March crawled by. Every day, it seemed, there was a new unpleasant fact: one of the healers at St. Mungo's was caught photographing the pox ward and sentenced to three months in Azkaban in a swift trial; the Ministry was considering enacting a curfew solely for Muggleborns; and a ring of wizards selling fake pox remedies in Hogsmeade managed to sell a few to the students, much to Dumbledore's wrath, as all the students had had to go to the hospital wing. The headmaster had addressed the issue over dinner one night; Harry had never seen him so angry.

Likewise, Harry had never seen Ginny so angry as she was with him through much of rainy, windswept March. She didn't shout at him, cry, or hex him. But she withdrew from him enough that Harry felt her absence keenly.

He didn't name it, not really, until the day Snape and Mulciber made trouble.

There was a solemn sort of air about the castle that day; it was not often that Dumbledore reprimanded his students, and his words from last night were ringing in everyone's ears. Harry, slumped alone in a chair in the library, pretending to study, but really listening to a group of third or fourth year Hufflepuffs whispering worriedly amongst each other.

"But Dumbledore said to get rid of it," said one girl.

"I will," said a boy, but unconvincingly.

Another boy nudged him. "You heard what happened to Bonnie."

"I know."

Harry leaned back in his chair. All three were very serious, dismal even, faces white and eyes huge. There was a girl who'd started vomiting in the Entry Hall and had had to be floated to the hospital wing.

"What if she just… just took too much?"

"You can't be wanting to try it," the girl pleaded. "What if it happens to you?"

"And we're safe enough from the pox here," said the other boy bracingly.

"Easy for you to say," muttered the first. "You two are purebloods. It's easier for me to get it."

"That doesn't make sense," Harry muttered.

But the Hufflepuffs didn't hear him. Instead, they packed up their belongings and headed out, all three very pale and walking very close together. Harry slumped back in his chair, scratching at the back of his neck, and wishing Ginny were there to commiserate with. Flicking his books closed, he stuffed them in his sack and he, too, strode out.

He didn't get very far.

The three Hufflepuffs were clutched tightly together in the hallway. Over them, looming menacingly, were Snape and another Slytherin, Mulciber, who had a thin, cruel face and a permanent sneer. Mulciber was darkly tanned with a ruddy cast to his features, appearing even darker beside Snape, who was made of black and white; for all that, they could have been brothers for how alike they looked in tormenting the younger students.

"-for your own safety, you see," Mulciber said. He was addressing one of the girls, who retreated even closer to her friends. "I know your family, Snodgrass. They wouldn't want you catching the pox from him."

"He hasn't got the pox," protested Snodgrass.

"And you too, Hopkirk," sneered Mulciber. "Isn't that right, Severus? They may not be sacred 28, but they're pure of blood."

"You're right," Snape agreed.

Harry glared at him. The younger version of Snape was no better than the older version.

"But you don't need to take my word for it," said Mulciber, smiling now. "I can show you."

"What d'you mean, show me?" Snodgrass asked warily.

"The fools at the Daily Prophet won't show you what this pox is really like," said Mulciber, while Snape slunk in his shadow, his skin a sullen yellow in the light streaming through the windows. "They think it's too frightening; the last thing they want is a frightened group of witches and wizards storming St. Mungo's if they have even a hint of a symptom."

Curious despite himself, Harry leaned against the wall, folding his arms.

"Show them, Severus," Mulciber ordered.

Snape muttered something under his breath; out of thin air, a picture emerged, gradually solidifying. Harry squinted at it as it slowly revolved, filmy at the edges. More students had joined them; Harry was shoved lightly to the side, but he did not notice. What the–

The photograph had captured a witch in the throes of convulsion. As Harry watched, a bloody boil the size of a saucer burst on her arm, then rapidly turned a scaly gray and swelled outward. Now the sore was twice the size as it was before. Dimly, he registered that Mulciber was gleefully saying that it was the last photograph taken of this woman: she'd died three days later. But it wasn't over: Now, the photograph showed a shirtless wizard with scales covering his chest and more bloody sores on his neck and his lips. Even in the photograph, Harry could tell his eyes were frightened: the man clutched at his own throat, as though he could keep the sores from traveling upward onto his face.

"See?" Mulciber said, triumphant. "See? I bet they were Mudbloods."

The two girls, Snodgrass and Hopkirk, sidled a half a step away from their Muggleborn friend. For the first time, Harry noticed Ginny on the opposite side of the hall. Their eyes met for the briefest of instants before Harry flicked his attention back to the scene in front of him. His skin crawled with a sense of wrongness.

"Wait just a minute," said Harry, stepping forward. "I–"

But there were Lily and James, wading in, grim-faced and wands out.

"Give it over, Mulciber," James said coldly.

"Why is that?" Mulciber asked, a lazy grin sprawled on his lips. "I'm only doing a service, you know. The Mudbloods—"

"—three points from Slytherin," said James. "Try again."

"—Muggleborns ought to know the cost of living in our world where they don't belong," he continued, his smile unchanged. Behind him, his Slytherin friends were jeering. Harry cut a quick glance at Snape, who was pale under his sallow skin, and still floating the pictures in the air. "Those thieves ought to be aware of the price they're going to pay for stealing from purebloods." His finger jabbed toward the ghastly looking woman, whose sores gleamed grey and bloody. "It'll happen to them."

"Seems to me, you so-called purebloods are the thieves," said Lily, who had not lowered her wand one inch. "Where do you think those pictures came from? Wizards created cameras, did they?" Beside her, James laughed. A cold snarl burst out of her; the pictures floating in the air burst into green flames, turning to ash within seconds.

