Reviewers, thanks so much for commenting! I'm glad everyone's enjoying this so far, even if I seem to be killing Shiba with the suspense. Angel, again, thanks for your comments. Of course they count.:) Infall and EAV, thanks very much, you guys. I always appreciate the support.

CHAPTER THREE: Sneak

Wednesday was a horror. The sixth-year Gryffindors spent the morning in Greenhouse 4, wrestling some fiercely strong Blistering Bulbs into pots (Neville broke out in a few boils but managed to subdue his specimen by crooning at it a bit). Then after lunch, McGonagall opened Transfiguration with a pop quiz. Nearly everyone failed. Hermione and Harry, however, both managed to turn their cats into ducks and back again. Harry lost a few points because his duck let out a loud "Meow!" but he still did it. McGonagall gave him a brief smile, which, Hermione noticed out of the corner of her eye, Harry didn't return.

She kept her mouth shut. On Sunday in the library, when she and Ron had started their little investigation, they'd made a pact to tell no one, especially Harry, what was going on. But after three days of meeting in secret (in-between studying and doing homework) and wracking their brains to describe Harry's symptoms, they'd been unable to narrow it down beyond "happiness moving into calm."

Because that was precisely what had happened. Hermione could see the change in Harry, clear as day. Two weeks ago, he'd been almost ridiculously happy. Now, though, he was just calm. He didn't smile that much, but he didn't frown, either. He seemed to have found an even keel. The trouble was, she knew he wasn't doing it by himself.

It was Wednesday evening at Quidditch practice when Ron finally caught a break in the case. The team was out drilling on the pitch, passing balls and practicing looping formations at high speed. Ron was taking a quick break. He sat in the stands and guzzled some water as his younger sister Ginny streaked by, holding the Quaffle and neatly evading her teammates. He smiled. It was good to have her on the team. She was kind of annoying sometimes, but mostly fun. Damn good Chaser, too.

He watched her and drank some more. Ginny did a quick loop-de-loop around Frank Edmonds, a fourth-year they'd recruited for a beater, and threw the Quaffle through one of the goal posts. A few people cheered.

It was right then that Ron noticed Harry was missing in action. From his spot on the bench, he could see that everyone else was flying around, but he made out no glint of glasses or a thatch of dark hair.

How odd.

Ron scratched his head and, mostly out of habit, looked down at his shoes. What he saw below him under the stands was a total shock. There was Harry, his pads tied firmly over his old workout clothes. His eyes were scrunched shut as he took a quick gulp from what looked like a silver hip flask. Then he capped it and tucked into his back pocket in half a second. It was complete dumb luck. If Ron had looked down only a moment later, he might have missed the whole thing.

Ron looked back up very fast, his heart pounding. So Harry was taking a potion of some kind, and obviously hiding it. He bit his lip and pretended to be interested in the practice. What could he do? If he confronted Harry about this, Harry would probably lie that it was pumpkin juice or some such nonsense, and more dangerously, realize Ron was on to him. No point in asking, then.

But a plot had begun to form in his head. If he could get some of what was in that hip flask away from Harry and deliver it to Hermione, then she'd be able to tell what was in it … and woe betide him if it really was pumpkin juice.

Plan formed, he gulped to himself and got to his feet. "Hey!" he blurted to all the sky-bound players. "Anybody seen Harry? We need to run a Seeker drill!"

He heard a scuffling noise from underneath him, and then a few moments later he spotted Harry on the other side of the pitch, obviously winded and trying to hide it.

"You called?" he shouted.

"Yeah, get your broomstick! We need to run a few Seeker drills and then we'll call it!"

"Okay!" Harry yelled again. He grabbed his Firebolt, hopped on, and roared off into the sky like a bird of prey.

The minute Ron had the thumbs-up from stone-faced Harry, he went to the ball box and released the Snitch. And for the next quarter of an hour, everything non-Quidditch related flittered out of his head. He got on his own broom and guarded the hoops from Ginny and the two other Chasers, while Frank and Jim Hewitt batted the Bludgers away from Harry, who was flying around at top speed so as not to lose momentum. Harry caught the Snitch after a quick dive and the practice was over.

