Posted 12/16/2013

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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.


Chapter Eleven - Confronting the Past

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The last Monday of November, Harry put his plan into action. Since his last lesson with Dumbledore two weeks ago, he had thought about the memory he had been asked to acquire. Hermione had suggested pleasant talk and the simple request to give a clean copy. But Harry doubted very strongly that it would work. Professor Slughorn wasn't really a generous man. Just because someone asked him to do something didn't mean he would do it. In fact, Harry guessed the old man would probably try to barter, trying to profit as much of the situation as possible. In Harry's mind, the Professor was a much kinder Uncle Vernon. While there didn't seem to be any malice in the man, he did have the personality to think of his own comforts first. Asking him wouldn't really offer anything tempting and instead give him a lot of information on Harry and Dumbledore.

Ron had suggested bribery, much to Hermione's disgust. It had led to an argument with her accusing Ron of perpetuating the problem purebloods posed and plaguing the wizarding world, and him countering that idealism was nice as long as the war efforts didn't depend on it.

It had been a real problem, perhaps because both had very good points and valid concerns and, worst of all, both realized the other just might be right. It wasn't a childish row about homework or habits. It was the harsh reality, something that had weighed on Harry as well. The rampant bribery in the wizarding world caused otherwise honest people to follow the trend; left unchecked, it could very well cause serious trouble. Lucius Malfoy had bribed his way out of punishments. What had he done in the first war? Harry doubted the man had been a fighter. If six teenagers could trick him, how would he have fared against Aurors? No, it had probably been political duties; greasing the right hands, talking to the right people, gathering information for his master. Yet he had still avoided punishment because of the corruption in the wizarding world. But then, Ron also did have a good argument. Harry needed the memory, and he couldn't risk failure because of misplaced values.

For a short time, Harry had considered threatening the Professor. But he had very little to back him up, Slughorn had the higher ground and –worse –the law on his side. Trickery might have worked, Harry had reasoned, but he would be up against a Slytherin, an adult and likely master of manipulation of his own right. For a day, Harry had thought about putting together a task force. With some of his finer supporters from the DA, he would hopefully have been able to overpower the old man and take the memory by force if he had enough time. Professor Slughorn did enjoy his comforts, deriving him of them might have made him more cooperative. But if he needed to take down an unknown power in a fight, he'd have needed Hermione who would have never agreed to the plan. Attacking a teacher, perhaps holding him prisoner for a while... It wouldn't have worked, Harry had decided.

With very few options, he had decided to prepare for the worst. He needed to convince the old Potions teacher just why he should help. And so, he forced himself to pay attention in class, for once a lesson in theory, about the interactions of certain ingredients and the many different combinations. When the class ended, Harry waved his friends off and waited. The other students were gone relatively fast, off to their next classes. Hermione and Ron had been among the first to leave the room to give Harry his opportunity, followed closely by a Malfoy, who had spared Harry with a curt nod. It had unnerved Harry, not used to a reserved school rival. Slughorn had his back to the room and was wiping the board. Finally, Harry gathered up his courage and cleared his throat.

Turning around, the Professor said, "Oh, Harry, my lad, didn't see you there! Off you go, I say! Dinner awaits, and I remember just how much growing boys love their food."

"There's enough time, sir," Harry began. "I wanted to talk to you, though."

"Oh, really? Well, I am always willing to help my students, and with your gifts, why, I can already guess what you are angling for!" He waggled his finger. "Clever, very clever, just like your mother! Yes, the Ministry still holds the contest and, yes, you are running quite late, but I can still get you a place in the competition."

Harry blinked, but after only a moment, he caught himself. "Actually, no, sir, this isn't about the contest at all. I wanted your help with something."

Slughorn frowned. "Oh, well, fine then, but you should really consider entering. You might win, you know? But alright. Ask away, my boy."

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Harry fixed the Professor with his eyes. "I wanted to learn more about Tom Riddle."