Snape squawked in pain; the next second he dropped his wand. "Ouch," he cried. "That hurt."

Lily gave him a look so full of loathing that Harry nearly thought Snape was going to turn to ash the same way his pictures had. "I'm sure you could find someone to care," she said coolly, "if you looked hard enough." Then, turning to Mulciber, she said, "That was the stinging spell Dumbledore teaches to us Heads."

"I can give you a taste, if you like," offered James. "Now back off. We've only one day until the holidays. Try not to lose any more points for your house. You want to keep playing for Slytherin, don't you? You don't want to lose the chance to play at the last match?"

"You couldn't," sneered Mulciber, but his beady eyes narrowed.

"Slughorn likes me well enough," said James. "He's your Head of House, isn't he? I can tell you that that"—he flicked his wand in the direction of the lightly falling ash—"will be enough reason for him to restrict you from playing. It's grotesque, Mulciber."

The Slytherin's sneer remained locked on his face; for a moment, Harry thought it would turn into a duel right there in the corridor. His eyes caught Ginny's; on her face, he saw the same bit of thrill he was feeling. He turned back just in time to see Mulciber jerk his head toward the open doors. "Let's go, Severus," he muttered.

"Excellent choice," said James, voice hard. "Both of you get out of here. Surely you have something else you can do."

"Not going to hex us?" Snape sneered, though his voice shook with barely concealed rage. "Not lording your badge over the school any more, Potter?" He sloped forward.

"Severus." Mulciber snapped. "Come. Now."

At the back of the crowd that had formed, Sirius let out two loud barks.

Snape ignored both Mulciber and Sirius. "What happened to you, Potter?" Snape was so angry he was shaking. "Someone blast a whole new personality into you?" The taunt was shaky. "Or blow one into you?" The corner of his lip lifted. "Or is it just in public… you're no better than us, Potter. You put on a good front for the witches, but if none of them were here, you'd be pissing on us with your wand. Admit it."

"Hardly," said James, lowering his wand. "You're hardly worth that."

A strange satisfaction filled Harry, born of years of being the older Snape's student. The sallow face collapsed into resentment; with a billowing snap of his robes, Snape fled down the corridor. The others might have jeered, but what had gone before had been much too disturbing. Harry stepped back, letting his head fall against the wall, unable to see anything else but the victims of the pox. He'd known it was bad – but he hadn't known it would look so ghastly. The Inferi that had chased them from the cave in the mountains had looked prettier. His stomach turned over; a strange, metallic taste filled his mouth.

His sack had fallen off his shoulder and onto the floor. Lifting it, he looked around for Ginny. But she'd disappeared into the crowd. Still shaken, he ducked his head and strode off down the hall. Not for the first time, resentment filled him that they were committed to this fiction that they were siblings and that that had led to this estrangement between them. For months it had been just them united and facing the strangeness of time travel together – now, he was lucky if he saw her twice a day.

Scowling, he ducked his head, feeling every bit of the distance between them.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

He felt it especially one morning in Defense Against the Dark Arts class. They still sat at the same table; they were still partners. Probably, no one but him had even noticed that anything had changed. But Harry had noticed, plenty. She may well have been on the opposite side of the castle – or back in 1996. Drumming his fingers on the desk, stealing a glance at her, he ran through a list of things he could say that would vanish the distance between them.

"Where's Professor McKinnon?" one of the Ravenclaw girls asked, before he could say anything.

"Probably with her boyfriend," Cedworth said, grinning a little.

Everyone snickered, even Ginny.

Harry slipped her a little smile, but she was looking off in the other direction.

Scowling now, he dipped into his bag and pulled out his text, his wand, and his writing supplies, lining them up in a neat little order that reminded him of Hermione's class ritual, performed in every class and every day, where she set up a tidy work-station. With a small sigh, he set his bottle of ink at a precise angle and laid his quill right before it.

Hermione had not been far from his thoughts since the horrid moment in the hall with Severus Snape and his photographs of the deathly ill. What would she make of this business? She'd be properly horrified, Harry expected. And the idea that so many people believed that Muggleborns were 'filthy spreaders of disease' would grate at her sense of justice. Eyes half-closed, he could almost hear her voice, strident and intense, blasting Snape apart for his prejudiced assumptions.

Professor McKinnon walked in, a little flushed and smiling, but Harry spared her only half his attention. Ron had crowded into his thoughts along with Hermione; a sharp pang startled him.

Halfway through the lecture, Ginny nudged him in the side. "McKinnon's going to call on you if you don't pay attention," she muttered.

"I'm paying attention," Harry protested weakly.

She eyed him.

"What's her lecture on?" Harry whispered.

"Still cursed objects," Ginny said, with a flicker of both a smile and a roll of her eyes.

Harry straightened and gave McKinnon a bit more of his attention. Just in time, for after giving Harry a bit of a stare, the professor whisked by him only to rap sharply on Cedworth's table.

"And what is this?" McKinnon asked pleasantly.

Harry half-turned in his seat in time to see Cedworth – with an air of what must have been reluctance – hand over a slim book with a ghastly green cover.

"Muggleborns and Their Illnesses," McKinnon read quietly. "Mr. Cedworth, this is Defense Against the Dark Arts, not healing."

"I know," said Cedworth. "But it's just as relevant to our safety."

Harry's hand tightened around his quill.

"I don't think so, Mr. Cedworth, and—"

But Cedworth interrupted her, loud and clear. "Didn't you see in this morning's Prophet? Pox is taking over London, it is. A couple of Mu—Muggleborns visited with their half-blood cousins, and now they're all sick!"

