Before we begin, I'd like to thank the reviewers of the last chapter: Pteaset, Zephyrical, Spacestrider, being villain, Sir Dedrick the Cool, Katie, Dark Lord Potter Black, KingPlotBunny, The White Istari, BaronBrig. It was nice to see so many of you react positively to some of the aspects of the chapter, and to see that it was clear enough without being too clear. If that makes sense. Ha, maybe I'm just rambling.

Thank you, then. Thank you for the beautiful words. It means a lot.

Anyway, onwards we go.


Daphne's Bargain

Harry fell out of sleep, roused by a stinging, ever-nagging, never-ceasing sensation in his side. And with the wakening came a vast sense of compressed time. Like he had merely put his head to the pillow a second ago, and was now once more being yanked off it. Like time had grown and shrunk and shrivelled and expanded, and he didn't know what the hell was going on.

Only that he lived it – was living it.

He treaded on a rim, a thin line wherein experience seemed to be had inside a locked, blackened room, walking between wakefulness and sleep in drowsy, forgotten arousal…

He just wanted to sleep!

"Let – me – bloody – sleep!" muttered Harry scathingly, trying to will the infernal presence out of existence.

It didn't manifest, and he realized, at last, something was poking him in the side of his abdomen. Someone. Harder and harder the going went, as Harry failed to respond to its insistence. He got the sense he was needed, and in a hurry, yet sleep, its warm timeless embrace, seemed infinitely more enticing.

"Harry – why're there Lemon Drops all over the floor?" asked the one with the nagging presence.

And that was when he felt it, dealt it, knew it – the slow rush of memories – overflowing him, and taking him along. Harry was feeling happy. Felt it sure as the blazing of the sun as he gained consciousness. It bubbled like madness, trying to thread the needle that ran along the rim of his self, to make sense, jutting out with bloated light in a flash of blindness to everything but the sense of exhilaration.

He was feeling very happy. So happy, indeed, it almost felt like it didn't belong – to him.

Why was that?

Oh. Yeah. Fuck yeah. Ha!

It all made sense now.

"Those are from Dumbledore – and stop doing that!" muttered Harry, turning in his bed, back to Ron – who was indeed the nagger with a pointy, annoying finger – with eyes closed. He yawned, and almost fell back asleep. "I sort of dropped them, when I got in bed last… Must have been ten minutes ago, really."

"They're tasty little buggers, aren't they?" asked Ron, swallowing audibly, and poking him in the side again. Hard. "Get up – how can you be so tired, anyway?"

"What time is it?"

"Almost eleven."

"That explains it."

"Explains what?" asked Ron, and Harry could almost picture his frown, his confusion, by the sound of his voice.

"I have been asleep for ten minutes," moaned Harry miserably.

"No, you haven't," replied Ron. "I've been up for hours while you were sleeping. I've cleaned our room – you're welcome, you swine – had a shower, went down for breakfast – Daphne asked for you – and went back here to–"

"She still mad at us?" Harry furrowed his brow. "Wait a blessedly Snape-less moment – you cleaned our room?"

"Blessedly Snape-less? One of your better ones." Ron clicked his tongue with vague sound of approval. "Not that that's saying much. And is it so hard to believe I cleaned our room?"

"Ron," said Harry slowly, with a drawn out yawn, "you never even bothered putting bed linen on for the first couple of weeks. Come to think of it, I have to remind you to brush your teeth in the morning."

"That was then, we live in the now. I'm a changed man."

Harry sighed, tried hard not to laugh. "Daphne?"

"Bonkers, that one, yeah," said Ron happily, as though impressed with the girl. There was a sagely tone, old and whirring, to his voice he'd almost perfected to a fine art. "Girl can hold a grudge, I'll give her that."

"She's been very… insistent lately, hasn't she?" said Harry, rubbing his closed eyes, back still to Ron, and sighed. "I don't understand why, though. It's a bit weird, init?"

"Nah. We're just awesome. And honestly – who bloody cares?" Impatience seemed to have won Ron over at last, seemed to have taken form and taken hold of his soul. "The game's about to start."

Harry blinked. "What game?"

Ron tsked. "The Quidditch game, remember?"

"Oh. Right. The one with the brooms, right?"

"Harry…" Ron's voice took on a funny tone. Harry almost turned to look at him, then. "Have you been drinking? Without me?"

Harry opened his eyes at last, blinking at the wall, and feeling Ron's eyes on the back of his head. He could see a splash of light, the rays of the sun murky through the waters of the lake, sprawled out over the wall. "I'm eleven – how'd I even manage that? I just told you I was with Dumbledore."

"I dunno, mate. I mean, if he gave you sweets, he might've given you Butterbeer, too – the man's mental, after all," This time Ron definitely sounded impressed. "Besides, if you were drunk, I shall be very crossed with you, Harry Potter."

"Oh? You're the mom of us, then?"

"A very macho mum, I'd say." Harry had no trouble envisioning the shit-eating, rakish grin on his friend's stupid face. "But no, I shall be very cross indeed with you because you're drunk and didn't save any for me."

"Right." Harry didn't move, and Ron poked him all the harder for it. "AW! Stop that! I'm up, I'm awake, and I don't want to catch any of your… gingerness." Harry hoped he managed to inflict as much disdain as possible into the word.

"My gingerness?"

"Yes!" Harry said, almost bellowed, sitting up suddenly, and violently, and pointing a finger at his friend. "Your gingerness. Who knows how you got it or how contagious it is. Could be dangerous. Looks dangerous."

Ron furrowed his brow, eyes narrowed in thought at Harry.

"Don't think too hard, Ron – it looks painful for you."

"Weren't your mum a redhead?" asked Ron.

"Yes." Harry sighed dramatically, with great pain and hard-earned wisdom, getting out of bed at last. He stretched his limps and wailed loudly in something akin to triumph as his back cracked. "Ah, lovely! And trust me," he added to Ron, "it's not something we ever talk about in the family."

"Your mum's gingerness?" Ron blinked. "Harry… I'm not trying to be rude here… but your family is dead. You know that, right?" He tilted his head, examining his friend like he was a particularly fascinating magical creature. Or was that worry? For him? "You sure you're not drunk? Just a bit?"

"Of course I know that. I'd imagine we'd discuss my mother's gingerness a whole lot more if she was still around."

Ron blinked, then shook his head. "I'm not sure what to do with you when you're like this." He suddenly eyed the Lemon Drops on the floor warily. "There's something in the candy, isn't there? That's got to be the reason – Merlin's hairy balls! I ate one of them!"

Harry eyed them. "Beside an unhealthy amount of sugar? I don't think there's anything else to them, no."

"You sure?" Ron was eyeing the candy on the floor, too, like it was about to curse him with Fiendfyre. Like he was about to curse it with Fiendfyre. Ah, those were the days…

What? What days?

"Well," said Harry, shaking his head, and he quite forgot the stray thought after that, "I got them from Dumbledore, remember? So no, I suppose. Can't be sure of anything with that man."

