A/N: Once again, many thanks to Procyon Black!

Chapter 17: A Meeting of Ways

Harry found himself curiously unable to tell whether he was masterfully good at pretending or if he really didn't care anymore how Dumbledore ran his life.

After Harry had left the mirrored room, feeling tired and dull and empty, McGonagall had found him on his way back to Gryffindor Tower and had told him that the headmaster wanted to see him. So he had trudged back to the headmaster's office (fortunately seeing neither Snape nor Cinna on the way there), and had been confronted by a weary but valiantly cheerful Dumbledore.

"Normally you would be taking Care for Magical Creatures," the headmaster had said, pointing at the blank spots on his timetable. "But considering the situation, you will be taking a combination class of Dueling, Healing, and, if necessary, Occlumency." Harry's snake had followed the headmaster's fingers aptly, and several times Harry had had the desire to withdraw his sight from the snake's mind and tell Dumbledore to hurry up and get it over with.

"Who's to be the instructor?"

"It will be Professor Snape."

Professor Snape. Why not 'your father?' Harry digested the information, waiting for and dreading the emotions that would come, but he found himself too tired or too dead to feel anything.

"All right, professor," he said.

He thought Dumbledore was, judging from the infinitesimal pause, more than slightly surprised, but the headmaster recovered quickly.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore beamed. "Now, I believe that last year you were the head of an unofficial club, the Defense Association?"

"Yes, professor," Harry said cautiously.

"Are you planning to continue it?"

Harry opened his mouth. "I… hadn't even thought of it, to be honest. But—no, I don't think so."

"But why not, Harry? We've had some of the highest OWL scores ever. And in times such as these, it is imperative that we are prepared to meet the darkness."

It took Harry a few moments in order to formulate his words. "Professor—you have to be realistic. They'd never follow me, not anymore." Not after they discovered that I'm not really Harry Potter. He tried to imagine it: himself, in the Room of Requirement, speaking to an unlistening crowd, a crowd that only stared and whispered and threw him dark looks.

"At least try, Harry."

Try. He knew about trying, about laboring endlessly and blindly down the path that ended in failure; he knew the despair of trying, the hopelessness.

Dumbledore smiled gently. "What can it hurt?"

Harry almost wanted to reply to that, but he kept his mouth shut and realized, dimly, that there were many things that Dumbledore did not know—and, perhaps, could not know—and this was one of them. But he found himself curiously resigned, almost removed. So he said, "As you wish, then."

"Harry"—said Dumbledore in a stern, commanding sort of voice—"it is not as I wish. It is your choice, and that I will not remove from you."

So he wants me to assure him that it's 'my choice,' Harry thought, the voice in his mind sounding eerily Snape-like. What a load of shit. "It is my choice," Harry said, trying to inject some quality of earnestness in his voice. He let a pause carry through, so that the words would have time to sink in, before asking, "Is that all, professor?"

Dumbledore didn't reply for a long moment, and Harry was suddenly glad that the snake was still looking at the headmaster's clasped hands and not at the penetrating blue eyes.

"Yes, that is all," said Dumbledore. He sounded more grave than usual, and Harry felt slightly uncomfortable—but only slightly. "And if you ever need someone to talk to, my door will be open for you."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, got up, and left.

And now he was wondering how he was going to deal with everything. There was nothing he could do about classes with Snape besides think of them as little as possible and pretend to be dead while Snape grilled him with insults. But to attempt to restart the DA…

"Password?" asked the Fat Lady. Harry couldn't help noticing that her voice was much cooler than he remembered. Had the snake not been fixated by a spider crawling up the wall, he was sure that her face would have reflected the same aloofness.

"Aerinha," Harry said, and the portrait swung open grudgingly.

"—imagine how much he'd've been influenced!"

The voice burst upon him like a bucket of water. Harry glanced to where Ron was speaking and found the redhead like the hub of a wheel, with the spokes of nearly half the Common Room's attention drawn towards him. But as Harry entered, almost everyone's head snapped up, their glances darting to him before quickly flitting away.

"And more," Ron continued obliviously, his voice carrying the infecting quality of a narrative, "remember how a bunch of us disappeared last year? It was because we had been following him to rescue his Death Eater godfather."

Harry froze as though he had walked straight into an invisible wall. As if sensing his presence, Ron stopped and abruptly turned around.

"Potter," Ron said, surprised, before his face twisted into a sneer. Harry found himself almost unable to believe Ron's expression. He had never thought such a look could appear on the face that had once been a palate of good-natured laughing and pouts, sincere sorrow and happiness.

"Ron," he returned as evenly as he could.

"I was just telling everyone about Sirius Black. You know, the one who killed thirteen Muggles in one blast and escaped from Azkaban?"

How dare you bring in Sirius? How dare you— Harry clamped down furiously on the burning tide of emotions before they could crest. "Yes, I'm certainly aware of his existence," he answered coldly. "It would be exceedingly difficult not to be."

"He was your godfather, wasn't he? And you met him and talked to him, even went to visit his house?"

There was a collective murmur. "Black had a house?" one of the first-years whispered.

"Of course," another answered scornfully. "He was a Black. They're even richer and older than the Malfoys! Of course they had a house—probably chock-full of Dark Arts things and stuffed house elf heads…"

"AND," Ron continued, and the crowd quickly hushed, "Harry's broomstick was a Christmas gift from Sirius Black!"

Just as the murmurs rose again, there was a thudding sound from the other end of the room.

