Reviewers! Infall, thanks as always for your support. Here's more! Shiba – Thanks for the review! I do apologize if the last chapter felt odd. I'm guessing it was the juxtaposition of the humorous (Snape falling face-first into batshit) with the serious (Harry half-dead on the bathroom floor) that did it. Anyway, glad you enjoyed the Snape stuff. That poem was fun to write. And while I had no intention of channeling that South Park moment with Harry at all, I'm glad that while it reminded you of it, you didn't laugh. Yay! Mark hit! Angel, thanks again for your song (and support), and for catching stuff and getting me to fix it. Hooray! The name Erring, incidentally, is indicative of this particular professor's general intelligence and behavior in social situations – he does nothing but make mistakes. Glad you enjoyed the staff room and cavern bits. I liked writing both. Cheshire – here it is! Enjoy. Stahchild: Hey, haven't seen you in a while! Glad you came back. The issue you brought up will certainly be dealt with. Good luck with all those author alerts. Sailor X1: Hey, thanks for coming around! I really appreciate it. Thanks also for the praise. strokes happily puffed ego, which purrs Here's more. Kiwi, :D glad you're enjoying. Yeah, there was a lot of Harry last time, but then again, last time was all about Harry's problem. Ron and Hermione take over in this chapter. As to your question: Hermione slipped the potion into Harry's drink by using Ron as a diversion (Harry talks to him, turns his head away from his juice, and the rest is history). And Harry never got wise to it because a) the potion is odorless, colorless, and tasteless, and b) he was too sick to think straight. Should that be in there somewhere, or is it clear enough without it? O de-facto beta, I beg thee. Give me a sign! Cheers. Freja! Glad you're back, dear. Good luck with those test results and thanks, as always, for the support.

"Things fall apart, the center cannot hold…" The Second Coming, William Butler Yeats

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Cry

"Hermione, it's been almost an hour."

Ron hadn't seen Harry since the other boy had gone off for a wash. Playing chess with himself had grown old … so old in fact that he was actually studying to keep his head. He marked his place in his Transfiguration book and glanced up at Hermione.

"I know," she said, looking a bit strained, and put her Charms book down with a sigh. "I'm tired of waiting for this explosion, but the article said it wasn't safe to approach until after it happened! What should we do?"

"Tch. 'The article said, the article said,'" Ron parroted snidely, standing up. "I'm tired of hearing about what the article says! My gut says let's go up and get Harry."

He tossed his text on the couch and left the common room.

"Ron, wait!" said Hermione, abandoning her book and grabbing the extra blanket she'd brought down from her room.

They climbed the stairs to the sixth-year dormitory, Ron leading by a considerable margin and Hermione muttering under her breath.

"Harry?" Ron called, banging open the door.

There was no response. Hermione had arrived by then, and she and Ron just stared at each other. Together, they walked through the silent dormitory, over to the left bathroom.

"Harry!" Ron yelled, knocking on the door. "Hey Harry, what are you doing, pickling yourself? Open up!"

"Harry, are you in there?" Hermione called, a bit desperately.

Silence. They put their ears to the door.

"I don't hear anything," said Ron after a bit.

"I do," Hermione said grimly, her face quickly losing color. "Running water."

Running water… No reply…

Ron let off a hefty curse and grabbed his wand from his bed. "Right, stand back, Hermione! Alo –"

"AAAAAAH!"

The scream from behind the door stopped Ron mid-word.

"Harry!" Hermione shouted.

There was no sound after that, but a powerful shockwave of magic, clearly coming from the bathroom, didn't need a "bang" to do its work. Ron and Hermione screamed as they were lifted up and flung back in either direction. Ron went flying into one of his bedposts, cracked his head on it, and slid down to the floor with a moan. Hermione was not lifted nearly as much; she smashed her back painfully into Neville's trunk at the end of his bed. But the blast picked her up just enough to summersault her over it, and she ended up in a heap on Neville's duvet, blinking at his canopy with tearing eyes and groaning.

"Hermione?" Ron panted.

"Yes?" she called back.

"I think … I think that was your explosion."

"Brilliant deduction, Ron," she scathed through gritted teeth, and found her wand. "Alohomora!"

The door of the bathroom swung open. Swearing and muttering, both of them picked themselves up and headed towards it.

