Chapter 10
Neville bustled through the kitchen, dodging house elves and apologizing as he went. So far as the elves were concerned, he could have kept the apologies to himself if he would simply have kept his heavy-footed human form out of their kitchen. It was bad enough to have plants - and their accompanying dirt and water and rough clay pots - scattered throughout the habitually clean Longbottom home, but having the boy trespass into what was unquestionably house elf territory and take up space in the ovens, as well as in cold storage, was very vexing, indeed.
Neville opened one of the cabinets in which he had created a perfectly tropical environment for the Tiger Weed that was just starting to show its characteristic striped coloration on the newest growth. He placed a bowl of water on the lower shelf to give himself something to work with and started the complex enchantment that would turn the moisture into a warm jungle rain for the benefit of the Tiger Weed.
Trilby, one of the oldest house elves in Neville's grandmother's service, stood scowling at the boy's efforts, tapping one foot impatiently. "Is Neville Longbottom, Sir, intent on wet-rotting the cabinets which has stood in his family's home for generations?" the elf inquired sarcastically.
Neville finished the line of the spell he had been speaking, then kept his wand moving in a circular motion as he replied to the elf. "I've already told you, Trilby. These things will be gone in two weeks at most. They are very, very valuable, and they are important to my future career as well as to my current studies. Please, Trilby, help me keep these plants healthy and you will be doing me a tremendous favor."
"Help you?" Trilby yelped. "You is running me out of my kitchen already! Look - walruswort in the coldbox, fireseed in the bread oven, tiger-thing wet-rotting the cabinet. It is hard to put dinner on the table, Mister Neville Longbottom! And your room is a terrible mess!" By the time Trilby had finished the list of tribulations, he was dancing from one foot to the other, clearly impatient to get Neville's vegetable experiments out of the house altogether.
"Trilby, stay out of my room. The plants in there are dangerous. I have put most of the normal ones outside, where they won't bother anyone. But in my room, you might well get hurt. Do not go in there. I have told you that you don't have to clean in there until I have had a chance to move the plants away."
"Mister Neville Longbottom misses the whole point," Trilby said with a snort, crossing his arms and scowling. "Trilby does not have to clean - Trilby never has to clean. Trilby wants to clean! Trilby wants this house to be clean. And those plants is bringing in dirt to this house. And taking up all the space in the bread oven!"
"Two weeks, Trilby," Neville said, closing the cabinet as his miniature monsoon began. "Please, help me." Neville rose and made the rounds of the rest of the kitchen. The fireseed plants were warm enough, and the walruswort needed only a bit of extra ice packed firmly around its roots to be perfectly happy. Neville waved and smiled at the pouting Trilby and then climbed the stairs to his own room. As he had told the elf, the most dangerous plants were in here - but most of them were so young as to pose little threat to anyone, even the smallest of the house elves. There was a tiny Devil's Snare, its miniscule vine tips thrashing the air as it detected his presence. A mandrake had just sprouted, showing a light green double-leaf just above the level of the soil in its pot. Those plants were healthy and easy to care for. More problematic were the plants that required a great deal of dry warmth. Neville turned back his blanket to inspect a pythonroot, which had grown alarmingly since he had repotted the cutting he had taken from the ancient pythonroot at Hogwarts; and a pennywhistle bramble, which was nearly large enough to develop the hollow blossoms that gave the plant its name. If the blossoms did start to appear, he would have to move the plant far away from the house. His grandmother would never stand for the piercing sound a mature plant could produce. Neville's blanket had been spelled to generate heat, and for most of his life, it had kept him warm on the coldest nights. But the magic was usually quiescent during the day, only beginning to warm as bedtime approached, acting as a bedwarmer which could then be adjusted for maximum comfort once he climbed under its soft, comforting weight. But with plants like the pythonroot and pennywhistle bramble requiring consistent warming, the blanket had been going non-stop for days already. He sincerely hoped that he would not burn it out with the use it would get over the next week or so. It was a treasured reminder of his childhood, and one he did not wish to lose.
He sat down on the only edge of his bed that was not covered by plants, then stretched out along the thin strip he had left himself to sleep on. He would have to go to the garden next, and check on the pots in which he had planted most of his hardiest cuttings. They would need water at least, and possibly some further work. And, they would all need another treatment with the accelerated growth spells he had been feeding them with since he put them there. The magic was, in many ways, more work than the potting and watering and weeding. After casting repeated growth accelerator spells, he usually felt as though the energy he had given the plants had come directly from his own vitality. He was certainly hungrier these days than he had been in recent memory, and he was drinking water as though he were a sprouting plant himself. Hungry, thirsty and tired, he was irritating the house elves and risking the ire of his grandmother - and for what? Hogwarts had a new Herbology professor. Potter was still Dumbledore's favorite. Neville himself was known as a dangerously clumsy, potentially disastrously inept student to everyone except Professor Sprout - who was leaving. What was he trying to accomplish with his wild scheme?
For one thing, he was trying to show - to himself at least - that he could conceive of a plan and carry it out. He was thoroughly sick and tired of being 'Longbottom the Lost'... or whatever the other kids really called him behind his back, which he imagined was probably a bit more obscene and a lot nastier in intent. He was also proving to himself that he could cast very advanced magic. The spells that he had placed on those plants remaining at Hogwarts would mimic real plant diseases. The time-release triggers he had put on them would allow his magic to operate when he intended for it to begin, then dispel all traces of it once it had accomplished its purpose. And the concealment spells he had covered the others with would prevent them from being detected prematurely.
'The problem with you, Longbottom,' he thought angrily, 'is that you're not decisive enough. There is a time to be bold, and you...' With some embarrassment, he contemplated a number of situations in which he had found himself thinking through every aspect of a situation rather than seizing the initiative and choosing positive action. Often, he would decide what to do only when the opportunity to do anything had already passed. Harry Potter, by contrast, was very decisive, and it was in cooperating with Potter that Neville had begun this whole project. But was Potter worthy of Neville's loyalty? Harry had said they couldn't trust Dumbledore. Neville had been angry enough with Dumbledore's decisions that he had been willing to believe the Headmaster was no longer trustworthy. He was still angry enough over losing Professor Sprout that he had gone through with his plan - a plan which amounted to hijacking the entire Hogwarts Herbology collection. He fully intended to return the valuable plants to the school. His complex set of spells would create no more than a temporary inconvenience for Hogwarts, and that inconvenience would help return some sanity to the operation the Herbology department. Potter needed to be excused from working there, at the same time as the new professor realized how badly he needed Neville's help. Neville had been certain that the plan he had crafted would benefit everyone. But now that the plan was complete - except for waiting for the time-release spells to work - he worried that he may have been unwise. At the very least, he was forcing himself to be uncomfortably proactive, well beyond the labors he had already accomplished. In the situation he had created for himself, he would be forced to continue to take action, to be decisive, to draw attention to himself - and the prospect was frightening. He would have to be assertive as he introduced himself to the new Herbology professor. He would have to remain confident in his own abilities, and he would have to speak up to offer help when the proper time came. By comparison, the magic with which he had doomed the denizens of the Hogwarts greenhouses and accelerated the growth of the cuttings he had taken from those very same plants was easy.