"I can't help you!" Slughorn interrupted, paling considerably, but Harry didn't listen to him.

"I think it is important for the war to know the enemy."

"Enemy! Now, my boy, let the grown-ups deal with that," the old man tried, sweat running down his face.

"Yes, enemy. He tried to kill me in the past; he will try in the future. He can't let me, his one, prominent failure, live. He will go after me, and I have to be prepared, sir. But more than that, he forced this conflict upon us. He tortures, kills; he wants to overthrow the order and Ministry. He must be stopped. That is why I need to learn about him. He was your student for a time..."

"That was long ago, he is now a completely different man," Slughorn panted.

"But some of his traits might still be there. And it is still his history, his life. Sir, I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important. I am also mainly interested in one moment I..."

"Dumbledore!" Slughorn roared. "He put you up to it! He has my memory already! Using a child like that, to further his own goals!" Harry had to fight down his laugh at the hypocrisy. "That is it, isn't it? But I have given him my memory already so go back to him and tell him!"

Harry shook his head. "Sir, we both know you tampered with the memory. You tried to hide something; I don't think you had no reason for it."

"How could you...! I would never...!"

"The Headmaster showed me your memory. We are trying to stop him, to come up with a plan, a strategy. He thinks the information from that memory is important. I think so too. You seem to believe it as well, since I didn't even have to specify the moment. Sir, I can understand your worries. But this isn't about you or me or Dumbledore. This is about the innocent lives we could save by knowing about our foe. Help us defeat him, help us put a stop to all the deaths and destruction he causes, and become a hero who stood up to the rising darkness and evil in the world. Be remembered for the good you did and the lives you saved."

"You don't know what you are talking about. What you are asking about is..." he trailed off.

"They sound foul, Professor. They are exactly what he would be interested in and exactly what he would use," Harry told him. But he knew instantly that he had said the wrong thing.

"You! No student should know about them! Dumbledore! What is he thinking, telling students about... Out! Out, I say! Never in my life...! Never talk about that again, Mr. Potter!" Slughorn yelled. He resembled Uncle Vernon even more in that moment with his face like an apple both in colour as well as shape, interestingly. A mad glint in his eyes, he advanced on Harry who knew he had struck a nerve. Slughorn really had told Voldemort something crucial, and he knew it had been a grave mistake. Even if it had been unwillingly, Slughorn had helped Voldemort's rise to power.

Harry should have thought of that. Slughorn wasn't like Dumbledore who, despite his wrong choices, worked tirelessly for the safety of the wizarding world. He wasn't like Harry himself whose goal and purpose in life was the ultimate defeat of Voldemort. He wasn't like Ron who did what was right, and at personal cost if necessary. He wasn't like Hermione who would have done everything in her power to correct such a mistake. Slughorn was an egocentric, gluttonous opportunist who used his connections to get himself all the favours he could. Such a man didn't give, even for a worthy cause. Such a man couldn't simply sacrifice. For Slughorn, it was the choice between living comfortably and owning up to his blunder. Doing what was right, what was necessary, wasn't his way.

But Harry had still learned something valuable. The Professor's reaction showed that he had indeed told Riddle something exceptionally important, and he worked to keep it secret. He obviously knew about Horcruxes. Riddle had asked him something about them, but had seemingly already known of them. So what had they talked about? Had Riddle missed a vital part of the process?


That evening, Harry excused himself very early, claiming to be tired. In truth, he just wanted a bit of peace. Somehow, he felt crushed by the sheer number of problems and tasks he had to deal with. As Ron scrambled to finish his homework, Neville read a book about the cultivation of rare and dangerous plants and Hermione had been asked to help with something by Ginny, he had little reason to stick around. But more than that, he was far more shocked about his actions of the day almost two weeks ago in mid-November. He could still understand why he had agreed, and despite the numerous, slightly disbelieving glances from Neville, he, too, knew why Harry had done it. But it had still been a tremendous decision, not only because he had basically made a life-altering choice, but also because he had agreed to marry a Slytherin girl he hardly knew as part of a plan. He had taken on an additional responsibility! Had he been mad? ... Madder than usual? The reasons for doing so were still true, each one of them. Maybe a love potion? But no, it didn't fit. Just to be on the safe side, he would have to write to the twins and ask them about something to counteract one. If they dealt with one side, why not the other?