Everyone trudged off the field, huffing, steaming, and sweating, but mostly exhilarated. The practice had gone very well, and now that the sun had set it was time for showers, dinner, homework, and bed. Harry and Ron let the younger ones run ahead of them into Gryffindor Tower, even though Ron said, "Oi! No running on the stairs!" Ginny, however, was a new Prefect, beginning her prep work for OWLS, and completely annoyed with their behavior.

"OI!" she yelled, with much more force than Ron. "NO RUNNING!"

The rest of the team all tried to slow down at once and crashed into each other. They were just picking themselves up off the stone floor and groaning when Ginny really let them have it.

"AND IF ANY OF YOU WALK INTO THE GREAT HALL AND STINK, TEN POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR! NOW HIT THE SHOWERS, ALL OF YOU!"

They stared at her for a moment with their mouths hanging open.

Marjorie McClintock, a tiny third-year Chaser with a soft speaking voice and considerable talent, stammered "Y-Y-Yes, ma'am. Come on, everyone."

They formed a neat line of four people and marched up the stairs like ducklings, Ginny bringing up the rear. The Captain and the Seeker just stared.

"Damn," said Harry, impressed by this display.

Ron just laughed. He clapped Harry on the shoulder. Harry did not smile, but he didn't push Ron away, either, so they both climbed the stairs – one working out logistics even as he grinned, and the other blissfully unaware.

When they reached their dormitory, Ron told Harry he could have the first shower. He needed a moment to get his shaving things together.

Harry knew that at one point in the distant past he would have laughed and made some crack about Ron's peach-fuzz colony. (Ron had discovered a single hair growing on his chin two days ago, and was convinced that this officially made him a man.) But there just didn't seem to be any point in laughing at Ron right now. The hot water beckoned, and his stomach grumbled. He realized that the sooner he showered, the sooner he could go down to the Great Hall and gobble up a tasty shepherd's pie.

Mmmm. Pie, Harry thought as he stripped off his stinky t-shirt and training pants, stepped out of his trainers, and took off his socks. Then came his underwear, although not willingly. He had to practically peel it off. He did this with his back to Ron –modesty was still a virtue, after all, even though they usually dressed next to each other in the changing rooms.

He quickly grabbed a towel which some thoughtful house-elf had left at the end of his bed, wrapped it around his midsection, grabbed his meager shower supplies and made for the left bathroom. The Gryffindor sixth-years had earned the right to semi-private showers, instead of the communal ones on the fourth floor, so their dormitory now boasted two bathrooms. The left one served Harry and Ron. The right one was slightly bigger and served Dean, Neville, and Seamus.

"I'll hurry," Harry said, and closed the door.

"Oh, please don't," muttered Ron, as soon as he was alone.

The room was silent, save him, but every noise seemed to have jumped in volume about six decibels. He heard Harry thumping around in the bathroom, a muffled curse as he stubbed his toe on something, and only relaxed when he heard the soft flump of a towel hitting the floor and a spray of water.

The countdown had begun. Harry was very fast in the bathroom. He always had been, and usually this was just one more trait that endeared him to Ron. After all, he had shared a bathroom with Ginny "One Hour Shower" Weasley for way too long. He was quite grateful to be roommates with a bloke who knew that a shower was for cleaning yourself up, not relaxing or singing or "finding your happy place," or any such rubbish.

That water would keep going for three minutes, tops. Ron launched himself at Harry's bed and began to pick through his filthy workout clothes, and finally found his training pants. The back left pocket was holding something very hard and square. Ron drew it out.

It was indeed what he had thought: a silver hip flask, with a gorgeous engraving of a Phoenix on one side. He had to stop himself from whistling, because as drinking artillery went, this thing was truly a work of art. He gently shook it. Something sloshed around inside it, and it was way too heavy and gooey to be pumpkin juice.