Ron looked about ready to try and shovel the candy out of himself, hands itching closer to his throat. "You're serious, aren't you? Fuck…"

"Never seriously." Harry scooped a Lemon Drop off the floor, eyeing it. "Never be serious seriously, I say. Did you eat them off the floor?"

"Yeah."

"Cool." Harry nodded and popped one into his mouth. "Ah, breakfast of champions – well, come on, then! We have a game to attend."

Ron looked him up and down as Harry stood, noticing his attire. "Did you sleep in your robes?"

Harry nodded, completely deadpan, never slowing his stride. "Much easier in the morning. That one's for free – next tip will cost you."

"You're in far too good of a mood," remarked Ron, eyeing him with a clear sense of apprehension. "I'm scared. Should I alert the teachers that something, somehow, has happened to Malfoy again?"

"No – why'd you even do that? Anyway, I've got great news to report," said Harry, voice high-pitched and full of energy. "Best news you're ever likely to get." Harry, upon entering the common room, turned to his friend and pushed him towards a seat by the flickering fireplace. "Perhaps you ought to sit down, though. A lot to take in, I imagine. Not everyday wishes come true like this, after all."

Ron nodded quickly, wide-eyed, and sat down in the offered seat. "Okay, what happened? You came back late. Something happened, didn't there? Was it You-Know-Who? We have to get this curse off my wand so I can–"

"Well," Harry said, interrupting his friend, "first I should say that Dumbledore's been fired."

A silence, almost hollow, descended onto Ron, stretching as his friend tried to comprehend just what he'd been told.

"What?"

"I know. Not to worry, Ron – he's Dumbledore. They can't fire him for long, can they? Wouldn't be Hogwarts without the man – probably as old as the castle itself."

"But – what?" Ron blinked, his eyes, big and round and lost in thought, almost looking through Harry. "But that's terrible news, Harry!"

"Yes, I suppose so. But you always start with the bad. My aunt always told me that." Harry felt his face beset by a heavy frown. "Mind you, most of the time the good that came after weren't that good – not for me, at least – still! Decent enough advice, I reckon."

"Harry – the good news? Please."

"Right. Well, our prayers have gone unnoticed… no more." He had tried his best to sound ominous, voice hoarse and gravelling, and by the look of it – Ron's face plagued with a mounting horror – he had succeeded.

"Harry, your cauldron's boiling over. Make – sense."

"Right you are. But I'd wager my cauldron's gonna be functioning a whole lot better from now on, if you catch my drift?"

Nostrils flaring, Ron beheld Harry as though he had become dangerously contagious with a sickness. "What – you…. No, Harry, I don't – it's a saying. Means you've lost your mind, mate."

"I know it's a saying. Just appreciating how appropriate it is right in this moment."

Ron blinked, and then grew completely still for a second, a thought caught on, and blinked again. "No… Snape-less…"

Harry smiled broadly, one might even say winningly. "…Yes…"

"We're not that lucky. No one's that lucky."

"Christmas came late this year – or really early, depending upon your point of view, I guess. But yes, Snape was fired, too, last night."

"So… no more Snape?"

"We have him for the rest of the term, and then it's see you later, boy-o."

Ron laughed. It started slow, with uncertainty and disbelief, and gradually it gained strength. By the end, he was almost crying with laughter, maybe even with a touch of relief.

Harry beamed. "Told you. Best of news."

"How do you know this?"

And as they exited the common room, walking the hallways towards the Grounds and the Quidditch Pitch, probably the last students in the castle, Harry explained to Ron everything he had overheard and seen and discussed with Dumbledore this morning.

"Merlin, I wish I could go out with you," Ron said, shaking his cursed wand with disdain. "I don't want to be stuck in the common room for the rest of the year, Harry."

"I know." Harry nodded, tracing a thought with a wry smile, tracing a tendril of a madman's scheme. Could they do that? "Hogwarts is special at night."

Why not? But how'd they manage that? Ha, like everything else, right? Plunging through on half-realized ideas and whimsical notions.

Harry's smile, insufferable and infectious and lasting, grew on his adolescent face. The plan – The Plan was burning inside that same blackened place in his head.

"Anyway," said Ron, and he grinned quite like a fool all of a sudden. They exited the Entrance Doors and ran across the grounds hurriedly. In the distance, beyond the castle, there could be heard the great commotion of an entire school gathered to celebrate its favourite sport. "Special lessons from Dumbledore, eh?"

"Yeah." Harry nodded, slightly winded. He hadn't really touched upon exactly why Dumbledore felt the need to teach him, well, anything, and was trying very hard to come up with something with enough gravitas. "He… wanted to teach me…"

Harry Potter, you smooth-talker, you…

"Well, of course he did. Probably sees himself in you. That's so cool!" Ron gushed. "What do you think he'll teach you, then?"

Harry shrugged in mid-stride, and managed to convey his mild displeasure in the gesture. "He wanted me to learn to protect my mind first – whatever that means?"

Ron frowned, breathing harder and harder. "That's sounds rather dull, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, it really does."

They rounded the grounds of the castle, running hard now, and before them came the looming Quidditch stadium into view, overwhelmed with roars of noise and thunderous applause. Harry felt the ambience itself yank from non-existence and into reality a sense of giddy, stupidly wonderful excitement in the pit of his very being.

That, oh that, and something else entirely.

He could feel it. Actually feel it. There, at the turn of the world. At the edge… at the edge where senses, all senses, can meet and unmake that which cannot be seen… the… Barely There… the things you thought you saw when you looked in the mirror in the morning, found in the corners of your eyes, at the boarder of sounds…

The Barely There

Where whispers drum and go to war… Where dreams die and nightmares are reborn… Where there can be glanced upon that which should not exist, but oh it does… it lives there in envy and longing for the life it cannot obtain… The lives of others…

But this is more, thought Harry, tracing the whispered thoughts in his mind. More concentrated… More

The stadium seemed to hold a life of its own, beyond the Barely There, and that very life of it, the rush of energy, was just about the most infectious thing Harry had ever been on the receiving end of.

He glanced at Ron that had stopped at his side, breathing hard and shallow from the run, and found him in a similar state of awe. Had the stadium been this full of life and roar and flames of passion the last time around, as well? Had his mind been so caught up in dragons and the worry, so utterly consumed by it, that he'd failed to realize the kind of wondrous madness that had befallen the entire school?

His entire world, a world of madness unbound, was a wonderland! How could he had glanced aside it before? Unseen it? How? This was… wonderful. So utterly wonderful.

The game – the Greatest Game – seemed to have begun. Above the towering walls of the stands, Harry could catch tiny people zooming about in a flutter of flicker-quick movements from time to time. Roars descended upon them, as though in a trance, like an intricate, chaotic dance, in a rhythm to the game that was played out on the pitch.

"Oh no…" moaned Ron, suddenly quite pale. "It's already begun – come on!"

He grabbed Harry by the arm and yanked, surprising him with his sheer strength, and off they went at a furious run, everything but the game before them quite forgotten.

Everything, that was – save for a single scheme that was concocting inside Harry's head.

They could, and they should, but they needed help.


"Okay," said Harry, trying to drown out the thunderous delight of the two hundred or so Slytherin students gathered, "let me see if I got this right."