He found his dormitory empty. While he had said he'd go to bed, he didn't feel like it. His mind was still wide-awake, and so, he grabbed the materials and continued his ... Charms project. As usual, he was able to slip into the right mindset almost immediately. Since he had gained control of his emotions, he had begun creating defences that deserved the name. He didn't intend to lock away all his feelings, but force the intruder to suffer through some of the more harsh memories and ideas. If they wanted to get inside his head, he'd let them know starvation, loneliness, and despair. To balance it out, he had also prepared some shocks as well, his favourite and most hated shocking tactic being the memory of Uncle Vernon chasing a six-year-old Dudley in jest. It had been a terribly warm day, too warm, apparently, for full garment. All Harry had to do to the memory was strip most of the remaining clothes and focus on the sight and sound of fat ring against fat ring, pockets opening and closing, each step shaking the masses. And Harry was fully prepared to overwhelm his mind with indistinct happiness, should the former not prove to be successful. Finally, he had the Void. Emptiness, endless darkness to surround everything, with no sense of direction and nothing but oneself. Others might find it unnerving, or at least, Harry hoped they would, for the complete lack of control should trouble most, but he associated it with the lack of confinement, with solitude.

He had a firm grip on the theories behind Occlumency, and all that was left were the finer touches, really. He still had no idea about the strange sensations he had had initially. Maybe his mind had been working too hard? Or he had been oversensitive? But since it had stopped once he had gained a reasonable understanding of Occlumency, he didn't worry too much about it.

Maybe he should begin learning Legilimency? It might prove useful, he had reasoned in the past. But it sounded difficult, and wasn't his job Voldemort? What did Harry care about the Death Eaters, he had to prepare for Voldemort who knew Occlumency as well; entering that mind wouldn't be a good idea.

After finishing his training for the day, Harry put everything away and fished out one of his Defence books. "Point the wand, then jab and say...," he read. He knew that one and skipped to the next. "Draw a circle counter-clockwise, beginning at the top, then up and a half-circle clockwise downwards. Say..." Ah, that one, he too had already learned. "Point the wand at the enemy, jerk towards yourself, then sharply back, focusing on them. Say..." Wait, hadn't he learned that one as well? Yes, he had. Strange how he hadn't paid attention to them.

Spell after spell he looked through, some known, some new. Wand movement, incantation, effect –ah, pass. Wand movement, incantation, effect –marking it for future reference. Wand movement, incantation –he already knew a very similar one. Wand movement, incantation, effect –interesting. But he found none without a spoken incantation. Too bad, he thought. It would have been useful to have something up his sleeve that he didn't have to shout to the world. True, once he had mastered the spells, he would be able to use them nonverbally, but not only did he have problems with it, the spells also lost some of their power. Too bad there wasn't anything to down enemies with that needed all that fuss. Luckily, he thought with a chuckle, all the incantations were derived from Latin or Greek, or he'd have trouble speaking them. He set the book aside and walked to the bathroom.

As he took a very welcome shower, his thoughts returned to his studies. It was true, he had never seen a spell that hadn't been based on some language from Europe or close by. Greek, Latin, English... odd, he realized. But then, why shouldn't there be different schools of magic all around? European witches and wizards learned spells based on their languages, Asians probably had their own. The African wizards from the World Cup had probably known and used a lot of spells Europeans were unfamiliar with. As long as they worked...

