Charms and Transfiguration passed relatively easily, but that may have largely been due to the fact that neither of the boys was paying attention. Ron was muttering and rifling through a multi-colored calendar that Hermione had left him ("There's no bloody time for a Goodwill Game! Look at this – class, class, homework, practice, D.A...") while Harry sifted his way through instructions she had left, and began drafting letters as he pretended to take notes. Fortunately Flitwick had ignored them the entire class, and McGonagall seemed to be doing the same – Harry supposed they were aware that he had a few other things on his mind.

"Dear Ms. Orkishun," Harry scribbled, "My Hermione..."

He crossed it out.

"My friend, Hermione..."

My friend? My best friend? My good friend? My ex-friend?

The object of my pathetic, unrequited yearning?

Bugger. It was embarrassing even to think it. The very word "yearning" made something in Harry shrivel up and let out a mortified groan.

"My classmate, Hermione has written to you before..."

He crossed the sentence out. He was terrible at letter writing. He knew how to write a letter to his friends – he simply said what was on his mind, and signed it. He had no idea how to write a proper letter, to someone he'd never met before. Hermione could run rings around him at this.

"...and, of course, this type of wizard would be called? Potter?"

"A metamorphmagus," Harry answered methodically. He'd been paying attention out of the corner of his mind, and it had been an easy question. He was quite sure Professor McGonagall had chosen him deliberately, so as not to appear to be ignoring him.

"Good, five points to Gryffindor. The metamorphmagus..."

Harry returned to his letter, and stared at the crossed-out section. On a sudden inspiration, he rifled through the letters Hermione had sent previously, all either Copy-quilled, or sent back to her, unopened. Perhaps he could find some inspiration there – or perhaps he could meticulously and untraceably paraphrase her every sentence...He'd had years to become an expert at that. He found one, and read it to himself.

"...plight of these impoverished, objectified creatures is unconscionable and backward, and I demand that this oppression be rectified..."

Harry blinked, and searched through several other of her letters...No wonder Hermione hadn't gotten any kind of response out of these people. In some letters she made angry demands, in others she wheedled, in others she painted the plight of the house elves rather more desperately than entirely necessary...

No, he couldn't do this Hermione's way. Finally, he hunkered down over his desk, and irritably set quill to parchment.

"To the Head of the Office of House Elf Relocation, Dear Ms. Orkishun," he muttered through his teeth quietly as he wrote. Ron nudged his shin with his toe, and Harry stopped muttering, but his quill barely paused.

"I'm sure you know who I am, and I'm also sure you know my classmate Hermione Granger."

"She's that house-elf nutter?" he thought, but did not write, "The one who's been writing to you every week for about a year now?"

"I am writing to ask you again for a list of all house elves currently registered with your office. Maybe the reason you haven't sent them yet is because you don't agree with Hermione on the issue of house-elf rights...But if you read the Prophet (and believe what you read there) you surely know by now that V– "

Harry paused in his letter writing. He couldn't get away with it – he didn't want to alienate her right off the bat. It annoyed him to no end, but it had to be done.

"...that He Who Must Not Be Named is returning to power. Headmaster Dumbledore and Hermione and I are only hoping to contact the house elves listed in your registry, to let them know that He is returning to power, and...."

Again Harry interrupted himself. He was quite certain what Dumbledore really wanted...but if he told Ms. Orkishun that he was trying to amass a house elf army to stave off a Death Eater attack on Hogwarts School, she'd laugh and throw his letter straight in the dustbin. Or worse, sell it to the Quibbler. Or even worse, the Prophet. And now that Rita Skeeter wasn't making a glass jar her primary residence, Harry wasn't even sure that the threat of reporting her as an Animagus could keep this story under wraps...

Harry winced. There was no good way to say this...

Well, Ms. Orkishun didn't really need to know what they were going to do with the list, did she? All they needed was to get it from her...

"...that He is returning to power, and after alerting them to this danger, offer Hogwarts school as a temporary safe-haven. We hope to hear from you soon, and thank you for your time. Sincerely, Harry Potter."

Well, that was a bald-faced lie. Besides, most house-elves still belonged to wealthy, pureblood families, and were hardly at risk from Voldemort – in fact, they'd be much safer in their own houses. If most of them were like Kreacher, trying to amass a house elf army to rise up against Lord Voldemort would be akin to asking all the third years to boycott Honeydukes. But if there were many house elves like Kreacher, there had to also be some like Dobby, who hated their masters, and would be willing to stand up and fight against Lord Voldemort...

Harry only hoped Ms. Orkishun was unable to figure any of this out. And besides, a little white lie was much more likely to get them the results they needed. Wasn't it?