"Yes." Ron nodded, and his face was a mask of serious consideration as he beheld Harry. "Go on. You're ready."

"Three Chasers," said Harry, holding up three fingers, "Playing the Quaffle, and trying to score in one of the opponents hoops. The middle hoop, the tallest and narrowest, is worth twenty points. The most of the three, as it is also the hardest, correct?"

Ron nodded, bobbing his head slowly, but said nothing, looking intently for Harry to continue.

"The two hoops on either side are worth ten points. Not as tall, yet the hoops are a bit bigger and easier to score in. Guarding them is the Keeper. He can't stray too far off his hoops, but if he has the Quaffle you can't take it from him, either."

"Yes. Go on."

"Two Beaters, with a bat and a wand – spells limited to the Expulsion Charm and its liking – trying to protect their teammates from the two Bludgers."

"And strategically incapacitate the opponent if possible," added Ron, tone of voice deadpanned, as though it was a perfectly natural thing.

"Barbaric," muttered Daphne, sitting just behind Harry and Ron and listening. "Stupid sport for stupid people."

"And that." Harry nodded, ignoring her, as a fierce rush of energy, like air sucked snuck into the belly, ready to explode, trembled through the crowd as the Ravenclaw Seeker made a rash dash across the field. Only it was anything but rash, and soon the intentions of the Seeker was made clear as he cut through the defences of the Slytherin Chasers, opening up the play for the Ravenclaw Chasers. However, it did little as the Slytherin Keeper, hanging half off his broom, snatched the Quaffle easily.

"Wow…" whispered Harry, eyes big and round and in love all over again. Everything, and everyone, was moving so fast and so precisely.

"It was a weak shot by Smith, though, wasn't it?" said Ron, shrugging, not at all impressed. "Anyway, go on, Harry – the Seeker?"

"Yeah." Harry nodded, and focused his attention back to the conversation. "Well, the Seeker's only job is to catch the Snitch. It's worth a hundred and fifty points, and gets released again immediately once caught. A good Seeker can almost singlehandedly win you the match. The record for most caught Snitches in a Hogwarts match is five times, right?"

"Yes, yes." Ron nodded. "The match is timed two hours exactly. And the team with the most points in the end wins, obviously. You got it."

"Didn't think we'd see you two here," drawled Malfoy from Harry's left. He looked roused with excitement, only taking his eyes off the game to sneer at Harry for a moment – as was obligatory. "You here to support Ravenclaw, or has some sense of House pride finally manage to get through your thick skulls?"

"Just here to see what all the fuzz's about," said Harry, grinning.

"Well, only the greatest two hours ever invented. The Greatest Game."

"That's the nickname for it," said Ron with a whisper. A rush, like a bellow, went through the crowd then, and Ron leaped to his toes, sudden like lightning, towering over everyone and almost knocking Harry over. "DID YOU SEE THAT, HARRY? DID YOU SEE THAT?"

Harry blinked, having, in fact, missed it spectacularly. All around and amongst him, roars and cheers of approval went through the Slytherin Students like a bulging wave.

"Adrian Pucey feints the Keeper and puts the Quaffle through the Middle Hoop in style! Twenty points to Slytherin, and they extend their lead to almost seventy points with only half an hour of playing time. Ravenclaw looks completely outmatched, both physically and tactically. Even the desire alone from the Slytherin players seem to be unsettling for the rather meek Ravenclaw team we see today. Not a good version of them at all."

"Lee Jordan," said Ron quickly, as he fell back in his seat. "He's friends with Fred and George and from Gryffindor. He's the speaker at every match. Though not always the most impartial."

Harry nodded, but had nothing to say. He was barely paying attention to Ron. Soon Pucey had the Quaffle put away once more, and Ron and Malfoy and the rest of the First Years, forgetting their animosity completely, jumped and hooped together like mad.

Harry laughed quietly, eyes shinning as he stared hungrily out over the pitch – Greatest Game indeed. What a rush!

Slytherin, with a little over an hour left to play, had hammered Ravenclaw to the point of breaking, but Harry thought it looked like they were keen to keep on. Never stopping, never slowing down, if they could utterly annihilate their opponent, they'd do so with glee.

Harry found it all rather inspiring in a way.

At some point, Harry's attention focused entirely upon the two Seekers floating high above the game, Ron had left his side and become intertwined in an argument spanning most of the boys in attendance.

"What in Merlin's name are you on about, Weasley?" said Malfoy angrily. "Adrian has definitely got what it takes."

"Maybe as a reserve," said Ron, shrugging. "Look at his positioning, though – especially defensively he's caught out of sync with the rest of his team more often than not. A better team than Ravenclaw would have punished us for it."

"But we're winning, Ron," said Pansy, and she had leaned so far forward in her seat, almost toppled over the stand, that her face hovered in-between Ron and Malfoy. Harry thought there was a strange, almost eager, gleam in her eyes. "If he's that bad, then how come he's the best on the field?"

"Because he's playing against other school kids," said Ron sharply. "Look, all I'm saying is you can't give the opponent the kind of chances that Pucey allows in the League. They'll make you suffer for it."

"A good trade off for a Chaser worth plus hundred points per game," said Malfoy.

"Not sure he's worth even thirty points in the League," muttered Ron.

"You've seen one game, and already you think you know everything about Adrian. You Weasleys always think you know everything, yet you haven't got money for even the simplest of things like–" And here, with a smirk and a pointed look, he forced so much disdain into his voice even Harry thought it impressive. "–robes that actually fit."

Ron, getting slightly red with anger, sat a little straighter in his seat, a scratching retort incoming.

"Malfoy," said Ron calmly, too fucking calmly, "you're so full of Hippogriffshit I can almost taste it. And the only reason you mother never gave you a decent wash is because her nose is so far up her own arse she can't even smell the–"

"It's always like this," muttered Daphne, popping up as though out of nothing on the seat besides Harry. "Every time. You boys and your silly little games…"

"Silly?" said Harry, mindful of the burgeoning stir between Malfoy and Ron – ah well, he'd interfere if and when Ron needed it.

"Yeah." Daphne nodded, eyes earnest and staring at Harry. They were bright blue, and rather large, Harry found, so up close. Weird. "Don't you think so?" she asked quietly.

"No – it's wonderful," said Harry, itching a little ways back from her. Grinning broadly, he tore his gaze from her eyes and back out over the field. "The best thing I've ever seen."

"Oh no, not you, too – what is it with boys and this stupid obsession with Quidditch? Even the smart ones…" She furrowed her brow for a moment, a little line forming above her nose, right between her eyes. "Well, smart for a boy, I suppose."

"Daphne, look," said Harry, sweeping his hand across the canvas of life before them. "They're flying – on brooms! How wild is that!"

Daphne giggled. "You always seem so… excitable."

"It's magic! How can you not be excited?" Harry blinked, and a smile, bright and honest and so dangerously open, creased his face, thoughts running like chaos through his head. "Look, this – to me – is all one big miracle. Everything. You've no idea how many times I imagined a world like this… thinking I was alone with my, err, weirdness. Wands that literally bends reality to our will with no effort–"

"Maybe it's no effort for you," muttered Daphne, though she was smiling.