"Honestly," Hermione snapped, pushing an enormous, fraying book into her bookbag. She got up and marched across the room. Her hair seemed to lift from her shoulders in her anger, and her back was as rigid as the gleaming blade of a heavy sword. "That Firebolt was checked by both McGonagall and Dumbledore for jinxes or curses, and there were none."

"But Sirius Black might've—"

"Moreover," Hermione interrupted in a very loud voice, "Ronald Weasley's very own owl is from Sirius Black."

A gasp rose from the crowd, and quite a few Gryffindors scampered away from Ron, who glowered awkwardly and looked torn between anger and embarrassment.

"His face resembles the buttocks of a baboon," the snake observed sagely, and it lifted its head to get a better view before Harry hastily pushed it back into the relatively inconspicuous confines of school robes.

"Oh yeah?" Ron shouted. "Granger, your cat talked to Sirius Black!"

"Really," Hermione said in a bored manner, pulling a book out from under an armchair and dumping it into her satchel. "I didn't know wizards had the ability to talk to cats. That's one thing I didn't learn from the papers." She walked up to Harry, and Harry felt her hand reach out to grab his. He tensed, but even before that, she had withdrawn her hand. "Come on, Harry."

Harry followed Hermione as she pushed open the portrait door. "But where—?"

"Library," she answered curtly. "I'll see you later, Ronald!" she shouted as Harry made his way out. "Hopefully you'll have information on the special skill of talking to cats!"

She slammed the door shut and began briskly marching down the hall. Harry hurried after her silently, his longer strides easily catching up with her.

"You can't imagine how annoying it is to be studying with him raving like a madman," Hermione muttered fiercely. "The moment he gets into the Common Room he begins to talk, and all those other idiots believe him like he's some kind of prophet! I don't understand him! And I don't know where Neville or Ginny went. At least the idiocy might've been slightly more balanced."

Harry looked at her silently. He hadn't said a word, and, frankly, he didn't know quite what to say. It… touched him that Hermione would still stand up for him after everything changed. And anyway, after what had happened before they last parted, she was supposed to be mad at him.

"Here, let me carry your books," he said, reaching out a hand.

"Oh, no, I—" Hermione said, but Harry had taken her satchel already and hoisted it over one shoulder.

"What do you have in here?" he asked, and stopped as the snake dipped its head to peer into the bag. "That was rhetorical," he said dryly as the snake languidly righted itself with a haughty sniff.

"Books," Hermione replied simply. They walked a bit more before she continued. "It's horribly frustrating, you know, not to be able to just tell them all that Sirius was innocent and Ron is being a jealous idiot. Honestly, that's the only explanation, isn't it? That he's being bitter and jealous and idiotic… But of what? And he's had five years to get used to it!"

They were nearing the library now. Silence followed them as they walked, but it wasn't an awkward one. It felt like a glove, Harry thought, a perfectly tailored glove, warm and soft on a cold winter day.

"I know what it's like," Harry said. "It just doesn't make sense. But sometimes, it just is. And there's nothing at all we can do about it."

"There's always something," Hermione murmured as they walked in under Madam Pince's glare. "I'm not quite sure I like it."

"Like what?"

"That kind of… mindset. That pretty much leaves no space for free will."

Harry shrugged as they seated themselves. "Free will," he said. "I would've liked to have the free will to choose which mass murderer to be after my head. I might've chosen one slightly less troublesome than Voldemort."

"I'm sure your pre-born soul had no idea what it was getting into," Hermione replied shortly as Harry began to haul out books. "Be careful with that one! Madam Pince said she'd ban me from the library if a single page gets ripped."

Harry frowned at the title. "The Comprehensive Guide to Ministry Rules and Regulations and How to Approach Broken Laws? What are you reading this for?" He looked up. "Don't tell me you're planning to break some more rules?"

"What do you mean, some more? And no, I'm trying to see if there's anything I can do to make Rita Skeeter shut up."

"That's… ambitious," Harry remarked as Hermione continued fishing books out of her satchel.

"There has to be some way to make that horrid woman stop spilling out those lies. And—here we go." She pulled out a familiar tome and laid it on the table. "Let's go over the Age-Reducing Potion first."

Harry was silent for a moment. "Why?" he said neutrally.

"Because that's Snape's assignment for us, and if you'd had time to look over the instructions to the Invisibility Potion you'd definitely have gotten it, no matter how—no matter what." She flushed slightly. "You're not bad at potions at all, you know."

His next words were steely. "Have you been talking to Dumbledore lately?"

"No," she replied, looking both bewildered and somewhat annoyed.

He studied her for a moment as he searched for any untruth, examining the slight furrow of her brow, the curve of her neck, the many little things he'd forgotten while unable to see, or hadn't seen at all before. She was biting her bottom lip, an expression of puzzlement on her face, and her eyes—

She blushed and looked away. "Stop looking— I mean, that is…" She floundered for words. "Your eyes are really green," she finished lamely.

Harry felt his face burn with embarrassment. He must've been staring at her, he realized, both through the snake's mind and with his sightless eyes. "I…" he said. "It's just that Dumbledore was trying to make Snape and me stop killing each other."

"There's nothing wrong with that!" Hermione exclaimed, and quickly lowered her voice when Madam Pince directed a piercing stare in their direction. "As far as I can see, he's the one who's been trying to kill you, not the other way around."

Harry chuckled hollowly and sat back, folding his arms over his chest. He found himself wishing he hadn't brought up this topic. "It hardly matters, whether or not Snape hates me. I have to kill Voldemort anyway."

"Don't think that way! You're not the one who has to do it or—or die trying, or anything stupid like that."

