"For the last time, I'm not telling him," Harry whispered angrily, and returned to his History of Magic notebook under the pretense of taking notes.

"Harry, why [I]wouldn't[/I] you tell him?" Ron whispered angrily. He, Harry, and Neville were sitting in back of normal-level History of Magic.

"Which is the polite way of saying, 'You got a T on your OWL,' you great lummox," Harry thought, depressed. He scanned the room at the people who were either sleeping or scribbling notes with a desperate look in their eye, and wished he was in NEWT-level history with Hermione – If Binns was going to drone on and on in the same way no matter what, he could at least listen to NEWT-level droning.

"Don't I get a say in this," Ron asked Neville, in a play for support. "Seeing as I'm the one who dies in it, and all?"

Neville shrugged uncomfortably.

"It's Harry's dream. He's the one who has to decide," he said hesitantly, "But I wish you would go, Harry. The other day, I almost..."

He trailed off nervously, and Harry felt his stomach sink a bit. They'd gone after Neville because they'd thought he was his Secret Keeper...

"Well," Neville said, sensing Harry's discomfort, "It's not important. But I think you should go to Dumbledore, just in case."

"But that's just [I]it[/I], Neville!" Ron said, a bit too loudly, "It [I]is[/I] important!"

"Arthur Weasley, that is the second time today I have had to ask you to be quiet in my class. Five points from Gryffindor. Are you quite through?"

"It's Ron," he muttered angrily.

"Beg pardon?"

"I said, 'Sorry,'" Ron said, folding his arms and leaning back in a surly manner.

Professor Binns nodded, and continued to read from his notes, verbatim.

"Do what you want," Ron whispered irritably, "I don't care."

Harry knew that wasn't true. But he'd also made his case time and time again – Dumbledore already knew that Neville and Ron were targets.

As for the other part...the part about a trade, and Voldemort...

...and Sirius.

"No way," Harry told himself mentally, "He doesn't need to know about that. It's my business. I can handle it myself."

As a matter of fact, Harry had omitted that part of the dream when he described it to Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Ginny at breakfast. He knew that if he told Dumbledore, or anyone else for that matter, they'd just reassure him that Sirius was dead, that there was nothing he could do to change that, that Voldemort was manipulating his feelings – all the things he already knew. He didn't want to see them looking at him with those soft, sad expressions on their faces.

"Poor, poor Harry, blinded by his own grief. He just doesn't know any better, the poor dear."

It made him want to kick something. He had a feeling Sirius would have been impatient with it, too.

But the nasty little voice in his head was whispering: "Maybe you're actually entertaining the idea that—"

"Enough is enough," Harry whispered aloud, by way of explanation, "At some point, the contents of my own head have to belong to me."

"Then why do you bother telling us?" Ron asked in a hiss.

"Weren't you just telling me I'm supposed to? Besides, you asked," Harry shot back quietly. Neville fidgeted awkwardly, and tried to grin, as though this were just a friendly tiff.

Actually, Hermione had asked.

"You look awful, Harry – did you sleep alright?"

Harry pictured her face in his mind, as she'd looked that morning – she had a way of piercing him with her eyes – it was as though she had already known about the nightmare, somehow. But that was impossible. Of course, Ron had then gone ahead and told her the whole story of how he'd woken up shouting again, and how his scar had been hurting, and she'd nearly gone off her rocker, as he'd known she would. He wagered she was more than half- likely to tell Dumbledore herself.

"Old friends," Harry thought to himself ironically, "We all know each other too well."

Across the room, Seamus eagerly slammed his notebook shut, and shoved it into his bag, which signaled the rest of the class to start packing up. Binns always went over, and Seamus has become unofficial timekeeper of the class, spending the last five minutes staring at his watch.

Hermione caught up with them in the hallway, her bushy hair flouncing behind her.

"Look," she said straight off, "I've thought about it, and it's your decision –"

"Buuuuuuut?" Ron added wryly. Harry grinned to himself. It was nice to have Ron back on his side, at least briefly.

"But," Hermione said with a nasty glare at Ron, "I still think you should go to Dum—"

"We've been down that road," Ron said curtly, "And he's going to do what he wants. So we may as well drop it."

"Look," Harry said crossly, "You talk as if I'm being deliberately stubborn about this –"

"Which you are," Hermione interrupted, "But go on."

"Nevermind," Harry said tartly, "I just won't tell you anymore."

"You never had much of a choice in that matter," Ron said, his ears reddening, "Seeing as you woke up screaming!"

