Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Harmony Version by bt1995

by Pratyay

Format: Novel Chapters: 21 Word Count: 151,309 Status: COMPLETED Rating: 15 Warnings: Contains profanity, Mild violence, Scenes of a mild sexual nature Genres: Drama, Horror/Dark, Mystery, Romance, Action/Adventure, Angst, Young Adult Characters: Harry, Ron, Hermione https:/harrypotterfanfiction

2. HBP Part 1

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Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince - Reworked (Harmony version) (Part 1 of 2) by bt1995

Format: Novel Chapters: 21 Word Count: 151,309 Status: COMPLETED

Rating: 15 Warnings: Contains profanity, Mild violence, Scenes of a mild sexual nature

Genres: Drama, Horror/Dark, Mystery, Romance, Action/Adventure, Angst, Young Adult Characters: Harry, Ron, Hermione Pairings: Ginny/Dean, Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Ron/Lavender, Ron/Luna

First Published: 12/16/2019 Last Chapter: 12/18/2019 Last Updated: 04/20/2020

Summary:

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, reworked to feature a Harry/Hermione pairing. Also have Deathly Hallows written which will be uploaded in due course. Other than the pairing, the plot is very similar.

I have not looked to change the story, and the characters remain (hopefully) faithful to the books. With both HBP and DH, I have called on material from the books and the films, intertwining them when necessary. There isn't any Weasley bashing or anything like that. I just wanted to have a go at tweaking the storyline and seeing how it worked. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed (re)writing them.

Much of the text is JK Rowling's initial work, and even in HBP, it is surprising just how much a Harry/Hermione relationship gets hinted at - even though ultimately it does not prove to be the case. I do think Hermione's character was harshly treated in both of the final two books though, and hopefully this goes some way to righting that!

This is Part 1, as I couldn't add more than 21 chapters. The second part is uploaded too and can be accessed on my page.

Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter 1: 1: Chapter Five – An Excess of Phlegm [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Hedwig hooted happily at Harry from her perch on top of a large wardrobe, then took off through the window; Harry knew she had been waiting to see him before going hunting. Harry bade Mrs. Weasley good night, put on pyjamas, and got into one of the beds. There was something hard inside the pillowcase. He groped inside it and pulled out a sticky purple-and- orange sweet, which he recognised as a Puking Pastille. Smiling to himself, he rolled over and was instantly asleep.

Seconds later, or so it seemed to Harry, he was awakened by what sounded like cannon fire as the door burst open. Sitting bolt upright, he heard the rasp of the curtains being pulled back: The dazzling sunlight seemed to poke him hard in both eyes. Shielding them with one hand, he groped hopelessly for his glasses with the other. "Wuzzgoinon?"

"We didn't know you were here already!" said a loud and excited voice, and he received a blow to the top of the head.

"Ron, don't hit him!" said a girl's voice reproachfully.

Harry's hand found his glasses and he shoved them on, though the light was so bright he could hardly see anyway. A long, looming shadow quivered in front of him for a moment; he blinked and Ron came into focus, grinning down at him. "All right?"

"Never been better," said Harry, rubbing the top of his head and slumping back onto his pillows. "You?"

"Not bad," said Ron, pulling over a cardboard box and sitting on it. "When did you get here? Mum's only just told us! Were the muggles all right? Did they treat you okay?"

"Same as usual," said Harry absentmindedly, as Hermione perched herself on his bed. "They didn't talk to me much, but I like it better that way. How're you, Hermione?"

"Oh, I'm fine," said Hermione, who was scrutinising Harry as though he was sickening for something. He thought he knew what was behind this. A pang of guilt struck him at just how close she had come to paying the ultimate price for his rashness a few months previous, and as

he had no wish to discuss Sirius's death or any other miserable subject at the moment, he said, "What's the time? Have I missed breakfast?"

"Don't worry about that, Mum's bringing you up a tray; she reckons you look underfed," said Ron, rolling his eyes. "So, what's been going on?"

"Nothing much, I've just been stuck at my aunt and uncle's, haven't I?"

"Come off it!" said Ron. "You've been off with Dumbledore!"

"It wasn't that exciting. He just wanted me to help him persuade this old teacher to come out of retirement. His name's Horace Slughorn."

"Oh," said Ron, looking disappointed. "We thought…" Hermione flashed a warning look at Ron, and Ron changed tack at top speed. "…we thought it'd be something like that."

"You did?" said Harry, amused.

"Yeah…yeah, now Umbridge has left, obviously we need a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, don't we? So, er, what's he like?"

"He looks a bit like a walrus, and he used to be Head of Slytherin," said Harry. "Something wrong, Hermione?"

She was watching him as though expecting strange symptoms to manifest themselves at any moment. She rearranged her features hastily in an unconvincing smile. "No, of course not! So, um, did Slughorn seem like he'll be a good teacher?"

"Dunno," said Harry. "He can't be worse than Umbridge though, can he?"

"I know someone who's worse than Umbridge," said a voice from the doorway. Ron's younger sister slouched into the room, looking irritable. "Hi, Harry."

"What's up with you?" Ron asked.

"It's her," said Ginny, plonking herself down on Harry's bed on the opposite side to Hermione. "She's driving me mad."

"What's she done now?" asked Hermione sympathetically.

"It's the way she talks to me…you'd think I was about three!"

"I know," said Hermione, dropping her voice. "She's so full of herself."

Harry was astonished to hear Hermione talking about Mrs. Weasley like this and could not blame Ron for saying angrily, "Can't you two lay off her for five seconds?"

"Oh, that's right, defend her," snapped Ginny. "We all know you can't get enough of her."

This seemed an odd comment to make about Ron's mother. Starting to feel that he was missing something, Harry said, "Who are you…?"

But his question was answered before he could finish it. The bedroom door flew open again, and Harry instinctively yanked the bedcovers up to his chin so hard that Hermione and Ginny slid off the bed onto the floor. A young woman was standing in the doorway, a woman of such breathtaking beauty that the room seemed to have become strangely airless. She was tall and willowy with long blonde hair and appeared to emanate a faint, silvery glow. To complete this vision of perfection, she was carrying a heavily laden breakfast tray.

"'Arry," she said in a throaty voice. "Eet 'as been too long!" As she swept over the threshold toward him, Mrs. Weasley was revealed, bobbing along in her wake, looking rather cross.

"There was no need to bring up the tray, I was just about to do it myself!"

"Eet was no trouble," said Fleur Delacour, setting the tray across Harry's knees and then swooping to kiss him on each cheek. He felt the places where her mouth had touched him burn. "I 'ave been longing to see 'im. You remember my seester, Gabrielle? She never stops talking about 'Arry Potter. She will be delighted to see you again."

"Oh…is she here too?" Harry croaked.

"No, no, silly boy," said Fleur with a tinkling laugh, "I mean next summer, when we…but do you not know?"

Her great blue eyes widened and she looked reproachfully at Mrs. Weasley, who said, "We hadn't got around to telling him yet."

Fleur turned back to Harry, swinging her silvery sheet of hair so that it almost whipped Mrs. Weasley across the face. "Bill and I are going to be married!"

"Oh," said Harry blankly. He could not help noticing how Mrs. Weasley, Hermione and Ginny were all determinedly avoiding one another's gaze. "Wow. Er…congratulations!"

She swooped down upon him and kissed him again, and he could have sworn he heard Hermione clear her throat loudly.

"Bill is very busy at ze moment, working very 'ard, and I only work part-time at Gringotts for my Eenglish, so he brought me 'ere for a few days to get to know 'is family properly. I was so pleased to 'ear you would be coming…zere isn't much to do 'ere, unless you like cooking and chickens! Well…enjoy your breakfast, 'Arry!"

With these words she turned gracefully and seemed to float out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Mrs. Weasley made a noise that sounded like, "tchah!"

"Mum hates her," said Ginny quietly.

"I do not hate her!" said Mrs. Weasley in a cross whisper. "I just think they've hurried into this engagement, that's all!"

"They've known each other a year," said Ron, who looked oddly groggy and was staring at the closed door.

"Well, that's not very long! I know why it's happened, of course. Its all this uncertainty with You-Know-Who coming back, people think they might be dead tomorrow, so they're rushing all sorts of decisions they'd normally take time over. It was the same last time he was powerful, people eloping left, right, and centre…"

"Including you and Dad," said Ginny slyly.

"Yes, well, your father and I were made for each other, what was the point in waiting?" said Mrs. Weasley. "Whereas Bill and Fleur…well…what have they really got in common? He's a hardworking, down-to-earth sort of person, whereas she's…"

"A cow," said Ginny, nodding, even though Mrs. Weasley shot her a darting look of disapproval. "But Bill's not that down-to-earth. He's a Curse-Breaker, isn't he, he likes a bit of adventure, a bit of glamour…I expect that's why he's gone for Phlegm."

"Stop calling her that, Ginny," said Mrs. Weasley sharply, as Harry and Hermione, who had now moved back to her initial perch on the bed, laughed.

"Well, I'd better get on… Eat your eggs while they're warm, Harry."

Looking careworn, she left the room. Ron still seemed slightly punch-drunk; he was shaking his head experimentally like a dog trying to rid its ears of water.

"Don't you get used to her if she's staying in the same house?" Harry asked.

"Well, you do," said Ron, "but if she jumps out at you unexpectedly, like then…"

"It's pathetic," scoffed Hermione.

"You don't really want her around forever?" Ginny asked Ron incredulously. When he merely shrugged, she said, "Well, Mum's going to put a stop to it if she can, I bet you anything."

"How's she going to manage that?" asked Harry.

"She keeps trying to get Tonks round for dinner," replied Ginny. "I think she's hoping Bill will fall for Tonks instead. I hope he does, I'd much rather have her in the family."

"Yeah, that'll work," said Ron sarcastically. "Listen, no bloke in his right mind's going to fancy Tonks when Fleur's around. I mean, Tonks is okay-looking when she isn't doing stupid things to her hair and her nose, but…"

"She's a damn sight nicer than Phlegm?" snapped Ginny.

"And she's more intelligent, she's an Auror!" said Hermione.

"Fleur's not stupid, she was good enough to enter the Triwizard Tournament," said Harry.

"Not you as well!" Hermione replied bitterly, shooting Harry a look which made him evert his eyes to the empty space to his right.

"I suppose you like the way Phlegm says ''Arry,' do you?" teased Ginny. "Ooooh, 'Arry' –"

"No," said Harry, wishing he hadn't spoken and still stoically avoiding Hermione's gaze, choosing instead to pay keen interest to his scrambled eggs, "I was just saying, Fleur…"

"I'd much rather have Tonks in the family," said Ginny, cutting him off. "At least she's a laugh."

"She hasn't been much of a laugh lately," said Ron, who certainly had more bravery than Harry did when it came to taking on the two girls in this particular argument. "Every time I've seen her she's looked more like Moaning Myrtle."

"That's not fair," snapped Hermione. "She still hasn't got over what happened…you know…I mean, he was her cousin!"

Harry's heart sank. They had arrived at Sirius. He picked up his fork and began shovelling eggs into his mouth, hoping to deflect any invitation to join in this part of the conversation.

"Tonks and Sirius barely knew each other!" Ron continued unperturbed. "Sirius was in Azkaban half her life and before that their families never met…"

"That's not the point," said Hermione, her eyes on Harry, who was still focusing on his eggs. "She thinks it was her fault he died!"

"How does she work that one out?" asked Harry, in spite of himself, finally looking up to face Hermione.

"Well, she was fighting Bellatrix, wasn't she? I think she feels that if only she had finished her off, Bellatrix couldn't have killed Sirius."

"That's stupid," said Ron.

"It's survivor's guilt," said Hermione, an edge to her voice. Harry returned to his eggs. "I know Lupin's tried to talk her round, but she's still really down. She's actually having trouble with her Metamorphosing!"

"With her…?"

"She can't change her appearance like she used to," explained Hermione. "I think her powers must have been affected by shock, or something."

"I didn't know that could happen," said Harry.

"Nor did I," answered Hermione, "but I suppose if you're really depressed…"

Her eyes glistened over as she trailed off. Harry felt the heat prickle up his neck as he tore off a piece of toast. Thankfully, the door opened again and Mrs. Weasley popped her head in.

"Ginny," she whispered, "come downstairs and help me with the lunch."

"I'm talking to this lot!" said Ginny, outraged.

"Now!" said Mrs. Weasley, and withdrew.

"She only wants me there so she doesn't have to be alone with Phlegm!" said Ginny crossly.

She swung her long red hair around in a very good imitation of Fleur and pranced across the room with her arms held aloft like a ballerina. "You lot had better come down quickly too," she said as she left.

Harry took advantage of the temporary silence to eat more breakfast. Hermione was now peering into Fred and George's boxes which had been sticking out slightly from under the bed, though every now and then she cast sideways looks at Harry. Ron, who was now helping himself to Harry's toast, was still gazing dreamily at the door.

"What's this?" Hermione asked eventually, holding up what looked like a small telescope as she moved towards the window for better light.

"Dunno," said Ron, "but if Fred and George left it here, it's probably not ready for the joke shop yet, so be careful"

"Your mum said the shop's going well," said Harry, glad for a change of subject all together. "Said Fred and George have got a real flair for business."

"That's an understatement," said Ron. "They're raking in the Galleons! I can't wait to see the place, we haven't been to Diagon Alley yet, because Mum says Dad's got to be there for extra security and he's been really busy at work, but it sounds excellent."

"And what about Percy?" asked Harry; the third-eldest Weasley brother had fallen out with the rest of the family. "Is he talking to your mum and dad again?"

"Nope," said Ron.

"But he knows your dad was right all along now about Voldemort being back –"

"Dumbledore says people find it far easier to forgive others for being wrong than being right," said Hermione matter-of-factly. "I heard him telling your mum, Ron."

"Sounds like the sort of mental thing Dumbledore would say," said Ron.

"He's going to be giving me private lessons this year," said Harry conversationally. Ron choked on his bit of toast, and Hermione gasped. "You kept that quiet!" said Ron. "I only just remembered," said Harry honestly. "He told me last night in your broom shed."

"Blimey…private lessons with Dumbledore!" said Ron, looking impressed. "I wonder why he's…?" His voice tailed away. Harry saw him and Hermione exchange looks. Harry's heart beating rather fast considering that all he was doing was sitting in bed. Dumbledore had said to do it… Why not now?

He fixed his eyes on his fork, which was gleaming in the sunlight streaming into his lap, and said, "I don't know exactly why he's going to be giving me lessons, but I think it must be because of the prophecy."

Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke. Harry had the impression that both had frozen. He continued, still speaking to his fork, "You know, the one they were trying to steal at the Ministry."

"Nobody knows what it said, though," said Hermione quickly. "It got smashed."

"Although the Prophet says…" began Ron, but Hermione said, "Shh!"

"The Prophet's got it right," said Harry, looking up at them both with a great effort: Hermione seemed frightened and Ron amazed. "That glass ball that smashed wasn't the only record of the prophecy. I heard the whole thing in Dumbledore's office, he was the one the prophecy was made to, so he could tell me. From what it said," Harry took a deep breath, "it looks like I'm the one who's got to finish off Voldemort… At least, it said neither of us could live while the other survives."

Harry looked up at Ron, who was starring in bewilderment. He didn't turn to see Hermione's reaction.

"Oh, Ha—" then there was a loud bang and a puff of black smoke.

"Hermione!" shouted Harry and Ron; the breakfast tray slid to the floor with a crash.

Hermione emerged, coughing, out of the smoke, clutching the telescope and sporting a brilliantly purple black eye. "I squeezed it and it…it punched me!" she gasped. Harry let out a breath of relief, blind panic subsiding.

Sure enough, they now saw a tiny fist on a long spring protruding from the end of the telescope. "Don't worry," said Ron, who was plainly trying not to laugh, "Mum'll fix that, she's good at healing minor injuries…"

"Oh well, never mind that now!" said Hermione hastily. "Harry, oh, Harry…" She sat down on the edge of his bed again and placed a hand on his knee.

"I–" she glanced at Ron. "We wondered, after we got back from the Ministry… Obviously, we didn't want to say anything to you, but from what Lucius Malfoy said about the prophecy, how it was about you and Voldemort, well, we thought it might be something like this…Oh, Harry…"

She flung her arms around him. "Are you scared?" She whispered after a few seconds.

"Not as much as I was," said Harry as she pulled back. He'd half expected to see tears glistening in her eyes but instead was met with a blazing look, spurring him on. "When I first heard it, I was… but now, it seems as though I always knew I'd have to face him in the end…"

"When we heard Dumbledore was collecting you in person, we thought he might be telling you something or showing you something to do with the prophecy," said Ron. "And we were kind of right, weren't we? He wouldn't be giving you lessons if he thought you were a goner, wouldn't waste his time — he must think you've got a chance!"

Hermione flinched at Ron's wording. "I wonder what he'll teach you, Harry? Really advanced defensive magic, probably…powerful counter-curses…anti-jinxes…"

Harry did not really listen. A warmth was spreading through him that had nothing to do with the sunlight; a tight obstruction in his chest seemed to be dissolving. He knew that Ron and Hermione were more shocked than they were letting on, but the mere fact that they were still there on either side of him, speaking bracing words of comfort, not shrinking from him as though he were contaminated or dangerous, was worth more than he could ever tell them.

"…and evasive enchantments generally," concluded Hermione, as Harry reached out to stop her by squeezing her hand gently. At least it could convey some thanks and, as always, she got the message. Changing the subject, she said: "Well, at least you know one lesson you'll be having this year, that's one more than Ron and me. I wonder when our OWL results will come?"

"Can't be long now, it's been a month," said Ron, placing himself onto the windowsill.

"Hang on," said Harry, as another part of last night's conversation came back to him. "I think Dumbledore said our OWL results would be arriving today!"

"Today!?" shrieked Hermione, her hand flying out of Harry's as she leapt up. "Today? But why didn't you…oh my God…you should have said… I'm going to see whether any owls have come…"

With that, she was out of the door and heading for the stairs. "Mental," murmured Ron under his breath. Harry smiled.

But when Harry arrived downstairs ten minutes later, fully dressed and carrying his empty breakfast tray, it was to find Hermione sitting at the kitchen table in great agitation, while Mrs. Weasley tried to lessen her resemblance to half a panda.

"It just won't budge," Mrs. Weasley was saying anxiously, standing over Hermione with her wand in her hand and a copy of The Healer's Helpmate open at "Bruises, Cuts, and Abrasions."

"This has always worked before, I just can't understand it."

"It'll be Fred and George's idea of a funny joke, making sure it can't come off," said Ginny.

"But it's got to come off!" squeaked Hermione. "I can't go around looking like this forever!"

"You won't, dear, we'll find an antidote, don't worry," said Mrs. Weasley soothingly.

"Bill told me Fred and George are very amusing!" said Fleur, smiling serenely.

"Yes, I can hardly breathe for laughing," snapped Hermione.

She jumped up and started walking round and round the kitchen, twisting her fingers together. Harry failed to suppress the smile curling up from the corners of his mouth at how endearing he found her fluster.

"Mrs. Weasley, you're quite, quite sure no owls have arrived this morning?" Hermione continued. "And what are you smiling at, Harry? This is serious!"

"Yes, dear, I'd have noticed," said Mrs. Weasley patiently as Harry dropped his grin immediately. "But it's barely nine, there's still plenty of time…"

"I know I messed up Ancient Runes," muttered Hermione feverishly, "I definitely made at least one serious mistranslation, and the Defence Against the Dark Arts practical was no good at all. I thought Transfiguration went all right at the time, but looking back –"

"Hermione, will you shut up, you're not the only one who's nervous!" barked Ron. "And when you've got your eleven 'Outstanding' OWLs…"

"Don't, don't, don't!" said Hermione, flapping her hands hysterically. "I know I've failed everything!"

"What happens if we fail?" Harry asked the room at large, but it was again Hermione who answered.

"We discuss our options with our Head of House, I asked Professor McGonagall at the end of last term."

Harry's stomach squirmed. He wished he had eaten less breakfast.

"At Beauxbatons," said Fleur complacently, "we 'ad a different way of doing things. I think eet was better. We sat our examinations after six years of study, not five, and then…"

Fleur's words were drowned in a squeak. Hermione was pointing through the kitchen window. Three black specks were clearly visible in the sky, growing larger all the time.

"They're definitely owls," said Ron hoarsely, jumping up to join Hermione at the window.

"And there's three," said Harry, hastening to her other side.

"One for each of us," said Hermione in a terrified whisper. "Oh no…oh no…oh no…" She gripped both Harry and Ron tightly around the elbows.

The owls were flying directly at the Burrow, three handsome tawnies, each of which, it became clear as they flew lower over the path leading up to the house, was carrying a large square envelope.

"Oh no!" squealed Hermione. Mrs. Weasley squeezed past them and opened the kitchen window. One, two, three, the owls soared through it and landed on the table in a neat line. All three of them lifted their right legs.

Harry moved forward. The letter addressed to him was tied to the leg of the owl in the middle. He untied it with fumbling fingers. To his left, Ron was trying to detach his own results; to his right, Hermione's hands were shaking so much she was making her whole owl tremble. Guessing her need, at that very moment, outweighed his, he held out his own slightly shaky hand and held her forearm gently as she finally released her letter.

Nobody in the kitchen spoke. At last, Harry managed to detach his own envelope. He slit it open quickly and unfolded the parchment inside.

Ordinary Wizarding Level Results

Pass Grades: Outstanding (O) Exceeds Expectations (E) Acceptable (A)

Fail Grades: Poor (P) Dreadful (D) Troll (T)

Harry James Potter has achieved:

Astronomy: A

Care of Magical Creatures: E

Charms: E

Defence Against the Dark Arts: O

Divination: P

Herbology: E

History of Magic: D

Potions: E

Transfiguration: E

Harry read the parchment several times, his breathing becoming easier with each reading. It was all right: he had always known that he would fail Divination, and he had had no chance of passing History of Magic, given that he had collapsed halfway through the examination, but he had passed everything else.

He ran his finger down the grades… he had passed well in Transfiguration and Herbology, he had even exceeded expectations at Potions. And best of all, he had achieved 'Outstanding' at Defence Against the Dark Arts. He looked around. Hermione had her back to him and her head bent, but Ron was looking delighted. "Only failed Divination and History of Magic, and who cares about them?" he said happily to Harry. "Here… swap…"

Harry glanced down Ron's grades: There were no 'Outstandings' there…

"Knew you'd be top at Defence Against the Dark Arts," said Ron, punching Harry on the shoulder. "We've done all right, haven't we?"

"Well done!" said Mrs. Weasley proudly, ruffling Ron's hair. "Seven OWLs, that's more than Fred and George got together!"

"Hermione?" said Ginny tentatively, for Hermione still hadn't turned around. "How did you do?"

"I — not bad," said Hermione in a small voice.

"Oh, come off it," said Ron, striding over to her and whipping her results out of her hand. "Yep — nine 'Outstandings' and one 'Exceeds Expectations' at Defence Against the Dark Arts."

He looked down at her, half-amused, half-exasperated. "You're actually disappointed, aren't you?" Hermione shook her head, but Harry laughed.

"Well, we're N.E.W.T. students now!" grinned Ron. "Mum, are there any more sausages?"

"Well done, Hermione. Brilliant," Harry said earnestly as Ron moved over to the table and loudly slapped two sausages onto a plate.

"Thanks," she replied with a smile, before glancing down at his parchment. "Oh, Harry, you did so well –"

But she broke off, and Harry knew that she had realised something he too had cottoned onto. The results were as good as he could have hoped for, but this was the end of his ambition to become an Auror. He had not secured the required Potions grade. He had known all along that he wouldn't, but he still felt a sinking in his stomach as he looked again at that small black E. Hermione knew it was what he wanted to do.

"Maybe…" she said quietly, so only Harry could hear. "Maybe they'll make an exception –"

But she stopped. She knew as well as Harry that Severus Snape would not be making any exceptions; especially for Harry Potter.

It was odd, really, seeing that it had been a Death Eater in disguise who had first told Harry he would make a good Auror, but somehow the idea had taken hold of him, and he couldn't really think of anything else he would like to be. Moreover, it had seemed the right destiny for him since he had heard the prophecy a few weeks ago… Neither can live while the other survives… Wouldn't he be living up to the prophecy, and giving himself the best chance of survival, if he joined those highly trained wizards whose job it was to find and kill Voldemort?

Chapter 2: 2: Chapter Six - Draco's Detour [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Harry remained within the confines of the Burrow's garden over the next few weeks. He spent most of his days playing two-a-side Quidditch in the Weasleys' orchard; he and Hermione against Ron and Ginny. Hermione was dreadful and Ginny good, so they were reasonably well matched.

The evenings would be spent eating triple helpings of everything Mrs. Weasley put in front of him. It would have been a happy, peaceful holiday had it not been for the stories of disappearances, odd accidents, even of deaths now appearing almost daily in the Prophet.

Sometimes Bill and Mr. Weasley brought home news before it even reached the paper. To Mrs. Weasley's displeasure, Harry's sixteenth birthday celebrations were marred by grisly tidings brought to the party by Remus Lupin, who was looking gaunt and grim, his brown hair streaked liberally with grey, his clothes more ragged and patched than ever.

"There have been another couple of dementor attacks," he announced, as Mrs. Weasley passed him a large slice of birthday cake. "And they've found Igor Karkaroff's body in a shack up north. The Dark Mark had been set over it… well, frankly, I'm surprised he stayed alive for even a year after deserting the Death Eaters; Sirius's brother, Regulus, only managed a few days as far as I can remember."

"Yes, well," said Mrs. Weasley, frowning, "perhaps we should talk about something diff…"

"Did you hear about Florean Fortescue, Remus?" asked Bill, who was being plied with wine by Fleur. "The man who ran…"

"— the ice-cream place in Diagon Alley?" Harry interrupted, with an unpleasant, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. "He used to give me free ice creams. What's happened to him?"

"Dragged off, by the look of his place."

"Why?" asked Ron, while Mrs. Weasley pointedly glared at Bill.

"Who knows? He must've upset them somehow. He was a good man, Florean."

"Talking of Diagon Alley," said Mr. Weasley, "looks like Ollivander's gone too."

"The wandmaker?" said Ginny, looking startled.

"That's the one. Shop's empty. No sign of a struggle. No one knows whether he left voluntarily or was kidnapped."

"But what'll people do for wands?"

"They'll make do with other makers," said Lupin. "But Ollivander was the best, and if the other side have got him it's not so good for us."

When the crowd had dispersed, Harry took the opportunity to sneak out to the garden. It had been a barmy day, one of the few they'd had, but now there was a chill in the air, as the darkness of night began to creep across the countryside, the sun beginning its final descent beyond the horizon.

He loved being at the Burrow dearly, but at that moment, he needed the solace and solitude that hadn't been afforded to him, given the hive of activity that was the Weasley's home. His thoughts automatically drifted to Sirius; the godfather who would never be around for another of his birthdays.

He sat, absentmindedly watching one of the ugly little gnomes rummage around in the hedgerow. It was some time before he noticed the light trace of footsteps coming up to him, and a sweet, flowery smell came to his attention.

"Harry?"

Hermione's voice seemed laced with caution, as if she was afraid of encroaching. But for all his want to have some time alone, he had no desire to turn her away.

"Hi," he said with a smile, noticing she held a small white box tied with a crisp silver bow.

"Are you alright?" she asked sheepishly. "The others were asking after you but I – well I thought you'd just want some time…"

"Thanks," he said with a smile at her knack of seeming to know what it was he needed.

She smiled back, before moving closer and sitting down next to him on the slight slope of the lawn.

"It's beautiful," she said, looking out across the fields. Harry turned to her. The dying embers of the sunlight was casting gold streaks into her brown locks, which – he noticed – had lost some of their bushiness.

"Yeh, it is," he replied, without thinking.

"Makes you think that… well, there is still some hope. Some happiness," she offered, eyes still on the sunset. He looked down. Hermione, like everyone, was struggling to keep up a brave face in the wake of the constant attacks and disappearances. Being Hermione, she focused instead on fussing over her homework or theorising on how hard their classes were going to be at N.E.W.T. level, but he knew at least some of that was merely a facade.

"What's in the box?" he asked casually.

"Oh," she said, her sheepishness returning. "Erm, well it's just a little something from me –"

"– But you already gave me presents?"

It was true. She had got Harry full refills for the broomstick servicing kit she had bought him several years ago, as well as two new pairs of jeans, some trainers and a jumper – her reasoning being he had little sense of style from years of wearing Dudley's old clothes and then being restricted to Wizards attempting to purchase muggle clothes for him when possible.

"Well, yes," she answered, looking down at the box in her hands, a slight tinge of pink blushing up her neck. "I… well I wanted to give you this in private."

She handed it over, looking away as if she was embarrassed.

"I'm not sure if it's what you'd want," she added in a rushed whisper. "But I… just…" She trailed off as Harry carefully unwrapped and opened the box, revealing a note barring Hermione's neat handwriting.

Harry

Happy Birthday

All my love

Hermione xx

Harry lifted the note, Hermione's breath catching as he did so. In the box were four photos.

The first was of Harry and Sirius at Grimmauld Place. They were sat together on two armchairs in the living room, Sirius laughing wildly at something Harry had just said. Thinking back, he vaguely remembered the conversation, sometime last summer – Harry telling Sirius of how Hermione had punched Malfoy on the night they had saved him in their third year.

The second photo was of Harry and Sirius attempting to double-team Ron at a game of Wizard's Chess. The third was, if he remembered correctly, Harry, Ron and Sirius listening intensely to a Chudley Cannons match on the radio.

He hadn't even remembered anyone taking the photos, but then he noticed none of the three were moving. They were normal, muggle-style pictures. He must've looked shocked, or put out, because Hermione instantly said: "Oh, Harry I'm so – I shouldn't have."

But he cut her off, placing his hand on her arm gently. "No," he coughed out, his voice hoarse, and he could feel moisture collecting in his eyes. "No, I – they're really nice, Hermione," he said with a smile. "When did you –"

"Oh, just when I could, really – I, I wanted to have a record, you know," she said in a rush. "And – and well you were so happy. I wanted it to be a surprise."

She sniffed, tears in her eyes. He squeezed her arm gently and returned to the box, carefully sliding out the final photo. This time it was moving, and he remembered Mrs Weasley having taken a series of photos of them all the previous summer.

Again, Sirius and Harry were present, but this time so was Hermione. Sirius seemed to be teasing her, and Harry remembered the conversation. Hermione had been ordering Harry to finish his homework, but eventually caved and ended up completing a lengthy Transfiguration essay for him.

"Lily always did that," Sirius, idling in a nearby armchair, had said with a smile. "Bossed James half-to-death before giving in in the end," before cheerily saying: "Now, you don't be having any thoughts of extracurricular activities with my godson just yet, young lady." Hermione had turned bright pink while Harry had thumped his godfather hard on the arm.

He didn't know how long he looked at the photos. It wasn't until Hermione spoke that his trance was broken.

"He loved you, Harry," she said with barely a whisper. "So much."

Now it was Harry's breath which hitched, the unmistakable saltiness of a tear rolling down his cheek. Next to him, Hermione shifted.

"I'm sorry –"

"No, I – I love them."

Despite himself, he smiled, and even though he knew she could see his tears, he didn't care. He wasn't afraid to cry in front of Hermione, he realised. In front of the others, it would be different. Ron, for all his loyalty, would surely feel awkward, just as Harry would if it were the other way round. Molly would mother him. But with Hermione, it was just… different. "Thank you," he finally managed, reaching out and giving her hand a squeeze.

She smiled back and moved in closer still, eventually placing her head on his shoulder as they watched the final inches of sunlight disappear in the distance.

The morning after, their letters and booklists arrived from Hogwarts. Harry's included a surprise: he had been made Quidditch Captain.

"That gives you equal status with prefects!" cried Hermione. "You can use our special bathroom now and everything!"

Before Harry had the time to assess that particular piece of information, Ron chimed in.

"Wow, I remember when Charlie wore one of these," he said, examining the badge with glee. "Harry, this is so cool, you're my Captain…if you let me back on the team, I suppose…"

"Don't count your chickens…" Harry quipped. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Well, I don't suppose we can put off a trip to Diagon Alley much longer now you've got these," sighed Mrs. Weasley, looking down Ron's booklist. "We'll go on Saturday as long as your father doesn't have to go into work again. I'm not going there without him."

"Mum, d'you honestly think You-Know-Who's going to be hiding behind a bookshelf in Flourish and Blotts?" sniggered Ron.

"Fortescue and Ollivander went on holiday, did they?" said Mrs. Weasley, firing up at once. "If you think security's a laughing matter you can stay behind and I'll get your things myself…"

"No, I wanna come, I want to see Fred and George's shop!" said Ron hastily.

"Then you just buck up your ideas, young man, before I decide you're too immature to come with us!" said Mrs. Weasley angrily, snatching up her clock, all nine hands of which were still pointing at 'mortal peril,' and balancing it on top of a pile of just-laundered towels. "And that goes for returning to Hogwarts as well!"

Ron turned to stare incredulously at Harry as his mother hoisted the laundry basket and the teetering clock into her arms and stormed out of the room. "Blimey…you can't even make a joke round here anymore…" But Ron was careful not to be flippant over the next few days.

Saturday dawned without any more outbursts from Mrs. Weasley, though she seemed very tense at breakfast. Bill, who would be staying at home with Fleur, much to Hermione and Ginny's pleasure, passed a full money bag across the table to Harry.

"Where's mine?" demanded Ron at once, his eyes wide.

"That's Harry's, idiot," said Bill. "I got it out of your vault for you, Harry, because it's taking about five hours for the public to get to their gold at the moment, the goblins have tightened security so much. Two days ago Arkie Philpott had a Probity Probe stuck up his… Well, trust me, this way's easier."

"Thanks, Bill," said Harry, pocketing his gold.

"'E is always so thoughtful," purred Fleur adoringly, stroking Bill's nose. Ginny mimed vomiting into her cereal behind Fleur. Harry choked over his cornflakes, and Ron thumped him on the back.

It was an overcast, murky day. One of the special Ministry of Magic cars, in which Harry had ridden once before, was awaiting them in the front yard when they emerged from the house, pulling on their cloaks. "It's good Dad can get us these again," said Ron appreciatively, stretching luxuriously as the car moved smoothly away from the Burrow, Bill and Fleur waving from the kitchen window. He, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny were all sitting in roomy comfort in the wide backseat.

"Don't get used to it, it's only because of Harry," said Mr. Weasley over his shoulder. He and Mrs. Weasley were in front with the Ministry driver; the front passenger seat had obligingly stretched into what resembled a two-seater sofa. "He's been given top-grade security status. And we'll be joining up with additional security at the Leaky Cauldron too."

Harry said nothing; he did not much fancy doing his shopping while surrounded by a battalion of Aurors. He had stowed his invisibility cloak in his backpack and felt that, if that was good enough for Dumbledore, it ought to be good enough for the Ministry, though now he came to think of it, he was not sure the Ministry knew about his cloak.

"Here you are, then," said the driver, a surprisingly short while later, speaking for the first time as he slowed in Charing Cross Road and stopped outside the Leaky Cauldron. "I'm to wait for you, any idea how long you'll be?"

"A couple of hours, I expect," said Mr. Weasley. "Ah, good, he's here!"

Harry imitated Mr. Weasley and peered through the window; his heart leapt. There were no Aurors waiting outside the inn, but instead the gigantic, black-bearded form of Rubeus Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, wearing a long beaverskin coat, beaming at the sight of Harry's face and oblivious to the startled stares of passing muggles.

"Harry!" he boomed, sweeping Harry into a bone-crushing hug the moment Harry had stepped out of the car. "Buckbeak…Witherwings, I mean…yeh should see him, Harry, he's so happy ter be back in the open air…"

"Glad he's pleased," said Harry, grinning as he massaged his ribs. "We didn't know 'security' meant you!"

"I know, jus' like old times, innit? See, the Ministry wanted ter send a bunch o' Aurors, but Dumbledore said I'd do," said Hagrid proudly, throwing out his chest and tucking his thumbs into his pockets. "Lets get goin' then…after yeh, Molly, Arthur…"

The Leaky Cauldron was, for the first time in Harry's memory, completely empty. Only Tom the landlord, wizened and toothless, remained of the old crowd. He looked up hopefully as they entered, but before he could speak, Hagrid said importantly, "Jus' passin' through today, Tom, sure yeh understand, Hogwarts business, yeh know."

Tom nodded gloomily and returned to wiping glasses; Harry, Hermione, Hagrid, and the Weasleys walked through the bar and out into the chilly little courtyard at the back where the dustbins stood. Hagrid raised his pink umbrella and rapped a certain brick in the wall, which opened at once to form an archway onto a winding cobbled street. They stepped through the entrance and paused, looking around.

Diagon Alley had changed. The colourful, glittering window displays of spellbooks, potion ingredients, and cauldrons were lost to view, hidden behind the large Ministry of Magic posters that had been pasted over them. Most of these somber purple posters carried blown-up versions of the security advice on the Ministry pamphlets that had been sent out over the summer, but others bore moving black-and-white photographs of Death Eaters known to be on the loose. Bellatrix Lestrange was sneering from the front of the nearest apothecary. A few windows were boarded up, including those of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. On the other hand, a number of shabby-looking stalls had sprung up along the street. The nearest one, which had been erected outside Flourish and Blotts, under a striped, stained awning, had a cardboard sign pinned to its front:

AMULETS

Effective Against Werewolves, Dementors, and Inferi!

A seedy little wizard was rattling armfuls of silver symbols on chains at passersby. Harry instinctively took a step towards Hermione as the wizard leered at her and Ginny, before calling to Mrs. Weasley: "One for those girlies, madam? Protect their pretty necks?"

"If I were on duty…" said Mr. Weasley, glaring angrily at the amulet seller.

"Yes, but don't go arresting anyone now, dear, we're in a hurry," said Mrs. Weasley, nervously consulting a list. "I think we'd better do Madam Malkin's first, Hermione wants new dress robes, and Ron's showing much too much ankle in his school robes, and you must need new ones too, Harry, you've grown so much… come on, everyone…"

"Molly, it doesn't make sense for all of us to go to Madam Malkin's," said Mr. Weasley. "Why don't those three go with Hagrid, and we can go to Flourish and Blotts and get everyone's schoolbooks?"

"I don't know," said Mrs. Weasley anxiously, clearly torn between a desire to finish the shopping quickly and the wish to stick together in a pack. "Hagrid, do you think —?"

"Don't fret, they'll be fine with me, Molly," said Hagrid soothingly, waving an airy hand the size of a dustbin lid. Mrs. Weasley did not look entirely convinced, but allowed the separation, scurrying off toward Flourish and Blotts with her husband and Ginny while Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid set off for Madam Malkin's.

Harry noticed that many of the people who passed them had the same harried, anxious look as Mrs. Weasley, and that nobody was stopping to talk anymore; the shoppers stayed together in their own tightly knit groups, moving intently about their business. Nobody seemed to be shopping alone.

"Migh' be a bit of a squeeze in there with all of us," said Hagrid, stopping outside Madam Malkin's and bending down to peer through the window. "I'll stand guard outside, all right?"

So Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the little shop together. It appeared, at first glance, to be empty, but no sooner had the door swung shut behind them than they heard a familiar voice issuing from behind a rack of dress robes in spangled green and blue. "…not a child, in case you haven't noticed, Mother. I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping alone."

There was a clucking noise and a voice Harry recognised as that of Madam Malkin, the owner, said, "Now, dear, your mother's quite right, none of us are supposed to go wandering around on our own anymore, it's nothing to do with being a child…"

"Watch where you're sticking that pin, will you!" A teenage boy with a pale, pointed face and white-blonde hair appeared from behind the rack, wearing a handsome set of dark green robes that glittered with pins around the hem and the edges of the sleeves. He strode to the mirror and examined himself; it was a few moments before he noticed Harry, Ron, and Hermione reflected over his shoulder. His light grey eyes narrowed.

"If you're wondering what the smell is, Mother, a mudblood just walked in," said Draco Malfoy.

"I don't think there's any need for language like that!" said Madam Malkin, scurrying out from behind the clothes rack holding a tape measure and a wand. "And I don't want wands drawn in my shop either!" she added hastily, for a glance toward the door had shown her Harry and Ron both standing there with their wands out and pointing at Malfoy.

Hermione, grabbing hold of Harry's sleeve, whispered, "No! Harry, it's not worth it."

"Yeah, like you'd dare do magic out of school," sneered Malfoy. "Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers."

"That's quite enough!" said Madam Malkin sharply, looking over her shoulder for support. Harry had shook Hermione off, a blind mist of rage descending. "Madam, please!"

Narcissa Malfoy strolled out from behind the clothes rack. "Put those away," she said coldly to Harry and Ron. "If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do."

"Really?" said Harry, taking a step forward and gazing into the smoothly arrogant face that, for all its pallor, still resembled her sister's. He was as tall as she was now. "Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?"

Madam Malkin squealed and clutched at her heart. "Really, you shouldn't accuse…dangerous thing to say… wands away, please!" But Harry did not lower his wand. Narcissa Malfoy smiled unpleasantly.

"I see that being Dumbledore's favourite has given you a false sense of security, Potter. But Dumbledore won't always be there to protect you."

Harry looked mockingly all around the shop.

"Wow…look at that…he's not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!"

Malfoy made an angry movement toward Harry, but stumbled over his overlong robe. Ron laughed loudly.

"Don't you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!" Malfoy snarled.

"Harry, please…" Hermione moaned from behind.

"It's all right, Draco," said Narcissa, restraining him with her thin white fingers upon his shoulder. "I expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius."

Harry raised his wand higher.

"Harry, no!" Hermione begged, grabbing his arm with much more force than before and attempting to push it down. "Think…You mustn't… You'll be in such trouble…"

Madam Malkin dithered for a moment on the spot, then seemed to decide to act as though nothing was happening in the hope that it wouldn't. She bent toward Malfoy, who was still glaring at Harry. "I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more, dear, let me just…"

"Ouch!" bellowed Malfoy, slapping her hand away. "Watch where you're putting your pins, woman! Mother, I don't think I want these anymore." He pulled the robes over his head and threw them onto the floor at Madam Malkin's feet.

"You're right, Draco," said Narcissa, with a contemptuous glance at Hermione, "now I know the kind of scum that shops here…We'll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting's."

And with that, the pair of them strode out of the shop, Malfoy taking care to bang as hard as he could into Ron on the way out.

"Well, really?" said Madam Malkin, snatching up the fallen robes and moving the tip of her wand over them like a vacuum cleaner, so that it removed all the dust. She was distracted all through the fitting of Ron's and Harry's new robes, tried to sell Hermione wizard's dress robes instead of witch's, and when she finally bowed them out of the shop it was with an air of being glad to see the back of them.

"Got ev'rything?" asked Hagrid brightly when they reappeared at his side.

"Just about," said Harry. "Did you see the Malfoys?"

"Yeah," said Hagrid, unconcerned. "Bu they wouldn' dare make trouble in the middle o' Diagon Alley, Harry. Don' worry about them."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged looks, but before they could disabuse Hagrid of this comfortable notion, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny appeared, all clutching heavy packages of books.

"Everyone all right?" said Mrs. Weasley. "Got your robes? Right then, we can pop in at the Apothecary and Eeylops on the way to Fred and George's…stick close, now…"

Neither Harry nor Ron bought any ingredients at the Apothecary, seeing that they were no longer studying Potions, but both bought large boxes of owl nuts for Hedwig and Pigwidgeon at Eeylops Owl Emporium. Harry also dropped in at Flourish and Botts under the pretence of buying a new quill, though it would actually be Hermione's seventeenth birthday gift; a sleek, elegant Eagle feather dyed green which Hermione's eyes had lit upon when she saw it through the window, but she had decided sixty Galleons was far too expensive. Then, with Mrs. Weasley checking her watch every minute or so, they headed further along the street in search of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, the joke shop run by Fred and George.

"We really haven't got too long," Mrs. Weasley said. "So we'll just have a quick look around and then back to the car. We must be close, that's number ninety-two…ninety-four…"

"Whoa," said Ron, stopping in his tracks. Set against the dull, poster-muffled shop Fronts around them, Fred and George's windows hit the eye like a firework display. Casual passersby were looking back over their shoulders at the windows, and a few rather stunned-looking people had actually come to a halt, transfixed. The left-hand window was dazzlingly full of an assortment of goods that revolved, popped, flashed, bounced, and shrieked; Harry's eyes began to water just looking at it. The right-hand window was covered with a gigantic poster, purple like those of the Ministry, but emblazoned with flashing yellow letters:

WHY ARE YOU WORRYING ABOUT YOU-KNOW-WHO?

YOU SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUT U-NO-POO — THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION THAT'S GRIPPING THE NATION!

Harry started to laugh. He heard a weak sort of moan beside him and looked around to see Mrs. Weasley gazing, dumbfounded, at the poster. Her lips moved silently, mouthing the name "U- NoPoo."

"They'll be murdered in their beds!" she whispered.

"No they won't!" said Ron, who, like Harry, was laughing. "This is brilliant!"

And he and Harry led the way into the shop. It was packed with customers; Harry could not get near the shelves. He stared around, looking up at the boxes piled to the ceiling: Here were the Skiving Snackboxes that the twins had perfected during their last, unfinished year at Hogwarts; Harry noticed that the Nosebleed Nougat was most popular, with only one battered box left on the shelf. There were bins full of trick wands, the cheapest merely turning into rubber chickens or pairs of briefs when waved, the most expensive beating the unwary user around the head and neck, and boxes of quills, which came in Self-Inking, Spell-Checking, and Smart-Answer varieties. A space cleared in the crowd, and Harry pushed his way toward the counter, where a gaggle of delighted ten-year-olds were watching a tiny little wooden man slowly ascending the steps to a real set of gallows, both perched on a box that read: Reusable hangman - spell it or he'll swing!

"'Patented Daydream Charms…'" Hermione had managed to squeeze through to a large display near the counter and was reading the information on the back of a box bearing a highly coloured picture of a handsome youth and a swooning girl who were standing on the deck of a pirate ship. "'One simple incantation and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, thirty- minute daydream, easy to fit into the average school lesson and virtually undetectable (side effects include vacant expression and minor drooling). Not for sale to under-sixteens.'

"You know," said Hermione, looking up at Harry, who was peering over her shoulder at the box, "that really is extraordinary magic!"

"For that, Hermione," said a voice behind them, "you can have one for free."

A beaming Fred stood before them, wearing a set of magenta robes that clashed magnificently with his flaming hair. "How are you, Harry?" They shook hands. "And what's happened to your eye, Hermione?"

"Your punching telescope," she said ruefully.

"Oh blimey, I forgot about those!" said Fred. "Here —" He pulled a tub out of his pocket and handed it to her; she unscrewed it gingerly to reveal a thick yellow paste.

"Just dab it on, that bruise'll be gone within the hour," said Fred. "We had to find a decent bruise remover. We're testing most of our products on ourselves."

Hermione looked nervous. "It is safe, isn't it?" she asked.

"Course it is," said Fred brightly. "Come on Harry, I'll give you a tour."

Harry left Hermione dabbing her black eye with paste and followed Fred toward the back of the shop, where he saw a stand of card and rope tricks. "Muggle magic tricks!" said Fred happily, pointing them out. "For freaks like Dad, you know, who love muggle stuff. It's not a big earner, but we do fairly steady business, they're great novelties…Oh, here's George…"

Fred's twin shook Harry's hand energetically. "Giving him the tour? Come through the back, Harry, that's where we're making the real money… pocket anything, you, and you'll pay in more than Galleons!" he added warningly to a small boy who hastily whipped his hand out of the tub labeled EDIBLE DARK MARKS —THEY'LL MAKE ANYONE SICK!

George pushed back a curtain beside the Muggle tricks and Harry saw a darker, less crowded room. The packaging on the products lining these shelves was more subdued.

"We've just developed this more serious line," said Fred. "Funny how it happened…"

"You wouldn't believe how many people, even people who work at the Ministry, can't do a decent shield charm," said George. "'Course, they didn't have you teaching them, Harry."

"That's right… Well, we thought Shield Hats were a bit of a laugh, you know, challenge your mate to jinx you while wearing it and watch his face when the jinx just bounces off. But the Ministry bought five hundred for all its support staff! And we're still getting massive orders!"

"…I mean, they wouldn't help much against the Unforgivable Curses, but for minor to moderate hexes or jinxes…"

"And then we thought we'd get into the whole area of Defence Against the Dark Arts, because it's such a money spinner," continued George enthusiastically.

"This is cool. Look, Instant Darkness Powder, we're importing it from Peru. Handy if you want to make a quick escape."

"And our Decoy Detonators are just walking off the shelves, look," said Fred, pointing at a number of weird-looking black horn-type objects that were indeed attempting to scurry out of sight. "You just drop one surreptitiously and it'll run off and make a nice loud noise, giving you a diversion if you need one.

"Handy," said Harry, while picking up a clear box with a pair of flesh-coloured strings he recognised as the extendable ears the twins had tested the previous year.

"Here," said George, catching a couple of the detonators and throwing them to Harry. A young witch with short blonde hair poked her head around the curtain; Harry saw that she too was wearing magenta staff robes.

"There's a customer out here looking for a joke cauldron, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley," she said. Harry found it very odd to hear Fred and George called "Mr. Weasley," but they took it in their stride.

"Right you are, Verity, I'm coming," said George promptly. "Harry, you help yourself to anything you want, all right? No charge."

"I can't do that!" said Harry, who had already pulled out his money bag to pay for the Decoy Detonators.

"You don't pay here," said Fred firmly, waving away Harry's gold.

"But…"

"You gave us our start-up loan, we haven't forgotten," said George sternly. "Take whatever you like, and just remember to tell people where you got it, if they ask."

George swept off through the curtain to help with the customers, and Fred led Harry back into the main part of the shop to find Hermione and Ginny still pouring over the Patented Daydream Charms. "Haven't you girls found our special WonderWitch products yet?" asked Fred. "Follow me, ladies…"

Near the window was an array of violently pink products around which a cluster of excited girls was giggling enthusiastically. Hermione and Ginny both hung back, looking wary.

"There you go," said Fred proudly. "Best range of love potions you'll find anywhere." Ginny raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Do they work?" she asked.

"Certainly they work, for up to twenty-four hours at a time depending on the weight of the boy in question…"

"…and the attractiveness of the girl," said George, reappearing suddenly at their side. "But we're not selling them to our sister," he added, becoming suddenly stern, "not when she's already got about five boys on the go from what we've…"

"Whatever you've heard from Ron is a big fat lie," said Ginny calmly, leaning forward to take a small pink pot off the shelf. "What's this?"

"Guaranteed ten-second pimple vanisher," said Fred. "Excellent on everything from boils to blackheads, but don't change the subject. Are you or are you not currently going out with a boy called Dean Thomas?"

"Yes, I am," said Ginny. "And last time I looked, he was definitely one boy, not five. What are those?"