... but why did they work? Why did they work indeed? Harry slowed down. Reasonably speaking, other places on Earth had to have their own spells, but what did it need to get one to work? Why did incantations work, and what did they do? Yes, all the spells he had seen relied on them, but why? Or rather, what purpose did they fulfil? He thought about it.

Pointing the wand and not saying or thinking the incantation didn't work. That was the first lesson of magic. Say or think the incantation, do the wand movement, get the result. But why? Were incantations necessary? Yes, of that he was sure. So what could they do? Besides, if yelled out loud, letting the enemy know your intentions?

He thought about it some more. There was usually a connection between the incantation and the result. Lumos produced light, Point Me! did just that. Magicals didn't run around screaming nonsense. Well, usually. I fact, magic seemed to follow rules in general. Arithmancy was apparently all about them, and both Runes and Potions, from what Harry had learned from Hermione and Dumbledore, only worked because certain rules were followed. Magic had some logic behind it. Why shouldn't the same be true for spells? Perhaps there was some rule about incantations having to be stupid or punny. Who or what decided the incantations to have them match the intended effect so well?

The most likely candidate was the Ministry. Perhaps there was a Department dedicated to registering all the spells in the world? But what about new ones, created in secret? Harry doubted Voldemort put a description of the Dark Mark anywhere, and it still worked. And the twins had boasted about inventing spells as well. So, no, a Department to document all magic and link it to their incantations didn't sound right.

Perhaps the inventor did it. He decided the results, put the spell down in writing, and by doing so, he created a piece of magic?

Harry found no answer, so he moved on to the next question: What did they do? They were important, obviously, but why? Hermione would know, he was sure. So, waving or pointing the wand and saying something produced the result. Maybe they were orders, he mused. But if so, who had to follow them? Instructions for magic to do, Lumos equalling the order to light the tip of the wand? Unless magic could read minds –which, now that he thought about it, was actually very likely –it couldn't be meant for something outside of the caster's head, otherwise nonverbal magic shouldn't work. Or maybe the incantation helped create the magic? Something like a form, a container to fill with the caster's magic? That way, the incantation and wand movements would define the shape of the spell. That sounded nice, but very much like something Luna would say. And even if he liked her, her theories were often...

Orders, then. It made sense, or about as much as magic usually did. Someone had decided on a specific incantation as the order for a specific spell leading to a specific result. It fit.

All that thinking made his head hurt, and he was very happy he hadn't chosen Arithmancy. It sounded a lot like his train of thought, learning the reasons and rules behind something, and Harry didn't feel like he needed to understand every bit of mystery in the world or the headache to go along with the studies into Arithmancy. Hermione could have that class for all Harry cared.

When he returned to his dormitory, Seamus was leaving for the bathroom. Wishing each other a good night, Harry closed the curtains around his bed save one as he dug out his pyjamas and put them on. Sitting on his bed, he made to put his glasses away when, just to amuse himself, he picked up his wand once more.

"Lumos," he said. The expected light appeared. "Nox."

"Wingardium Leviosa," he said, making a pillow on Ron's bed fly before cancelling the spell.

"Light!" he instructed next, and as expected, nothing happened. "Fly!" But the pillow stayed where it was. "Light up! Come to me! Come! Pull!" But nothing happened. As he waved his wand around, he tried whatever he could think of without effect. "Blast! Push! Shove! Burn!" And suddenly, Harry felt his wand jerk, and the curtains of the bed it had been pointed at –Ron's –were on fire.

For a moment, Harry gazed at the fire that had suddenly sprung up. Then, his mind started working again. He had done it! Against all odds and everything he had been taught, he had cast a spell without the proper incantation –in fact, with an intentionally wrong one! He had defied the principles of magic!

He jumped to his feet, cheering, celebrating his feat. Oh, he could imagine Hermione's face when she heard about it! How furious she'd be, and how hard she'd try to explain him breaking the fundamental rules of magic and still succeeding!

