syllable loudly and clearly. "You are a laughable excuse for a human being. I pity you almost enough to stop hating you, sir."

            Professor Snape's face went white. "One hundred points from Gryffindor and Detention," he snarled.

            Hermione's notebook slipped out of her hand and hit the dungeon floor with an ominous clatter. No one seemed to notice.

            Snape went on. "And if you ever-"

            "It was worth it," Harry cut him off. "Just so long as you know how I feel about you."

            Snape stared at him in disbelief. "Get out, Potter. Go directly to the Headmaster's office. Do not ever darken my door again."

            Harry laughed, gathering up the items he had barely unpacked. He threw his bag over his shoulder and waltzed out of the classroom triumphantly. He marched all the way to Dumbledore's office, humming a little tune to himself that he could not quite place. Ten minutes later, he sat across the desk from the Headmaster, his mood not in the least diminished by the appalled look on the old man's face.

            "What is the meaning of this, Harry?" Dumbledore inquired, holding up a sheet of paper in his hand, evidently sent by Express Owl from Professor Snape.

            "I had enough," Harry said simply.

            Ten feet overhead and fifteen behind, Fawkes the Phoenix sounded a single note of concern.

            "Harry, I cannot allow this manner of behavior."

            "No?" Harry shot back angrily. "Then I guess you will just have to expel me."

            "Harry-"

            "No. I've taken enough from that man. I know you're probably disappointed in me, or whatever, but that's okay, too. I would be even more disappointed with myself if I had taken any more crap from Snape."

            "Professor Snape, Harry."
            "Not to me, he isn't. I think I'll just call him Severus from now on. Or maybe Snivellus. That has a good ring to it. And if that isn't okay, then I'll just get my things and go."

            "Where would you go?"

            Harry shrugged. "Hogsmeade? Diagon Alley? A comfy bed and breakfast somewhere? It doesn't matter."

            Dumbledore frowned. "You know that Lord Voldemort would kill you within twenty-four hours."

            Harry nodded grimly, but did not back down. "I guess he would, wouldn't he? And then you guys would be in some pretty serious trouble, wouldn't you?"

            Dumbledore looked nonplussed. "Do you intend to use the Prophecy as a bargaining chip?"

            Harry frowned. He really did not have any complaint with Dumbledore, and he was aware that he had put the Headmaster in a fairly compromised position. "No. Not really. I am not demanding anything. I think I've been… pretty good about all of this, so far, haven't I? Even though it is my life we're putting on the line here. Even though Voldemort may not have to kill me, because Nemo might just beat him to it. I do not ask for any special treatment at all. I am merely saying that I am unwilling to take any more of Snape's abuse. From there, I guess the ball is in your court."

            "What of your Potions education?" Dumbledore inquired. "I can force Snape to readmit you to his class, but-"

            "Don't bother," Harry said gruffly. "I can learn it from a textbook, on my own. He's a lousy teacher, anyway, unless you happen to be a Slytherin."

            The Headmaster nodded. "So be it. If you are still interested in being an Auror, you will need to score at least an E on your Potions NEWT. If you feel that you can do that on your own, I will trust your judgment."

            "I believe I can."

            "I shall avail you of the proper texts, and give you the materials you will need to practice Potions on your own. Then that only leaves one issue," Dumbledore said quietly but seriously. "I cannot tolerate this manner of reckless insubordination in my school, regardless of the circumstances."

            Harry pondered it for a moment. "Sir, I have been waiting to say those things to Snape since my first year. I understand that there may be consequences for my action, but whatever they might be, I believe they were worth it."

            Dumbledore seemed a little surprised, but pleased. "Then we will arrange a suitable detention for you. Perhaps you can join Ms. Parkinson with her task, in fact." The old man smiled, a twinkle in his eyes.

            Harry elected not to address this.

            "Harry, I should point out to you that the deductions Snape made from your house – 130 points in total – will also stand. In case you decide that you have any thing else to say to Professor Snape, please remember that you may have already cost your house the Cup."

            Harry stared at him for a moment, then broke into a big grin. "That's all right, we'll make it up. Hermione's an egghead."

            Professor Dumbledore gave an astonished look for a second, and then broke into a generous round of laughter.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

            Harry grasped both hands firmly on the shaft of his shovel, raised it a few inches, and drove it down forcefully into the rocky soil. The tip of the blade sank halfway into the reluctant ground. Harry stepped heavily on the implement, first with one foot, then the other, and finally jumping down on it with both feet, until the business end of the tool was underground.