At 9:30 in the evening, Snape was waiting in Dumbledore's office. The headmaster had been about to Legilimize the bats that morning when he was called away on Order business – something about Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin coming back from a mission in terrible shape. Snape hated Lupin on principle, but knowing Tonks, she and her inherent clumsiness were undoubtedly to blame for whatever mishap had occurred.

In any case, Dumbledore had finally returned from sorting everything out. And Snape, rather than complain of the delay, had used the intervening time to his advantage by brewing up several essential potions and dealing with the actions of some of his students. Somehow, that wretched poem had escaped from Minerva's pocket and the Gryffindors had been adding to it. The Slytherins, on the pretext of being "so very angry about the whole thing," had resorted to hexing the hell out of them.

Normally, Snape would have feigned ignorance and let this continue, but he had the misfortune to witness Draco Malfoy fire a hex at Colin Creevey which caused the other boy to spout blood from his nose, mouth, and both ears. He dealt with it easily. Creevey was dispatched to the hospital wing, Malfoy was given five points for quality spellwork, and Theodore Nott got detention for it, although he was nowhere near the scene.

He was just pondering what sort of detention to give Nott when Dumbledore stepped into his office.

"Ah, Severus," he said wearily. It had clearly been a long day, and he didn't look to be in the mood for small talk, which was perfect because small talk was another thing Snape hated on principle. "Shall we get down to business?"

"Yes, let's."

Dumbledore nodded as he sat down at his desk. "Very well. Accio Barbara!"

One of the bats went zooming into Dumbledore's outstretched hand with a small squeak. Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Barbara?"

"That is her name," Dumbledore replied evenly. "I did a quick scan for it this morning before I left."

Snape wanted to protest at Dumbledore's having done anything without him, but he kept silent. The old man was peering intently at the little bat in his hands. It was a middle-aged bat, with tall ears, a squashed face, and lacy wings, all black, which contrasted nicely with her brown-grey fur. Indeed, "Barbara" looked just like any other Pipistrelle. She chittered at him and then went quiet.

After a moment, Dumbledore released her and she flapped off to roost on a nearby chandelier, her flight path a bit wonky.

"She was the scout that brought back the other two in the cavern," Dumbledore said. "She didn't observe anything."

Snape leaned back in his chair, only to raise an eyebrow again as Dumbledore said, "Accio Bruce!"

He repeated the same process with this other bat, obviously older than Barbara, (its fur had gone more grey than brown) and then let it go, too. He shook his head as it flapped off, struggling to maintain course.

"Bruce was watching that evening, but he appears to have been on a moth break during your incident," Dumbledore explained. "He didn't see anything. Accio Terrence!"

"Terrence" was a juvenile bat, a tiny little thing, and he went sailing into Dumbledore's hands with a merry, "Chirry-chirry-chee!" Evidently he thought this whole flying-without-wings business was great fun. Snape inexplicably felt the corners of his lips pricking up.

Dumbledore focused his attention on the young bat and looked into its shiny black eyes. The bat chittered at him once, confused, and then stared back in silence. Dumbledore focused his attention on the bat for what seemed like an interminably long time to Snape. Then suddenly he rose, released the bat (which flapped off just as clumsily as the other two), and strode to a nearby cabinet.

"Sir?" Snape asked, wondering what was going on.

Dumbledore ignored him. He remained with his back to Snape as he took out his own Pensieve, touched the tip of his wand to his forehead and pulled out a big fat strand of thought, which he plopped heavily into the stone bowl of swirling mist. In a flourish of robes, he walked back over to his desk and set the bowl between them, only to seat himself regally, cross his arms, and turn something like a death glare on Snape. He appeared to be highly displeased about something. Snape could hardly imagine what.

"I collected this fascinating memory from young Terrence," Dumbledore announced, his words clipped and angry. "Look in the Pensieve, and then explain yourself."

Snape blanched.

Ron and Hermione staggered into the bathroom, wincing from their rough landings. Hermione had an extra blanket over one shoulder. They both looked around, and, as one, took in the details. Round glasses on the sink. Towel on the floor. Running shower. Full toilet. The room was poorly lit, the smell overpowering.

And the cause of all this was crumpled into a nude, unmoving ball on the floor.

"Harry!" Hermione screamed, shoving Ron back and running over.

She skidded to a halt next to Harry and dropped to her knees beside him to take his pulse. Behind her, Ron took in a breath and held it as she felt Harry's neck with her fingertips. Thump, thump, thump. It was there, slow and steady, but rather weak. Harry took a visible breath. So did Hermione. She turned to Ron.