She was pointing at a number of round balls of fluff in shades of pink and purple, all rolling around the bottom of a cage and emitting high-pitched squeaks. "Pygmy Puffs," said George. "Miniature puffskeins, we can't breed them fast enough. So what about Michael Corner?"

"I dumped him, he was a loser," said Ginny, putting a finger through the bars of the cage and watching the Pygmy Puffs crowd around it. "They're really cute!"

"They're fairly cuddly, yes," conceded Fred. "But you're moving through boyfriends a bit fast, aren't you?"

Ginny turned to look at him, her hands on her hips. There was such a Mrs. Weasley-ish glare on her face that Harry was surprised Fred didn't recoil.

"It's none of your business. And I'll thank you" she added angrily to Ron, who had just appeared at George's elbow, laden with merchandise, "not to tell tales about me to these two!"

"That's three Galleons, nine Sickles, and a Knut," said Fred, examining the many boxes in Ron's arms. "Cough up."

"What? I'm your brother!"

"And that's our stuff you're nicking. Three Galleons, nine Sickles. I'll knock off the Knut."

"But I haven't got three Galleons, nine Sickles!"

"You'd better put it back then, and mind you put it on the right shelves." Ron dropped several boxes, swore, and made a rude hand gesture at Fred that was unfortunately spotted by Mrs. Weasley, who had chosen that moment to appear.

"If I see you do that again I'll jinx your fingers together," she said sharply, "Now pick those up and put them back."

"Mum, can I have a Pygmy Puff?" said Ginny at once as Ron skulked off to the other side of the shop.

"A what?" said Mrs. Weasley warily.

"Look, they're so sweet…"

Mrs. Weasley moved aside to look at the Pygmy Puffs, leaving Harry and Hermione with a momentarily unimpeded view out of the window. Draco Malfoy was hurrying up the street alone. As he passed Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, he glanced over his shoulder. Seconds later, he moved beyond the scope of the window and they lost sight of him.

"Wonder where his mummy is?" said Harry, frowning. "Given her the slip by the looks of it."

"Why, though?" said Hermione, but Harry said nothing; he was thinking too hard. Narcissa would not have let her precious son out of her sight willingly; Malfoy must have made a real effort to free himself from her clutches. Harry, knowing and loathing Malfoy, was sure the reason could not be innocent. He glanced around. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were bending over the Pygmy Puffs. Mr. Weasley was delightedly examining a pack of muggle-marked playing cards. Fred and George were both helping customers while Ron was still navigating his way to the shelves. On the other side of the glass, Hagrid was standing with his back to them, looking up and down the street.

"Get under here, quick," said Harry, pulling his invisibility cloak out of his bag. They'd have to tell Ron later. There was no time to waste.

"Oh – I don't know," said Hermione, looking uncertainly toward Mrs. Weasley.

"Come on," Harry said and, after a second of further hesitation, Hermione ducked under the cloak with him. Nobody noticed them vanish, they were all too interested in Fred and George's products. They squeezed their way out of the door as quickly as they could but by the time they gained the street, Malfoy had disappeared just as successfully as they had.

"He was going in that direction," murmured Harry as quietly as possible, so that the humming Hagrid would not hear them. "C'mon."

They scurried along, peering left and right, through shop windows and doors, until Hermione pointed ahead. "That's him, isn't it?" she whispered. "Turning left?"

"Big surprise," Harry murmured, for Malfoy had glanced around and then slid into Knockturn Alley and out of sight.

"Quick, or we'll lose him," said Harry, speeding up.

"Our feet'll be seen!" said Hermione anxiously, as the cloak flapped a little around their ankles; it was much more difficult hiding two of them under the cloak nowadays. Three would have almost been out of the question.

"It doesn't matter," said Harry. "Just hurry!"

But Knockturn Alley, the side street devoted to the dark arts, looked completely deserted. They peered into windows as they passed, but none of the shops seemed to have any customers at all. Harry supposed it was a bit of a giveaway in these dangerous and suspicious times to buy Dark artefacts – or at least, to be seen buying them. Hermione gave his arm a hard pinch. "Ouch!"

"Shh! Look! He's in there!" she breathed in Harry's ear.

They had drawn level with the only shop in Knockturn Alley that Harry had ever visited, Borgin and Burkes, which sold a wide variety of sinister objects. There in the midst of the cases full of skulls and old bottles stood Malfoy with his back to them, just visible beyond the very same large black cabinet in which Harry had once hidden to avoid the Slytherin and his father.

Judging by the movements of Malfoy's hands, he was talking animatedly. The proprietor of the shop, Mr. Borgin, an oily-haired, stooping man, stood facing his customer. He was wearing a curious expression of mingled resentment and fear. "If only we could hear what they're saying!"

said Hermione, her hesitation from earlier replaced with that steely determination Harry had come to expect from her once she got over any initial fear of breaking the rules.

"We can!" Harry realised after a beat. "Hang on." He reached into the inside of his jacket pocket, pulling out the clear box he had picked up in the twins' shop. "Extendable Ears!"

"Fantastic!" said Hermione, as Harry unraveled the strings and began to feed them towards the bottom of the door. "Oh, I hope the door isn't Imperturbable…"

"No!" replied Harry gleefully. "Listen!"

They put their heads together and listened intently to the ends of the strings, through which Malfoy's voice could be heard loud and clear, as though a radio had been turned on.

"…you know how to fix it?"

"Possibly," said Borgin, in a tone that suggested he was unwilling to commit himself. "I'll need to see it, though. Why don't you bring it into the shop?"

"I can't," said Malfoy. "It's got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it." Harry saw Borgin lick his lips nervously.

"Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn't guarantee anything."

"No?" said Malfoy, and Harry knew, just by his tone, that Malfoy was sneering. "Perhaps this will make you more confident."

He moved toward Borgin and was blocked from view by the cabinet. Harry and Hermione shuffled sideways to try and keep him in sight, but all they could see was Borgin, looking very frightened. "Tell anyone," said Malfoy, "and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He's a family friend. He'll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you're giving the problem your full attention."

"There will be no need for…"

"I'll decide that," said Malfoy coolly. "Well, I'd better be off. And don't forget to keep that one safe, I'll need it."

"Perhaps you'd like to take it now?"

"No, of course I wouldn't, you stupid, little man, how would I look carrying that down the street? Just don't sell it."

"Of course not…sir." Borgin made a bow as deep as the one Harry had once seen him give Lucius Malfoy.

"Not a word to anyone, Borgin, and that includes my mother, understand?"

"Naturally, naturally," murmured Borgin, bowing again. Next moment, the bell over the door tinkled loudly as Malfoy stalked out of the shop looking very pleased with himself. He passed so close to Harry and Hermione that they felt the cloak flutter around their knees again. Inside the shop, Borgin remained frozen; his unctuous smile had vanished; he looked worried.

"What was that about?" whispered Hermione.

"Dunno," said Harry, thinking hard as he reeled in the Extendable Ears. "He wants something mended… and he wants to reserve something in there… Could you see what he pointed at when he said 'that one'?"

"No, he was behind that cabinet…" and then, Hermione straightened up. "Stay here," she whispered.

"What are you…?" but Hermione had already ducked out from under the cloak. She checked her hair in the reflection in the glass, then marched into the shop, setting the bell tinkling again. Harry hastily fed the Extendable Ears back under the door.

"Hello, horrible morning, isn't it?" Hermione said brightly to Borgin, who did not answer, but cast her a suspicious look. Humming cheerily, Hermione strolled through the jumble of objects on display. "Is this necklace for sale?" she asked, pausing beside a glass-fronted case.

"If you've got one-and-a-half thousand Galleons," said Borgin coldly.

"Oh…er…no, I haven't got quite that much," said Hermione, walking on. "And…what about this lovely…um…skull?"

"Sixteen Galleons."

"So it's for sale, then? It isn't being…kept for anyone?" Borgin squinted at her. Harry had the nasty feeling he knew exactly what Hermione was up to. Apparently Hermione felt she had been rumbled too because she suddenly threw caution to the wind.

"The thing is, that…er…boy who was in here just now, Draco Malfoy, well, he's a friend of mine, and I want to get him a birthday present, but if he's already reserved anything, I obviously don't want to get him the same thing, so…um…"

It was a pretty lame story in Harry's opinion, and apparently Borgin thought so too. "Out," he said sharply. "Get out!"

Hermione did not wait to be asked twice, but hurried to the door with Borgin at her heels. As the bell tinkled again, Borgin slammed the door behind her and put up the closed sign.

"Ah well," said Harry, throwing the cloak back over Hermione. "Worth a try, but you were a bit obvious…"

"Well, next time you can show me how it's done, Master of Mystery!" she snapped.

"Sorry," Harry said with a smile, impressed by Hermione's wit, and after a few seconds her anger had been replaced by a slight blush.

"Come on, we ought to get back," she whispered, tugging on his sleeve and guiding them away from the shop.

They were swiftly back outside Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, where they were forced to stop so that they could dodge undetected around a very anxious-looking Mrs. Weasley and Hagrid, who had clearly noticed their absence. Once in the shop, Harry whipped off the invisibility cloak, hid it in his bag, and joined in with Hermione when she insisted, in answer to Mrs. Weasleys accusations, that they had been in the back room all along, and that she could not have looked properly. Harry caught Ron's eye and – despite his obvious confusion – he quickly backed them up.

Chapter 3: 3: Chapter Seven – The Slug Club [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Harry spent a lot of the last week of the holidays pondering the meaning of Malfoy's behaviour in Knockturn Alley. What disturbed him most was the satisfied look on Malfoy's face as he had left the shop. Nothing that made Malfoy look that happy could be good news. To his slight annoyance, however, neither Ron nor Hermione seemed quite as curious about Malfoy's activities as he was; or at least, they seemed to get bored of discussing it after a few days.

"Yes, I've already agreed it was fishy, Harry," said Hermione. She was sitting on the windowsill in Fred and George's room with her feet up on one of the cardboard boxes and had only grudgingly looked up from her new copy of Advanced Rune Translation. "But haven't we agreed there could be a lot of explanations?"

"Maybe he's broken his Hand of Glory" said Ron vaguely, as he attempted to straighten his broomstick's bent tail twigs. "Remember that shrivelled-up arm Malfoy had?"

"But what about when he said, 'Don't forget to keep that one safe'?" asked Harry for the umpteenth time. "That sounded to me like Borgin's got another one of the broken objects, and Malfoy wants both."

"You reckon?" said Ron, now trying to scrape some dirt off his broom handle.

"Yeah, I do," said Harry. When neither Ron nor Hermione answered, he said, "Malfoy's father's in Azkaban. Don't you think Malfoy'd like revenge?"

Ron looked up, blinking. "Malfoy, revenge? What can he do about it?"

"That's my point, I don't know!" said Harry, frustrated. "But he's up to something and I think we should take it seriously. His father's a Death Eater and…" Harry broke off, his eyes fixed on the window behind Hermione, his mouth open. A startling thought had just occurred to him.

"Harry?" said Hermione in an anxious voice as she moved to stand up. "What's wrong?"

"Your scar's not hurting again, is it?" asked Ron nervously.

"He's a Death Eater," said Harry slowly. "He's replaced his father as a Death Eater!"

There was a silence; then Ron erupted in laughter. "Malfoy? He's sixteen, Harry! You think You- Know-Who would let Malfoy join?"

"It seems very unlikely, Harry," said Hermione in a repressive sort of voice. "What makes you think —?"

"In Madam Malkin's. She didn't touch him, but he yelled and jerked his arm away from her when she went to roll up his sleeve. It was his left arm. He's been branded with the Dark Mark!"

Ron and Hermione looked at each other.

"Well…" said Ron, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

"I think he just wanted to get out of there, Harry," said Hermione.

"He showed Borgin something we couldn't see," Harry pressed on stubbornly, directing his attention to her. Ron had had to hear about Malfoy's trip to Borgin's second-hand, but Hermione had seen exactly what Harry had seen. "Something that seriously scared Borgin. It was the Mark, I know it… he was showing Borgin who he was dealing with, you saw how seriously Borgin took him!" Ron and Hermione exchanged another look.

"I'm not sure, Harry…"

His eyes bore into Hermione's, silently pleading with her to believe him. After a moment, she relented, albeit not with much conviction.

"… I mean, it's possible," she accepted, but carried on before he could interrupt. "But really, Harry. There could be plenty of possibilities. You can't just go around accusing people of being Death Eat–"

"– Whatever" he cut her off. He saw a flash of something which could have been hurt spread across Hermione's face but he was in no mood to carry on.

Annoyed, but absolutely convinced he was right, Harry snatched up a pile of filthy Quidditch robes and left the room; Mrs. Weasley had been urging them for days not to leave their washing and packing until the last moment. On the landing he bumped into Ginny, who was returning to her room carrying a pile of freshly laundered clothes.

"I wouldn't go in the kitchen just now," she warned him. "There's a lot of Phlegm around."

"I'll be careful not to slip in it." Harry smiled.

Sure enough, when he entered the kitchen it was to find Fleur sitting at the kitchen table, in full flow about plans for her wedding to Bill, while Mrs. Weasley kept watch over a pile of self- peeling sprouts, looking bad-tempered.

"…Bill and I 'ave almost decided on only two bridesmaids, Ginny and Gabrielle will look very sweet togezzer. I am theenking of dressing zem in pale gold, pink would of course be 'orrible with Ginny's 'air!"

"Ah, Harry!" said Mrs. Weasley loudly, cutting across Fleur's monologue. "Good, I wanted to explain about the security arrangements for the journey to Hogwarts tomorrow. We've got Ministry cars again, and there will be Aurors waiting at the station."

"Is Tonks going to be there?" asked Harry, handing over his Quidditch things.

"No, I don't think so, she's been stationed somewhere else from what Arthur said."

"She has let 'erself go, zat Tonks," Fleur mused, examining her own stunning reflection in the back of a teaspoon. "A big mistake if you ask –"

"Yes, thank you," said Mrs. Weasley tartly, cutting across Fleur again. "You'd better get on, Harry, I want the trunks ready tonight, if possible, so we don't have the usual last-minute scramble."

And in fact, their departure the following morning was smoother than usual. The Ministry cars glided up to the front of the Burrow to find them waiting, trunks packed; Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, safely enclosed in his traveling basket; and Hedwig; Ron's owl, Pigwidgeon; and Ginny's new purple Pygmy Puff, Arnold, in cages.

"Aurevoir, 'Arry," said Fleur throatily, kissing him goodbye. Ron hurried forward, looking hopeful, but Ginny stuck out her foot and Ron fell, sprawling in the dust at Fleur's feet. Furious, red- faced, and dirt-spattered, he hurried into the car without saying goodbye. It was all Harry and Hermione could do to keep themselves from hysterical laughter.

There was no cheerful Hagrid waiting for them at King's Cross Station. Instead, two grim-faced, bearded Aurors in dark muggle suits moved forward the moment the cars stopped and, flanking the party, marched them into the station without speaking. "Quick, quick, through the barrier," said Mrs. Weasley, who seemed a little flustered by this austere efficiency. "Harry had better go first, with…"

She looked inquiringly at one of the Aurors, who nodded briefly, seized Harry's upper arm, and attempted to steer him toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

"I can walk, thanks," said Harry irritably, jerking his arm out of the Auror's grip. He pushed his trolley directly at the solid barrier, ignoring his silent companion, and found himself, a second later, standing on platform nine and three-quarters, where the scarlet Hogwarts Express stood belching steam over the crowd.

Hermione and the Weasleys joined him within seconds. Without waiting to consult his grim- faced Auror, Harry motioned to Ron and Hermione to follow him up the platform, looking for an empty compartment.

"We can't, Harry," said Hermione, looking apologetic. "Ron and I have got to go to the prefects' carriage first and then patrol the corridors for a bit."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot," said Harry, trying to hide the sudden feeling of loneliness he felt.

"You'd better get straight on the train, all of you, you've only got a few minutes to go," said Mrs. Weasley, consulting her watch. "Well, have a lovely term, Ron…"

Hermione, having seemingly picked up on Harry's deflation, bade goodbye to the Weasleys before giving him a brisk hug. "We'll be as quick as we can," she said as she pulled away.

Harry watched her and Ron make their way onto the train before turning to Arthur. "Mr. Weasley, can I have a quick word?" he said, making up his mind on the spur of the moment.

"Of course," said Mr. Weasley, who looked slightly surprised, but followed Harry out of earshot of the others nevertheless. Harry had thought it through carefully and come to the conclusion that, if he was to tell anyone, Mr. Weasley was the right person; firstly, because he worked at the Ministry and was therefore in the best position to make further investigations, and secondly, because he thought that there was not too much risk of Mr. Weasley exploding with anger.

He could see Mrs. Weasley and the grim-faced Auror casting the pair of them suspicious looks as they moved away. "When we were in Diagon Alley," Harry began, but Mr. Weasley forestalled him with a grimace.

"Am I about to discover where you and Hermione disappeared to while you were supposed to be in the back room of Fred and George's shop?"

"How did you…?"

"Harry, please. You're talking to the man who raised Fred and George."

"Er…yeah, all right, we weren't in the back room."

"Very well, then, presuming you wouldn't be telling me about sneaking off with Hermione for… err… teenage escapades, let's hear the worst."

With his face bright red at the thought of just what exactly Mr. Weasley meant by 'teenage escapades', Harry pressed on. "Err… Erm. No. Well, we… followed Draco Malfoy. We used my invisibility cloak."

"Did you have any particular reason for doing so, or was it a mere whim?" Arthur asked.

"Because I thought Malfoy was up to something," said Harry, disregarding Mr. Weasley's look of mingled exasperation and amusement. "He'd given his mother the slip and I wanted to know why."

"Of course you did," said Mr. Weasley, sounding resigned. "Well? Did you find out why?"

"He went into Borgin and Burkes," said Harry, thoughts of Arthur's earlier comment pushed to one side, "and started bullying the bloke in there, Borgin, to help him fix something. And he said he wanted Borgin to keep something else for him. He made it sound like it was the same kind of thing that needed fixing. Like they were a pair. And…" Harry took a deep breath.

"There's something else. We saw Malfoy jump about a mile when Madam Malkin tried to touch his left arm. I think he's been branded with the Dark Mark. I think he's replaced his father as a Death Eater."

Mr. Weasley looked taken aback. After a moment he said, "Harry, I doubt whether You-Know- Who would allow a sixteen-year-old…"

"Does anyone really know what You-Know-Who would or wouldn't do?" asked Harry angrily. "Mr. Weasley, I'm sorry, but isn't it worth investigating? If Malfoy wants something fixing, and he needs to threaten Borgin to get it done, it's probably something Dark or dangerous, isn't it?"

"I doubt it, to be honest, Harry," said Mr. Weasley slowly. "You see, when Lucius Malfoy was arrested, we raided his house. We took away everything that might have been dangerous."

"I think you missed something," said Harry stubbornly.

"Well, maybe," said Mr. Weasley, but Harry could tell that he was humouring him.

There was a whistle behind them; nearly everyone had boarded the train and the doors were closing. "You'd better hurry!" said Mr. Weasley, as Mrs. Weasley cried, "Harry, quickly!" He hurried forward and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley helped him load his trunk onto the train.

"Now, dear, you're coming to us for Christmas, it's all fixed with Dumbledore, so we'll see you quite soon," said Mrs. Weasley through the window, as Harry slammed the door shut behind him and the train began to move. "You make sure you look after yourself and…" The train was gathering speed. "…be good and…" She was jogging to keep up now. "…stay safe!"

Harry waved until the train had turned a corner and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were lost to view, then turned to see where the others had got to. He supposed Ron and Hermione were cloistered in the prefects' carriage, but Ginny was a little way along the corridor, chatting to some friends. He made his way toward her, dragging his trunk.

People stared shamelessly as he approached. They even pressed their faces against the windows of their compartments to get a look at him. He had expected an upswing in the amount of gaping and gawping he would have to endure this term after all the 'Chosen One' rumours in the Daily Prophet, but he did not enjoy the sensation of standing in a very bright spotlight. He tapped Ginny on the shoulder. "Fancy trying to find a compartment?"

"I can't, Harry, I said I'd meet Dean," said Ginny brightly. "See you later."

"Right," said Harry as he watched her head off down the corridor; he had become so used to her presence over the summer that he had almost forgotten that Ginny did not usually hang around

with him, Ron, and Hermione while at school. He watched her go, her long red hair swaying behind her. Then he blinked and looked around: He was surrounded by mesmerised girls.

"Hi, Harry!" said a familiar voice from behind him.

"Neville!" said Harry in relief, turning to see a now much-less round-faced boy struggling toward him.

"Hello, Harry," said a girl with long hair and large misty eyes, who was just behind Neville.

"Luna, hi, how are you?"

"Very well, thank you," said Luna. She was clutching a magazine to her chest; large letters on the front announced that there was a pair of free Spectrespecs inside.

"Quibbler still going strong, then?" asked Harry, who felt a certain fondness for the magazine, having given it an exclusive interview the previous year.

"Oh yes, circulation's well up," said Luna happily.

"Great! Let's find seats," said Harry, and the three of them set off along the train through hordes of silently staring students. At last they found an empty compartment, and Harry hurried inside gratefully.

"They're even staring at us?" said Neville, indicating himself and Luna. "Because we're with you!"

"They're staring at you because you were at the Ministry too," said Harry, as he hoisted his trunk into the luggage rack. "Our little adventure there was all over the Prophet, you must've seen it."

"Yes, I thought Gran would be angry about all the publicity," said Neville, "but she was really pleased. Says I'm starting to live up to my dad at long last. She bought me a new wand, look!"

He pulled it out and showed it to Harry. "Cherry and unicorn hair," he said proudly. "We think it was one of the last Ollivander ever sold, he vanished the next day – Oi! Come back here,

Trevor!" And he dived under the seat to retrieve his toad as it made one of its frequent bids for freedom.

"Are we still doing D.A. meetings this year, Harry?" asked Luna, who was detaching a pair of psychedelic spectacles from the middle of The Quibbler.

"No point now we've got rid of Umbridge, is there?" said Harry, sitting down. Neville bumped his head against the seat as he emerged from under it. He looked most disappointed.

"I liked the D.A.! I learned loads with you!"

"I enjoyed the meetings too," said Luna serenely. "It was like having friends."

This was one of those uncomfortable things Luna often said and which made Harry feel a squirming mixture of pity and embarrassment. Before he could respond, however, there was a disturbance outside their compartment door; a group of fourth-year girls was whispering and giggling together on the other side of the glass.

"You ask him!"

"No, you!"

"I'll do it!"

And one of them, a bold-looking girl with large dark eyes, a prominent chin, and long black hair pushed her way through the door.

"Hi, Harry. I'm Romilda, Romilda Vane," she said loudly and confidently. "Why don't you join us in our compartment? You don't have to sit with them," she added in a stage whisper, indicating Neville's bottom, which was sticking out from under the seat again as he groped around for Trevor, and Luna, who was now wearing her free Spectrespecs, which gave her the look of a demented, multicoloured owl.

"They're friends of mine," said Harry coldly.

"Oh," said the girl, looking very surprised. "Oh. Okay." And she withdrew, sliding the door closed behind her.

"People expect you to have cooler friends than us," said Luna, once again displaying her knack for embarrassing honesty.

"You are cool," said Harry shortly. "None of them was at the Ministry. They didn't fight with me."

"That's a very nice thing to say," beamed Luna. Then she pushed her Spectrespecs farther up her nose and settled down to read The Quibbler.

"We didn't face him, though," said Neville, emerging from under the seat with fluff and dust in his hair and a resigned-looking Trevor in his hand. "You did. You should hear my gran talk about you. 'That Harry Potter's got more backbone than the whole Ministry of Magic put together!' She'd give anything to have you as a grandson… And she always says how she'd have loved a granddaughter like Hermione too," before adding "From when Rita Skeeter used to write about the two of you being together," when he noticed Harry's confused look.

Harry, remembering Mr. Weasley's earlier comment about him and Hermione sneaking off for an entirely different reason than stalking Malfoy, laughed uncomfortably and changed the subject to OWL results as soon as he could. While Neville recited his grades and wondered aloud whether he would be allowed to take a Transfiguration NEWT, with only an "Acceptable," Harry watched him without really listening. Neville's childhood had been blighted by Voldemort just as much as Harry's had, but Neville had no idea how close he had come to having Harry's destiny. The prophecy could have referred to either of them, yet, for his own inscrutable reasons, Voldemort had chosen to believe that Harry was the one meant. Had Voldemort chosen Neville, it would be Neville sitting opposite Harry bearing the lightning-shaped scar and the weight of the prophecy… Or would it? Would Neville's mother have died to save him, as Lily had died for Harry? Surely she would… But what if she had been unable to stand between her son and Voldemort? Would there then have been no "Chosen One" at all? An empty seat where Neville now sat and a scarless Harry who would have been kissed goodbye by his own mother, not Ron's?

"You all right, Harry? You look funny," said Neville.

Harry started. "Sorry…I…"

"A Wrackspurt got you?" asked Luna sympathetically, peering at Harry through her enormous coloured spectacles.

"I… what?"

"A Wrackspurt…They're invisible. They float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy," she said. "I thought I felt one zooming around in here."

"What is she talking about?" the voice that sounded very much like Hermione's in his head chimed in, just as Luna started flapping her hands at thin air, as though beating off large invisible moths. Harry and Neville caught each other's eyes and hastily began to talk of Quidditch. The weather beyond the train windows was as patchy as it had been all summer; they passed through stretches of the chilling mist, then out into weak, clear sunlight.

It was during one of the clear spells, when the sun was visible almost directly overhead, that Ron and Hermione entered the compartment at last.

"Wish the lunch trolley would hurry up, I'm starving," said Ron longingly, slumping into the seat next to Harry. "Hi, Neville. Hi, Luna. Guess what?" he added, looking directly at Harry. "Malfoy's not doing prefect duty. He's just sitting in his compartment with the other Slytherins, we saw him when we passed."

Harry sat up straight, interested. It was not like Malfoy to pass up the chance to demonstrate his power as prefect, which he had happily abused all the previous year.

"What did he do when he saw you?" he asked, looking from Ron to Hermione, who had filled the vacant seat next to Ron.

"The usual," said Ron indifferently, demonstrating a rude hand gesture. "Not like him, though, is it? Well…that is"— he did the hand gesture again — "but why isn't he out there bullying first years?"

"Dunno," said Harry, but his mind was racing. Didn't this look as though Malfoy had more important things on his mind than bullying younger students?

"Maybe he preferred the Inquisitorial Squad," said Hermione. "Maybe being a prefect seems a bit tame after that."

"I don't think so," said Harry. "I think he's —" But before he could expound on his theory, the compartment door slid open again and a breathless third-year girl stepped inside.

"I'm supposed to deliver these to Neville Longbottom and Harry P-Potter," she faltered, as her eyes met Harry's and she turned scarlet. She was holding out two scrolls of parchment tied with

violet ribbon. Perplexed, Harry and Neville took the scroll addressed to each of them and the girl stumbled back out of the compartment.

"What is it?" Ron demanded, as Harry unrolled his.

"An invitation," said Harry.

Harry, I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C.

Sincerely,

Professor H. E. F. Slughorn

"But what does he want me for?" asked Neville nervously, as though he was expecting detention. "No idea," said Harry, which was not entirely true, though he had no proof yet that his hunch was correct. "Listen," he added, seized by a sudden brain wave, "let's go under the invisibility cloak, then we might get a good look at Malfoy on the way, see what he's up to."

This idea, however, came to nothing. The corridors, which were packed with people on the lookout for the lunch trolley, were impossible to negotiate while wearing the cloak. Harry stowed it regretfully back in his bag, reflecting that it would have been nice to wear it just to avoid all the staring, which seemed to have increased in intensity even since he had last walked down the train.

Every now and then, students would hurtle out of their compartments to get a better look at him. The exception was Cho Chang, who darted into her compartment when she saw Harry coming. As Harry passed the window, he saw her deep in determined conversation with her friend Marietta, who was wearing a very thick layer of makeup that did not entirely obscure the odd formation of pimples still etched across her face. Smirking slightly at Hermione's handiwork, Harry pushed on.

When they reached compartment C, they saw at once that they were not Slughorn's only invitees, although judging by the enthusiasm of Slughorn's welcome, Harry was the most warmly anticipated.

"Harry, m'boy!" said Slughorn, jumping up at the sight of him so that his great velvet-covered belly seemed to fill all the remaining space in the compartment. His shiny bald head and great silvery moustache gleamed as brightly in the sunlight as the golden buttons on his waistcoat. "Good to see you, good to see you! And you must be Mr. Longbottom!"

Neville nodded, looking scared. At a gesture from Slughorn, they sat down opposite each other in the only two empty seats, which were nearest the door. Harry glanced around at their fellow guests. He recognised a Slytherin from their year, a tall black boy with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes; there were also two seventh-year boys Harry did not know and, squashed in the corner beside Slughorn and looking as though she was not entirely sure how she had got there, Ginny.

"Now, do you know everyone?" Slughorn asked Harry and Neville. "Blaise Zabini is in your year, of course —" Zabini did not make any sign of recognition or greeting, nor did Harry or Neville: Gryffindor and Slytherin students loathed each other on principle.

"This is Cormac McLaggen, perhaps you've come across each other —? No?" McLaggen, a large, wiry-haired youth, raised a hand, and Harry and Neville nodded back at him.

"—and this is Marcus Belby, I don't know whether —?" Belby, who was thin and nervous-looking, gave a strained smile. "— and this charming young lady tells me she knows you!" Slughorn finished.

Ginny grimaced at Harry and Neville from behind Slughorn's back.

"Well now, this is most pleasant," said Slughorn cozily. "A chance to get to know you all a little better. Here, take a napkin. I've packed my own lunch; the trolley, as I remember it, is heavy on liquorice wands, and a poor old man's digestive system isn't quite up to such things… Pheasant, Belby?"

Belby accepted what looked like half a cold pheasant.

"I was just telling young Marcus here that I had the pleasure of teaching his Uncle Damocles," Slughorn told Harry and Neville, now passing around a basket of rolls. "Outstanding wizard, outstanding, and his Order of Merlin most well-deserved. Do you see much of your uncle, Marcus?"

Unfortunately, Belby had just taken a large mouthful of pheasant; in his haste to answer Slughorn he swallowed too fast, turned purple, and began to choke.

"Anapneo," said Slughorn calmly, pointing his wand at Belby, whose airway seemed to clear at once.

"Not…not much of him, no," gasped Belby, his eyes streaming.

"Well, of course, I daresay he's busy," said Slughorn, looking questioningly at Belby. "I doubt he invented the Wolfsbane Potion without considerable hard work!"

"I suppose…" said Belby, who seemed afraid to take another bite of pheasant until he was sure that Slughorn had finished with him. "Er…he and my dad don't get on very well, you see, so I don't really know much about…"

His voice tailed away as Slughorn gave him a cold smile and turned to McLaggen instead.

"Now, you, Cormac," said Slughorn, "I happen to know you see a lot of your Uncle Tiberius, because he has a rather splendid picture of the two of you hunting nogtails in, I think, Norfolk?"

"Oh, yeah, that was fun, that was," said McLaggen. "We went with Bertie Higgs and Rufus Scrimgeour; this was before he became Minister, obviously —"

"Ah, you know Bertie and Rufus too?" beamed Slughorn, now offering around a small tray of pies; somehow, Belby was missed out. "Now tell me…"

It was as Harry had suspected. Everyone here seemed to have been invited because they were connected to somebody well-known or influential — everyone except Ginny. Zabini, who was interrogated after McLaggen, turned out to have a famously beautiful witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out, she had been married seven times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold). It was Neville's turn next: This was a very uncomfortable ten minutes, for Neville's parents, well-known Aurors, had been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange and a couple of Death Eater cronies. At the end of Neville's interview, Harry had the impression that Slughorn was reserving judgment on Neville, yet to see whether he had any of his parents' flair.

"And now," said Slughorn, shifting massively in his seat with the air of a compere introducing his star act. "Harry Potter! Where to begin? I feel I barely scratched the surface when we met over the summer!"

He contemplated Harry for a moment as though he was a particularly large and succulent piece of pheasant, then said, "'The Chosen One,' they're calling you now!"

Harry said nothing. Belby, McLaggen, and Zabini were all staring at him.

"Of course," said Slughorn, watching Harry closely, "there have been rumours for years…I remember when…well — after that terrible night — Lily — James — and you survived — and the word was that you must have powers beyond the ordinary —"

Zabini gave a tiny little cough that was clearly supposed to indicate amused skepticism. An angry voice burst out from behind Slughorn.

"Yeah, Zabini, because you're so talented…at posing…"

"Oh dear!" chuckled Slughorn comfortably, looking around at Ginny, who was glaring at Zabini around Slughorn's great belly. "You want to be careful, Blaise! I saw this young lady perform the most marvellous Bat-Bogey Hex as I was passing her carriage! I wouldn't cross her!"

Zabini merely looked contemptuous.

"Anyway," said Slughorn, turning back to Harry. "Such rumours this summer. Of course, one doesn't know what to believe, the Prophet has been known to print inaccuracies, make mistakes — but there seems little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there was quite a disturbance at the Ministry and that you were there in the thick of it all!"

Harry, who could not see any way out of this without flatly lying, nodded but still said nothing. Slughorn beamed at him.

"So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so fond — you were there, then? But the rest of the stories — so sensational, of course, one doesn't know quite what to believe — this fabled prophecy, for instance —"

"We never heard a prophecy," said Neville, turning geranium pink as he said it.

"That's right," said Ginny staunchly. "Neville and I were both there too, and all this 'Chosen One' rubbish is just the Prophet making things up as usual."

"You were both there too, were you?" said Slughorn with great interest, looking from Ginny to Neville, but both of them sat clam-like before his encouraging smile.

"Yes…well…it is true that the Prophet often exaggerates, of course…" Slughorn said, sounding a little disappointed. "I remember dear Gwenog telling me – Gwenog Jones, I mean, of course, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies –"

He meandered off into a long-winded reminiscence, but Harry had the distinct impression that Slughorn had not finished with him, and that he had not been convinced by Neville and Ginny. The afternoon wore on with more anecdotes about illustrious wizards Slughorn had taught, all of whom had been delighted to join what he called the "Slug Club" at Hogwarts. Harry could not wait to leave, but couldn't see how to do so politely. Finally the train emerged from yet another long misty stretch into a red sunset, and Slughorn looked around, blinking in the twilight.

"Good gracious, it's getting dark already! I didn't notice that they'd lit the lamps! You'd better go and change into your robes, all of you. McLaggen, you must drop by and borrow that book on nogtails. Harry, Blaise – any time you're passing. Same goes for you, miss," he twinkled at Ginny. "Well, off you go, off you go!"

As he pushed past Harry into the darkening corridor, Zabini shot him a filthy look that Harry returned with interest. He, Ginny, and Neville followed Zabini back along the train.

"I'm glad that's over," muttered Neville. "Strange man, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he is a bit," said Harry, his eyes on Zabini. "How come you ended up in there, Ginny?"

"He saw me hex Zacharias Smith," said Ginny. "You remember that idiot from Hufflepuff who was in the D.A.? He kept on and on asking about what happened at the Ministry and in the end he annoyed me so much I hexed him — when Slughorn came in I thought I was going to get detention, but he just thought it was; it really good hex and invited me to lunch! Mad, eh?"

"Better reason for inviting someone than because their mother's infamous," said Harry, scowling at the back of Zabini's head, "or because their uncle —"

But he broke off. An idea had just occurred to him, a reckless but potentially wonderful idea…In a minute's time, Zabini was going to reenter the Slytherin sixth-year compartment and Malfoy would be sitting there, thinking himself unheard by anybody except fellow Slytherins… If Harry could only enter, unseen, behind him, what might he not see or hear? True, there was little of the journey left… Hogsmeade Station had to be less than half an hour away, judging by the wildness of the scenery flashing by the windows… but nobody else seemed prepared to take Harry's suspicions seriously, so it was down to him to prove them.

"I'll see you two later," said Harry under his breath, pulling out his invisibility cloak and flinging it over himself.

"But what're you —?" asked Neville. "Later!" whispered Harry, darting after Zabini as quietly as possible, though the rattling of the train made such caution almost pointless.

The corridors were almost completely empty now. Nearly everyone had returned to their carriages to change into their school robes and pack up their possessions. Though he was as close as he could get to Zabini without touching him, Harry was not quick enough to slip into the compartment when Zabini opened the door. Zabini was already sliding it shut when Harry hastily stuck out his foot to prevent it closing.

"What's wrong with this thing?" said Zabini angrily as he smashed the sliding door repeatedly into Harry's foot. Harry seized the door and pushed it open, hard; Zabini, still clinging on to the handle, toppled over sideways into Gregory Goyle's lap, and in the ensuing ruckus, Harry darted into the compartment, leapt onto Zabini's temporarily empty seat, and hoisted himself up into the luggage rack. It was fortunate that Goyle and Zabini were snarling at each other, drawing all eyes onto them, for Harry was quite sure his feet and ankles had been revealed as the cloak had flapped around them; indeed, for one horrible moment he thought he saw Malfoy's eyes follow his trainer as it whipped upward out of sight. But then Goyle slammed the door shut and flung Zabini off him; Zabini collapsed into his own seat looking ruffled, Vincent Crabbe returned to his comic, and Malfoy, sniggering, lay back down across two seats with his head in Pansy Parkinson's lap. Harry lay curled uncomfortably under the cloak to ensure that every inch of him remained hidden, and watched Pansy stroke the sleek blond hair off Malfoy's forehead, smirking as she did so, as though anyone would have loved to have been in her place. The lanterns swinging from the carriage ceiling cast a bright light over the scene: Harry could read every word of Crabbe's comic directly below him.

"So, Zabini," said Malfoy, "what did Slughorn want?"

"Just trying to make up to well-connected people," said Zabini, who was still glowering at Goyle. "Not that he managed to find many."

This information did not seem to please Malfoy. "Who else had he invited?" he demanded.

"McLaggen from Gryffindor," said Zabini.

"Oh yeah, his uncle's big in the Ministry," said Malfoy.

"— someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw…"

"Not him, he's a prat!" said Pansy.

"— and Longbottom, Potter, and that Weasley girl," finished Zabini. Malfoy sat up very suddenly, knocking Pansy's hand aside.

"He invited Longbottom?"

"Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there," said Zabini indifferently.

"What's Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?"

Zabini shrugged.

"Potter, precious Potter, obviously he wanted a look at 'the Chosen One,'" sneered Malfoy, "but that Weasley girl! What's so special about her?"

"A lot of boys like her," said Pansy, watching Malfoy out of the corner of her eyes for his reaction. "Even you think she's good-looking, don't you, Blaise, and we all know how hard you are to please!

"I wouldn't touch a filthy little blood traitor like her whatever she looked like," said Zabini coldly, and Pansy looked pleased. Malfoy sank back across her lap and allowed her to resume the stroking of his hair.

"Well, I pity Slughorn's taste. Maybe he's going a bit senile. Shame, my father always said he was a good wizard in his day. My father used to be a bit of a favourite of his. Slughorn probably hasn't heard I'm on the train, or —"

"I wouldn't bank on an invitation," said Zabini. "He asked me about Nott's father when I first arrived. They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he heard he'd been caught at the Ministry he didn't look happy, and Nott didn't get an invitation, did he? I don't think Slughorn's interested in Death Eaters."

Malfoy looked angry, but forced out a singularly humourless laugh.

"Well, who cares what he's interested in? What is he, when you come down to it? Just some stupid teacher." Malfoy yawned ostentatiously. "I mean, I might not even be at Hogwarts next year, what's it matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or not?"

"What do you mean, you might not be at Hogwarts next year?" said Pansy indignantly, ceasing grooming Malfoy at once.

"Well, you never know," said Malfoy with the ghost of a smirk. "I might have — er — moved on to bigger and better things."

Crouched in the luggage rack under his cloak, Harry's heart began to race. What would Ron and Hermione say about this? Crabbe and Goyle were gawping at Malfoy; apparently they had had no inkling of any plans to move on to bigger and better things. Even Zabini had allowed a look of curiosity to mar his haughty features. Pansy resumed the slow stroking of Malfoy s hair, looking dumbfounded.

"Do you mean — Him?"

Malfoy shrugged.

"Mother wants me to complete my education, but personally, I don't see it as that important these days. I mean, think about it… When the Dark Lord takes over, is he going to care how many O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s anyone's got? Of course he isn't. It'll be all about the kind of service he received, the level of devotion he was shown."

"And you think you'll be able to do something for him?" asked Zabini scathingly. "Sixteen years old and not even fully qualified yet?"

"I've just said, haven't I? Maybe he doesn't care if I'm qualified. Maybe the job he wants me to do isn't something that you need to be qualified for," said Malfoy quietly. Crabbe and Goyle were both sitting with their mouths open like gargoyles. Pansy was gazing down at Malfoy as though she had never seen anything so awe-inspiring.

"I can see Hogwarts," said Malfoy, clearly relishing the effect he had created as he pointed out of the blackened window. "We'd better get our robes on."

Harry was so busy staring at Malfoy, he did not notice Goyle reaching up for his trunk; as he swung it down, it hit Harry hard on the side of the head. He let out an involuntary gasp of pain, and Malfoy looked up at the luggage rack, frowning. Harry was not afraid of Malfoy, but he still did not much like the idea of being discovered hiding under his invisibility cloak by a group of unfriendly Slytherins. Eyes still watering and head still throbbing, he drew his wand, careful not to disarrange the cloak, and waited, breath held. To his relief, Malfoy seemed to decide that he had imagined the noise; he pulled on his robes like the others, locked his trunk, and as the train slowed to a jerky crawl, fastened a thick new traveling cloak round his neck.

Harry could see the corridors filling up again and hoped that Hermione and Ron would take his things out onto the platform for him; he was stuck where he was until the compartment had quite emptied. At last, with a final lurch, the train came to a complete halt. Goyle threw the door open and muscled his way out into a crowd of second years, punching them aside; Crabbe and Zabini followed.

"You go on," Malfoy told Pansy, who was waiting for him with her hand held out as though hoping he would hold it. "I just want to check something."

Pansy left. Now Harry and Malfoy were alone in the compartment. People were filing past, descending onto the dark platform. Malfoy moved over to the compartment door and let down the blinds, so that people in the corridor beyond could not peer in. He then bent down over his trunk and opened it again. Harry peered down over the edge of the luggage rack, his heart pumping a little faster. What had Malfoy wanted to hide from Pansy? Was he about to see the mysterious broken object it was so important to mend?

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Without warning, Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry, who was instantly paralysed. As though in slow motion, he toppled out of the luggage rack and fell, with an agonising, floor-shaking crash, at Malfoy's feet, the invisibility cloak trapped beneath him, his whole body revealed with his legs still curled absurdly into the cramped kneeling position. He couldn't move a muscle; he could only gaze up at Malfoy, who smiled broadly.

"I thought so," he said jubilantly. "I heard Goyle's trunk hit you. And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back…" His eyes lingered for a moment upon Harry's trainers – the fresh white ones Hermione had bought him for his birthday. "You didn't hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I've got you here…"

And he stamped, hard, on Harry's face. Harry felt his nose break; blood spurted everywhere.

"That's for my father. Now, let's see…"

Malfoy dragged the cloak out from under Harry's immobilised body and threw it over him.

"I don't reckon they'll find you till the trains back in London," he said quietly. "See you around, Potter…or not."

And taking care to tread on Harry's fingers, Malfoy left the compartment.

Chapter 4: 4: Chapter Eight – Snape Victorious [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Harry could not move a muscle. He lay there beneath the invisibility cloak feeling the blood from his nose flow, hot and wet, over his face, listening to the voices and footsteps in the corridor beyond. His immediate thought was that someone would surely check the compartments before the train departed again. But at once came the dispiriting realisation that even if somebody looked into the compartment, he would be neither seen nor heard. His best hope was that somebody else would walk in and step on him.

Harry had never hated Malfoy more than as he lay there, like an absurd turtle on its back, blood dripping sickeningly into his open mouth. What a stupid situation to have landed himself in…and now the last few footsteps were dying away; everyone was shuffling along the dark platform outside; he could hear the scraping of trunks and loud babble of talk.

He thought desperately that Hermione, who seemed so good at knowing Harry's thoughts, would realise something was wrong beforehand, but with a sinking feeling he remembered her and Ron had their prefect duties to fulfil once it came to getting people off of the train. Once they arrived at Hogwarts and took their places in the Great Hall, looked up and down the Gryffindor table a few times, and finally realised that he was not there, he, no doubt, would be halfway back to London.

He tried to make a sound, even a grunt, but it was impossible. Then he remembered that some wizards, like Dumbledore, could perform spells without speaking, so he tried to summon his wand, which had fallen out of his hand, by saying the words "Accio Wand!" over and over again in his head, but nothing happened.

He thought he could hear the rustling of the trees that surrounded the lake, and the far-off hoot of an owl, but no hint of a search being made or even – he despised himself slightly for hoping it – panicked voices wondering where Harry Potter had gone. A feeling of hopelessness spread through him as he imagined the convoy of thestral-drawn carriages trundling up to the school and the muffled yells of laughter issuing from whichever carriage Malfoy was riding in, where he could be recounting his attack on Harry to Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson.

The train lurched, causing Harry to roll over onto his side. Now he was staring at the dusty underside of the seats instead of the ceiling. The floor began to vibrate as the engine roared into life. The Express was leaving and nobody knew he was still on it…

Then he felt his invisibility cloak fly off him and a voice overhead said, "Wotcher, Harry."

There was a flash of red light and Harry's body unfroze; he was able to push himself into a more dignified sitting position, hastily wipe the blood off his bruised race with the back of his hand, and raise his head to look up at Tonks, who was holding the invisibility cloak she had just pulled away.

"We'd better get out of here, quickly," she said, as the train windows became obscured with steam and they began to move out of the station. "Come on, we'll jump."

Harry hurried after her into the corridor. She pulled open the train door and leapt onto the platform, which seemed to be sliding underneath them as the train gathered momentum. He followed her, staggered a little on landing, then straightened up in time to see the gleaming scarlet steam engine pick up speed, round the corner, and disappear from view.

The cold night air was soothing on his throbbing nose. Tonks was looking at him; he felt angry and embarrassed that he had been discovered in such a ridiculous position. Silently she handed him back the invisibility cloak.

"Who did it?"

"Draco Malfoy," said Harry bitterly. "Thanks for…well…"

"No problem," said Tonks, without smiling. From what Harry could see in the darkness, she was as mousy-haired and miserable-looking as she had been when he had met her at the Burrow. "I can fix your nose if you stand still."

Harry did not think much of this idea; he had been intending to visit Madam Pomfrey, the matron, in whom he had a little more confidence when it came to Healing Spells, but it seemed rude to say this, so he stayed stock-still and closed his eyes, "Episkey" said Tonks.

Harry's nose felt very hot, and then very cold. He raised a hand and felt gingerly. It seemed to be mended. "Thanks a lot!"

"You'd better put that cloak back on, and we can walk up to the school," said Tonks, still unsmiling. As Harry swung the cloak back over himself, she waved her wand; an immense silvery four-legged creature erupted from it and streaked off into the darkness.

"Was that a Patronus?" asked Harry, who had seen Dumbledore send messages like this.

"Yeh, I'm sending word to the castle that I've got you or they'll worry. Come on, we'd better hurry."

They set off toward the lane that led to the school.

"How did you find me?"

"I noticed you hadn't left the train and I knew you had that cloak. I thought you might be hiding for some reason. When I saw the blinds were drawn down on that compartment I thought I'd check."

"But what are you doing here, anyway?" Harry asked.

"I'm stationed in Hogsmeade now, to give the school extra protection," said Tonks.

"Is it just you who's stationed up here, or —?"

"No. Proudfoot, Savage, and Dawlish are here too."

"Dawlish, that Auror Dumbledore attacked last year?"

"That's right."

They trudged up the dark, deserted lane, following the freshly made carriage tracks. Harry looked sideways at Tonks under his cloak. Last year she had been inquisitive – to the point of being a little annoying at times. She had laughed easily, she had made jokes. Now she seemed older and much more serious and purposeful. Was this all the effect of what had happened at the Ministry? He reflected uncomfortably that Hermione would have suggested he say something consoling about Sirius to her, that it hadn't been her fault at all, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He was far from blaming her for Sirius's death; it was no more her fault than anyone else's – and much less than his – but he did not like talking about Sirius if he could avoid it. And so they tramped on through the cold night in silence, Tonks's long cloak whispering on the ground behind them.

Having always travelled there by carriage, Harry had never before appreciated just how far Hogwarts was from Hogsmeade Station. With great relief he finally saw the tall pillars on either side of the gates, each topped with a winged boar. He was cold, he was hungry and he was

quite keen to leave this new, gloomy Tonks behind. But when he put out a hand to push open the gates, he found them chained shut.

"Alohomora!" he said confidently, pointing his wand at the padlock, but nothing happened.

"That won't work on these," said Tonks. "Dumbledore bewitched them himself."

Harry looked around, "I could climb a wall," he suggested.

"No, you couldn't," said Tonks flatly. "Anti-intruder jinxes on all of them. Security's been tightened a hundredfold this summer."

"Well then," said Harry, starting to feel annoyed at her lack of helpfulness, "I suppose I'll just have to sleep out here and wait for morning."

"Someone's coming down for you," said Tonks, "Look."

A lantern was bobbing at the distant foot of the castle. Harry was so pleased to see it he felt he could even endure Filch's wheezy criticisms of his tardiness and rants about how his timekeeping would improve with the regular application of thumbscrews. It was not until the glowing yellow light was ten feet away from them, and had pulled off his invisibility cloak so that he could be seen, that he recognised, with a rush of pure loathing, the up-lit hooked nose and long, black, greasy hair of Severus Snape.

"Well, well, well," sneered Snape, taking out his wand and tapping the padlock once, so that the chains snaked backward and the gates creaked open. "Nice of you to turn up, Potter, although you have evidently decided that the wearing of school robes would detract from your appearance."

"I couldn't change, I didn't have my —" Harry began, but Snape cut across him.

"There is no need to wait, Nymphadora, Potter is quite — ah — safe in my hands."

"I meant for Hagrid to get the message," said Tonks, frowning.

"Hagrid was late for the start-of-term feast, just like Potter here, so I took it instead. And incidentally," said Snape, standing back to allow Harry to pass him, "I was interested to see your new Patronus." He shut the gates in her face with a loud clang and tapped the chains with his wand again, so that they slithered, clinking, back into place.

"I think you were better off with the old one," said Snape, the malice in his voice unmistakable. "The new one looks… weak."

As Snape swung the lantern about, Harry saw, fleetingly, a look of shock and anger on Tonks's face. Then she was covered in darkness once more.

"Good night," Harry called to her over his shoulder, as he began the walk up to the school with Snape. "Thanks for…everything."

"See you, Harry."