He ran to his night stand and ripped open his odds-and-ends drawer, filled to the brim with rubber bands, various pieces of twisted metal, interesting rocks he'd found, and a whole bunch of tiny flagons with stoppers … novelty items that Fred and George had given him over the summer. When the flagons were opened, they released something amusing, and then could be used to store things.

Hoping against hope that he hadn't picked an exploding one, Ron grabbed the nearest flagon, used his hip to close the drawer again, and uncorked it one-handed. A misty green dragon shot out, turned its beady yellow eyes on Ron, and growled. Then it reared back (Ron gasped) and instead of breathing fire … sprayed water in his face. Ron sputtered and then frowned at the creature through his now dripping fringe. The dragon pointed at him with one clawed hand, laughed a low, growly, reptilian laugh, and disappeared.

"Stupid dragon," Ron muttered.

But at least the damn thing had been reasonably quiet, and now the flagon was empty. He quickly uncapped Harry's flask, and poured out a tiny bit of violently purple stuff into his minuscule container. It was the consistency of watery honey. Ron was very careful not to spill. He corked the flagon, put it under his pillow, and capped Harry's flask again.

The water stopped.

Heart pounding, he thrust Harry's flask back into his pants pocket and messed up the clothes again. Not a moment too soon. Harry wandered out of the bathroom with his towel around his waist, accompanied by a trail of steam. His glasses were completely fogged, so he didn't see Ron back away from his bed. By the time he stretched, wiped off his glasses and nodded to indicate the bathroom was free, Ron had gathered up his supplies and was pulling his t-shirt off over his head.

"Go ahead," said Harry.

"Thanks," Ron mumbled.

He headed for the bathroom, trying to look as unsuspicious as he could. Harry's voice stopped him at the door.

"Er, Ron? You're all wet."

Oh, shit. "Yes. Yes I am," Ron said, and covered his nervousness with a laugh. "Fred and George sent me a dragon that sprays you with water and disappears. Thought I'd try it out, since I was getting in the shower, anyway."

This wasn't exactly the truth, but it came close enough. Harry, fortunately, seemed to buy it. He gave a non-committal "hmm" and began to throw his dirty laundry in the hamper … except for his pants, which were still on the bed.

Ron ran in, stripped, showered quickly, and burst out a few minutes later, heading for his bed and trying to control his shakes. Both boys changed into clean clothes. Harry seemed to be as quiet as he usually was these days, but it wasn't doing anything for Ron's nerves. As the seconds ticked by, he grew more desperate. Harry was throwing on a jumper, still in full sight of his bed. There was no way he could snag the flask now without Harry seeing and getting suspicious. And he knew he they would leave together, as was their habit. Damn it!

But suddenly, inspiration struck. Ron deliberately put on only a shirt, and walked out with Harry. They padded down to the Great Hall in companionable silence, Harry lost in thought and Ron waiting for his moment.

Halfway down the stairs, Ron decided it was time to make his move. He groaned.

Harry turned to him. "What?"

"I forgot," Ron said, putting on his best 'absent-minded-friend' voice. "It's cold in the Great Hall and I forgot my jumper. Honestly, it's like a little bit leaks out every day," he said, tapping his head. "I have to go back to the Tower. See you in a bit?"

"Sure, all right," said Harry, and continued on his way.

Ron watched his friend lope off down the stairs. Then he whipped around and made time for the dormitory. If Harry had discovered the flagon while he was in the shower, it was all over …

But it seemed it was not. Ron burst into the room, nearly hyperventilating, and lifted his pillow. Miracle of miracles, the flagon full of purple goo was still there. He pocketed it. Thank Merlin for a little dumb luck and a lot of ingenuity. Now all he had to do was meet Hermione tonight in the library and give her the sample for analysis.

He quickly grabbed his jumper and pulled it on as he left. His heart no longer pounding, his breathing no longer labored, he realized that he had just possibly pulled off the sneakiest thing he had ever done. But there was no time to gloat. He smoothed down his flaming red hair, blew out a deep breath, and shut the dormitory door.

Dinner was calling.

TBC