"As a matter of fact, I did read that article. In fact, it was only supposed that they visited with their cousins; it was not factual, Mr Cedworth." McKinnon's tone was cold and hard as a glacier. "It was an editorial note."

"But it's the most likely cause, isn't it?" Cedworth pressed. "They're more likely to pass it along to us."

"By us, d'you mean Death Eaters?" Harry could no longer remain silent. He affected a wide-eyed look. "I thought we were in class with Ravenclaw, not Slytherin."

Both Cedworth and McKinnon had turned to him, mouths open in identical looks of surprise.

Cedworth recovered first. "What did you just say to me?" he said loudly.

Harry counted off his words on his fingers, while watching the other boy's face turn an angry, boiling red. "You. Sound. Like. A. Death. Eater." Contempt was roiling around inside him.

"It's not anything to do with — with He Who Must Not Be Named!" Cedworth said, slamming his book on his desk. "This is what healers say. They're different from us — they get sicker! That is fact!"

"Probably because you bar them from getting healing treatment," Harry pointed out. "They can't go get nice little potions from St. Mungo's, can they?" Harry did not add the word idiot, but it trailed of the end of his question silently. From the way Cedworth seemed to swell like a bullfrog.

"They have clinics—"

"Clinics where their potions are heavily regulated, and the healers are overworked," Harry pointed out angrily. "So what you lot are doing are barring Muggleborns from treatment — so of course they get sicker — and then blame them and their 'oh so different' bodies for getting sicker." He forced a snort. "That's very special, very Death Eater logic for you."

"I'm not one of them!" Cedworth shouted.

Harry inspected his quill. It was bent from where he'd nearly snapped it. "Sound like one to me," he said, with as much nonchalance as he could muster when his insides were burning with anger.

McKinnon finally broke in. "Gentlemen," she said.

"Did you hear what he said to me?!" Cedworth shouted, outraged.

"I did, yes," she said, and nothing else.

"He's — he's saying—"

"Sit down, Mr. Cedworth," snapped McKinnon.

The rest of the class seemed caught in a state of shock, petrified, staring at Harry as though he had grown another head. But the moment was over, so he turned in his seat, facing the front, and forced himself to calm. Hermione was worth ten of Cedworth, and yet he would have insinuated she was dangerous to be around. The term Mudblood, Harry realized, had a lot of ugly connotations.

A prickling on his neck alerted him to Ginny's stare. There was a softening in her expression, and a tiny smile on her lips. On reflex, he smiled back at her.

"No more discussion of the pox in my class," McKinnon said, stern as McGonagall.

"That'll go well with the school governors," Cedworth said with great sarcasm.

"One more word, Cedworth, and I don't care if your father is a school governor. I will send you to Professor Flitwick.

At last, the Ravenclaw boy fell silent.

"That was really good, what you did," said Ginny, once Professor McKinnon had everything back in hand.

Harry shrugged, but the vestiges of anger disappeared bit by bit. "I did what anyone would do," he said gruffly.

"You know that's not true." She was looking at him, fully looking at him, for the first time in weeks. Bobbing her head to the side, she added: "There are loads of tossers here, aren't there? Even in Ravenclaw… I guess people can be made to think anything."

Harry shook his head. "Hermione wouldn't have stood for it."

"No, she certainly wouldn't have," Ginny agreed.

Harry slumped in his seat. Tension eased out of him, just in time for class to officially end. Cedworth and his friends charged out first; Harry lingered a bit, packing up his things, wanting to prolong the moment. Unlike the previous couple of weeks, however, Ginny did not seem in any hurry to rush along. Instead, she hummed a snippet of a song done by The Quaffle Quartet, a favorite band of his father's, as she put her things away and gathered her textbooks in her arms.

There was a small pause as they eyed each other; then, as one, they stood. Harry looked down at her out of the corner of his eye, wondering if this was what had finally cracked the ice grown between them. If it was, he ought to have picked a fight with Cedworth weeks ago.

"You're talking to me again?" he asked when they cleared the door. There were tiny clusters of students lingering in the hall; none of them were Cedworth.

"I had a pretty good reminder of what sort of person you are," she said quietly. Her stubborn chin was pointed up toward him.

"I don't know about that…" Harry mumbled. Still, he eyed her. "It'll be nice to see more of you."

"You'll be seeing a lot more of me," said Ginny, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You won't have much choice," she added, laughing a little. "The castle's going to empty out in a few days."

"That's right," said Harry. "I bet we're the only ones." This was not a bad thing. "I've still got to sign up, though…"

"I'm sure Dumbledore already knows," she assured him, shifting her textbooks from one arm to the other. They lingered outside in the corridor like they used to do, before there'd been that rift between them.

"Still…" said Harry, not wanting the moment to end.

Unfortunately it did; much too soon, Ginny's gaze slid from his, she murmured a "see you, Harry", and strode off, leaving Harry to stare after her. Still, Harry thought, it's a damn sight better than it's been the last few weeks. It was just unfortunate that it had taken a shouting match in Defense Against the Dark Arts to do it.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHHP

It turned out that Harry and Ginny weren't the only students who were planning to stay at Hogwarts over the holidays. While if he'd thought about it, he might have expected to stay — other than Snape's temporary internship, he seemed to Harry to be a fixture of the castle, swooping about the corridors like an overgrown bat, keeping baleful watch over the goings-on. But when Harry finally wandered over to the bit of parchment posted just outside the doors to the Great Hall, ready to add his name to the list, there were a slew of familiar names:

Sirius Black

James Potter

Remus Lupin

Lily M. Evans

With rather more cheer than before, Harry signed his name with a flourish. But then, quill slipping at the last moment, causing ink to drip down, he frowned. As much as it would be nice to see his parents over the holiday, he might have liked not having to constantly watch himself around Ginny. Ambivalent now, he shrugged, and pushed the doors open.