Harry stopped. He hadn't told anyone about the prophecy yet, he realized. The dangers of telling immediately filed through his head—Hermione might get abducted and her knowledge ripped from her; it might leak; it would put massive amounts of people in danger; but another part, weighted down by months of solitude, churned against the walls of the dam. And anyway, he thought, even if Voldemort finds out, he's still going to try to kill me. It's not as though the power that I have and he doesn't is much of a secret anymore.

"Maybe I shouldn't tell you here. There're too many people around."

Hermione glanced around furtively. "I wish I knew some convenient eavesdropping spell," she muttered fretfully.

Harry shrugged. "At this stage, it hardly matters if anyone hears." He leaned forward and Hermione did too until he could feel her breath on his face. "At the end of last year, Dumbledore told me that a prophecy had been made about me—basically it boiled down to this: that I have a power the Dark Lord knows not, and that either of us must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives."

Hermione stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "Wait—what? A prophecy? I mean, I read about prophecies, but I… I thought…" She frowned anxiously. "I thought it broke, didn't it?"

"It did," Harry replied, "But Dumbledore heard the—er—original version, when it was just made." He didn't feel like mentioning Trelawney and having to subsequently justify her prophetic abilities. "There was also a bit about being born as the seventh month dies and being marked as the Dark Lord's equal, but that's all there is. And the prophecy applies to me, not anyone else; Voldemort made sure of that." He saw her gaze flicker to his forehead, and knew she knew what he meant.

Hermione sat back, her frown dissipating. "That's… terrible, Harry. I don't quite know what to think." Her face took on the expression Harry had seen so many times, the expression of furious thought. "So, according to this prophecy, you have to kill Voldemort, or you'll get killed by no one else but him… That's—!"

"Not much different from what my situation is right now," Harry finished for her. "And it pokes a few holes in the whole free will thing, don't you think?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but snapped it shut again. "Whenever you say something like that," she began, speaking hesitantly as though she were considering each word, "I feel like telling you to snap out of it, that you shouldn't be so hopeless or nobly tragic, or anything stupid like that, but then I realize that you're not being that way just to be hopeless or nobly tragic…" She didn't seem to know quite how to continue. "It must… be painful, I imagine."

Harry wished the snake would stop looking at her face and her eyes. It was painful, as she said, and he felt a bit of relief that someone understood, that he wasn't entirely alone; but it was as though he was allowed the sight of welcoming arms but denied their contact. Hermione was right: she could never fully understand it. He didn't blame her, of course, and he hoped she would never have to witness or experience some of the things he did, but… It would be—nice if someone could sit by him with the silent companionship of two that had suffered the same, had fought just as bitterly and carried scars just as deep.

Someone like Snape, he thought coldly and squished the thought with vehemence.

"Everyone hurts every so often," Harry said dismissively. "Anyway, Dumbledore wants me to do the DA again because, apparently, it was a smashing success last year."

"Oh," said Hermione, after a moment's pause. "Well, that's certainly…"

"A manifestation of Dumbledore's decaying cognitive abilities?"

"Harry! Don't say that! But in all honesty, I don't think that—er—there will be as much of a turnout as last year."

"Especially since most students think that I am either Voldemort number two or Snape number two." He shrugged. "Or both."

"Yes, that is something of a problem," she replied testily. "But we'll have to try, won't we? I'll contact everyone. When do you want to meet?"

"Will the day after tomorrow be too soon?"

"I don't think so." She sighed. "I wonder if everyone kept their galleons? I know Ginny and Neville will have, but… Anyway"—she opened the Potions book and flipped through it—"the Age-Detection Potion. The tricky part is that there can be so many variations, and Snape is bound to force you to do an obscure one, you just have to remember the different viable ingredients…"

qpqpqp

The next day was more tolerable than the first, and Harry thought, with a slight feeling of wistfulness, that it probably had to do with the fact that he didn't meet Snape even once.

It helped, too, that Hermione stuck by him wherever he went, and that Neville and Ginny orbited him like two hesitant planets, keeping the miasma of whispers at bay. Even better, neither McGonagall nor Flitwick tried to sabotage his work, though Flitwick seemed slightly nervous as he examined Harry's Disillusionment Charm. Harry couldn't tell whether it was because the snake seemed to be particularly enthusiastic about glaring at the Charms teacher when he approached or whether it was the general air of uneasiness.

Even Defense Against the Dark Arts held no unpleasant surprises. Though Harry felt a vague tenseness whenever he was in Cinna's proximity, and the monkey-like smile still bothered him, nothing really happened.

But after they left the classroom, Harry again having waited until the crowd had passed, he noticed Draco making his way down the hall, his head bowed and shoulders slumped, with Crabbe whispering things at every step; and it seemed, with every word, that Draco would stiffen more and more until Harry thought he might break.

Hermione was looking at him inquiringly. "Harry?"

He glanced about quickly: there was nobody else left. "You go on without me," he said. "I've a bit of stuff to do."

Hermione glanced hesitantly at Draco and opened her mouth as though to chide him or demand an explanation, but she decided against it. "I'll see you later then," she said and left reluctantly.

As soon as Hermione was gone, Harry darted down the corridor, moving as swiftly and silently as a bird's shadow over water.

"…want you anymore, Draco," Crabbe muttered in his stupid, guttural voice. "You're no use to Him. He wants me to tell you that since your father is in disgrace."

Harry moved up until he was an arm's length away. "Are you serving as Voldemort's messenger, Crabbe?"

Both Slytherins jumped, though Harry thought—or hoped—that there was a light of pleased surprise in Draco's eyes before they returned to their expressionless grey.