Snape did not speak for a minute or so. Harry felt as though his body was generating waves of hatred so powerful that it seemed incredible that Snape could not feel them burning him. He had loathed Snape from their first encounter, but Snape had placed himself forever and irrevocably beyond the possibility of Harry's forgiveness by his attitude toward Sirius. Whatever Dumbledore said, Harry had had time to think over the summer, and had concluded that Snape's snide remarks to Sirius about remaining safely hidden while the rest of the Order of the Phoenix were off fighting Voldemort had probably been a powerful factor in Sirius rushing off to the Ministry the night that he had died. Harry clung to this notion, because it enabled him to blame Snape, which felt satisfying, and also because he knew that if anyone was not sorry that Sirius was dead, it was the man now striding next to him in the darkness.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor for lateness, I think," said Snape. "And, let me see, another twenty for your muggle attire. You know, I don't believe any House has ever been in negative figures this early in the term: We haven't even started pudding. You might have set a record, Potter."

The fury and hatred bubbling inside Harry seemed to blaze white-hot, but he would rather have been immobilised all the way back to London than tell Snape why he was late.

"I suppose you wanted to make an entrance, did you?" Snape continued. "And with no flying car available you decided that bursting into the Great Hall halfway through the feast ought to create a dramatic effect."

Still Harry remained silent, though he thought his chest might explode. He knew that Snape had come to fetch him for this, for the few minutes when he could needle and torment Harry without anyone else listening. They reached the castle steps at last and as the great oaken front doors

swung open into the vast flagged entrance hall, a burst of talk and laughter and of tinkling plates and glasses greeted them through the doors standing open into the Great Hail. Harry wondered whether he could slip his invisibility cloak back on, thereby gaining his seat at the long Gryffindor table without being noticed. As though he had read Harry's mind, however, Snape said, "No cloak. You can walk in so that everyone sees you, which is what you wanted, I'm sure."

Harry turned on the spot and marched straight through the open doors; anything to get away from Snape. The Great Hall with its four long House tables and its staff table set at the top of the room was decorated as usual with floating candles that made the plates below glitter and glow. He spotted Hermione, who appeared to be hitting Ron with a newspaper. He sped along the benches, and could hear her over the din as he approached.

"…Your best friend is missing and all you can do is stuff your face!"

Ron cowered, before looking up and noticing Harry. "No he's not! Turn around you lunatic."

Hermione spun in her seat, just as Harry slid in between her and Ron, people on the other tables only just seeming to realise he'd arrived.

"Harry!" Hermione gasped, grabbing his sleeve. "Harry I – we," she cast a nasty glance at Ron, "were so worried –"

"Blimey, what've you done to your face?" interjected Ron, goggling at him – now along with everyone else in the vicinity.

"Why, what's wrong with it?" said Harry, grabbing a spoon and squinting at his distorted reflection.

"You're covered in blood!" said Hermione frantically. "Come here —" holding his chin, she raised her wand, said "Tergeo!" and siphoned off the dried blood. For a brief moment, Harry was transfixed by the flecks of gold in her panicked brown eyes.

"Err… Thanks," he said after a beat, feeling his now clean face. "How's my nose looking?"

"Normal," said Hermione anxiously, who was still grasping at his arm. "Why shouldn't it? Harry, what happened? I've been terrified!"

"I'll tell you later," said Harry curtly. He was very conscious that Ginny, Neville, Dean, and Seamus were listening in; even Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, had come floating along the bench to eavesdrop.

"But —" said Hermione.

"Not now, Hermione," said Harry, in a darkly significant voice, and she quickly nodded her acquiescence. He hoped very much that they would all assume he had been involved in something heroic, preferably involving a couple of Death Eaters and a dementor. Of course, Malfoy would spread the story as wide as he could, but there was always a chance it wouldn't reach too many Gryffindor ears.

He reached for a couple of chicken legs and a handful of chips, but before he could take them they vanished, to be replaced with puddings.

"Well, Ron brought your trunk up. You missed the Sorting, anyway," said Hermione, as Ron dived for a large chocolate gateau.

"Hat say anything interesting?" asked Harry, taking a piece of treacle tart.

"More of the same, really… advising us all to unite in the face of our enemies, you know."

"Easy for the hat to say, it's a hat, innit," said Ron between frenzied mouthfuls of gateau.

"Dumbledore mention Voldemort at all?" Harry asked Hermione.

"Not yet, but he always saves his proper speech for after the feast doesn't he? It can't be long now."

"Snape said Hagrid was late for the feast —"

"You've seen Snape? How come?" asked Ron.

"Bumped into him," said Harry evasively.

"Hagrid was only a few minutes late," said Hermione. "Look, he's waving at you, Harry."

Harry looked up at the staff table and grinned at Hagrid, who was indeed waving at him. Hagrid had never quite managed to comport himself with the dignity of Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House, the top of whose head came up to somewhere between Hagrid's elbow and shoulder as they were sitting side by side, and who was looking disapprovingly at this enthusiastic greeting. Harry was surprised to see the Divination teacher, Professor Trelawney, sitting on Hagrid's other side; she rarely left her tower room, and he had never seen her at the start-of-term feast before. She looked as odd as ever, glittering with beads and trailing shawls, her eyes magnified to an enormous size by her spectacles. Having always considered her a bit of a fraud, Harry had been shocked to discover at the end of the previous term that it had been she who had made the prediction that caused Lord Voldemort to kill Harry's parents and attack Harry himself. The knowledge made him even less eager to find himself in her company, thankfully, this year he would be dropping Divination. Her great beacon-like eyes swivelled in his direction; he hastily looked away toward the Slytherin table. Draco Malfoy was miming the shattering of a nose to raucous laughter and applause. Harry dropped his gaze to his treacle tart, his insides burning again. What he would give to fight Malfoy one-on-one…

"So what did Professor Slughorn want?" Hermione asked.

"To know what really happened at the Ministry," said Harry.

"Him and everyone else here," sniffed Hermione. "People were interrogating us about it on the train, weren't they, Ron?"

"Yeah," said Ron. "All wanting to know if you really are 'the Chosen One' —"

"There has been much talk on that very subject even amongst the ghosts," interrupted Nearly Headless Nick, inclining his barely connected head toward Harry so that it wobbled dangerously on its ruff. "I am considered something of a Potter authority; it is widely known that we are friendly. I have assured the spirit community that I will not pester you for information, however. 'Harry Potter knows that he can confide in me with complete confidence,' I told them. 'I would rather die than betray his trust.'"

"That's not saying much, seeing as you're already dead," Ron observed.

"Once again, you show all the sensitivity of a blunt axe," said Nearly Headless Nick in affronted tones, and he rose into the air and glided back toward the far end of the Gryffindor table just as Dumbledore got to his feet at the staff table. The talk and laughter echoing around the Hall died away almost instantly.

"The very best of evenings to you!" he said, smiling broadly, his arms opened wide as though to embrace the whole room.

"What happened to his hand?" gasped Hermione. She was not the only one who had noticed. Dumbledore's right hand was as blackened and dead-looking as it had been on the night he had come to fetch Harry from the Dursley's. Dumbledore, interpreting the whispers in the room correctly, merely smiled and shook his purple-and-gold sleeve over his injury.

"Nothing to worry about," he said airily. "Now…to our new students, welcome, to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you…"

"His hand was like that when I saw him over the summer," Harry leant back and whispered to Hermione. "I thought he'd have cured it by now, though… or Madam Pomfrey would've done."

"It looks as if it's died," said Hermione into Harry's ear, her expression nauseated. "But there are some injuries you can't cure…old curses…and there are poisons without antidotes…"

"…and Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to say that there is a blanket ban on any joke items bought at the shop called Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes." Dumbledore's speech continued.

"Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch teams should give their names to their Heads of House as usual. We are also looking for new Quidditch commentators, who should do likewise. We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year, Professor Slughorn"— Slughorn stood up, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight, his big waistcoated belly casting the table into shadow — "is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master."

"Potions?"

"Potions?"

The word echoed all over the Hall as people wondered wheel they had heard right.

"Potions?" said Ron, turning to stare Harry. "But you said —"

"Professor Snape, meanwhile," said Dumbledore, raising voice so that it carried over all the muttering, "will be taking the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."

"No!" said Harry, so loudly that many heads turned in his direction. He did not care; he was staring up at the staff table, incensed. How could Snape be given the Defence Against the Dark Arts job after all this time? Hadn't it been widely known for years that Dumbledore did not trust him to do it?

"But Harry, you said that Slughorn was going to be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts!" said Hermione.

"I thought he was!" said Harry, racking his brains to remember when Dumbledore had told him this, but now that he came to think of it, he was unable to recall Dumbledore ever telling him what Slughorn would be teaching. Snape, who was sitting on Dumbledore's right, did not stand up his mention of his name; he merely raised a hand in lazy acknowledgment of the applause from the Slytherin table, yet Harry was sure he could detect a look of triumph on the features he loathed so much. "Well, there's one good thing," he said savagely. "Snape'll be gone by the end of the year."

"What do you mean?" asked Ron.

"That job's jinxed. No one's lasted more than a year…Quirrell actually died doing it…Personally, I'm going to keep my fingers crossed for another death…"

"Harry!" said Hermione, shocked and reproachful.

"He might just go back to teaching Potions at the end of the year," said Ron reasonably. "That Slughorn bloke might not want to stay long-term. Moody didn't."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were not the only ones who had been talking; the whole Hall had erupted in a buzz of conversation at the news that Snape had finally achieved his heart's desire. Seemingly oblivious to the sensational nature of the news he had just imparted, Dumbledore said nothing more about staff appointments, but waited a few seconds to ensure that the silence was absolute before continuing. "Now, as everybody in this Hall knows, Lord Voldemort and his followers are once more at large and gaining in strength." The silence seemed to tauten and strain as Dumbledore spoke. Harry glanced at Malfoy. Malfoy was not looking at Dumbledore, but making his fork hover in midair with his wand, as though he found the headmaster's words unworthy of his attention.

"I cannot emphasise strongly enough how dangerous the present situation is, and how much care each of us at Hogwarts must take to ensure that we remain safe. The castle's magical fortifications have been strengthened over the summer, we are protected in new and more powerful ways, but we must still guard scrupulously against carelessness on the part of any student or member of staff. I urge you, therefore, to abide by any security restrictions that your

teachers might impose upon you, however irksome you might find them — in particular, the rule that you are not to be out of after hours. I implore you, should you notice anything strange or suspicious within or outside the castle, to report it to a member of staff immediately. I trust you to conduct yourselves, always, with the utmost regard for your own and others' safety."

Dumbledore's blue eyes swept over the students before he smiled once more. "But now, your beds await, as warm and comfortable as you could possibly wish, and I know that your top priority is to be well-rested for your lessons tomorrow. Let us, therefore, say good night. Pip pip!"

With the usual deafening scraping noise, the benches moved back and the hundreds of students began to file out of the Great Hall toward their dormitories. Harry, who was in no hurry at all to leave with the gawping crowd, nor to get near enough to Malfoy to allow him to retell the story of the nose-stamping, lagged behind, pretending to retie the lace on his trainer, allowing most of Gryffindors to draw ahead of him. Hermione had darted ahead to fulfill her prefect's duty of shepherding the first years, but Ron remained with Harry.

"What really happened to your nose?" he asked, once they were at the very back of the throng pressing out of the Hall, and out of earshot of anyone else. Harry told him. It was a mark of the strength of their friendship that Ron did not laugh.

"I saw Malfoy miming something to do with a nose," he said darkly.

"Yeah, well, never mind that," said Harry bitterly. "Listen to what he was saying before he found out I was there…" Harry had expected Ron to be stunned by Malfoy's boasts. With what Harry considered pure pigheadedness, however, Ron was unimpressed.

"Come on, Harry, he was just showing off for Parkinson… What kind of mission would You-Know- Who have given him?"

"How d'you know Voldemort doesn't need someone at Hogwarts? It wouldn't be the first–"

"I wish yeh'd stop sayin' tha name, Harry," said a reproachful voice behind them. Harry looked over his shoulder to see Hagrid shaking his head.

"Dumbledore uses that name," said Harry stubbornly.

"Yeah, well, tha's Dumbledore, innit?" said Hagrid mysteriously. "So how come yeh were late, Harry? I was worried."

"Got held up on the train," said Harry. "Why were you late?"

"I was with Grawp," said Hagrid happily. "Los' track o' the time. He's got a new home up in the mountains now, Dumbledore fixed it — nice big cave. He's much happier than he was in the forest. We were havin' a good chat."

"Really?" said Harry, taking care not to catch Ron's eye; the last time he had met Hagrid's halfbrother, a vicious giant with a talent for ripping up trees by the roots, his vocabulary had comprised five words, two of which he was unable to pronounce properly.

"Oh yeah, he's really come on," said Hagrid proudly. "Yeh'll be amazed. I'm thinkin' o' trainin' him up as me assistant."

Ron snorted loudly, but managed to pass it off as a violent sneeze. They were now standing beside the oak front doors.

"Anyway, I'll see yeh tomorrow, firs' lesson's straight after lunch. Come early an' yeh can say hello ter Buck — I mean, Witherwings!"

Raising an arm in cheery farewell, he headed out of the doors into the darkness. Harry and Ron looked at each other. Harry could tell that Ron was experiencing the same sinking feeling as himself.

"You're not taking Care of Magical Creatures, are you?" Ron shook his head.

"And you're not either, are you?" Harry shook his head too.

"And Hermione," said Ron, "she's not, is she?"

Harry shook his head again. Exactly what Hagrid would say when he realised his three favourite students had given up his subject, he did not like to think.

Chapter 5: 5: Chapter Nine – The Half-Blood Prince [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Harry and Ron met Hermione in the common room before breakfast next morning. Hoping for some support in his theory, Harry lost no time in telling Hermione what he had overheard Malfoy saying on the Hogwarts Express.

"But he was obviously showing off for Parkinson, wasn't he?" interjected Ron quickly, before Hermione could say anything.

"Well," she said uncertainly, "I don't know…It would be like Malfoy to make himself seem more important than he is…but that's a big lie to tell…"

"Exactly," said Harry, thrilled that Hermione finally seemed to be leaning in his direction on the matter, but he could not press the point, because so many people were trying to listen in to his conversation, not to mention staring at him and whispering behind their hands.

"It's rude to point," Ron snapped at a particularly minuscule first-year boy as they joined the queue to climb out of the portrait hole. The boy, who had been muttering something about Harry behind his hand to his friend, promptly turned scarlet and toppled out of the hole in alarm. Ron sniggered. "I love being a sixth year. And we're going to be getting free time this year. Whole periods when we can just sit up here and relax."

"We're going to need that time for studying, Ron!" said Hermione, as they set off down the corridor.

"Yeah, but not today," said Ron. "Today's going to be a real toss, I reckon."

"Hold it!" said Hermione, throwing out an arm and halting a passing fourth year, who was attempting to push past her with a lime-green disk clutched tightly in his hand. "Fanged Frisbees are banned, hand it over," she told him sternly. The scowling boy handed over the snarling Frisbee, ducked under her arm, and took off after his friends. Ron waited for him to vanish, then tugged the Frisbee from Hermione's grip.

"Excellent, I've always wanted one of these." Hermione's remonstration was drowned by a loud giggle; Lavender Brown had apparently found Ron's remark highly amusing. She continued to laugh as she passed them, glancing back at Ron over her shoulder. Ron looked rather pleased with himself.

The ceiling of the Great Hall was serenely blue and streaked with frail, wispy clouds, just like the squares of sky visible through the high mullioned windows. While they tucked into porridge and eggs and bacon, Harry and Ron told Hermione about their embarrassing conversation with Hagrid the previous evening.

"But he can't really think we'd continue Care of Magical Creatures!" she said, looking distressed. "I mean, when has any of us expressed…you know…any enthusiasm?" Harry knew she was thinking of their run-ins with Grawp last year, too.

"That's it, though, innit?" said Ron, swallowing an entire fried egg whole, making Hermione grimace. "We were the ones who made the most effort in classes because we like Hagrid. But he thinks we liked the stupid subject. D'ya reckon anyone's going to go on to N.E.W.T.?"

Neither Harry nor Hermione answered; there was no need. They knew perfectly well that nobody in their year would want to continue Care of Magical Creatures. They avoided Hagrid's eye and returned his cheery wave only half-heartedly when he left the staff table ten minutes later. After they had eaten, they remained in their places, awaiting Professor McGonagall's descent from the staff table. The distribution of class schedules was more complicated than usual this year, for Professor McGonagall needed first to confirm that everybody had achieved the necessary O.W.L. grades to continue with their chosen N.E.W.T.s. Hermione was immediately cleared to continue with Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Herbology, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Potions, and shot off to a first period Ancient Runes class without further ado. Neville took a little longer to sort out; his round face was anxious as Professor McGonagall looked down his application and then consulted his O.W.L results.

"Herbology, fine," she said. "Professor Sprout will be delighted to see you back with an 'Outstanding' O.W.L. And you qualify for Defence Against the Dark Arts with 'Exceeds Expectations.' But the problem is Transfiguration. I'm sorry, Longbottom, but an 'Acceptable' really isn't good enough to continue to N.E.W.T. level. Just don't think you'd be able to cope with the coursework."

Neville hung his head. Professor McGonagall peered at him through her square spectacles. "Why do you want to continue with Transfiguration, anyway? I've never had the impression that you particularly enjoyed it."

Neville looked miserable and muttered something about "my grandmother wants."

"Hmph," snorted Professor McGonagall. "It's high time your grandmother learned to be proud of the grandson she's got, rather than the one she thinks she ought to have – particularly after what happened at the Ministry." Neville turned very pink and blinked confusedly; Professor McGonagall had never paid him a compliment before. "I'm sorry, Longbottom, but I cannot let you into my N.E.W.T. class. I see that you have an 'Exceeds Expectations' in Charms however - why not try for a N.E.W.T. in Charms?"

"My grandmother thinks Charms is a soft option," mumbled Neville.

"Take Charms," said Professor McGonagall, "and I shall drop Augusta a line reminding her that just because she failed her Charms O.W.L, the subject is not necessarily worthless."

Smiling slightly at the look of delighted incredulity on Neville's face, Professor McGonagall tapped a blank schedule with the tip of her wand and handed it, now carrying details of his new classes, to Neville. Professor McGonagall turned next to Parvati Patil, whose first question was whether Firenze, the handsome centaur, was still teaching Divination.

"He and Professor Trelawney are dividing classes between them this year," said Professor McGonagall, a hint of disapproval in her voice; it was common knowledge that she despised the subject of Divination. "The sixth year is being taken by Professor Trelawney." Parvati looked rather disappointed.

"So, Potter, Potter…" said Professor McGonagall, consulting her notes as she turned to Harry. "Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Transfiguration… all fine. I must say, I was pleased with your Transfiguration mark, Potter, very pleased. Now, why haven't you applied to continue with Potions? I thought it was your ambition to become an Auror?"

"It was, but you told me I had to get an 'Outstanding' in my O.W.L, Professor."

"And so you did when Professor Snape was teaching the subject. Professor Slughorn, however, is perfectly happy to accept N.E.W.T. students with 'Exceeds Expectations' at O.W.L. Do you wish to proceed with Potions?"

"Yes," said Harry brightly, and he found himself wishing Hermione had been there to share this moment, given she'd been so crestfallen for him back at the Burrow, "but I didn't buy the books or any ingredients or anything –"

"I'm sure Professor Slughorn will be able to lend you some," said Professor McGonagall.

"Okay, great. Yes, then, definitely."

"Very well, Potter, here is your schedule. Oh, by the way – twenty hopefuls have already put down their names for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. I shall pass the list to you in due course and you can fix up trials at your leisure."

A few minutes later, Ron was cleared to do the same subjects as Harry, and the two of them left the table together. "Look," said Ron delightedly, gazing at his schedule, "we've got a free period now…and after break… and after lunch… excellent."

They returned to the common room, which was empty apart from a half-dozen seventh years, including Katie Bell, the only remaining member of the original Gryffindor Quidditch team that Harry had joined in his first year. "I thought you'd get that, well done," she called over, pointing at the captain badge on Harry's chest. "Tell me when you call trials!"

"Don't be stupid," said Harry, "you don't need to try out, I watched you play for five years…"

"You mustn't start off like that," she said warningly. "For all you know, there's someone much better than me out there. Good teams have been ruined before now because captains just kept playing the old faces, or letting in their friends…"

Ron looked a little uncomfortable and began playing with the Fanged Frisbee Hermione had taken from the fourth-year student. It zoomed around the common room, snarling and attempting to take bites of the tapestry. Crookshanks's yellow eyes followed it and he hissed when it came too close, before eventually getting bored and contenting himself with snuggling up to Harry.

An hour later they reluctantly left the sunlit common room for the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom four floors below. Hermione was already queuing outside, carrying an armful of heavy books and looking put-upon.

"We got so much homework for Runes," she said anxiously when Harry and Ron joined her. "A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and I've got to read these by Wednesday!"

"Shame," yawned Ron.

"You wait, I bet Snape gives us loads," she said resentfully as Harry relieved her of some of the books and placed them in his mainly empty bag. "Thanks, Harry."

"That's not all," Harry said. "Me and Ron get to take Potions this year, turns out Slughorn accepts an 'Exceeds Expectations'."

Without warning, Hermione flung herself at him. "Oh, Harry! I'm so happy for you! You can still be an Auror!"

Harry, suddenly very aware of several pairs of eyes on them, felt a blush creep up his neck, but returned her hug, grinning "yeh, I guess so!"

Hermione pulled back, before turning to Ron, whose features had darkened slightly.

"Oh, and Ron, it'll be so good to have you bo–"

The classroom door opened as she spoke, and Snape stepped into the corridor, his sallow face framed as ever by two curtains of greasy black hair. Silence fell over the queue immediately. Harry was almost glad to see the slimy git, because Ron's expression had not lightened at all.

"Inside," Snape drawled, snapping Harry out of his line of thought. He looked around as they entered. Snape had imposed his personality upon the room already; it was gloomier than usual, as curtains had been drawn over the windows, and was lit by candlelight. New pictures adorned the walls, many of them showing people who appeared to be in pain, sporting grisly injuries or strangely contorted body parts. Nobody spoke as they settled down, looking around at the shadowy, gruesome pictures.

"I have not asked you to take out your books," said Snape, closing the door and moving to face the class from behind his desk; Harry, sat with Ron, watched Hermione hastily drop her copy of Confronting the Faceless back into her bag and stow it under her chair – a slight redness to her cheeks, her brown hair almost shining gold in the one faint ray of sunlight creeping through a small gap in the curtains –

"I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest… attention – that means you too, Potter." Harry jumped, and realised he must've been staring. "Of course, I am sure you believe that you already know more about this subject than is required, Potter? Since you seemed to find Miss –"

Harry saw a gleam in Snape's eye, but he wouldn't give the git chance to embarrass him further. He wasn't even quite sure what had just happened himself.

"No, Sir, sorry," Harry said quickly, avoiding Hermione's questioning look.

Snape glared at him, before returning to address the room.

"You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe."

You believe…like you haven't watched them all come and go, hoping you'd be next, thought Harry scathingly.

"Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be more advanced."

Snape set off around the edge of the room, speaking now in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to keep him in view.

"The dark arts," said Snape, "are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible."

Harry stared at Snape. It was surely one thing to respect the dark arts as a dangerous enemy, another to speak of them, as Snape was doing, with a loving caress in his voice?

"Your defences," said Snape, a little louder, "must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures" – he indicated a few of them as he swept past - "give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse" – he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly shrieking in agony – "feel the Dementor's Kiss" – a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall - "or provoke the aggression of the Inferius" - a bloody mass upon ground.

"Has an Inferius been seen, then?" said Parvati Patil in a high pitched voice. "Is it definite, is he using them?"

"The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past," said Snape, "which means you would be well advised to assume he might use them again. Now…" He set off again around the other side of the classroom toward his desk, and again, they watched him as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind him., "…you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of non-verbal spells. What is the advantage of a non-verbal spell?"

Hermione's hand shot into the air. Snape took his time looking around at everybody else, making sure he had no choice, before saying curtly, "Very well – Granger?"

"Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform," said Hermione, "which gives you a split-second advantage."

"An answer copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six," said Snape dismissively. Over in the corner, Malfoy sniggered. Harry's anger levels rose. Hermione's answer had been perfect and deserved credit. "But correct in the essentials. Yes, those who progress in using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell- casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some" – his gaze lingered maliciously upon Harry – "lack."

Harry knew Snape was thinking of their disastrous Occlumency lessons of the previous year. He refused to drop his gaze, but glowered back until Snape looked away.

"You will now divide," Snape went on, "into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence. Carry on."

Although Snape did not know it, Harry had taught at least half the class – everyone who had been a member of the D.A. – how to perform a shield charm the previous year. None of them had ever cast the charm without speaking, however. A reasonable amount of cheating ensued; many people were merely whispering the incantation instead of saying it aloud. Typically, ten minutes into the lesson Hermione managed to repel Neville's muttered jelly-legs jinx without uttering a single word, a feat that would surely have earned her twenty points for Gryffindor from any reasonable teacher, thought Harry bitterly, but which Snape ignored. He swept between them as they practiced, looking just as much like an overgrown bat as ever, lingering to watch Harry and Ron struggling with the task. Ron, who was supposed to be jinxing Harry, was purple in the face, his lips tightly compressed to save himself from the temptation of muttering the incantation. Harry had his wand raised, waiting on tenterhooks to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely ever to come.

"Pathetic, Weasley," said Snape, after a while. "Here — let me show you —"

He turned his wand on Harry so fast that Harry reacted instinctively; all thought of nonverbal spells forgotten, he yelled, "Protego!" His shield charm was so strong Snape was knocked off- balance and hit a desk. The whole class had looked around and now watched as Snape righted himself, scowling.

"Do you remember me telling you we are practicing non-verbal spells, Potter?"

"Yes," said Harry stiffly.

"Yes, sir."

"There's no need to call me 'sir,' Professor."

The words had escaped him before he knew what he was saying. Several people gasped and Hermione had groaned. Behind Snape, however, Ron, Dean, and Seamus grinned appreciatively.

"Detention, Saturday night, my office," said Snape. "I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter… not even 'the Chosen One'."

"That was brilliant, Harry!" chortled Ron, once they were safely on their way to break a short while later.

"You really shouldn't have said it," said Hermione, frowning at Ron. "What made you?"

"He tried to jinx me, in case you didn't notice!" fumed Harry. "I had enough of that during those Occlumency lessons! Why doesn't he use another guinea pig for a change? Plus, you answered his question perfectly and had the non-verbal thing sussed out in minutes, and he didn't even say anything."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw Hermione blush, but he was too riled up not to continue his barrage of Snape's behaviour.

"What's Dumbledore playing at, anyway, letting him teach that? Did you hear him talking about the dark arts? He loves them! All that unfixed, indestructible stuff —"

"Well," said Hermione, any slight hint of fluster now gone. "I thought he sounded a bit like you."

"Like me?"

"Yes, when you were telling us what it's like to face Voldemort," Hermione continued, unfazed by his snappiness. "You said it wasn't just memorising a bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your brains and your guts – well, wasn't that what Snape was saying? That it really comes down to being brave and quick-thinking?"

Harry was so disarmed that she had thought his words as well worth memorising as The Standard Book of Spells that he did not argue.

"Harry! Hey, Harry!"

Harry looked around; Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters on last year's Gryffindor Quidditch team, was hurrying toward him holding a roll of parchment.

"For you," panted Sloper. "Listen, I heard you're the new captain. When're you holding trials?"

"I'm not sure yet," said Harry, thinking privately that Sloper would be very lucky to get back on the team. "I'll let you know."

"Oh, right. I was hoping it'd be this weekend —" But Harry was not listening; he had just recognised the thin, slanting writing on the parchment. Leaving Sloper in mid-sentence, he hurried away with Ron and Hermione, unrolling the parchment as he went.

Dear Harry,

I would like to start our private lessons this Saturday. Kindly come along to my office at 8 P.M.

I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.

"He enjoys Acid Pops?" said Ron, who had read the message over Harry's shoulder and was looking perplexed.

"It's the password to get past the gargoyle outside his study," said Harry in a low voice. "Ha! Snape's not going to be pleased… I won't be able to do his detention!"

He, Ron, and Hermione spent the whole of their break speculating on what Dumbledore would teach Harry. Ron thought it most likely to be spectacular jinxes and hexes of the type the Death Eaters would not know. Hermione said such things were illegal, and thought it much more likely that Dumbledore wanted to teach Harry advanced defensive magic. After break, she went off to Arithmancy while Harry and Ron returned to the common room and grudgingly started on Snape's homework. This turned out to be so complex that they still had not finished when Hermione joined them for their after-lunch free, though she considerably speeded up the process. They had only just finished when the bell rang for the afternoon's Potions lesson and they beat the familiar path down to the dungeon classroom that had, for so long, been Snape's.

When they arrived in the corridor they saw that there were only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T. level. Crabbe and Goyle had evidently failed to achieve the required O.W.L. grade, but four Slytherins had made it through, including Malfoy. Four Ravenclaws were there, and one Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, whom Harry liked despite his rather pompous manner.

"Harry," Ernie said portentously, holding out his hand as Harry approached, "didn't get a chance to speak in Defence Against The Dark Arts this morning. Good lesson, I thought, but shield charms are old hat, of course, for us old D.A. lags… And how are you, Ron — Hermione?"

Before they could say more than "fine," the dungeon door opened and Slughorn's belly preceded him out of the door. As they filed into the room, his great walrus moustache curved above his beaming mouth, and he greeted Harry and Zabini with particular enthusiasm.

The dungeon was, most unusually, already full of vapours and odd smells. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sniffed interestedly as they passed large, bubbling cauldrons. The four Slytherins took a table together, as did the four Ravenclaws. This left Harry, Ron, and Hermione to share a table with Ernie. They chose the one nearest a gold-coloured cauldron that was emitting one of the most seductive scents Harry had ever inhaled: Somehow it reminded him simultaneously of treacle tart, the woody smell of a broomstick handle, and something flowery and sweet which reminded him vaguely of a summer night in the Burrow's garden…

He found that he was breathing very slowly and deeply and that the potion's fumes seemed to be filling him up like drink. A great contentment stole over him; he grinned across at Ron, who grinned back lazily.

"Sir?" said Harry, raising his hand. "Harry, m'boy?"

"I haven't got a book or scales or anything — nor's Ron — we didn't realise we'd be able to do the N.E.W.T., you see —"

"Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention… not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I'm sure we can lend you some scales, and we've got a small stock of old books here, they'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts…" Slughorn strode over to a corner cupboard and, after a moment's foraging, emerged with two very battered-looking copies of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage, which he gave to Harry and Ron along with two sets of tarnished scales.

"Now then," said Slughorn, returning to the front of the class and inflating his already bulging chest so that the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst off, "I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of 'em, even if you haven't made 'em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?" He indicated the cauldron nearest the

Slytherin table. Harry raised himself slightly in his seat and saw what looked like plain water boiling away inside it.

Hermione's well-practiced hand hit the air before anybody else's; Slughorn pointed at her.

"It's Veritaserum, a colourless, odourless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth," said Hermione.

"Very good, very good!" said Slughorn happily. "Now," he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, "this one here is pretty well known… Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too… Who can —?"

Hermione's hand was fastest once more. "lt's Polyjuice Potion, sir," she said. Harry too had recognised the slow-bubbling, mud-like substance in the second cauldron, but did not resent Hermione getting the credit for answering the question; she, after all, was the one who had succeeded in making it, back in their second year.

"Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here… yes, my dear?" said Slughorn, now looking slightly bemused, as Hermione's hand punched the air again. Harry couldn't help but smirk at his reaction.

"It's Amortentia!"

"It is indeed. It seems almost foolish to ask," said Slughorn, who was looking mightily impressed, "but I assume you know what it does?"

"It's the most powerful love potion in the world," said Hermione.

"Quite right! You recognised it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?"

"And the steam rising in spirals," said Hermione enthusiastically, "and it's supposed to smell differently to each of us according to what attracts us, and I can smell freshly mown grass, new parchment and –" but she turned slightly pink and did not complete the sentence.

"May I ask your name, my dear?" said Slughorn, ignoring Hermione's sudden embarrassment.

"Hermione Granger, sir."

"Granger… Granger?" Slughorn said, stroking his chin. "Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"

"I don't think so, sir. I'm muggleborn, you see." Harry saw Malfoy lean close to Nott and whisper something; both of them sniggered, but Slughorn showed no dismay; on the contrary, he beamed and looked from Hermione to Harry, who was sitting next to her.

"Oho! 'One of my best friends is muggleborn, and she's the best in our year!' I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry.

"Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger," said Slughorn genially. Malfoy looked rather as he had done the time Hermione had punched him in the face. Hermione turned to Harry with a radiant expression.

"Did you really tell him I'm the best in the year? Oh, Harry!"

Seeing her delight, Harry felt suddenly rather pleased with himself.

"Well, what's so impressive about that?" Ron whispered from across the table. "You are the best in the year — I'd've told him so if he'd asked me!"

Hermione smiled but made a "shhing" gesture, so that they could hear what Slughorn was saying. Ron looked slightly disgruntled.

"Amortentia doesn't really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room — oh yes," he said, nodding gravely at Malfoy and Nott, both of whom were smirking skeptically. "When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love... And now, it is time for us to start work."

"Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one," said Ernie Macmillan, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn's desk. The potion within was splashing about merrily; it was the colour of molten gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle had spilled.

"Oho," said Slughorn again. Harry was sure that Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had waited to be asked for dramatic effect. "Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it," he turned, smiling, to look at Hermione, who had let out an audible gasp, "that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?"

"It's liquid luck," said Hermione excitedly. "It makes you lucky!"

The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter. Now all Harry could see of Malfoy was the back of his sleek blond head, because he was at last giving Slughorn his full and undivided attention.

"Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis," said Slughorn. "Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavours tend to succeed… at least until the effects wear off."

"Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?" said Terry Boot eagerly.

"Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous over-confidence," said Slughorn. "Too much of a good thing, you know…highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally…"

"Have you ever taken it, sir?" asked Michael Corner with great interest.

"Twice in my life," said Slughorn. "Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days." He gazed dreamily into the distance. Whether he was playacting or not, thought Harry, the effect was good. "And that," said Slughorn, apparently coming back to earth, "is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson."

There was silence in which every bubble and gurgle of the surrounding potions seemed magnified tenfold. "One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis," said Slughorn, taking a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his pocket and showing it to them all. "Enough for twelve hours' luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt."

"Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organised competitions… sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. So the winner is to use it on an ordinary day only… and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary!"

"So," said Slughorn, suddenly brisk, "how are you to win this fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion Making. We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!"

There was a scraping as everyone drew their cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as people began adding weights to their scales, but nobody spoke. The concentration within the room was almost tangible. Harry saw Malfoy riffling feverishly through his copy of Advanced Potion Making. It could not have been clearer that Malfoy really wanted that lucky day. Harry bent swiftly over the tattered book Slughorn had lent him. To his annoyance he saw that the previous owner had scribbled all over the pages, so that the margins were as black as the printed portions. Bending low to decipher the ingredients – even here, the previous owner had made annotations and crossed things out – Harry hurried off toward the store cupboard to find what he needed. As he dashed back to his cauldron, he saw Malfoy cutting up Valerian roots as fast as he could. Everyone kept glancing around at what the rest of the class was doing; this was both an advantage and a disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your work private. Within ten minutes, the whole place was full of bluish steam.

Hermione, of course, seemed to have progressed furthest. Her potion already resembled the "smooth, black currant-coloured liquid" mentioned as the ideal halfway stage. Having finished chopping his roots, Harry bent low over his book again. It was really very irritating, having to try and decipher the directions under all the stupid scribbles of the previous owner, who for some reason had taken issue with the order to cut up the sopophorous bean and had written in the alternative instruction: Crush with flat side of silver dagger, releases juice better than cutting.

"Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?"

Harry looked up; Slughorn was just passing the Slytherin table.

"Yes," said Slughorn, without looking at Malfoy, "I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn't unexpected, dragon pox at his age…"

And he walked away. Harry bent back over his cauldron, smirking. He could tell that Malfoy had expected to be treated like Harry or Zabini; perhaps even hoped for some preferential treatment of the type he had learned to expect from Snape. It looked as though Malfoy would have to rely on nothing but talent to win the bottle of Felix Felicis. The sopophorous bean was proving very difficult to cut up. Harry turned to Hermione.

"Can I borrow your silver knife, please?"

She nodded impatiently, not taking her eyes off her potion, which was still deep purple, though according to the book ought to be turning a light shade of lilac by now. Harry crushed his bean with the flat side of the dagger. To his astonishment, it immediately exuded so much juice he was amazed the shrivelled bean could have held it all.

Hastily scooping it all into the cauldron he saw, to his surprise, that the potion immediately turned exactly the shade of lilac described by the textbook. His annoyance with the previous owner vanishing on the spot, Harry now squinted at the next line of instructions. According the book, he had to stir counterclockwise until the potion turned clear as water. According to the addition the previous owner made, however, he ought to add a clockwise stir after every seventh counterclockwise stir. Could the old owner be right twice? Harry stirred counterclockwise, held his breath, and stirred once clockwise. The effect was immediate. The potion turned pale pink.

"How are you doing that?" demanded Hermione, who was red-faced and whose now usually sleek hair was growing back to its bushier older self in the fumes from her cauldron; her potion still resolutely purple.

"Add a clockwise stir —" he said out of the corner of his mouth.

"No, no, the book says counterclockwise!" she snapped.

"No, really, try it!" he said with what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

Hermione shook her head and continued following the instructions as they were set out in her book. Harry shrugged and continued what he was doing. Seven stirs counterclockwise, one clockwise, pause… seven stirs counterclockwise, one stir clockwise… Eventually, she must have relented, because he could see her potion turning lighter, albeit not as close to as clear as it needed to be.

Across the table, Ron was cursing fluently under his breath; his potion looked like liquid liquorice. Harry glanced around. As far as he could see, no one else's potion had turned as pale as his. He felt elated, something that had certainly never happened before in this dungeon. "And time's… up!" called Slughorn. "Stop stirring, please!"

Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He made no comment, but occasionally gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last he reached the table where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ernie were sitting. He smiled ruefully at the tar-like substance in Ron's cauldron. He passed over Ernie's navy concoction. Over Hermione's potion he gave an approving nod and a laugh, as if he couldn't believe his luck at having found such a brilliant addition to the 'Slug Club' on day one. But then he saw Harry's, and a look of incredulous delight spread over his face.

"The clear winner!" he cried to the dungeon. "Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab hand at Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are — one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!"

Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, feeling an odd combination of delight at the furious looks on the Slytherins' faces and guilt at the disappointed expression on Hermione's. Ron looked simply dumbfounded.

"How did you do that?" he whispered to Harry as they left the dungeon.

"Got lucky, I suppose," said Harry, because Malfoy was within earshot. Once they were securely ensconced at the Gryffindor table for dinner, however, he felt safe enough to tell them. Hermione's face became stonier with every word he uttered.

"I s'pose you think I cheated?" he finished, aggravated by her expression, especially since she had ended up following the instructions too.

"Well, it wasn't exactly your own work, was it?" she said stiffly, seeming rather more upset than Harry thought the situation warranted.

"He only followed different instructions to ours," said Ron, "Could've been a catastrophe, couldn't it? But he took a risk and it paid off." He heaved a sigh. "Slughorn could've handed me that book, but no, I get the one no one's ever written on. Puked on, by the look of page fifty- two, but—"

"Hang on," said a voice close by Harry's left ear. He looked around and saw that Ginny had joined them. "Did I hear right? You've been taking orders from something someone wrote in a book, Harry?" She looked alarmed and angry. Harry knew what was on her mind at once.

"It's nothing," he said reassuringly, lowering his voice. "It's not like, you know, Riddle's diary. It's just an old textbook someone's scribbled on."

"But you're doing what it says?"

"I just tried a few of the tips written in the margins, honestly, Ginny, there's nothing funny-"

"Ginny's got a point," said Hermione. "We ought to check that there's nothing odd about it. I mean, all these funny instructions, who knows?"

"Hey!" said Harry indignantly, as she pulled his copy of Advanced Potion Making out of his bag, placed it on the table and raised her wand.

"Specialis Revelio!" she said, rapping it smartly on the front cover. Nothing whatsoever happened. The book simply lay there, looking old and dirty and dog-eared.

"Finished?" said Harry irritably. "Or d'you want to wait and see if it does a few backflips?"

"It seems all right," said Hermione, still staring at the book suspiciously. "I mean, it really does seem to be… just a textbook."

"Good. Then I'll have it back," said Harry, snatching it off the table, but it slipped from his hand and landed open on the floor. Nobody else was looking. Harry bent low to retrieve the book, and as he did so, he saw something scribbled along the bottom of the back cover in the same small, cramped handwriting as the instructions that had won him his bottle of Felix Felicis, now safely hidden inside a pair of socks in his trunk upstairs.

This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince.

Chapter 6: 6: Chapter Ten – The Hour Of Gaunt [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

For the rest of the week's Potions lessons Harry continued to follow the Half-Blood Prince's instructions wherever they deviated from Libatius Borage's, with the result that by their fourth lesson Slughorn was raving about Harry's abilities, saying that he had rarely taught anyone so talented. Neither Ron nor Hermione was delighted by this.

Harry had offered to share his book with both of them, Ron had more difficulty deciphering the handwriting than Harry did, and could not keep asking Harry to read aloud or it might look suspicious. Hermione, meanwhile, was resolutely plowing on with what she called the "official" instructions, but becoming increasingly bad-tempered as they yielded poorer results than the Prince's. Harry felt pangs of guilt at her disappointment, but it's not like she'd never broken the rules before, and he shook it off as Hermione – for once – being jealous of him in a lesson.

He had come close, on several occasions, to reminding her of the 'sneak' hex she'd put on Marietta Edgecombe, though knew he wouldn't be able to muster enough anger about that particular discrepancy since he admired her so much for it. Plus, on any other occasion he could

think of that Hermione had purposefully bent the rules, the voice in his head which sounded just like her had reminded him that it had been on his behalf.

Harry wondered vaguely who the Half-Blood Prince had been. Although the amount of homework they had been given prevented him from reading the whole of his copy of Advanced Potion Making, he had skimmed through it sufficiently to see that there was barely a page on which the Prince had not made additional notes, not all of them concerned with potion-making. Here and there were directions for what looked like spells that the Prince had made up himself.

"Or herself," said Hermione irritably, overhearing Harry pointing some of these out to Ron in the common room on Saturday evening. "It might have been a girl. I think the handwriting looks more like a girl's than a boy's."

"The Half-Blood Prince, he was called," Harry said. "How many girls have been Princes?"

Hermione seemed to have no answer to this. She merely scowled and twitched her essay on The Principles of Rematerialisation away from Ron, who was trying to read it upside down. Harry looked at his watch and hurriedly put the old copy of the book back into his bag.

"It's five to eight, I'd better go, I'll be late for Dumbledore."

"Ooooh!" gasped Hermione, looking up at once, her annoyance having seemingly vanished in an instant. "Good luck! We'll wait up, I want to hear what he teaches you!"

"Hope it goes okay," said Ron, and the pair of them watched Harry leave through the portrait hole.

"I think that will do, Harry," said Dumbledore. He took Harry by the elbow and tugged. Next moment, they were both soaring weightlessly through darkness, until they landed squarely on their feet, back in Dumbledore's now twilit office.

"What happened to the girl in the cottage?" said Harry at once, as Dumbledore lit extra lamps with a flick of his wand. "Merope, or whatever her name was?"

"Oh, she survived," said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk and indicating that Harry should sit down too. "Ogden apparated back to the Ministry and returned with

reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage, and subsequently convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin, who already had a record of muggle attacks, was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Marvolo, who had injured several Ministry employees in addition to Ogden, received six months."

"Marvolo?" Harry repeated wonderingly.

"That's right," said Dumbledore, smiling in approval. "I am glad to see you're keeping up."

"That old man was —?"

"Voldemort's grandfather, yes," said Dumbledore. "Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope, were the last of the Gaunts, a very ancient Wizarding family noted for a vein of instability and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense coupled with a great liking for grandeur meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a very nasty temper, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his daughter."

"So Merope," said Harry, leaning forward in his chair and star-ing at Dumbledore, "so Merope was… Sir, does that mean she was…Voldemort's mother?"

"It does," said Dumbledore. "And it so happens that we also had a glimpse of Voldemort's father. I wonder whether you noticed?"

"The muggle Morfin attacked? The man on the horse?"

"Very good indeed," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Yes, that was Tom Riddle senior, the handsome Muggle who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for whom Merope Gaunt cherished a secret, burning passion."

"And they ended up married?" Harry said in disbelief, unable to imagine two people less likely to fall in love.

"I think you are forgetting," said Dumbledore, "that Merope was a witch. I do not believe that her magical powers appeared to their best advantage when she was being terrorised by her father. Once Marvolo and Morfin were safely in Azkaban, once she was alone and free for the

first time in her life, then, I am sure, she was able to give full rein to her abilities and to plot her escape from the desperate life she had led for eighteen years. Can you not think of any measure Merope could have taken to make Tom Riddle forget his Muggle companion, and fall in love with her instead?"

"The Imperius Curse?" Harry suggested. "Or a love potion?"

"Very good. Personally, I am inclined to think that she used a love potion. I am sure it would have seemed more romantic to her, and I do not think it would have been very difficult, some hot day, when Riddle was riding alone, to persuade him to take a drink. In any case, within a few months of the scene we have just witnessed, the village of Little Hangleton enjoyed a tremendous scandal. You can imagine the gossip it caused when the squire's son ran off with the tramp's daughter, Merope.

"But the villagers' shock was nothing to Marvolo's. He returned from Azkaban, expecting to find his daughter dutifully awaiting his return with a hot meal ready on his table. Instead, he found a clear inch of dust and her note of farewell, explaining what she had done. From all that I have been able to discover, he never mentioned her name or existence from that time forth. The shock of her desertion may have contributed to his early death — or perhaps he had simply never learned to feed himself. Azkaban had greatly weakened Marvolo, and he did not live to see Morfin return to the cottage."

"And Merope? She… she died, didn't she? Wasn't Voldemort brought up in an orphanage?"

"Yes, indeed," said Dumbledore. "We must do a certain amount of guessing here, although I do not think it is difficult to deduce what happened. You see, within a few months of their runaway marriage, Tom Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little Hangleton without his wife. The rumour flew around the neighbourhood that he was talking of being 'hoodwinked' and 'taken in.' What he meant, I am sure, is that he had been under an enchantment that had now lifted, though I daresay he did not dare use those precise words for fear of being thought insane. When they heard what he was saying, however, the villagers guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle, pretending that she was going to have his baby, and that he had married her for this reason."

"But she did have his baby."

"But not until a year after they were married. Tom Riddle left her while she was still pregnant."

"What went wrong?" asked Harry. "Why did the love potion stop working?"

"Again, this is guesswork," said Dumbledore, "but I believe that Merope, who was deeply in love with her husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him by magical means. I believe that she made the choice to stop giving him the potion. Perhaps, besotted as she was, she had convinced herself that he would by now have fallen in love with her in return. Perhaps she thought he would stay for the baby's sake. If so, she was wrong on both counts. He left her, never saw her again, and never troubled to discover what became of his son."

The sky outside was inky black and the lamps in Dumbledore's office seemed to glow more brightly than before. "I think that will do for tonight, Harry," said Dumbledore after a moment or two.

"Yes, sir," said Harry. He got to his feet, but did not leave. "Sir… is it important to know all this about Voldemort's past?"

"Very important, I think," said Dumbledore. "And it…it's got something to do with the prophecy?"

"It has everything to do with the prophecy."

"Right," said Harry, a little confused, but reassured all the same. He turned to go, then another question occurred to him, and he turned back again. "Sir, am I allowed to tell Ron and Hermione everything you've told me?"

Dumbledore considered him for a moment, then said, "Yes, I think Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have proved themselves trustworthy. But Harry, I am going to ask you to ask them not to repeat any of this to anybody else. It would not be a good idea if word got around how much I know, or suspect, about Lord Voldemort's secrets."

"No, sir, I'll make sure it's just Ron and Hermione. Good night."

He turned away again, and was almost at the door when he saw it. Sitting on one of the little spindle-legged tables that supported so many frail-looking silver instruments, was an ugly gold ring set with a large, cracked, black stone.

"Sir," said Harry, staring at it. "That ring —"

"Yes?" said Dumbledore. "You were wearing it when we visited Professor Slughorn that night."

"So I was," Dumbledore agreed. "But isn't it…sir, isn't it the same ring Marvolo Gaunt showed Ogden?"

Dumbledore bowed his head. "The very same."

"But how come —? Have you always had it?"

"No, I acquired it very recently," said Dumbledore. "A few days before I came to fetch you from your aunt and uncle's, in fact."

"That would be around the time you injured your hand, then, sir?"

"Around that time, yes, Harry." Harry hesitated. Dumbledore was smiling.

"Sir, how exactly —?"

"Too late, Harry! You shall hear the story another time. Oh, but one final thing."

"Yes, sir?"

"I hear you have started the year extremely well in potions. I would very much like you to keep that up..."

Harry was confused. Dumbledore hardly ever – with him at least – went into 'headmaster mode'. Indeed, it was difficult for Harry to think of him as a teacher at all. And then it hit him: Dumbledore knew about the book.

"Sir?" He asked, trying to keep any tentativeness out of his voice.

Dumbledore smiled at Harry's clear puzzlement. "Horace has his favourites, as I'm sure you well know," he said kindly.

Harry nodded, thinking of the train journey.

"Well," continued Dumbledore. "Suffice to say it will be useful to be close to Horace this year. Not just for your studies."

"Sir?"

"That's all for now, Harry. Good night."

"Good night, sir."

Harry returned to the common room, pondering what Dumbledore had meant by getting close to Slughorn, at least up until he heard the tell-tale footsteps of Filch, and made a dart for the portrait hole.

It was just after ten o'clock, but the common room was deserted bar a few stragglers. Hermione was one of them, curled up on one end of the sofa in front of the fire.

"Hey," he said, sitting down next to her. "Where's Ron –" But as he asked, a loud snore came from what he'd initially assumed was a pile of pillows on the armchair across from them.

Hermione made an impression of mirth mixed with mild disgust. "Fell asleep about an hour ago," she said. "To be honest, I think I prefer it this way."

Harry laughed.

"So, how was the lesson?" she said, closing her book and sitting cross-legged, facing him.

"Strange," Harry said. She raised an eyebrow.

"Well, it is Dumbledore…"

"Yeh, but, I mean… I don't really know what I was expecting, but definitely not that…" And he talked her through, in detail, the memory Dumbledore had shown him, and their conversation afterwards. She didn't interrupt, instead taking every last detail in.

"Anyway, and then at the end he tells me I need to get close to Slughorn. Something about it coming in useful later on," he finally finished.

"Well, there must've been a specific reason Dumbledore went to such lengths to get him here," Hermione said.

"True, suppose we'll find out soon enough," Harry said.

"Though don't think that's going to let you off the hook for using that book," Hermione added.

In no mood for a lecture, Harry changed the subject back to the memory. Hermione, too, found it strange to go into so much detail in regards to Voldemort's family, but they both agreed that Dumbledore would only have shown Harry things that would prove useful down the line.