"He's alive."

Ron just nodded. He stood frozen in the doorway, looking red as a tomato, evidently embarrassed at seeing his best friend without any clothes on. Then he quickly began taking care of the bathroom fixtures and cleaning up, turned completely away from Harry and Hermione.

Hermione just let him go about his business. Harry needed her attention now. Her skinny, gangly friend looked even skinnier and ganglier naked, and goosebumps were rising all over him. It was freezing in here. She performed a quick cleaning charm on Harry and started wrapping him up in the blanket she brought; he was limp and unhelpful.

She turned Harry on his back, gently uncurling his limbs. Unfortunately, that revealed everything before she could cover him up – or look away. She felt her face heat, but at least Ron hadn't seen. He was now swearing at the shower, trying to turn off the water; the lion-headed tap didn't seem to be in the mood to follow instructions.

Not knowing what else to do, Hermione sat on the floor and pulled Harry close to her. She was at once hit with the warm, nice smell of clean teenage wizard, unfortunately mixed with the faint odor of shit and vomit. It made her wrinkle her nose.

"Ron, cast an air freshening charm, would you?" she asked.

"Er … yeah. Right away," said Ron.

A swish and flick and muttered incantation later, and the whole bathroom smelled powerfully of daisies. Ron had just convinced the tap to shut off when Harry moaned. The skin was crinkling around his closed eyes. Hermione looked down in surprise. Ron spun around.

"Harry?" Hermione asked softly.

Ron squatted nearby. Harry moaned again and blearily cracked open his eyelids.

There were voices above him, but they were muffled, like someone was talking through a wall. The touch, though, was what did it. Someone was untangling his frozen limbs, wrapping him up in a warm blanket and holding him close. Harry had no recollection of ever being held like this by anyone, not even Mrs. Weasley.

It felt good. Really good.

It was Hermione who was holding him. He knew it by her warm breath in his ear, her soft voice calling his name. Somehow, her presence didn't surprise him. And that was when Harry finally remembered, all in a rush, the difference between good and bad, joy and pain. It was a physical thing, an intense crush of forgotten knowledge that played across the muscles in his torso and made them dance. His head hurt. His ears ached. Anger, happiness, love, surprise, desperation … something was pressing all his emotional buttons at once. It was confusing at first. And then suddenly it was very, very funny.

"Harry, are you all right?" Hermione asked worriedly, peering into her friend's bloodshot green eyes.

Stupid question, Hermione realized. She figured that merited a snort from Harry, so she wasn't that alarmed when he snorted, and then began to snicker. The only problem was that he couldn't seem to stop. Harry laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more. Ron looked visibly alarmed at this; he stood suddenly and backed off. Hermione had her arms full, so that option was out. She stayed perfectly still and held on, rubbing lazy circles on one of Harry's shoulders.

Harry laughed until he coughed, until he began to tear up, until he was laughing so hard he was crying, until his laughter dried up and nothing was left but the tears rolling silently down his face. His expression had turned bleak, his normally bright eyes dark with horror and guilt. It was in that instant that Hermione figured out what was happening: the final release of the Fizz was causing both of Harry's emotional poles to swing back into focus – first the positive, and now the negative. The terrible memories and painful emotions of June, buried or ignored, had come flooding back.

And Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the strongest person Hermione knew, turned his head, buried his face in her shirt, and wept helplessly.

Hermione tried to soothe him, but her shushing sound escaped through clenched teeth. Her own eyes were stinging. She never knew another person's pain could make her own heart twist so hard. She bent her head over Harry, her bushy brown hair shielding his head from view, and held her best friend close as he fell apart.

"Sirius. Sirius!"

He grabbed a fistful of her collar, and she felt rather than heard his moan, his grief so profound that it rattled her ribcage. She kept her head down, resting her cheek on the back of Harry's neck. And she didn't dare look at Ron as she began to rock Harry back and forth, almost imperceptibly. To his credit, Harry refrained from wailing outright, but he kept mumbling Sirius's name over and over, his face in her shirt, which was getting damp.

He didn't calm down for what seemed like a very long time. But finally the sobs had dwindled, and seemed safe to move a little. Hermione peeked out from between her split ends. Ron was crouched down and lurking about a foot away, wide-eyed and confused, like a frightened forest creature near a campfire. Hermione took pity on him.