"Potter," Crabbe said, blinking. "My Master had a message to you, too. It was—it was—"

"I'm not interested in hearing it," Harry snapped. He drew himself to his full height (which he realized now was quite impressive), and crossed his arms over his chest. "Perhaps you would like to deliver it to Professor Dumbledore?"

Crabbe goggled for a long moment. "You look like Snape," he blurted out at last.

Harry felt a flash of—something that ended with anger before he jabbed a finger down the corridor and roared, "GO!" For good effect, Harry felt the snake about his neck raise its head and hiss menacingly.

Crabbe started, a look of fear crossing his face, and mutely obeyed.

"Good riddance," Harry muttered. He turned at last to Draco. "So. Draco." He paused, and felt the silence begin to cool and accumulate awkwardness, like a bucket of warm water set in snow. Draco kept his eyes averted and his face hardened.

Harry wondered what he could say. Remember me? sounded trite and stupid. Why aren't you talking to me? sounded whiney and plaintive. So he said, "Crabbe really is an idiot, isn't he?"

"What do you know?" Draco muttered fiercely. "You never spent any time with him. You-Know-Who should've chosen him instead of Goyle. Goyle was actually—not as stupid."

"What's happened with Goyle?"

"He's—missing." Draco sneered with effort. "Didn't you notice? Or were you too blinded by your Gryffindor lapdogs?"

"Lapdogs? I think you're a bit behind the times, Draco. Most of the school wishes I were dead—especially the Gryffindors."

Draco sneered again. "What do you know?" he demanded.

"We've got quite a bit more in common than you'd think," Harry said quietly.

Draco deflated. Without the sneer, his face looked several years younger, almost like a little boy's, wavering at the edge of manhood. He seemed frail, and Harry found himself wondering what the Malfoys were like within their glittering citadels of pride and money.

"I should be mad at you," Draco said dully, "for not telling me who you really were. And I am mad at you." He looked up with glittering eyes. "My father pushed me aside to get to you."

Harry digested the words and felt sadness well up in him, sadness and pity. But he struck down at the pity: Draco would have liked that least of all. "I'm sorry. But there's nothing I can do about your father." He mustered a grim sort of smile. "If it's any consolation, my father hates me too, and far more than yours hates you. If there were a spell to switch affections… What?"

Draco was giving him a withering look. "You're such an idiot, Potter."

"Uh…"

"Never mind," Draco said dismissively. The moment of weakness from a few seconds ago had flashed away like yet another mask. "I'm leaving now. If I'm to preserve any bit of my reputation, which has fallen considerably ever since the damned Ministry froze our assets, I'd better not be seen next to you, Potter."

"All right," Harry said resignedly as Draco began his way down the corridor. "Wait!"

Draco stopped, his poise having some of the old hauteur. "What is it?"

"There's going to be a meeting tomorrow for a Defense Association club. Will you come?"

Draco made a face. "Are you mad? I'm not about to waltz into a nest of idiot Gryffindors."

"I'll be very surprised if there are more Gryffindors than Slytherins," Harry said dryly. "Anyway, it'll be on the seventh floor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. If you walk back and forth and wish hard enough for a room to appear, you'll see a door."

"That sounds rather complicated," Draco said, frowning. "What if nothing appears?"

"It will if you concentrate hard enough," Harry said. "I expect you can do it," he tossed in coolly, as a semi-serious gauntlet, which, judging from Draco's look of disdain, was recognized and rather hesitatingly gripped.

"Right," said Draco. "I might see you later, then."

"All right."

Draco turned around again, but before he left, Harry called out again. "One last thing!"

Draco crossed his arms and looked back expectantly.

"I'm still gwalchgwyn," he said and attempted a smile. Draco stared back at him stoically before he returned with a faint, very faint, smile. Then he left, walking unhurriedly down the hall.

"Such disrespect to the Heir of his house," the snake muttered resentfully. Harry didn't reply, but watched Draco leave. It was, he thought, the first time he could remember Draco Malfoy walking alone with the unbending Malfoy poise without sneaking about or being shielded by an orbiting crowd.

qpqpqp

"So did you manage to find a lot of the DA members?" Harry asked, before Hermione could ask him about what he had been doing in that corridor while Malfoy was still there.

"Yes," Hermione replied, scribbling away at a parchment of Arithmancy problems. They were in the library, and Harry had been a bit surprised that he'd managed to find her there; he had thought she would be in the Common Room, but he had wanted to delay entering the Gryffindor Tower for as long as possible, and so had gone to the library first instead.

She set down her quill and sighed. "To be perfectly honest, I'll be surprised if anyone at all shows up."

"What about Neville and Ginny?"

"Besides them, though I think…" She hesitated. "Neville's been acting rather oddly, lately, after the first day you were back. Sometimes he jumps up and defends you, especially when Ron spouts something, but other times he just sits there and pretends to be invisible."

"Oh."

"And Ginny—" She stopped. "Anyway. I think it'd be good if we review that Age-Detecting Potion…"

Harry wondered again if Hermione was with Dumbledore in some sort of vendetta to get him and Snape on speaking terms, and the thought filled him with a brief, intense flash of irritation; but he managed to suppress it. Let them try, he thought as Hermione scooted closer and flipped open her book. It won't get them anywhere.

But thoughts of Hermione and Dumbledore's possible designs vanished with the following morning post.