"–brooms that fly, dragons that spew fire, a giant castle for a school, hidden in the mountains… I keep turning around and finding something new! I keep expecting to one day wake up and find it all just this wondrous dream, this figment of a dreadful boy's imagination."

Daphne nodded, then gave a sharp yelp of fright as a pulse, like a rush of a wave, bloated out through the throngs of Slytherin students, as Pucey made yet another ten points for Slytherin.

"We lead so much not even their Seeker can make a difference now," said Daphne, her eyes glancing up high to the two Seekers.

Harry shrugged, tracing her line of sight. "They're not going to find it up there."

Daphne blinked. "Oh? How come?"

"Because it's been hiding behind Ravenclaw's goalpost for the last ten minutes. Look!" He leaned back into her and pointed her eyes in the right direction. "It's peeking out. Rather clever little thing, isn't it?"

Daphne smiled, giggled softly, but then she narrowed her eyes slightly, thinking dark thoughts, no doubt. "You're not going to try out for Seeker next year, are you?"

"What if I am?"

She sighed, shaking her head. "I don't like worrying about my friends, is all."

"Oh, we're friends now, are we?"

"Well – would be easier if you let me, I suppose." She frowned, and an emotion, one Harry couldn't place, ran across her face. She pushed a strand of her silver-blonde hair out of her eyes. "You and Ron are rather close; it's hard to get in on."

"We've been through a lot already," said Harry.

Daphne nodded, and then held a small smile on her lips. "I tried to join you on one of your adventures."

Harry laughed. "Yeah – what were you thinking, confronting us like that?"

She laughed, too. "Not that you'd curse me, that's for sure!"

"Hey, Ron started!"

"You didn't stop him." Daphne giggled again. "Anyway, what happened that night? You knocked me out, and I woke up to find the school under attack."

"Yeah, well…" Harry cast a quick glance around them, making sure nobody seemed to pay them any particular attention. "We went out into the Forbidden Forest."

Daphne blinked, eyes wide – eyes shocked, Harry thought. "The Forbidden Forest," she whispered furiously, leaning close to him. "Why? Why would you do something so reckless?"

"Well, we… we sorta knew something fishy was going on, you see. So we decided to, I don't know, get prove – we had tried to warn the Professors. None listened. I guess we thought if we came back with undeniable proof we could no longer be ignored…"

Daphne nodded, and she bit her lip in thought. "What was it like? The Forest?"

"Oh, you should have seen it. Places within like a different world – almost like it… well, it existed in a different place. It was night, but there was this cave, and inside there were scores upon scores of unicorns and shinning mountains and… lights forever… the sun rose at night and the world would shine, and… well, time was weird. Unfixed."

"Unfixed?" Her eyes, impossibly blue and wide with wonder, stared at him as though fixed to his every word. "I don't understand?"

"I can't explain it. I don't understand it, either. Maybe I dreamt it – dreamt something to make sense of what we saw. Ever had that feeling? But the forest is bigger than it appears. Much bigger on the inside… full of darkness and monsters and creatures of wonder and fear and scary… spiders almost the size of Hagrid."

"What?"

"Yes." Harry laughed, like a bellow, in the face of her honest awe. "And they almost killed Ron – he was saved by the Unicorns in the cave."

"You're having me on, aren't you?" said Daphne after a moment of silence between them, her smile a little hesitant, a little unsure. Everything but the conversation between them forgotten.

"Not at all."

Another pulse of energy coursed through the crowd around them, bringing the world back into focus. Finally the Seekers seemed to have noticed the Snitch. Descending side by side, it looked as though it was the Ravenclaw Seeker that had noticed it first, taking the lead. Ron and Malfoy, in their excitement, had leaped to their feet and bloated out the view for Harry with their bodies.

"Hey!" Harry cried, but it was drowned out by the groans of disappointment around them. The Ravenclaw Seeker had caught the Snitch.

"Tobias Macadam breathes life back into the game with that capture!" boomed Lee Jordan, and his voice, full of exhilaration, washed over the crowd. "They were dead! Goners! The game all but over, but with hundred and fifty points, there's a glimmer of hope for Ravenclaw. They have fifteen minutes to turn things around – forty points to go, come on, guys! Get those slimy–"

"Jordan, I'm warning you – stop or I'll stop you for good!"

"Sorry, Professor! Ravenclaw's back in possession of the Quaffle. Oh, there's renewed energy in everything they do – it's clear!"

Daphne smiled. "It's always like that, you know?"

"I suppose nobody could be completely neutral."

A minute later the Snitch, unseen and unfound, was released back into the game.

"You know, there're rumours," said Daphne.

Harry sighed, and cast a glance sideways, staring at her. "There always are."

"Is it true that you grew up with Muggles?" asked Daphne.

Harry blinked and narrowed his eyes. "Do you have a problem with that?" The question, spoken like an answer, came out a little too aggressive, a little too defensive, for his own liking.

"Well," Daphne said, her hesitation apparent. "It's just a bit weird. Why didn't you simply go to a wizard's family? It would have made more sense. There wouldn't have been a single family unwilling to take you."

"They were my family." He wasn't sure what made him argue. He had no love for the Dursleys, no real line of defence, and held no fondness for the childhood they'd given him.

"But they were Muggles."

Harry, confused, contemplated Daphne as though this was the first time he'd laid eyes on her.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Harry slowly, tone of voice tinged with measured care. Control. "Just what do you mean, Daphne? What do you feel – exactly – is wrong with Muggles?"

She seemed caught, eyes darting and narrowed, between two thoughts. "You could argue that there's nothing wrong with them. I guess. But they're… lacking. No, I'm not bigot or something–"

"You could've fooled–"

"–Please, Harry – let me finish."

Harry, eyeing her for a long moment, nodded without a word.

She sighed, brushing her hair, which had been caught in the cool air, out of her face. "They're probably like us in many ways. But they lack, well, they lack the one thing that's sort of the most important part. Magic."

"So… being able to wield a wand–"

"Doesn't make us better, no; that's not what I'm saying, Harry – that's not what most are saying. Just different. They're different – but different in such a way that they'd never really understand us, especially someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"Yes. Someone so very much… magical."

Harry opened his mouth, blinked, and closed it again, thinking fiercely. Did he even, when it came down to it, have a real argument against that? Had his experience growing up, unloved and misunderstood, not been a screaming, raving testament to her exact point.

"How was your childhood, then?" Daphne asked, and her tone of voice was gentle. Controlled. Harry found it almost infuriating.

"Well," Harry began, but trailed off. If he answered truthfully, which he had done without hesitation a moment ago, Daphne would know she was – at least in his case – absolutely right. Or she'd think she was.

Was that bad?

Maybe, maybe not.

"My… relatives, you must understand, are nothing like most Muggles. First of, they know of magic – but pretended my entire life that it didn't exist. They're… not fond of it. Or me."

"Did they… err, mistreat you?" asked Daphne, and only a moment passed before she held a hand to her mouth, wide-eyed. "Oh, I'm sorry! That's a terribly personal thing to ask!"