Once again, he reminded himself that he hadn't actually killed any of the plants he had bespelled. By taking cuttings and growing those, he had assured the continuation of the same individuals who were growing at Hogwarts. 'It's like pruning,' he thought. 'Keep the good part, which I am caring for, and prune away the portion growing at Hogwarts.' But he still felt bad whenever he thought of his spells waiting to decimate the school's collection.
He would have liked to simply lie there for the rest of the day, napping, taking it easy, and occasionally going down to the kitchen - not to check on his plants, but to get a snack and a drink. Instead, he knew that he had to care for that part of his project which was now housed in his garden. Rising, and carefully covering the pythonroot and pennywhistle with his enchanted blanket, he dragged himself off to continue his work.
--- --- ---
Harry spent most of Tuesday doing simple things in the greenhouse: watering, feeding and checking for weeds, which, despite the best efforts of Professor Sprout, still occasionally plagued even the plants within the greenhouses. Harry felt as though he were nursing terminally ill patients. He didn't know exactly which of his patients was going to die (except for the fireseed plants - he had watched Neville cast the fatal spells on those) but he knew that the outlook was grim for many of them, and all he could do was make their last days as comfortable as possible. Professor Sprout seemed to share a similar feeling, although Harry was certain she knew nothing of what Neville had done. Now that there was a replacement slated to start as soon as she left - even though she thoroughly disapproved of the man - she felt her 'lame duck' status very strongly. She was still on the job, she was still responsible for the department, but she was not making plans for next term's lessons, she was not choosing the plants on which upcoming classes would work, and she was not organizing the advanced projects on which gifted students such as Neville would be working. She wasn't even trying to ready the Herbology Department for survival without supervision, since a supervisor - although a contemptible one - would be stepping in as soon as she left. She had a week to go on the job, but she had run her department so efficiently that she had practically nothing left to do. She wasn't very interested in teaching Harry how to perform the routine chores that would be necessary for him to continue his summer employment - that work could be left up to her successor. It would be his plans and his policies and his programs that Harry would be carrying out, anyway. So it was a melancholy atmosphere in which Harry worked, mostly without any supervision at all.
In the evening, he devoured the book on 'Social Semaphore' that Snape had given him. Knowing that the potions professor would be dissatisfied with vague impressions or a general overview of the subject, Harry took notes, trying to distill the lessons included in the book into a simple, organized system. He memorized several examples, as well - starting with the 'crossed wands' signal that he had learned so memorably such a short time ago. He found several examples fascinating, such as the way in which the stylized opening of a formal wizard's duel had evolved. The salute, with wands pointed skyward, was intended to keep the combatants from casting spells before the judge of the duel had given the signal to begin. For a time, during the thirteenth century, when duels were particularly common, wizards were required to point the tips of their wands directly between their own eyes, so that any curses cast prematurely would be driven directly into the offender's own brain. For several hundred years, Harry learned, witches were forbidden to participate in formal duels - until the infamous Morgan Hamilton cut down the entire judging panel that sought to prevent her from facing her rival, Samuel Riethes, in a public contest. In writing the majority opinion of the British Committee on Dueling and Magical Contests, judge Marlon Whitworth stated that duels had become so common among wizards that many of the strongest male spell casters in Britain had been killed long since, leaving the most powerful female magic users living, healthy and 'ready to challenge all comers for their proper place in the hierarchy of conflict.' Harry pronounced the phrase several times, savoring the sound of the statement. 'Hierarchy of conflict' had a particular appeal to a boy who was supposedly fated to destroy the world's most powerful dark wizard in single combat.
There were other 'social semaphore' signals as well, including the way a wand was presented during the formal surrender of a commander of a wizard army, the position of a wand placed out of reach by a wizard willing to negotiate a delicate diplomatic (or sometimes even commercial) agreement, and a wand left - supposedly - unattended by a wizard seeking the hand of a magic-using member of a royal family. The surprising fact about that last convention was that - as of the writing of this book, which had been revised and reissued in a new edition during Harry's lifetime - not one member of the British royal family currently living had any trace of magical ability. The magical scholars who were also royalists insisted that this was perfectly consistent with the division of mortal responsibility between rulership, as was descended through Arthur, and advisory capacity, which was descended through Merlin. Those magical scholars who were not royalists, however, pointed out that the royal family had dispensed with magical advisors essentially from the time of the death of Arthur onward, and it was about time for magical people to get involved in the government of the wider world once again. The moderates, who stood somewhere between the other two groups, maintained that the governing of a magical society was a completely separate endeavor from the governing of muggles, and that the two functions should be clearly divided - as had been the case in Britain for over one thousand years. Harry imagined the various ways in which the wizard and muggle worlds might collide if their governments were to be combined. He remembered growing up, watching the telly with Margaret Thatcher making her pompous pronouncements. He got lost in a pleasant fantasy in which Maggie spent days on end kicking Cornelius Fudge's arse. Realizing he was wasting time, he returned to the text, which had stories of great feasts in which all wizards in attendance placed their wands in the center of the table as a show of trust in their host. As might have been expected, the custom came to a sudden end when one of those hosts used the opportunity to slaughter his guests. It had happened several hundred years ago, but Harry could see why present-day wizards still tended to hold on to their wands no matter where they might be.
He took more notes, he memorized names and dates, and by the end of the evening, he thought he might have enough to satisfy even Snape. That being the case, he had the chance to progress to the next book in the stack, although he promised himself that he would review his presentation the next night, just to be sure he had it all firmly in mind. Thus it was that Harry - finally - began to learn the particulars of living in the formal society of wizards to which he had been born, and in which he was such a famous person.
--- --- ---
Throughout all of Wednesday, Harry had minimal contact with Professor Sprout. She gave him some very general directions, and set him to work, leaving him alone for most of the day. When it was time to leave work that evening, Harry saw that the Professor had a large canvas bag and several boxes packed with belongings. She called him over to her and indicated the stack of packed items. "Please look at these, Mister Potter," she said, very formally.
"They're boxes. Uh... and a bag," Harry replied uncertainly.
"That they are. Very good. Now, please take a look within them."
Hesitantly, Harry pulled the edges of the canvas bag open, then took a quick look at the contents of the boxes. There were pictures, most of which included Professor Sprout along with some other people Harry didn't recognize. There were some gloves, two pairs of Wellington boots and a few hand tools. Harry shrugged and looked up at the professor questioningly.
"I want to make sure that on each day as I leave, someone can be my witness," she explained. "I am not sure what Alb... the Headmaster has in mind - or if he even has a mi..." with a visible effort, she stopped herself from completing the statement. "I simply want someone to be able to testify that I am not robbing the school. Now that you have observed what I am taking with me, you will be able to bear witness on my behalf. Thank you, Mister Potter. Once I am gone, you are free for the rest of the evening. I will see you in the morning."
With a great effort, she gathered all of the packed boxes into her arms and hung the bag from one wrist. "Goodbye," she said, and slowly began to walk away. Harry dashed to open the greenhouse door for her. "Thank you," she said as she passed him.