The moment Harry had seated himself, Hermione thrust a copy of The Daily Prophet in front of him. "Read this," she whispered, her voice an echo of the hush that rippled through the rest of the Hall. The snake turned its head down to the paper before Harry was prepared to, for he felt somehow drawn to the many glances turning towards him, like a puppet being pulled by its strings.

DEATH-EATER ATTACK ON MINISTRY, Harry read.

The snake uncoiled itself slightly to peer at the black and white print. "What does it say?" it hissed quietly.

"There was an attack on the Ministry of Magic," Harry said, in English. "The Fountain of Magical Brethren, after being rebuilt most splendidly over the summer, was demolished in an extremely gruesome manner and replaced by the Dark Mark. Fortunately there were no casualties. The Ministry urges everyone not to panic, and there are some handy step-by-step instructions on page four in case Death Eaters show up on your doorstep…"

"It's… strange," Hermione said, frowning.

"Strange?" Ginny sputtered. "It's terrible! The article said the attack was in broad daylight and that everyone was too panicked to do anything besides run for their lives."

"Obviously he wants to intimidate the public," Neville said solemnly.

Hermione looked irritable and unconvinced. "It's just…" She continued flipping through the pages and didn't say anything else.

Harry felt Neville shifting closer to him. "Did you… er… have any warning?" he muttered quietly, darting a glance at Harry's scar.

Harry shook his head. Neville settled back, looking almost uncomfortable at having addressed Harry in so public a place.

"In any case," Hermione said briskly, folding her copy of The Daily Prophet, "it'll be interesting to see if this brings more people to the DA today—or turns it into a four-person party."

Or five, Harry thought privately as they headed down for Potions.

Snape's mood seemed unaffected by the report. In fact, to Harry's surprise, the Potions Master seemed less acerbic in his attacks. Harry had braced himself for an onslaught, numbing himself with every bit of strength he had, feeling the back of his neck bristle with tension every time Snape approached, but nothing happened. Snape assigned him with a sneer one of the trickier variations of the potion; Harry completed it without incident; Snape graded it and looked disappointed that there was nothing wrong.

It was all very much the same as it had been before, before this summer of revelations. I wonder what Dumbledore said to him, Harry thought as they trudged to the Great Hall for lunch. But as they seated themselves to eat, he found, to his mild surprise, that large part of him didn't care any longer.

"That wasn't too bad, was it?" Hermione remarked.

"It was rather good," Harry agreed noncommittally.

Hermione reached for some shepherd's pie. "You did really well—Snape couldn't find any fault at all with your potion."

"Mm-hmm," Harry murmured, contenting himself with his mashed potatoes.

"You have… Healing afterward?" Hermione asked casually, pulling out her slightly wrinkled copy of The Daily Prophet.

"Yes, I do," Harry replied in the same manner. Lessons in healing—of all things—with Snape, Harry thought. It'll be just like those Occlumency lessons. How exciting.

Harry left alone long after Hermione had to hurry to Arithmancy and only a handful of students were left in the Great Hall. When he entered the hospital wing, the sight of white cots and clean walls seemed just as familiar as the red couches and covers of the Gryffindor Tower; and the smell of cleanliness and various potions tickled him in an almost nostalgic way.

"Hello, Harry," said Pomfrey, bustling up to him. "How are you? You had lunch, didn't you?" She had her wand out and seemed prepared to command him onto the cot and examine him. "Are you here for lessons with Professor Snape?"

"Yes," said Harry.

Pomfrey made a brief and rather disapproving look before peering at him carefully. It was somewhat disconcerting that she was only up to his chin, whereas before they had been more or less eye-level. "Have you had any aches? Any pain in your eyes?"

"I've been fine," Harry said.

Pomfrey stepped back, then settled her gaze on something behind Harry. "Professor Snape," she greeted.

"Madam Pomfrey," Snape replied, sweeping in. "I'll be taking Potter now. I trust you have the puffskeins ready?"

"Yes, I do," she said, the disapproving look deepening.

"Come along, Potter," Snape said, sweeping down past the rows of cots to a bare little room adjacent to Madam Pomfrey's office. There was a long metallic table in the middle of the room, similar to the apparatuses he'd seen on Muggle television. Next to that was a wooden box, looking very out of place in the room, from which purring and rustling noises emanated.

"Mm," said the snake, extending its head eagerly. "Puffskeins. Delicious."

"Behave," Harry muttered, patting the snake sharply on the head. He didn't want the snake to suddenly eat what he was supposed to be patching up.

"Professor Dumbledore apparently thought it necessary for you to learn Healing from me," Snape said in a flat voice, walking swiftly to the other side of the table, so he could pace and glare at the same time. "Healing can be a very difficult branch of magic to acquire because it is extremely intuitive, rather the antithesis to Potions…" Snape paused, and Harry supposed that the pause was for sneering, but he was facing the shiny surface of the table, and the snake was obediently following his gaze.

"As with any sort of magic," Snape continued, though he sounded slightly annoyed, "the basis of it comes from intent. As I will only be teaching you the most rudimentary of techniques, your intent need not be as refined as that of a certified Healer. You may be as blunt as you wish." This last part ended with a note of disdain, as though he thought it no difficulty for Harry to keep his intent as blunt as possible.

Harry made no response and only inclined his head slightly. His face was a mask.

Snape reached into the wooden bin and pulled out a puffskein by its tail. He laid it on the table. "Today I will be teaching you how to simply heal a small open wound. First, you sterilize the injury. Then, you seal it."

Sterilize and seal, Harry thought. It didn't sound too complicated. By now the puffskein had wriggled to one end of the table and was peering over the edge at the other puffskeins purring in the wooden bin below.