A couple of first years stopped in their tracks, and shot terrified glances at Harry, before scurrying on their way, holding up a text book so they could whisper behind it.

"Lovely," Harry said sardonically, "Thank you, Ronald."

Ron said nothing, but screwed up his face and looked away. Harry knew he'd crossed a line using his full name, and he didn't feel great about it, but Ron would cool off.

"And maybe he and Hermione will learn when to quit," Harry justified to himself.

They walked into Potions and took their usual seats just before Professor Snape stepped out of his office.

"Pass your scrolls forward immediately," he said crossly, "For your sake, I hope these are better than the last ones. I have just now finished grading them."

He waved his wand, and everyone's scrolls found their way through the air to the appropriate desk. Harry glimpsed an E on Hermione's and a D on Ron's. He was both relieved and annoyed to see he'd gotten an A. Relieved because it could have been much worse – and annoyed because he'd basically used Hermione's notes, and she'd gotten an E.

"Your second attempt at the Draught of Remembrance was, for the most part successful," Snape said begrudgingly, "Though some are decidedly [I]weaker[/I] than others," he added, his eyes darting to Ron.

"Unfortunately, your marks on the previous assignment were so abysmal...as I'm sure you're now noticing," he added silkily, again glancing at Ron, "I am forced to derail my lesson plan and take time to teach this material to you yet again."

"Translation: We're going over the homework," Harry whispered to Ron, as Snape turned back to the blackboard, "Don't let him get to you."

"Easy for you to say," Ron muttered.

Harry scanned the room, and realized that Ron had reason to be worried – Snape was good on his word, and had already asked several students to leave, including Lavender and Millicent Bullstrode. But then again, Harry reflected, studying wasn't exactly either of their strong suits.

"Then again," he told himself nervously, "It hasn't been yours recently, either."

Snape spent the better part of class reviewing their homework, and finally they were allowed to complete the Draught of Remembrance.

"Now twelve times counterclockwise, stopping exactly at the point you began," Snape intoned, as though he were thoroughly annoyed that he had to tell them what to do instead of just leaving instructions on the board. Unfortunately, they had to watch their potion to see the exact moment it began to boil, which necessitated hearing his oily voice.

"Bugger," Ron muttered, frowning, "Bugger..."

"You're on eleven," Hermione hissed with annoyance, "One more. And turn your heat up!"

"I know," Ron hissed back, defensively.

"Is there a problem, here?"

"No, sir," Ron muttered, turning up his flame.

"Miss Granger, I have warned you before about muttering the answers to your fellow classmates. Whatever...personal reasons you may have for helping Mr. Weasley, I assure you they have no place in this classroom," Snape added with a smirk, "Five points from Gryffindor."

Harry saw Malfoy smirking their way from the front of the classroom. He didn't seem to have forgotten the events of the past weekend, because he jutted his chin at Harry aggressively.

Harry suddenly felt bad for Draco. Did he really have nothing better to do than wait around for something bad to happen to them, so he could capitalize on it? Then he remembered the incident under the bleachers – the bruises on Hermione's wrists, and her back.

He scowled at Malfoy, and mouthed a rather blue retort.

"Harry! You're boiling!" Hermione whispered anxiously.

Harry quickly jerked his attention back to his cauldron, and added the ground dragon scales, hastily mixing them in with his wand, and lowering the heat with his other hand. To his immense relief, the potion stopped bubbling and lowered to a simmer, turning brilliant red in the process.

Ron was not faring quite as well, however. He had turned his heat off, but he'd done it too late – the potion already had begun to solidify upon reaching the boiling point, and he was hurriedly trying to mix the powdered dragon scales into the mud-like, brick red mix.

"Come on," Ron muttered under his breath again, and Harry could hear the desperation and frustration in his voice, "Bugger this effing thing..."

"Add more jobberknoll feathers!," Hermione whispered hurriedly.

"Ah," Snape said from his place at the front of the classroom, "Do I detect the colorful poetry of Mr. Weasley? Tell us, Miss Granger, how is he doing?"

"I wouldn't know," Hermione lied firmly, "I've been busy with my own."

"Indeed," Snape said, striding over and peering in Ron's cauldron. He took a small measure from his robes pocket, and scooped out some of Ron's maroon potion, which had condensed to the consistency of modeling clay.

"Well," Snape said, "The rest of you can begin straining your potions into a beaker. Mr. Weasley – I don't suppose you'll be able to strain this, will you?"

"No, sir," Ron said quietly.