"Can I carry anything for you?" Harry asked, watching her struggle with her burdens, wondering why she didn't simply levitate the items, or shrink them to pocket size.
"No, thank you," she replied and walked away. He watched her go until she disappeared around the first bend of the Hogsmeade path. He thought he could hear the bang as she apparated away. Feeling rather depressed, he went to his room and studied, but he was repeatedly distracted as he thought of Professor Sprout taking her bulky, heavy, but ultimately meagre possessions away from the school at which she had worked for so many years.
On Thursday night, after another long but dull day at work, Harry presented himself at the doorway to the Potions classroom. Professor Snape was within, grinding more of the endless series of ingredients which his work required. He looked up silently, waiting for his visitor to speak first. "Professor?" Harry began, and waited until he saw a slight nod in reply. "I have come to present my first book report." He stood waiting for Snape to respond.
The potions professor studied the boy carefully for a few seconds - just long enough to build the tension a bit - before relenting. "Well done, Mister Potter. I had wondered whether I would be required to seek you out for this evening's exercise. I am glad that you presented yourself as you should. Come in. Stand there." He pointed to a place directly before the workbench at which he stood. He waited for Harry to get there and stand quietly before asking. "Well? Tell me what you have read."
"The first book from the assigned material that I read was 'Social Semaphore,'"
Snape pressed his lips together in disapproval. "The thinnest of the lot. I might have known."
"That is true, Sir," Harry volunteered. "But the reason I chose that particular volume was that it had the most immediate significance to my recent experience. You see..." He tried to formulate an explanation that would allow him to keep Remus - and his own embarrassment - out of the conversation. There was no way that any of the alternatives he could think of would have made any sense, however, so he plunged on with his story. "Several nights ago, I placed my wand on the dining table so that it formed a cross with Remus' wand. He explained what the signal meant."
"Did he?" Snape drawled, eyes narrowed.
"Yes, Sir. I was very embarrassed. I apologized repeatedly."
"Hmph." Snape muffled his single bark of laughter so that it was nearly unidentifiable as a sound of mirth. "I hardly think you needed to apologize so thoroughly as you may have believed."
"Perhaps not, Sir," Harry replied evenly, refusing to let on that he was aware of what Snape meant. "However, I did realize that I needed to know more about certain customs than I had ever had the opportunity to learn."
"And did you find out anything useful?"
"Oh, yes!" Harry said, eyes shining as he launched into his explanation. "The history of dueling was great. And the way you show that you're serious about making a contract, and the similarities between diplomatic and commercial procedure and..." He caught himself as he saw Snape's eyes go wide. But rather than shouting, scolding or sneering, the professor encouraged the boy to continue.
"Take the first item first. We may examine that, then move on. Dueling. The specific reference was to the opening salute, I believe."
Harry explained the differences between the salutes given in duels of the thirteen hundreds and duels as fought in the present day. He touched on exclusively modern innovations, such as competition dueling, fought as a sport (with unforgivable curses strictly prohibited), and ancient customs such as duels with no quarter, invariably fought to the death. Once Snape was sure that the boy had learned that portion of the subject, he allowed Harry to move on to less adventurous topics: formal contracts and property transfers. In the midst of his discussion of the protocols for royal marriage proposals, Harry stopped and asked his teacher very seriously, "Professor... if I may ask: Are you a royalist, a moderate or a reformist?"
Snape's face clouded, but just as he was about to deliver a scathing rejoinder, he stopped to reconsider. Under different circumstances such a question would be inappropriate, offensive, and deserving of chastisement. But in this particular case, Harry had asked a question that showed that he was thinking of exactly the kinds of things Snape was trying to teach him. He took a moment to review what he was about to say, and to make sure that his answer would contain nothing that would raise the suspicions of Dumbledore - who was almost certainly eavesdropping on this conversation. Then he began to try to explain his beliefs about politics for the benefit of the boy who would most likely have the greatest impact on wizard politics of any single person of this generation.
"I'm certainly not a royalist," Snape said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. What was clearly obvious to an experienced adult would not necessarily be so to a young boy, and Snape wanted to make certain that what he intended to express sincerely was not taken ironically. "So far as I am concerned, Arthur himself is completely overrated. That king would not have even been conceived if Merlin had not arranged for his parents' tryst to occur, and even though the great wizard raised the boy, and guided him into manhood, and advised him during his entire life, all that Arthur was ever able to accomplish was to gather some skilled fighters around him, and act in the capacity of a warlord - which is all most kings have ever been able to do. Despite Arthur's much-vaunted greatness, Britain was nevertheless conquered by Rome in his own time, and by the Normans afterward, and by the Vikings whenever they felt like it. So Arthur's championing of the cause of the 'Britons' was futile at best. I believe kings are next to useless. I am not a royalist in the least.
"However, the so-called reformists are even more misguided. They imagine that muggles could, first of all, stand the psychic shock of realizing that there have been magic-using people living alongside of them for thousands of years, totally unknown to their science and philosophy. We are longer-lived than muggles, and generally healthier. We suffer fewer mental breakdowns, we tend to be stronger... how could they accept us as anything but monsters, a threat to their very existence? I do not believe that muggles should be allowed to function completely without supervision. I think there are many things of which muggles are capable that are so destructive they must not be allowed. So I believe that the wizard community should keep an eye on the muggles, and curtail their worst tendencies, not try to combine our very separate governments and societies. I am not a reformist.
"Which seems to leave only one choice. But the very term, 'Moderate' goes against much of what I believe to be necessary for our kind - our magic-using people - to survive. Since you have worked with the Order of the Phoenix, you know of my connection to Voldemort. You should also know that I once found many of his ideals very appealing. I believe you might be able to see how I would embrace any set of disciplines that refuses to accept mediocrity, that strives for excellence in every aspect of life, which holds laziness and incompetence in contempt, and values achievement and accomplishment above the warmer, fuzzier values such as comfort, tolerance and forgiveness. I am not a moderate, then, Mister Potter. I believe myself to be - despite my opposition to Voldemort and my dedication to Hogwarts - a radical. Let us put it this way: Moderates support Fudge. I have nothing but contempt for the man and his entire organization."
Harry gazed wide-eyed at Snape. Slowly, he realized that - by totally fortuitous chance - he had been given the opportunity to work with a truly driven individual. The professor that had once inspired only fear and hatred had proven to be an impassioned idealist, one with the perfect outlook to help Harry himself achieve the things that would be necessary to reach his full potential. It would be a challenge to overcome the resistance of Dumbledore, the petty interference of the Ministry, and the apathy of most wizards. But somehow, they would get it done. "Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your candor," Harry said sincerely. As he continued his book report, Snape studied him closely, wondering just how much the boy might one day accomplish.
--- --- ---
Friday was a day of cleaning, tidying and straightening in the Hogwarts greenhouses. The operation seemed incongruous to Harry - how does one go about cleaning that which is grown in dirt? But halfway through the morning, both Professor Sprout and her helper had fallen into an efficient rhythm, and each pot in the wake of their progress had a spotless exterior, a well-watered plant within, and an easily-read label prominently displayed. Harry could see what was required of him as he proceeded, and he and the Professor worked together swiftly, with an easy, confident determination.