But then, mid-jump, his eyes fell upon the door to the bathroom, and Seamus standing there, staring wide-eyed at the scene in front of him. And just like that, Harry was ripped from his moment of blissful victory to the harsh reality, and he realized just how it had to look –the curtains burning brightly, consumed by the already spreading flames, and he, Harry, joyously jumping around, whooping, apparently cheering at having caused the fire. Worst of all, he had done it, and it was true and not a misunderstanding.

"Ah," he yelled, and whipping around, quickly barked, "Aquamenti!" Almost instantly, a stream of water shot from his wand, dousing the curtains, or rather, what was left of them. The fire died down very fast, and luckily, it had not yet spread far. Still, when Harry stopped his spell, Ron's bed was drenched, only partially hidden behind the half-burned curtains. And unless Harry was very much mistaken, he thought some of the conjured water had collected in the shoes at the foot of the bed.

Just great, Harry sighed. Turning around, he smiled insincerely. "Missed the target, should have known better," he laughed. But Seamus just stared back dazedly. "Well, if you lend a hand, we can fix it before any real damage is done," Harry tried.

But fate apparently really had it in for him, because in just a second later, the burnt fabric ripped and fell to the ground. Glancing around, Harry forced himself to shrug. "Still salvageable," he commented in what he hoped was a confident voice.

Whether it might have worked, Harry never learned because Ron chose that moment to storm in, grumbling about something. He stopped mid-stride as his eyes fell first on his bed, then Harry with his wand still in hand, then to wandless Seamus who still hadn't moved or closed his mouth or stopped staring, and then back to his bed.

After a good thirty seconds, Ron's eyes bulging as he gawked at the scene, he turned on the spot and left the room without a word. Another minute later –Harry and Seamus had gone back to staring at each other, Neville wandered into the room –followed by Hermione.

"Well," she began, but her voice seemed to have left her after that.

Neville shook his head. "Sometimes, I worry about you."


In the end, Professor McGonagall arrived and took charge. With a wave of her wand, the curtains of Ron's bed were restored to their former state, causing Hermione to start rambling and asking about the decidedly complex spell the older witch had used. Dean and Seamus had secluded themselves in a corner of the dormitory, Ron had started reordering his possessions, Neville had gone to the bathroom for lack of anything more pressing, and Harry had stood around, waiting for the inevitable punishment. Whether it was good or bad luck, the professor had dragged him to her office to give him his lecture as well as the two weeks of detention. It was good since he wasn't shamed in front of the others. It was bad since he had to walk through the Common Room twice, and, as he should have guessed, the story of the insane pyromaniac Potter had already spread like wildfire when he returned.

Some were rather hesitant to approach him, especially the younger years. Ginny had thrown him an apologetic look before returning to her homework. Glad to know she cared, Harry thought wryly. A frightened third-year had jumped behind one of the armchairs. Others were nearly the complete opposite, though. The Creeveys badgered him, wanting to know all about the supposed rivalry between Ron and him for the hand of one of their classmates. From the blushes and whispers, Parvati and Lavender had started that rumour, but whether it had happened intentionally or accidentally, Harry couldn't tell. A rather pushy fifth-year Harry couldn't name tried to seize his arm or, really, any part of him; she didn't seem picky, and Harry had a hard time losing her. A boy who had introduced himself as Jacob had walked up and congratulated him on his excellent execution of a memorable prank. The boy seemed to think the entire incident had been an attempt at creating a legend, and truth be told, from what Harry knew of the school, it probably would be. People were still occasionally talking about his arrival in second year, embellishing the story almost beyond recognition. The latest version had Harry getting written permission from the Headmaster as well as Minister Fudge before running Snape over with a bewitched Edsel. Harry still had no idea where the Etsel had come from, but according to the stories, he had pushed it in the Great Lake, along with, depending on the storyteller, a bag of Galleons or the body of one of his enemies.