Chapter 7: 7: Chapter Eleven – Hermione's Helping Hand [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

As Hermione had predicted, the sixth years' free periods were not the hours of blissful relaxation Ron had anticipated, but times in which to attempt to keep up with the vast amount of homework they were being set. Not only were they studying as though they had exams every day, but the lessons themselves had become more demanding than ever before. Harry barely understood half of what Professor McGonagall said to them these days; even Hermione had had to ask her to repeat instructions once or twice.

Incredibly, and to Hermione's increasing resentment, Harry's best subject had suddenly become Potions, thanks to the Half-Blood Prince. Non-verbal spells were now expected, not only in Defence Against the Dark Arts, but in Charms and Transfiguration too. Harry frequently looked over at his classmates in the common room or at mealtimes to see them purple in the face and straining as though they had overdosed on U-No-Poo; but he knew that they were really struggling to make spells work without saying incantations aloud. It was a relief to get outside into the greenhouses; they were dealing with more dangerous plants than ever in Herbology, but at least they were still allowed to swear loudly if the Venomous Tentacula seized them unexpectedly from behind.

One result of their enormous workload and the frantic hours of practicing non-verbal spells was that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had so far been unable to find time to go and visit Hagrid. He had stopped coming to meals at the staff table, an ominous sign, and on the few occasions when they had passed him in the corridors or out in the grounds, he had mysteriously failed to notice them or hear their greetings.

"We've got to go and explain," said Hermione, looking up at Hagrid's huge empty chair at the staff table the following Saturday at breakfast.

"We've got Quidditch tryouts this morning!" said Ron. "And we're supposed to be practicing that Aguamenti Charm from Flitwick! Anyway, explain what? How are we going to tell him we hated his stupid subject?"

"We didn't hate it!" said Hermione, dishing up some more sausages onto Harry's plate. Ron shot her a look, making a move towards the meat when she pulled the tray away. "Not for you… you're already on about nine!"

Ron scowled before returning to the subject at hand. "Anyway, speak for yourself, I haven't forgotten the skrewts," he said darkly. "And I'm telling you now, we've had a narrow escape. You didn't hear him going on about his gormless brother — we'd have been teaching Grawp how to tie his shoelaces if we'd stayed."

"I hate not talking to Hagrid," said Hermione, looking upset.

"We'll go down after Quidditch," Harry assured her. He too was missing Hagrid, although like Ron he thought that they were better off without Grawp in their lives. "But trials might take all morning, the number of people who have applied…" He felt slightly nervous at confronting the first hurdle of his captaincy. "I dunno why the team's this popular all of a sudden."

"Oh, come on, Harry," said Hermione, rolling her eyes. "It's not Quidditch that's popular, it's you! You've never been more interesting and, frankly, you've never been more fanciable."

Ron gagged on a large piece of kipper. Hermione spared him one look of disdain before turning back to Harry.

"Everyone knows you've been telling the truth now, don't they? The whole wizarding world has had to admit that you were right about Voldemort being back and that you really have fought him twice in the last two years and escaped both times. And now they're calling you 'the Chosen One' — well, come on, can't you see why people are fascinated by you?"

Harry was finding the Great Hall very hot all of a sudden, even though the ceiling still looked cold and rainy.

"And you've been through all that persecution from the Ministry when they were trying to make out you were unstable and a liar. You can still see the marks on the back of your hand where that evil woman made you write with your own blood, but you stuck to your story anyway…"

"You can still see where those brains got hold of me in the Ministry, look," said Ron, shaking back his sleeves.

"And it doesn't hurt that you've grown about a foot over the summer either," Hermione finished, ignoring Ron.

"I'm tall," said Ron inconsequentially. Hermione appeared to be blushing slightly, and Harry didn't know where to look but, thankfully, at that moment the post owls arrived, swooping down through rain-flecked windows, scattering everyone with droplets of water. Most people were receiving more post than usual; anxious parents were keen to hear from their children and to reassure them, in turn, that all was well at home.

Harry had received no mail since the start of term; his only regular correspondent was now dead and although he had hoped that Lupin might write occasionally, he had so far been disappointed. He was very surprised, therefore, to see the snowy white Hedwig circling amongst all the brown and grey owls. She landed in front of him carrying a large, square package. A moment later, an identical package landed in front of Ron, crushing beneath it his minuscule and exhausted owl, Pigwidgeon.

"Ha!" said Harry, unwrapping the parcel to reveal a new copy of Advanced Potion Making, fresh from Flourish and Blotts.

"Oh good," said Hermione, delighted. "Now you can give that graffitied copy back."

"Are you mad?" said Harry. "I'm keeping it! Look, I've thought it out —"

He pulled the old copy of Advanced Potion Making out of his bag and tapped the cover with his wand, muttering, "Diffindo!" The cover fell off. He did the same thing with the brand-new book. Hermione looked scandalised. He then swapped the covers, tapped each, and said, "Reparo!"

There sat the Prince's copy, disguised as a new book, and there sat the fresh copy from Flourish and Blotts, looking thoroughly secondhand. "I'll give Slughorn back the new one, he can't complain, it cost nine Galleons!"

Hermione pressed her lips together, looking angry and disapproving, but was distracted by a third owl landing in front of her carrying that day's copy of the Daily Prophet. She unfolded it hastily and scanned the front page.

"Anyone we know dead?" asked Ron in a determinedly casual voice; he posed the same question every time Hermione opened her paper.

Like every time he asked, Hermione flinched at Ron's remark, but answered anyway. "No, but there have been more dementor attacks," said Hermione. "And an arrest."

"Excellent, who?" said Harry, thinking of Bellatrix Lestrange. "Stan Shunpike," said Hermione, surprised.

"What?" said Harry, startled, moving in closer to Hermione to read along with her.

"'Stanley Shunpike, conductor on the popular Wizarding conveyance the Knight Bus, has been arrested on suspicion of Death Eater activity. Mr. Shunpike, 21, was taken into custody late last night after a raid on his Clapham home…'"

"Stan Shunpike, a Death Eater?" said Harry, remembering the spotty youth he had first met three years before. "No way!"

"He might have been put under the Imperius Curse," said Ron reasonably. "You never can tell."

"It doesn't look like it," said Hermione, who was still reading. "It says here he was arrested after he was overheard talking about the Death Eaters' secret plans in a pub." She looked up with a troubled expression on her face. "If he was under the Imperius Curse, he'd hardly stand around gossiping about their plans, would he?"

"It sounds like he was trying to make out he knew more than he did," said Ron. "Isn't he the one who claimed he was going to become Minister of Magic when he was trying to chat up those veela?"

"Yeah, that's him," said Harry.

"I dunno what they're playing at, taking Stan seriously."

"They probably want to look as though they're doing something," said Hermione, frowning. "People are terrified — you know the Patil twins' parents want them to go home? And Eloise Midgen has already been withdrawn. Her father picked her up last night."

"What!" said Ron, goggling at Hermione. "But Hogwarts is safer than their homes, bound to be! We've got Aurors, and all those extra protective spells, and we've got Dumbledore!"

"I don't think we've got him all the time," said Hermione very quietly, glancing toward the staff table over the top of the Prophet. "Haven't you noticed? His seat's been empty as often as Hagrid's this past week." Harry and Ron looked up at the staff table. The headmaster's chair was indeed empty. Now Harry came to think of it, he had not seen Dumbledore since their private lesson a week ago. "I think he's left the school to do something with the Order," said Hermione in a low voice. "I mean…it's all looking serious, isn't it?"

Harry and Ron did not answer, but Harry knew that they were all thinking the same thing. There had been a horrible incident the day before, when Hannah Abbott had been taken out of Herbology to be told her mother had been found dead. They had not seen Hannah since.

When they left the Gryffindor table five minutes later to head down to the Quidditch pitch, they passed Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. Remembering what Hermione had said about the Patil twins' parents wanting them to leave Hogwarts, Harry was unsurprised to see that the two best friends were whispering together, looking distressed. What did surprise him was that when Ron drew level with them, Parvati suddenly nudged Lavender, who looked around and gave Ron a wide smile. Ron blinked at her, then returned the smile uncertainly. His walk instantly became something more like a strut. Harry resisted the temptation to laugh, remembering that Ron had refrained from doing so after Malfoy had broken Harry's nose. Hermione looked less-than impressed and did not wish Ron good luck. Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance, though he could not exactly put his finger on why.

As Harry had expected, the trials took most of the morning. Half of Gryffindor House seemed to have turned up, from first years who were nervously clutching a selection of the dreadful old school brooms, to seventh years who towered over the rest, looking coolly intimidating. The latter included a large, wiry-haired boy Harry recognised immediately from the Hogwarts Express. "We met on the train, in old Sluggy's compartment," he said confidently, stepping out of the crowd to shake Harry's hand. "Cormac McLaggen, Keeper."

"You didn't try out last year, did you?" asked Harry, taking note of the breadth of McLaggen and thinking that he would probably block all three goal hoops without even moving.

"I was in the hospital wing when they held the trials," said McLaggen, with something of a swagger. "Ate a pound of doxy eggs for a bet."

"Right," said Harry. "Well…if you wait over there…"

He pointed over to the edge of the pitch, close to where Hermione was sitting. He thought he saw a flicker of annoyance pass over McLaggen's face and wondered whether McLaggen expected preferential treatment because they were both "old Sluggy's" favourites. Harry

decided to start with a basic test, asking all applicants for the team to divide into groups of ten and fly once around the pitch. This was a good decision: the first ten was made up of first years, and it could not have been plainer that they had hardly ever flown before. Only one boy managed to remain airborne for more than a few seconds, and he was so surprised he promptly crashed into one of the goal posts.

The second group was comprised of ten of the silliest girls Harry had ever encountered, who, when he blew his whistle, merely fell about giggling and clutching one another. Romilda Vane was amongst them. When he told them to leave the pitch, they did so quite cheerfully and went to sit in the stands to heckle everyone else.

The third group had a pileup halfway around the pitch. Most of the fourth group had come without broomsticks. The fifth group were Hufflepuffs. "If there's anyone else here who's not from Gryffindor," roared Harry, who was starting to get seriously annoyed, "leave now, please! There was a pause, then a couple of little Ravenclaws went sprinting off the pitch, snorting with laughter.

After two hours, many complaints, and several tantrums, one involving a crashed Comet Two Sixty and several broken teeth, Harry had found himself three Chasers: Katie Bell, returned to the team after an excellent trial; a new find called Demelza Robins, who was particularly good at dodging Bludgers; and Ginny, who had outflown all the competition and scored seventeen goals to boot. Pleased though he was with his choices, Harry had also shouted himself hoarse at the many complainers and was now enduring a similar battle with the rejected Beaters.

"That's my final decision and if you don't get out of the way of the Keepers I'll hex you," he bellowed. Neither of his chosen Beaters had the old brilliance of Fred and George, but he was still reasonably pleased with them: Jimmy Peakes, a short but broad-chested third-year boy who had managed to raise a lump the size of an egg on the back of Harry's head with a ferociously hit Bludger, and Ritchie Coote, who looked weedy but aimed well. They now joined Katie, Demelza, and Ginny in the stands to watch the selection of their last team member.

Harry had deliberately left the trial of the Keepers until last, hoping for an emptier stadium and less pressure on all concerned. Unfortunately, however, all the rejected players and a number of people who had come down to watch after a lengthy breakfast had joined the crowd by now, so that it was larger than ever. As each Keeper flew up to the goal hoops, the crowd roared and jeered in equal measure. Harry glanced over at Ron, who had always had a problem with nerves; Harry had hoped that winning their final match last term might have cured it, but apparently not: Ron was a delicate shade of green. He glanced to the side and caught eyes with Hermione, who despite her earlier coldness with Ron, seemed to have noticed the same thing.

None of the first five applicants saved more than two goals apiece. To Harry's great disappointment, Cormac McLaggen saved four penalties out of five. On the last one, however, he shot off in completely the wrong direction; the crowd laughed and booed and McLaggen returned to the ground grinding his teeth

Ron looked ready to pass out as he mounted his Cleansweep Eleven. "Good luck!" cried a voice from the stands. Harry looked around, expecting to see Hermione, but it was Lavender Brown. He would have quite liked to have hidden his face in his hands, as she did a moment later, but thought that as the captain he ought to show slightly more grit, and so turned to watch Ron do his trial.

Yet he need not have worried: Ron saved one, two, three, four, five penalties in a row. Delighted, and resisting joining in the cheers of the crowd with difficulty, Harry turned to McLaggen to tell him that, most unfortunately, Ron had beaten him, only to find McLaggen's red face inches from his own. He stepped back hastily.

"His sister didn't really try," said McLaggen menacingly. There was a vein pulsing in his temple like the one Harry had often admired in Uncle Vernon's. "She gave him an easy save."

"Rubbish," said Harry coldly. "That was the one he nearly missed."

McLaggen took a step nearer Harry, who stood his ground this time. "Give me another go."

"No," said Harry. "You've had your go. You saved four. Ron saved five. Ron's Keeper, he won it fair and square. Get out of my way."

McLaggen took another step, but just then the larger Gryffindor seemed to lose his footing completely, as if invisible ropes had been wrapped around his ankles, and fell comically onto the grass. Harry could hardly hide his smirk as the others laughed.

As McLaggen hauled himself back to his feet, Harry thought for a moment he was going to get a punch, but McLaggen contented himself with an ugly grimace and stormed away, growling what sounded like threats to thin air. Harry turned around to find his new team beaming at him.

"Well done," he croaked. "You flew really well –"

"You did brilliantly, Ron!"

This time it really was Hermione coming towards them from the stands; Harry saw Lavender walking off, arm in arm with Parvati, a rather gloomy expression on her face. Ron looked extremely pleased with himself and even taller than usual as he grinned at the team and Hermione.

After fixing the time of their first full practice for the following Friday, Harry, Ron, and Hermione bade goodbye to the rest of the team and headed off toward Hagrid's. A watery sun was trying to break through the clouds now and it had stopped drizzling at last. Harry felt extremely hungry; he hoped there would be something to eat at Hagrid's.

"I thought I was going to miss that fourth penalty," Ron was saying happily. "Tricky shot from Demelza, did you see, had a bit of spin on it —"

"Yes, yes, you were magnificent," said Hermione, looking bemused and rolling her eyes in Harry's direction with a grin. "And well done, Harry. I thought –"

"I was better than that McLaggen anyway," said Ron in a highly satisfied voice, cutting whatever praise Hermione was going to give Harry short. "Did you see him lumbering off in the wrong direction on his fifth? Looked like he'd been Confunded… And then when he fell over thin air while talking to Harry!"

To Harry's surprise, Hermione turned a deep shade of pink at these words.

Ron, however, noticed nothing; he was too busy describing each of his other penalties in loving detail. The great grey hippogriff, Buckbeak, was tethered in front of Hagrid's cabin. He clicked his razor-sharp beak at their approach and turned his huge head toward them.

"Oh dear," said Hermione nervously. "He's still a bit scary, isn't he?"

"Come off it, you've ridden him, haven't you?" said Ron. Harry stepped forward and bowed low to the hippogriff without breaking eye contact or blinking. After a few seconds, Buckbeak sank into a bow too.

"How are you?" Harry asked him in a low voice, moving forward to stroke the feathery head. "Missing him? But you're okay here with Hagrid, aren't you?"

Buckbeak nudged into Harry's touch. Without really thinking, Harry reached his free hand behind him, in Hermione's direction.

"Hermione, c'mon."

He heard Hermione hesitate but then, with a slight whimper, she must've taken a step forward because her hand was in his and he was pulling her slowly towards Buckbeak.

"Remember Hermione?" Harry said, still stroking Buckbeak's head. The creature looked up and Hermione gave a timid bow. Harry smiled, and a second later Buckbeak had bowed back.

"Oi!" said a loud voice. Harry dropped Hermione's hand as they both spun around.

Hagrid had come striding around the corner of his cabin wearing a large flowery apron and carrying a sack of potatoes. His enormous boarhound, Fang, was at his heels; Fang gave a booming bark and bounded forward. "Get away from him! He'll have yer fingers — oh. It's yeh lot."

Fang was jumping up at Ron, attempting to lick his ears. Hagrid stood and looked at them all for a split second, then turned and strode into his cabin, slamming the door behind him.

"Oh no," said Hermione, looking stricken.

"Don't worry about it," said Harry grimly. He walked to the door and knocked loudly.

"Hagrid! Open up, we want to talk to you!" There was no sound from within. "If you don't open the door, we'll blast it open!" Harry said, pulling out his wand.

"Harry!" said Hermione, sounding shocked. "You can't possibly —"

"Yeah, I can!" said Harry. "Stand back —" But before he could say anything else, the door flew open again as Harry had known it would, and there stood Hagrid, glowering down at him and looking, despite the flowery apron, positively alarming.

"I'm a teacher!" he roared at Harry. "A teacher, Potter! How dare yeh threaten ter break down my door!"

"I'm sorry, sir" said Harry, emphasising the last word as he stowed his wand inside his robes. Hagrid looked stunned.

"Since when have yeh called me 'sir'?"

"Since when have you called me 'Potter'?"

"Oh, very clever," growled Hagrid. "Very amusin'. That's me outsmarted, innit? All righ', come in then, yeh ungrateful little…"

Mumbling darkly, he stood back to let them pass. Hermione scurried in after Harry, looking rather frightened. "Well?" said Hagrid grumpily, as Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down around his enormous wooden table, Fang laying his head immediately upon Harry's knee and drooling all over his robes. "What's this? Feelin' sorry for me? Reckon I'm lonely or summat?"

"No," said Harry at once. "We wanted to see you."

"We've missed you!" said Hermione tremulously.

"Missed me, have yeh?" snorted Hagrid. "Yeah. Righ'."

He stomped around, brewing up tea in his enormous copper kettle, muttering all the while. Finally he slammed down three bucket-sized mugs of mahogany-brown tea in front of them and a plate of his rock cakes. Harry was hungry enough even for Hagrid's cooking, and took one at once.

"Hagrid," said Hermione timidly, when he joined them at the table and started peeling his potatoes with a brutality that suggested that each tuber had done him a great personal wrong, "we really wanted to carry on with Care of Magical Creatures, you know." Hagrid gave another great snort. Harry rather thought some bogeys landed on the potatoes, and was inwardly thankful that they were not staying for dinner.

"We did!" said Hermione. "But none of us could fit it into our schedules!"

"Yeah. Righ'," said Hagrid again.

There was a funny squelching sound and they all looked around; Hermione let out a tiny shriek, grabbing two fistfuls of Harry's damp quidditch robes, and Ron leapt out of his seat and hurried around the table away from the large barrel standing in the corner that they had only just noticed. It was full of what looked like foot-long maggots, slimy, white, and writhing.

"What are they, Hagrid?" asked Harry, trying to sound interested rather than revolted as Hermione still clung to him, but putting down his rock cake all the same.

"Jus' giant grubs," said Hagrid.

"And they grow into…?" said Ron, looking apprehensive.

"They won' grow inter nuthin'," said Hagrid. "I got 'em ter feed ter Aragog." And without warning, he burst into tears.

"Hagrid!" cried Hermione, leaping up, hurrying around the table the long way to avoid the barrel of maggots, and putting an arm around his shaking shoulders. "What is it?"

"It's…him…" gulped Hagrid, his beetle-black eyes stream-ing as he mopped his face with his apron. "It's…Aragog…I think he's dyin'…He got ill over the summer an' he's not gettin' better…I don' know what I'll do if he…if he…We've bin tergether so long…"

Hermione patted Hagrid's shoulder, looking at a complete loss for anything to say. Harry knew how she felt. He had known Hagrid to present a vicious baby dragon with a teddy bear, seen him croon over giant scorpions with suckers and stingers, attempt to reason with his brutal giant of a half-brother, but this was perhaps the most incomprehensible of all his monster fancies: the gigantic talking spider, Aragog, who dwelled deep in the Forbidden Forest and which he and Ron had only narrowly escaped four years previously.

"Is there — is there anything we can do?" Hermione asked, ignoring Ron's frantic grimaces and head-shakings.

"I don' think there is, Hermione," choked Hagrid, attempting to stem the flood of his tears. "See, the rest o' the tribe…Aragog's family…they're gettin' a bit funny now he's ill…bit restless…"

"Yeah, I think we saw a bit of that side of them," said Ron in an undertone.

"…I don' reckon it'd be safe fer anyone but me ter go near the colony at the mo'," Hagrid finished, blowing his nose hard on his apron and looking up. "But thanks fer offerin', Hermione… It means a lot." After that, the atmosphere lightened considerably, for although neither Harry nor Ron had shown any inclination to go and feed giant grubs to a murderous, gargantuan spider, Hagrid seemed to take it for granted that they would have liked to have done and became his usual self once more. "Ar, I always knew yeh'd find it hard ter squeeze me inter yer timetables," he said gruffly, pouring them more tea. "Even if yeh applied fer Time-Turners —"

"We couldn't have done," said Hermione. "We smashed the entire stock of Ministry Time-Turners when we were there last summer. It was in the Prophet."

"Ar, well then," said Hagrid. "There's no way yeh could've done it…I'm sorry I've bin — yeh know — I've jus' bin worried about Aragog…an I did wonder whether, if Professor Grubbly-Plank had bin teachin' yeh —" At which all three of them stated categorically and untruthfully that Professor Grubbly-Plank, who had substituted for Hagrid a few times, was a dreadful teacher, with the result that by the time Hagrid waved them off the premises at dusk, he looked quite cheerful.

"I'm starving," said Harry, once the door had closed behind them and they were hurrying through the dark and deserted grounds; he had abandoned the rock cake after an ominous cracking noise from one of his back teeth. "And I've got that detention with Snape tonight, I haven't got much time for dinner."

As they came into the castle they spotted Cormac McLaggen entering the Great Hall. It took him two attempts to get through the doors; he ricocheted off the frame on the first attempt. Ron merely guffawed gloatingly and strode off into the Hall after him, but Harry caught Hermione's arm and held her back.

"What?" said Hermione.

"If you ask me," said Harry quietly, leaning in, "McLaggen looks like he was Confunded this morning."

"Oh, all right then, I did it," she whispered. Harry knew Hermione couldn't lie to him and, in all fairness, she always had him pretty much sussed out too. "But you should have heard the way he was talking about Ron and Ginny when he was waiting for his turn! Anyway, he's got a nasty temper, you saw how he reacted when he didn't get in –"

"– That was you, too," Harry raised an eyebrow, already knowing McLaggen hadn't fallen of his own accord.

Hermione blushed an even deeper shade of pink. "Well, yes. He was being so aggressive, you wouldn't have wanted someone like that on the team."

"No," said Harry, enjoying how he had Hermione flustered. "I suppose that's true. But coming to my rescue?"

"Well he might have hit you…"

"But wasn't that a bit dishonest, Hermione? I mean, you're a prefect, aren't you?"

"Oh, be quiet," she snapped and smacked his arm as he smirked.

"What are you two doing?" demanded Ron, reappearing in the doorway to the Great Hall and looking suspicious.

"Nothing," said Harry and Hermione together, and they hurried after Ron. The smell of roast beef made Harry's stomach ache with hunger, but they had barely taken three steps toward the Gryffindor table when Professor Slughorn appeared in front of them, blocking their path.

"Harry, Harry, just the man I was hoping to see!" he boomed genially, twiddling the ends of his walrus moustache and puffing out his enormous belly, "I was hoping to catch you before dinner! What do you say to a spot of supper tonight in my rooms instead? We're having a little party, just a few rising stars, I've got McLaggen coming and Zabini, the charming Melinda Bobbin – I don't know whether you know her? Her family owns a large chain of apothecaries – and, of course, I hope very much that Miss Granger will favour me by coming too."

Slughorn made Hermione a little bow as he finished speaking. It was as though Ron was not present; Slughorn did not so much as look at him.

"I can't come, Professor," said Harry at once. "I've got a detention with Professor Snape."

"Oh dear!" said Slughorn, his face falling comically. "Dear, dear, I was counting on you, Harry! Well, now, I'll just have to have a word with Severus and explain the situation. I'm sure I'll be able to persuade him to postpone your detention. Yes, I'll see you both later!"

He bustled away out of the Hall.

"He's got no chance of persuading Snape," said Harry, the moment Slughorn was out of earshot. "This detention's already been postponed once; Snape did it for Dumbledore, but he won't do it for anyone else."

"Oh, I wish you could come, I don't want to go on my own!" said Hermione anxiously; Harry knew that she was thinking about McLaggen.

Before Harry could respond and tell her the feeling was mutual, Ron, who did not seem to have taken kindly to being ignored by Slughorn, snapped: "I doubt you'll be alone, Ginny'll probably be invited."

Hermione ignored him, and instead said to Harry in a hushed tone, "plus, this might be a perfect way for you to get closer to Slughorn."

After dinner they made their way back to Gryffindor Tower. The common room was very crowded, as most people had finished eating by now, but they managed to find a free sofa which Hermione took while Ron and Harry went upstairs to change.

They returned soon after, Harry perching himself next to Hermione – who was reading a copy of the Evening Prophet – with Ron, who had been in a bad mood ever since the encounter with Slughorn, sitting on the floor, folding his arms and frowning at the ceiling.

"Anything new?" said Harry.

"Not really…" Hermione had opened the newspaper and was scanning the inside pages. "Oh, look, your dad's in here, Ron — he's all right!" she added quickly, for Ron had looked around in alarm. "It just says he's been to visit the Malfoys' house.

'This second search of the Death Eaters residence does not seem to have yielded any results. Arthur Weasley of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects said that his team had been acting upon a confidential tip-off.'"

"Yeah, mine!" said Harry. "I told him at Kings Cross about Malfoy and that thing he was trying to get Borgin to fix! Well, if it's not at their house, he must have brought whatever it is to Hogwarts with him –"

"But how can he have done, Harry?" said Hermione, putting down the newspaper with a surprised look. "We were all searched when we arrived, weren't we?"

"Were you?" said Harry, taken aback. "I wasn't!"

"Oh no, of course you weren't. Well, Filch ran over all of us with Secrecy Sensors when we got into the entrance hall. Any dark object would have been found, I know for a fact Crabbe had a shrunken head confiscated. So you see, Malfoy can't have brought in anything dangerous!"

Momentarily stymied, Harry watched Ginny playing with Arnold the Pygmy Puff before seeing a way around this objection. He took a glance at Hermione, who he thought might have followed his gaze but was now looking back down at the newspaper.

"Someone's sent it to him by owl, then," he said. "His mother or someone."

"All the owls are being checked too," said Hermione with patience. "Filch told us so when he was jabbing those Secrecy Sensors everywhere he could reach."

Really stumped this time, Harry found nothing else to say. There did not seem to be any way Malfoy could have brought a dangerous or dark object into the school. He looked hopefully at Ron, who was sitting with his arms folded, staring moodily at a corner.

"Can you think of any way Malfoy —?"

"Oh, just drop it, will you," snapped Ron.

"Listen, it's not my fault Slughorn invited Hermione and me to his stupid party, neither of us wanted to go, you know!" said Harry, firing up, though he could have sworn Hermione's expression tightened a bit at his words.

"Well, as I'm not invited to any parties," said Ron, getting to his feet again, "I think I'll go to bed. He stomped off toward the door to the boys' dormitories, leaving Harry and Hermione staring after him.

"Harry?" said the new Chaser, Demelza Robins, appearing suddenly at his shoulder behind the sofa. "I've got a message for you."

"From Professor Slughorn?" asked Harry, sitting up hopefully. Beside him Hermione perked up too.

"No… from Professor Snape," said Demelza. Harry's heart sank. "He says you're to come to his office at half past eight tonight to do your detention— er— no matter how many party invitations you've received. And he wanted you to know you'll be sorting out rotten flobberworms from good ones, to use in Potions and — and he says there's no need to bring protective gloves."

"Right," said Harry grimly. "Thanks a lot, Demelza."

"Urgh –" Hermione said as Demelza left them. "Snape." The disdain in her voice was palpable, and Harry was momentarily shocked. He'd only ever heard her speak about two teachers with that amount of scorn. Professor Trelawney, and last year's Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher Dolores Umbridge. Noticing Harry's smile, Hermione shot him a look.

"What?"

"Nothing," Harry chuckled, but her expression made him stop. "Just, well…" and he decided, for some reason, to tease. "You must've really been looking forward to spending your Saturday night with me."

Hermione suddenly went pink. For a second, Harry thought he was about to get told off, but then she rolled her eyes.

"Oh, yes," she scoffed. "Well, you know my idea of a date, Harry. A trip to the 'Slug Club'."

Harry laughed, and before he could stop himself, or ponder on how Hermione had casually just mentioned a date, said: "I mean… A date with Hermione Granger or a detention with Snape. What would anybody do to deserve that choice?"

Hermione pulled a face, but laughed. "Oh, wow. Cocky much, Potter."

"First Hagrid, now you calling me Potter."

Hermione flashed him another smile, and his stomach did an involuntary flip.

"Maybe it won't be too bad," he offered, now realising he felt rather hot under the collar, though he knew he sounded far-from convinced.

"Nice try," Hermione said. "You don't have to put up with Cormac bloody McLaggen!"

"Swearing now, are we?" Harry smirked. "I mean, don't worry, you can always just confund him again if he gets too close."

She glared at him with a sternness that didn't reach her eyes but, before he could face further wrath, the clock chimed eight.

"I'll suppose I'll go get ready," Hermione said, sounding resigned. She stood and gathered her things. She stopped next to him. "Don't do anything stupid that will get you another detention."

"Thanks for the advice," said Harry bitterly. "Hope the party's not too awful."

She smiled at him again, squeezing his shoulder before heading to the stairs, turning back when she got there. "Harry," she said, though only loud enough for him to hear.

"Yeh?"

"It would have been nice, you know," she said. "To spend some time with you."

With that, she headed up to the girls' dormitories, leaving Harry staring at the vacant staircase, a strangely familiar scent lingering in the air.

Chapter 8: 8: Chapter Twelve – Silver And Opals [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Where was Dumbledore, and what was he doing? Harry caught sight of the headmaster only twice over the next few weeks. He rarely appeared at meals anymore, and Harry was sure Hermione was right in thinking that he was leaving the school for days at a time. Had Dumbledore forgotten the lessons he was supposed to be giving Harry? Dumbledore had said that the lessons were leading to something to do with the prophecy; Harry had felt bolstered, comforted, and now he felt slightly abandoned. Halfway through October came their first trip of the term to Hogsmeade.

Harry had wondered whether these trips would still be allowed, given the increasingly tight security measures around the school, but was pleased to know that they were going ahead; it was always good to get out of the castle grounds for a few hours. Harry woke early on the morning of the trip, which was proving stormy, and whiled away the time until breakfast by reading his copy of Advanced Potion Making. He did not usually lie in bed reading his textbooks; that sort of behaviour, as Ron rightly said, was indecent in anybody except Hermione, who was simply weird that way.

Harry felt, however, that the Half-Blood Prince's copy of Advanced Potion Making hardly qualified as a textbook. The more Harry poured over the book, the more he realised how much was in

there, not only the handy hints and shortcuts on potions that was earning him such a glowing reputation with Slughorn, but also the imaginative little jinxes and hexes scribbled in the margins, which Harry was sure, judging by the crossings-out and revisions, that the Prince had invented himself. Harry had already attempted a few of the Prince's self-invented spells.

There had been a hex that caused toenails to grow alarmingly fast (he had tried this on Crabbe in the corridor, with very entertaining results); a jinx that glued the tongue to the roof of the mouth (which he had twice used, to general applause, on an unsuspecting Argus Filch); and, perhaps most useful of all, Muffliato, a spell that filled the ears of anyone nearby with an unidentifiable buzzing, so that lengthy conversations could be held in class without being overheard.

The only person who did not find these charms amusing was Hermione, who maintained a rigidly disapproving expression throughout and refused to talk at all if Harry had used the Muffliato spell on anyone in the vicinity. Sitting up in bed, Harry turned the book sideways so as to examine more closely the scribbled instructions for a spell that seemed to have caused the Prince some trouble. There were many crossings-out and alterations, but finally, crammed into a corner of the page, the scribble: Levicorpus (nvbl)

While the wind and sleet pounded relentlessly on the windows, and Neville snored loudly, Harry stared at the letters in brackets. Nvbl…that had to mean "nonverbal." Harry rather doubted he would be able to bring off this particular spell; he was still having difficulty with nonverbal spells, something Snape had been quick to comment on in every Defence Against the Dark Arts class.

On the other hand, the Prince had proved a much more effective teacher than Snape so far. Pointing his wand at nothing in particular, he gave it an upward flick and said Levicorpus! inside his head.

"Aaaaaaaargh!" There was a flash of light and the room was full of voices. Everyone had woken up as Ron had let out a yell. Harry sent Advanced Potion Making flying in panic; Ron was dangling upside down in midair as though an invisible hook had hoisted him up by the ankle.

"Sorry!" yelled Harry, as Dean and Seamus roared with laughter, and Neville picked himself up from the floor, having fallen out of bed. "Hang on — I'll let you down —" He groped for the potion book and riffled through it in a panic, trying to find the right page; at last he located it and deciphered the cramped word underneath the spell: Praying that this was the counter-jinx, Harry thought Liberacorpus! with all his might. There was another flash of light, and Ron fell in a heap onto his mattress. "Sorry," repeated Harry weakly, while Dean and Seamus continued to roar with laughter.

"Tomorrow," said Ron in a muffled voice, "I'd rather you set the alarm clock." By the time they had got dressed, padding themselves out with several of Mrs. Weasleys hand-knitted sweaters and carrying cloaks, scarves, and gloves, Ron's shock had subsided and he had decided that

Harry's new spell was highly amusing; so amusing, in fact, that he lost no time in regaling Hermione with the story as they sat down for breakfast.

"…and then there was another flash, of light and I landed on the bed again!" Ron grinned, helping himself to sausages.

Hermione had not cracked a smile during this anecdote, and now turned an expression of wintry disapproval upon Harry.

"Was this spell, by any chance, another one from that potion book of yours?" she asked.

Harry frowned at her. "Always jump to the worst conclusion, don't you?"

"Was it?"

"Well…yeah, it was, but so what?"

"So you just decided to try out an unknown, handwritten incantation and see what would happen?"

"Why does it matter if it's handwritten?" said Harry, preferring not to answer the rest of the question.

"Because it's probably not Ministry of Magic approved," said Hermione. "And also," she added, as Harry and Ron rolled their eyes, "because I'm starting to think this Prince character was a bit dodgy."

Both Harry and Ron shouted her down at once. "It was a laugh!" said Ron, upending a ketchup bottle over his sausages. "Just a laugh, Hermione, that's all!"

"Dangling people upside down by the ankle?" said Hermione. "Who puts their time and energy into making up spells like that?"

"Fred and George," said Ron, shrugging, "it's their kind of thing. And, er —"

"My dad," said Harry. He had only just remembered.

"What?" said Ron and Hermione together.

"My dad used this spell," said Harry. "I — Lupin told me."

This last part was not true; in fact, Harry had seen his father use the spell on Snape, but he had never told Ron and Hermione about that particular excursion into the Pensieve. Now, however, a wonderful possibility occurred to him. Could the Half-Blood Prince possibly be —?

"Maybe your dad did use it, Harry," said Hermione, more patiently this time. For all her anger over the book, deep down Harry knew she was looking out for him, as always, though he wasn't going to simply stop using the instructions because of that. "But he's not the only one," she continued. "We've seen a whole bunch of people use it, in case you've forgotten. Dangling people in the air. Making them float along, asleep, helpless."

Harry stared at her. With a sinking feeling, he too remembered the behaviour of the Death Eaters at the Quidditch World Cup. Ron came to his aid.

"That was different," he said robustly. "They were abusing it. Harry and his dad were just having a laugh. You don't like the Prince, Hermione," he added, pointing a sausage at her sternly, "because he's better than you at Potions —"

"It's got nothing to do with that!" said Hermione, her cheeks reddening. "I just think it's very irresponsible to start performing spells when you don't even know what they're for, and stop talking about 'the Prince' as if it's his title, I bet it's just a stupid nickname, and it doesn't seem as though he was a very nice person to me!"

"I don't see where you get that from," said Harry heatedly. "If he'd been a budding Death Eater he wouldn't have been boasting about being 'half-blood,' would he?" Even as he said it, Harry remembered that his father had been pure-blood, but he pushed the thought out of his mind; he would worry about that later.

"The Death Eaters can't all be pure-blood, there aren't enough pure-blood wizards left," said Hermione stubbornly. "I expect most of them are half-bloods pretending to be pure. It's only muggleborns they hate, they'd be quite happy to let you and Ron join up."

"There is no way they'd let me be a Death Eater!" said Ron indignantly, a bit of sausage flying off the fork he was now brandishing at Hermione and hitting Ernie Macmillan on the head. "My whole family are blood traitors! That's as bad as muggleborns to Death Eaters!"

"And they'd love to have me," said Harry sarcastically. "We'd be best pals if they didn't keep trying to do me in." This made Ron laugh; even Hermione gave a grudging smile, and a distraction arrived in the shape of Ginny.

"Hey, Harry, I'm supposed to give you this." It was a scroll of parchment with Harry's name written upon it in familiar thin, slanting writing.

"Thanks, Ginny…It's Dumbledore's next lesson!" Harry told Ron and Hermione, pulling open the parchment and quickly reading its contents. "Monday evening!" He felt suddenly light and happy. "Want to join us in Hogsmeade, Ginny?" he asked.

"I'm going with Dean — might see you there," she replied, waving at them as she left.

As he watched Ginny walk back along the table, Harry was sure he heard a small "Hmph" from Hermione next to him, but she had already buried her head in her copy of the Prophet.

Filch was standing at the oak front doors as usual, checking off the names of people who had permission to go into Hogsmeade. The process took even longer than normal as Filch was triple- checking everybody with his Secrecy Sensor.

"What does it matter if we're smuggling dark stuff OUT?" demanded Ron, eyeing the long thin Secrecy Sensor with apprehension. "Surely you ought to be checking what we bring back IN?"

His cheek earned him a few extra jabs with the Sensor, and he was still wincing as they stepped out into the wind and sleet. The walk into Hogsmeade was not enjoyable. Harry wrapped his scarf over his lower face; the exposed part soon felt both raw and numb. The road to the village was full of students bent double against the bitter wind. More than once Harry wondered whether they might not have had a better time in the warm common room, and when they finally reached Hogsmeade, they saw that Zonko's Joke Shop had been boarded up.

"Three Broomsticks?" suggested Hermione, who was bundled up between them. Harry and Ron grunted their approval and headed for the pub.

The bitter wind was like knives on their faces. The street was not very busy; nobody was lingering to chat, just hurrying toward their destinations. The exceptions were two men a little

ahead of them, standing just outside the Three Broomsticks. One was very tall and thin; squinting through his rain-washed glasses Harry recognised the barman who worked in the other Hogsmeade pub, the Hog's Head. As Harry, Ron, and Hermione drew closer, the barman drew his cloak more tightly around his neck and walked away, leaving the shorter man to fumble with something in his arms. They were barely feet from him when Harry realised who the man was.

"Mundungus!"

The squat, bandy-legged man with long, straggly, ginger hair jumped and dropped an ancient suitcase, which burst open, releasing what looked like the entire contents of a junk shop window.

"Oh, 'ello, 'Arry," said Mundungus Fletcher, with a most unconvincing stab at airiness. "Well, don't let me keep ya."

He began scrabbling on the ground to retrieve the contents of his suitcase with every appearance of a man eager to be gone. "Are you selling this stuff?" asked Harry, watching Mundungus grab an assortment of grubby looking objects from the ground.

"Oh, well, gotta scrape a living," said Mundungus. "Gimme that!" Ron had stooped down and picked up something silver.

"Hang on," Ron said slowly. "This looks familiar —"

"Thank you!" said Mundungus, snatching the goblet out of Ron's hand and stuffing it back into the case. "Well, I'll see you all — OUCH!"

Harry had pinned Mundungus against the wall of the pub by the throat. Holding him fast with one hand, he pulled out his wand.

"Harry!" squealed Hermione.

"You took that from Sirius's house," growled Harry, who was almost nose to nose with Mundungus and was breathing in an unpleasant smell of old tobacco and spirits. "That had the Black family crest on it."

"I — no — what —?" spluttered Mundungus, who was slowly turning purple.

"What did you do, go back the night he died and strip the place?" snarled Harry.

"I — no —"

"Give it to me!"

"Harry, you mustn't!" shrieked Hermione as she clung to the back of his jacket, attempting to pull him off, as Mundungus started to turn blue. There was a bang, and Harry felt his hands fly off Mundungus's throat. Gasping and spluttering, Mundungus seized his fallen case, then — CRACK — he disapparated. Harry swore at the top of his voice, spinning on the spot to see where Mundungus had gone.

"COME BACK, YOU THIEVING —!"

"There's no point, Harry." Tonks had appeared out of nowhere, her mousy hair wet with sleet. "Mundungus will probably be in London by now. There's no point yelling."

"He's nicked Sirius's stuff! Nicked it!"

"Yes, but still," said Tonks, who seemed perfectly untroubled by this piece of information. "You should get out of the cold."

"He was stealing Sirius' stuff!"

"I know, Harry, but please don't shout," whispered Hermione, squeezing his arm. "Come on."

She dragged him towards the pub, Ron following behind as Tonks watched them through the door.

"Hermione–"

"I know, Harry, but come on, now's not the time."

"Thank God," said Ron as they were enveloped by warm air of The Three Broomsticks.

"I'll get the drinks," Hermione said, taking a cautious look at Harry, who was still trying to calm down. "You two go and find a table. Ron, what are you staring at?"

"Nothing," said Ron, but Harry knew he was trying to catch the eye of the curvy and attractive barmaid, Madam Rosmerta, for whom he had long nursed a soft spot.

"I expect 'nothing's' in the back getting more firewhisky," said Hermione waspishly as she went to the bar, where Professor Slughorn was propped up talking to a thoroughly bored-looking wizard.

"No, sit beside me," Harry, whose breathing had just returned to normal following his outburst, said as he and Ron found a vacant table near the stairs.

"Alright?" Ron said quizzically, but moved over anyway, allowing Harry a clear line of sight of Slughorn, just as Hermione returned with three glasses of butterbeer.

"Oh, bloody hell," Ron said just as Hermione had sat down. He was looking over to the corner. Harry and Hermione followed his gaze; Ginny and Dean were sat in a booth, their heads together, whispering intimately.

"Oh, Ron. They're only holding hands," Hermione said. But just at that moment, Dean and Ginny began kissing. Deeply. "And snogging, apparently," she finished weekly as she swiftly switched her attention back to her drink.

"I'd like to leave," said Ron in a stiff voice that did not sound entirely like his own.

"You can't be serious?" asked Hermione incredulously.

"That happens to be my sister!"

"So?" Hermione asked with a smirk. "What if she looked over and saw you snogging someone, would you expect her to leave?"

"Er– what –"

"Or," Hermione continued, unperturbed. "What if me and Harry were snogging. Would you leave then?"

Harry, who had just taken a swig of butterbeer, spluttered into his glass. Hermione, as if realising what she had just said, blushed a deep shade of violet and took a huge gulp of her own drink. Thankfully, just at that moment, the booming voice of Horace Slughorn interrupted them.

"Harry, m'boy!" said Slughorn, ambling over haphazardly, clutching a full jug of ale.

"Hello sir, wonderful to see you. What brings you here?" said Harry eagerly, putting Hermione's bizarre comment to one side and standing up to shake the professor's hand.

"And you, and you!" beamed Slughorn. "Oh, the Three Broomsticks and I go far back – I can remember when it was one Broomsti– Oh, all hands on deck, Granger!"

Slughorn, swaying on his feet, had just slung a good portion of his ale down onto the table in front of Hermione, who made a slight noise between a cough and a nervous laugh as she smiled back timidly.

"Listen m'boy," he continued, as if nothing had happened. "You must come to one of my supper parties. That's three of them you've missed now!" said Slughorn, poking him genially in the chest. "It won't do, m'boy, I'm determined to have you! Miss Granger loves them, don't you?"

"Erm… Yes," said Hermione helplessly, "they're really —"

"So why don't you come along, Harry?" demanded Slughorn.

"Well, I've had Quidditch practice, Professor," said Harry, who had indeed been scheduling training to coincide with Slughorn's parties. This strategy meant that Ron was not left out, and they usually had a laugh with Ginny, who had been invited too but Quidditch practice gave her an out, though he did feel guilty for leaving Hermione locked up with McLaggen and Zabini. But given he now had another lesson with Dumbledore confirmed, he supposed he should start working on "getting closer" to the Potions master.

"Well, I certainly expect you to win your first match after all the hard work!" said Slughorn. "But a little recreation never hurt any body. Now, how about Monday night, you can't possibly want to practice in this weather…"

"I can't on Monday, professor, I've got an appointment with Professor Dumbledore that evening."

"Unlucky again!" cried Slughorn dramatically. "Ah, well…you can't evade me forever, Harry!"

"It'd be an honour, sir," Harry said.

"Splendid! Await my owl! G'day Harry, Granger. And always good to see you too, Wallenby." He looked shakily at Ron before waddling back off to the bar.

"What are you playing at, you've been avoiding them all term?" Ron, who was giving the back of Slughorn's head a dark look, asked as Harry sat back down.

"Dumbledore's asked me to get to know him, get close to him," Harry said.

Ron looked nonplussed, and Harry realised he'd never told him about Dumbledore's instruction to get in Slughorn's good books.

"Get to know him, what does that mean?" Ron said.

"I don't know," Harry said. "It must be important. If it wasn't, Dumbledore wouldn't ask."

"Still," said Hermione, her voice slightly higher than usual – her drink well over half empty already. "I can't believe you've wriggled out of another one. They're not that bad, you know… They could even be quite fun, if I'd have some company…"

She flushed again and returned to her butterbeer. Ron was glaring between Ginny, Hermione and Slughorn. Harry, with Hermione's earlier comment now at the front of his mind, took another sip of his drink. The pub was suddenly much warmer than it had been a few minutes ago.

Then, Hermione arched back in her seat and downed the rest of her butterbeer. Perplexed, Harry couldn't hide his smile when she lowered her head back down and had a moustache of froth.

"Erm… you've got…a little bit of…" said Ron awkwardly, scratching his top lip. Hermione's eyes darted to Ron and then Harry, mortified, before she wiped her sleeve across her mouth.

"Oh, err… I'll go get another," she said, far too quickly, and before Harry or Ron could protest, she had gone off to the bar.

Half-an-hour and another two drinks for Hermione later, they once again drew their cloaks tightly around them, rearranged their scarves, pulled on their gloves, then followed Katie Bell and a friend out of the pub and back up the High Street.

Harry noticed a few students heading down in the direction of Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, the haunt of happy couples, and remembered his disastrous date with Cho earlier that year. Cho, who had been convinced Harry actually fancied Hermione. Hermione, who would certainly have been much better company that day than Cho had been, and was currently a short way ahead of Harry and Ron as they made it back onto the road back to the castle, and clearly not exactly steady on her feet. Butterbeer didn't have a high alcohol percentage, as far as Harry knew, but she had just downed three in thirty minutes.

"Is she mental?" Ron said from next to him.

"Eh?" Harry answered, though he was quite happy watching Hermione walk. He hadn't seen her this relaxed in… well, ever.

"You hear what she said back there? About you and her snogging." Ron said incredulously.

"Err… yeh…"

"I mean, as if," said Ron.

"Yeh. As if," said Harry quickly, though he didn't know why the thought of him kissing Hermione, who at that moment was doing a fine impression of Slughorn's earlier swaying, seemed so unlikely to Ron.

He sped up, catching up with Hermione just in time for her to latch onto his arm. She smiled sweetly and moved her arm around his shoulders. Moments later, Ron was by her other side too, and she flung an arm around him.

"You two–"

"KATIE!"

The trio stopped in their tracks. Ahead of them, Katie Bell and her friend were pulling at a package, which split in Katie's hands. At once, she fell to the ground, arms spread out as if she were making a snow angel.

"I told her not to touch it!" her friend, who Harry recognised as a seventh-year named Leanne, screamed.

A second later, Katie rose up and shot into the air, not as Ron had done, suspended comically by the ankle, but gracefully, her arms outstretched, as though she was about to fly. Yet there was something wrong, something eerie… Her hair was whipped around her by the fierce wind, but her eyes were closed and her face was quite empty of expression.

Then, six feet above the ground, Katie let out a terrible scream. Her eyes flew open but whatever she could see, or whatever she was feeling, was clearly causing her terrible anguish. She screamed and screamed; Leanne started to scream too and seized Katie's ankles, trying to tug her back to the ground. Harry, Ron, and Hermione rushed forward to help, but even as they grabbed Katie's legs, she fell on top of them; Harry and Ron managed to catch her but she was writhing so much they could hardly hold her. Instead they lowered her to the ground where she thrashed and screamed, apparently unable to recognise any of them. Harry looked around; the landscape seemed deserted.

"Stay there!" he shouted at the others over the howling wind. "I'm going for help!"

He began to sprint towards the school; he had never seen anyone behave as Katie had just behaved and could not think what had caused it; he hurtled around a bend in the lane and collided with what seemed to be an enormous bear on its hind legs. "Hagrid!" he panted, disentangling himself from the hedgerow into which he had fallen.

"Harry!" said Hagrid, who had sleet trapped in his eyebrows and beard, and was wearing his great, shaggy beaverskin coat. "Jus' bin visitin' Grawp, he's comin' on so well yeh wouldn' —"

"Hagrid, someone's hurt back there, or cursed, or something —"

"Wha?" said Hagrid, bending lower to hear what Harry was saying over the raging wind.

"Someone's been cursed!" bellowed Harry.

"Cursed? Who's bin cursed — not Ron? Hermione?"

"No, it's not them, it's Katie Bell — this way…"

Together they ran back along the lane. It took them no time to find the little group of people around Katie, who was still writhing and screaming on the ground; Ron, Hermione, and Leanne.

"Get back!" shouted Hagrid. "Lemme see her!"

"Something's happened to her!" sobbed Leanne. "I don't know what —"

Hagrid stared at Katie for a second, then without a word, bent down, scooped her into his arms, and ran off toward the castle with her. Within seconds, Katie's piercing screams had died away and the only sound was the roar of the wind. Hermione hurried over to Katie's wailing friend and put an arm around her.

"It's Leanne, isn't it?" The girl nodded. "Did it just happen all of a sudden, or —?"

"It was when that package tore," sobbed Leanne, pointing at the now sodden brown-paper package on the ground, which had split open to reveal a greenish glitter. Ron bent down, his hand out-stretched, but Harry seized his arm and pulled him back. "Don't touch it!"

He crouched down. An ornate opal necklace was visible, poking out of the paper.

"I've seen that before," said Harry, staring at the thing. "It was on display in Borgin and Burkes ages ago. The label said it was cursed. Katie must have touched it." He looked up at Leanne, who had started to shake uncontrollably. "How did Katie get hold of this?"