"Go turn down Harry's bed, would you, Ron?" she said quietly. "Wait outside until I call for you."

Ron nodded dumbly and crept out of the bathroom, leaving Hermione alone with Harry. She sighed and continued to wait. Harry chuffed against her. He wasn't gripping her exactly, but his right arm was flung up and over her shoulder. He'd shifted it at some point. It suddenly dawned on her that Harry was getting rather heavy. At least he wasn't crying so hard anymore. He was only hiccoughing into her shirt at intervals now.

"It's all right, Harry," Hermione mumbled to the side of his head, pulling some of the blanket over his legs and feet. "You're safe. Just lie back and let go. Come on, fall on me. It's all right."

"It hurts," said Harry, the words strained and quiet and muffled in Hermione's shirt. "It hurts so much."

The pat answer to this was "I know," but Hermione, in that moment, felt she did not know, and prayed she never would. She said nothing. Two tears plopped down her cheeks and splashed onto Harry's tangled, sweaty mop of black hair. Fortunately, she could feel him starting to relax in her arms – probably more out of exhaustion than anything else, but it was something.

The front of her shirt was nearly soaked. Her arms were aching from Harry's weight. Then again, two-ton limbs were easier to handle than a bereft wizard in the throes of a nervous breakdown. She ignored the wetness and welcomed the pain. His forehead was knocking against her collarbone now, hot breath from his nose shooting pleasantly down the front of her nightshirt. He took gulps of air and fidgeted a little, too tired and ill to squirm effectively. Hermione adjusted her own position slightly.

It seemed that things had finally calmed down.

"Ron?" she called out.

Footsteps, and suddenly Ron was in the doorway. "Bed's ready," he announced. "Shall I carry him?"

Hermione nodded. Harry didn't even offer a token protest as Ron lifted him out of Hermione's arms and carried him out of the bathroom. Hermione picked herself up off the floor and followed, snagging Harry's glasses along the way and furiously wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

Snape pulled out of Dumbledore's Pensieve with dread. He'd heard rather than seen the whole conversation, because young Terrence had closed his eyes against the glare when the lights went on, but the exchange itself… Well, it confirmed what he'd suspected all along – Potter was acting strangely (due to Vivus Vitae), Granger had Obliviated him and Weasley had brained him. But now he had the whole story. Those little brats had taken egregious measures against him with terrifyingly good reason.

The facts were undeniable. In a fit of rage, he had Legilimized a defenseless student for information. And worse, he charged into his classroom the following morning, remembering nothing, and demanding that very thing all over again! Snape hung his head. Oh, if only he had let this matter drop! Let Albus think he had a drinking problem … let the whole damned school agree! He would rather check into the nearest clinic for a week than allow the headmaster think him a danger to the students here. If he got the sack, if he wasn't here, he couldn't even think about the fate of the students of Slytherin House.

But it was too late to speak in "if onlys." He'd mentioned and caught the stupid bats, utterly convinced they would prove his innocence, and here he was, being held up as the guilty party. He snorted at the irony. Well, he'd gotten himself into this mess. It was up to him to get himself out.

"Well?" Dumbledore demanded, leaning over his desk at Snape.

Snape settled against his chair, steepled his fingers in front of him, and surveyed the headmaster. He needed to tread carefully and stay calm.

"As you saw, I was attacked," he began.

"Yes you were," Dumbledore interrupted sarcastically, which rather alarmed Snape. "It gives a stupid old man cause to wonder why. Honestly, Severus, what the hell were you thinking? Legilimizing Miss Granger? For shame!"

"It was late," Snape said smoothly, and pushed through his story before Dumbledore could cut in again. "I was discombobulated and exhausted, I caught the girl attempting to raid my stores, and instead of explaining herself and accepting her punishment for sneaking, she refused to tell me anything. I snapped. The end."

"NO," said Dumbledore, with considerable force, his blue eyes blazing with an angry light. "Not 'the end.' We have had words before about your disciplinary methods, Severus, but this is the limit! Miss Granger had a right to privacy, despite the late hour and your mood."

That last comment made his blood boil.

"Right to privacy?" Snape exploded. "She gave up that right when she decided to break and enter! Or do you plan to overlook the fact that she is a thief and Ronald Weasley, her cohort, is nothing better than a common thug? You heard them talking afterwards, Albus. Your precious golden Gryffindor prefects didn't give a damn that they'd just broken rules and attacked me. They were more concerned about getting away with it!"