As Harry worked his way to the end of one of the benches, he saw Professor Snape leaving the castle and hurrying toward the nearest apparation point. Harry wondered what the Professor had been summoned for this time, and was surprised to realize that he was worried about the outcome of Snape's meeting. The delicate balance of double-agency that the potions professor had maintained for so long could not have been easy. Over the past couple of weeks, Harry had learned first-hand how challenging intrigue could be. Simply keeping his own conversations within the castle suitably ambiguous and neutral-sounding to prevent Dumbledore from becoming suspicious of him had been difficult enough. Balancing the paranoid hatred of two powerful long-time enemies must have called for a level of resourcefulness Harry could barely imagine. Even more demanding, Snape was not merely spying for profit - he had shown himself to be an idealist, trying to find a way to remake the world into something better than it had ever been. Hardly believing that he could feel this way, Harry hoped that Snape would be returning soon - and safely.
Lunch with Remus was a subdued, quiet meeting between the two friends. Lupin had no idea why Snape had been called, but he was certain that Severus had been surprised by the timing of the summons. The werewolf was concerned for the potions professor's safety as well, and he kept reviewing those times during which he and Snape had been in public together, often with Harry in tow. Had they appeared suspicious in any way? If they had been observed by one of Voldemort's loyal followers, would Snape have appeared to be betraying the Dark Lord's cause? There was no way to tell.
After lunch, when one greenhouse was completely straightened and ready for presentation, and Sprout and Harry had worked their way through most of the second, the professor called the boy to her. "You have done a good job today, Harry," she told him with a smile. "And with so little left to do between today and the arrival of your new professor, I'm going to be taking the weekend off of work for the first time since I took this job. That means that you will have tomorrow and Sunday to spend as you wish."
Harry was so surprised he had no idea what to say. Just to make sure he understood correctly, he stammered, "Don't... um... I need to... water or something?"
Professor Sprout sighed. "One of the hardest lessons to teach novice Herbologists," she said wistfully, "is that there is such a thing as overwatering. And many of the varieties we keep here actually prefer their soil to be rather dry. For a very few of the more persnickety plants, like that flat of hyperclover in the first building, a simple spell left on a watering can next to the flat will insure that they do not go thirsty. And I will check every plant before I leave tonight to make sure no one was neglected. We should be able to make this place presentable in about a half day on Monday, so we should be able to start a little bit late. Don't show up before eight in the morning, and if we work quickly, lunch should mark the end of the working day. I will be here Tuesday, to turn the Department over to..."
Harry searched Professor Sprout's face as she fell silent. She seemed to be staring at one particular pot, and Harry looked at that one to see if he could tell what his teacher was so upset about. If there was anything special about that pot, or the plant within it, Harry couldn't tell what that might have been. When Harry looked back at her, Professor Sprout spoke again, and her voice sounded tired... and bitter. "You are going to be here... alone, except for your watcher, Mister Lupin, thank God for him... with a man named Aaron Sepal. I know, I know - you've met him, you know his name, you know he is a member of Voldemort's Death Eaters, and you know I disapprove of him, and his organization, and his leader, and of our own Headmaster's decision to hire him. But please, Harry, listen to me. I do believe he is dangerous, especially to you. You have been a curse to Voldemort since you were born. You ruined him when you were just a baby. You have thwarted his progress several times since you have come to Hogwarts. To Voldemort, it would be worth the loss of more than one follower to eliminate you. Death Eaters have very strong, very volatile political beliefs. I believe that Aaron Sepal would attack you, even if that action meant his own death, if he believed that by doing so, he could kill you. So beware of him. Keep Mister Lupin close to you at all times. Do not leave your back exposed. And Harry... whatever you and Professor Snape are planning - be careful."
Harry's eyes went wide as he pulled back from the Herbology professor in shock. "Oh, don't be so dramatic," Professor Sprout laughed, resting her hands on her hips and shaking her head. "You don't think you could hide the fact that there is... something going on... from me, did you? Years of being a teacher here, at Hogwarts, where 'eyes in the back of her head' is a job prerequisite have made me particularly sensitive to any sort of sneaking around - whether on the part of students, guests, or other teachers." Looking at Harry's stricken expression, she laughed again. "Oh, please, Mister Potter... I'm not saying you're up to no good. I'm merely telling you to be careful. And that's good advice anytime. But now, with a known Death Eater joining the staff, it's better advice than ever. Come on, now, one more row of benches to go, and then we'll take our well-deserved weekend, right? Back to it, now."
Harry returned to his job, glad for the mechanical repetition of wiping pots, cleaning labels and placing those labels where they were clearly readable. He had thought that he was being so discreet. Keeping even the simplest plan secret was obviously much more difficult than he had thought. For the rest of the workday, he worried about Snape, called away mysteriously; he worried about Neville, about to try to pull off a very risky plan; and he worried about himself, already the target of one attack this summer on campus, now scheduled to work alongside a known Death Eater for the remainder of the term break.
When work was over, Professor Sprout once again made a minor production of taking her leave, making sure that Harry acknowledged that she carried no school property away with her. As he had done on Wednesday, he watched her walk off campus to apparate away, and he wondered at the strength of the emotions that simple leave-taking awoke within him. Was he changed significantly from the boy he had been only a few months ago? He didn't think so. And yet, although Professor Sprout had never been his favorite teacher, he felt deeply moved at her plight. She had quit her job all on her own, he had to admit. But she had done so on principle, which - thankfully - she had made very clear to him the day after she had given her notice. It was not simply that she was frustrated by the lack of quality in her summer help; she had quit because of strong differences with the Headmaster that showed no signs of being possible to reconcile. He wondered if Dumbledore had hired Aaron Sepal in part to punish the departing Herbology professor. With what Harry had seen recently, it would have made no less sense than much of what Dumbledore had done. But how much sense did Harry make to himself, these days? Distrusting Dumbledore was just the beginning. Was he really worried about the safety of Severus Snape? Was he really going to take lessons in society living from Narcissa Malfoy? Was he really planning to usurp control of the government of the entire nation, and make being 'The Boy Who Lived' his life's work?
Well, more accurately, his working title would be more like 'The Boy Who Lived To Become The Man Who Defeated His Lifelong Enemy And Everyone Else Besides In Order To Run The Whole Country.' But that was too long to be included in a snappy campaign slogan.
Thinking of which, he wondered: if he actually did all of the things that Remus and Snape had suggested he might be able to do, would he ever have to stand for re-election? Or would he become some sort of dictator, a 'President for Life,' has had happened in some other countries? The decision should have been up to him, ideally. But he had the distinct impression that would not be the case, and someone else would decide whether he returned the nation to any kind of democratic process, or whether he continued to rule with an iron fist.
Thinking of these things, he stood there long after the sound of Pomona Sprout apparating away had resounded across the wide lawns of Hogwarts. As he was about to turn back toward the castle, he saw Snape walking toward the entrance from the apparation point. "Professor!" He shouted, running to meet the man. "You're..." suddenly, he realized that shouting his relief at the safety of the potions professor was not the most discrete thing he could do. "... back," he finished lamely.