"Well, that's why we were arguing. She came back from the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks holding it, said it was a surprise for somebody at Hogwarts and she had to deliver it. She looked all funny when she said it… Oh no, oh no, I bet she'd been Imperiused and I didn't realise!"

Leanne shook with renewed sobs. Hermione patted her shoulder gently. She looked up at Harry, her face pale, but she pushed on. "She didn't say who'd given it to her, Leanne?"

"No… she wouldn't tell me… and I said she was being stupid and not to take it up to school, but she just wouldn't listen and… and then I tried to grab it from her… and — and —" Leanne let out a wail of despair.

"We'd better get up to school," said Hermione, her arm still around Leanne. "We'll be able to find out how she is. Come on…"

Harry hesitated for a moment, then pulled his scarf from around his face and, ignoring Ron's gasp, carefully covered the necklace and picked it up.

"We'll need to show this to Madam Pomfrey," he said.

As they followed Hermione and Leanne up the road, Harry was thinking furiously. They had just entered the grounds when he spoke, unable to keep his thoughts to himself any longer.

"Malfoy knows about this necklace. It was in a case at Borgin and Burkes four years ago, I saw him having a good look at it while I was hiding from him and his dad. This is what he was buying that day when we followed him! He remembered it and he went back for it!"

"I — I dunno, Harry," said Ron hesitantly. "Loads of people go to Borgin and Burkes…and didn't that girl say Katie got it in the girls' bathroom?"

"She said she came back from the bathroom with it, she didn't necessarily get it in the bathroom itself —"

"McGonagall!" said Ron warningly. Harry looked up. Sure enough, Professor McGonagall was hurrying down the stone steps through swirling sleet to meet them.

"Hagrid says you four saw what happened to Katie Bell — upstairs to my office at once, please! What's that you're holding, Potter?"

"It's the thing she touched," said Harry.

"Good lord," said Professor McGonagall, looking alarmed as she took the necklace from Harry. "No, no, Filch, they're with me!" she added hastily, as Filch came shuffling eagerly across the entrance hall holding his Secrecy Sensor aloft. "Take this necklace to Professor Snape at once, but be sure not to touch it, keep it wrapped in the scarf!"

Harry and the others followed Professor McGonagall upstairs and into her office. The sleet- spattered windows were rattling in their frames, and the room was chilly despite the fire crackling in the grate. Professor McGonagall closed the door and swept around her desk to face Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the still sobbing Leanne.

"It's always you three, isn't it?" McGonagall started despairingly. "Why, whenever anything happens, is it always, you three?"

"Believe me, professor," said Ron ."I've been asking myself the same thing for five years."

McGonagall's face twitched. "Well? What happened?"

Haltingly, and with many pauses while she attempted to control her crying, Leanne told Professor McGonagall how Katie had gone to the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks and returned holding the unmarked package, how Katie had seemed a little odd, and how they had argued about the advisability of agreeing to deliver unknown objects, the argument culminating in the tussle over the parcel, which tore open. At this point, Leanne was so overcome, there was no getting another word out of her.

"All right," said Professor McGonagall, not unkindly, "go up to the hospital wing, please, Leanne, and get Madam Pomfrey to give you something for shock." When she had left the room, Professor McGonagall turned back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "What happened when Katie touched the necklace?"

"She rose up in the air," said Harry, before either Ron or Hermione could speak, "and then began to scream, and collapsed. Professor, can I see Professor Dumbledore, please?"

"The headmaster is away until Monday, Potter," said Professor McGonagall, looking surprised.

"Away?" Harry repeated angrily.

"Yes, Potter, away!" said Professor McGonagall tartly. "But anything you have to say about this horrible business can be said to me, I'm sure!"

For a split second, Harry hesitated. Professor McGonagall did not invite confidences; Dumbledore, though in many ways more intimidating, still seemed less likely to scorn a theory, however wild. This was a life-and-death matter, though, and no moment to worry about being embarrassed.

"I think Draco Malfoy gave Katie that necklace, Professor."

On one side of him, Ron rubbed his nose in apparent embarrassment; on the other, Hermione shuffled her feet.

"That is a very serious accusation, Potter," said Professor McGonagall. "Do you have any proof?"

"No," said Harry, "but…" and he told her about following Malfoy to Borgin and Burkes and the conversation they had over-heard between him and Mr. Borgin.

"Malfoy took something to Borgin and Burkes for repair?"

"No, Professor, he just wanted Borgin to tell him how to mend something, he didn't have it with him. But that's not the point, the thing is that he bought something at the same time, and I think it was that necklace —"

"You saw Malfoy leaving the shop with a similar package?"

"No, Professor, he told Borgin to keep it in the shop for him —"

"But Harry," Hermione interrupted, "Borgin asked him if he wanted to take it with him, and Malfoy said no —"

"Because he didn't want to touch it, obviously!" said Harry angrily. He thought she had started to come around to his theory on Malfoy.

"What he actually said was, 'How would I look carrying that down the street?'" said Hermione.

"Well, he would look a bit of a prat carrying a necklace," interjected Ron.

"Oh, Ron," said Hermione despairingly, "it would be all wrapped up, so he wouldn't have to touch it, and quite easy to hide inside a cloak, so nobody would see it! I think whatever he reserved at Borgin and Burkes was noisy or bulky, something he knew would draw attention to him if he carried it down the street — and in any case," she pressed on loudly, before Harry

could interrupt, "I asked Borgin about the necklace, don't you remember? When I went in to try and find out what Malfoy had asked him to keep, I saw it there. And Borgin just told me the price, he didn't say it was already sold or anything —"

"Well, you were being really obvious, he realised what you were up to within about five seconds," Harry twinged internally at the hurt on Hermione's face but pressed on anyway, angry she wasn't backing him up. "Of course he wasn't going to tell you, anyway, Malfoy could've sent off for it since—"

"That's enough!" said Professor McGonagall, as Hermione opened her mouth to retort. "Potter, I appreciate you telling me this, but we cannot point the finger of blame at Mr. Malfoy purely because he visited the shop where this necklace might have been purchased. The same is probably true of hundreds of people —"

"— that's what I said —" muttered Ron.

"— and in any case, we have put stringent security measures in place this year. I do not believe that necklace can possibly have entered this school without our knowledge —"

"But —"

"— and what is more," said Professor McGonagall, with an air of awful finality, "Mr. Malfoy was not in Hogsmeade today." Harry gaped at her, deflating.

"How do you know, Professor?"

"Because he was doing detention with me. He has now failed to complete his Transfiguration homework twice in a row. So, thank you for telling me your suspicions, Potter," she said as she marched past them, "but I need to go up to the hospital wing to check on Miss Bell. Good day to you all." She held open her office door. They had no choice but to file past her without another word.

Harry was frustrated with the other two for siding with McGonagall; nevertheless, he felt compelled to join in once they started discussing what had happened.

"So who do you reckon Katie was supposed to give the necklace to?" asked Ron, as they climbed the stairs to the common room.

"Goodness knows," said Hermione. "But whoever it was has had a narrow escape. No one could have opened that package without touching the necklace."

"It could've been meant for loads of people," said Harry. "Dumbledore — the Death Eaters would love to get rid of him, he must be one of their top targets. Or Slughorn — Dumbledore reckons Voldemort really wanted him and they can't be pleased that he's sided with Dumbledore. Or —"

"Or you," said Hermione quietly, looking troubled.

"Couldn't have been," said Harry, trying to reassure her, "or Katie would've just turned around in the lane and given it to me, wouldn't she? We were behind her all the way out of the Three Broomsticks. It would have made much more sense to deliver the parcel outside Hogwarts, what with Filch searching everyone who goes in and out. I wonder why Malfoy told her to take it into the castle?"

"Harry, Malfoy wasn't in Hogsmeade!" said Hermione, and she actually stamped her foot in frustration.

"He must have used an accomplice, then," said Harry. "Crabbe or Goyle – or, come to think of it, another Death Eater, he'll have loads better cronies than Crabbe and Goyle now he's joined up –" Ron and Hermione exchanged looks that plainly said There's no point arguing with him.

"Dilligrout," said Hermione firmly as they reached the Fat Lady.

The portrait swung open to admit them to the common room. It was quite full and smelled of damp clothing; many people seemed to have returned from Hogsmeade early because of the bad weather. There was no buzz of fear or speculation, however: clearly, the news of Katie's fate had not yet spread.

"It wasn't a very slick attack, really, when you stop and think about it," said Ron, casually turfing a first year out of one of the good armchairs by the fire so that he could sit down. "The curse didn't even make it into the castle. Not what you'd call foolproof."

"You're right," said Hermione, prodding Ron out of the chair with her foot and offering it to the first year again. "It wasn't very well thought-out at all."

"But since when has Malfoy been one of the world's great thinkers?" asked Harry. Neither Ron nor Hermione answered him.

They spent the next few hours in the common room, Ron going off to play Wizard's Chess with Seamus while Hermione seemed to be suffering the effects of a minor hangover. Harry remained planted on the seat next to her, mind spinning. Eventually, Crookshanks came and wedged his way in between them, Harry absentmindedly knuckling the ginger cat in a spot behind his ear.

"I don't like us fighting," Hermione said at one point, snapping him out of his reverie. It was a barely audible whisper, but enough to get his attention. Like the night of Slughorn's first party, Hermione had a knack of making it seem like they were the only two people in the room, without the need for Muffliato. She was looking down with a smile at Crookshanks, who was stretched out comfortably over Harry's knees.

He released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He had clashed with Hermione plenty of times but they never fell out and while their friendship may have been slightly strained in recent weeks, he had no wish to test what a proper argument with Hermione would be like. Plus, in this instance, he really wanted – no, needed – her to believe him. He knew if push came to shove she would follow him anywhere, but he didn't want a repeat of their trip to the Department of Mysteries, when she'd been right all along. He wanted her to believe him, not just believe in him.

He reached out and placed what he hoped would be a reassuring hand onto her knee, his stomach doing a little turn as he did so. Hermione hitched slightly, but looked up at him with a smile, her dark brown eyes glistening slightly; he wasn't sure if with tears, or just due to the dim light in the room.

"Me neither," he said quietly.

She sniffed slightly. "Good."

For a moment, Harry was worried he was about to get another lecture about the Prince's book, or his Malfoy theory but, thankfully, she simply smiled and placed a hand atop the one he had on her knee, giving it a squeeze.

Harry gulped. Given everything that had gone on with Katie, he hadn't been giving much thought to anything other than how Malfoy could have managed to get the necklace to her. But now, sat there next to Hermione, what she had said at the pub came back to him.

"What if me and Harry were snogging…"

And then there was Ron's reaction, and something growled inside of Harry once again. Why was the possibility of him and Hermione snogging so unlikely?

Movement beside him drew him away from dangerous thoughts of him and Hermione, taking the road to the Three Broomsticks and finding a corner table like Ginny and Dean had. Hermione had stood and stretched. Harry wasn't sure if it was a trick of the light, but every movement seemed extenuated, her slender frame perfectly silhouetted.

"Night, Ron," Hermione said as she packed up her stuff. Ron – concentration firmly fixed on his game of chess – waved vaguely in response.

"Night, Her–" Harry started, but she cut him off with swooping a hug. It was a gentle one, not one of her 'clinging-on-for-dear-life' grips, but it still stopped him in his tracks. "–mione," he eventually finished.

"Goodnight, Harry," and, with that, she headed off up the stairs.

Harry turned where he sat, nobody seemed to have noticed. And anyway, even if they had done, it was only a hug. A hug between friends. Best friends. That's all.

Except his stomach was saying otherwise, and the sweet, flowery smell filled his nostrils.

Chapter 9: 9: Chapter Thirteen - The Secret Riddle [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Katie was removed to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries the following day, by which time the news that she had been cursed had spread all over the school, though the details were confused and nobody other than Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Leanne seemed to know that Katie herself had not been the intended target.

"Oh, and Malfoy knows, of course," said Harry to Ron and Hermione, who continued their new policy of feigning deafness whenever Harry mentioned his Malfoy-Is-a-Death-Eater theory.

Harry had wondered whether Dumbledore would return from wherever he had been in time for Monday night's lesson, but having had no word to the contrary, he presented himself outside Dumbledore's office at eight o'clock, knocked, and was told to enter.

There sat Dumbledore looking unusually tired; his hand was as black and burned as ever, but he smiled when he gestured to Harry to sit down. The Pensieve was sitting on the desk again, casting silvery specks of light over the ceiling.

"You have had a busy time while I have been away," Dumbledore said. "I believe you witnessed Katie's accident."

"Yes, sir. How is she?"

"Still very unwell, although she was relatively lucky. She appears to have brushed the necklace with the smallest possible amount of skin; there was a tiny hole in her glove. Had she put it on, had she even held it in her ungloved hand, she would have died, perhaps instantly. Luckily Professor Snape was able to do enough to prevent a rapid spread of the curse —"

"Why him?" asked Harry quickly. "Why not Madam Pomfrey?"

"Impertinent," said a soft voice from one of the portraits on the wall, and Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius's great-great-grandfather, raised his head from his arms where he had appeared to be sleeping. "I would not have permitted a student to question the way Hogwarts operated in my day."

"Yes, thank you, Phineas," said Dumbledore quellingly. "Professor Snape knows much more about the dark arts than Madam Pomfrey, Harry. Anyway, the St. Mungo's staff are sending me hourly reports, and I am hopeful that Katie will make a full recovery in time."

"Where were you this weekend, sir?" Harry asked, disregarding a strong feeling that he might be pushing his luck, a feeling apparently shared by Phineas Nigellus, who hissed softly.

"I would rather not say just now," said Dumbledore. "However, I shall tell you in due course."

"You will?" said Harry, startled. "Yes, I expect so," said Dumbledore, withdrawing a fresh bottle of silver memories from inside his robes and uncorking it with a prod of his wand.

"Sir," said Harry tentatively, "I met Mundungus in Hogsmeade."

"Ah yes, I am already aware that Mundungus has been treating your inheritance with light- fingered contempt," said Dumbledore, frowning a little. "He has gone to ground since you accosted him outside the Three Broomsticks; I rather think he dreads facing me. However, rest assured that he will not be making away with any more of Sirius's old possessions."

"That mangy old half-blood has been stealing Black heirlooms?" said Phineas Nigellus, incensed; and he stalked out of his frame, undoubtedly to visit his portrait in number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

"Professor," said Harry, after a short pause, "did Professor McGonagall tell you what I told her after Katie got hurt? About Draco Malfoy?"

"She told me of your suspicions, yes," said Dumbledore.

"And do you —?"

"I shall take all appropriate measures to investigate anyone who might have had a hand in Katie's accident," said Dumbledore. "But what concerns me now, Harry, is our lesson."

Harry felt slightly resentful at this. If their lessons were so very important, why had there been such a long gap between the first and second? However, he said no more about Draco Malfoy, but watched as Dumbledore poured the fresh memories into the Pensieve and began swirling the stone basin once more between his long-fingered hands.

"You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lord Voldemort's beginnings at the point where the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London, expecting the baby who would one day become Lord Voldemort."

"How do you know she was in London, sir?"

"Because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke," said Dumbledore, "who, by an odd coincidence, helped found the very shop whence came the necklace we have just been discussing."

He swilled the contents of the Pensieve as Harry had seen him swill them before, much as a gold prospector sifts for gold. Up out of the swirling, silvery mass rose a little old man revolving slowly in the Pensieve, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with a thatch of hair that completely covered his eyes.

"Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along…Going to have a baby, see. She said the locket had been Slytherin's. Well, we hear that sort of story all the time, 'Oh, this was Merlin's, this

was, his favourite teapot,' but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn't seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!"

Dumbledore gave the Pensieve an extra-vigorous shake and Caractacus Burke descended back into the swirling mass of memory from whence he had come.

"He only gave her ten Galleons?" said Harry indignantly.

"Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity," said Dumbledore. "So we know that, near the end of her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and in desperate need of gold, desperate enough to sell her one and only valuable possession, the locket that was one of Marvolo's treasured family heirlooms."

"But she could do magic!" said Harry impatiently. "She could have got food and everything for herself by magic, couldn't she?"

"Ah," said Dumbledore, "perhaps she could. But it is my belief — I am guessing again, but I am sure I am right — that when her husband abandoned her, Merope stopped using magic. I do not think that she wanted to be a witch any longer. Of course, it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of her powers; that can happen. In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life."

"She wouldn't even stay alive for her son?"

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

"Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?"

"No," said Harry quickly, "but she had a choice, didn't she, not like my mother —"

"Your mother had a choice too," said Dumbledore gently. "Yes, Merope Riddle chose death in spite of a son who needed her, but do not judge her too harshly, Harry. She was greatly weakened by long suffering and she never had your mother's courage. And now, if you will stand…"

"Where are we going?" Harry asked, as Dumbledore joined him at the front of the desk.

"This time," said Dumbledore, "we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry… Harry bent over the Pensieve; his face broke the cool surface of the memory and then he was falling through darkness again… Seconds later, his feet hit firm ground; he opened his eyes and found that he and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street.

"There I am," said Dumbledore brightly, pointing ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart. This younger Albus Dumbledore's long hair and beard were auburn. Having reached their side of the street, he strode off along the pavement, drawing many curious glances due to the flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that he was wearing.

"Nice suit, sir," said Harry, before he could stop himself, but Dumbledore merely chuckled as they followed his younger self a short distance, finally passing through a set of iron gates into a bare courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building surrounded by high railings. He mounted the few steps leading to the front door and knocked once. After a moment or two, the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron.

"Good afternoon. I have an appointment with Mrs. Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?"

"Oh," said the bewildered-looking girl, taking in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. "Um… just a mo'… MRS. COLE!" she bellowed over her shoulder. Harry heard a distant voice shouting something in response. The girl turned back to Dumbledore. "Come in, she's on 'er way."

Dumbledore stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly clean. Harry and the older Dumbledore followed. Before the front door had closed behind them, a skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying toward them. She had a sharp- featured face that appeared more anxious than unkind, and she was talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper as she walked toward Dumbledore.

"…and take the iodine upstairs to Martha, Billy Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley's oozing all over his sheets — chickenpox on top of everything else," she said to nobody in particular, and then her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a giraffe had just crossed her threshold.

"Good afternoon," said Dumbledore, holding out his hand. Mrs. Cole simply gaped. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today."

Mrs. Cole blinked. Apparently deciding that Dumbledore was not a hallucination, she said feebly, "Oh yes. Well — well then — you'd better come into my room. Yes."

She led Dumbledore into a small room that seemed part sitting room, part office. It was as shabby as the hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. She invited Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair and seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him nervously.

"I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom Riddle and arrangements for his future," said Dumbledore.

"Are you family?" asked Mrs. Cole.

"No, I am a teacher," said Dumbledore. "I have come to offer Tom a place at my school."

"What school's this, then?"

"It is called Hogwarts," said Dumbledore.

"And how come you're interested in Tom?"

"We believe he has qualities we are looking for." "

You mean he's won a scholarship? How can he have done? He's never been entered for one."

"Well, his name has been down for our school since birth —"

"Who registered him? His parents?" There was no doubt that Mrs. Cole was an inconveniently sharp woman. Apparently Dumbledore thought so too, for Harry now saw him slip his wand out of the pocket of his velvet suit, at the same time picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs. Cole's desktop.

"Here," said Dumbledore, waving his wand once as he passed her the piece of paper, "I think this will make everything clear."

Mrs. Cole's eyes slid out of focus and back again as she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment.

"That seems perfectly in order," she said placidly, handing it back. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few seconds before. "Er — may I offer you a glass of gin?" she said in an extra-refined voice.

"Thank you very much," said Dumbledore, beaming. It soon became clear that Mrs. Cole was no novice when it came to gin drinking. Pouring both of them a generous measure, she drained her own glass in one gulp. Smacking her lips frankly, she smiled at Dumbledore for the first time, and he didn't hesitate to press his advantage.

"I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle's history? I think he was born here in the orphanage?" "

That's right," said Mrs. Cole, helping herself to more gin. "I remember it clear as anything, because I'd just started here myself. New Year's Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn't the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour."

Mrs. Cole nodded impressively and took another generous gulp of gin.

"Did she say anything before she died?" asked Dumbledore. "Anything about the boy's father, for instance?"

"Now, as it happens, she did," said Mrs. Cole, who seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand and an eager audience for her story. "I remember she said to me, 'I hope he looks like his papa,' and I won't lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty — and then she told me he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father — yes, I know, funny name, isn't it? We wondered whether she came from a circus — and she said the boy's surname was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word.

"Well, we named him just as she'd said, it seemed so important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he's been here ever since." Mrs. Cole helped herself, almost absentmindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she said, "He's a funny boy."

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "I thought he might be."

"He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was… odd."

"Odd in what way?" asked Dumbledore gently.

"Well, he —" But Mrs. Cole pulled up short, and there was nothing blurry or vague about the inquisitorial glance she shot Dumbledore over her gin glass. "He's definitely got a place at your school, you say?"

"Definitely," said Dumbledore.

"And nothing I say can change that?" "Nothing," said Dumbledore. "You'll be taking him away, whatever?"

"Whatever," repeated Dumbledore gravely.

She squinted at him as though deciding whether or not to trust him. Apparently she decided she could, because she said in a sudden rush, "He scares the other children." "You mean he is a bully?" asked Dumbledore.

"I think he must be," said Mrs. Cole, frowning slightly, "but it's very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents…Nasty things…"

Dumbledore did not press her, though Harry could tell that he was interested. She took yet another gulp of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still. "Billy Stubbs' rabbit… well, Tom said he didn't do it and I don't see how he could have done, but even so, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?"

"I shouldn't think so, no," said Dumbledore quietly.

"But I'm jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before. And then,"— Mrs. Cole took another swig of gin, slopping a little over her chin this time — "on the summer outing — we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside — well, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they'd gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they'd just gone exploring, but something happened in there, I'm sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things…" She looked around at Dumbledore again, and though her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was steady. "I don't think many people will be sorry to see the back of him."

"You understand, I'm sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently?" said Dumbledore. "He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer."

"Oh, well, that's better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker," said Mrs. Cole with a slight hiccup. She got to her feet, and Harry was impressed to see that she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of the gin was now gone. "I suppose you'd like to see him?"

"Very much," said Dumbledore, rising too.

She led him out of her office and up the stone stairs, calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers and children as she passed. The orphans, Harry saw, were all wearing the same kind of greyish tunic. They looked reasonably well-cared for, but there was no denying that this was a grim place in which to grow up.

"Here we are," said Mrs. Cole, as they turned off the second landing and stopped outside the first door in a long corridor. She knocked twice and entered.

"Tom? You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton — sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you — well, I'll let him do it."

Harry and the two Dumbledores entered the room, and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe, a wooden chair, and an iron bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the grey blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book. There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle's face. Merope had got her dying wish. He was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired, and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. There was a moment's silence.

"How do you do, Tom?" said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand. The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital patient and visitor.

"I am Professor Dumbledore."

"'Professor'?" repeated Riddle. He looked wary. "Is that like 'doctor'? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?" He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left.

"No, no," said Dumbledore, smiling.

"I don't believe you," said Riddle. "She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!"

He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if anything, warier still. "Who are you?"

"I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school — your new school, if you would like to come."

Riddle's reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious. "You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? 'Professor,' yes, of course — well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!"

"I am not from the asylum," said Dumbledore patiently. "I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you —"

"I'd like to see them try," sneered Riddle.

"Hogwarts," Dumbledore went on, as though he had not heard Riddle's last words, "is a school for people with special abilities —"

"I'm not mad!"

"I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."

There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Dumbledore's, as though trying to catch one of them lying.

"Magic?" he repeated in a whisper.

"That's right," said Dumbledore.

"It's…it's magic, what I can do?"

"What is it that you can do?"

"All sorts," breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. "I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."

His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer. "I knew I was different," he whispered to his own quivering fingers. "I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something."

"Well, you were quite right," said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. "You are a wizard."

Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured. There was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial. "Are you a wizard too?"

"Yes, I am."

"Prove it," said Riddle at once, in the same commanding tone he had used when he had said, "Tell the truth."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts –"

"Of course I am!"

"Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir.'"

Riddle's expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognisably polite voice, "I'm sorry, sir. I meant — please, Professor, could you show me—?"

Harry was sure that Dumbledore was going to refuse, that he would tell Riddle there would be plenty of time for practical demonstrations at Hogwarts, that they were currently in a building full of Muggles and must therefore be cautious. To his great surprise, however, Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of his suit jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick.

The wardrobe burst into flames.

Riddle jumped to his feet; Harry could hardly blame him for howling in shock and rage; all his worldly possessions must be in there. But even as Riddle rounded on Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged. Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore; then, his expression greedy, he pointed at the wand.

"Where can I get one of them?"

"All in good time," said Dumbledore. "I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe."

And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. For the first time, Riddle looked frightened.

"Open the door," said Dumbledore. Riddle hesitated, then crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above a rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box was shaking and rattling as though there were several frantic mice trapped inside it. "Take it out," said Dumbledore. Riddle took down the quaking box. He looked unnerved. "Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?" asked Dumbledore.

Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating look. "Yes, I suppose so, sir," he said finally, in an expressionless voice.

"Open it," said Dumbledore. Riddle took off the lid and tipped the contents onto his bed without looking at them. Harry, who had expected something much more exciting, saw a mess of small, everyday objects: a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ among them. Once free of the box, they stopped quivering and lay quite still upon the thin blankets.

"You will return them to their owners with your apologies," said Dumbledore calmly, putting his wand back into his jacket. "I shall know whether it has been done. And be warned, thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts."

Riddle did not look remotely abashed; he was still staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore. At last he said in a colourless voice, "Yes, sir."

"At Hogwarts," Dumbledore went on, "we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have — inadvertently, I am sure — been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic — yes, there is a Ministry — will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws."

"Yes, sir," said Riddle again. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his face remained quite blank as he put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he had finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said baldly, "I haven't got any money."

"That is easily remedied," said Dumbledore, drawing a leather money-pouch from his pocket. "There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but —"

"Where do you buy spellbooks?" interrupted Riddle, who had taken the heavy money bag without thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat gold Galleon.

"In Diagon Alley," said Dumbledore. "I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything —"

"You're coming with me?" asked Riddle, looking up.

"Certainly, if you —"

"I don't need you," said Riddle. "I'm used to doing things for myself, I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley — sir?" he added, catching Dumbledore's eye.

Harry thought that Dumbledore would insist upon accompanying Riddle, but once again he was surprised. Dumbledore handed Riddle the envelope containing his list of equipment, and after telling Riddle exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from the orphanage, he said, "You will be able to see it, although muggles around you — non-magical people, that is — will not. Ask for Tom the barman — easy enough to remember, as he shares your name —"

Riddle gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to displace an irksome fly.

"You dislike the name 'Tom'?"

"There are a lot of Toms," muttered Riddle. Then, as though he could not suppress the question, as though it burst from him in spite of himself, he asked, "Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they've told me."

"I'm afraid I don't know," said Dumbledore, his voice gentle.

"My mother can't have been magic, or she wouldn't have died," said Riddle, more to himself than Dumbledore. "It must've been him. So — when I've got all my stuff — when do I come to this Hogwarts?"

"All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope," said Dumbledore. "You will leave from King's Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too."

Riddle nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again. Taking it, Riddle said, "I can speak to snakes. I found out when we've been to the country on trips — they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?"

Harry could tell that he had withheld mention of this strangest power until that moment, determined to impress.

"It is unusual," said Dumbledore, after a moment's hesitation, "but not unheard of."

His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously over Riddle's face. They stood for a moment, man and boy, staring at each other. Then the handshake was broken; Dumbledore was at the door.

"Goodbye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts."

"I think that will do," said the white-haired Dumbledore at Harry's side, and seconds later, they were soaring weightlessly through darkness once more, before landing squarely in the present- day office.

"Sit down," said Dumbledore, landing beside Harry, who obeyed, his mind still full of what he had just seen.

"He believed it much quicker than I did — I mean, when you told him he was a wizard," said Harry. "I didn't believe Hagrid at first, when he told me."

"Yes, Riddle was perfectly ready to believe that he was — to use his word — 'special,'" said Dumbledore.

"Did you know — then?" asked Harry.

"Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous dark wizard of all time?" said Dumbledore. "No, I had no idea that he was to grow up to be what he is. However, I was certainly intrigued by him. I returned to Hogwarts intending to keep an eye upon him, something I should have done in any case, given that he was alone and friendless, but which, already, I felt I ought to do for others' sake as much as his.

"His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard and — most interestingly and ominously of all — he had already discovered that he had some measure of control over them, and begun to use them consciously. And as you saw, they were not the random experiments typical of young wizards: He was already using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and the young boy and girl he lured into a cave were most suggestive…'I can make them hurt if I want to…'"

"And he was a Parselmouth," interjected Harry.

"Yes, indeed; a rare ability, and one supposedly connected with the dark arts, although as we know, there are Parselmouths among the great and the good too. In fact, his ability to speak to serpents did not make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy, and domination.

"Time is making fools of us again," said Dumbledore, indicating the dark sky beyond the windows. "But before we part, I want to draw your attention to certain features of the scene we have just witnessed, for they have a great bearing on the matters we shall be discussing in future meetings.

"Firstly, I hope you noticed Riddle's reaction when I mentioned that another shared his first name, 'Tom'?"

Harry nodded.

"There he showed his contempt for anything that tied him to other people, anything that made him ordinary. Even then, he wished to be different, separate, notorious. He shed his name, as you know, within a few short years of that conversation and created the mask of 'Lord Voldemort' behind which he has been hidden for so long.

"I trust that you also noticed that Tom Riddle was already highly self-sufficient, secretive, and, apparently, friendless? He did not want help or companionship on his trip to Diagon Alley. He preferred to operate alone. The adult Voldemort is the same. You will hear many of his Death Eaters claiming that they are in his confidence, that they alone are close to him, even understand him. They are deluded. Lord Voldemort has never had a friend, nor do I believe that he has ever wanted one.

"And lastly — I hope you are not too sleepy to pay attention to this, Harry — the young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles he had hidden in his room. These were taken from victims of his bullying behaviour, souvenirs, if you will, of particularly unpleasant bits of magic. Bear in mind this magpie-like tendency, for this, particularly, will be important later. And now, it really is time for bed."

Harry got to his feet. As he walked across the room, his eyes fell I upon the little table on which Marvolo Gaunt's ring had rested last I time, but the ring was no longer there.

"Yes, Harry?" said Dumbledore, for Harry had come to a halt.

"The ring's gone," said Harry, looking around. "But I thought I you might have the mouth organ or something."

Dumbledore beamed at him, peering over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "Very astute, Harry, but the mouth organ was only ever a mouth organ."

And on that enigmatic note he waved to Harry, who understood himself to be dismissed.

"WE'VE GOT HIM!" yelled the Death Eater nearest Harry, "IN AN OFFICE OFF —"

"Silencio!" cried Hermione, and the man's voice was extinguished. He continued to mouth through the hole in his mask, but no sound came out; he was thrust aside by his fellow. "Petrificus Totalus!" shouted Harry, as the second Death Eater raised his wand.

His arms and legs snapped together and he fell forward, facedown onto the rug at Harry's feet, stiff as a board and unable to move at all.

"Well done, Ha —"

But the Death Eater Hermione had just struck dumb made a sudden slashing movement with his wand from which flew a streak of what looked like purple flame. It passed right across Hermione's chest; she gave a tiny "oh!" as though of surprise and then crumpled onto the floor where she lay motionless.

"HERMIONE!"

Harry fell to his knees beside her as Neville crawled rapidly toward her from under the desk, his wand held up in front of him. The Death Eater kicked out hard at Neville's head as he emerged — his foot broke Neville's wand in two and connected with his face — Neville gave a howl of pain and recoiled, clutching his mouth and nose. Harry twisted around, his own wand held high, and saw that the Death Eater had ripped off his mask and was pointing his wand directly at Harry, who recognised the long, pale, twisted face from the Daily Prophet: Antonin Dolohov, the wizard who had murdered the Prewetts.

Dolohov grinned. With his free hand, he pointed from the prophecy still clutched in Harry's hand, to himself, then at Hermione. Though he could no longer speak his meaning could not have been clearer: give me the prophecy, or you get the same as her. . . .

"Like you won't kill us all the moment I hand it over anyway!" said Harry. A whine of panic inside his head was preventing him thinking properly. He had one hand on Hermione's shoulder, which was still warm, yet did not dare look at her properly.

Don't let her be dead, don't let her be dead, it's my fault if she's dead. . .

"Whaddever you do, Harry," said Neville fiercely from under the desk, lowering his hands to show a clearly broken nose and blood pouring down his mouth and chin, "don'd gib it to him!"

Then there was a crash outside the door, and Dolohov looked over his shoulder — the baby- headed Death Eater had appeared in the doorway, his head bawling, his great fists still flailing uncontrollably at everything around him.

Harry seized his chance: "PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!"

The spell hit Dolohov before he could block it, and he toppled forward across his comrade, both of them rigid as boards and unable to move an inch.

"Hermione," Harry said at once, shaking her as the baby-headed Death Eater blundered out of sight again. "Hermione, wake up. . . ." "

"Whaddid he do to her?" said Neville, crawling out from under the desk again to kneel at her other side, blood streaming from his rapidly swelling nose.

"I dunno. . . ."

Harry couldn't think. His entire focus was on Hermione's form. He was still shaking her, but still no response.

Neville groped for Hermione's wrist. A pause. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours. Time as a concept had gone, along with the rest of Harry's cognitive thought.

"D… Dere's… No pulse Harry . . ."

"NO!" Harry ignored Neville, flinging out a hand and pushing him to one side, frantically grabbing at Hermione's wrist. Nothing.

He moved up to her neck. Her soft skin now cold under his touch. Nothing.

"Harry…" Neville whimpered.

Harry ignored him once more, tears stinging at his eyes as he continued to shake her slender shoulders. "No… Hermione! No, you're not – Hermione wake up! Hermione, you're not dead! Hermione, you can't – Hermione! Wake up! Her–"

Nothing.

"Wake up… wake up…" the tears were pouring now. He moved closer, putting his face next to hers and whispering, whimpering. "Wake up… please, please wake up."

And then Hermione moved. Straight upright. Arms outstretched. Eyes still firmly shut until she was hanging in the air like an angel. And then they opened, her sweet chocolate orbs replaced

by deep pools of swirling blackness. And then she screamed. And Harry was crying, crying out to her, attempting to get through, attempting to pull her down.

"Wake up! Hermione, wake up! Hermione!"

And then he woke up.

He was panting. His covers were cast aside towards the right of his four-poster bed. The sweat pouring off of him. Snot dripping from his nose. His shirt clinging to his body as if it were attempting to mould its way onto his flesh.

He shot up and tore it off. Thankfully, the curtains around his bed were still drawn. And there were no noises other than the gentle snores of his dorm-mates. A peek of moonlight slithered through a small gap in the drapes. Harry groped for his wand.

"Lumos."

He moved one curtain aside and, being as quiet as possible, clicked open his trunk, rummaging around as quietly as he could until he felt his hand touch an old, folded piece of parchment.

Drawing the curtain back, he tapped the blank parchment.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

As the inkblots appeared and the Marauders' Map slowly and surely came to life, he scanned for the Gryffindor Tower and then, the common room… the girls dormitories… and, finally, Hermione's name.

Harry let out a breath and fell back towards his sweat-soaked pillow. She was safe. She was alive.

In his mind's eye, though, the image of Hermione tumbling to the floor, her motionless body, still flashed. He wasn't sure how long he lay there, but by the time he finally felt ready to fall back to sleep, sunlight had begun to creep its way across his bed.

Chapter 10: 10: Chapter Fourteen – Felix Felicis [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Harry had Herbology first thing the following morning. He had been unable to tell Ron and Hermione about his lesson with Dumbledore over breakfast for fear of being over-heard, but he filled them in as they walked across the vegetable patch toward the greenhouses. He had no plan to tell either of them about the nightmare still planted firmly in his mind.

The weekend's brutal wind had died out at last; the weird mist had returned and it took them a little longer than usual to find the correct greenhouse.

"Wow, scary thought, the boy You-Know-Who," said Ron quietly, as they took their places around one of the gnarled Snargaluff stumps that formed this term's project, and began pulling on their protective gloves. "But I still don't get why Dumbledore's showing you all this. I mean, it's really interesting and everything, but what's the point?"

"Dunno," said Harry, inserting a gum shield. "But he says it's all important and it'll help me survive."

"I think it's fascinating," said Hermione earnestly. "It makes sense to know as much about Voldemort as possible. How else will you find out his weaknesses?"

Unable to find a flaw in her argument, Harry changed the subject. "So how was Slughorn's party?" he asked her thickly through the gum shield.

"Oh, it was quite fun, really," said Hermione, now putting on protective goggles. "I mean, he drones on about famous exploits a bit, and he absolutely fawns on McLaggen because he's so well connected, but he gave us some really nice food and he introduced us to Gwenog Jones."

"Gwenog Jones?" said Ron, his eyes widening under his own goggles. "The Gwenog Jones? Captain of the Holyhead Harpies?"

"That's right," said Hermione. "Personally, I thought she was a bit full of herself, but —"

"Quite enough chat over here!" said Professor Sprout briskly, bustling over and looking stern. "You're lagging behind, everybody else has started, and Neville's already got his first pod!"

They looked around; sure enough, there sat Neville with a bloody lip and several nasty scratches along the side of his face, but clutching an unpleasantly pulsating green object about the size of a grapefruit.

"Okay, Professor, we're starting now!" said Ron, adding quietly, when she had turned away again, "should've used Muffliato, Harry."

"No, we shouldn't!" said Hermione at once, looking, as she always did, intensely cross at the thought of the Half-Blood Prince and his spells. The thought made Harry gulp, his nightmare still firmly implanted in his mind's eye, but he focused on the task at hand.

"Well, come on…we'd better get going…" Hermione said with an apprehensive look; they all took deep breaths and then dived at the gnarled stump between them.

It sprang to life at once; long, prickly, bramble-like vines flew out of the top and whipped through the air. One tangled itself in Hermione's hair, and Ron beat it back with a pair of secateurs; Harry succeeded in trapping a couple of vines and knotting them together; a hole opened in the middle of all the tentacle-like branches; Hermione plunged her arm bravely into this hole, which closed like a trap around her elbow; Harry and Ron tugged and wrenched at the vines, forcing the hole to open again, and Hermione snatched her arm free, clutching in her fingers a pod just like Neville's. At once, the prickly vines shot back inside, and the gnarled stump sat there looking like an innocently dead lump of wood.

"You know, I don't think I'll be having any of these in my garden when I've got my own place," said Ron, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead and wiping sweat from his face. At his words, Harry automatically thought of the Burrow's garden, and then it hit him, the flowery scent he had first picked up on in the dungeons in their first Potions lesson; honeysuckle – the Burrow's garden had been full of it in the summer, on his birthday, on the night –

"Pass me a bowl," said Hermione, holding the pulsating pod at arm's length; snapping out of his thoughts, Harry handed one over and she dropped the pod into it with a look of disgust on her face.

"Don't be squeamish, squeeze it out, they're best when they're fresh!" called Professor Sprout.

"Anyway," said Hermione, continuing their conversation as though a lump of wood had not just attacked them, "Slughorn's going to have another party on Thursday, Harry, and there's no way you'll be able to wriggle out of this one because he actually asked me to check your free evenings, so he could be sure to have it on a night you can come."

"Yeh," said Harry, resigned. "Dumbledore said last night that the sooner the better."

"Good," said Hermione brightly. "Also, he's having a Christmas party, and he's insisted you have to come to that, too."

Ron, who was attempting to burst the pod in the bowl by putting both hands on it and squashing it as hard as he could, said angrily, "And this is another party just for Sluggy's favourites, is it?"

"Just for the Slug Club, yes," said Hermione. The pod flew out from under Ron's fingers and hit the greenhouse glass, rebounding onto the back of Professor Sprout's head and knocking off her old, patched hat. Harry went to retrieve the pod; when he got back, Hermione was saying, "Look, I didn't make up the name 'Slug Club' —"

"'Slug Club,'" repeated Ron with a sneer worthy of Malfoy. "It's pathetic. Well, I hope you enjoy your party. Why don't you try hooking up with McLaggen, then Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug —"

"We're allowed to bring guests," said Hermione, who for some reason had turned a bright, boiling scarlet, "and given Harry's coming anyway I was going to ask you, but if you think it's that stupid then I won't bother!"

It was as though something had hit Harry and taken the wind out of him. Had Hermione just asked Ron on a date? He suddenly wished the pod had flown a little further, so that he need not have been standing with the pair of them. Unnoticed by either, he seized the bowl that contained the pod and began to try and open it by the noisiest and most energetic means he could think of; unfortunately, he could still hear every word of their conversation.

"You were going to ask me?" asked Ron, in a completely different voice.

"Yes," said Hermione angrily. "But obviously if you'd rather I hooked up with McLaggen…"

There was a pause while Harry continued to pound the resilient pod with a trowel.

"'No, I wouldn't,'" said Ron, in a very quiet voice. Harry missed the pod, hit the bowl, and shattered it.

"Reparo," he said hastily, poking the pieces with his wand, and the bowl sprang back together again. The crash, however, appeared to have awoken Ron and Hermione to Harry's presence. Hermione looked flustered and immediately started fussing about for her copy of Flesh-Eating

Trees of the World to find out the correct way to juice Snargaluff pods; Ron, on the other hand, looked sheepish but also rather pleased.

"Hand that over, Harry," said Hermione hurriedly. "It says we're supposed to puncture them with something sharp…"

Harry, who felt like he had something large and scary crawling up inside of him, passed her the pod in the bowl; he and Ron both snapped their goggles back over their eyes and dived, once more, for the stump.

Oh, here we go…

But she said it was only because I'd already been invited…

Yes, but she asked him. She could surely have asked you first?

Well…

Why do you care anyway?

Because she's my best friend.

It's not like you've made an effort to go with her. You could have gone to all of Slughorn's parties with her…

He just wants to show me off.

Yes but she'd be there. And she said she wanted to spend more time with you.

We spend loads of time together.

But you want to spend more time together, don't you? Like that night in the garden... You were just thinking about it...

We're friends.

She's talked about snogging you…

She was joking! Probably just trying to make Ron jealous...

Everyone always said it'd be the two of you, didn't they? Mr Weasley even thought so...

He wasn't being serious.

But now… She's asked Ron.

So?

So? You're the one getting wound up about it.

"Gotcha!" yelled Ron, pulling a second pod from the stump just as Hermione managed to burst the first one open, so that the bowl was full of tubers wriggling like pale green worms.

Harry yanked at another vine with such force it went flying off behind him. Ron raised his eyebrows: "Mate?"

"Err… it just had me tied up is all," Harry said quickly. Hermione looked at him with concern at first, but then he was sure the corner's of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.

The rest of the lesson passed without further mention of Slughorn's party. Although Harry watched his two friends more closely over the next few days, Ron and Hermione did not seem any different except that they were a little politer to each other than usual, not that it improved Harry's mood at all.

Katie Bell was still in St. Mungo's Hospital with no prospect of leaving, which meant that the promising Gryffindor team Harry had been training so carefully since September was one Chaser short. He kept putting off replacing Katie in the hope that she would return, but their opening match against Slytherin was looming, and he finally had to accept that she would not be back in time to play. Harry did not think he could stand another full-House tryout, so he cornered Dean Thomas after Transfiguration one day. Most of the class had already left,

although several twittering yellow birds were still zooming around the room, all of Hermione's creation; nobody else had succeeded in conjuring so much as a feather from thin air.

"Are you still interested in playing Chaser?"

"Wha —? Yeah, of course!" said Dean excitedly.

Over Dean's shoulder, Harry saw Seamus Finnegan slamming his books into his bag, looking sour. The reason why Harry would have preferred not to have to ask Dean to play was that he knew Seamus would not like it. On the other hand, he had to do what was best for the team, and Dean had outflown Seamus at the tryouts.

"Well then, you're in," said Harry. "There's a practice tonight, seven o'clock."

"Right," said Dean. "Cheers, Harry! Blimey, I can't wait to tell Ginny!"

He sprinted out of the room, leaving Harry and Seamus alone together, an uncomfortable moment made no easier when a bird dropping landed on Seamus's head as one of Hermione's canaries whizzed over them.

Seamus was not the only person disgruntled by the choice of Katie's substitute. There was much muttering in the common room about the fact that Harry had now chosen two of his class- mates for the team. As Harry had endured much worse mutterings than this in his school career, he was not particularly bothered, but all the same, the pressure was increasing to provide a win in the upcoming match against Slytherin. If Gryffindor won, Harry knew that the whole House would forget that they had criticised him and swear that they had always known it was a great team. If they lost…well, Harry thought wryly, he had still endured worse mutterings…

Harry had no reason to regret his choice once he saw Dean fly that evening; he worked well with Ginny and Demelza. The Beaters, Peakes and Coote, were getting better all the time. The only problem was Ron. Harry had known all along that Ron was an inconsistent player who suffered from nerves and a lack of confidence, and unfortunately, the looming prospect of the opening game of the season seemed to have brought out all his old insecurities. After letting in half a dozen goals, most of them scored by Ginny, his technique became wilder and wilder, until he finally punched an oncoming Demelza Robins in the mouth.

"It was an accident, I'm sorry, Demelza, really sorry!" Ron shouted after her as she zigzagged back to the ground, dripping blood everywhere. "I just —"

"Panicked," Ginny said angrily, landing next to Demelza and examining her fat lip. "You prat, Ron, look at the state of her!"

"I can fix that," said Harry, landing beside the two girls, pointing his wand at Demelza's mouth, and saying "Episkey." Hermione would be proud. "And Ginny, don't call Ron a prat, you're not the Captain of this team —"

"Well, you seemed too busy to call him a prat and I thought someone should —"

Harry forced himself not to laugh.

"In the air, everyone, let's go…"

Overall it was one of the worst practices they had had all term, though Harry did not feel that honesty was the best policy when they were this close to the match. "Good work, everyone, I think we'll flatten Slytherin," he said bracingly, and the Chasers and Beaters left the changing room looking reasonably happy with themselves.

"I played like a sack of dragon dung," said Ron in a hollow voice when the door had swung shut behind Ginny.

"No, you didn't," said Harry firmly. "You're the best Keeper I tried out, Ron. Your only problem is nerves."

He kept up a relentless flow of encouragement all the way back to the castle, and by the time they reached the second floor, Ron was looking marginally more cheerful. When Harry pushed open the tapestry to take their usual shortcut up to Gryffindor Tower, however, they found themselves looking at Dean and Ginny, who were locked in a close embrace and kissing fiercely as though glued together.

Harry didn't know where to look. He moved to turn around but Ron didn't budge.

"Oi!" Ron said forcefully.

Dean and Ginny broke apart and looked around.

"What?" said Ginny.

"I don't want to keep seeing my own sister snogging people in public!"

"This was a deserted corridor until you came butting in!" said Ginny. "And in case you haven't noticed, we're," – she pointed to Dean – "going out!"

Dean was looking embarrassed. He gave Harry a shifty grin that Harry did not return. As much as he liked Dean, Ron and Ginny were like family, and he wasn't exactly keen on getting on Ron's bad side now.

"Er…c'mon, Gin," said Dean, "let's go back to the common room…"

"You go!" said Ginny. "I want a word with my dear brother…"

Dean left, looking as though he was not sorry to depart the scene.

"Right," said Ginny, tossing her long red hair out of her face and glaring at Ron, "let's get this straight once and for all. It is none of your business who I go out with or what I do with them, Ron —"

"Yeah, it is!" said Ron, just as angrily. "D'you think I want people saying my sister's a —"

"A what?" shouted Ginny, drawing her wand. "A what, exactly?"

"He doesn't mean anything, Ginny —" said Harry automatically.

"Oh yes he does!" she said, flaring up at Harry. "Just because he's never snogged anyone in his life, just because the best kiss he's ever had is from our Auntie Muriel —"

"Shut your mouth!" bellowed Ron, bypassing red and turning maroon.

"No, I will not!" yelled Ginny, beside herself. "I've seen you with Phlegm, hoping she'll kiss you on the cheek every time you see her, it's pathetic! If you went out and got a bit of snogging done your self, you wouldn't mind so much that everyone else does it!"

Ron had pulled out his wand too; Harry stepped swiftly between them.

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Ron roared, trying to get a clear shot at Ginny around Harry, who was now standing in front of her with his arms outstretched. "Just because I don't do it in public —!"

Ginny screamed with derisive laughter, trying to push Harry out of the way. "Been kissing Pigwidgeon, have you? Or have you got a picture of Auntie Muriel stashed under your pillow?"

"You —" A streak of orange light flew under Harry's left arm and missed Ginny by inches.

Harry pushed Ron up against the wall. "Don't be stupid —"

"Harry's snogged Cho Chang!" shouted Ginny, who sounded close to tears now. "And Hermione snogged Viktor Krum, it's only you who acts like it's something disgusting, Ron, and that's because you've got about as much experience as a twelve-year-old!"

With that, she stormed away. Harry quickly let go of Ron; the look on his face was murderous. They both stood there, breathing heavily, until Mrs. Norris, Filch's cat, appeared around the corner, which broke the tension.

"C'mon," said Harry, as the sound of Filch's shuffling feet reached their ears. They hurried up the stairs and along the seventh-floor corridor.

"Oi, out of the way!" Ron barked at a small girl who jumped in fright and dropped a bottle of toadspawn.

Harry hardly noticed the sound of shattering glass; Hermione had snogged Krum? He'd always assumed, but never really thought about it. But now, the monster inside of him had reared up again.

And then he was thinking, what if it was him snogging Hermione in that corridor, like how he'd imagined himself with her in the Three Broomsticks. If, instead of Ginny and Dean being the people Ron had walked in on, it had been Harry and Hermione. The monster in his chest

purred… but then he saw Ron ripping open the tapestry curtain and drawing his wand on Harry, shouting things like "betrayal of trust"… "supposed to be my friends"…

"D'you think Hermione did snog Krum?" Ron asked abruptly, as they approached the Fat Lady. Harry gave a guilty start and wrenched his imagination away from a corridor in which no Ron intruded, in which he and Hermione were quite alone. Unfortunately, Ron seemed to take that as confirmation.

"Dilligrout," he said darkly to the Fat Lady, and they climbed through the portrait hole into the common room.

Neither of them mentioned Ginny or Hermione again; indeed, they barely spoke to each other that evening and got into bed in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts, Harry lay awake for a long time, looking up at the canopy of his four-poster and trying to convince himself that his feelings for Hermione were no deeper than they had been for the last five years, despite the fact he now very much wished he could hex a certain Bulgarian Quidditch star into oblivion.

Ron gave a great, grunting snore.

It's clear Ron fancies her, Harry told himself firmly.

So what? It's clear you fancy her too.

But, Hermione's asked him to the Christmas Party.

Only because you were already invited. She probably just didn't want him left out.