Sirius was lurking just inside the doors, grabbed him around the shoulders, and shook him in a jolly sort of way. Harry blinked, stunned by his jovial carol, taking in his unlined, unwary face. A moment later, he shook it off, allowing himself to be bolstered down the long tables toward where the others sat.

"We heard about your DADA class!" Sirius said happily. "Did you really call Cedworth a Death Eater?"

"Yeah," said Harry.

Harry let out a wheezy sort of chuckle, for Sirius had just clapped him on the back so hard he'd been forced to take two steps forward, nearly knocking into a couple of Hufflepuffs. Diverted, Harry frowned, recognizing the Muggleborn from the other day, sitting alone, shoulders hunched over his chips.

But the diversion was fleeting; Sirius had steered him around properly again.

"He actually did it!"

"My goodness, really?"

"HA!"

Warmth assaulted him from nearly all sides. Something in Harry's chest seemed to swell, especially at how his parents were looking at him, smiling; they hadn't quite smiled at him like that before.

"I still think it was a strange thing to say," said Peter.

Harry flicked a glance at him, ignoring a tiny twinge in his temple from the movement. "It just seems like the Death Eaters want to make it look like all the Muggleborns are diseased."

Peter just shrugged.

"Dad thinks it's nasty, too," James assured Harry, beaming at him. "Still — well done of you, mate!"

"Proud to know you," said Sirius, grinning.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHHPHP

Later that evening, Harry was enjoying a cup of warm cocoa in the common room when, in his pocket, the mirror buzzed. Sighing, Harry set his mug down. There was little doubt in his mind what Sirius wanted to talk about. "Excuse me," he said to the others, who waved him away without breaking their conversation. It was only Ginny's eyes that followed him from the choice armchair beside the fire to the small hallway that led to his private room.

"Marlene's told me what happened." Sirius said this without preamble, once Harry tapped on the mirror with his wand and opened the connection. "Harry. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that Cedworth is a prat," said Harry, indifferent.

"And you had to tell him that?" Sirius demanded.

Harry's eyes widened. "That's rich coming from you," he said, snorting, and throwing the mirror down on his bed. It pointed up toward the ceiling, but Harry didn't care. "You're forgetting that I know your younger self. He thought it was great, actually!"

"Quiet," Sirius barked.

"Sorry," Harry muttered. "Muffliato. But I'm not sorry about what happened today. He was all but saying that Muggleborns are filthy animals, spreading disease wherever they go–"

"That was the general sentiment at the time," said Sirius. "You have to just–"

"I don't want to just ignore it," interrupted Harry. "And you can't tell me that I'm changing things," he flung out with something that felt like alarmingly close kin to contempt. Swallowing hard, Harry fell into his chair. It creaked beneath him. "I can't just ignore shit like that, Sirius."

"It's not about you changing things," said Sirius, voice growing softer. "It's about making yourself a target; it's about existing here as – as you."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Harry demanded, leaping from the chair and grabbing the mirror.

"I mean that… you've used the charm?"

"Yes," Harry bit out.

"Harry Potter doesn't exist here," Sirius said, in a low, low voice. "The Boy Who Lived… there's no such person in 1978. There's no such hope here. He made you his enemy himself; that wasn't your doing. It gave you… a certain leeway to continue to thwart him, to speak openly of hating him. It was understandable. Here, it is not." To Harry's shock, a small smile broke the solemnity of Sirius's expression. His shoulders slumped. "You stand out, Harry. Marlene told me that she was shocked – she was practically bubbling over with it – you don't understand."

"I don't," Harry said, still defiant. "You and my dad – you did that all the time!"

"Not the way you do," Sirius said. "Like you have no fear whatsoever, like you have contempt for what he is trying to do–"

"Well, that's true," Harry said. "I do."

"It's different," Sirius said, finally. "I can't explain to you the difference, and you can't see it." He sighed. "But you have to remember Hogwarts is full of supporters… people who are sympathetic to him. And you of all people know that word spreads. A couple of more outbursts like that… I'm concerned, Harry. We've been here more than six months; we still haven't gotten to Nurmengard; we've still no idea how or why we're here." His image in the mirror grew wavy for an instant before it cleared again. His head was bowed. "We don't want him growing curious."

"You've said that before," said Harry, toneless.

"And I meant it," said Sirius. "Please."

Harry sighed, finally, and agreed, though he privately thought that there was not much he could do – or wanted to do – when confronted with the blatantly stupid opinions regarding Muggleborns.

"And Cedworth… he dies, you know."

"Cedworth dies? But he's…"

"Young? A student? Immortal?" Sirius supplied. "The pox could take us all."

"No," said Harry, feeling harassed. Still, he was shocked. "No, I know it can. But still…"

"Just something to think about," said Sirius.

HPHPHHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

The day the other students left the castle, tension seemed to ease out of Harry's body and thoughts. The castle became restful and quiet; there was no longer any worry of coming around a corner to find a group of Slytherins harassing the Muggleborns; as there was no class, there were no arguments that devolved into shouting matches. And, Harry admitted ruefully, there are fewer ways to alarm Sirius.