Snape didn't remember standing up in the middle of this, but was on his feet shouting now, as was Dumbledore, repeatedly attempting to cut across him. So much for calm.

"Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley will be punished," Dumbledore said sternly, finally getting a word in. "But in retrospect, I can understand their actions. They were trying to help their friend."

"Ah yes, their friend," Snape spat, a tic starting in a vein on his neck, "The great and powerful Harry Potter, who seems to be consistently at the center of trouble around here. The drug addict," he added, over Dumbledore's ruffled snort. "I stand by what I said on Wednesday night. That twit can't go around taking illegal draughts, and he should be expelled for it!"

"Mr. Potter will be dealt with!" Dumbledore announced.

"Oh, really? When?" Snape shot back.

"Immediately," Dumbledore volleyed. "And once I'm through with the Gryffindors, I will figure out a suitable action to take with you. Come, we'll go to Gryffindor Tower. If Harry has been taking Vivus Vitae, there is bound to be some evidence of it."

With that, Dumbledore swept from his office, Snape in tow. They were off to catch some rogue students. But while snaring those brats would be quite satisfying, Snape nibbled nervously at his bottom lip. Dumbledore was going to take action with him? Oh, that couldn't be good.

Hermione came out of the bathroom just as Ron was laying Harry down on the bed, wrapped loosely in the blanket. She noted with grim approval that he'd dimmed most of the lights in the room, turned the bed down, and gotten out a pair of Harry's underpants and pajamas. Then Ron caught her eyes, his cheeks flushing. He was clearly dead set against seeing a Potter centerfold if he could help it.

"Erm, Hermione, could you …?" He motioned at the heap of clothes next to Harry and trailed off, turning quite red.

Hermione nodded, setting Harry's glasses on his night table and performing a drying charm on her shirt. "Sure."

Ron turned around in relief and left her to her work, which she completed quickly. Harry was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open, and by the time he had the strength to mumble "Hey!" at the intrusion, Hermione was fastening the last button of his pajama shirt and re-wrapping him in the spare blanket.

"You can look now, Ron," Hermione said, and Ron came over to join her.

In spite of their efforts, Harry was still a sad sight. His face was pale and drawn and there were bags under his eyes. Hermione began to pull the covers up to his chin.

"Bassard," Harry slurred suddenly in Ron's direction.

Ron raised an eyebrow and looked at Hermione in befuddlement.

"Don't call Ron names, Harry, it's not nice," she chided gently as she tucked him in, positive it was the exhaustion and dehydration talking.

"Ron's not nice," Harry complained, this time with a touch more clarity. "Idiot blew my trousers off. Made them disappear."

At any other time, a comment like that would have made Ron smile. Now, though, it was cause for worry. He leaned over and whispered in Hermione's ear.

"'Mione, when are we going to tell him?"

"In the morning," she hissed back.

"But …"

"In the morning."

They broke apart and saw an annoyed, sleepy Harry, who seemed to have missed their exchange. He was exhibiting a bizarre combination of facial expressions: knitted eyebrows, half-closed eyes, and a frown. Hermione continued fixing his blankets and nestling him securely in bed.

"Don't worry about it, Harry," she said. "Ron will figure out a way to find them." (Ron rolled his eyes at this.) "In the meantime, you need to drink some water. You lost a lot of liquid back there in the bathroom."

This seemed to slightly appease Harry, who managed to un-stick his face and raised a wary eyebrow at her for a long moment. "All right," he said grudgingly.

"All right indeed," Hermione replied, giving Ron a significant look.

Ron went to the window and poured Harry a glass of cool water from the jug. Hermione got her hand underneath Harry's neck and lifted his head slightly so he could drink, and Ron held the glass to his lips. He managed a few gulps, and then Ron reached across him and set the glass on his night stand next to his glasses.

Hermione smiled down at him. It was imperative that he get some real rest, and soon. The worst of the withdrawl was over. Harry needed to recuperate from his two days of hell so he could be back in class on Monday, and he had what he needed: warmth, friends, and quiet. Ron seemed to sense that his job was done for the moment. He walked around Harry's bed and stretched out on his own.