She confunded McLaggen for him…

She tripped him up for you. And all those little smiles and hugs and extra touches this year can't mean nothing, can they?

She's out-of-bounds.

He would not risk his friendship with Ron for anything. But then again, his friendship with Hermione was just as important. But as long as she was happy…

Who's to say Ron could make her happy? They're always fighting.

I've been arguing with her plenty this year.

Only because she's looking out for you… She's always looking out for you…

He punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape and waited for sleep to come, trying his utmost not to allow his thoughts to stray anywhere near Hermione.

Harry awoke the next morning feeling slightly dazed and confused by a series of dreams in which Ron had chased him with a Beater's bat, but by midday he would have happily exchanged the dream Ron for the real one, who was not only cold-shouldering Ginny and Dean, but also treating a hurt and bewildered Hermione with an icy, sneering indifference, only compounding his assumptions that Ron did indeed have feelings for her.

What was more, Ron seemed to have become, overnight, as touchy and ready to lash out as the average Blast-Ended Skrewt. Harry spent the day attempting to keep the peace between Ron and Hermione with no success; finally, Hermione departed for bed in high dudgeon, and Ron stalked off to the boys' dormitory after swearing angrily at several frightened first years for looking at him, leaving Harry alone with nothing but dangerous thoughts of finding some way to sneak up to the girls' dormitories and drag Hermione out for an impromptu trip to an empty classroom or hidden passageway, perhaps under the pretence of explaining to her why Ron was in such a foul mood.

Ron and Hermione still hadn't spoken to each other by the time Thursday evening rolled around, so it was without a goodbye to either of them that Ron headed upstairs as Harry and Hermione set off for Slughorn's latest gathering.

"I don't really understand what I've done wrong," Hermione said in a high-pitched voice as they made their way to Slughorn's quarters.

He did not see how he could possibly explain to Hermione that what she had done to offend Ron was kiss Viktor Krum, not when the offence had occurred so long ago, and given how much it made the monster in his chest growl in disapproval, he really didn't want to talk to Hermione about her kissing anyone.

Other than you.

"Dunno," he said, trying to sound casual, but the thought of Krum kissing Hermione was now implanted in his head. "Erm… I think he's just mad at Ginny."

Hermione scowled. "Whatever, he's been a total prat."

Harry said nothing, but thankfully they had reached Slughorn's office.

"Harry, m'boy!" Slughorn exclaimed as Harry and Hermione knocked on the open door. "Miss Granger too! Ah, good to see you both!"

"Hello, professor," Harry said, as Slughorn – with an over-exuberant wave of one of his large arms – directed them to the table.

They sat down next to each other, across from Slughorn. Zabini and McLaggen were either side of the Potions master, while two twins Harry didn't recognise were also present, along with Neville, who still looked as if he was unsure as to just why he was there.

Slughorn clicked his fingers, and immediately piles of food appeared.

"Well come on, let's eat!"

Dinner went by without much issue, and Harry realised Hermione hadn't been too far off; it wasn't unbearable, though that was only because she was sat beside him, and he was able to meet her eyes or give her a nudge whenever Slughorn began one of his trailing tales of misadventure.

Over dessert, Slughorn picked back up on his favourite pastime of asking everyone how their respective famous relatives were getting on.

"Miss Granger," he boomed. "I don't actually believe I've yet got around to asking you just what your parents do in the muggle world."

"Oh," said Hermione shyly. "Erm… well… they're dentists."

Six blank expressions stared back at her. Harry smiled. He often forgot that things from the muggle world which he and Hermione took entirely for granted seemed utterly bizarre to witches and wizards.

"They tend to people's teeth," Hermione added in explanation.

"Fascinating!" said Slughorn, leaning over his bowl of ice cream and squinting at Hermione from across the table. "And is that considered a dangerous profession?"

It was all Harry could do to stifle a laugh, trying to pass it off as a cough when the rest of them looked at him.

"No," Hermione said, after giving Harry a kick under the table, much to his amusement.

"Although," she carried on, her voice becoming a bit more excitable. "One boy, Robbie Fenwick, did bite my father once. He needed ten stitches!"

She said it so brightly and with such gusto Harry once again failed to hide his smirk. The others simply stared.

Fortunately for Hermione, and Harry's foot, which was now receiving a severe stamp, the door squeaking open broke the silence.

"Ah, Miss Weasley, come in, come in,"

Ginny, looking puffy-eyed and red-faced, walked in.

"Look," Hermione whispered to Harry, her breath catching slightly on his neck and causing the hairs there to stick up. "She's been crying. Her and Dean must've had an argument."

"Sorry, I'm not usually late," said Ginny stiffly as she took a seat, sending Harry, Hermione and Neville a weak smile as she did so.

Slughorn didn't pick up on the exchange. "No matter, no matter. Just in time for dessert!"

"Ten stitches!" said Harry sarcastically as he, Hermione and Ginny made their way back to the common room a short time later. Thankfully, dinner hadn't lasted much longer, and Slughorn had cornered Zabini afterwards, giving them time to dart out. Unfortunately for Neville, it appeared he had been tasked with clearing up.

"Oh, shut up!" Hermione shot back.

Ginny, whose demeanour hadn't changed much since she entered the party, at least laughed at this. "What's that?" she asked.

Before Hermione could interject, Harry recalled her awkward explanation of what her parents did for a living, and the terrifying tale of little Robbie Fenwick.

Hermione hit him playfully on the arm when he was done, but any faux anger didn't reach her eyes. And even though the walk was only a short one, Ginny seemed to cheer up a bit too.

"Well, goodnight Hermione," Ginny said once they had got back the common room. "And night, Harry," she added, giving him a hug.

Harry watched her go absentmindedly, smiling after her as her long red hair swished behind her shoulders. After spending all summer with her, he had missed Ginny's company. "What d'you reckon her and Dean have been arguing about?" he asked Hermione quietly. But she didn't answer. "Hermione?"

He looked around, but to his surprise, Hermione had turned away from him and seemed to be picking at the arm of a chair. "Oh, I don't know," she said rather coldly. "Probably something stupid, why don't you ask her."

And without so much as a look back at him, she hurtled off towards the stairs.

Hermione was distant with him the next day and, to Harry's dismay, Ron's aggression had still not worn off by the time of their final Quidditch practice before Saturday's match. Worse still, it coincided with an even deeper dip in his Keeping skills, which made him still more aggressive, and he failed to save every single goal the Chasers aimed at him, but bellowed at everybody so much that he reduced Demelza Robins to tears.

"You shut up and leave her alone!" shouted Peakes, who was about two-thirds Ron's height, though admittedly carrying a heavy bat.

"ENOUGH!" bellowed Harry, who had seen Ginny glowering in Ron's direction and, remembering her reputation as an accomplished caster of the Bat-Bogey Hex, soared over to intervene before things got out of hand. "Peakes, go and pack up the Bludgers. Demelza, pull yourself together, you played really well today, Ron…" he waited until the rest of the team were out of earshot before saying it, "you're my best mate, but carry on treating the rest of them like this and I'm going to kick you out."

He really thought for a moment that Ron might hit him, but then something much worse happened: Ron seemed to sag on his broom; all the fight went out of him and he said, "I resign. I'm pathetic."

"You're not pathetic and you're not resigning!" said Harry fiercely, seizing Ron by the front of his robes. "You can save anything when you're on form, it's a mental problem you've got!"

"You calling me mental?"

"Yeah, maybe I am!"

They glared at each other for a moment, then Ron shook his head wearily. "I know you haven't got any time to find another Keeper, so I'll play tomorrow, but if we lose, and we will, I'm taking myself off the team."

Nothing Harry said made any difference. He tried boosting Ron's confidence all through dinner, but Ron was too busy being grumpy and surly with Hermione to notice, which made Harry even angrier, but for the good of the team and his friendship he persisted in the common room that evening, though his assertion that the whole team would be devastated if Ron left was somewhat undermined by the fact that the rest of the team was sitting in a huddle in a distant corner, clearly muttering about Ron and casting him nasty looks.

Finally, Harry tried getting angry again in the hope of provoking Ron into a defiant, and hopefully goal-saving, attitude, but this strategy did not appear to work any better than encouragement; Ron went to bed as dejected and hopeless as ever. Harry lay awake for a very long time in the darkness. He did not want to lose the upcoming match; not only was it his first as captain, but he was determined to beat Malfoy at Quidditch even if he could not yet prove his suspicions about him. Yet if Ron played as he had done in the last few practices, their chances of winning were very slim…

If only there was something he could do to make Ron pull himself together… make him play at the top of his form… something that would ensure that Ron had a really good day…

And the answer came to Harry in one, sudden, glorious stroke of inspiration.

Breakfast was the usual excitable affair the next morning; the Slytherins hissed and booed loudly as every member of the Gryffindor team entered the Great Hall. Harry glanced at the ceiling and saw a clear, pale blue sky: a good omen.

The Gryffindor table, a solid mass of red and gold, cheered as Harry and Ron approached. Harry grinned; Ron grimaced weakly and shook his head. "Cheer up, Ron!" called Lavender. "I know you'll be brilliant!" Ron ignored her.

"Tea?" Harry asked him as they sat down. "Coffee? Pumpkin juice?"

"Anything," said Ron glumly, taking a moody bite of toast. A few minutes later Hermione walked along the table.

"How are you both feeling?" she asked tentatively, her eyes on the back of Ron's head.

"Fine," said Harry, who was concentrating on handing Ron a glass of pumpkin juice.

"There you go, mate. Drink up."

Ron had just raised the glass to his lips when Hermione spoke sharply. "Don't drink that, Ron!"

Both Harry and Ron looked up at her.

"Why not?" said Ron. Hermione was now staring at Harry as though she could not believe her eyes.

"You just put something in that drink."

"Excuse me?" said Harry.

"You heard me. I saw you. You just tipped something into Ron's drink. You've got the bottle in your hand right now!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Harry, stowing the little bottle hastily in his pocket. He was hurting massively inside, lying to her, but he needed this to work, for all of their benefit.

"Ron, I warn you, don't drink it!" Hermione said again, alarmed, but Ron picked up the glass, drained it in one gulp, and said, "Stop bossing me around, Hermione."

She looked scandalised. Bending low so that only Harry could hear her, she hissed, "You should be expelled for that. I'd never have believed it of you, Harry!"

"Look who's talking," he whispered back. "Confunded anyone lately?"

She stormed up the table away from them, and to his dismay he heard her sniff loudly and saw her wipe at her eyes. He hadn't wanted to hurt her, but he needed this to work, and Hermione had never really understood what a serious business Quidditch was. He looked around at Ron.

"Nearly time!' said Harry blithely.

Ten minutes later, the frosty grass crunched underfoot as they strode down to the stadium. "Pretty lucky the weather's this good, eh?" Harry asked Ron.

"Yeah," said Ron, who was pale and sick-looking. Ginny and Demelza were already wearing their Quidditch robes and waiting in the changing room.

"Conditions look ideal," said Ginny, ignoring Ron. "And guess what? That Slytherin Chaser Vaisey — he took a Bludger in the head yesterday during their practice, and he's too sore to play! And even better than that — Malfoy's gone off sick too!"

"What?" said Harry, wheeling around to stare at her. "He's ill? What's wrong with him?"

"No idea, but it's great for us," said Ginny brightly. "They're playing Harper instead; he's in my year and he's an idiot."

Harry smiled back vaguely, but as he pulled on his scarlet robes his mind was far from Quidditch. Malfoy had once before claimed he could not play due to injury, but on that occasion he had made sure the whole match was rescheduled for a time that suited the Slytherins better. Why was he now happy to let a substitute go on? Was he really ill, or was he faking?

"Fishy, isn't it?" he said in an undertone to Ron. "Malfoy not playing?"

"Lucky, I call it," said Ron, looking slightly more animated. "And Vaisey off too, he's their best goal scorer, I didn't fancy — hey!" he said suddenly, freezing halfway through pulling on his Keepers gloves and staring at Harry.

"What?"

"I…you…" Ron had dropped his voice, he looked both scared and excited. "My drink…my pumpkin juice…you didn't…?" Harry raised his eyebrows, but said nothing except, "We'll be starting in about five minutes, you'd better get your boots on."

They walked out onto the pitch to tumultuous roars and boos. One end of the stadium was solid red and gold; the other, a sea of green and silver. Many Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had taken sides too. Amidst all the yelling and clapping Harry could distinctly hear the roar of Luna Lovegood's famous lion-topped hat.

Harry stepped up to Madam Hooch, the referee, who was standing ready to release the balls from the crate. "Captains shake hands," she said, and Harry had his hand crushed by the new Slytherin Captain, Urquhart. "Mount your brooms. On the whistle…three…two…one…"

The whistle sounded, Harry and the others kicked off hard from the frozen ground, and they were away. Harry soared around the perimeter of the grounds, looking around for the Snitch and keeping one eye on Harper, who was zigzagging far below him. Then a voice that was jarringly different to the usual commentator's started up.

"Well, there they go, and I think we're all surprised to see the team that Potter's put together this year. Many thought, given Ronald Weasley's patchy performance as Keeper last year, that he might be off the team, but of course, a close personal friendship with the Captain does help…"

These words were greeted with jeers and applause from the Slytherin end of the pitch. Harry craned around on his broom to look toward the commentator's podium. A tall, skinny blond boy with an upturned nose was standing there, talking into the magical megaphone that had once been Lee Jordan's; Harry recognised Zacharias Smith, a Hufflepuff player whom he heartily disliked.

"Oh, and here comes Slytherin's first attempt on goal, it's Urquhart streaking down the pitch and —" Harry's stomach turned over. "— Weasley saves it, well, he's bound to get lucky sometimes, I suppose…"

"Yeh, he is," muttered Harry, grinning to himself, as he dived amongst the Chasers with his eyes searching all around for some hint of the elusive Snitch.

With half an hour of the game gone, Gryffindor were leading sixty points to zero, Ron having made some truly spectacular saves, some by the very tips of his gloves, and Ginny having scored four of Gryffindor's six goals. This effectively stopped Zacharias wondering loudly whether the two Weasleys were only there because Harry liked them, and he started on Peakes and Coote instead.

"Of course, Coote isn't really the usual build for a Beater," said Zacharias loftily, "they've generally got a bit more muscle —"

"Hit a Bludger at him!" Harry called to Coote as he zoomed past, but Coote, grinning broadly, chose to aim the next Bludger at Harper instead, who was just passing Harry in the opposite direction. Harry was pleased to hear the dull thunk that meant the Bludger had found its mark.

It seemed as though Gryffindor could do no wrong. Again and again they scored, and again and again, at the other end of the pitch, Ron saved goals with apparent ease. He was actually smiling now, and when the crowd greeted a particularly good save with a rousing chorus of the old favourite "Weasley Is Our King," he pretended to conduct them from on high.

"Thinks he's something special today, doesn't he?" said a snide voice, and Harry was nearly knocked off his broom as Harper collided with him hard and deliberately. "Your blood-traitor pal…"

Madam Hooch's back was turned, and though Gryffindors below shouted in anger, by the time she looked around, Harper had already sped off. His shoulder aching, Harry raced after him, determined to ram him back…

"And I think Harper of Slytherin's seen the Snitch!" said Zacharias Smith through his megaphone. "Yes, he's certainly seen something Potter hasn't!"

Smith really was an idiot, thought Harry, hadn't he noticed them collide? But next moment, his stomach seemed to drop out of the sky — Smith was right and Harry was wrong: Harper had not sped upward at random; he had spotted what Harry had not: the Snitch was speeding along high above them, glinting brightly against the clear blue sky.

Harry accelerated; the wind was whistling in his ears so that it drowned all sound of Smith's commentary or the crowd, but Harper was still ahead of him, and Gryffindor was only a hundred points up; if Harper got there first Gryffindor had lost…and now Harper was feet from it, his hand outstretched…

"Oi, Harper!" yelled Harry in desperation. "How much did Malfoy pay you to play instead of him?"

He did not know what made him say it, but Harper did a double-take; he fumbled the Snitch, let it slip through his fingers, and shot right past it. Harry made a great swipe for the tiny, fluttering ball.

"YES!" Hairy yelled. Wheeling around, he hurtled back toward the ground, the Snitch held high in his hand. As the crowd realised what had happened, a great shout went up that almost drowned the sound of the whistle that signalled the end of the game.

"Ginny, where're you going?" yelled Harry, who had found himself trapped in the midst of a mass, mid-air hug with the rest of the team, but Ginny sped right on past them until, with an almighty crash, she collided with the commentator's podium. As the crowd shrieked and laughed, the Gryffindor team landed beside the wreckage of wood under which Zacharias was feebly stirring; Harry heard Ginny saying blithely to an irate Professor McGonagall, "Forgot to brake, Professor, sorry."

Laughing, Harry broke free of the rest of the team and hugged Ginny before returning to Ron and clapping him on the back. Then he turned to the crowd, looking for Hermione's familiar hair, but was disappointed not to see it among the mass of jubilant Gryffindor supporters. Despite the sinking feeling in his stomach, Harry was not going to let the rest of the team see his disappointment.

The atmosphere in the changing room was jubilant. "Party up in the common room, Seamus said!" yelled Dean exuberantly. "C'mon, Ginny, Demelza!"

Ron left with the team, Harry making an excuse of trying to find his socks and hanging back. Maybe Hermione would drop by. She didn't.

Eventually giving up, Harry walked slowly back up the grounds toward the castle through the crowd, many of whom shouted congratulations at him, but he felt a great sense of letdown; he had been sure that if they won the match, Ron and Hermione would be friends again immediately and, then at least, he'd maybe able to get her alone and explain what he'd done.

Harry could not see her at the Gryffindor celebration party, which was in full swing by the time he got there. Renewed cheers and clapping greeted his appearance, and he was soon surrounded by a mob of people congratulating him. What with trying to shake off the Creevey brothers, who wanted a blow-by-blow match analysis, and the large group of girls that encircled him, laughing at his least amusing comments and batting their eyelids, it was some time before he could try and find Ron. At last, he extricated himself from Romilda Vane, who was hinting heavily that she would like to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with him, and spotted Ron climbing up onto a table as the Gryffindors burst into chants of "Weasley Is Our King."

Then he caught onto that familiar honeysuckle scent, and felt Hermione come up alongside him. She was wearing a crimson Gryffindor t-shirt over a grey liner, her hair curling adorably down both of her shoulders. Harry gulped, and not because of the lecture he knew he was about to receive.

"You know, you shouldn't have done it," Hermione said.

"Yeh, I know. Suppose I could've just… used a confunding charm." Harry replied, not looking at her.

"That was different," Hermione started, shock and hurt etched onto her face. "That was tryouts, this was an actual game, you heard what Slug–"

But she stopped, as Harry pulled the small, full bottle of Felix Felices out of his shirt pocket.

"You didn't put it in," she gasped. "Ron only thought you did."

Harry smiled, tucking the bottle carefully back into his pocket. Hermione started to smile too. But then a huge cheer erupted up from the crowd. Harry and Hermione turned back, just in time to see Lavender Brown pull Ron down from the table and into a deep, sloppy kiss. Within seconds, they were wrapped so closely together it was hard to tell whose hands were whose.

"It looks like he's eating her face, doesn't it," Harry heard Ginny say from the side, and he laughed, before a full wave of elation hit him.

Hang on. Ron's kissing Lavender. Lavender isn't Hermione…

Harry was brought out of his thoughts by the feeling of cold air over his left shoulder, where Hermione had just been stood. He turned away from Ron, who did not look like he would be

surfacing soon, just managing to catch sight of a mane of brown hair whipping out of the portal hole.

He darted forward, sidestepped Romilda Vane again, and pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady. The corridor outside seemed to be deserted.

"Hermione?"

He could hear quiet sobs from a nearby staircase, and made his way there. Sure enough, he spotted Hermione, perched below him on the bottom of the spiral stairs, a small ring of twittering yellow birds circling her head, which she had clearly just conjured out of midair; he could not help admiring her spell-work at a time like this. The elation Harry had felt moments ago had now been replaced by a gut-wrenching sensation of despair.

She fancies Ron. She's upset because she fancies Ron.

"Charm spell," she said in a brittle voice as he made his way down to her. "I'm just practicing."

"Well, they're really good," he said, before sitting down next to her, though it was taking everything he had not to run off and find an empty room to sob in himself.

"Ron seems to be enjoying the celebrations," she said briskly.

Harry didn't respond.

She sniffed and then shuffled towards him, leaning into his shoulder. "How does it feel, Harry?" At Harry's blank look, she continued: "When you see Ginny with Dean?"

Ginny? Dean? What had they got to do with this?

"Erm…"

"You're my best friend, Harry." Hermione said, not waiting for an answer, but not removing her head from his shoulder either, if anything curling herself in tighter. "I've seen the way you look at her. How does it feel, if you like someone and you don't think they even notice?"

Harry was confused. Looked at Ginny in what way? She was a friend, like a little sister, if anything. He was protective of her, sure. But he didn't have feelings for her. How had she figured that one out? Surely Hermione, of all the people, with all her skills of perception, hadn't got this one that wrong?

Only one thing for it, Potter. Tell her…

She fancies Ron…

"I –" But Harry, who didn't know what he was going to say anyway, didn't get the chance to respond, for at that moment the door shot open and Ron and Lavender, hand-in-hand and laughing loudly, burst through.

"Ooops!" squeaked Lavender, spotting Harry and Hermione. "I think this room's taken," she giggled, looking at Ron before heading for the door.

Ron, though, stayed put and, with an odd mixture of bravado and awkwardness, said: "What's with the birds?"

Harry groaned internally, though the monster in his chest roared its approval at Ron's misguided question. Next to him, Hermione stood up sharply.

"Oppugno!"

The birds suddenly stopped their circling before arrowing across the room, straight at Ron, who realised just in time. He stooped, ducking out of the way as the feathery bullets slammed into the open door, some of them catching his arm on the way past. With a look of sheer bewilderment mixed with genuine fear, he ran out after Lavender.

Hermione broke down again, sitting back down next to Harry and taking her place back on his shoulder. And as much as he wanted to follow Ron out and hex him for upsetting her, as much as he wanted to take her face in his hands and kiss her into next week, as much as he wanted to tell her she was wrong. So wrong, and that it wasn't Ginny who he liked, but it was her, and probably always had been, he did none of those things.

Instead he sat and rested his head against hers as she sobbed silently into his shoulder, her arms entangled with his, her small hands fitting just right into his. And with as much might as he had ever mustered, he said: "It feels like this."

Chapter 11: 11: Chapter Fifteen – The Unbreakable Vow [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Snow was swirling against the icy windows once more; Christmas was approaching fast. Hagrid had already single-handedly delivered the usual twelve Christmas trees to the Great Hall; garlands of holly and tinsel had been twisted around the banisters of the stairs; everlasting candles glowed from inside the helmets of suits of armour and great bunches of mistletoe had been hung at intervals along the corridors. Large groups of girls tended to converge underneath the mistletoe bunches every time Harry went past, which caused blockages in the corridors; fortunately, however, Harry's frequent night-time wanderings had given him an unusually good knowledge of the castle's secret passageways, so that he was often, without too much difficulty, able to navigate mistletoe-free routes between classes.

Ron, who might once have found the necessity of these detours excuse for jealousy rather than hilarity, simply roared with laughter about it all. Although Harry much preferred this new laughing, joking Ron to the moody, aggressive model he had been enduring for the last few weeks, the improved Ron came at a heavy price.

Firstly, Harry had to put up with the frequent presence of Lavender Brown, who seemed to regard any moment that she was not kissing Ron as a moment wasted; and secondly, Harry found himself once more the best friend of two people who seemed unlikely ever to speak to each other again. Meanwhile, despite all the evidence that she didn't return them, his feelings for Hermione seemed to be getting deeper, yet all he could do was try and be there for her, which compounded his misery even further. Ron, whose hands and forearms still bore scratches and cuts from Hermione's bird attack, was taking a defensive and resentful tone.

"She can't complain," he told Harry. "She snogged Krum. So she's found out someone wants to snog me too. Well, it's a free country. I haven't done anything wrong."

Harry did not answer, but pretended to be absorbed in the book they were supposed to have read before Charms next morning. Determined as he was to remain friends with both Ron and Hermione, and not to think about the latter kissing Viktor Krum, he was spending a lot of time with his mouth shut tight.

"I never promised Hermione anything," Ron mumbled. "I mean, all right, I was going to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with her, but she never said… just as friends… I'm a free agent…"

Harry turned a page, almost ripping it as he did so, aware that Ron was watching him. Ron's voice trailed away in mutters, barely audible over the loud crackling of the fire, though Harry thought he caught the words "Krum" and "Can't complain" again.

Hermione's schedule was so full that Harry could only talk to her properly in the evenings, when Ron was, in any case, so tightly wrapped around Lavender that he did not notice what Harry was doing. Hermione refused to sit in the common room while Ron was there, so Harry generally joined her in the library, which meant that their conversations were held in whispers.

"He's at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes," said Hermione, while the librarian, Madam Pince, prowled the shelves behind them. "I really couldn't care less." She raised the quill Harry had given her for her birthday – which she had accepted only after chastising Harry for spending so much on her gift – and dotted an 'i' so ferociously that she punctured a hole in her parchment.

Harry said nothing, instead bending a little lower over Advanced Potion-Making and continued to make notes on Everlasting Elixirs, occasionally pausing to decipher the prince's useful additions to Libatius Borage's text.

"And incidentally," said Hermione, after a few moments, "you need to be careful. I went into the bathroom just before I came in here and there were about a dozen girls in there, including that Romilda Vane, trying to decide which one would get to take you to Slughorn's party."

If anything, she said it with more venom than she had just been talking about Ron. Harry looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

"What," Hermione shot back.

"What's wrong with a group of girls wanting to go with me?" Harry said, more defensively than he'd meant to.

"They only want to go with you because they think you're The Chosen One," Hermione scoffed.

"But I am The Chosen One" Harry replied with a smirk. "Ouch!"

Hermione had hit him with a textbook.

"They were trying to decide how to slip you a love potion," she continued sternly. "They're all hoping they're going to get you to take them to Slughorn's party, and they all seem to have bought Fred and George's love potions, which I'm afraid to say probably work —"

"Why didn't you confiscate them then?" Asked Harry. It seemed extraordinary that Hermione's mania for upholding the rules could have abandoned her at this crucial juncture.

"They didn't have the potions with them in the bathroom," said Hermione scornfully, "They were just discussing tactics. As I doubt the Half-blood prince" – she gave the book a look – "could dream up an antidote for a dozen different love potions at once, I'd just invite someone to go with you, that'll stop all the others thinking they've still got a chance. It's tomorrow night, they're getting desperate."

Harry couldn't stop himself.

"Why-don't-you-and-me-go?" he blurted out.

For a second, it looked as though Hermione was caught off guard and unless his eyes were fooling him she was blushing deeper than he'd ever seen. Not wanting to embarrass her, he added, in what he hoped would seem like an entirely natural tagline: "Y'know, as friends."

Hermione suddenly seemed to deflate.

"Oh–" she started, rather coldly. Harry was lost. "Sorry, Harry. I'm already going with someone."

"Oh," was all Harry could manage in response, ignoring the cry of the monster inside of him. "Ah… well… It's not like we won't see each other there," he added, trying to make it sound like he wasn't absolutely infuriated she was already going with someone else. Who?

"Who are you going with?"

Hermione looked down. "Erm, it's a surprise," she said quietly, before returning to her business- like tone. "Look, anyway, it's you we need to worry about."

"There isn't anyone else I want to invite," said Harry truthfully. Apart from the girl in front of him, who kept cropping up in his dreams in ways that made him devoutly thankful that Ron could not perform Legilimency, there was nobody he wanted to go with.

And now she's going with someone else?

"Well, just be careful what you drink, because Romilda Vane looked like she meant business," said Hermione grimly. She hitched up the long roll of parchment on which she was writing her Arithmancy essay and continued to scratch away with her quill. Harry watched her with his mind a long way away.

Then, he had a thought.

"Hang on a moment," he said slowly. "I thought Filch had banned anything bought at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?"

"And when has anyone ever paid attention to what Filch has banned?" asked Hermione, still scratching away at her essay.

"But I thought all the owls were being searched. So how come these girls are able to bring love potions into the school?"

"Fred and George send them disguised as perfumes and cough potions," said Hermione. "It's part of their Owl order service."

"You know a lot about it."

Hermione gave him the kind of nasty look she would usually give his copy of Advanced Potion Making.

"It was all on the back of the bottles they showed Ginny and me in the summer," she said, "I don't go around putting potions in people's drinks… or pretending to either…"

"Yeah, well, never mind that," said Harry quickly. "The point is, Filch is being fooled isn't he? These girls are getting stuff into the school disguised as something else! So why couldn't Malfoy have brought the necklace into the school —?"

"Oh, Harry… not that again…"

"Come on, why not?" demanded Harry. He might have realised his feelings for her ran deeper than friendship, but that didn't mean he'd cave into her this easily. Well, if she'd had said yes to his invitation to the party, things might've been different, but as it was…

"Look," sighed Hermione, putting down her quill. "Secrecy Sensors detect jinxes, curses, and concealment charms, don't they? They're used to find dark magic and dark objects. They'd have picked up a powerful curse, like the one in the necklace, within seconds. But something that's just been put in the wrong bottle wouldn't register — anyway love potions aren't dark or dangerous –"

"Easy for you to say," muttered Harry, thinking of Romilda Vane.

"– so it would be down to Filch to realise it wasn't a cough potion, and he's not a good wizard, I doubt he can tell one potion from –"

Hermione stopped dead; Harry had heard it too. Somebody had moved close behind them among the dark bookshelves. They waited, and a moment later the vulturelike countenance of Madam Pince appeared around the corner, her sunken cheeks, her skin like parchment, and her long hooked nose illuminated unflatteringly by the lamp she was carrying.

"The library is now closed," she said, "Mind you return anything you have borrowed to the correct — what have you been doing to that book, you depraved boy!?"

"It isn't the library's, it's mine!" said Harry hastily, snatching his copy of Advanced Potion Making off the table as she lunged at it with a claw-like hand.

"Spoiled!" she hissed. "Desecrated, befouled!"

"It's just a book that's been written on!" said Harry, tugging it out of her grip. She looked as though she might have a seizure; Hermione, who had hastily packed her things, grabbed Harry by the arm and frogmarched him away.

"She'll ban you from the library if you're not careful. Why did you have to bring that stupid book?"

"It's not my fault she's barking mad, Hermione. Or d'you think she overheard you being rude about Filch? I've always thought there might be something between them…"

"Oh, ha ha…"

Enjoying the fact that they could speak normally again, they made their way along the deserted lamp-lit corridors back to the common room, arguing whether or not Filch and Madam Pince were secretly in love with each other.

"Baubles" said Harry to the Fat Lady, this being the new, festive password.

"Same to you," said the fat lady with a roguish grin, and she swung forward to admit them.

"Hi, Harry!" said Romilda Vane, the moment he had climbed through the portrait hole. "Fancy a gillywater?"

Hermione gave him a "what-did-I-tell-you?" look over her shoulder and sent a scowl at the back of Romilda's head.

"No thanks," said Harry quickly. "I don't like it much."

"Well, take these anyway," said Romilda, thrusting a box into his hands. "Chocolate Cauldrons, they've got firewhiskey in them. My gran sent them to me, but I don't like them."

"Oh — right — thanks a lot." said Harry, who could not think what else to say. "Er — I ' m just going over here with…" He hurried off behind Hermione, his voice tailing away feebly.

"Told you," said Hermione succinctly, "Sooner you ask someone, sooner they'll all leave you alone."

They took a seat on the sofa by the fire. Harry noticed Ron and Lavender were intertwined in the corner behind them though thankfully, Hermione either hadn't noticed or was simply ignoring them.

Harry went to bed later that night comforting himself that there was only one more day of lessons to struggle through, plus Slughorn's party, after which he and Ron would depart together for the Burrow. It now seemed impossible that Ron and Hermione – who was spending Christmas with her parents since she'd ditched them last year to rush back to Grimmauld Place after the attack on Mr. Weasley – would make up with each other before the holidays began, but perhaps, somehow, the break would give them time to calm down, think better of their behaviour… But his hopes were not high, and they sank still lower after enduring a Transfiguration lesson with them both next day.

They had just embarked upon the immensely difficult topic of human transfiguration; working in front of mirrors, they were supposed to be changing the colour of their own eyebrows. Hermione laughed unkindly at Ron's disastrous first attempt, during which he somehow managed to give himself a spectacular handlebar moustache; Ron retaliated by doing a cruel but accurate impression of Hermione jumping up and down in her seat every time Professor McGonagall asked a question, which Lavender and Parvati found deeply amusing and which reduced Hermione to the verge of tears again.

She raced out of the classroom on the bell, leaving half oh her things behind; Harry, furious with Ron, glared at him before scooping up her remaining possessions and following her.

He finally tracked her down as she emerged from a girl's bathroom on the floor below. She was accompanied by Luna Lovegood, who was patting her vaguely on the back.

"Oh, hello, Harry," said Luna. "Did you know one of your eyebrows is bright yellow?"

"Hi, Luna. Hermione, you left your stuff…" He held out her books.

"Oh, yes," said Hermione in a choked voice, taking her things and turning away quickly to hide the fact she was wiping her eyes with her pencil case. "Thank you, Harry. Well, I'd better get going…"

And she hurried off, without ever giving Harry any time to offer words of comfort, though admittedly he could not think of any.

"She's a bit upset," said Luna. "I thought at first it was Moaning Myrtle in there, but it turned out to be Hermione. She said something about Ron…"

"Yeah, they've had a row," said Harry.

Why are you so useless, go off after her you idiot.

"He says funny things sometimes, doesn't he?" continued Luna, snapping Harry back to the room. "He's nice, but he can be a bit unkind. I noticed that last year."

They set off down the corridor.

"I s'pose," said Harry. Luna was demonstrating her usual knack of speaking uncomfortable truths; he had never met anyone quite like her. "Yes, actually, he can be a bit of a prat sometimes."

Harry didn't mean the statement to come out with quite as much venom as it did. Luna glanced at Harry and then in the direction which Hermione ran off.

Hastily wanting to change the subject, Harry asked: "So have you had a good term?"

"Oh, it's been all right," said Luna. "A bit lonely without the D.A. Ginny's been nice, though. She stopped two boys in our Transfiguration class calling me 'Loony' the other day —"

"Would you like to come to Slughorn's party with me tonight?"

The words were out of Harry's mouth before he could stop them; he heard himself say them as though it were a stranger speaking. Luna turned her protuberant eyes to him in surprise.

"Slughorn's party? With you?"

"Yeah," said Harry, "We're supposed to bring guests, so I thought you might like… I mean…" He was keen to make his intentions perfectly clear. "I mean, just as friends, you know. But if you don't want to…"

He was already half hoping that she didn't want to.

"Oh no, I'd love to go with you as friends!" said Luna, beaming as he had never seen her beam before. "Nobody's ever asked me to a party before, as a friend! Is that why you dyed your eyebrow, for the party? Should I dye mine too?"

"No" said Harry firmly, "That was a mistake. I'll get Hermione to put it right for me. So I'll meet you in the entrance hall at eight o'clock then."

"AHA!" screamed a voice from overhead and both of them jumped; unnoticed by either of them, they had just passed underneath Peeves, who was hanging upside down from a chandelier and grinning maliciously at them.

"Potty asked Loony to go to the party! Potty lurves Loony! Potty luuuuuurves Looooony!" And he zoomed away cackling and shrieking, "Potty loves Loony!"

"Nice to keep these things private," said Harry. And sure enough, in no time at all the whole school seemed to know that Harry Potter was taking Luna Lovegood to Slughorn's party.

"You could've taken anyone!" said Ron in disbelief over dinner. "Anyone! And you chose Luna?"

"So what, Ron!" snapped Ginny, pausing behind Harry on her way to join friends. "I'm really glad you're taking her Harry, she's so excited."

Ginny moved off down the table. A little further down, Hermione was sitting alone, playing with her stew. Harry hadn't seen her since he'd handed her books back to her earlier.

"You should say sorry," suggested Harry bluntly to Ron.

"What, and get attacked by another flock of canaries?" muttered Ron.

"What did you have to imitate her for?"

"She laughed at my moustache!"

"So did I, it was the stupidest thing I've ever seen."

But Ron did not seem to have heard; Lavender had just arrived with Parvati. Squeezing herself in between Harry and Ron, Lavender flung her arms around Ron's neck.

"Hi, Harry," said Parvati who, like Harry, looked faintly embarrassed and bored by the behaviour of their two friends.

"Hi," said Harry, "How're you? You're staying at Hogwarts, then? I heard your parents wanted you to leave."

"I managed to talk them out of it for the time being," said Parvati. "That Katie thing really freaked them out, but as there hasn't been anything since… Oh, hi Hermione."

Parvati positively beamed. Harry could tell that she was feeling guilty for having laughed at Hermione in Transfiguration. He looked around and saw that Hermione was beaming back, if possible even more brightly. Girls were very strange sometimes.

"Hi, Parvati!" said Hermione, ignoring Ron and Lavender completely and switching her attention to Harry, with a bemused look. "Harry… your eyebrow –"

Harry shot his hand to his forehead, realising he'd not yet had chance to ask her to turn his eyebrow back to its normal colour.

"Come here…"

Hermione leant down, making a rather big deal of holding Harry's chin and moving in close and tapping her wand gently against his bright yellow eyebrow, licking her lips slightly as she did so. Harry wasn't sure if her plan was to make Ron jealous, or to give him a heart attack.

"There, all better…" she said brightly, her hand lingering on his chin just slightly longer than was required. Straightening up, and choosing to ignore the fact Harry's face was now scarlet, she returned to her conversation with Parvati.

"Are you going to Slughorn's party tonight?"

"No invite," said Parvati, with a rather surprised look, at least letting Harry know he wasn't the only one who had noticed Hermione's overelaborate actions. "I'd love to go, though, it sounds like it's going to be really good…You're going, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm meeting Cormac at eight, and we're —" There was a noise like a plunger being withdrawn from a blocked sink, and Ron surfaced. Hermione acted as though she had not seen or heard anything. "— we're going up to the party together."

Cormac? Cormac!?

"Cormac?" said Parvati. "Cormac McLaggen, you mean?"

"That's right," said Hermione sweetly. "The one who almost" – she put a great deal of emphasis on the word — "became Gryffindor Keeper."

"Are you going out with him, then?" asked Parvati, wide-eyed.

"Oh – yes – didn't you know?" said Hermione, with a most un-Hermione-ish giggle. Harry's stomach churned. He felt like he was going to throw up.

"No!" said Parvati, looking positively agog at this piece of gossip. "Wow, you like your Quidditch players, don't you? First Krum, then McLaggen."

"I like really good Quidditch players," Hermione corrected her, still smiling, flashing her eyes at Harry, who was doing all he could to keep a neutral face.

McLaggen!? The next time I see that smarmy prat…

"Well, see you… Got to go and get ready for the party…" she left. At once Lavender and Parvati put their heads together to discuss this new development, with everything they had ever heard about McLaggen, and all they had ever guessed about Hermione. Ron looked strangely blank and said nothing. Harry stared down at his plate, with no wish to eat, and even less of a wish to attend Slughorn's party.

His mood had hardly improved by the time he arrived in the entrance hall at eight o'clock that night. An unusually large number of girls lurking there, all of whom seemed to be staring at him resentfully as he approached Luna. She was wearing a set of spangled silver robes that were attracting a certain amount of giggles from the onlookers, but otherwise she looked quite nice. Harry was glad, in any case, that she had left off her radish earrings, her butterbeer cork necklace, and her Spectrespecs.

"Hi," he said. "Shall we get going then?"

"Oh yes," she said happily. "Where is the party?"

"Slughorn's office," said Harry, leading her up the marble staircase away from all the staring and muttering. Keen to at least put on a happy face for Luna's sake, if not his own, he asked her brightly: "Did you hear, there's supposed to be a vampire coming?"

"Rufus Scrimgeour?" asked Luna.

"I – what?" said Harry, disconcerted. "You mean the Minister of Magic?"

"Yes, he's a vampire," said Luna matter-of-factly. "Father wrote a very long article about it when Scrimgeour first took over from Cornelius Fudge, but he was forced not to publish by somebody from the Ministry. Obviously, they didn't want the truth to get out!"

Harry, who thought it most unlikely that Rufus Scrimgeour was a vampire, but who was used to Luna repeating her father's bizarre views as though they were fact, did not reply; they were already approaching Slughorn's office and the sounds of laughter, music and loud conversation were growing louder with every step they took.

The ceiling and walls had been draped with emerald, crimson, and gold hangings, so that it looked as though they were all inside a vast tent. The room was crowded and stuffy and bathed in the red light cast by an ornate golden lamp dangling from the centre of the ceiling in which real fairies were fluttering, each a brilliant speck of light. Loud singing accompanied by what sounded like mandolins issued from a distant corner; a haze of pipe smoke hung over several elderly warlocks deep in conversation, and a number of house-elves were negotiating their way squeakily through the forest of knees, obscured by the heavy silver platters of food they were bearing, so that they looked like little roving tables.

"Harry, m'boy!" boomed Slughorn, almost as soon as Harry and Luna had squeezed in through the door. "Come in, come in, so many people I'd like you to meet!"

Slughorn was wearing a tasseled velvet hat to match his smoking jacket. Gripping Harry's arm so tightly he might have been hoping to disapparate with him, Slughorn led him purposefully into the party; Harry seized Luna's hand and dragged her along with him.

"Harry, I'd like you to meet Eldred Worple, an old student of mine, author of Blood Brothers: My Life Amongst the Vampires — and, of course, his friend Sanguini."

Worple, who was a small, stout, bespectacled man, grabbed Harry's hand and shook it enthusiastically; the vampire Sanguini, who was tall and emaciated with dark shadows under his eyes, merely nodded. He looked rather bored. A gaggle of girls was standing close to him, looking curious and excited.

"Harry Potter, I am simply delighted!" said Worple, peering shortsightedly up into Harry's face. "I was saying to Professor Slughorn only the other day, 'Where is the biography of Harry Potter for which we have all been waiting?'"

"Er," said Harry, "were you?"

"Just as modest as Horace described!" said Worple. "But seriously"— his manner changed; it became suddenly businesslike — "I would be delighted to write it myself — people are craving to know more about you, dear boy, craving! If you were prepared to grant me a few interviews, say in four- or five-hour sessions, why, we could have the book finished within months. And all with very little effort on your part, I assure you — ask Sanguini here if it isn't quite — Sanguini, stay here!" added Worple, suddenly stern, for the vampire had been edging toward the nearby group of girls, a rather hungry look in his eye.

"Here, have a pasty," said Worple, seizing one from a passing elf and stuffing it into Sanguini's hand before turning his attention back to Harry. "My dear boy, the gold you could make, you have no idea —"

"I'm definitely not interested," said Harry firmly, "and I've just seen a friend of mine, sorry."

He pulled Luna after him into the crowd; he had indeed just seen a long mane of brown hair disappear between what looked like two members of the Weird Sisters. Unfortunately, in his eagerness to see Hermione, as mad as he was that she'd decided to go with McLaggen, he hadn't seen Professor Trelawney standing there alone. Fortunately, Luna took the Divination professor's attention.

"Hello," said Luna politely to Professor Trelawney.

"Good evening, my dear," said Professor Trelawney, focusing upon Luna with some difficulty. Harry could smell cooking sherry again. "I haven't seen you in my classes lately…"

"No, I've got Firenze this year," said Luna.

"Oh, of course," said Professor Trelawney with an angry, drunken titter. "Or Dobbin, as I prefer to think of him. You would have thought, would you not, that now I am returned to the school Professor Dumbledore might have got rid of the horse? But no…we share classes… It's an insult, frankly, an insult. Do you know…"

Professor Trelawney seemed too tipsy to have recognised Harry. Under the cover of her furious criticisms of Firenze, he edged away, and at that moment caught sight of two of the drapes by the window parting and a lock of brown hair go through.

He walked over, before whispering: "Hermione?"

"Harry!" came the response from the other side of the curtain. "There you are, thank goodness!"

Harry took a quick look around before darting through the drapes. Hermione was there, wearing a pink dress which hugged her figure tightly and cut low on her chest. Her fringe was out of shape, however, with a lock of hair falling over her forehead. She looked distinctly disheveled, but Harry was blown away; she was absolutely stunning.

"Er…" he started, before finally regaining his composure, "What's happened?"

"Oh, I've just escaped — I mean, I've just left Cormac," she said shakily. "Under the mistletoe," she added in explanation. "He's got more tentacles than a Snargaluff plant."

"Serves you right for coming with him. And you can't seriously be going out with him?" said Harry severely, remembering why he was angry with her to begin with.

"No, of course not. I just thought he'd be an annoying choice," said Hermione dispassionately. "I debated for a while about Zacharias Smith, but I thought, on the whole —"

"You considered Smith?" said Harry, revoked, still whispering. Hermione knew full well that he despised both of them. "McLaggen and Smith, bloody hell Hermione!"

"Well, Harry. If you're so unhappy about it then why didn't you ask me earlier!"

He wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but the space between them seemed to have swiftly closed.

"Well I would've done if I knew you were going to stoop down to that level!"

No, definitely not his imagination. Their faces were inches apart, he could count every freckle and make out every detail in her chocolate eyes.

"Oh, wow! Levels… This from the guy who would've been here with Romilda Vane under a love potion if not for me."

Closer.

"Well why does it matter to you who I bring?"

Closer.

"Well why does it matter to you who I come with?"

Harry gulped. The air was stuffy. Her hands seemed to be on his chest, or was he imagining that too? He thought she might be leaning up, or was he leaning down….

"Dragon Tartar?"

Harry and Hermione broke apart. A waiter had pushed his way through the drape, and was holding out a tray.

"No thank you," Hermione said quickly, clearly flustered. Harry didn't know where to look.

"Just as well," the waiter said, unperturbed. "They give one horribly bad breath!"

Hermione reached out and grabbed the tray. "On second thoughts, it might keep Cormac at bay."

The waiter left as Hermione unceremoniously took a bite, but before she could even gip the offending tartar out, she ducked. "Oh, God, here he comes!"

Shoving the tray into Harry's hands, and seemingly ignoring whatever had just nearly happened between them, Hermione forced her way through the curtain, just as McLlaggen idled his way through on the other side.

"Was that Hermione you were just with. Where's she gone?" McLaggen asked arrogantly.

"Er… I think she just went to powder her nose," Harry lied, holding in the urge to punch the git.

"Slithery little minx your friend," McLaggen continued, taking one of the balls of dragon meat off the tray. "Likes to work her mouth too… doesn't she." And with that he shoved a whole tarter into his mouth. "What is this I've just eaten, by the way?"

"Dragon balls," Harry said, trying to keep a straight face.

Just then, the curtains flew open once more. Snape stood there. But the timing could not have been worse for, at that exact moment, McLaggen threw up. Right in front Snape's shoes.

Snape stared.

"You've just bought yourself a month's detention… McLaggen – not so quick… Potter."

Harry had tried to make a dash for it, but had only made it a yard out of the drape.

"Sir, I really think I should rejoin the party… my date…"

"… Can surely survive your absence for another minute or two, besides, I only wish to convey a message."

"A message?"

"From Professor Dumbledore. He asked me to give you his best and he hopes you enjoy the holidays… You see, he's travelling and he won't return until term… resumes."

"Travelling where?" Harry asked quickly, but Snape merely sneered down at him.

"SEVERUS!" boomed Slughorn, who had appeared seemingly out of thin air, holding a glass of mead in one hand and an enormous mince pie in the other.

"I must say, Severus, you never informed me you had such a natural in your class all this time!" Snape raised an eyebrow, but did not speak.

"Well," Slughorn continued, not noticing Snape's reaction. "I don't think I've ever known such a natural at Potions as young Harry here! Instinctive, you know — like his mother! I've only ever taught a few with this kind of ability," he said, regarding Harry with a fond, if bloodshot, eye. "Some credit must go to you, of course, you taught him for five years!"

Trapped, with Slughorn's arm around his shoulders, Snape looked down his hooked nose at Harry, his black eyes narrowed. "Funny, I never had the impression that I managed to teach Potter anything at all."

"Well, then, it's natural ability!" shouted Slughorn. "You should have seen what he gave me, first lesson, Draught of Living Death — never had a student produce finer on a first attempt, I don't think even you, Severus —"

"Really?" said Snape quietly, his eyes still boring into Harry, who felt a certain disquiet. The last thing he wanted was for Snape to start investigating the source of his newfound brilliance at Potions.

"Remind me what other subjects you're taking, Harry?" asked Slughorn.

"Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology…"

"All the subjects required, in short, for an Auror," said Snape with the faintest sneer.

"Yeah, well, that's what I'd like to do," said Harry defiantly.

"And a great one you'll make too!" boomed Slughorn.

"I don't think you should be an Auror, Harry," said Luna, who had appeared unexpectedly from his other side. Everybody looked at her. "The Aurors are part of the Rotfang Conspiracy, I thought everyone knew that. They're planning to bring down the Ministry of Magic from within using a combination of dark magic and gum disease."

Harry inhaled half his mead up his nose as he started to laugh. Really, it had been worth bringing Luna just for this. Emerging from his goblet, coughing, sopping wet but still grinning, he saw something calculated to raise his spirits even higher: Draco Malfoy being dragged by the ear toward them by Argus Filch.

"Professor Slughorn," wheezed Filch, his jowls aquiver and the maniacal light of mischief- detection in his bulging eyes, "I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?"

Malfoy pulled himself free of Filch's grip, looking furious. "All right, I wasn't invited!" he said angrily. "I was trying to gate crash, happy?"

"No, I'm not!" said Filch, a statement at complete odds with the glee on his face. "You're in trouble, you are! Didn't the headmaster say that nighttime prowling's out, unless you've got permission, didn't he, eh?"

"That's all right, Argus, that's all right," said Slughorn, waving a hand. "It's Christmas, and it's not a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once, we'll forget any punishment; you may stay, Draco.

Filich's expression of outraged disappointment was perfectly predictable; but why, Harry wondered, watching him, did Malfoy look almost equally unhappy? And why was Snape looking at Malfoy as though both angry and… was it possible… a little afraid?

But almost before Harry had registered what he had seen, Filch had turned and shuffled away, muttering under his breath; Malfoy had composed his face into a smile and was thanking Slughorn for his generosity, and Snape's face was smoothly inscrutable again.

"It's nothing, nothing," said Slughorn, waving away Malfoy's thanks. "I did know your grandfather, after all…"

"He always spoke very highly of you, sir," said Malfoy quickly. "Said you were the best potion- maker he'd ever known…"

Harry stared at Malfoy. It was not the sucking-up that intrigued him; he had watched Malfoy do that to Snape for a long time. It was the fact that Malfoy did, after all, look a little ill. This was the first time he had seen Malfoy close up for ages; he now saw that Malfoy had dark shadows under his eyes and a distinctly greyish tinge to his skin.

"I'd like a word with you, Draco," said Snape suddenly.