"They didn't," said Harry, and though it wasn't, technically, the truth, he knew it could have been so much worse. And he didn't need the kind of pity and affirmation – with all the logical conclusions that would entail – from her. "They were mostly too afraid of me to mess with me."

"What do you mean?"

Harry shrugged. "I learned pretty early on that I could, you know, do things. Make things happen if I really wanted to or focused on it. Make my hair grow, make things fly, loud noises… sometimes, if I tried really hard, I could even make myself disappear. They were really shocked when I did that. What about you?"

"Me?"

"Did you do things like that?"

"No, well, once I… set my mother's hair on fire. I suppose I was really angry with her."

Harry laughed. "I should imagine."

Daphne shrugged. She'd gone rather pale all of a sudden, rather distant.

"What was your childhood like? What was it like growing up like a wizard?" He frowned. "Or witch, I mean."

"Like most others, I'd imagine."

"I'd have no way of knowing, would I?"

"You have Ron, haven't you?"

Harry smirked. "I doubt Ron's family is the golden standard for a typical wizard's family."

Daphne laughed. "No, it probably isn't."

"Tell me something here," Harry said, urging her. "Come on…"

"Okay." Daphne nodded and paused for a moment. "I have a father, he was in Hufflepuff here, and a sister – she's two and half years younger than me. She'll go to Hogwarts when we're in our third year, I guess."

"And what about your mother?" said Harry, smiling. "You set her hair on fire. Can't imagine she was happy with that."

"She… I guess not. She was a Slytherin, like us, and, well… she's dead."

Harry blinked. "Oh." In a flash, like magic had made it so, he felt his smile slip off his face and a shadow cross it. "I'm so sorry, Daphne – I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't – it's okay. She died a couple of years ago. I was old enough to remember it – which I should be thankful for, really – Astoria can't remember her at all."

Harry nodded stupidly, cursing himself for not having anything to say. But what was there to say? He knew how she felt? Could he honestly say that? He hadn't really lived it, had he? Dreamt it perhaps, glanced upon in long ago unseen nightmares, but never lived it. Never. And, even if honesty didn't matter, would it even help Daphne any?

"Look," said Harry, reaching for a smile, a reassuring one, and finding it. There was nothing to say, so might as well move along. "I have this plan – of sorts. It involves a great deal of rule-breaking, adventure – and who knows?"

Daphne smiled through her watery eyes, relieved, apparently grateful for the change in topic, however inelegant the change had been.

"Why're you telling me?"

"Because we need help. I need your help," said Harry, turning in his seat. The Game, minutes away from ending, forgotten, and he were staring at her earnestly. "I know of this potion, which is essential to the scheme, but it's ridiculously complicated. I can't brew it – I don't have the skills. But I think you might."

She frowned, and Harry could almost see her thoughts on her face. She could be quite expressive in her own way – her eyes especially.

"What potion is it?"

"Well, it's called the Polyjuice Potion – oh, you know of it?"

"Yes." Daphne nodded, smiling incredulously. "What do you need that for? I'm not even sure it's even taught at Hogwarts…"

"To impersonate someone. Obviously."

"Obviously. I mean, why? And how do you even know of it?"

"Look–" Harry began.

"No," said Daphne, rather fiercely, interrupting him. "No, you don't brush me off. Not this time. This time I want to be a part of it. If I'm to help you, I want to know – no! I want to see."

Harry blinked. "Are you… blackmailing me?"

"I prefer to call it bargaining. Blackmailing sounds so… bad."

Harry laughed. "Daphne's bargain, is it? Well, okay, Daphne. I'll explain the plan, then – tomorrow, with Ron. In our dormitory."

"When?"

"After dinner sounds fair?"

She nodded, smiling brightly. And Harry, for reasons he couldn't quite understand, found himself smiling just as brightly.

The bell, like a bang, sounded not long after, indicating the end of the match. The Snitch had only been caught once in the two hours, by the Ravenclaw Seeker, but it proved fruitless as Slytherin took home the victory in the end.

There was a flicker of light from across the field, on the stands on the other side, and Harry saw Dumbledore swishing his wand through the air. Out on the field, above the players, ribbons of green and silvery flames danced unceasingly, forming into the final score.

350-260.

Slytherin had won, Adrian Pucey was named Flyer of the Match – Malfoy gloated at Ron during that announcement – but it wasn't enough to secure the trophy before the final game of the season, which was to be played against Hufflepuff.


Dumbledore's office, Harry noted, hadn't changed a lick since his visit two days ago. The circular office, haphazardly put together, was littered with the same delicate silvery instruments that stood on spindle-legged tables, huffing smoke and whirring – wheezing, gurgling sound with a hidden, eternal depth. Portraits of old Headmasters and Headmistresses hung upon the walls and stared down upon Harry with a mixture of good-natured curiousness, great, open mistrust, and bland indifference.

And yet, despite the obvious sameness, it felt completely new. And the reason, Harry knew, was obvious.

There was a Phoenix in his office. It had to be a Phoenix!

"Ah, Harry, there you are – ought I to congratulate you on your House's splendid performance yesterday?" asked Dumbledore, standing by the window that favoured a view out over the grounds and the Forbidden Forest. The final, burning rays of the sun, scorching the bleeding sky crimson, shone onto his gnarled face, and twinkled on the surface of his half–moon glasses. "I imagine the Slytherin House immensely satisfied – with a rousing victory party in the common room."

"You'd not be wrong, sir," said Harry, standing by the desk and feeling a slight sense of awkwardness. He couldn't take his eyes of the Phoenix. "Were you in Slytherin, too, sir?"

"Alas no, I was in Gryffindor. I can't imagine the Sorting Hat ever considered me cunning enough to be part of your House." He kept his eyes, full of age and half-lidded in a rush of memories, out over the view. "Though I have often wondered if I was ever brave enough to be worthy of Gryffindor, as well."

Harry nodded, shrugging, still staring. The Phoenix, after ruffling its feathers neatly, stared back at Harry as though defiant of him. If Harry didn't know better, which he might not, he was almost certain the bird looked at him with something akin to hostility.

"Thank you," said Harry after a moment, throat dry all of a sudden, "for the timing of this lesson."

"Ah yes." Dumbledore laughed, turning at last to behold Harry. "I'll confess Severus was… most displeased when I informed him you'd be joining me tonight. I thought it for the best. You two had another row, I take it?"

"Something like that." Harry nodded, tone of voice noncommittal. "Anyway, I'm just happy to be here – and okay, is that a Phoenix?"

"Yes." Dumbledore nodded, laughing merrily. "Yes, he is indeed a Phoenix, Harry. His name is Fawkes."

"Doesn't seem to like me much," said Harry, with slight frown of disappointment.

"No, well, it appears he doesn't." Dumbledore, too, was frowning, though Harry noted he didn't seem too surprised. "You've met once before, remember?"