He re-read the letter – nothing in it convinced him in the slightest to comply. He had the sinking feeling that he was simply going to receive a form letter in reply, like the stack of ten or twenty Hermione had handed him along with her instructions... "Thank you for contacting us here at the Ministry of Magic. We are always anxious to respond to the concerns of..." Blah blah blah. Waste of bloody parchment.

Harry furrowed his brow, helplessness lending a slight, fluttering panic to his annoyance.

"Please help us," Harry scribbled at the bottom, "The worst that could happen is we'll all be very embarrassed to be wrong, and the house elves will return home. No one wants to think about what might happen if we're right, but whether you believe it or not, you have can help us save lives."

He re-read the passage – that seemed pretty strong. As an afterthought, he added:

"No matter what happens, I promise the letters will stop coming. Sincerely, Harry Potter."

Seamus Finnigan, exactly on-cue as usual, began to pack up his books, and the class started to fidget with their parchments and book bags.

"Do pardon me, Mr. Finnigan, but if you don't mind, I think I'll be the one to dismiss class," Professor McGonagall said, peering down at them severely over the rim of her glasses.

After a brief pause to emphasize this fact, she simply sighed and nodded, and the class rumbled to life along with the rest of the school spilling out into the corridors.

Ron shoved the calendar and a stack of parchments covered in Hermione's impeccable script into his book bag wearily.

"Care of Magical Creatures?" Harry asked in a gruff sort of voice, willing to initiate contact but not wanting to stretch the olive branch too far too fast.

"Right," Ron grunted, and they turned their feet towards the main gate.

The cold gray days of the freshly-minted year were welcome to Harry – it matched his contemplative mood. Even the clouds of steam announcing their breath satisfied Harry on some deep, inchoate level, as he walked next to Ron, their eyes directed to the frosty ground, not speaking.

His peaceful, private funk was interrupted however, when they arrived at Hagrid's cabin to find not Hagrid waiting for them, but Professor Grubbly-Plank.

"What now?" Ron muttered under his breath.

Harry wondered vaguely himself, but was distracted by Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle skulking about. He narrowed his eyes, and automatically reminded himself to keep an eye on them during the lesson.

"Alright!" she said briskly, "Gather nice and close now."

"Where's Hagrid?" Dean asked somewhat belligerently, and they all knew it would do no good.

"Don't know. Anyway, mind your business," Professor Grubby-Plank said in the same unperturbed, brisk manner, as though Dean had merely asked the time.

"Now these," she continued, gesturing at a small cage in which several small, black creatures flittered about on glittery wings, "are doxies."

Harry noticed Parvati and Lavender had neglected their obligatory croon of awe today (most likely because doxies were viewed as little more than household pests in the wizarding world, or at best, potion ingredients.)

"Now who can tell me how doxies differ from fairies?" Professor Grubbly-Plank asked. Everyone paused, waiting for Hermione to shoot her hand up, and it was only after the Gryffindors began looking around each other curiously that they realized she was absent.

Befuddled, Seamus raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Finnigan?"

"Well, they're like fairies, but a bit more dangerous, on account of their venom," he answered, sounding a bit apprehensive, as though Hermione were going to leap out from behind someone and start adding information to his reply.

"Five points to Gryffindor," Professor Grubbly-Plank said, "The doxy, like the fairy, does not bear live young, but lays its eggs, normally on the underside of a leaf..."

Harry tuned out rather early in the class. Doxies were the least of his worries. Besides, they reminded him of Grimmauld Place, which reminded him of Sirius, which still ached dully. A sudden flash of memory, and Harry could almost see Sirius take the rickety stairs two at time, the sunken eyes of his once-handsome face crinkling happily as he bellowed, "God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs," the tuneless roar mingling with Ginny's giggle from the landing. The ache swelled slightly. To his own surprise, he hadn't thought of Sirius in a couple weeks now, and was just beginning to wonder whether he ought to feel guilty about it or not, when he noticed Malfoy acting rather strangely.

Or rather, not acting in his usual strange way. Normally, Hagrid's absence would be the cause of elated smirks and smug muttering between Draco and his thick cohorts. But today, all three of them seemed somber, on edge. To be fair, Crabbe and Goyle never seemed particularly relaxed or engaged in the topic at hand...but Malfoy seemed especially preoccupied, as the three of them stared at the turf. Harry wondered if they knew a war was at hand, and whether they'd heard it from Lucius, or somewhere in the school. He also wondered, with an acid stomach, whether Voldemort already knew about the second half of the prophecy, or whether he'd been planning the attack for some time...

And if there was an attack, who would Malfoy side with?

"Any ideas?" Ron breathed to Harry's right.

"Hmm?" Harry asked.

Ron cocked his head slightly in the direction of the three Slytherins behind him, apparently having followed Harry's gaze.

"Inter-house unity," Ron said, raising a dubious eyebrow, "Any ideas?"