"Now, Severus," said Slughorn, hiccuping again, "it's Christmas, don't be too hard —"

"I am his Head of House, and I shall decide how hard, or otherwise, to be," said Snape curtly. "Follow me, Draco."

They left, Snape leading the way, Malfoy looking resentful. Harry stood there for a moment, irresolute, then said, "I'll be back in a bit, Luna — er — bathroom."

"All right," she said cheerfully, and he thought he heard her, as he hurried off into the crowd, resume the subject of the Rotfang Conspiracy with Professor Trelawney, who seemed sincerely interested. It was easy, once out of the party, to pull his invisibility cloak out of his pocket and throw it over himself, for the corridor was quite deserted.

What was more difficult was finding Snape and Malfoy. Harry ran down the corridor, the noise of his feet masked by the music and loud talk still issuing from Slughorn's office behind him. Perhaps Snape had taken Malfoy to his office in the dungeons…or perhaps he was escorting him back to the Slytherin common room…Harry pressed his ear against door after door as he dashed down the corridor until, with a great jolt of excitement, he crouched down to the keyhole of the last classroom in the corridor and heard voices.

"…cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled —"

"I didn't have anything to do with it, all right?"

"I hope you are telling the truth, because it was both clumsy and foolish. Already you are suspected of having a hand in it."

"Who suspects me?" said Malfoy angrily. "For the last time, I didn't do it, okay? That Bell girl must've had an enemy no one knows about — don't look at me like that! I know what you're doing, I'm not stupid, but it won't work — I can stop you!"

There was a pause and then Snape said quietly, "Ah… Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, I see. What thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, Draco?"

"I'm not trying to conceal anything from him, I just don't want you butting in!"

Harry pressed his ear still more closely against the keyhole… What had happened to make Malfoy speak to Snape like this — Snape, toward whom he had always shown respect, even liking?

"So that is why you have been avoiding me this term? You have feared my interference? You realise that, had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told them repeatedly to be there, Draco —"

"So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!" jeered Malfoy.

There was another pause. Then Snape said, "You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things."

"You'd better stop telling me to come to your office then!"

"Listen to me," said Snape, his voice so low now that Harry had to push his ear very hard against the keyhole to hear. "I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco —"

"Looks like you'll have to break it, then, because I don't need your protection! It's my job, he gave it to me and I'm doing it, I've got a plan and it's going to work, it's just taking a bit longer than I thought it would!"

"What is your plan?"

"It's none of your business!"

"If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you…"

"I have all the assistance I need, thanks, I'm not alone!"

"You were certainly alone tonight, which was foolish in the extreme, wandering the corridors without lookouts or backup, these are elementary mistakes —"

"I would've had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you hadn't put them in detention!"

"Keep your voice down!" spat Snape, for Malfoy's voice had risen excitedly. "If Crabbe and Goyle intend to pass their Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L this time around, they will need to work a little harder than they are doing at pres —"

"What does it matter?" said Malfoy. "Defence Against the Dark Arts — it's all just a joke, isn't it, an act? Like any of us need protecting against the dark arts —"

"It is an act that is crucial to success, Draco!" said Snape. "Where do you think I would have been all these years, if I had not known how to act? Now listen to me! You are being incautious, wandering around at night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing your reliance in assistants like Crabbe and Goyle —"

"They're not the only ones, I've got other people on my side, better people!"

"Then why not confide in me, and I can —"

"I know what you're up to! You want to steal my glory!"

There was another pause, then Snape said coldly, "You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your fathers capture and imprisonment has upset you, but —" Harry had barely a second's warning; he heard Malfoy's footsteps on the other side of the door and flung himself out of the way just as it burst open. Malfoy was striding away down the corridor, past the open door of Slughorn's office, around the distant corner, and out of sight.

Hardly daring to breathe, Harry remained crouched down as Snape emerged slowly from the classroom. His expression unfathomable, he returned to the party. Harry remained on the floor, hidden beneath the cloak, his mind racing.

Chapter 12: 12: Chapter Sixteen - A Frosty Christmas... And A Fiery New Year [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

"So Snape was offering to help him? He was definitely offering to help him?"

"If you ask that once more," said Harry, "I'm going to stick this sprout —"

"I'm only checking!" said Ron. They were standing alone at the Burrow's kitchen sink, peeling a mountain of sprouts for Mrs. Weasley. Snow was drifting past the window in front of them. "Yes, Snape was offering to help him!" said Harry.

"He said he'd promised Malfoy's mother to protect him, that he'd made an Unbreakable Oath or something —"

"An Unbreakable Vow?" said Ron, looking stunned. "Nah, he can't have…Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," said Harry. "Why, what does it mean?"

"Well, you can't break an Unbreakable Vow…"

"I'd worked that much out for myself, funnily enough. What happens if you break it, then?"

"You die," said Ron simply. "Fred and George tried to get me to make one when I was about five. I nearly did too, I was holding hands with Fred and everything when Dad found us. He went mental," said Ron, with a reminiscent gleam in his eyes. "Only time I've ever seen Dad as angry as Mum, Fred reckons his left buttock has never been the same since."

"Yeah, well, passing over Fred's left buttock —"

"I beg your pardon?" said Fred's voice as the twins entered the kitchen. "Aaah, George, look at this. They're using knives and everything. Bless them."

"I'll be seventeen in two months," said Ron grumpily, "and then I'll be able to do it by magic!"

"But meanwhile," said George, sitting down at the kitchen table and putting his feet up on it, "we can enjoy watching you demonstrate the correct use of a — whoops-a-daisy!"

"You made me do that!" said Ron angrily, sucking his cut thumb. "You wait, when I'm seventeen —"

"I'm sure you'll dazzle us all with hitherto unsuspected magical skills," yawned Fred.

"And speaking of hitherto unsuspected skills, Ronald," said George, "what is this we hear from Ginny about you and a young lady called — unless our information is faulty — Lavender Brown?"

Ron turned a little pink, but did not look displeased as he turned back to the sprouts. "Mind your own business."

"What a snappy retort," said Fred. "I really don't know how you think of them. No, what we wanted to know was… how did it happen?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Did she have an accident or something?"

"What?"

"Well, how did she sustain such extensive brain damage? Careful, now!"

Mrs. Weasley entered the room just in time to see Ron throw the sprout knife at Fred, who had turned it into a paper airplane with one lazy flick of his wand, "Ron!" she said furiously. "Don't you ever let me see you throwing knives again!"

"I won't," said Ron, "let you see," he added under his breath, as he turned back to the sprout mountain.

"Fred, George, I'm sorry, dears, but Remus is arriving tonight, so Bill will have to squeeze in with you two."

"No problem," said George.

"Then, as Charlie isn't coming home, that just leaves Harry and Ron in the attic, and if Fleur shares with Ginny —"

"— that'll make Ginny's Christmas —" muttered Fred.

"— everyone should be comfortable. Well, they'll have a bed, anyway," said Mrs. Weasley, sounding slightly harassed.

"Percy definitely not showing his ugly face, then?" asked Fred.

Mrs. Weasley turned away before she answered. "No, he's busy, I expect, at the Ministry."

"Or he's the world's biggest prat," said Fred, as Mrs. Weasley left the kitchen. "One of the two. Well, let's get going, then, George."

"What are you two up to?" asked Ron. "Cant you help us with these sprouts? You could just use your wand and then we'll be free too!"

"No, I don't think we can do that," said Fred seriously. "It's very character-building stuff, learning to peel sprouts without magic, makes you appreciate how difficult it is for muggles and squibs —"

"— and if you want people to help you, Ron," added George, throwing the paper airplane at him, "I wouldn't chuck knives at them. Just a little hint. We're off to the village, there's a very pretty girl working in the paper shop who thinks my card tricks are something marvellous… almost like real magic…"

"Gits," said Ron darkly, watching Fred and George setting off across the snowy yard.

"Would've only taken them ten seconds and then we could've gone too."

"I couldn't," said Harry. "I promised Dumbledore I wouldn't wander off while I'm staying here."

"Oh yeah," said Ron. He peeled a few more sprouts and then said, "Are you going to tell Dumbledore what you heard Snape and Malfoy saying to each other?"

"Yep," said Harry. "I'm going to tell anyone who can put a stop to it, and Dumbledore's top of the list. I might have another word with your dad too."

"Pity you didn't hear what Malfoy's actually doing, though."

"I couldn't have done, could I? That was the whole point, he was refusing to tell Snape."

There was silence for a moment or two, then Ron said, "Course, you know what they'll all say? Dad and Dumbledore and all of them? They'll say Snape isn't really trying to help Malfoy, he was just trying to find out what Malfoy's up to."

"They didn't hear him," said Harry flatly. "No one's that good an actor, not even Snape."

"Yeah… I'm just saying, though" said Ron. Harry turned to face him, frowning.

"You think I'm right, though?"

"Yeah, I do!" said Ron hastily. "Seriously, I do! But they're all convinced Snape's in the Order, aren't they?"

Harry said nothing. It had already occurred to him that this would be the most likely objection to his new evidence; he could hear Hermione now: Obviously, Harry, he was pretending to offer help so he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he's doing…

This was pure imagination, however, as he had had no opportunity to tell Hermione what he had overheard. She had disappeared from Slughorn's party before he returned to it and she had already gone to bed by the time he returned to the common room. As he and Ron had left for the Burrow early the next day, he had barely had time to wish her a happy Christmas, exchange gifts and to tell her that he had some very important news when they got back from the holidays. Still, even Hermione would not be able to deny one thing: Malfoy was definitely up to something, and Snape knew it, so Harry felt fully justified in saying "I told you so," which he had done several times to Ron already.

Harry did not get the chance to speak to Mr. Weasley, who was working very long hours at the Ministry, until Christmas Eve night. The Weasleys and their guests were sitting in the living room, which Ginny had decorated so lavishly that it was rather like sitting in a paper-chain explosion.

Fred, George, Harry, and Ron were the only ones who knew that the angel on top of the tree was actually a garden gnome that had bitten Fred on the ankle as he pulled up carrots for Christmas dinner. Stupefied, painted gold, stuffed into a miniature tutu and with small wings glued to its back, it glowered down at them all, the ugliest angel Harry had ever seen, with a large bald head like a potato and rather hairy feet.

They were all supposed to be listening to a Christmas broadcast by Mrs. Weasleys favourite singer, Celestina Warbeck, whose voice was warbling out of the large wooden wireless set. Fleur, who seemed to find Celestina very dull, was talking so loudly in the corner that a scowling Mrs. Weasley kept pointing her wand at the volume control, so that Celestina grew louder and louder.

Under the cover of a particularly jazzy number called "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love," Fred and George started a game of Exploding Snap with Ginny. Ron kept shooting Bill and Fleur covert looks, as though hoping to pick up tips. Meanwhile, Remus Lupin, who was thinner and more ragged-looking than ever, was sitting beside the fire, staring into its depths as though he could not hear Celestina's voice.

Oh, come and stir my cauldron,

And if you do it right,

I'll boil you up some hot strong love

To keep you warm tonight.

"We danced to this when we were eighteen!" said Mrs. Weasley, wiping her eyes on her knitting. "Do you remember, Arthur?"

"Mphf?" said Mr. Weasley, whose head had been nodding over the satsuma he was peeling. "Oh yes…marvellous tune…" With an effort, he sat up a little straighter and looked around at Harry, who was sitting next to him. "Sorry about this," he said, jerking his head toward the wireless as Celestina broke into the chorus. "Be over soon."

"No problem," said Harry, grinning. "Has it been busy at the Ministry?"

"Very," said Mr. Weasley. "I wouldn't mind if we were getting anywhere, but of the three arrests we've made in the last couple of months, I doubt that one of them is a genuine Death Eater — only don't repeat that, Harry," he added quickly, looking much more awake all of a sudden.

"They're not still holding Stan Shunpike, are they?" asked Harry.

"I'm afraid so," said Mr. Weasley. "I know Dumbledore's tried appealing directly to Scrimgeour about Stan… I mean, anybody who has actually interviewed him agrees that he's about as much a Death Eater as this satsuma… but the top levels want to look as though they're making some progress, and 'three arrests' sounds better than 'three mistaken arrests and releases'…but again, this is all top secret…"

"I won't say anything," said Harry. He hesitated for a moment, wondering how best to embark on what he wanted to say; as he marshalled his thoughts, Celestina Warbeck began a ballad called "You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me."

"Mr. Weasley, you know what I told you at the station when we were setting off for school?"

"I checked, Harry," said Mr. Weasley at once. "I went and searched the Malfoy's house. There was nothing, either broken or whole, that shouldn't have been there."

"Yeah, I know, I saw in the Prophet that you'd looked… but this is something different… Well, something more…"

And he told Mr. Weasley everything he had overheard between Malfoy and Snape, As Harry spoke, he saw Lupin's head turn a little toward him, taking in every word. When he had finished, there was silence, except for Celestina's crooning.

Oh, my poor heart, where has it gone?

It's left me for a spell…

"Has it occurred to you, Harry," said Mr. Weasley, "that Snape was simply pretending —?"

"Pretending to offer help, so that he could find out what Malfoy's up to?" said Harry quickly. "Yeah, I thought you'd say that. But how do we know?"

"It isn't our business to know," said Lupin unexpectedly. He had turned his back on the fire now and faced Harry across Mr. Weasley. "It's Dumbledore's business. Dumbledore trusts Severus, and that ought to be good enough for all of us."

"But," said Harry, "just say — just say Dumbledore's wrong about Snape —"

"People have said it, many times. It comes down to whether or not you trust Dumbledore's judgment. I do; therefore, I trust Severus."

"But Dumbledore can make mistakes," argued Harry. "He says it himself. And you"— he looked Lupin straight in the eye — "do you honestly like Snape?"

"I neither like nor dislike Severus," said Lupin. "No, Harry, I am speaking the truth," he added, as Harry pulled a skeptical expression. "We shall never be best friends, perhaps; after all that happened between James and Sirius and Severus, there is too much bitterness there. But I do not forget that during the year I taught at Hogwarts, Severus made the Wolfsbane Potion for me every month, made it perfectly, so that I did not have to suffer as I usually do at the full moon."

"But he 'accidentally' let it slip that you're a werewolf, so you had to leave!" said Harry angrily. Lupin shrugged.

"The news would have leaked out anyway. We both know he wanted my job, but he could have wreaked much worse damage on me by tampering with the potion. He kept me healthy. I must be grateful."

"Maybe he didn't dare mess with the potion with Dumbledore watching him!" said Harry.

"You are determined to hate him, Harry," said Lupin with a faint smile. "And I understand; with James as your father, with Sirius as your godfather, you have inherited an old prejudice. By all means tell Dumbledore what you have told Arthur and me, but do not expect him to share your view of the matter; do not even expect him to be surprised by what you tell him. It might have been on Dumbledore's orders that Severus questioned Draco."

…and now you've torn it quite apart

I'll thank you to give back my heart!

Celestina ended her song on a very long, high-pitched note and loud applause issued out of the wireless, which Mrs. Weasley joined in with enthusiastically.

"Eez eet over?" said Fleur loudly. "Thank goodness, what an 'orrible —"

"Shall we have a nightcap, then?" asked Mr. Weasley loudly, leaping to his feet. "Who wants eggnog?"

"What have you been up to lately?" Harry asked Lupin, as Mr. Weasley bustled off to fetch the eggnog, and everybody else stretched and broke into conversation.

"Oh, I've been underground," said Lupin. "Almost literally. That's why I haven't been able to write, Harry; sending letters to you would have been something of a giveaway."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been living among my fellows, my equals," said Lupin wearily. "Werewolves," he added, at Harry's look of incomprehension. "Nearly all of them are on Voldemort's side. Dumbledore wanted a spy and here I was… ready-made." He sounded a little bitter, and perhaps realised it, for he smiled more warmly as he went on, "I am not complaining; it is necessary work and who can do it better than I? However, it has been difficult gaining their trust. I bear the unmistakable signs of having tried to live among wizards, you see, whereas they have shunned normal society and live on the margins, stealing — and sometimes killing — to eat."

"How come they like Voldemort?"

"They think that, under his rule, they will have a better life," said Lupin. "And it is hard to argue with Greyback out there…"

"Who's Greyback?"

"You haven't heard of him?" Lupin's hands closed convulsively in his lap. "Fenrir Greyback is the most savage werewolf alive today. He regards it as his mission in life to bite and to contaminate as many people as possible; he wants to create enough werewolves to overcome the wizards. Voldemort has promised him prey in return for his services. Greyback specialises in children… Bite them young, he says, and raise them away from their parents, raise them to hate normal wizards. Voldemort has threatened to unleash him upon people's sons and daughters; it is a threat that usually produces good results."

Lupin paused and then said, "It was Greyback who bit me."

"What?" said Harry, astonished. "When — when you were a kid, you mean?"

"Yes. My father had offended him. I did not know, for a very long time, the identity of the werewolf who had attacked me; I even felt pity for him, thinking that he had had no control, knowing by then how it felt to transform. But Greyback is not like that. At the full moon, he positions himself close to victims, ensuring that he is near enough to strike. He plans it all. And this is the man Voldemort is using to marshal the werewolves. I cannot pretend that my particular brand of reasoned argument is making much headway against Greyback's insistence that we werewolves deserve blood, that we ought to revenge ourselves on normal people."

"But you are normal!" said Harry fiercely. "You've just got a — a problem —"

Lupin burst out laughing. "You remind me a lot of James. He called it my 'furry little problem' in company. Many people were under the impression that I owned a badly behaved rabbit."

He accepted a glass of eggnog from Mr. Weasley with a word of thanks, looking slightly more cheerful, Harry, meanwhile, felt a rush of excitement: This last mention of his father had reminded him that there was something he had been looking forward to asking Lupin.

"Have you ever heard of someone called the Half-Blood Prince?"

"The Half-Blood what?"

"Prince," said Harry, watching him closely for signs of recognition.

"There are no Wizarding princes," said Lupin, now smiling. "Is this a title you're thinking of adopting? I should have thought being 'the Chosen One' would be enough."

"It's nothing to do with me!" said Harry indignantly. "The Half-Blood Prince is someone who used to go to Hogwarts, I've got his old Potions book. He wrote spells all over it, spells he invented. One of them was Levicorpus —"

"Oh, that one had a great vogue during my time at Hogwarts," said Lupin reminiscently. "There were a few months in my fifth year when you couldn't move for being hoisted into the air by your ankle."

"My dad used it," said Harry. "I saw him in the Pensieve, he used it on Snape."

He tried to sound casual, as though this was a throwaway comment of no real importance, but he was not sure he had achieved the right effect; Lupin's smile was a little too understanding.

"Yes," he said, "but he wasn't the only one. As I say, it was very popular… You know how these spells come and go…"

"But it sounds like it was invented while you were at school," Harry persisted. "Not necessarily," said Lupin. "Jinxes go in and out of fashion like everything else." He looked into Harry's face and then said quietly, "James was a pureblood, Harry, and I promise you, he never asked us to call him 'Prince.'"

Abandoning pretence, Harry said, "And it wasn't Sirius? Or you?"

"Definitely not."

"Oh." Harry stared into the fire. "I just thought — well, he's helped me out a lot in Potions classes, the Prince has."

"How old is this book, Harry?"

"I dunno, I've never checked."

"Well, perhaps that will give you some clue as to when the Prince was at Hogwarts," said Lupin, before he added: "What do Ron and Hermione think?"

"Ron's not bothered, he just wishes he'd got the book…"

"And Hermione…" Lupin questioned.

"Erm… well, she's not really been happy with me using it."

Lupin smirked slightly and chuckled. "As much as you remind me of James, God that girl reminds me of Lily sometimes."

Harry felt a blush creeping up his neck, and couldn't help but think of a scene he'd been replaying over and over in his mind in the last few days; a scene in which Cormac McClaggen did not burst through the curtain, and Harry and Hermione hadn't been interrupted, even though he couldn't be certain he hadn't imagined the whole thing to begin with.

Lupin must have noticed, because he didn't press any further.

Shortly after this, Fleur decided to imitate Celestina singing "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love," which was taken by everyone, once they had glimpsed Mrs. Weasley's expression, to be the cue to go to bed. Harry and Ron climbed all the way up to Ron's attic bedroom, where a camp bed had been added for Harry.

Ron fell asleep almost immediately, but Harry delved into his trunk and pulled out his copy of Advanced Potion Making before getting into bed. There he turned its pages, searching, until he finally found, at the front of the book, the date that it had been published. It was nearly fifty

years old. Neither his father, nor his father's friends, had been at Hogwarts fifty years ago. Feeling disappointed, Harry threw the book back into his trunk, turned off the lamp, and rolled over, thinking of werewolves and Snape, Stan Shunpike, the Half-Blood Prince and finally falling into an uneasy sleep full of creeping shadows and the cries of bitten children…

"She's got to be joking!"

Harry woke with a start to find a bulging stocking lying over the end of his bed. He put on his glasses and looked around; the tiny window was almost completely obscured with snow and, in front of it, Ron was sitting bolt upright in bed and examining what appeared to be a thick gold chain.

"What's that?" asked Harry.

"It's from Lavender," said Ron, sounding revolted. "She can't honestly think I'd wear…"

Harry looked more closely and let out a shout of laughter. Dangling from the chain in large gold letters were the words: My Sweetheart.

"Nice," he said. "Classy. You should definitely wear it in front of Fred and George."

"If you tell them," said Ron, shoving the necklace out of sight under his pillow, "I — I — I'll—"

"Stutter at me?" said Harry, grinning.

"How could she think I'd like something like that, though?" Ron demanded of thin air, looking rather shocked.

"Well, think back," said Harry. "Have you ever let it slip that you'd like to go out in public with the words 'My Sweetheart' round your neck?"

"Well, we don't really speak that much, to be honest. It's mainly just –"

"Snogging," said Harry.

"Well, yeah," said Ron. Harry's presents included a sweater with a large Golden Snitch worked onto the front, hand-knitted by Mrs. Weasley, a thick, gold and crimson scarf from Hermione, a large box of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes products from the twins and a slightly damp, mouldy- smelling package that came with a label reading: To Master, From Kreacher. Harry stared at it.

"D'you reckon this is safe to open?" he asked.

"Can't be anything dangerous, all our mail's still being searched at the Ministry," replied Ron, though he was eyeing the parcel suspiciously.

"I didn't think of giving Kreacher anything. Do people usually give their house-elves Christmas presents?" asked Harry, prodding the parcel cautiously.

"Hermione would," said Ron. "But let's wait and see what it is before you start feeling guilty."

A moment later, Harry had given a loud yell and leapt out of his camp bed; the package contained a large number of maggots. "Nice," said Ron, roaring with laughter. "Very thoughtful."

"I'd rather have them than that necklace," said Harry, which sobered Ron up at once.

Everybody was wearing new sweaters when they all sat down for Christmas lunch, everyone except Fleur – on whom, it appeared, Mrs. Weasley had not wanted to waste one – and Mrs. Weasley herself, who was sporting a brand-new midnight blue witch's hat glittering with what looked like tiny starlike diamonds, and a spectacular golden necklace.

"Fred and George gave them to me! Aren't they beautiful?"

"Well, we find we appreciate you more and more, Mum, now we're washing our own socks," said George, waving an airy hand. "Parsnips, Remus?"

"Harry, you've got a maggot in your hair," said Ginny cheerfully, leaning across the table to pick it out.

"'Ow 'orrible," said Fleur, with an affected little shudder.

"Yes, isn't it?" said Ron. "Gravy, Fleur?"

In his eagerness to help her, he knocked the gravy boat flying; Bill waved his wand and the gravy soared up in the air and returned meekly to the boat.

"You are as bad as zat Tonks," said Fleur to Ron, when she had finished kissing Bill in thanks. "She is always knocking —"

"I invited dear Tonks to come along today," said Mrs. Weasley, setting down the carrots with unnecessary force and glaring at Fleur. "But she wouldn't come. Have you spoken to her lately, Remus?"

"No, I haven't been in contact with anybody very much," said Lupin. "But Tonks has got her own family to go to, hasn't she?"

"Hmmm," said Mrs. Weasley. "I got the impression she was planning to spend Christmas alone, actually."

She gave Lupin an annoyed look, as though it was all his fault she was getting Fleur for a daughter-in-law instead of Tonks, but Harry, glancing across at Fleur, who was now feeding Bill bits of turkey off her own fork, thought that Mrs. Weasley was fighting a long-lost battle. He was, however, reminded of a question he had with regard to Tonks, and who better to ask than Lupin, the man who knew all about Patronuses?

"Tonks' Patronus has changed its form," he told him. "Snape said so anyway. I didn't know that could happen. Why would your Patronus change?"

Lupin took his time chewing his turkey and swallowing before saying slowly, "Sometimes… a great shock… an emotional upheaval…"

"It looked big, and it had four legs," said Harry, struck by a sudden thought and lowering his voice. "Hey…it couldn't be —?"

"Arthur!" said Mrs. Weasley suddenly. She had risen from her chair; her hand was pressed over her heart and she was staring out of the kitchen window. "Arthur — it's Percy!"

"What?" Mr. Weasley looked around. Everybody looked quickly at the window; Ginny stood up for a better look. There, sure enough, was Percy Weasley, striding across the snowy yard, his horn-rimmed glasses glinting in the sunlight. He was not, however, alone.

"Arthur, he's — he's with the Minister!"

Sure enough, the man Harry had seen in the Daily Prophet was following along in Percy's wake, limping slightly, his mane of graying hair and his black cloak flecked with snow. Before any of, them could say anything, before Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could do more than exchange stunned looks, the back door opened and there stood Percy.

There was a moment's painful silence. Then Percy said rather stiffly, "Merry Christmas, Mother."

"Oh, Percy!" said Mrs. Weasley, and she threw herself into his arms. Rufus Scrimgeour paused in the doorway, leaning on his walking stick and smiling as he observed this affecting scene.

"You must forgive this intrusion," he said, when Mrs. Weasley looked around at him, beaming and wiping her eyes. "Percy and I were in the vicinity — working, you know — and he couldn't resist dropping in and seeing you all."

But Percy showed no sign of wanting to greet any of the rest of the family. He stood, poker- straight and awkward-looking, and stared over everybody else's heads. Mr. Weasley, Fred, and George were all observing him, stony-faced.

"Please, come in, sit down, Minister!" fluttered Mrs. Weasley, straightening her hat. "Have a little purkey, or some tooding… I mean —"

"No, no, my dear Molly," said Scrimgeour. Harry guessed that he had checked her name with Percy before they entered the house. "I don't want to intrude, wouldn't be here at all if Percy hadn't wanted to see you all so badly…"

"Oh, Perce!" said Mrs. Weasley tearfully, reaching up to kiss him. "…We've only looked in for five minutes, so I'll have a stroll around the yard while you catch up with Percy. No, no, I assure you I don't want to butt in! Well, if anybody cared to show me your charming garden… Ah, that young man's finished, why doesn't he take a stroll with me?"

The atmosphere around the table changed perceptibly. Everybody looked from Scrimgeour to Harry. Nobody seemed to find Scrimgeour's pretence that he did not know Harry's name

convincing, or find it natural that he should be chosen to accompany the Minister around the garden when Ginny, Fleur, and George also had clean plates.

"Yeah, all right," said Harry into the silence. He was not fooled; for all Scrimgeour's talk that they had just been in the area, that Percy wanted to look up his family, this must be the real reason that they had come, so that Scrimgeour could speak to Harry alone.

"It's fine," he said quietly, as he passed Lupin, who had half risen from his chair. "Fine," he added, as Mr. Weasley opened his mouth to speak.

"Wonderful!" said Scrimgeour, standing back to let Harry pass through the door ahead of him. "We'll just take a turn around the garden, and Percy and I'll be off. Carry on, everyone!"

Harry walked across the yard toward the Weasleys' overgrown, snow-covered garden, Scrimgeour limping slightly at his side. He had, Harry knew, been Head of the Auror office; he looked tough and battle-scarred, very different from portly Fudge in his bowler hat.

"Charming," said Scrimgeour, stopping at the garden fence and looking out over the snowy lawn and the indistinguishable plants. "Charming."

Harry said nothing. He could tell that Scrimgeour was watching him.

"I've wanted to meet you for a very long time," said Scrimgeour, after a few moments. "Did you know that?"

"No," said Harry truthfully.

"Oh yes, for a very long time. But Dumbledore has been very protective of you," said Scrimgeour. "Natural, of course, natural, after what you've been through… Especially what happened at the Ministry…"

He waited for Harry to say something, but Harry did not oblige, so he went on, "I have been hoping for an occasion to talk to you ever since I gained office, but Dumbledore has — most understandably, as I say — prevented this."

Still, Harry said nothing, waiting. "The rumours that have flown around!" said Scrimgeour. "Well, of course, we both know how these stories get distorted… all these whispers of a prophecy…of you being 'the Chosen One'…"

They were getting near it now, Harry thought, the reason Scrimgeour was here.

"I assume that Dumbledore has discussed these matters with you?"

Harry deliberated, wondering whether he ought to lie or not. He looked at the little gnome prints all around the flowerbeds and the scuffed-up patch that marked the spot where Fred had caught the gnome now wearing the tutu at the top of the Christmas tree. Finally, he decided on the truth… or a bit of it.

"Yeah, we've discussed it."

"Have you, have you…" said Scrimgeour. Harry could see, out of the corner of his eye, Scrimgeour squinting at him, so he pretended to be very interested in a gnome that had just poked its head out from underneath a frozen rhododendron. "And what has Dumbledore told you, Harry?"

"Sorry, but that's between us," said Harry.

He kept his voice as pleasant as he could, and Scrimgeour's tone, too, was light and friendly as he said, "Oh, of course, if it's a question of confidences, I wouldn't want you to divulge…no, no… and in any case, does it really matter whether you are 'the Chosen One' or not?"

Harry had to mull that one over for a few seconds before responding. "I don't really know what you mean, Minister."

"Well, of course, to you it will matter enormously," said Scrimgeour with a laugh. "But to the Wizarding community at large…it's all perception, isn't it? It's what people believe that's important."

Harry said nothing. He thought he saw, dimly, where they were heading, but he was not going to help Scrimgeour get there. The gnome under the rhododendron was now digging for worms at its roots, and Harry kept his eyes fixed upon it.

"People believe you are 'the Chosen One,' you see," said Scrimgeour. "They think you quite the hero — which, of course, you are, Harry, chosen or not! How many times have you faced He- WhoMust-Not-Be-Named now? Well, anyway," he pressed on, without waiting for a reply, "the point is, you are a symbol of hope for many, Harry. The idea that there is somebody out there who might be able, who might even be destined, to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named —

well, naturally, it gives people a lift. And I can't help but feel that, once you realise this, you might consider it, well, almost a duty, to stand alongside the Ministry, and give everyone a boost."

The gnome had just managed to get hold of a worm. It was now tugging very hard on it, trying to get it out of the frozen ground. Harry was silent so long that Scrimgeour said, looking from Harry to the gnome, "Funny little chaps, aren't they? But what say you, Harry?"

"I don't exactly understand what you want," said Harry slowly. "'Stand alongside the Ministry'… What does that mean?"

"Oh, well, nothing at all onerous, I assure you," said Scrimgeour. "If you were to be seen popping in and out of the Ministry from time to time, for instance, that would give the right impression. And of course, while you were there, you would have ample opportunity to speak to Gawain Robards, my successor as Head of the Auror office. Dolores Umbridge has told me that you cherish an ambition to become an Auror. Well, that could be arranged very easily…"

Harry felt anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach; so Umbridge was still at the Ministry, was she?

"So basically," he said, as though he just wanted to clarify a few points, "you'd like to give the impression that I'm working for the Ministry?"

"It would give everyone a lift to think you were more involved, Harry," said Scrimgeour, sounding relieved that Harry had cottoned on so quickly. "'The Chosen One,' you know… It's all about giving people hope, the feeling that exciting things are happening…"

"But if I keep running in and out of the Ministry," said Harry, still endeavouring to keep his voice friendly, "won't that seem as though I approve of what the Ministry's up to?"

"Well," said Scrimgeour, frowning slightly, "well, yes, that's partly why we'd like —"

"No, I don't think that'll work," said Harry pleasantly. "You see, I don't like some of the things the Ministry's doing. Locking up Stan Shunpike, for instance."

Scrimgeour did not speak for a moment but his expression hardened instantly.

"I would not expect you to understand," he said, and he was not as successful at keeping anger out of his voice as Harry had been. "These are dangerous times, and certain measures need to be taken. You are sixteen years old —"

"Dumbledore's a lot older than sixteen, and he doesn't think Stan should be in Azkaban either," said Harry. "You're making Stan a scapegoat, just like you want to make me a mascot."

They looked at each other, long and hard. Finally Scrimgeour said, with no pretence at warmth, "I see. You prefer — like your hero, Dumbledore — to disassociate yourself from the Ministry?"

"I don't want to be used," said Harry.

"Some would say it's your duty to be used by the Ministry!"

"Yeah, and others might say it's your duty to check that people really are Death Eaters before you chuck them in prison," said Harry, his temper rising now. "You're doing what Barty Crouch did. You never get it right, you people, do you? Either we've got Fudge, pretending everything's lovely while people get murdered right under his nose, or we've got you, chucking the wrong people into jail and trying to pretend you've got 'the Chosen One' working for you!"

"So you're not 'the Chosen One'?" said Scrimgeour.

"I thought you said it didn't matter either way?" said Harry, with a bitter laugh. "Not to you anyway."

"I shouldn't have said that," said Scrimgeour quickly. "It was tactless —"

"No, it was honest," said Harry. "One of the only honest things you've said to me. You don't care whether I live or die, but you do care that I help you convince everyone you're winning the war against Voldemort. I haven't forgotten, Minister…" He raised his right fist. There, shining white on the back of his cold hand, were the scars which Dolores Umbridge had forced him to carve into his own flesh: I must not tell lies.

"I don't remember you rushing to my defence when I was trying to tell everyone Voldemort was back. The Ministry wasn't so keen to be pals last year."

They stood in silence as icy as the ground beneath their feet. The gnome had finally managed to extricate his worm and was now sucking on it happily, leaning against the bottommost branches of the rhododendron bush.

"What is Dumbledore up to?" said Scrimgeour brusquely. "Where does he go when he is absent from Hogwarts?"

"No idea," said Harry truthfully.

"And you wouldn't tell me if you knew," said Scrimgeour, "would you?"

"No, I wouldn't," said Harry. "Well, then, I shall have to see whether I can't find out by other means."

"You can try," said Harry indifferently. "But you seem cleverer than Fudge, so I'd have thought you'd have learned from his mistakes. He tried interfering at Hogwarts. You might have noticed he's not Minister anymore, but Dumbledore's still headmaster. I'd leave Dumbledore alone, if I were you."

There was a long pause. "Well, it is clear to me that he has done a very good job on you," said Scrimgeour, his eyes cold and hard behind his wire-rimmed glasses, "Dumbledore's man through and through, aren't you, Potter?"

"Yeah, I am," said Harry. "Glad we straightened that out."

And turning his back on the Minister of Magic, he strode back toward the house.

The intermittent days between Christmas and New Year's Eve passed by peacefully enough. Reports of attacks had, thankfully, dwindled, as if even Voldemort and his followers had decided to take a holiday, albeit Harry knew they were most likely just preparing for an even greater onslaught of killings in the weeks to come.

With Fred and George having returned to the shop, at least until New Year's Eve, and Bill having gone with Fleur to visit her family in France, Harry had been able to relocate from the attic down to the twins' room.

Lupin stuck around, with Dumbledore having instructed him to rest up for the week before heading back to the werwolves. However, it was approaching full moon, and Lupin's behaviour,

though he was taking his wolfsbane potion, had become more erratic. Harry had wanted to write to Hermione to inform her of the Minister's trip, but it would have to wait until the start of term, given the Ministry were checking all of their post.

New Year's Eve was set to be a quiet affair. Fred and George returned from London around five in the evening, with Mr. Weasley following them in from the Ministry shortly after. Tonks, finally, made her appearance. She seemed slightly less disheveled than she had looked when Harry last saw her in Hogsmede, but still, her usual exuberance was missing, and her and Lupin hardly spoke a word.

Mrs. Weasley cooked up pie and peas, with the twins heading out into the garden to set up some fireworks they had brought back from the shop. Ron, much to his chagrin, was tasked with the dishes. Harry offered to help, but Mrs. Weasley had shooed him away, instead asking him kindly if he would mind moving his possessions back up to the attic, since Fred and George would require their room for the night.

Having taken less than ten minutes to move his things back, Harry stopped and watched the twins from the window. They looked to be covering as much ground as possible. Checking his watch, he saw it was already past eleven. The snow had gone, but there was a bitter chill in the air.

"Your shoelace is untied," came a voice from behind him.

"Oh, hey Ginny," Harry said, turning away from the window. "Err, thanks."

Before he could react, she bent down and tied it for him. Harry suddenly felt rather claustrophobic. God forbid Mr. Weasley or Ron walked up…

"When are you going to tell her?"

Ginny's question snapped him out of his mental fluster.

"Erm… What?" he asked.

"I heard you last night," she replied as she stood to face him. "I heard you… calling her name."

Harry gulped. He'd had a rough night, with the now familiar nightmare of Hermione being attacked in the Department of Mysteries returning once more, but this time, it was not Dolohov

who attacked her, but a werewolf. He had awoken, as usual, in a cold sweat, his covers drenched. He didn't realise he had been speaking – or shouting – in his sleep, though.

"Err…"

Ginny smiled sympathetically.

"Don't worry. I've not heard anything before. It's just, I was up getting some water and had to pass the twins' room. I heard noises so I went to the door and… well, you were calling out Hermione's name… crying, really. I would have woken you up but I didn't want to embarrass–"

"Don't worry," Harry cut her off, sitting down on the bottom step. "It's fine, honestly. It was just a dream I… I have it quite a lot."

Ginny sat next to him.

"It's about that night at the Ministry, isn't it."

Harry nodded, fixing his eyes to the window.

"I have them too, sometimes," Ginny said, as if confessing to a deep, dark secret. "And I know Hermione does, too. She's told–"

"She does?" Asked Harry, turning his head back to her quickly, and he knew the guilt he felt inside would almost certainly be reflected in his expression. Ginny smiled again, though it was one of a sad, sombre understanding.

"Harry… You should tell her."

"What, about my dreams? I don't want to worry –"

"No, about your feelings."

Harry felt the heat rising under his collar.

"My... what?"

Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Oh, come off it Harry..."

"Ginny… We're just friends. I… I have nightmares about that night all of the time… I –"

"Harry," Ginny said, almost sighing. "It's not hearing you dreaming that's making me saying this," at his confused look, she continued, "well, it kind of is. But what I mean is I've noticed you two this year…"

Harry internally shook his head. He thought he'd managed to hide his feelings pretty well. And Hermione had thought that it was Ginny he fancied, anyway.

"It's not like it isn't obvious," Ginny continued. "Last year, you two, organising those D.A. lessons. Cho could barely hide how jealous she was. Not ever wonder why she made her move?"

Harry didn't say anything, instead focusing intently on his shoelaces.

"And at the Ministry… Harry… You two were all over each other. Merlin, if we hadn't all been about to die I'd have told you to get a room!"

Harry couldn't help but smile. He looked up at Ginny.

"I –"

"What? Fancy Hermione? Luurrve Hermione? Yeh, I know. And I'm pretty sure she fancies you, too."

"Erm…"

"Remember when I couldn't even talk to you? Couldn't even handle being in the same room as you?" Ginny said with a chuckle.

"Yeh," Harry said, an altogether different blush now creeping up his cheeks.

"Well, it was Hermione who told me to just, you know, play it cool. Chill out a bit. And eventually you'd either notice me or… well, y'know, I'd maybe grow out of it."

Harry started at her blankly. Ginny smiled.

"What I'm saying… is she was right."

"Smart girl, that Hermione," Harry muttered.

"Yeh, of course. Because it was just a childhood crush, really, and imagine how awkward it would always have been. And now I'm glad we're just friends –"

"Gin, you're like my family, I –"

"I know that," Ginny said. "I just wanted to say, Hermione helped me. And I'm trying to help you, too."

Harry was going to respond, going to say thank you, but tell her that it was impossible, because Hermione liked Ron and she thought he fancied Ginny.

But he couldn't because at that moment a bright orange light flashed outside and the window shattered.

Harry and Ginny stood. A raging ring of fire had spread around the Burrow's garden. A dark shape swirled through the crisp air, before materialising down on the ground.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Harry scampered down the stairs and, before any of Lupin, Tonks, Arthur or Molly – who were stood at the door – could react, had forced himself through and was charging at the Death Eater.

Bellatrix cackled, twisting away and sprinting off into the fields. Harry sped up, leaping through a gap in the fire.

"Harry!" He heard Lupin shout, but he did not stop, instead focusing fully on Belatrix's taunts.

"I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!"

The crops, magically enforced to survive the cold, were thick and tall. He finally stopped, hardly able to see a yard in front of him.

"I killed Sirius Black! And I'll get the rest, Potter! The muggle-lovers, the half-breeds, the mud blood!"

Harry screamed. "COME AND FACE ME YOU BITCH!"

Somewhere behind him, he heard the rustle of crops, and footsteps hitting water. He looked down – his shoes were caked in mud and he was standing on what appeared to be marshland. He heard the noise again. Closer, this time.

And then he heard another noise. A deep growl.

"Stupefy!" Harry shouted, just as a dark figure bundled towards him.

Harry's spell seemed to do little to whatever that thing was, but bought him time. He tore back into the clearing, onto a little island. Noises were coming from all around him, now. He was surrounded, he knew that much, though he could not see anything in the crops.

"Harry!" Lupin was close.

Suddenly, a red bolt flew out from one side. "Protego!" Harry yelled, and the shield charm did its job.

Another curse came flying at him from behind, but he ducked just in time.

"Stupefy!" He heard Lupin yell, and knew back-up had arrived. Harry stood, flinging up another shield charm just as Lupin and Tonks arrived on the island. Mr. Weasley was hot on their heels, as he sent a jinx flying into the crops.

They gathered on the island, backs against each other, but no more hexes came.

A high-pitched cackle came from out of the crops, as Bellatrix stepped forward. She stared at them, as a hyena would eyeing up its prey. More figures stepped out from the crops around her.

"Confringo!" Yelled Lupin, and the ground in front of Bellatrix exploded. Lupin grabbed Harry and hurled him forward, Tonks sending several hexes out into the rest of the Death Eaters as Mr. Weasley blocked a stunning curse sent his way.

Firing off blasting curse and stunning spells in every direction, Harry sprinted, leading the way back through the crops; the glowing light of the fire going up around the burrow guiding him home.

"They've apparated!" He heard Lupin shout from behind, but he kept on going, eventually bundling his way out of the other side at break neck speed. The fire had died down considerably, but was still raging.

Molly and the twins were dousing it as best they could, while Ginny and Ron were just doing enough to prevent it spreading to the house.

Harry turned back, but Lupin grabbed hold of him.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?"

"SHE KILLED SIRIUS!"

"AND SHE WOULD HAVE GOT YOU, TOO!" Lupin pushed Harry away from him, a manic look in his eyes. Harry gazed up; the moon was very nearly full, and would be by tomorrow.

Tonks ran up to Lupin. "Remus… It's okay… We're alive."

Mr. Weasley, who was sporting a cut on his cheek, had joined the rest in tackling the fire. Harry and Lupin starred at each other for a second longer, before they too went to help.

Chapter 13: 13: Chapter Seventeen – A Sluggish Memory [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Late in the afternoon a few days after New Year, Harry, Ron, and Ginny lined up beside the kitchen fire to return to Hogwarts. The Ministry had arranged this one-off connection to the Floo Network to return students quickly and safely to the school. Only Mrs. Weasley was there to say good-bye, as Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, Bill, and Fleur were all at work.

After the events of a few nights ago, the Ministry had set up magical reinforcements around the Burrow's property, while also obliviating the memories of several muggles who had sworn to have seen a fire raging in the countryside. It had been decided that it was merely a show of force from the Death Eaters, albeit an extremely worrying one, but the Burrow would at least be safe for the time being.

Mrs. Weasley dissolved into tears at the moment of parting. Admittedly, it took very little to set her off lately; she had been crying on and off ever since Percy had stormed from the house on Christmas Day with his glasses splattered with mashed parsnip, for which Fred, George, and Ginny all claimed credit, and the small matter of her home being attacked had not gone a long way towards helping that. However, it had been agreed the safest place for Harry, Ron and Ginny to be was Hogwarts.

"Don't cry, Mum," said Ginny, patting her on the back as Mrs. Weasley sobbed into her shoulder. "It's okay…"

"Yeah, don't worry about us," said Ron, permitting his mother to plant a very wet kiss on his cheek.

Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever as she enfolded Harry in her arms. "Promise me you'll look after yourself…Stay out of trouble…"

"I always do, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry. "I like a quiet life, you know me."

She gave a watery chuckle and stood back. "Be good, then, all of you…"

Harry stepped into the emerald fire and shouted "Hogwarts!" He had one last fleeting view of the Weasleys' kitchen and Mrs. Weasley's tearful face before the flames engulfed him; spinning very fast, he caught blurred glimpses of other Wizarding rooms, which were whipped out of sight before he could get a proper look; then he was slowing down, finally stopping squarely in

the fireplace in Professor McGonagall's office. She barely glanced up from her work as he clambered out over the grate.

"Evening, Potter. Try not to get too much ash on the carpet."

"No, Professor." Harry straightened his glasses and flattened his hair as Ron came spinning into view.

When Ginny had arrived, all three of them trooped out of McGonagall's office and off toward Gryffindor Tower. Harry glanced out of the corridor windows as they passed; the sun was already sinking over grounds carpeted in much deeper snow than had lain over the Burrow garden over Christmas. In the distance, he could see Hagrid feeding Buckbeak in front of his cabin.

"Baubles," said Ron confidently, when they reached the Fat Lady, who was looking rather paler than usual and winced at his loud voice.

"No," she said.

"What d'you mean, 'no'?

"There is a new password," she said. "And please don't shout."

"But we've been away, how're we supposed to —?"

"HARRY FUCKING POTTER!"

Harry turned, shocked. Hermione was hurrying towards them, red-faced, tears clearly not long gone, though it was equally as clear that they had been replaced by anger. Before he could move, she was upon him, swinging out her arms and landing thumping punches.

"Hermione!" Ron and Ginny both yelled together, but Hermione cut them off with a glare. Stepping back, she stared at Harry.

"Come with me. Now!"

She grabbed him by the arm and marched him down the corridor, leaving Ron and Ginny in a state of shock.

Hermione flung open a door, pushing Harry, who was still rubbing a sore spot on the back of his neck where she'd landed a particularly fierce punch, into an empty classroom. She slammed the door shut, locking it with an aggressive flick of her wand.

"Hermione –"

"Don't you dare Hermione me!" She said through clenched teeth, pointing a finger right at him with daggers in her eyes, which were darker than he had ever seen them, but starting to glisten.

"Herm – I, what's wrong?"

And with that, Hermione broke down. She threw herself at him again, but this time her arms wrapped around him, and she buried her face against his chest, gripping him tightly.

"Y-you…" she began to stammer. "Y-You c-could've… Could've died!" She managed to sputter out, as her tears began falling freely. "You idiot. You stupid–"

And now she was thumping him again, hitting his chest, but he still had his arms wrapped around her. After a few seconds she stopped, slumping against him, her face now resting in the crook of his neck, her tears warm on his bare skin.

"I – I'm sorry…" was all he could manage. "I… wasn't thinking."

"You c-could've… Oh, Harry!"

"I know, I know. I –"

"What? You were just going to go and d-die! Just going to leave me!"

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Harry's stomach did one of its trademark flips at her words.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Hermione," he whispered into her hair, and he meant it.

They stood for a moment, Harry wasn't sure how long, swaying gently, Hermione's quiet sobs eventually subsiding.

"Dumbledore told me," she said, with barely a whisper. "I got back a couple of hours ago. I went down to visit Hagrid and Buckbeak, and then he came and told us both."

Harry didn't respond, merely held her tighter.

"He… H-He said th-that there'd been an att-attack and…" She was crying again. "And that you'd run off and I thoug –"

"But Dumbledore told you we were okay, yeh?"

"He-he… yes, I-I just… You're such a…"

"Prat?" Harry offered.

Hermione sniffed, but with a slight laugh, said, "something like that, yeh."

Eventually, they peeled apart. Hermione managed to straighten her frizzled hair somewhat.

"We're all fine," Harry assured her, and deciding this was no time to be concerned with embarrassing himself, he reached out what he hoped was a reassuring hand and placed it against her cheek, moving his thumb slowly across her soft, slightly chapped skin. "I promise. Me, Ginny, Ron, the rest of the Weasleys, all good."

"Promise you'll never do anything like that again…" Hermione whispered, and she actually raised her hand to hold the one which he had cupped against her cheek.

"I promise."

She smiled, sniffed one more time and then wiped her eyes. "Oh, I almost forgot. I've got something for you."

She rummaged in her pocket for a moment, then pulled out a scroll of parchment with Dumbledore's writing on it. "Dumbledore gave me this."

"Great," said Harry eagerly, keen for a change of subject. Unrolling it at once, he discovered that his next lesson with Dumbledore was scheduled for the following night. "I've got loads of other things to tell him — and you, come on."

Ron and Ginny were nowhere in sight when they reached the Fat Lady.

"Abstinence," said Hermione, who had managed to dry her eyes, though they were still red and puffy.

"Precisely," said the Fat Lady in a feeble voice, and swung forward to reveal the portrait hole.

"What's up with her?" asked Harry, eager to try and get Hermione thinking about something else.

"Overindulged over Christmas, apparently. She and her friend Violet drank their way through all the wine in that picture of drunk monks down by the Charms corridor," said Hermione, rolling her eyes as she led the way into the packed common room.

Ron and Ginny had indeed been let in, and both approached as Harry and Hermione walked through, but at that moment there was a loud squeal of "Won-Won!" from the top of the stairs and within what felt like milliseconds Lavender Brown flung herself into Ron's arms.

Several onlookers sniggered; Hermione – who Harry had noticed had not once mentioned Ron so far – gave a tinkling laugh and said, "There's a table over here, let's sit down. Ginny, I'm so glad you're okay. Are you coming to sit with us?" as she and Ginny embraced.

"No, thanks, I said I'd meet Dean," Ginny said, though Harry could not help noticing that she cast a quick glance at both him and Hermione, with her eyebrows slightly raised. He tried not to blush.

Leaving Ron and Lavender locked in a kind of vertical wrestling match, Hermione led Harry to an empty table.

"So how was your Christmas?" Harry asked, trying to sound casual.

"Oh, fine," she shrugged. "Nothing special. How was it at Won-Won's, bar the bit about nearly getting yourself killed?"

Harry winced. "I'll tell you in a second. Look, Hermione, can't you —"

"No, I can't," she said flatly. "So don't even ask."

"I thought maybe, you know, over Christmas —"

"It was the Fat Lady who drank a vat of five-hundred-year-old wine, Harry, not me. I'm glad he's safe but, past that, no, he was being a prat and still hasn't apologised. So what was this important news you wanted to tell me?"