"Yeah." Harry nodded. As though he was ever gonna forget that night? The Phoenix, Fawkes, had saved him – and Dumbledore and Ron. "He – he burned and… we were–"

"Whisked away, yes." Dumbledore, caressing Fawkes' rich crimson and golden plumage on the way, walked around his desk and sat down in his armchair. "Phoenixes are magical creatures, Harry – wondrous beings. Chiefly, however, they're – in a sense – immortal. When they die, on what's known as the Burning Day – they are reborn in the ashes of their death. Because of their… paradoxical nature… they are fine-tuned, their senses heightened, to magic of a higher order…"

"Higher order?" asked Harry, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yes. Magic, like love, I suppose, old magic… powerful magic we wizards barely understand and, thus far, have been unable to wield with intent… the kind of magic that can stop the unstoppable… undo the undoable… breathe love and light into the unlovable. In short, it is magic at its absolute rawest, absolutely freest – more wondrous and dangerous than anything we can create with our wands."

"The kind of magic you're going to teach me?" said Harry, a rush of fierce emotions mounting in his blood, surging through his head like the purest of starlight, white and hot and like sheer adrenaline. "That's what I'm here for, isn't it?"

"No, not at all," said Dumbledore, laughing, and Harry suddenly felt quite stupid. "I'm afraid, Harry, that could I harness the kind of powers we're discussing, Voldemort would not be as big of a threat as he is. Unfortunately, I cannot."

Harry nodded, and tried to quash the vast feeling of disappointment.

"Don't be dejected just yet, Harry," said Dumbledore, gazing at Harry over his half-moon glasses, eyes twinkling. "You, after all, only live as a result of a miracle – the work of magic of unfathomable power."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"That scar, where Voldemort's curse struck, should have killed you. You should never have seen another year beyond your first. And yet… here we are, you, reasonably well, before me. Nobody survives a Killing Curse – I'm sure you're, by now, familiar with what has fostered your legend?"

Harry nodded. He had, at last, been doing his reading about himself, about what had happened that faithful night all those years ago.

Dumbledore smiled a touch sadly. "Ah yes… the Killing Curse… a curse with insurmountable power, with no means to protect against it. It touches you and you die. There can be no exceptions to the rule, no survivors… and yet…"

"Hello," said Harry, nodding slowly.

"Indeed."

"How, sir?" probed Harry. "Just… how?"

"Ah, to that no one knows for sure, but I have my theories, of course."

"Go on."

"It is merely the guesswork of an old man, Harry. An old wandering mind, cursed with eternal restlessness, that spends far too long pondering upon that which no clear answers arise to shine light upon."

"But…" Harry blinked. "But you think you're right?"

Dumbledore sighed. "Naturally. But I am, unfortunately, only a man, prone to mistakes just as any other."

"Tell me."

"Your mother," said Dumbledore, "she died to save you. Her sacrifice, with love and willingly defenceless, I shall imagine, invoked a very powerful charm on you. That charm, her love, it lives in you, and that love, Harry, that magic, it overcame Lord Voldemort's powers. It undid the undoable; it conquered certainty itself – the certainty of death. I suspect Fawkes here, Harry, is wary of you because he senses that there's something different about you – that you've been touched, perhaps, by magic only it can comprehend. Touched more deeply than any before. That you are, perhaps, an equal. Like a kindred spirit."

"Shouldn't it be, I don't know, happy to see me, then?"

"Phoenixes can be rather territorial in nature, Harry." Dumbledore smiled and waved his wand, conjuring a rather large armchair with a rush of dispelled air and a loud pop. "Anyway, sit down and let's begin your first lesson, your first foray into the mind. Do you know why we begin here, Harry?"

Harry, after barely a moment's thought, shook his head. "You said it was to protect my secrets, but I don't really understand why – what secrets…"

"I suppose most would think it more important to learn about the wonders of charms and advanced Transfiguration – which I hope to pass onto you in due time – yet we start with the mind – at the beginning of all. Why, Harry – give it more than a moment's thought this time."

Harry sat there and thought about it, humming silently to himself. Dumbledore, leaned back, allowed Harry his silence, twirling his wand and conjuring a few ring of fire in the air. Fawkes, cooing… happily? – leaped off its place and streaked around the room, flying through the rings with a practiced ease.

It looked like a game they'd played before.

"Because…" Harry began at last, stumbling on his words as they came to him. "Because… because – everything starts, and ends, with our minds. Our minds never change–"

"Yes. And no." Dumbledore shook his head, smiling, almost beaming. "You are, of course, partially correct. We start with the mind because it is the founding of everything. You are, however, wholly incorrect in assuming our minds never really change. We all change, all throughout our lives. We must, after all. Everything must."

"Sir?"

"A man spends his entire life inside his head. He might, if he is not careful, end up a prisoner there." Dumbledore regarded Harry, and there was a gleam of something – solemn or regret? – in the edges of his eyes. "Only by exploring its every cobweb, by turning over every corner, by learning its every secret, can one truly master oneself – learn and understand truly one's strengths and weaknesses. The pathways your way of thinking undertakes. And thereby… Change… if change is deemed necessary. Some waste away entire lives, Harry, wallowing in the same notions, never understanding, never seeing… never changing… To learn, to understand the world around you fully, you must first master yourself. Never be too proud to change, nor too willing. Always be curious and make allowance for doubt, but never waver without reason. To do so, to glance upon your mind and the minds of others, there're two disciplines we must explore, and one of them requires no magic at all."

Harry blinked and fought to keep afloat in the stream of words. "What are they, sir?"

"Occlumency and Legilimens," said Dumbledore, and something, ancient and forever, in his voice made Harry shiver. "Two opposites, one a defence, the other a means of attack…"

Harry leaned forward in his seat, aware of every portraits' eyes resting on them, listening attentively to their conversation.

"Please explain them to me, Professor?" he asked, voice low.

"It'd be easier for me to just simply… show you," he said, smiling. "The process of learning this type of magic, however, is hastened immensely by honesty, openness, and a complete trust between teacher and student. Even with these… I think we might have an advantage or two between us that others would not have."

"What… advantages?"

"Your natural genius and my own – forgive me – not–so–modest talents." Dumbledore, eyes narrowed, seemed to lose himself in thought for a moment. "The incantation for Legilimency is Legilimens. It, when cast expertly, can open the mind of your target, allowing you to see their memories by your choosing. Allowing you to explore another mind. I'll open up my mind for you, Harry, and guide you around, hold the connection, affording you a sense of what it's like. Just follow the stream…"

Harry nodded and raised his wand.

"Ah, using the new one, I see!"

"Yes, it's a good wand," said Harry defensively, voice singed with a touch of embarrassment.

"Indeed it is." Dumbledore nodded, studying Harry's face, and then a smile broke out onto his features. "Indeed it is. Now, cast the spell and enter my memories – I believe you will find them rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate."

Harry nodded, and focused his mind, his will and intent, upon a narrow beam of thought, wherein he might thread the needle through Dumbledore's head. Sufficiently prepared, he thought, he pointed his wand at Dumbledore's forehead. Dumbledore, holding Harry's eyes, nodded in approval with an easy smile.

The man was barmy!

"Legilimens!" said Harry.