"What was that?"

"No, sir," Ron said a bit too loudly.

"Temper, Weasley," Snape spat, "And what do you suppose I should do about this?"

"Chuck it out and give me a zero," Ron said, not quite managing to disguise his disgust.

"Well, if you insist, Mr. Weasley," Snape said silkily, "And that's ten points for your cheek. Your classmates can thank you later."

Fuming as Snape returned to his desk, Ron extinguished his cauldron, shoved it over, and crossed his arms moodily.

"I give up," he muttered, "Ruddy potions...flipping...Auror..."

Hermione didn't say anything, but put her hand on his knee sympathetically. Ron turned away slightly, and looking hurt, Hermione returned to her potion. Harry felt bad as well, but he knew not to bother Ron about it until later.

"If you've finished straining your potions," Snape said, "Perform the Glacius minimus charm, to—"

Malfoy's beaker gave a loud crack, and the contents began to ooze onto his desk.

"Did I not just say Glacius [I]minimus[/I], Mr. Malfoy?" Snape snapped, "As usual, you have assumed you know better than to have to listen to instructions, and taken your own course of action which subsequently explodes in your face. [I]Reparo![/I]"

Malfoy's beaker reassembled, a few drops of the potion still inside, but there was no repairing Malfoy's reputation – the entire class was somewhat stunned. Malfoy had clearly fallen from favor. Though as Harry scanned the faces, he was shocked to see that even a few of the Slytherins had smug grins on their faces.

"Maybe they really are sick of him causing trouble for Slytherin," he thought pensively.

When it finally came time to test their Draught of Remembrance, the trio debated briefly what fact they'd want to remember.

"I'm going to memorize my mother's birthday," Hermione said, holding up a scrap of paper, "It's convenient, after all. At least I know I'll never get stuck for a gift at the last minute. What are you doing, Ron?"

"Same, I guess," Ron muttered, but he didn't make eye contact.

Harry thought for a moment – There wasn't much point in memorizing his parents' birthdays. He thought he might like to remember something about Sirius – but what? Surely not his death day – that would be awfully morbid.

He thought back on his brief time with Sirius. There had to be something happy, something he'd want to remember forever. But he couldn't think of a single fact – they were more images. Sounds, or smells – the particular way he threw back his head to laugh. When he tried to put them into a factual format they sound flat and lifeless. "Sometimes, Sirius tilted his chair back on two legs?" Everything he thought of was hopelessly inadequate.

"Harry!" whispered Ron, nudging him gently, as Hermione focused on cooling her beaker, "Hermione's is the eighteenth, right?"

"Nineteenth," Harry whispered back, feeling inexplicably annoyed at Ron.

"Thanks," Ron said, with a slight grin, "Mind if I share your beaker?"

"Not at all," Harry said. But he was feeling a slight panic. What was he going to memorize? He couldn't think of anything about Sirius to memorize that he didn't already know by heart. Should he just memorize Hermione's birthday? But he already had it memorized, after all...Besides, he tended to write things like that down...

"With your fact in mind, hold the beaker in front of you, slowly circle your wand clockwise over it, and think the fact exactly as you'd like it to be memorized," Snape said, impatiently, "And take [I]one[/I] swallow of potion. No more is necessary, and is likely to make you ill. And heaven knows we wouldn't want that," he added in a mutter.

Harry glanced over at Hermione, who was already waving her wand over her potion. Ron was looking at Harry with a curious expression on his face.

"You go first, Ron," Harry said, handing him his beaker.

"Oh," Ron said, "Thanks, mate."

Harry wasn't sure why this assignment was making him so anxious. It just seemed so permanent – he didn't want to remember something that would haunt him later. At the same time, some trivial piece of information didn't seem adequate. Maybe he should just use Ron or Hermione's birthday and have done with it. He could always make another potion when he thought of something profound. He started looking at other people nervously, wondering what they were memorizing. His eyes lighted on Draco Malfoy, smirking smugly as he took a sip from his beaker. Harry found his blood was boiling – whatever he was thinking, it was probably something foul.

Suddenly, he remembered Dumbledore's words from the hospital wing yesterday: "It is up to each of us to decide what we wish to bring into this world, and what we wish to remove from it. Remember, Harry...A true wizard is one who governs the power that dwells within him, not one who is governed by that power."

He felt his anger towards Malfoy dissipated. He felt level-headed, clear- minded.

"All set!" Ron said, passing Harry the beaker.

Harry nodded, and smiled, taking the beaker from Ron.