After assuring the teammates he could see, especially Katie, about his continued captaincy, Harry skulked up the steps. It could have been worse, naturally, he thought to himself. Two weeks of detention for the wilful destruction of school property wasn't all that bad. He had tried to explain to the enraged professor how it had been an accident. But she had, true to tradition, compared him to both his irresponsible father and the youthful collaborator Black. Normally, it would have hurt Harry to hear such criticism of the two men, but as he had sat in the room, listening to the angry Scottish woman, he had felt strangely detached. He knew just how much Professor McGonagall had cared for both miscreants. She cared for all her students. But maybe because he knew she cared for them he also realized she spoke the truth. Both his father and Sirius had been out of line quite often, and from her point of view, Harry had stepped into their shoes.

Hearing the comparison, Harry had shut his mouth and accepted the punishment. So he would have to do detentions until shortly before the Christmas holidays. It didn't bother him that much. His Quidditch team was coming around, which was good. He had been able to keep up with his homework, unexpected by Hermione and himself, but still welcome. His Occlumency had progressed to the point of daily training instead of dedicated lessons and complicated theory. In fact, he considered himself reasonably competent in the discipline. The detentions would keep him from working on his defensive magic, but since he had learned quite a few spells in the past already and shown competence in them, he figured he could take it easy for a few weeks. After all, he wouldn't slack off. He would do detentions.

The other boys were waiting for him. Dean and Seamus were pretending to play a game, but they did a bad job and weren't even looking at the cards in front of them. Neville sat on his bed, and apart from a quick glance and a nod, he didn't divert any attention from his book about, judging by the cover, colourful water plants. Ron sat on his bed. Their eyes met, and after a moment of silence, Ron shook his head. "Mental, you are, you know that, right?"

"I do, yes," Harry admitted.

"But I still hang out with you, so I am too," Ron added with a shrug. "Next time, burn down your own bed, alright?"

"So you're not mad?" Harry asked cautiously.

Ron shrugged. "I am. Do you have any idea how long it took to get everything dry again?"

"How long it took you, or how long until Hermione did it in the blink of an eye?" Harry countered.

"I am mad, you know. But then, she'll give you a telling off that'll have your ears ringing, and I couldn't think of a worse punishment. You should have seen her when she left; I think she's writing her speech to you right now."

"Probably won't finish until late in the night," Harry replied with a smile. It was just like her to draft a scolding.

"Yeah, probably. Your timing is off, though –it would have made a great Christmas gift for her," Ron told him. "Oh well, what did McGonagall say?"

"Two weeks of detention. She also had a few choice words about my character. It could have been worse, but it could also have been better. She didn't hear me out."

"You set my bed on fire and then danced around the room. There isn't much of a story," Ron pointed out as he punched his pillow into what he thought constituted for a comfortable shape. Only then did Harry notice the patch he had sewn on his own pillow appearing on the one on his best mate's bed. It was fair, Harry guessed, and he had slept on worse than a burnt pillow. Knowing Hermione, she had probably magicked it into better condition than it had been before.

"There is, actually, but never mind. It can wait."

"No, no, do tell!" Dean yelled from his bed. "I wanna know how you explain that one away!"

Harry glanced around the room. Seamus had put down his cards, Neville's eyes were on the page in front of him, but weren't moving, and Ron picked at the hem of his pyjamas.

"Oh, well, I was just... it was an accident. I was experimenting, trying something I had thought of, and it sort of happened."

"You sort of set a bed on fire?" Seamus asked disbelievingly. "And accidentally danced in joy?"

"... Yes?" Harry tried, but even to him, it sounded unconvincing.

"You know," Seamus told him in a serious tone, "most boys' experiments in the dorm only leave stains."

Harry glared at him, and he raised his hands in defence.

"So no jealousy because of a girl?" Dean said, disappointed.

"You haven't lost your mind more than usual?" Neville added.

Ron cleared his throat. "I haven't made you angry with anything?"

Seamus sighed. "You haven't discovered your love for the beautiful dance of flickering flames? Not a cry for help either?"