Without warning, Snape reached down and cut a line down the puffskein's back with the tip of his wand. Instantly the creature shrieked and jerked forward, but Snape's fingers clenched liked a hawk's claws. Blood began to ooze out of the wound.

"First, sterilize," Snape said, moving his wand to one end of the wound. "Expurgo." He traced it down the thin red line, and Harry watched as a puffskein shivered in Snape's grip.

"This second part is more difficult," Snape went on in his calm, cool voice. "You must convince the magic innate in the living substance to seal itself together. You may, if the magic is unwilling, transmit your own magic as persuasion." Harry watched the blood seep into the fur. "Sometimes, particularly if a curse has been applied, the hostile magic will have to be dispelled." Seal the thing already, Harry thought crossly.

"Medicor," Snape said, pronouncing the syllables with staccato precision and drawing his wand over the wound. Within moments, the cut had sealed.

"Simple," said Snape disdainfully, dropping the puffskein back onto the metallic surface. It scurried to the edge and cooed mournfully at the wooden box. "Your turn, Potter."

Harry swallowed. He felt rather sick. "Professor," he said, "how do I make the cut…?"

Snape reached down with his wand and with the same surgical precision, traced a line across the puffskein's back. It opened instantly, and the puffskein squealed, lurching off the table—

Harry's hand shot out and grabbed it, pulling it back onto the table. He took his hand away and realized then that there was blood smeared over his palm, leaving a rusty trail on the table like the guts of a fish. He turned his face from the sight of his palm, but the snake continued to stare at it.

"Snake!" he snapped.

The snake turned its attention immediately to the shivering puffskein. What was it that Snape had said? Harry wondered, and for a moment, found his mind completely empty under his father's gaze. Then, the word bubbled to his lips: "Expurgo," he said, and drew his wand shakily over the wound. He was aware, painfully aware, of Snape watching his every move.

"Medicor," Harry said, repeating it exactly as he had remembered Snape say it. He traced the wound again, and watched the cut close itself along the path of his wand.

He let out a sigh of relief as he stepped back. There was still blood on the table, and his palm was still bloody, but the puffskein was moving again, leaving more reddish smears as it crawled once more to the edge.

"So you managed, on your first try," Snape said, sounding a bit uncertain about something. He's hardly ever uncertain about anything, Harry thought, and couldn't help feeling both curious and apprehensive.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, Snape strode over to a wreath hanging inconspicuously above the doorway. He tapped it with his wand and muttered, "Dormio."

Harry frowned. "Sir, what's that…?"

Snape stalked back. "A Dark Arts detector," he answered brusquely, then thrust his wand at the puffskein. "Abscindo venas."

The puffskein flipped onto its back and shrieked. It thrashed its limbs, skittering to the other side of the table and nearly falling off again.

"What did you do?" Harry shouted.

"I broke its veins," Snape replied, still using his damnably cool voice. "Heal it before it dies."

Heal it before it dies—heal it before it dies— Harry wanted to scream at Snape, but he didn't: he reached out a hand and snatched up the puffskein. Sterilize and seal, sterilize and seal—but there's nothing to sterilize, and nothing I can see to seal!

"He used a Dark curse to cut its veins," the snake hissed.

"Wonderful," Harry hissed savagely, trying to keep the puffskein from jerking out of his grasp. "So how do I keep it from dying?"

"Just heal it."

"Just—oh, never mind." Harry pointed his wand at roughly the spot Snape had. "Expurgo!" he snapped. "Medicor!" He felt something resist at the tip of his wand, as though he were pushing into the skin of a balloon. The curse, Harry thought, and with gritted teeth pushed in at the balloon with a rapid thrust.

He felt the balloon pop. The puffskein grew limp, even as Harry felt the ragged ends of the curse drip away.

"It's dead," Harry said helplessly, still holding the puffskein in his hand.

"Of course it's dead," Snape said. He walked back to the wreath hanging above the door and tapped it with his wand. "Yet another thing," he commented coolly, "that Potter has not managed to rescue."

Harry did nothing. He stood there still, holding the still-warm carcass, waiting for the next wave of comments, the next flood of acid comments that would burn him until he had no feeling left.

But nothing came. Snape is hesitating, Harry realized, the thought coming to him calmly, though his heart was still treacherously fast.

"Though you failed in this, you do seem to have a bit of… aptitude," Snape said, only barely managing the last word. "Could you feel something when using Medicor? A kind of resistance?"

Harry nodded. "Yes."

"There is a—talent in that," Snape said, sounding distinctly awkward. But there was no sneer, no note of contemptuous disdain.

There was a pause before Snape added, at Harry's irresponsiveness, "Though I may be mistaken, it might be a manifestation of your lineage."

My lineage, thought Harry with a sudden coldness. Not yours. Not ours. He let a feeling of scorn creep through him, riding on the power of this detached hate and fury. Are you too afraid to acknowledge me as your blood, your son? Too cowardly?

"Potter!" Snape snapped, "Are you paying attention?" And Harry knew that he had let the expression play across his face. It was something he would never have done a month ago, a week ago, or even a year ago. He realized that something had changed, changed utterly; but he felt removed from the world, at once freed by this new emotion and cut off from where his heart had been.

What does it matter? he reminded himself and looked down obsequiously. Your fate is the same. What does it matter?

The rest of the lesson passed without incident. Snape pushed him brutally, and a few more puffskeins died as the cuts became deeper, more jagged, more soaked with hostile magic. By the end of it all, the surface was swimming with blood and both Harry and Snape's hands were coated with the thick red substance.