Severus stared disbelievingly at the boy running toward him with such a joyful expression. He clearly saw the boy catch himself, and could practically see his mind's wheels turning as he searched for a way to finish his exuberant greeting without betraying any confidences. Most surprisingly, the boy's apparent happiness and relief at seeing him seemed genuine. Wondering over that, Snape found it easiest to slip into his familiar sarcastic character to reply. "Extremely observant of you, Mister Potter. I would not have been certain of my own location had you not so precisely pointed it out to me."
"Thank you, Sir," Harry replied, so cheerfully that Snape wondered whether the boy had missed his sarcasm entirely. Then he saw Harry's expression and realized that Potter was playing with him! Harry had responded to Snape's acerbic comment as though it had been real praise precisely because he knew that it wasn't... and, more subtly, the boy seemed to be saying that he realized to what extent Severus' unrelenting sarcasm was put on in order to help facilitate his double life as a spy. In Snape's carefully-guarded heart, the tiniest hope began to grow that - just perhaps - his ambitious plans involving this boy may have some slim chance of actually succeeding.
"I have both days of this weekend off, Sir," Harry continued exuberantly. "Professor Sprout won't be on campus, so she told me to stay away from the Herbology Department - for the good of the plants." Snape, already surprised, was astounded. Harry Potter, heaping sarcasm on himself? And doing so with an innocent-faced smile? What would have been unbelievable mere days ago now seemed as though it might well be the evidence of a growing sophistication in the boy - one for which Snape believed he could take some credit. It was a bare beginning, baby steps toward the hoped-for level of maturity that Potter would need to achieve, and achieve quickly, for his own good - but that it had begun at all was inspiring.
"And how do you intend to spend this unexpected windfall of freedom?" Snape was so busy studying the newly manifested differences in the boy before him that he nearly forgot to sneer.
Harry shrugged. "Study, of course, if nothing else presents itself. But I thought you might have some suggestions for me."
'It is a good thing I have a strong heart,' Snape mused. 'A weaker man might have died of shock.' To Harry, he said, "I do have something in mind, though tomorrow will be the earliest possible time during which we might take advantage of the opportunity. In fact, now that you remind me, I should go check on the availability of that particular educational opportunity. For tonight, I suggest you do some reading. I will be expecting your next book report sometime during this weekend. Go on, get to it. I will be busy arranging a unique weekend experience for you." He turned and walked back toward the apparation point. Harry, burning with curiosity about what Snape had been involved with that day, had to content himself with returning to the castle. He met Remus halfway there, and could immediately tell that the man was relieved that Snape had returned alive and apparently safe. He could also tell that the werewolf had been able to hear the entire conversation. "That's the way to keep him on his toes," Remus teased. "Fight sarcasm with sarcasm - the conversational weapon of choice among all disgruntled wits. But what's this about a unique opportunity?" Harry shrugged, and Remus smiled reassuringly. "Well, knowing Severus, whatever it is will certainly be worth your while."
Harry thought of all of the other things that Snape had found to be worth his while and groaned.
He did spend the evening studying, though. He made it through nearly all of 'Your Personal Hair Story,' and while he wasn't about to begin toying with the implements tucked into the book's cover, he did have quite a bit more respect for the complex meanings which were... or at least, which had been, in more formal times, up to several decades ago... telegraphed by the way wizards wore their hair.
He found that his own hair, that he had previously thought to be simply untamable, fortuitously fell into a distinct, and appropriate, category. There was a formal name for the style, in Latin, but Harry remembered the informal English term for it, 'Shock.' It was, ironically enough, said to be appropriate for a child mourning the loss of both parents. So long as he remained in school, Harry would be considered still a child, and thus still entitled to wear his hair in its natural state. However, since he was his parents' oldest child, and the heir to their family fortune, whenever he decided he was ready to begin taking on his adult responsibilities - or when he graduated seventh year of school, whichever came first - he would be expected to grow his hair long, and wear it straight, either streaming back freely from his scalp, or pulled back and tied. Albus Dumbledore was an oldest child. So was Severus Snape. Harry had never thought of their hairstyles in a larger context before, instead always assuming that those men had chosen their appearance on purely aesthetic grounds. But each of them was actually following a meticulously prescribed formula. The very wildness and extreme length of Dumbledore's hair and beard testified to his many years of age, of magical experience, and of family responsibility.
The book's last section, near the beginning of which Harry had to put the volume down and go to sleep, were about the most recent trends in wizard society, including the abandonment of most of the hair conventions by many modern wizards. Harry thought he could see the Weasley family's attitudes described - and soundly rejected by the author - in the overview of those chapters. Harry tried to picture Arthur Weasley with long hair and a full beard. His best attempts yielded only cartoonish images. And by rights, even though his parents were still alive, Bill Weasley should be entitled to wear his hair very long... which he did, Harry realized. Bill had always kept his hair pulled back in a severe pony tail whenever Harry had seen him, but the young man did have hair that was as extremely long as it was extremely red. Harry wondered if Bill would grow a full beard once his father died. If he did, he would look like a Viking adventurer, Harry thought: Bill the Red, Terror of the Seas. Harry began to see why the formal hair presentations had begun to fall out of fashion in recent times. Still, it was interesting to wonder: had his own hair simply followed its naturally unruly path as it would have no matter what had happened to his parents? Or had someone cast a charm on it, keeping it properly "Shock"-ish so that he would appear to be appropriately tressed as he was finally presented to wizard society when he first attended Hogwarts? And, if that were true... Could it be reversed? Harry thought it might be nice to have some control over the unruly mop for once in his life.
He fell asleep thinking happily of being able to sleep in for the first time since school let out.
Instead, he awoke early, to Hedwig pecking at him. The bird had a note tied to her leg, and seemed impatient to be relieved of the burden, light though it was. In fact, the note was only a single scrap of parchment, on which Professor Snape had written:
'Your unique educational opportunity begins at 10 a.m.
Please join Mister Lupin and me at the castle's front
entrance no later than 9:15. (A.M., Mister Potter.)
- S. Snape
Groggily, Harry realized that, if this had been a workday, he would have been in the greenhouse already. But eight o'clock was hardly 'sleeping in' by his standards. His eyes still feeling sticky, he stumbled off to the bath.
Several minutes ahead of his note-imposed deadline, Harry was at the castle door, only to find Snape and Remus already waiting for him. With no more than a brief 'Good morning' from each, the three strode swiftly across the lawns, heading toward the Hogsmeade pathway.
"Uh... what are..." Harry began, but was silenced by a glare from Snape, and a look from Remus that reminded him that he should know better than to discuss anything significant on school grounds. The walk off of campus and the swift apparation were completed in silence. Harry was ready to be surprised at some unfamiliar destination. Instead, he found himself standing in a very familiar spot - the broad, uncrowded floor of the Weasley twins' warehouse. His first reaction was one of near panic. Was Ginny there? He realized that such a response was hardly appropriate for a heroic conqueror-to-be, then wondered exactly what kind of 'educational experience' he was scheduled to have that day. Could it involve Ginny? Did these people expect him to learn something about sex in such a cold manner? 'Sexual experience by appointment?' He wondered whether Ginny would be offended, or take the opportunity as it was offered. He was so distracted, he hardly noticed the twins' entrance, George carrying a tray of glasses, Fred pushing a cart bearing a large pitcher, and an ice bucket.