Harry blinked. "I... no! Why would you think that?"

But instead of a reply, Ron got up and walked to each of the boys in turn, collecting a Sickle from each.

"You bet on it?" Harry yelled as it dawned on him. "You thought... why would I ever...?" And, turning to each, he continued, "Jealousy? Lost my mind 'more than usual'? Angered by you? Love of... fire?" In a lower voice, he added with narrowed eyes, "Do I even want to know?"

Seamus shrugged. "I wouldn't judge you."


The school week continued as had to be expected. Students from other houses seemed to have heard the whole story, or a dramatic retelling of it. A young Hufflepuff boy had ducked into a girl's bathroom to avoid him, the Ravenclaws had taken to whispering behind his back, and the Slytherins grinned at him, whenever they met. Of course, Luna had been the saving grace. The next Tuesday, she had given him a hand-made pendant consisting of some swirling, bluish liquid in a phial, a few leaves made from bronze and the claw of a creature Harry couldn't identify and wasn't sure he wanted to. She had loudly claimed the pendant would protect from the Cross-Eyed Blunkrer that she believed to be the cause of Harry's outburst of aggression. And since Loony Lovegood had claimed it to be intentional, most of the school agreed it had to have been an unfortunate accident.

"I'm telling you, she's not half as mad as she seems to be," Harry told his friends on Thursday. The rumours about him had finally stopped, if only because some young Hufflepuffs had become a bit too friendly with each other for the teacher's liking.

"Well, she's growing up," Hermione pointed out. "It might be she's trying to appear sane. Mind you, I do agree with you, she isn't nearly as grating as I thought at first."

"Wow, another year and you'll say you can almost tolerate her," Ron said. "I like her. She's always fun, rarely a stick in the mud like some."

"Anyone specifically, Ronald?" Hermione asked, her voice cold.

"Parkinson," Harry threw in. "We heard she had a run-in with a second-year. She's about as far removed from fun as one can be."

It wasn't true, of course. He knew perfectly well whom Ron had been talking about. But at the same time, there was a time and a place for rows, and the corridors of the school on the way to class were neither. "By the way, have you heard anything from Hannah?"

"Why would I?" Hermione replied, put out about the lack of an argument. Did she honestly want to have a shouting match with Ron?

"Well," Harry began, "she was a Prefect, wasn't she? And I guessed since, you know, you're working with Susan Bones, her replacement and close friend, you might have heard from her."

"But why ask me and not... well, I have, yes. She'll stay home for the time being. In the last letter, she has apparently implied they might be leaving the country. I can understand them, of course. It must be hard, losing a parent that way."

"Well, she's not the only one, isn't she?" Ron threw in. "Susan lost her aunt, that bloke Pierce from Ravenclaw his sister, Andrews his parents..."

"Too many, if you ask me," Harry interrupted. "With the way the war is going, lots of families will be torn apart. What is it now? Ten attacks on families of Hogwarts students?"

"Something like that, yes. And still no Slytherins," Ron grumbled. "But then, You-Know-Who only targets those who oppose him, so of course they are safe."

"Ronald, you know that is not true. Slytherins aren't necessarily on his side, not all of them are..."

"I didn't say that, did I? All I said was..."

"You meant it, though!"

"Oh, so now you know what I'm thinking, is that it?"

"I know you, probably better than you know yourself!"

Harry shook his head. "Should I tell McGonagall you two are coming later?"

They stared at him, coming out of their own little world. "Oh, no, of course not," Hermione told him. "Don't be ridiculous. We wouldn't miss class over such a minor disagreement."

Ron jumped between the two, red-faced. "So now you're arguing with him?"

"No need to get jealous, Ron," Harry said blithely, "There's enough spirit in Hermione for the two of us." Taking a page out of Luna's book had worked, as both Hermione and Ron blushed brilliantly and, avoiding each other's eyes, stormed off to class.


That's that. The next chapter will clear some things up.