            "It's nice of them to go so easy on us," Pansy grunted, struggling with her own shovel. "I have never longed for a wand so much in my life."

            Harry laughed. Their detention assignment was to dig a row of holes all the way around the castle, at a distance of about fifty yards from the outside wall. Into each hole they would drop seeds furnished by Professor Sprout, then refill the holes. The magical trees would take under a year to grow to their full (and considerable) height. Harry had the sneaking suspicion that they were designed as another layer of protection from outside attack. At the pace they were working, they would be at it for the better part of the week. "So, what are you in for?" he asked, gesturing to their work before them.

            "You didn't hear about it?" She asked.

            "Well, I heard that you had a misunderstanding with Millicent Bulstrode. But I don't know why."

            Pansy grimaced. "She said something she shouldn't have," she said simply.

            "Ah. So what you mean is that we are both here for the same reason?"

            "I guess you could say that," she agreed. "That was some show you put on in Potions, by the way."

            "You know, no matter how bad this work is, it was worth it. I am going to remember that moment for the rest of my life, I think."

            Pansy laughed. "Well, they're doing their best to make sure we suffer for our moments of fun."

            Harry nodded understandingly. "It's not all that bad," he said, pulling a mound of dirt and stubborn roots out of the ground. "My first detention was considerably worse."

            Pansy stopped her work, and leaned against her shovel, stuck in the dirt. "Was that the one you served with Draco? Back in our first year?"

            "Yeah. We could easily have been killed – we ran into Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest."

            Pansy shuddered visibly. "I wish you wouldn't say his name," she said after a moment.

            "I'm sorry, Pansy," Harry said quietly. And he was. A curiosity sparked in his mind. "Say, are your parents, um-"

            "Deatheaters?" she snapped.

            Harry looked away, sticking his shovel back into the ground.

            "No, Potter, they aren't." Pansy sounded a bit disgusted. "Not every pure-blood supports You-Know-Who."

            "Right," Harry said sheepishly. He repeated the shovel procedure, pulling up another lump of gray dirt. He noticed that Pansy had stopped working, and was staring at him angrily. He leaned against his shovel as well and returned her gaze. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by the question. I was just asking because… well, because you told Malfoy that you had a reason to hate me. I assumed it was because your parents were Deatheaters."

            "Oh," she said. She pondered over this a moment, then resumed her work.

            "Hey!" Harry exclaimed.

            "What?"

            "So, why do you hate me?" He asked slowly.

            Pansy did not answer immediately, her expression unreadable. "The usual reasons, Lord Potter. For beating us in the house championships every year. For making an ass out of Draco whenever you get the chance. For being a half-blood. For catching the Golden Snitch every time. For winning the Tri-Wizard Tournament. For having your name in the Daily Prophet every day. For never getting in trouble. Every good Slytherin hates you, Lord Potter."

            Harry listened to Pansy's tirade patiently.

            When finished, she looked away from him and resumed her digging. She pulled up three more shovelfuls and then hissed at Harry: "Well, what are you looking at? Get back to work!"

            "You're not a very good Slytherin, are you?"

            Pansy dropped her shovel. "I don't think you have the right to say that," she said hotly. "My blood is as pure as anyone else's. I've got a need to prove myself. I think you'll find I'm more clever than most people give me credit for. And I always look out for Number One." She looked him directly in the eye, challenging him to disagree.

            "But you don't hate Harry Potter," he said slowly, gauging her reaction carefully.

            "Now you're telling me who I hate?" she asked, incredulous.

            "What's more, you don't care in the least about Quidditch matches or House Championships. You don't mind so much when I make an ass out of Draco, in fact, you probably enjoy it. You don't stand by your Housemates in their rivalry with Gryffindor because you are the only person in the school who dislikes the Slytherins more than we do."

            Pansy laughed. "You think so, Potter?"

            "Yeah. I do."

            "Well-"

            But Pansy stopped herself short, watching in surprise as a small owl descended from the Owlery and landed on the end of Harry's shovel, which was stuck in the dirt. Bewildered, Harry pulled the note from the ankle of the bird and read it quickly.

            To the Official Hogwarts Liaison of WWW:

                    Dungbombs in the North Tower

                    Thursday at 7 pm

                    Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle

            "What is it?" Pansy asked.

            "What time is it?" Harry said in answer.

            "I'm not really sure. What is it?"

            Harry was saved the need to answer when a chorus of screams coming from the school. They looked up toward the source of the uproar to see billows of smoke pouring from the windows of the North Tower.

            Harry handed the sheet of paper to Pansy, who read it quickly.

            "It's started, Pansy."