"Orange juice for the early-morning crowd," Fred crowed.
"Except for the adults in attendance - for us, mimosas," George amended.
"Actually, I thought it might be appropriate for Harry to have just a touch of the bubbly as well," Fred suggested, eyebrows raised as he awaited Snape's and Remus' reaction.
Snape merely pressed his lips together into a thin line, but Remus chuckled and said, "I'm not sure. Harry? Have you ever had an alcoholic beverage?"
Harry felt all eyes turn toward him, and he quailed before the attention. He was embarrassed to admit both his experiences with alcohol and his general inexperience with the primary social lubricant of muggle life. "Uh... yes..." he said hesitantly, then realized that more explanation was called for. "I... um.... stole a pint of stout from my uncle's collection in the refrigerator. My aunt and uncle had just gone to the store, and had put some new bottles in, so I thought they might not miss it. They didn't - for almost a week. Then, they nearly went crazy trying to figure out when the missing bottle had been drunk. My uncle Vernon ended up lecturing Dudley for almost an hour on the dangers of unsupervised underage drinking. My cousin was totally baffled by all of that. I drank some cooking sherry another time. And once, when my aunt and uncle had a glass of wine each, but didn't finish the bottle, I finished it for them when I took out the trash. That was the best, I guess. But that's about all the alcohol I have ever had." By the time he finished his story, his face was bright red, and he couldn't stand to meet anyone's eyes.
"Did you get sick?" Remus asked. Harry shook his head. "Even when you drank the cooking sherry?" Remus persisted. Harry looked up at him to find the man looked concerned rather than mocking.
"No, I didn't get sick. But the stout was too... uh.... stout, I guess you'd say. Like trying to drink bread. And the sherry was... I don't know.... but after drinking that stuff, I couldn't understand why anyone would ever want to develop a taste for drinking wine. The real wine was a lot better."
"But you've never had champagne?" Remus asked, to make sure the point was perfectly clear.
"No."
"Fred... George... Let's pour a little bit of champagne first, before we make anything else out of it. I propose a toast: To Harry, and his introduction to a wider world."
By the time Remus' toast was complete, Fred and George had passed out glasses to everyone, and were ready to drink. Each adult had a generous amount of champagne, while Harry had gotten only a finger's depth. But everyone - even Snape - raised his glass Harry's way and waited for him to raise his own. When he did, they all drank, so Harry followed suit. And was pleasantly surprised. The fizzing wine was nothing like the sour cooking sherry, and was much more pleasant than the leftover wine he had recovered from his relatives' dinner. The bubbles were much livelier than those in stout, and the champagne had a tart, refreshing taste along with its alcoholic bite. "That's really... good," Harry said, searching the others' faces to see whether they thought he was being foolish. Apparently, they all believed that it was good, as well, and Fred and George busied themselves making the orange juice and champagne drinks they called 'mimosas.' Harry noticed that George put only the tiniest amount of champagne into each drink, but when the first round had been mixed and distributed, he announced, "Back for another bottle. The orange juice seems to be holding up just fine." And he disappeared into the office area.
Harry was thirsty, and drank his first orange juice rather quickly. There had been only a touch of champagne added, so he felt confident asking for a refill as quickly as he did. He wondered whether he would be allowed any more of the champagne, and seriously doubted it, but when George came back with the bottle already open, he splashed a slightly more generous helping of the fizzing wine into Harry's glass of juice.
"Today," Snape announced, apparently exclusively for Harry's benefit, since the rest of those in attendance seemed to be well informed already, "the Weasley twins have generously offered to sacrifice some of their most valuable goods for our exercises. As experienced beaters, I suppose this suggestion was inevitable, and it was only a matter of time before our hosts recalled what a genuine threat can be posed by such innocuous playthings. I am speaking, of course, of bludgers."
Snape smiled wickedly and Harry felt a sudden chill. Bludgers really were dangerous. And fast. And they often seemed to have a mind of their own once they were aloft, out of the bindings in which they were kept between games. They were at the heart of that portion of quiddich that consisted of airborne mayhem. As beaters, Fred and George had sent the heavy balls rocketing at many opponents, knocking some of them from their brooms, and occasionally causing injuries that required the immediate attention of a mediwitch. Harry had learned a great deal of respect for bludgers - mostly during practice. He had never suffered the game-ending kind of impacts that some players had received from the flying menaces. But then again, during games, he had been on his broom. And he had enjoyed the protection of a pair of beaters. In his first seasons, those protectors had been Fred and George themselves. His mouth was suddenly dry. He drained his glass and immediately held it out for a refill. George had his drink back in his hand in seconds. Harry tried to put on his bravest face as he asked, "What do you plan to do with bludgers?"
"That's the beauty of the plan," George bragged.
"It's simplicity itself," Fred agreed.
"You will notice that our stock has been shoved back against the walls."
"Which leaves a great deal of open space here in the middle."
"We put you here."
"And release them."
Harry heard something suspicious in Fred's last statement. "How many of them," he demanded.
"That's the other beautiful thing," Fred rhapsodized.
"You won't know," George winked and stood there, smiling next to his smiling brother, who added, "Until you've dealt with them all."
Harry was more than a little annoyed. "What am I supposed to do?"
"We won't know," George said.
"Until you do it," Fred added.
Harry drained his glass and Fred pushed a replacement into his hand even as he took the empty one away. "Well, how will I know when I have dealt with them all?" Harry protested, then took another long pull on his refilled glass.
"That's the real challenge," George said seriously.
"We don't doubt that you can deal with a room full of bludgers," Fred assured Harry.
"It's whether you can deal with the unexpected bludger that flies at your back once you have the others under control," George continued soothingly.
"Roomful?" Harry repeated. "Room... Full? How many of these things do you have?"
"Ah, ah," George said, shaking a finger like a schoolmarm offering a warning to a preschooler. "That would be giving it away. The surprise is really what's at the heart of this particular game." Harry drained his glass and George took it as Fred pressed a refill into Harry's hand. "All right, gentlemen, George announced. "Drink up. We have to move on to business, here. Harry, we will observe from the relative safety of our office. That is, except for Fred here, who will be releasing the bludgers from our..." He made a grand gesture toward one end of the warehouse as Fred pulled a cord, dragging a canvas dropcloth off of the structure it had been concealing. The revealed construction was metallic, with a circular window in the side that faced out into the warehouse. It looked just big enough for one person to crouch in - uncomfortably. "...Bludger Blind!" George concluded, turning to accept applause. Since there was none forthcoming, he shrugged and pushed the mimosa cart away toward the office. "We'll be watching," he called back to Harry over his shoulder. "Don't go too easy on him, Fred," he shouted to his brother, who was struggling to push himself through a tiny door set into the side of the blind that faced the wall.