The next day, it became clear that any larger gatherings were considered verboten.

FAMILY PARTY, INTERRUPTED

by Nolan Smith

Yesterday, a large gathering in Sussex was interrupted by a group of unnamed individuals, who were working for the greater good of the wizarding community in Britain. This event, attended by more than thirty individuals, including several Muggleborns, violated the Ministry decrees issued for our safety. Supposedly in celebration of the holiday, though occurring the day before Easter, likely in an attempt to hide what they were doing, the McKinnon family flouted the decree with what can only be called reckless abandonment.

"None of us have the pox," defended the grand patriarch of the clan, McKinnon, 97. "It was safe enough." The family owns several stores offering custom magical items for sale. These items may not be safe from the pox, so it is highly suggested that our community be cautious when purchasing from them. While it is true that this version of the medusa pox has a rapid onset of petrifying sores, it is also highly theorized by many healers that Muggleborns are more susceptible to (continued on page 5)

"The Daily Prophet is just shite," muttered James, thrusting the paper away.

It was a rather dismal Easter feast; few of the professors had shownup for it. Only Dumbledore, Flitwick, and McGonagall were there. So used to Old Bones being a fixture at the head table was Harry that he kept glancing at it, expecting the wispy old man and his flying carpet to fly in from one of the open doors.

"Where's Old Bones?" Harry finally asked, just as Dumbledore made his way to the podium.

"I think he takes the pox threat very seriously," said James.

"How so?" asked Ginny. "Are we much of a threat?"

James shrugged. "No, but you saw in the Daily Prophet… they don't want any 'gatherings'."

"Are we a gathering?" Ginny asked, surprised.

"I—"

But James could not finish what he was about to say. Dumbledore issued a rather subdued welcome to the feast, managing to reference the weight of the pox resting heavily over them without explicitly mentioning it. Harry listened, head slightly bowed, as the headmaster spoke. After a moment, Dumbledore finished, and the feast appeared in the snap of his fingers.

Harry could not help but notice it was not nearly as sumptuous as Hogwarts feasts tended to be. After pushing around his roast lamb, tearing apart his bun and mopping up the gravy with it, Harry finally gave up and leaned back, letting his thoughts wander.

They did not wander far: Ginny was seated right beside him, looking rather paler and more pinched than she normally did. She, too, had abandoned her feast.

"All right?" Harry asked her quietly.

"Yeah," she said in a low voice. "Just thinking about… people."

His eyes held hers for only a few seconds before she resolutely looked forward, but it had been long enough to see a ripple of vulnerability marring the bright brown. People, he thought. Ginny was thinking of the Weasleys, of course. His gaze took in his teenage parents, sitting close together, and Remus and Sirius sitting on either side of the couple, like bookends. He knew very well that holidays especially were difficult. A thought slid through his mind, too slippery for him to quite grasp. His brow furrowed.

"Ginny—"

But once more, Dumbledore interrupted. He swept toward them in his spangled blue robes. "I wished to give a more personal Easter greeting," he announced to the table, "especially as there are so few of us."

"Happy Easter," they all chorused. Sirius actually sang his greeting.

"And," Dumbledore continued smoothly, "I wished to have a word with our Peverells. If I may?"

Harry abandoned his feast without a qualm; he was not hungry. Curiosity had him following Dumbledore at a quick pace? A sidelong glance at Ginny told him she was wondering the same things he was: What was going on?

"I wanted to keep you apprised of a few things," he said, after flicking his wand and casting a discreet privacy ward. "I'm afraid that our attempt to retrieve a full accounting of what is in Nurmengard's collection has stalled, and will not resume until the pox has run its course."

"…Oh," said Harry, who had nearly forgotten about any such list. "Right. Well…"

"The Aurors must be busy," said Ginny, biting her lip. "Longbottom and Moody, they…"

"Precisely," said Dumbledore, with a crisp nod. "All Ministry Departments are pulled from their regular duties."

Harry had a sudden vision of dark wizards and Death Eaters run amok due to all Aurors in Britain being used elsewhere. "Is that safe, sir?" he asked. "Without the Aurors, can't — he just do what he wants?"

"I expect so," said Dumbledore. "But some of us have… taken precautions. People are not completely unprotected."

"Good," Ginny said softly.

"Meanwhile, I have not forgotten your plight," said Dumbledore, spreading his hands. "I have worked on a couple of theories, in fact — nothing to share, not yet!"

"I trust you," said Ginny.

Harry felt a small pang of discomfort, followed by an answering pang in his temple. While he struggled with that, Dumbledore swept up the privacy charm and hurried away, looking as spry as someone fifty years younger. Left feeling slightly unbalanced, Harry leaned against the wall.

"I'd almost forgotten," he said, eyes closed.

"You've been busy," Ginny murmured.

"Well, I haven't really forgotten," Harry amended. It would be quite the thing to forget he'd traveled back nearly twenty years in time. But Dorcas Meadowes and her secret societies, Moody and Longbottom looking for a list of what enchanted objects were kept in a prison meant for one dangerous wizard… Harry simply had not spared much thought for it. "I just… haven't thought of it recently."

Ginny let out a little laugh. "I suppose I've been doing the thinking for the both of us," she said.

It struck him then that he still owed her a trip to see the Burrow. But before he could, she'd smiled at him one more time and slid back into the Great Hall, leaving him alone with a promise he hadn't yet kept.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHP

A few days after Easter, Harry wandered after his father one afternoon, still reveling in the emptiness of the castle. To his surprise, James did not lead him to the kitchens; instead, they went out into the courtyard, followed the cobbled path, and went into one of the smaller greenhouses, the one filled with flowers of every color, filling the hot air with their perfume.