"Clean your hands before you leave," Snape instructed, tapping his own fingers with his wand and muttering a spell under his breath.

Harry did as he was told, and left without another word.

He met no one on the way up to the Room of Requirement, for Snape had let him off later than classes usually ended; and when he entered, he found it much the same as it had been last year, with the silk cushions and rows of bookshelves. The only difference was that there were only three other people in the room: Hermione, who was poring over the morning's edition of The Daily Prophet, Neville, who seemed a bit jumpy when Harry entered, and Luna Lovegood, who was humming idly and staring at the ceiling.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed. "There you are." Her face fell a bit. "Are you all right? You look a bit…"

"Grim," Luna said dreamily. "My father is researching the Half-Dead Walkers of Hungary, and you looked just like that one picture an explorer took."

Hermione gave Luna a look of exasperation, and Neville glanced at Harry briefly before looking away again, as though caught doing something he wasn't supposed to do.

"I'm fine," Harry said, after realizing that the others seemed to be waiting for him to respond. "Just that there was a lot of blood involved. Snape had me cut up puffskeins."

"Puffskeins?" Neville gaped, for a moment shocked out of his reservations. "But—oh, leave it to Snape to choose puffskeins to cut up."

"I had a pet puffskein," Luna commented. "But I lost it my first year here."

"That's understandable then," Neville said to Harry, for a moment fully sympathetic.

Ron had one as a pet too, Harry remembered, and shut the thought away. He looked at Hermione, and briefly she seemed unconvinced and slightly skeptical. But the expression passed quickly, like the shutting of a door, and she pushed herself out of the silk cushion she had been sitting in.

"Anyway, as you can see, the turnout was a bit less than what we'd hoped," Hermione said. "Lavender said she was getting involved with Parvati in some sort of Divination assignment, very important, of course—"

"Hannah Abbott wants me to tell you that Ernie and she are particularly busy doing an assignment for Sprout," Luna supplied.

"And I tried finding Susan Bones, but I didn't have any classes with her, so unless she kept her galleon, she wouldn't know—"

"Cho Chang said she was busy," Luna added, "but she also said that she might come later, depending on how things turned out—"

"And Zacharias Smith told me very rudely he wasn't planning to come at all!" Hermione ended in a snappish tone.

"Where's Ginny?" Harry asked.

"She dragged Michael Corner here, though he was rather upset about it, seeing that she's going out with Dean anyway," said Hermione. "But then she had something to do with Quidditch, and just a few minutes ago she left."

There was a silence after Hermione stopped talking. All eyes turned on him, Harry, even Luna, who stopped observing the ceiling. They expect me to lead them, thought Harry. They still think I'm their leader. But at that moment all he could think of was Quidditch. I'm never going to play Quidditch again, he thought calmly.

"It's up to you what you want me to do," he said at length. "I hadn't prepared anything to teach you, and by now you may know more than I do—Cinna's a pretty decent teacher."

"Well at least…" Hermione began, but stopped, for once short on words. The silence felt awkward and incomplete, but Harry preferred it. He could still hear his thoughts from the barren little room in the hospital: My lineage. Not yours. Not ours.

"I… I need to go the library, for McGonagall's Animagus study assignment," Neville muttered. He darted a glance at Hermione. "It's due tomorrow, isn't it?"

Hermione pressed her lips very tightly together. "Yes, it is," she said coolly.

Neville stood up hesitantly, picking up his book-bag as he did so. Hermione radiated silent disapproval as Neville walked past, but Harry said nothing and did nothing, merely let Neville pass out of the field of his vision.

"Good bye, Neville," Luna called.

"Good bye," Neville replied morosely and left the room.

"Fair-weather friend," Hermione snorted the moment the door shut. "And Harry, don't feel too bad about it. They'll come around soon enough."

"Yes, probably," Harry said in a false, agreeable tone.

Hermione looked at him sharply, opened her mouth, but shut it a moment later. They were silent again. Harry moved and seated himself in a chair; Luna returned to looking up at the ceiling; Hermione, still seated on the floor, was looking agitatedly from Harry to Luna and back again.

"We have to do something!" she said at last and began rocking back and forth where she sat. Harry remained still, but the snake around his neck followed Hermione's movement. "Ginny's right. When the Fountain of Magical Brethren was attacked, everyone just ran. We have to be prepared! We outnumber the Death Eaters by an enormous margin—if every single one of us remained and fought, Voldemort would never win."

"The day all wizards stand together would be the day they forget to be human," Harry said dully.

Hermione pierced him with a look brimming with anger and disbelief. "Harry—what happened today during your lesson with Snape?"

Harry's face transformed instantly into a frown. Snape. It was though someone had taken an ice pick and shattered the shield around him. "Nothing," he said. Then he managed to smooth over the feelings that were threatening to erupt. "He was quite conciliatory actually. About as nice as he was today in Potions."

"Harry…"

Don't ask, Harry thought, his heart a thing of steel. Don't ask. The air hummed. Harry was still seated, but Hermione was standing, and she wasn't looking at his sightless face; instead, she was staring directly at the snake's eyes, as though trying to find the soul absent from his own eyes.

"What did he do? After you have class with him you seem so changed—"

"The review session we had on the Age-Detection Potion was very helpful," Harry interrupted coldly, but Hermione continued.

"I know I won't truly understand, but you're the last friend I have, so tell me, please, does Snape still—"

"He never said anything cruel to me at all, and the puffskeins may just be his brand of humor—"

"Is he still—hurting y—"

"He never—!"

The door opened.