In seconds, Harry was alone, facing a bludger-sized window in the side of a metallic box. He drew his wand. He was tense, excited and light headed. He felt reckless. He felt like roaring out a challenge to the bludger keeper in his cowardly metal box. He felt... different. With a start of recognition, he remembered the feeling that had come over him on two of the occasions he had drunk alcohol. (The sherry had done nothing for him whatsoever.) But whereas the leftover wine, and even the whole pint of stout had given him a tiny suggestion of this feeling, the champagne in his mimosas had given him a huge helping of it. He was confident... even as he realized that, given his situation, he was feeling overconfident. He wanted to change the rules of the game, to attack first, to smash that stupid bludger blind to smithereens... even though he knew that this exercise had been set up at some trouble and expense to help him. He knew what this was called, even though he had never been in this particular condition before. He was drunk. He took a deep breath. He flexed his muscles. He started to bellow out a challenge. He dropped to the ground before he really knew what he was doing. Something had warned him, some sixth sense... or maybe he had merely heard the bludger whistling toward him from behind and had recognized the sound from quiddich games. Whichever it had been, Harry had no sooner hit the floor than a bludger flew swiftly through the space in which he had been standing only a moment before.
What was worse, Harry had seen no bludgers released from the blind. He was under attack from an unknown direction, and the first shot had already been fired. He twisted on the ground, not wanting to be face-down while the action was taking place above him. He freed his wand and watched for approaching bludgers.
He didn't have long to wait. Two of the heavy projectiles appeared from either side. He threw his arms wide, not so much casting a spell as grunting hard as though lifting a heavy weight. The bludgers exploded in mid-air. But as they were already aimed at him, the burning ash that they had become landed on his face and arms, hurting, burning and making him bellow in rage and pain. From his nearly helpless supine position, he leapt into the air, landing on his feet and twisting quickly to scan all directions for any approaching threats. That was a more athletic feat than the boy should have been capable of, and it raised some questions in the office observation area.
The room was darkened, with a glowing rectangle floating in mid-air, in which the image of Harry appeared. As he made his gymnastic kip-up from flat on his back to standing on his toes, Remus asked the twins, "did you give him anything... extra before we began this test?"
George, deliberately casual, said, "Oh. Didn't I tell you? The champagne we added to the mimosas was extra. The orange juice was already spiked."
A loud explosion rocked the warehouse as Harry destroyed a trio of bludgers that had been sent at him from three different directions at once. Remus squinted at the glowing image of Harry's progress and shouted," Fred isn't sending those things! They aren't coming from the blind at all!"
"No," George admitted easily. "The blind is nothing but a covering over the stairway to the lower floor. Fred is nowhere near there." George had expected Snape to say something - possibly even to demand that the whole experiment be called off. But it was Remus who shouted, his voice echoing off of the walls of the tiny office.
"You have no idea who it is you have gotten drunk and threatened out there!"
"Yes, we do," George said calmingly. "He's our teammate, our classmate, our old chum..."
A heavy shock made the entire warehouse rock sickeningly from side to side. A trio of explosions sounded through the office walls as Harry destroyed three more bludgers.
"No, you don't," Remus insisted. "He makes Albus Dumbledore look like a cheapassed muggle stage magician. He..." Something strange had happened. Remus knew he was in the midst of shouting, but no sound was coming from his lips. He knew he was gesturing toward the observation panel that George had conjured, but his hand wasn't moving. He was dimly aware that quite a lot of time was passing in the wider world, but for him, personally, nothing was happening at all.
Harry had destroyed three bludgers with a gesture, and was screaming curses at random. He didn't even know what he was saying, except that it was loud, and violent, and extremely obscene. He had made a decision, he wanted everyone to know. He shouted his decision at maximum volume. This entire situation was stupid, he had decided. Even in quiddich, you only had to deal with two bludgers, and there, you had a team. Where was his team? They were hiding. What could he do about that?
Suddenly, there were four bludgers flying at him, and he decided it was time to put his foot down. This was more than enough, and he wasn't putting up with any more of it. Flinging his arms out to his sides, he shouted "Stop!" The bludgers, as he had expected, did so. Now, what to do? He could send the bludgers flying into the office. He could probably kill everyone there. He thought about that for a while. Snape? That might have been appealing a few weeks ago, but he didn't want to kill Snape any more. Remus? Disgusting. Remus was his friend, his family. No need to kill good old Remus. George? Hey! George was on his team. He thought about it really hard and look! There was George, as stiff as a statue, floating out of the office. But how had that happened? Harry looked on the ground and saw the splintered remains of the office doorway. Oh, too bad. Perhaps he would reimburse the twins for their broken door. Or, maybe, he would teach them what it meant to play games with him. Chuckling maliciously, he swung George's stiff form at one of the bludgers, as though George were his own beater bat. The bludger flew satisfyingly away from the stroke until Harry decided that it had gone far enough. The bludger stopped immediately.
George opened his eyes, one of the few voluntary actions he could still accomplish. He was quite thankful that his heart was still beating, and that his breathing continued automatically, but all of his muscles were stiff and unyielding as an old hickory stick. He had wanted to scream only a moment ago, and had been tremendously frustrated at being unable to do so. But overriding that frustration was the sheer terror of seeing and feeling himself rocketing helplessly toward a stationary bludger, apparently about to meet the heavy thing head first in what, by all rights, should have been a face-smashing impact. He had shut his eyes, tried unsuccessfully to scream, and waited for the hideous pain to begin. He thought for an instant that he could smell the heavy leather covering of the bludger right in front of his nose. Then... there had been nothing - no pain, no impact, no horrible crunching sound of his own cheekbones imploding. Had he missed? As his eyes opened, he saw the bludger flying away from him, exactly as though he had struck it nose-first. Then, inexplicably, the heavy ball came to a sudden halt. George himself floated into a new position, and George could see Harry Potter, gazing at the bludgers - and at George himself - floating in mid-air. Harry had the terrible, ignorant, absolutely nonempathetic look of an infant. George began to hope, then to wish, and finally to pray fervently that Harry had not been the sort of child who had torn the wings off of flies.
There was something unfair about this, Harry reflected. George was joining in the fun, but where was Fred? Ah! There he was, on the lower story, the basement of the warehouse. Harry swept away the silly metal construction that had pretended to be the 'bludger blind' and threw open the trap door that covered the stairway. Oops. Too hard. The trap door would never function as a door again. Well, what good was that? With a thought, Harry tore the thing from its hinges and sent it flying against the far wall. He reached down through the opening, feeling with his mind for the presence he knew had to be there. It was frustrating because he couldn't see. Instead, he had a crummy sort of echolocation, a cheap kind of radar, and an excellent mental sense. He found Fred's mind, in a sort of panic, trying to hide behind a big stack of crates. Stupid boy.
'How could a big stack of crates keep me from seeing you?' Harry asked silently. He was about to apologize for asking questions that his friends could not hear when he realized that, somehow, Fred had heard, and was trying to answer. Unfortunately, Fred's fear added so much distortion to his thoughts that he was unintelligible. Harry lifted him out of the basement and up to a bludger.
Like his brother before him, Fred became a customized beater bat, sending a bludger flying until Harry trapped it once again.
Like his brother, Fred experienced a moment of sheer horror as the bludger grew to eclipse everything else within his field of vision. Like his brother, he was left baffled at his own survival, then horrified at the child-like, terrible innocence in Harry's face as the boy contemplated the people hanging in front of him.