Hermione, however, decided to join Harry on his bed. She sat down on his left, cross-legged, and blocked most, but not all, of the moonlight coming in through the window. Harry blinked up at her.

"Stupid Ron," he mumbled.

"Harry, you'll get them back, I promise," she said.

"Those were nice trousers," he said blankly, and it was very clear that something was welling up inside him and it had nothing to do with losing his clothes. "I liked them."

"I know," she whispered, and ran a hand through his messy hair.

A change had come over Harry. He was looking at Hermione and not quite seeing her, almost as though he were staring through her head. She comforted herself by declaring silently that the potion was out of him, and the withdrawl was nearly over. The moonlight caught Harry's dull eyes and gave them an otherworldly glow.

"Everything's a mess," he said.

Hermione said nothing. She looked down at his duvet and waited, because she knew what Harry was talking about. He wasn't talking about the mess he'd made in the loo, or the mess Ron had made of his trousers. He was talking about the mess that was his life. And she recognized that quiver in his voice; she'd only heard it once before. It was 4th year, in the hospital wing, when he blamed himself for Cedric Diggory's death and buried his face in Mrs. Weasley's blouse. The memory made her chest constrict.

Harry, for his part, just stared at Hermione, exhausted, unhappy, and overwhelmed. And the thing he'd guarded himself from saying since June finally emerged in a coherent sentence.

"Sirius is gone," he said. His voice was ragged and breathy, more air than sound.

"Yes he is," Hermione said. "And it was a huge loss for us all."

Harry was hardly listening to her. He shook his head, licked his lips, willed his vocal chords to work for him, and tried mold what he felt into words.

"Why does everyone … have to leave me?" he asked.

The silence was deafening.

Harry blinked once and a tear got loose. Hermione watched it fall down his cheek and drip onto the pillow; she was completely at sea. A look at Ron, who was looking back at her in bewilderment, told her she was not alone in her helplessness. She put a hand on Harry's forehead and began to rub a thumb over his scar.

"Oh, Harry," she said.

They stayed like that for a very long time. Every once in a while Harry would ask quiet questions that he knew had no answer, and occasionally some tears would fall, but Ron and Hermione didn't say a word. Apparently, though, this was just the ticket, because it seemed Harry had finally realized what they'd hoped he would: that nothing he wondered, nothing he did, would ever leave this room.

A few minutes later, he had stopped. Somewhere in the middle of all this, Hermione had lain down on her side next to him, her thumb still on his forehead, the rest of her hand now tangled in his unruly hair. Her other arm was draped across his belly.

"You know all those questions you asked were rubbish, don't you? Because I can think of two people who would never leave you," she said.

Harry sniffed once. "Pardon?"

"Ron and I love you," she said simply. "And we aren't going anywhere. Either we all make it through this war or we go down together, but come what may, we're not leaving you, Harry."

Harry stared at Hermione for a moment. Even scrubbed as raw on the inside as he was, he realized that she was telling the truth. He could see it in her eyes. It terrified him that she was so convinced everything would turn out all right, and he felt even worse for not telling her about the prophecy, although the day was fast approaching when he could no longer avoid the conversation.

"She's right, mate," he heard, from far away. It was Ron. "We're sticking to you like glue. Just close your eyes, now, there's a lad. We'll see you in the morning."

"And if you wake before then, we'll be here," Hermione finished. "Go to sleep, Harry. Everything will be all right."

The quiet voices of his friends, the warm blankets, the cool water, and the rhythmic movement of Hermione's thumb on his forehead had all worked their own secret magic. Harry did as he was asked.

Harry had been breathing evenly for several minutes before Hermione plucked up the nerve to gently extricate her hand from his tangled mop. She did so, got off his bed, and looked up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 10. Stretching and yawning, she wandered over to Ron's bed, taking care not to step on the squeaky spots on the floor.

Ron was lounging on a pillow and reading a Quidditch magazine. He scooted over so she could read over his shoulder by the light of his candle. The light was far enough away from Harry that it wouldn't bother him, and so the two of them sat there in companionable silence, prepared to stand guard until morning. The sixth-years were allowed a midnight curfew on Hogsmeade visits. They really didn't expect any disturbances in the dorm until the bells tolled twelve …

So when Professor Snape and Headmaster Dumbledore burst in at a quarter after ten, it was a bit of a shock.

TBC

Chapter 14 will be here next Tuesday! Stay tuned!

:o)