Harry shook his head, and muttered a reply, "Lost cause. We're lucky if they don't become Death Eaters."

Harry felt a little uncomfortable saying it out loud – after all, they were supposed to try to get the houses to unite. But Draco was going to do what he was going to do, and he certainly wasn't going to ask for any advice from the Great Harry Potter. Better to focus on the other Slytherins.

He scanned the class, looking for Slytherins who might be convinced to...

...to what? What was he supposed to be asking people to do, anyway? Sign some sort of a petition? "I promise to be nice to Gryffindors?"

To join the D.A., perhaps? Harry wasn't sure if the rest of the D.A. would stand for that...On the other hand, Marietta Edgecombe had been a Ravenclaw, and had sold them all out. And Peter Pettigrew had been a Gryffindor!

"Good work there," Harry thought ironically, picturing the Sorting Hat at the beginning of the year, refusing to sort, "Too close to call? I could've sorted those two for you..."

"Or perhaps," Harry answered himself mentally, "Slytherin really doesn't hold the patent on evil."

He returned his gaze to the other Gryffindors ranged around him, and shuddered at the thought.

Pansy Parkinson caught his eye, and sneeringly turned away.

"She's good in charms," Harry thought idly, "Bet she knows all sorts of hexes..."

"So where do you think Hagrid's off to?" Ron asked.

"Probably off to the giants again," Harry replied, picturing Hagrid striding purposefully into a valley of gray-skinned creatures whose kneecaps were roughly head-level.

"He's probably be able to travel by magic, now that the Ministry's not nosing about. Hopefully he'll be back a bit sooner."

"Wonder if he took Grawp with him?" Ron asked, his eyes darting over to the forest, "I feel a bit bad, we haven't been to – hey!"

Harry turned his eyes to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where Ron was looking, and was surprised to see Firenze limping out of the trees, looking quite a bit worse for wear.

"Blimey," Ron muttered, "He's been through the wringer, eh?"

"Looks like another run-in with his herd," Harry said, eyeing several nasty, curved bruises already blooming on Firenze's fair-skinned torso. It looked as though he'd been kicked rather badly, and a cut above his eye ended in a red smear, which he wiped away, casually examining the blood on his fingers, as he walked back to the castle in a smooth, rolling gait.

Several of the girls, Gryffindor and Slytherin alike, had noticed Firenze strolling back to the castle, and were whispering and giggling behind their hands.

Harry felt a surge of irrational annoyance. He knew Hermione wouldn't be giggling and gossiping about Firenze's bare man-chest, but whispering earnestly to he and Ron about the centaurs' involvement in the upcoming war, or something she'd read in the Daily Prophet...

He saw Ron out of the corner of his eye, and his chest throbbed again, dully. Did he even know what he had in Hermione? How could he be so reckless as to...well...

"Girls! Kindly stop gawking and pay attention," Professor Grubbly-Plank said with the practiced calm of a veteran teacher, and the class reluctantly continued taking notes on doxies.

The end of class wasn't too long in coming after that, and the Gryffindors began trudging off to the greenhouse to meet up with the Hufflepuffs. Harry glanced up at Ron. For the next hour they'd have Herbology together...then head up to their shared room to change, eat dinner together, study together, go to the D.A. meeting together...Harry had never noticed it before, since they always felt so comfortable around each other, but he, Ron, and Hermione really did spend an inordinate amount of time together. Now that Hermione was off in Bulgaria, and he and Ron were on tenterhooks, it felt unusually strained, spending every waking moment tethered to one another.

Besides, Herbology was easy, and he could make up what he'd missed in about five minutes.

"I'm skivving off," Harry said to Ron, feigning a casual tone of voice, "I think I'll work on some spells before the D.A."

"Oh, alright," Ron said, pausing as the rest of the class continued to sweep towards the greenhouse, and looking from them back to Harry nervously, "Err...shall I?..."

"No, that's alright," Harry said, "Go on ahead."

"Okay," Ron said, tentatively, "See you at dinner?"

"Not hungry, really," Harry said, already backing away, "But at the D.A. meeting, definitely."

"Alright," Ron said, a pained expression on his freckled features, "Listen, Harry—"

"Alright, see you!" Harry said, smiling determinedly, and turning towards the castle. He inhaled deeply through his nose, as if he'd been holding his breath the whole time. He knew Ron had been about to say something about the other night, and it made him feel hot and uncomfortable. He didn't want to know. Whatever Ron had to say really didn't need saying.

He had to clear his head. He couldn't wait to get to the Room of Requirement, to sink onto the blue mats that smelled vaguely of dust and trainers, and close his eyes for an hour or so. He quickened his pace, wanting to arrive before class started, so he wouldn't have to explain to Filch why he was wandering about the corridors instead of in the greenhouse, where he ought to be.

When he arrived, however, someone had already beaten him there.