Harry was dissatisfied. Getting his friends in here to share his solution to this morning's exercise had been fun, but there was still the problem of what to do with the floating bludgers. He now held four of them suspended in the air, and to Harry, that was a clumsy, inelegant number. Three might have been all right, but now that there were four, there had to be more, to make a nicely balanced collection. He held the oddly immobile Fred and George up in front of him and silently inquired, "How many more?" There was no immediate answer, so he shook them both slightly. When the whites of their eyes turned red, he thought he may have shaken them enough. "How many more?" he thought at them once again.
"Seven!" Both twins screamed mentally, picturing the word 'seven,' the numeral 'seven' and pairs of dice showing pips that totalled 'seven.'
"Why?" Harry demanded.
"An attack of five, then two stragglers for surprise!" Both twins explained, each in his own individual way. Harry stopped to marvel at this for a moment. Both twins looked so much alike, sounded so much alike, even, it seemed, thought so much alike, that it was refreshing and very interesting to know that the two of them might really have two different ways of explaining something. But their plan was clear enough. After hitting Harry with waves of three, four and five bludgers, they would keep two in reserve to launch surprise attacks, once the exercise seemed to be over. Harry admired this for a while. He could appreciate the subtlety of having - not one - but two surprise attacks waiting after the main event was over. He noticed that Fred and George were turning blue hanging in the air in front of him, and he relaxed his hold on them just enough to let them breathe. No need in suffocating his good friends just yet, was there? Bludgers! He called. Come, bludgers! He could feel the flying obstacles straining against straps in a crate hidden within the warehouse. Carefully, he unfastened the straps, and seven more bludgers flew into the open expanse of the warehouse, where they were caught in mid-flight, as Harry contemplated them. Eleven. That was a good, balanced number, he thought. A number with which to juggle. Smiling, he set the entire set of eleven bludgers flying in a complex celtic knot pattern. Wanting to show off his work, he reached into the office and lifted out Snape and Remus, hanging them in midair next to Fred and George. Things were almost right, Harry thought. The bludgers were flying beautifully, and his friends were here to see it. But something was wrong. Something was missing. That was it! No one was dancing. "Dance!" Harry bellowed out loud, and stepped into the air until he was at the same level as his friends. "Oh, sorry," he said apologetically. "No music." He concentrated on making the air vibrate rhythmically.
Later, Remus was to thank all that was holy that Harry Potter had never decided to become a musician. The Boy Who Lived could easily have held the entire world hostage to his performances, and those performances - if they were anything like the spontaneous dance music Harry conjured in the Weasley's warehouse - would have been sufficiently horrible to drive people to kill themselves rather than be subjected to one. Remus had no choice. Held in stasis, he could only float in midair and listen as Harry created music for himself to dance to. Much later, Remus would read reports of clocks stopping for miles around the greater London area, and of an earthquake that seemed to come from nowhere, and vanish without any reasonable explanation from geologists. Remus felt sorry for the earth scientists. There was no way to explain the sudden release of wild magic by an individual who was, himself, a force of nature.
Harry invited his friends to dance, and when they did not respond, he made them dance, with steps he imagined on the spot. Snape, he thought, was a particularly elegant dancer, so long and lean. His nose was as elegant as a limb of any other dancer. If 'line' was important to the eye of the choreographer, then a skillful choreographer would have much for Snape's nose to do in any serious ballet. Remus was a natural male lead, strong and supple without being musclebound or overly bulky. Remus flew so effortlessly that Harry kept interrupting his own dance to watch. Fred and George were the clowns. Well, what had they expected? They had practically begged for the clown roles from their earliest days to the present. When the dance was over, Harry let the music fall silent, allowed the bludgers to come to a halt in front of where his friends hovered, then placed his friends carefully on the ground. "Ah, great!" He enthused. "Nothing better than this, is there?"
As soon as he had control over his voice once again, George nearly screamed, "Bludgers! Harry, Bludgers!"
Harry looked at the floating balls and sighed. "I don't think I'll be able to play quiddich again. I see how these work."
"They're loose," Fred nearly cried. "They're unfettered."
Harry laughed. "Unfettered, Fred? Have you been studying for scrabble? Oh, all right, they're gone, will that please you?" With a wave of his hand, Harry sent all eleven bludgers back to their crates, fastened the restraints around them, and slammed the lids on the cases. It wasn't until the heavy 'thumps' of the cases closing were heard on the warehouse floor that the Weasley twins relaxed.
"You know what?" Harry mused, looking around the mess of the warehouse floor, where the remains of six exploded bludgers, a fake blind, a trap door and an office door lay about. "I need some sleep. As much fun as this has been, I require a return to Hogwarts, and some time in my own bed. So I will bid you fellows good night."
Struggling to be able to speak, Remus said, "I could take you back... apparate you to the place on the path just beyond the grounds."
"No, no, no," Harry waved the offer away. "I'm not asking for favors, I was just saying goodbye. I'll take myself."
Snape's eyes widened, the twins' faces assumed expressions of horror. Remus begged, trying to move toward Harry, feeling as though he were trying to walk through molasses, "Please don't, Harry. Apparation is difficult. A mistake can disfigure you for life, or even kill you... Please."
Harry smiled indulgently at the man. "That's if you don't see," he explained patiently. "I can see. I could probably apparate right to my bedside. But I might save that until next time. This time, I'll just go right back to where we always go. 'Bye, now." With a solid 'thunk,' he was gone.
Remus was nearly frantic. "Severus, we have to follow him... make sure he's all right."
Snape turned to glare at the twins. "I will speak to you about this... later. Remus. Let's go."
The two men apparated away. Fred and George looked around at the ruin of their warehouse.
"It looks worse than it is," insisted Fred.
"We can replace the doors, and we figured to lose the bludgers, anyway," agreed George.
In silent concert, they moved quickly to check their stock. To their amazement, once they had completed their check, they found that they had lost not one single piece of merchandise to the Great Bludger Rampage, as the morning's escapade was thereafter known to them.
Remus and Severus apparated to the Hogsmeade path, and checked the surrounding area. Despite the brilliant sunshine, they could see no Harry. They ran toward the castle, and there, just entering the great front doors, was Potter, staggering but apparently whole. The two men pelted to the doorway at top speed only to find that Harry had climbed the stairs already. They dashed up the stairway to meet the stony glare of the Fat Lady.
"Do NOT even try," she said icily. "Harry is fine. He will have a hangover when he awakens, no doubt, but he told me that he had attempted his first apparation this morning. It was a complete success. He looks good, despite the rather greenish tint to his face - I would assume that was from excessive drinking with you two. Together, we have changed the password. No one will be entering this tower for the rest of the day. Good bye. Harry will see you tomorrow."
Snape reached for his wand, ready to blast the portrait, and most of the surrounding wall, into dust in order to gain entry to Gryffindor Tower. Remus laid a hand on his wrist. "Severus. The boy is fine. He passed the test. He apparated himself. He is doing better than we had expected him to be able to do. Let's allow him to rest." Grumbling, Snape allowed himself to be turned around, and together, the two men descended all the way to the dungeons. It was still early, and there was much to discuss.