"Is there a special occasion?" Harry asked.

"Oh," said James, a small grimace flitting across his face, "it's for – erm – my birthday."

Harry let the basket of flowers fall to his side. "It's your birthday?" he asked, astonished. Had he known his father's birthday before, or was this the first time he'd heard that the twenty-ninth of March was in any way special. "But wait, you're getting Lily flowers for your birthday?"

James shrugged, and swiped his forehead with the sleeve of his robes. Despite the coolness of spring in the Highlands, it was hot in this greenhouse. The flowers, bold and bright and blooming, were more suited for the tropics. "Well," he hedged. "She's sure to do something for me today… get me some sort of present… I might as well get her one. As a thank you."

Harry was not entirely sure this was how birthdays worked.

"My dad does it," James offered. "He gets my mum something on his birthday and mine."

Harry chuckled a little. "That's sweet," he said. "That's nice of him."

"Yeah, well… oh, look at that one! She loves yellow…"

Harry followed James around, somewhat eager for more tidbits of the life he shared with his parents. "So what does he give her?" he asked.

"Who?" James looked back at him, arching a brow.

"Your dad," Harry prompted.

"Oh, loads of stuff," said James, using his wand to sever another flower, which floated over to Harry's basket. "A lot of the time, it's plants. My parents have the Gardens… you remember? He'll get her special ones… rare ones… sometimes, he'll get her jewelry. Not that often, though. Stuff like that." His grin was lopsided. "I'm starting small. Now… d'you think that's enough for a bouquet?"

Harry privately thought he'd cut enough of the colorful flowers to make two or possibly even three bouquets. "Yeah, I think it's enough," he said. Most colors of the rainbow were represented. "It'll be pretty, once you've arranged it."

"Arranged? You mean…?" James looked from him, to the basket of flowers, and back again. "It could just go all in a vase, yeah?"

Uncertain, Harry looked at him. "Yeah, you could, but it'll be a little chaotic."

James ran his hand through his hair. "I'm a little chaotic," he muttered. "What do you mean by arrange? Can you show me?"

"I can," Harry said, cautious.

It was not a difficult skill. Aunt Petunia had been particular about how she wanted her flowers displayed; it had been Harry's job to keep everything fresh and pretty. He'd learned by default how she liked it best.

"Where'd you learn this?" James asked, once they'd separated the short, fat blooms from the long and skinny ones and laid them out on a work table. "Your godfather?"

"No," said Harry, shaking his head. "I have an aunt… she's pretty particular about this kind of thing. Here, look, we can use this one"-he plucked a hibiscus the size of a hubcap out and put it in the center–"in the middle, everything else can go around it."

"And after your parents died, you lived with your godfather?" James asked. "Not your aunt?"

"No, I lived with her," said Harry, keeping his eyes on the flowers. "For a while, anyway."

James eyed him, gave his head a slight shake, and turned back to the flowers. Harry wondered at that look, wondered if he'd said something wrong, or said something that contradicted something he or Ginny said before. But after a few moments, James started to hum a song, and Harry's shoulders relaxed. Instead of wracking his brains for every stray comment he'd made in the months he'd known young James Potter, Harry focused instead on his arrangement.

"And that's that," Harry said, after he'd arranged a very large, very nice-smelling bouquet.

"That's much better than what I would've done," James admitted. "Thanks, Peverell!"

"You'll need a vase," Harry pointed out.

His father chuckled a little, and grabbed a jar off the shelf above the work table. "Now that I can do," he said, pointing his wand at it. The jar bloomed under his spell as though it were one of the living things in the greenhouse. It grew larger and the lip pushed outward. Harry watched as his dad, brow furrowed with concentration, added an intricate design on the glass, made a frustrated sound, then started over again, this time carving a stag and a doe onto it.

Once it seemed the fiddly bits of the magic was done, Harry asked: "Is it permanent? Or will it turn back into a jar at some point?" Charms did not always last.

James glanced at him. "It's permanent," he said. "It's more transfiguration than anything, which is easier to make last." With one more flourish of his wand, he tucked it away. "There," he said, satisfied.

Harry helped him put the flowers into the transfigured vase. "And there," said Harry, just as satisfied.

His father, Harry realized, as they walked back to the castle, was good with women. Or at least, he's good with Lily, he thought, shifting his grip on the vase, which they carried between them. Perhaps he got it from Fleamont. Harry glanced sideways out of the corner of his eye: James was clear-browed and whistling.

Maybe if Harry had been raised properly by this man, he would not now be in this slight mess with Ginny, who had been cool to him these last weeks. Then again, if he'd been properly raised by James, no one in this castle would think Ginny was his sister. Scowling, Harry glared at the empty space around them. Had anyone ever found themselves in a situation such as this? And Harry could not even blame Voldemort for it, cold comfort though such a thing was.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHP

"I told you, I didn't need all this," said James, half-laughing, holding his hands up.

Harry laughed with the others.

"You knew we couldn't let you just ignore your own birthday, mate," said Sirius.

"You knew that," repeated Lily, who held a lopsided, many-candled birthday cake in two hands.

"It's just eighteen!" protested James, waving them off. "No one cares about an eighteenth birthday!"

"I care," Lily said dryly. "You've finally caught up with me."

While James squawked and the others laughed, Harry glanced around; his gaze immediately found Ginny's. The situation there had not improved, not really, but he thought he saw enough softening of her features that he sidled over to stand beside her. He took it as a good sign that she did not move away.