It took Harry a second or two to recognize the arrogant smirk that disguised the uncertain tread and the hesitant entry.

"Draco!" Harry said, leaping to his feet. His voice, even to his own ears, sounded pleasantly surprised.

A brief look of relief cracked the mask. "Potter," Draco drawled. "Or," he added, "do you prefer gwalchgwyn?"

Harry didn't hesitate to let the smile show on his face. "Gwalchgwyn. I'm not really Potter, you know."

Draco seemed satisfied by this response. His gaze traveled past Harry, and then his face darkened. "If it isn't—" He stopped himself in time. "Granger," he sneered.

Harry turned. Hermione looked ashen, and her eyes darted almost uncomprehendingly between Harry and Draco.

"Hermione," Harry began, but Hermione cut him off.

"Draco?" she said in disbelief, her gaze fixed on Harry. "And—gwalchgwyn? What is this now?"

"Let me explain—"

"Let me out," Hermione snapped and walked swiftly towards the door. Harry reached out and managed to grab her wrist, but she twisted and pushed him roughly, her hand swiping across his chest—and he fell, jolted by the shock of physical contact and the sudden memory of another pair of hands.

The impact with the ground was painful (he had the bad luck not to land on one of the silk cushions), but as his senses struggled through the haze of fear and memory, he was aware of Draco's sneering voice.

"Don't touch him, you degenerate mudblood—!"

"I'm—I'm sorry!" Hermione sounded precariously close to sobs. "I—I forgot, and…"

"Forgot, did you? Was it so easy to forget the nightmares he went through?"

"Arglwydd?" the snake hissed in concern.

The world righted itself, and Harry pushed himself into a sitting position. "I'm fine," he said automatically.

"Harry!" Hermione cried, but Draco kept his wand pointed at her face. "Let—me—pass—!" She whipped out her own wand just as the Slytherin began his spell—

"Expelliarmus!"

Harry watched the two wands arc through the air and into Luna's hand. "You're not really helping him, you know," she said matter-of-factly. "He's still on the ground."

Hermione gave Draco a loathsome glare through her tears before hurrying next to Harry. Malfoy, not to be outdone, did the same at Harry's other side.

"Harry, are you—do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione asked, sounding guilt-stricken. "I'm so sorry, I just—"

"And you call yourself his friend," Draco interrupted snidely.

"Draco," Harry chided reprovingly, but Hermione dropped Harry's arm and took a step back.

"He's—he's right," Hermione mumbled, turning her head away so they would not see her cry. "I'll let you alone, then…"

"Don't!" Harry reached out a hand again before stopping the movement halfway. He frowned in Draco's direction, though he couldn't be sure if Draco actually saw it. "Hermione—stay, please."

Hermione didn't move. Her face was still turned away, and Harry wished he could tell her that he didn't hold it against her that she touched him, that he understood that habits made over five years were difficult to break, just as assumptions and basic truths forged for half a decade took longer than a single day to crumble.

And the fact that she kept asking about Snape merely meant that she cared.

Damn my conscience, he thought, keenly aware that Draco was watching his every move. "I'm sorry, Hermione," he said. "You're right. I was behaving rather badly."

Hermione shook her head furiously. "No—no. I should try to understand—"

"I was in the wrong," Harry interrupted. "You've always done what you believed was right, and you've stuck with me even through the most ridiculous situations—"

"Don't be stupid, Harry, I shouldn't have pushed you or just stormed off when Malfoy—or, uh, Draco came in—"

"Hermione! Stop taking the blame—I still haven't said sorry for being rude to you the other day—"

"Will you—!"

Draco coughed disdainfully and wrinkled his nose. "How touching this—er—argument is," he muttered.

There was a moment of complete silence before Luna said, with complete sincerity, "Yes. It is."

Hermione and Harry glanced each other, their gaze meeting briefly; and then they broke down into uncontrollable laughter.

"Gryffindor humor," Draco sniffed, after looking down at them past his nose for a moment or two. "Anyway, gwalchgwyn, you said that there was to be some sort of meeting here…?"

Harry sobered. "There was. But hardly anyone showed up. Perfectly understandable, you know, as I'm obviously the Dark and Terrible Prince of Doom, also known as Voldemort's apprentice."

"Yes, and even the dimmest nitwit knows that such a Dark and Terrible and Princely person had to have had a hand in destroying the single most hypocritical thing I've ever seen in the wizarding world," Hermione added, though her voice switched from blithe to scathing somewhere in the middle.

"You mean the Fountain of Magical Brethren?" said Draco. "I must say, that house-elf was pretty accurate."

Harry groaned instantly. "Draco! Did you have to mention house-elves?"

To his surprise, though, Hermione began laughing. "Honestly, is SPEW so terrifying?"

Harry grinned in relief. "Yes, it was. So…" He paused. "Have you given up on it?"

"No," she replied immediately, all laughter gone. "I'll have you know, Harry—Potter, Snape, whoever you are, that house-elves don't deserve to be brutally enslaved. Dobby, for example—"

"Dobby?" Draco exclaimed. "The one that keyed Father all up?"

"Yes, that one. And—"

It was, Harry decided, markedly better than curses and blows and tears. It was also quite mind-boggling that both Hermione and Draco were citing instances of house-elf history: who on earth knew (or cared to know) that in 1372, Cora the Compassionate had attempted to push through the Wizengamot a law promoting house-elf welfare?

He shook his head in amusement, settled on a silk cushion, and picked up Hermione's abandoned copy of The Daily Prophet, feeling the snake extend its head curiously to look at the moving photographs.