Dumbledore's office gained a watery mass, swimming away like liquid smoke, and vanished before Harry's sight. And he followed the soggy substance, falling, falling, down into memories that he'd never known. Memories that belonged to a man to whom decades of life was known and endured – and he sensed it all, became it all. Pulled by strings unseen, he was swept across memories after memories, feelings – of loss and anguish and love and fright and so much regret and so little happiness – all of it, the essence of a another – tore through him… he was dizzy in the wake of it. And across it all, by boundaries once there but now conquered, he fell into everything. And in that act, of falling and seeing, he lost himself.

He was four, and his sister had just been born. He was told she was a miracle, but soon learned that the miracle had come with a curse… a terrible curse…

He was swept away in sudden agony, a being of enormity screaming against the memory of the little girl, and she blew away like smoke in a storm.

He was a Prefect now, prancing around in front of the jealous, hungry gaze of his younger brother.

A Head Boy.

Revered across the world, but he had grown lonely in age and regret and fear – oh so lonely, such a lonely little boy. Lonely then and lonelier now. Forever lonely.

And then, as though time had become jumbled, he was young again, full of life and hope and rampant ego. Envied by his less fortunate, less talented brother, revered by his less talented peers… revered by all the little people.

It made him – he was proud? How could such a vile, cruel, arrogant thought not make him sick?

He was sick! This was wrong. This wasn't him – he wasn't this.

And then he knew with painful realization. It was not he or his sister. Not his awry arrogance. It was Dumbledore, and his sister, and her name was Ariana – and he remembered her dying… remembered how…

His shame… unbearable…

How had she died? She was the great catalyst for change, but how, why, had she met her end?

So much shame, and blackness, as though someone – Dumbledore – had erased the memory.

And then, at last, he regained himself wholly, and made sense of this world aside worlds.

He wasn't a Prefect, a Head Boy – revered across the world.

He didn't have a brother, who was envious of his gifts.

He was Harry Potter, a First Year in Hogwarts. He wrenched onto the distinction, controlling it, seeing it, remembering Dumbledore's words, which now rang like a hollow warning, as he sailed across the canvas of a life that wasn't his.

And as he gained awareness of the distinction, it crystalized before him. The string, Dumbledore's will, that had pulled him along suddenly made sense, and Harry, though still being yanked along, knew where he ended and where Dumbledore began.

Memories began to swim in front of him, focused for a moment, and then moving onto the next, seeing little nuggets of an ancient life.

And then the air was sucked out of him, like a vicious punch to the gut, and there was nothing left. Not even darkness. Like existence itself had been pulled out right beneath his feet, and he was left behind in a dank, cold void of nothing.

Dumbledore, everything he was, had simply up and vanished between his fingers. In an unseen instant.

He shook himself, with immense mental effort, out of the stupor and gained awareness again, sitting on the floor of Dumbledore's office. The world, bright and glaring and jarring, wavered for a moment – or maybe it was him – and he held on tight to the edge of the chair by his head for a long while.

"Good, Harry," said Dumbledore, and Harry saw he was beaming away like Christmas had come early.

Harry felt like throwing up.

"Very good. You gained awareness quickly! For many a budding Legilimens, the distinction between one's self and your target can, in the deluge of memories – the very essence of another being, you might say – be rather hard to distinguish."

Harry, rather than stand to sit in the chair, clawed with his nails up it and collapsed. "Well…" he wheezed, gulping at air. "How come you're not, you know… out of sorts like me?"

"I've had years of practice at this," said Dumbledore placidly. "And – if I may be a bit immodest – this particular branch of magic has always suited a mind such as mine rather well."

"A mind such as yours?"

"A, shall we say, guarded and… organized mind."

"Right," said Harry, not sure he followed. "What now? Switch places?"

Dumbledore peered at him for a moment, then smiled. "No. Once today is enough. This was merely meant as an introduction. I'd like to meet again soon, though – say, Wednesday?"

Harry nodded with closed eyes. "Fine by me, sir."

"Good – now, I imagine Mr Weasley and Miss Greengrass await you rather impatiently at dinner. I'd hate to be reason for you to incur their wrath. I've encroached upon your time for long enough tonight. Good night, Harry."

Harry stood and blinked for a moment, the world still spinning away. "Good night, sir."


Ron and Daphne, contrary to Dumbledore's words, were not waiting for him in the Great Hall.

"Okay, Harry – couple of questions here, mate," said Ron, when Harry stepped forth over the threshold and into their dormitory. "What the fuck's she doing here?"

Daphne sighed, a huff of air filled with exaggeration and looming anger. "Ron, honestly… how many times do I have to say I'm sorry? I didn't know it was your bed, okay?"

"No, not okay! You were lying in my bed!" said Ron, rather forcefully. "And how did you even get here?"

"I thought it was Harry's – and I wasn't lying in it, I was sitting."

"You were… what? You were – I'll be the judge of that, missy." He, incensed, pointed a finger at Harry. "This is your fault. You invited her, didn't you?"

"Missy," breathed Daphne, incredulous.

"Ron, I'm sure Daphne didn't mean to sit–"

"She was lying. In my bed."

"Right." Harry sighed. "But now she's in my bed, happy?"

"You were the one to invite her," muttered Ron, glaring between Harry and Daphne as though something so indecent was going on it beggared belief. "A girl in my dormitory… that is disgusting."

That was too much for Daphne, who leapt to her feet.

"Disgusting? I shall show you disgusting, you – you buffoon!" Her eyes, her sweet blue eyes, glared pure murder at his redheaded friend.

Harry blinked, mouth narrowed to a thin line, trying to contain a giggle. "B-buffoon?"

Ron, however, roared with laughter.

"Buffoon? Really?" He fell back in his bed, screaming with raucous laughter. "Ah, did I just get the cock-punching scolding I deserved…"

"Cock-punching?" muttered Daphne.

"Ron–"

"Don't speak to me." He held up a hand, palm outwards, towards Harry, and he closed his eyes with a blissful, slightly reverent countenance. "Just for a moment."

Harry blinked. "Err, why?"

"I want to sear this in my memory." His laughter died out into small fits of chuckles, like hiccups, before he wiped at imaginative tears at the edges of his eyes. "Buffoon – by Merlin that is good."

Harry smirked. Daphne looked ready to throw aside her wand and punch the larger boy. Harry wasn't sure Ron, thoughtlessly, wouldn't just punch her back, and strode to end the conversation before they found out.

"You done?"

Ron sighed, laughing quietly still. "Sure. Oh, you should have seen her, when I got back." His laughter blossomed anew, and Daphne reddened around her cheeks. "She jumped as if burned, when–" He giggled, almost madly, holding his sides, "– when – oh, go on…"

Harry chuckled, though he was slightly confused. "Right. Okay." He clapped his hands together, rubbing them with clear anticipation. He had been waiting for this. "The Plan – and that's with a capital Papa – is to take place at a Hogsmeade weekend. Preferably the next."

"Papa?" Ron frowned.