"I didn't even know it was his birthday," said Ginny. "Did you see the bouquet he gave Lily?"

"I helped him make it," Harry admitted.

Her eyebrows raised. "You did?" she asked, astonished.

Harry grinned a little; there was something about her surprise that warmed him. But then, a thought struck him. "It was just earlier," he added quickly. "I wasn't keeping it from you, or anything. I – wasn't."

Her lips were pursed. "I–"

"And I don't want to," he said, nearly giving himself whiplash, making sure the others were busy teasing James for having a birthday. "I just… don't. I'm sorry." Inwardly, he groaned, and kicked himself. His dad was pulling his mum in for a swift kiss, while he was making a muddle of things. "I get why you were upset, and I…"

Ginny made a little fizzing sound. "I was not expecting this," she muttered. "Listen, I'm sorry, too–"

"You don't need to apologize–"

"-but I just don't like being left out of things and not knowing things that impact my own life," she said.

"I know," said Harry. "I hate it, too. I hate it. And I–"

But he didn't get the rest of his apology out. A very loud, very raucous squawk burst out. Everyone in the room froze: everyone but James, who groaned, and reached into his pocket. Harry's eyebrows rose. Was that his mirror? Neck prickling, he looked around the room. He'd stolen the mirror but never returned it. Sirius – the older one – must have done so at some point…

"Mum, Dad," said James, lips twisted, color high, clearly embarrassed. "Everyone is here, please don't sing again… you did that this morning–"

Fleamont's tinny voice was small enough Harry had to strain to hear it. "As much as I would like to embarrass you in front of your friends, I'm not here about your special day."

James muttered something under his breath while Lily and Sirius laughed. A swift glance at Ginny showed her grinning.

"-don't you enlarge your mirror, all of you should hear this." There was no humor in Fleamont's voice now. It took several moments for the hilarity and celebration to sweep out of the room and out into the night, but by the time James had enlarged the mirror so that all of them could see Fleamont Potter's grave, worried face, a solemnity had taken its place.

"What is it?" James asked, swallowed. "Is Mum…?"

"We are fine here," Fleamont said firmly, "and we will continue to be fine. We have taken the potions required to continue doing as we are doing; I find it difficult to believe that the medusa pox will slip through and infect us."

Harry's stomach dropped.

"However…" And now Fleamont was looking around at all of them. His gaze rested on Harry for a brief, impersonal moment, then slipped to Sirius. "The same cannot be said of the wizarding population as a whole. This will be in the Evening Prophet, and I'm certain that Dumbledore will already know and be preparing to tell you–"

"What is it?" James asked, insistent.

"The numbers of those who have the pox have risen rapidly," said Fleamont. The words dropped into sudden silence. "The Ministry is going to issue a decree, restricting movement from one wizarding household to another. The students who went home for the Easter holidays will be staying home. And you four – I beg your pardon, you six – will be staying at Hogwarts, though your classes will not resume."

"What?"

"If we're here anyway, why won't our classes resume?"

"How long is this meant to last?"

"I do not know the answers to these questions." Fleamont's response to the sudden questions was grave and understanding. "But you will be plenty safe at Hogwarts, you understand, as long as you stay there." For a moment, his face fell into troubled lines. "In fact, it's not quite… well, never you mind. Dumbledore will have further information in his announcement, I am certain. But I wished for you to have a warning."

"Well, it's all been coming to this, hasn't it?" Sirius asked, throwing himself into a chair, and drumming his fingers on the arm of it. "We've known for weeks that this could happen."

"And it is. I would argue that it is excellent timing, as well," said Fleamont. "Most of the children are with their parents… with almost everyone home for the holidays, there are fewer reasons for… things to get complicated."

"You mean, fewer Slytherins to start shit?" Sirius suggested.

"Indeed," said Fleamont, with a flicker of a smile.

Harry folded his arms, worry gnawing at him, as James wrapped his arm around Lily, drew her close, and said very earnestly, "I wish you'd let us come home for the holidays, like we planned," he said. "We could've helped you and Mum. You two wouldn't have been alone then."

"We will be fine, son," said Fleamont, but Harry could tell he was warmed by his son's concern. His stomach ached. "And it's better that you two aren't exposed. It's not just the very old and the very young who are being carried away by this."

"Muggleborns?" said Remus. "My mum's a Muggle, am I more at risk?"

"No." Fleamont's voice cracked out. "This pox affects everyone with magical blood, regardless of who their parents are." Color appeared in his cheeks. "It's a lie that the fools at the Prophet are spreading."

Harry grunted.

After that, James and Fleamont exchanged another few, quiet words.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHP

In the end, they didn't have to wait until morning.

Professor McGonagall, wearing her nightrobe, clambered in through the portrait hole not even an hour later. Her face was set and white, and she held herself very still.

"Professor Dumbledore has an announcement to make. Follow me to the Great Hall, please."

They filed out; James and Lily led the way, holding hands, faces solemn. Even Sirius wrapped himself in a cloak and didn't say anything. Harry hung back until Ginny caught up with them, and followed her out of the portrait hole. The castle was even quieter than it had been the last few days; if any of them spoke, they did so in hushed murmurs.

When they reached the Great Hall, and Dumbledore spoke to them, it was jarring at how loud it was.

"I have news from the Ministry," he said without preamble as they walked in. "In the last few days, there has been a surge in medusa pox cases all across Britain. In order to keep it from spreading further, the Ministry has decreed that our movements be severely restricted." He paused to take a breath, eyeing them. The other professors were arrayed in a semi-circle around him; in the shadows to the side, was the older Sirius, hands clasped in front of him. Slowly, Dumbledore's brows rose. "This surprises none of you?"

"We already heard," said James, sitting on the bench and pulling Lily down almost into his lap. "My dad has been working with healers the last few weeks… he already knew what was coming down."

"Yes, of course," said Dumbledore. "I expect you are wondering, however, what this means for you?"

"I certainly am," said Ginny. "The students aren't coming back?"

"No," Dumbledore said simply. "I imagine it will be weeks before our friends are returned to us."

"And we can't leave Hogwarts?" Sirius asked. "Not that I want to," he added hastily. "Merlin, imagine if I were stuck at Grimmauld Place. But we can't go to Hogsmeade, or…?"

"I'm afraid not." Dumbledore sighed heavily. "There are few cases of the pox in Hogsmeade, but it is unwise nevertheless. We are going to limit our movements – all of us – to Hogwarts for the time being. We can only hope this storm passes quickly."

"We can't go to Hogsmeade, but we can move about Hogwarts?" Lily asked. Her face was paler than usual. "We can go on the grounds? We don't have to stay inside?" Dumbledore nodded to each of her questions. "All of us?"

"Ah," said Dumbledore. "Excellent question, Miss Evans. It was suggested to me by the Ministry that I have the Muggleborn students sequestered from the purebloods and limit their contact with one another or even the staff. However… what is the phrase you students use? The idea that Muggleborns are more susceptible to the pox is complete bollocks."

This jerked a laugh out of Harry; he exchanged a quick, shocked look with Ginny. Even some of the professors laughed. The fear and tension that had been mounting in the large hall was cut in half. Something in his shoulders eased.

Harry cupped his hands over his mouth. "It is bollocks, sir," he said.

Dumbledore waved his hand. "Indeed," he said, quite genial. "And the general frivolity after I have said so leads me to another point: We will not be having formal classes, though in the next few days, the professors and I will be putting our heads together to come up activities for you–"

"We don't need child minders," Sirius scoffed.

"It will not be so," Dumbledore promised.

"How long is this going to last?" James asked. "How long until we have classes again?"

"I'm afraid, Mr. Potter, that I do not know the answer to that. If anyone has an accurate prediction of these events, they have not seen fit to share it with me. At the moment, you know as much as I do."

"Not likely," Remus said loudly. Another relieved laugh filled the hall.

Dumbledore had not been exaggerating. He had little to say after that, only to mention that he expected to see them for dinners. Feeling shocked and slightly light-headed, Harry sank onto one of the benches. Never, in his entire years at school, had he experienced it closing its doors to its students. Not even when the Chamber of Secrets… not even when everyone had thought that Sirius Black was stalking the halls, unseen by the professors and Dumbledore, bent on murder… the governors had threatened the closure of the school, but it had never happened in Harry's experience.

"What're we going to do?" Lily asked in a hushed voice.

"Dunno," said James.

Remus shook his head. "It's hard to believe that we won't have classes."

"Does this happen often?" Ginny asked. "That the school closes?"

"Never," James said solidly, "not since I've been at school, anyway."

"The governors will threaten it every once in a while," said Sirius, tipping his head toward the enchanted ceiling, which was bright with stars. "But no, not since we've been at school."

"Mr. Lupin," called Dumbledore, "If I could have a word…"

Remus obeyed, hurrying off. Harry chanced a glance at the front of the room. That was a complication that he hadn't thought of: What would Remus use as his excuses for his disappearances every full moon? His gaze flicked to the elder Sirius, who was speaking quietly and closely with Professor McKinnon.

He wasn't the only one who noticed. "What's he doing here?" Sirius demanded. "Sol Black, your godfather… why's he here?"

Ginny leaned over, "I'm not sure," she said. "Why does that bother you?" There was hidden amusement in her tone. "Professor McKinnon seems happy enough…"

"Exactly," muttered Sirius, outraged.

Harry bit his lip, struggling not to laugh.

"What're we going to do?" Lily cut in. "We won't have any classes, and who knows what sort of project we'll have… we're going to have a lot of free time. What're we going to do?"

"I can think of a couple of things," James offered, grinning. Lily swatted him.

Harry looked away to find Ginny smirking at him.

"But seriously," said James, tapping his chin. "We could do all sorts of things… for example, I myself have always wanted to learn how to bake bread…"

Harry drummed his fingers on the solid wood of the table. They were all clustered together, the only students who'd elected to remain at Hogwarts over the holiday. He let his gaze rove over them: his parents were huddled together, wrapped around each other, speaking quietly; Sirius still stared up at the ceiling, brow furrowed, brooding over something; Remus was somewhere off with Dumbledore, likely receiving secret instructions as to how they would deal with his furry little problem. Of the Marauders, only Peter was missing. It should seem odd, to think of Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs without Wormtail; instead, Harry felt strangely buoyant by that.

Stop; it's not like they're going to let you in on all their secrets and give you your own nickname just because their other friend isn't here, Harry told himself sternly. But it wasn't until he looked at Ginny that he was distracted. It was another unplanned moment where their eyes met; her lips quirked, and she offered him a little shrug.

"I know," James was saying to Lily. "I know. It's grim, isn't it? Even with Dad's warning…"

"It could be worse," he muttered to his father, who looked increasingly concerned. "Snape could've elected to stay here for the holidays…"

When the others let out startled chuckles, Harry grinned. There were worse things, he decided, than being stuck in an empty castle with those five people and an assortment of professors.