All the older students, from third year and up, had the opportunity to go to Hogsmeade during predetermined weekends every once in a while. Hogsmeade, Harry had learned, was one of the few wizard-only villages in Britain. As such, apparently, it was quite the social event at the school. Who was dating whom? Did Macalister manage to get Tracy Plumberg back? And what unspeakable deed took place in the bathrooms of the Three Broomsticks? Something so vile, so preposterous, Harry thought, that the older students wouldn't dare tell him about it? He wanted – no – needed to know.

"Mate, you're mumbling. Again."

"Right." Harry shook his head, cursing silently. Not again. "We need to learn what happened in the bathroom of the Three Broomsticks–"

"Not that again," moaned Ron, holding a hand to his forehead. "I don't wanna know what happened in some stinking bathroom."

"But the older students – all they ever talk about is what–"

"I don't care."

"You two don't know that?" asked Daphne, looking between them with an almost manic – gleeful – sort of look in her eyes. "HA! I know, I know. You don't need that scheme of yours to learn what–"

"Oh, this has nothing to do with the Plan," said Harry.

"Thank Merlin…" mumbled Ron.

"But," continued Harry, "two bird with one spell and all that. But if you know what happened, then do go on."

"Well, Macalister and Plumberg had made up, and apparently they were so happy they decided to use the bathroom to…" she gained a funny, indecipherable look, glancing nervously between the two boys. "…be happy… together. You know?"

Ron shook his head, looking as confused as Harry felt. "No, I don't know – what? Be happy? Weren't they happy at their table?"

Daphne fidgeted with her hands, small giggles escaping between pursed lips. "Well, they wanted to be happy in a way… well, you can't be – in public, yeah?"

"Oh." Ron frowned, then… "Oh!" Wide-eyed, he stared at Daphne as though she'd just told him he needed to eat slugs for breakfast for the rest of his life. He quickly rounded on Harry. "See? I told you! I didn't wanna know!"

"Know what?" said Harry, a frown creasing his brow. "I don't get it – what happened?"

"Drop it, Harry. For your sake – just be happy not knowing."

"But I wanna know. I need to know," whined Harry.

"No. I'm telling you, mate. Better off not knowing."

"Okaaaaaay."

"So… we're going to Hogsmeade?" said Daphne excitedly. "As older students, I assume."

"As older students?" asked Ron, looking at her as though she'd grown crazy. "How would we manage that?"

"Well," began Harry, still a little thwarted, "yes, I suppose we are – but there's so much more to it."

"Okay. What's to it?"

"I want to get to Diagon Alley."

Ron blinked, then a slow smirk, full of excitement and adventure waiting to be had, blossomed on his features. And just like that, whatever disgusting thing he had realized, that Harry had failed to see, lay in the past.

And Daphne, eyes wide and almost horror-struck at the thought of it, sucked in a low breath. Harry thought he heard her curse, too, through gritted teeth, but then had to reconsider when he remembered just who he had sitting before him.

Buffoon… HA!

"And how would we manage that?" asked Ron again, though this time he was so very clearly sold on the idea.

And Harry had to laugh, because of course Ron, without even knowing anything, would be ready and willing for anything. And looking at Daphne, at her uncertainty and quiet disposition – as she sat on his bed and looked between the two boys with wringing hands in her lap – he saw that same gleam, that hunger for adventure in the edges of her eyes, that same hunger he knew existed deep in the pit of his own soul. It was a hunger that had only grown ever since he had learned of the Horcrux, ever since he had come to know the extent of the hand he had been dealt at life.

Because he might have been destined for it – born to run and to die and to accept that which no one was meant to accept so young… but it had also brought about a certainty of life within. And Harry had often wondered, at the beginning, why live at all, when he must die in the end? And the answer, every fucking time he pondered upon it – coming so earnestly, so honestly, it could only have been wrought out of the innocence of mind as adolescent and pure as his own.

He must live – for in the end… everything ends… and why not, just till the end, live…

Live… for in the end… everything dies…

Harry smiled broadly, and he thought he saw Ron slowly, with weariness in his eyes, itch for his wand.

"Okay… this is the Plan…"

He told them of the elaborate scheme he had been concocting on a slow burn over the weekend. Laying it all out in the greatest of details, sparring nothing – nothing save for the reason for it all – the true reason.

"And you want to do all this for a broom?" asked Daphne, shaking her head. "Is that really worth all the trouble we're going to get into should we get caught?"

Harry shrugged, smiling. "Probably not. But you two can go shopping in a shop if you like, you know."

"And it's all about the journey, if you ask me," said Ron, smiling broadly. "I don't think even Fred and George have tried anything like this."

"If we're going to do this, I'm going to make a shopping list," said Daphne, almost defiantly.

"A shopping list?" Harry blinked, and he felt something, could be a groan, slowly blossom. He had forgotten one crucial detail. Daphne was a girl, and girls loved shopping. "You're not turning this into one of those shopping marathon… thingies… were Ron and I'll have to hold your bags for you."

"Yes." She nodded empathically, and rather evilly, thought Harry. "I need new make up – there's this new Portion Mousse for your hair that–"

"How long do you need to make the – what was it – Ponyjuice Portion?"

"Polyjuice Potion, Ron."

"Yeah, yeah, that one. How long?"

"About a month," said Daphne, her lips a thin line of worry. "And I might not be able to make it at all. It's much harder than anything I've ever tried before. Well, almost…"

"And we still need to steal some of the ingredients from Snape's personal stores in his office," said Harry, and he had to suppress a shiver at the thought. "That's like poking a sleeping dragon in its eye."

Ron shrugged eloquently. "I suppose you'd know – you have the experience."

"Oh, that's right! You outflew the dragon!" said Daphne.

"Yeah, though Norbert wasn't really looking so much at us as he was Snape."

"Norbert?" She furrowed her brow, a line of bewilderment creasing between her eyebrows. "You gave it a name?"

"We watched it live in a fire for the first couple of days of its life," said Harry, voicing it as though it was an everyday occurrence. "Norbert and us are old friends."

Daphne blinked, eyes darting between them warily. "You smuggled the dragon into the school, didn't you?"

"Oh, Daphne," said Ron, laughing heartily, slinging an arm around her shoulders as he pulled her for the exit. "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into. Welcome aboard."


End of chapter.

Author's note: So, Daphne took it upon herself in the end. It was probably the only way it could happen. What did you think? Good? Bad? Or the dreaded bland? Or something else entirely? Leave a thought. Let me know.

This chapter was largely transitionary in nature. But I think it was needed, and I'm really, really looking forward to the next one. It's going to be long – somewhere in the 20.000 words count probably. A self-contained adventure within the story. I won't spoil it, but I am looking forward to writing it out completely. After that we have one – maybe two – chapters before the end of Harry's first year.

I know I've made a few changes to Quidditch. The reasons is merely a question of personal taste. I want Quidditch to be a part of the story in the long run, because I feel it has to, when writing about children and their school lives. But for it to be a part of the story, for it to be engaging to write about – and for you readers to read about – I felt some changes were in order. Hopefully, I didn't ruffle to many feathers.

Anyway, see you the next time around. It's going to be a doozy. Unless I make a mess of it, of course.

Goodbye

Stjernefald