She looked too fierce to argue with at that moment and, wanting to avoid any more punches, Harry dropped the subject of Ron and recounted all that he had overheard between Malfoy and Snape. When he had finished, Hermione sat in thought for a moment and then said, "Don't you think —?"

"— he was pretending to offer help so that he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he's doing?"

"Well, yes," said Hermione.

"Ron's dad and Lupin thought so," Harry said grudgingly. "But this definitely proves Malfoy's planning something, you can't deny that."

"No, I can't," she answered slowly.

"And he's acting on Voldemort's orders, just like I said!"

"Hmm… did either of them actually mention Voldemort's name?" Harry frowned, trying to remember. "I'm not sure… Snape definitely said 'your master,' and who else would that be?"

"I don't know," said Hermione, biting her lip. "Maybe his father?" She stared across the room, apparently lost in thought, not even noticing Lavender tickling Ron.

"How's Lupin?" She said after a moment.

"Not great," said Harry, and he told her all about Lupin's mission among the werewolves and the difficulties he was facing. "Have you heard of this Fenrir Greyback?"

"Yes, I have!" said Hermione, sounding startled. "And so have you, Harry!"

"When, History of Magic? You know full well I never listened…"

"No, no, not History of Magic — Malfoy threatened Borgin with him!" said Hermione. "Back in Knockturn Alley, don't you remember? He told Borgin that Greyback was an old family friend and that he'd be checking up on Borgin's progress!"

Harry gaped at her. "I forgot! But this proves Malfoy's a Death Eater, how else could he be in contact with Greyback and telling him what to do?"

"It is pretty suspicious," breathed Hermione. "Unless…"

"Oh, come on," said Harry in exasperation, "you can't get around this one!"

"Well… I accept it's strange. I suppose there is the possibility it was an empty threat."

"You're unbelievable, you are," said Harry, shaking his head. "We'll see who's right…You'll be eating your words, Hermione, just like the Ministry. Oh yeah, I had a row with Rufus Scrimgeour as well…"

The rest of the evening passed with both of them abusing the Minister of Magic, for Hermione, like Ron, thought that after all the Ministry had put Harry through the previous year, they had a great deal of nerve asking him for help now.

"What was all that about?" Asked Ron as Harry climbed into bed. Hermione had hugged Harry goodnight and headed up about ten minutes ago; Harry hadn't bothered to wait for Ron, given Lavender had hardly let him move a yard away from her all evening.

"All what about?"

"Er…. I know Hermione can be weird, mate. But she's never come out swinging before!"

"Oh," said Harry. "Well, she… err… found out about the attack the other night," at Ron's bemused look, he added: "And found out about me chasing after Bellatrix."

"Oh," said Ron, but Harry could tell his best friend was thinking exactly what he had been pondering all evening. Just why had she reacted that way, and why hadn't she even asked if Ron was okay?

The new term started the next morning with a pleasant surprise for the sixth years: a large sign had been pinned to the common room notice boards overnight.

APPARITION LESSONS

If you are seventeen years of age, or will turn seventeen on or before the 31st August this year, you are eligible for a twelve-week course of Apparition Lessons from a Ministry of Magic Apparition instructor. Please sign below if you would like to participate. Cost: 12 Galleons.

Harry and Ron joined the crowd that was jostling around the notice and taking it in turns to write their names at the bottom.

Ron was just taking out his quill to sign after Hermione when Lavender crept up behind him, slipped her hands over his eyes, and trilled, "Guess who, WonWon?"

Harry turned to see Hermione stalking off; he caught up with her, having no wish to stay behind with Ron and Lavender, but to his surprise, Ron caught up with them only a little way beyond the portrait hole, his ears bright red and his expression disgruntled. Without a word, Hermione sped up to walk with Neville.

"So — apparition," said Ron, his tone making it perfectly plain that Harry, whose gaze had followed Hermione, was not to mention what had just happened. "Should be a laugh, eh?"

"I dunno," said Harry, trying not to think about Hermione's hips, which were swaying teasingly, her robes seemingly fitting tighter around her body than they had done before. "Maybe it's better when you do it yourself, I didn't enjoy it much when Dumbledore took me along for the ride."

"I forgot you'd already done it…I'd better pass my test first time," said Ron, looking anxious. "Fred and George did."

"Charlie failed, though, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but Charlie's bigger than me"— Ron held his arms out from his body as though he was a gorilla — "so Fred and George didn't go on about it much…not to his face anyway…"

"When can we take the actual test?"

"As soon as we turn seventeen."

"Yeah, but you wouldn't be able to apparate in here, not in the castle…"

"Not the point, is it? Everyone would know I could apparate if I wanted."

Ron was not the only one to be excited at the prospect of apparition. All that day there was much talk about the forthcoming, lessons; a great deal of store was set by being able to vanish and reappear at will.

"How cool will it be when we can just —" Seamus clicked his ringers to indicate disappearance. "Me cousin Fergus does it just to annoy me, you wait till I can do it back…He'll never have another peaceful moment…"

Lost in visions of this happy prospect, he flicked his wand a little too enthusiastically, so that instead of producing the fountain of pure water that was the object of today's Charms lesson, he let out a hose-like jet that ricocheted off the ceiling and knocked Professor Flitwick flat on his face.

"Harry's already apparated," Ron told a slightly abashed Seamus, after Professor Flitwick had dried himself off with a wave of his wand and set Seamus lines: "I am a wizard, not a baboon brandishing a stick."

"Dum — er — someone took him. Side-along-apparition, you know."

"Whoa!" whispered Seamus, and he, Dean, and Neville put their heads a little closer to hear what apparition felt like. For the rest of the day, Harry was besieged with requests from the other sixth years to describe the sensation of apparition. All of them seemed awed, rather than put off, when he told them how uncomfortable it was, and he was still answering detailed questions at ten to eight that evening, when he was forced to lie and say that he needed to return a book to the library, so as to escape in time for his lesson with Dumbledore.

The lamps in Dumbledore's office were lit, the portraits of previous headmasters were snoring gently in their frames, and the Pen-sieve was ready upon the desk once more. Dumbledore's hands lay on either side of it, the right one as blackened and burnt-looking as ever. It did not seem to have healed at all and Harry wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time, what had caused such a distinctive injury, but did not ask; Dumbledore had said that he would know eventually and there was, in any case, another subject he wanted to discuss. But before Harry could say anything about Snape and Malfoy, Dumbledore, with a slight twinkle in his eye, spoke.

"I trust Miss Granger saw to it that you will not be letting your rage get the better of you again, Harry?"

"Erm… yes, sir." Then Harry thought for a second. "Sir, did you ask–"

Dumbledore chuckled slightly. "No, Harry, I did not ask Miss Granger to do anything. But I did imagine she would be able to talk some sense into you." His tone was friendly, but got across the point.

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry said quietly.

Dumbledore smiled. "It is quite alright, Harry. It is not your fault the Death Eaters attacked. But remember, keeping your wits – and your composure – is crucial."

Harry nodded.

"I also hear that you met the Minister of Magic over Christmas?"

"Yes," said Harry. "He's not very happy with me."

"No," sighed Dumbledore. "He is not very happy with me either. We must try not to sink beneath our anguish, Harry, but battle on." Harry grinned.

"He wanted me to tell the Wizarding community that the Ministry's doing a wonderful job."

Dumbledore smiled. "It was Fudge's idea originally, you know. During his last days in office, when he was trying desperately to cling to his post, he sought a meeting with you, hoping that you would give him your support —"

"After everything Fudge did last year?" said Harry angrily. "After Umbridge?"

"I told Cornelius there was no chance of it, but the idea did not die when he left office. Within hours of Scrimgeour's appointment we met and he demanded that I arrange a meeting with you —"

"So that's why you argued!" Harry blurted out. "It was in the Daily Prophet"

"The Prophet is bound to report the truth occasionally," said Dumbledore, "if only accidentally. Yes, that was why we argued. Well, it appears that Rufus found a way to corner you at last."

"He accused me of being 'Dumbledore's man through and through.'"

"How very rude of him."

"I told him I was."

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Behind Harry, Fawkes the phoenix let out a low, soft, musical cry. To Harry's intense embarrassment, he suddenly realised that Dumbledore's bright blue eyes looked rather watery, and stared hastily at his own knees. When Dumbledore spoke, however, his voice was quite steady. "I am very touched, Harry."

"Scrimgeour wanted to know where you go when you're not at Hogwarts," said Harry, still looking fixedly at his knees.

"Yes, he is very nosy about that," said Dumbledore, now sounding cheerful, and Harry thought it safe to look up again. "He has even attempted to have me followed. Amusing, really. He set Dawlish to tail me. It wasn't kind. I have already been forced to jinx Dawlish once; I did it again with the greatest regret."

"So they still don't know where you go?" asked Harry, hoping for more information on this intriguing subject, but Dumbledore merely smiled over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "No, they don't, and the time is not quite right for you to know either. Now, I suggest we press on, unless there's anything else —?"

"There is, actually, sir," said Harry. "It's about Malfoy and Snape."

"Professor Snape, Harry."

"Yes, sir. I overheard them during Professor Slughorns party…well, I followed them, actually…" Dumbledore listened to Harry's story with an impassive face. When Harry had finished he did not speak for a few moments, then said, "Thank you for telling me this, Harry, but I suggest that you put it out of your mind. I do not think that it is of great importance."

"Not of great importance?" repeated Harry incredulously. "Professor, did you understand –?"

"Yes, Harry, blessed as I am with extraordinary brainpower, I understood everything you told me," said Dumbledore, a little sharply. "I think you might even consider the possibility that I understood more than you did. Again, I am glad that you have confided in me, but let me reassure you that you have not told me anything that causes me disquiet."

Harry sat in seething silence, glaring at Dumbledore. What was going on? Did this mean that Dumbledore had indeed ordered Snape to find out what Malfoy was doing, in which case he had already heard everything Harry had just told him from Snape? Or was he really worried by what he had heard, but pretending not to be?

"So, sir," said Harry, in what he hoped was a polite, calm voice, "you definitely still trust—?"

"I have been tolerant enough to answer that question already," said Dumbledore, but he did not sound very tolerant anymore. "My answer has not changed."

"I should think not," said a snide voice; Phineas Nigellus was evidently only pretending to be asleep. Dumbledore ignored him.

"And now, Harry, I must insist that we press on. I have more important things to discuss with you this evening."

Harry sat there feeling mutinous. How would it be if he refused to permit the change of subject, if he insisted upon arguing the case against Malfoy? As though he had read Harry's mind, Dumbledore shook his head. "Ah, Harry, how often this happens, even between the best of friends! Each of us believes that what he has to say is much more important than anything the other might have to contribute!"

"I don't think what you've got to say is unimportant, sir," said Harry stiffly.

"Well, you are quite right, because it is not," said Dumbledore briskly. "I have two more memories to show you this evening, both obtained with enormous difficulty, and the second of them is, I think, the most important I have collected."

Harry did not say anything to this; he still felt angry at the reception his confidences had received, but could not see what was to be gained by arguing further. "So," said Dumbledore, in a ringing voice, "we meet this evening to continue the tale of Tom Riddle, whom we left last lesson poised on the threshold of his years at Hogwarts. You will remember how excited he was to hear that he was a wizard, that he refused my company on a trip to Diagon Alley, and that I, in turn, warned him against continued thievery when he arrived at school.

"Well, the start of the school year arrived and with it came Tom Riddle, a quiet boy in his second-hand robes, who lined up with the other first years to be sorted. He was placed in Slytherin House almost the moment that the Sorting Hat touched his head," continued Dumbledore, waving his blackened hand toward the shelf over his head where the Sorting Hat sat, ancient and unmoving. "How soon Riddle learned that the famous founder of the House could talk to snakes, I do not know — perhaps that very evening. The knowledge can only have excited him and increased his sense of self-importance.

"However, if he was frightening or impressing fellow Slytherins with displays of Parseltongue in their common room, no hint of it reached the staff. He showed no sign of outward arrogance or aggression at all. As an unusually talented and very good-looking orphan, he naturally drew attention and sympathy from the staff almost from the moment of his arrival. He seemed polite, quiet, and thirsty for knowledge. Nearly all were most favourably impressed by him."

"Didn't you tell them, sir, what he'd been like when you met him at the orphanage?" asked Harry.

"No, I did not. Though he had shown no hint of remorse, it was possible that he felt sorry for how he had behaved before and was resolved to turn over a fresh leaf. I chose to give him that chance." Dumbledore paused and looked inquiringly at Harry, who had opened his mouth to speak. Here, again, was Dumbledore's tendency to trust people in spite of overwhelming evidence that they did not deserve it! But then Harry remembered something…

"But you didn't really trust him, sir, did you? He told me…the Riddle who came out of that diary said, 'Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did.'"

"Let us say that I did not take it for granted that he was trustworthy," said Dumbledore. "I had, as I have already indicated, resolved to keep a close eye upon him, and so I did. I cannot pretend that I gleaned a great deal from my observations at first. He was very guarded with me; he felt, I am sure, that in the thrill of discovering his true identity he had told me a little too much. He was careful never to reveal as much again, but he could not take back what he had let slip in his excitement, nor what Mrs. Cole had confided in me. However, he had the sense never to try and charm me as he charmed so many of my colleagues.

"As he moved up the school, he gathered about him a group of dedicated friends; I call them that, for want of a better term, although as I have already indicated, Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any of them. This group had a kind of dark glamour within the castle. They were a motley collection; a mixture of the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty. In other words, they were the forerunners of the Death Eaters, and indeed some of them became the first Death Eaters after leaving Hogwarts.

"Rigidly controlled by Riddle, they were never detected in open wrongdoing, although their seven years at Hogwarts were marked by a number of nasty incidents to which they were never satisfactorily linked, the most serious of which was, of course, the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, which resulted in the death of a girl. As you know, Hagrid was wrongly accused of that crime.

"I have not been able to find many memories of Riddle at Hogwarts," said Dumbledore, placing his withered hand on the Pensieve. "Few who knew him then are prepared to talk about him; they are too terrified. What I know, I found out after he had left Hogwarts, after much painstaking effort, after tracing those few who could be tricked into speaking, after searching old records and questioning Muggle and wizard witnesses alike.

"Those whom I could persuade to talk told me that Riddle was obsessed with his parentage. This is understandable, of course; he had grown up in an orphanage and naturally wished to know how he came to be there. It seems that he searched in vain for some trace of Tom Riddle senior on the shields in the trophy room, on the lists of prefects in the old school records, even in the books of Wizarding history. Finally he was forced to accept that his father had never set foot in Hogwarts. I believe that it was then that he dropped the name forever, assumed the identity of Lord Voldemort, and began his investigations into his previously despised mother's family — the woman whom, you will remember, he had thought could not be a witch if she had succumbed to the shameful human weakness of death.

"All he had to go upon was the single name 'Marvolo,' which he knew from those who ran the orphanage had been his mother's father's name. Finally, after painstaking research, through old books of Wizarding families, he discovered the existence of Slytherin's surviving line. In the summer of his sixteenth year, he left the orphanage to which he returned annually and set off to find his Gaunt relatives. And now, Harry, if you will stand…"

Dumbledore rose, and Harry saw that he was again holding a small crystal bottle filled with swirling, pearly memory. "I was very lucky to collect this," he said, as he poured the gleaming mass into the Pensieve. "As you will understand when we have experienced it. Shall we?"

"Well, that's that," said Dumbledore placidly beside Harry. "Time to go."

And Harry's feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, back onto the rug in front of Dumbledore's desk.

"That's all there is?" said Harry blankly.

Dumbledore had said that this was the most important memory of all, but he could not see what was so significant about it. Admittedly the fog, and the fact that nobody seemed to have noticed it, was odd, but other than that nothing seemed to have happened except that Voldemort had asked a question and failed to get an answer.

"As you might have noticed," said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk, "that memory has been tampered with."

"Tampered with?" repeated Harry, sitting back down too.

"Certainly," said Dumbledore. "Professor Slughorn has meddled with his own recollections."

"But why would he do that?"

"Because, I think, he is ashamed of what he remembers," said Dumbledore. "He has tried to rework the memory to show himself in a better light, obliterating those parts which he does not

wish me to see. It is, as you will have noticed, very crudely done, and that is all to the good, for it shows that the true memory is still there beneath the alterations.

"And so, for the first time, I am giving you homework, Harry. It will be your job to persuade Professor Slughorn to divulge the real memory, which will undoubtedly be our most crucial piece of information of all."

Harry stared at him.

"So… this is why you asked me to get closer to him?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Indeed it is."

"But surely, sir," he said, keeping his voice as respectful as possible, "you don't need me — you could use Legilimency…or Veritaserum…"

"Professor Slughorn is an extremely able wizard who will be expecting both," said Dumbledore. "He is much more accomplished at Occlumency than poor Morfin Gaunt, and I would be astonished if he has not carried an antidote to Veritaserum with him ever since I coerced him into giving me this travesty of a recollection.

"No, I think it would be foolish to attempt to wrest the truth from Professor Slughorn by force, and might do much more harm than good; I do not wish him to leave Hogwarts. However, he has his weaknesses like the rest of us, and I believe that you are the one person who might be able to penetrate his defences. It is most important that we secure the true memory, Harry… How important, we will only know when we have seen the real thing. I would urge you to trust your instincts in this matter, as well as another matter that I believe is currently occupying quite a lot of your mental and emotional energy."

Dumbledore smiled knowingly, his eyes peering over the frame of his spectacles. "So, good luck…and good night."

A little taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, and somewhat puzzled by Dumbledore's second comment, Harry got to his feet quickly.

"Good night, sir."

As he closed the study door behind him, he distinctly heard Phineas Nigellus say, "I can't see why the boy should be able to do it better than you, Dumbledore."

"I wouldn't expect you to, Phineas," replied Dumbledore, and Fawkes gave another low, musical cry.

Chapter 14: 14: Chapter Eighteen– Birthday Surprises [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

The next day Harry confided in both Ron and Hermione the task that Dumbledore had set him, though separately, for Hermione still refused to remain in Ron's presence longer than it took to give him a contemptuous look.

Ron thought that Harry was unlikely to have any trouble with Slughorn at all. "He loves you," he said over breakfast, waving an airy forkful of fried egg. "Won't refuse you anything, will he? Not his little Potions Prince. Just hang back after class this afternoon and ask him."

Hermione, however, took a gloomier view.

"He must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn't get it out of him," she said in a low voice, as they huddled together in the deserted, snowy courtyard at break. "Horcruxes…Horcruxes… I've never even heard of them…"

"You haven't?" Harry was disappointed; he had hoped that Hermione might have been able to give him a clue as to what Horcruxes were.

"They must be really advanced dark magic, or why would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I think it's going to be difficult to get the information, Harry, you'll have to be very careful about how you approach Slughorn. We'll need to think out a strategy…"

"Ron reckons I should just hang back after Potions this afternoon…" seeing the look on Hermione's face, Harry regretted his comment immediately.

"Oh, well, if Won-Won thinks that, you'd better do it," she said, flaring up at once. "After all, when has Won-Won's judgement ever been faulty?"

And with that, she stormed away, leaving Harry alone and ankle-deep in snow.

Potions lessons were uncomfortable enough these days, seeing as Harry, Ron and Hermione had to share a desk. Today, Hermione moved her cauldron around the table so that she was close to Ernie, and ignored both Harry and Ron completely. Harry had beaten himself up all afternoon about it. The last thing he wanted was Hermione to be angry with him, too.

"What've you done?" Ron muttered to Harry, looking at Hermione's haughty profile.

But before Harry could answer, Slughorn was calling for silence from the front of the room.

"Settle down, settle down, please! Quickly, now, lots of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott's Third Law… who can tell me —? But Miss Granger can, of course!"

Hermione recited at top speed: "Golpalott's-Third-Law-states-that-the-antidote-for-a-blended- poison-will-be-equal-to-more-than-the-sum-of-the-antidotes-for-each-of-the-separate- components."

Almost involuntarily, Harry flashed a smile at Hermione's quickfire answer, but she didn't acknowledge it.

"Precisely!" beamed Slughorn. "Ten points for Gryffindor! Now, if we accept Golpalott's Third Law as true…"

Harry was going to have to take Slughorn's word for it that Golpalott's Third Law was true, because he had not understood any of it. Nobody apart from Hermione seemed to be following what Slughorn said next, either. "…which means, of course, that assuming we have achieved correct identification of the potion's ingredients by Scarpin's Revelaspell, our primary aim is not the relatively simple one of selecting antidotes to those ingredients in and of themselves, but to find that added component which will, by an almost alchemical process, transform these disparate elements —"

Ron was sitting beside Harry with his mouth half-open, doodling absently on his new copy of Advanced Potion Making. He kept forgetting that he could no longer rely on Hermione to help him out of trouble when he failed to grasp what was going on.

"…and so," finished Slughorn, "I want each of you to come and take one of these phials from my desk. You are to create an antidote for the poison within it before the end of the lesson. Good luck, and don't forget your protective gloves!"

Hermione had left her stool and was halfway towards Siughorn's desk before the rest of the class had realised it was time to move, and by the time Harry, Ron and Ernie returned to the table, she had already tipped the contents of her phial into her cauldron and was kindling a fire underneath it.

"It's a shame that the Prince won't be able to help you much with this, Harry," she said brightly as she straightened up. "You have to understand the principles involved this time. No short cuts or cheats!"

Annoyed, Harry uncorked the poison he had taken from Slughorn's desk, which was a garish shade of pink, tipped it into his cauldron and lit a fire underneath it. He did not have the faintest idea what he was supposed to do next. He glanced at Ron, who was now standing there looking rather gormless, having copied everything Harry had done.

"You sure the Prince hasn't got any tips?" Ron muttered to Harry.

Harry pulled out his trusty copy of Advanced Potion Making and turned to the chapter on Antidotes. There was Golpalott's Third Law, stated word for word as Hermione had recited it, but not a single illuminating note in the Prince's hand to explain what it meant. Apparently the Prince, like Hermione, had had no difficulty understanding it.

"Nothing," said Harry gloomily. Hermione was now waving her wand enthusiastically over her cauldron. Unfortunately, they could not copy the spell she was doing because she was now so good at non-verbal incantations that she did not need to say the words aloud. Ernie Macmillan, however, was muttering, "Specialis revelio!" over his cauldron, which sounded impressive, so Harry and Ron hastened to imitate him.

It took Harry only five minutes to realise that his reputation as the best potion-maker in the class was crashing around his ears. Slughorn had peered hopefully into his cauldron on his first circuit of the dungeon, preparing to exclaim in delight as he usually did, and instead had withdrawn his head hastily, coughing, as the smell of bad eggs overwhelmed him.

Hermione, meanwhile, was now decanting the mysteriously separated ingredients of her poison into ten different crystal phials. More to avoid watching this irritating sight than anything else, Harry bent over the Half-Blood Prince's book and turned a few pages with unnecessary force.

And there it was, scrawled right across a long list of antidotes.

Just shove a bezoar down their throats.

Harry stared at these words for a moment. Hadn't he once, long ago, heard of bezoars? Hadn't Snape mentioned them in their first ever Potions lesson? "A stone taken from the stomach of a goat, which will protect from most poisons."

It was not an answer to the Golpalott problem, and had Snape still been their teacher, Harry would not have dared do it, but this was a moment for desperate measures. He hastened towards the store cupboard and rummaged within it, pushing aside unicorn horns and tangles of dried herbs until he found, at the very back, a small card box on which had been scribbled the word Bezoars.

He opened the box just as Slughorn called, "One minute left, everyone!" Inside were half a dozen shrivelled brown objects, looking more like dried-up kidneys than real stones. Harry seized one, put the box back in the cupboard and hurried back to his cauldron.

"Time's…UP!" called Slughorn genially. "Well, let's see how you've done! Blaise…what have you got for me?"

Slowly, Slughorn moved around the room, examining the various antidotes. Nobody had finished the task, although Hermione was trying to cram a few more ingredients into her bottle before Slughorn reached her. Ron had given up completely, and was merely trying to avoid breathing in the putrid fumes issuing from his cauldron. Harry stood there waiting, the bezoar clutched in a slightly sweaty hand.

Slughorn reached their table last. He sniffed Ernie's potion and passed on to Ron's with a grimace. He did not linger over Ron's cauldron, but backed away swiftly, retching slightly.

"And you, Harry," he said. "What have you got to show me?"

Harry held out his hand, the bezoar sitting on his palm. Slughorn looked down at it for a full ten seconds. Harry wondered, for a moment, whether he was going to shout at him. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. "You've got a nerve, boy!" he boomed, taking the bezoar and holding it up so that the class could see it. "Oh, you're like your mother… well, I can't fault you… a bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!"

Hermione, who was sweaty-faced and had soot on her nose, looked livid. Her half-finished antidote, comprising fifty-two ingredients including a chunk of her own hair, bubbled sluggishly behind Slughorn, who had eyes for nobody but Harry.

"And you thought of a bezoar all by yourself, did you, Harry?" she asked through gritted teeth.

"That's the individual spirit a real potion-maker needs!" said Slughorn happily, before Harry could reply. "Just like his mother, she had the same intuitive grasp of potion-making, it's undoubtedly from Lily he gets it… yes, Harry, yes, if you've got a bezoar to hand, of course that would do the trick… although as they don't work on everything, and are pretty rare, it's still worth knowing how to mix antidotes…"

"But sir, I think you should take a look at Hermione's too –" Harry tried.

"Ah, yes," Slughorn turned to Hermione, who was glaring at Harry as if she was about to scream at him.

"Very good, Miss Granger!" Slughorn said, almost automatically. "Not quite there but, definitely on the right lines."

Harry offered Hermione a half-smile but she didn't return it. Indeed, the only person in the room looking angrier than Hermione was Malfoy, who, Harry was pleased to see, had spilled something that looked like cat sick over himself. Before either of them could express their fury that Harry had come top of the class by not doing any work, however, the bell rang.

"Time to pack up!" said Slughorn. "And an extra ten points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!" Still chuckling, he waddled back to his desk at the front of the dungeon, where he dropped the bezoar into his dragon-skin briefcase.

Harry dawdled behind, taking an inordinate amount of time to do up his bag. Neither Ron nor Hermione wished him luck as they left.

At last Harry and Slughorn were the only two left in the room. "Come on, now, Harry, you'll be late for your next lesson," said Slughorn affably, snapping the gold clasps shut on his briefcase.

"Sir," said Harry, reminding himself irresistibly of Voldemort, "I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away, then, my dear boy, ask away…"

"Sir, I wondered what you know about… about Horcruxes?"

Slughorn froze. His round face seemed to sink in upon itself. He licked his lips and said hoarsely, "What did you say?"

"I asked whether you know anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see —"

"Dumbledore put you up to this," whispered Slughorn. His voice had changed completely. It was not genial any more, but shocked, terrified. He fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping his sweating brow. "Dumbledore's shown you that — that memory," said Slughorn. "Well? Hasn't he?"

"Yes," said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was best not to lie.

"Yes, of course," said Slughorn quietly, still dabbing at his white face. "Of course… well, if you've seen that memory, Harry, you'll know that I don't know anything — anything" — he repeated the word forcefully — "about Horcruxes."

He seized his dragon-skin briefcase, stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket and marched to the dungeon door.

"Sir," said Harry desperately, "I just thought there might be a bit more to the memory–"

"Did you?" said Slughorn. "Then you were wrong, weren't you? WRONG!" He bellowed the last word and, before Harry could say another word, slammed the dungeon door behind him.

Neither Ron nor Hermione was at all sympathetic when Harry told them of this disastrous interview. Hermione was still seething at the way Harry had triumphed without doing the work properly, and at the fact Harry had "favoured" Ron's advice over hers.

Ron was resentful that Harry hadn't slipped him a bezoar, too. "It would've just looked stupid if we'd both done it!" said Harry irritably. "Look, I had to try and soften him up so I could ask him about Voldemort, didn't I? Oh, will you get a grip!" he added in exasperation, as Ron winced at the sound of the name.

Infuriated by his failure, and with Hermione ignoring him, Harry brooded for the next few days over what to do next about Slughorn. He decided that, for the time being, he would let Slughorn think that he had forgotten all about Horcruxes; it was surely best to lull him into a false sense of security before returning to the attack.

When Harry did not question Slughorn again, the Potions master reverted to his usual affectionate treatment of him, and appeared to have put the matter from his mind. Harry

awaited an invitation to one of his little evening parties, determined to accept this time, even if he had to reschedule Quidditch practice. Unfortunately, however, no such invitation arrived.

After apologising profusely, Harry finally managed to get Hermione to speak to him and asked her if she had received an invitation, but she hadn't.

"Did you honestly expect you'd just be able to walk up to old Sluggy and get him to tell you his deepest, darkest secret," Hermione had said while they sat together in the common room one evening. "Honestly Harry, I think the Daily Prophet should call you 'The Dim One'."

Hermione was not the only one not to receive a new invitation. Neither had Ginny, who had then proceeded to tell him she would bat-bogey hex him if he upset Hermione again: "She was crying all evening, you tosser!"

Harry could not help wondering whether this meant that Slughorn was not quite as forgetful as he appeared, simply determined to give Harry no additional opportunities to question him.

Meanwhile, the Hogwarts library had failed Hermione for the first lime in living memory. She was so shocked, she dropped the cold front she'd been putting up to Harry since his trick with the bezoar.

"I haven't found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do!" she told him. "Not a single one! I've been right through the restricted section and even in the most horrible books, where they tell you how to brew the most gruesome potions — nothing! All I could find was this, in the introduction to Magick Mostc Evile — listen — 'Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction'… I mean, why mention it, then?" she said impatiently, slamming the old book shut; it let out a ghostly wail. "Oh, shut up," she snapped, stuffing it back into her bag. Harry laughed and, for the first time in days, she returned his smile.

The snow melted around the school as February arrived, to be replaced by cold, dreary wetness. Purplish-grey clouds hung low over the castle and a constant fall of chilly rain made the lawns slippery and muddy. The upshot of this was that the sixth-years' first apparition lesson, which was scheduled for a Saturday morning so that no normal lessons would be missed, took place in the Great Hall instead of in the grounds.

"I'm nervous," said Hermione as she and Harry walked down to the Great Hall, with Ron having gone down with Lavender.

"I never thought I'd see the day," Harry grinned. "Hermione Granger, best in her year, nervous!"

"Oh, shut it!" Hermione said.

When they arrived in the Hall, they found that the tables had disappeared. Rain lashed against the high windows and the enchanted ceiling swirled darkly above them as they assembled in front of Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick and Sprout — the Heads of House — and a small wizard whom Harry took to be the Apparition Instructor from the Ministry. He was oddly colourless, with transparent eyelashes, wispy hair and an insubstantial air, as though a single gust of wind might blow him away. Harry wondered whether constant disappearances and reappearances had somehow diminished his substance, or whether this frail build was ideal for anyone wishing to vanish.

Next to him, Hermione genuinely did seem a bit shaky. Harry reached out and squeezed her hand. "You'll be fine," he said.

"Good morning," said the Ministry wizard, when all the students had arrived and the Heads of House had called for quiet. "My name is Wilkie Twycross and I shall be your Ministry Apparition Instructor for the next twelve weeks. I hope to be able to prepare you for your apparition test in this time —"

"Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!" barked Professor McGonagall. Everybody looked round. Malfoy had flushed a dull pink; he looked furious as he stepped away from Crabbe, with whom he appeared to have been having a whispered argument. Harry glanced quickly at Snape, who also looked annoyed, though Harry strongly suspected that this was less because of Malfoy's rudeness than the fact that McGonagall had reprimanded one of his house.

"— by which time, many of you may be ready to take your test," Twycross continued, as though there had been no interruption.

"As you may know, it is usually impossible to apparate or disapparate within Hogwarts. The Headmaster has lifted this enchantment, purely within the Great Hall, for one hour, so as to enable you to practice. May I emphasise that you will not be able to apparate outside the walls of this Hall, and that you would be unwise to try. I would like each of you to place yourselves now so that you have a clear five feet of space in front of you."

There was a great scrambling and jostling as people separated, banged into each other, and ordered others out of their space. The Heads of House moved among the students, marshalling them into position.

"Harry, where are you going?" demanded Hermione.

"Come on," Harry said, taking her hand again and moving quickly through the crowd, past the place where Professor Flitwick was making squeaky attempts to position a few Ravenclaws, all of whom wanted to be near the front, past Professor Sprout, who was chivvying the Hufflepuffs into line, until, by dodging around Ernie Macmillan, he managed to position them right at the back of the crowd.

Releasing Hermione's hand, he moved a little further so he was directly behind Malfoy, who was taking advantage of the general upheaval to continue his argument with Crabbe, standing five feet away and looking mutinous.

"I don't know how much longer, all right?" Malfoy shot at him. "It's taking longer than I thought it would."

Crabbe opened his mouth, but Malfoy appeared to second-guess what he was going to say. "Look, it's none of your business what I'm doing, Crabbe, you and Goyle just do as you're told and keep a lookout!"

"I tell my friends what I'm up to, if I want them to keep a lookout for me," Harry said, just loud enough for Malfoy to hear him. Malfoy spun round on the spot, his hand flying to his wand, but at that precise moment the four Heads of House shouted, "Quiet!" and silence fell again. Malfoy turned slowly to face the front.

"Thank you," said Twycross. "Now then…" He waved his wand. Old-fashioned wooden hoops instantly appeared on the floor in from of every student.

Harry turned to Hermione, but she didn't seem to have seen him confront Malfoy. Instead, she was eyeing up the hoop in front of her rather apprehensively.

"The important things to remember when apparating are the three D's!" said Twycross. "Destination, Determination, Deliberation!

"Step one: fix your mind firmly upon the desired destination," said Twycross. "In this case, the interior of your hoop. Kindly concentrate upon that destination now." Everybody looked around furtively, to check that everyone else was staring into their hoop, then hastily did as they were told. Harry gazed at the circular patch of dusty floor enclosed by his hoop and tried hard to think of nothing else. This proved impossible, as he couldn't stop puzzling over what Malfoy was doing that needed lookouts.

"Step two," said Twycross, "focus your determination to occupy the visualised space! Let your yearning to enter it flood from your mind to every particle of your body!"

Harry glanced around surreptitiously. A little way to his left, Ernie Macmillan was contemplating his hoop so hard that his face had turned pink; it looked as though he was straining to lay a Quaffle-sized egg. Harry bit back a laugh and hastily returned his gaze to his own hoop.

"Step three," called Twycross, "only when I give the command…turn on the spot, feeling your way into nothingness, moving with deliberation. On my command, now…one —"

Harry glanced around again; lots of people were looking positively alarmed at being asked to Apparate so quickly.

"— two — "

Harry tried to fix his thoughts on his hoop again; he had already forgotten what the three D's stood for.

"— THREE!"

Harry spun on the spot, lost his balance and nearly fell over. He was not the only one. The whole Hall was suddenly full of staggering people; Neville was flat on his back; Ernie Macmillan, on the other hand, had done a kind of pirouetting leap into his hoop and looked momentarily thrilled, until he caught sight of Dean Thomas roaring with laughter at him.

"Never mind, never mind," said Twycross dryly, who did not seem to have expected anything better. "Adjust your hoops, please, and back to your original positions…"

The second attempt was no better than the first. The third was just as bad. Not until the fourth did anything exciting happen. There was a horrible screech of pain and everybody looked around, terrified, to see Susan Bones of Hufflepuff wobbling in her hoop with her left leg still standing five feet away where she had started.

The Heads of House converged on her; there was a great bang and a puff of purple smoke, which cleared to reveal Susan sobbing, reunited with her leg but looking horrified. Beside Harry, Hermione squirmed.

"Splinching, or the separation of random body parts," said Wilkie Twycross dispassionately, "occurs when the mind is insufficiently determined. You must concentrate continually upon your destination, and move, without haste, but with deliberation…thus."

Twycross stepped forwards, turned gracefully on the spot with his arms outstretched and vanished in a swirl of robes, reappearing at the back of the Hall. "Remember the three D's," he said, "and try again…one — two — three"

But an hour later, Susan's Splinching was still the most interesting thing that had happened. Twycross did not seem discouraged. Fastening his cloak at his neck, he merely said, "Until next Saturday, everybody, and do not forget: Destination. Determination. Deliberation."

With that, he waved his wand, Vanishing the hoops, and walked out of the Hall accompanied by Professor McGonagall. Talk broke out at once as people began moving towards the Entrance Hall.

"How did you do?" asked Ron, hurrying towards Harry. "I think I felt something the last time I tried — a kind of tingling in my feet."

"I expect your trainers are too small, Won-Won," shot Hermione, who simply stalked off from them both.

"I didn't feel anything," said Harry, watching Hermione's hair swing behind her shoulders as she walked ahead of them. "But I don't care about that now–"

"What d'you mean, you don't care… don't you want to learn to apparate?" said Ron incredulously.

"I'm not fussed, really. I prefer flying," said Harry, glancing over his shoulder to see where Malfoy was, and speeding up as they came into the Entrance Hall. "Look, hurry up, will you, there's something I want to do…"

Perplexed, Ron followed Harry back to Gryffindor Tower almost at a run. They were temporarily detained by Peeves, who had jammed a door on the fourth floor shut and was refusing to let anyone pass until they set fire to their own pants, but Harry and Ron simply turned back and took one of their trusted shortcuts. Within five minutes, they were climbing through the portrait hole.

"Are you going to tell me what we're doing, then?" asked Ron, panting slightly.

"Up here," said Harry, and he crossed the common room and led the way through the door to the boys' staircase.

Their dormitory was, as Harry had hoped, empty.

"Harry…"

"Malfoy's using Crabbe and Goyle as lookouts. He was arguing with Crabbe just now.

He flung open his trunk and grabbed the folded square of apparently blank parchment, which he smoothed out and tapped with the tip of his wand. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good… or Malfoy is." At once, the Marauder's Map appeared on the parchment's surface.

"Help me find Malfoy," said Harry urgently. He laid the map upon his bed and he and Ron leaned over it, searching.

"There!" said Ron, after a minute or so. "He's in the Slytherin common room, look…with Parkinson and Zabini and Crabbe and Goyle…"

Harry looked down at the map, disappointed, but rallied almost at once. "Well, I'm keeping an eye on him from now on," he said firmly. "And the moment I see him lurking somewhere with Crabbe and Goyle keeping watch outside, it'll be on with the old invisibility cloak and off to find out what he's —

He broke off as Neville entered the dormitory, bringing with him a strong smell of singed material, and began rummaging in his trunk for a fresh pair of pants.

Despite his determination to catch Malfoy out, Harry had no luck at all over the next couple of weeks. Although he consulted the map as often as he could, sometimes making unnecessary visits to the bathroom between lessons to search it, he did not once see Malfoy anywhere suspicious. Admittedly, he spotted Crabbe and Goyle moving around the castle on their own more often than usual, sometimes remaining stationary in deserted corridors, but at these times Malfoy was not only nowhere near them, but impossible to locate on the map at all.

Harry toyed with the possibility that Malfoy was actually leaving the school grounds, but could not see how he could be doing it, given the very high level of security now operating within the castle. He could only suppose that he was missing Malfoy amongst the hundreds of tiny black dots upon the map. As for the fact that Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle appeared to be going their different ways when they were usually inseparable, these things happened as people got older — Ron and Hermione, Harry reflected sadly, were living proof.

He also discussed his thoughts with Hermione, who had asked for an explanation as to why he'd dragged her halfway across the hall and, to his pleasure, had been a lot more accommodating of his suspicions given what Malfoy had said, albeit she still wasn't convinced.

"Maybe the map's wrong?" she said during an evening in the Common Room. Ron and Lavender had been all over each other at dinner, so Harry and Hermione had headed up early, not that he was complaining.

"The map's never wrong, though," Harry replied.

"Well, I don't know… could it just be that you're missing him?"

Harry shook his head. "No, definitely. I know he's not on there… I just – don't know how."

"Maybe he's in the Shrieking Shack?"

"Can't be, can he. They'll surely have shut the passage off?"

"Oh… yeh," Hermione said. "Well what about the secret passageways? Maybe they…"

"No," Harry cut her off. "I've been checking them first."

But then the rest of the Gryffindor students had come up and they'd had to stop their conversation, Hermione eventually curling up and leaning into him as she read a copy of The Evening Prophet while Harry remained searching for a dot which did not seem to exist.

He still hadn't dared bring up what had almost happened between him and Hermione at Slughorn's party, as much for the fear that he had imagined the whole thing rather than anything else. But it was at moments like this, when she acted in a way that was not entirely just friendly, that made him more confused than ever. It seemed like she was either snapping at him or hugging him these days.

February moved towards March with no change in the weather except that it became windy as well as wet. To general indignation, a sign went up on all common-room noticeboards that the next trip into Hogsmeade had been cancelled. Ron was furious.

"It was on my birthday!" he said, "I was looking forward to that!"

"Not a big surprise, though, is it?" said Harry. "Not after what happened to Katie."

She had still not returned from St. Mungo's. What was more, further disappearances had been reported in the Daily Prophet, including several relatives of students at Hogwarts. "But now all I've got to look forward to is stupid apparition!" said Ron grumpily. "Big birthday treat…"

Three lessons on, apparition was proving as difficult as ever, though a few more people had managed to Splinch themselves. Frustration was running high and there was a certain amount of ill-feeling towards Wilkie Twycross and his three D's, which had inspired a number of nicknames for him, the politest of which were Dog-breath and Dung-head.

"Happy birthday," said Harry, when they were woken on the first of March by Seamus and Dean leaving noisily for breakfast. "Here." He threw a package across on to Ron's bed, where it joined a small pile of them that must, Harry assumed, have been delivered by house-elves in the night.

"Cheers," said Ron drowsily, and as he ripped off the paper Harry got out of bed, opened his own trunk and began rummaging in it for the Marauder's Map, which he hid after every use. He turfed out half the contents of his trunk before he found it hiding beneath the rolled-up socks in which he was still keeping the bottle of Felix Felicis.

"Right," he murmured, taking it back to bed with him, tapping it quietly and murmuring, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," so that Neville, who was passing the foot of his bed at the time, would not hear.

"Nice one, Harry!" said Ron enthusiastically, waving the new pair of Quidditch Keeper's gloves Harry had given him.

"No problem," said Harry absent-mindedly, as he searched the Slytherin dormitory closely for Malfoy. "Hey…I don't think he's in his bed…" Ron did not answer; he was too busy unwrapping presents, every now and then letting out an exclamation of pleasure.

"Seriously good haul this year!" he announced, holding up a heavy gold watch with odd symbols around the edge and tiny moving stars instead of hands. "See what Mum and Dad got me? Blimey, I think I'll come of age next year too…"

"Cool," muttered Harry, sparing the watch a glance before peering more closely at the map. Where was Malfoy? He did not seem to be at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, eating breakfast… he was nowhere near Snape, who was sitting in his study… he wasn't in any of the bathrooms or in the hospital wing…

"Want one?" said Ron thickly, holding out a box of Chocolate Cauldrons.

"No thanks," said Harry, looking up. "Malfoy's gone again!"

"Can't have done," said Ron, stuffing a second Cauldron into his mouth as he slid out of bed to get dressed. "Come on, if you don't hurry up you'll have to apparate on an empty stomach… might make it easier, I suppose…"

Ron looked thoughtfully at the box of Chocolate Cauldrons, then shrugged and helped himself to a third.

Harry tapped the map with his wand, muttered, "Mischief managed," though it hadn't been, and got dressed, thinking hard. There had to be an explanation for Malfoy's periodic disappearances, but he simply could not think what it could be. The best way of finding out would be to tail him, but even with the invisibility cloak this was an impractical idea; he had lessons, Quidditch practice, homework and apparition; he could not follow Malfoy around school all day without his absence being remarked upon.

"Ready?" he said to Ron. He was halfway to the dormitory door when he realised that Ron had not moved, but was leaning on his bedpost, staring out of the rain-washed window with a strangely unfocused, almost wistful look on his face.

"Ron? Breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

Harry stared at him.

"I thought you just said —?"

"Well, all right, I'll come down with you," sighed Ron, "but I don't want to eat."

Harry scrutinised him suspiciously. "You've just eaten half a box of Chocolate Cauldrons, haven't you?"

"It's not that," Ron sighed again. "You… you wouldn't understand."

"Fair enough," said Harry, albeit puzzled, as he turned to open the door.

"Harry!" said Ron suddenly.

"What?"

"Harry, I can't stand it!"

"You can't stand what?" asked Harry, now starling to feel alarmed. Ron was rather pale and looked as though he was about to be sick.

"I can't stop thinking about her!" said Ron hoarsely.

Harry gaped at him. He had not expected this and was not sure he wanted to hear it. Friends they might be, but if Ron started calling Lavender "Lav-Lav", he would have to put his foot down.

"Why does that stop you having breakfast?" Harry asked, trying to inject a note of common sense into the proceedings.

"I don't think she knows I exist," said Ron with a desperate gesture.

"She definitely knows you exist," said Harry, bewildered. "She keeps snogging you, doesn't she?" Ron blinked.

"Who are you talking about?"

"Who are you talking about?" said Harry, with an increasing sense that all reason had dropped out of the conversation.

"Romilda Vane," said Ron softly, and his whole face seemed to illuminate as he said it, as though hit by a ray of purest sunlight.

They stared at each other for almost a whole minute, before Harry said, "This is a joke, right? You're joking."

"I think… Harry, I think I love her," said Ron in a strangled voice.

"Okay," said Harry, walking up to Ron to get a better look at the glazed eyes and the pallid complexion, "Okay… say that again with a straight face."

"I love her," repeated Ron breathlessly. "Have you seen her hair, it's all black and shiny and silky… and her eyes? Her big dark eyes? And her…"

"This is really funny and everything," said Harry impatiently, "but joke's over, all right? Drop it."

He turned to leave but had hardly got two steps towards the door when a crashing blow hit him on the right ear. Staggering, he looked round. Ron's fist was drawn right back, his face was contorted with rage; he was about to strike again.

Harry reacted instinctively; his wand was out of his pocket and the non-verbal incantation sprang to mind without conscious thought: Levicorpus!

Ron yelled as his heel was wrenched upwards once more; he dangled helplessly, upside down.

"What was that for?" Harry bellowed.

"You insulted her, Harry! You said it was a joke!" shouted Ron, who was slowly turning purple in the face as all the blood rushed to his head.

"This is insane!" said Harry. "What's got into —?"

And then he saw the box lying open on Ron's bed and the truth hit him with the force of a stampeding troll.

"Where did you get those Chocolate Cauldrons?"

"They were a birthday present!" shouted Ron, revolving slowly in midair as he struggled to get free. "I offered you one, didn't I?"

"You just picked them up off the floor, didn't you?"

"They'd fallen off my bed, all right? Let me go!"

"They didn't fall off your bed, you prat, don't you understand? They were mine, I chucked them out of my trunk when I was looking for the map. They're the Chocolate Cauldrons Romilda gave me before Christmas and they're all spiked with love potion!"

But only one word of this seemed to have registered with Ron.

"Romilda?" he repeated. "Did you say Romilda? Harry – do you know her? Can you introduce me?"

Harry stared at the dangling Ron, whose face now looked tremendously hopeful, and fought a strong desire to laugh. A part of him – the part closest to his throbbing right ear – was quite keen on the idea of letting Ron down and watching him run amok until the effects of the potion wore off… but on the other hand, they were supposed to be friends, Ron had not been himself when he had attacked, and Harry thought that he would deserve another punching if he permitted Ron to declare undying love for Romilda Vane.

"Yeah, I'll introduce you," said Harry, thinking fast. "I'm going to let you down now, okay?"

He sent Ron crashing back to the floor – his ear did hurt quite a lot – but Ron simply bounded to his feet again, grinning.

"She'll be in Slughorn's office," said Harry confidently, thinking on the spot and leading the way to the door.

"Why will she be in there?" asked Ron anxiously, hurrying to keep up.

"Oh, she has extra Potions lessons with him," said Harry, inventing wildly.

"Maybe I could ask if I can have them with her?" said Ron eagerly.

"Great idea," said Harry. Lavender was waiting beside the portrait hole, a complication Harry had not foreseen.

"You're late, Won-Won!" she pouted. "I've got you a birthday —"

"Leave me alone," said Ron impatiently, "Harry's going to introduce me to Romilda Vane."

And without another word to her, he pushed his way out of the portrait hole. Harry tried to make an apologetic face to Lavender, but it might have turned out simply amused, because she looked more offended than ever as the Fat Lady swung shut behind them.

Harry had been slightly worried that Slughorn might be at breakfast, but he answered his office door at the first knock, wearing a green velvet dressing-gown and matching nightcap and looking rather bleary-eyed.

"Harry," he mumbled. "This is very early for a call… I generally sleep late on a Saturday…"

"Professor, I'm really sorry to disturb you," said Harry as quietly as possible, while Ron stood on tiptoe, attempting to see past Slughorn into his room, "but Ron's swallowed a love potion by mistake. You couldn't make him an antidote, could you? I'd take him to Madam Pomfrey, but we're not supposed to have anything from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and, you know… awkward questions…"

"I'd have thought you could have whipped him up a remedy, Harry, an expert potioneer like you?" asked Slughorn.

"Er," said Harry, somewhat distracted by the fact that Ron was now elbowing him in the ribs in an attempt to force his way into the room, "well, I've never mixed an antidote for a love potion, sir, and by the time I get it right Ron might've done something serious."

Helpfully, Ron chose this moment to moan, "I can't see her. Harry — is he hiding her?"

"Was this potion within date?" asked Slughorn, now eyeing Ron with professional interest. "They can strengthen, you know, the longer they're kept."

"That would explain a lot," panted Harry, now positively wrestling with Ron to keep him from knocking Slughorn over.

"It's his birthday, Professor," he added imploringly.

"Oh, all right, come in, then, come in," said Slughorn, relenting. "I've got the necessary ingredients here in my bag, it's not a difficult antidote…"

Ron burst through the door into Slughorn's overheated, crowded study, tripped over a tasselled footstool, regained his balance by seizing Harry around the neck and muttered, "She didn't see that, did she?"

"She's not here yet," said Harry, watching Slughorn opening his potion kit and adding a few pinches of this and that to a small crystal bottle.

"That's good," said Ron fervently. "How do I look?"

"Very handsome," said Slughorn smoothly, handing Ron a glass of clear liquid. "Now drink that up, it's a tonic for the nerves, keep you calm when she arrives, you know,"

"Brilliant," said Ron eagerly, and he gulped the antidote down noisily.

Harry and Slughorn watched him. For a moment, Ron beamed at them. Then, very slowly, his grin sagged and vanished, to be replaced by an expression of utmost horror.

"Back to normal, then?" said Harry, grinning. Slughorn chuckled. "Thanks a lot, Professor."

"Don't mention it, m'boy, don't mention it," said Slughorn, as Ron collapsed into a nearby armchair, looking devastated.

"Pick-me-up, that's what he needs," Slughorn continued, now bustling over to a table loaded with drinks. "I've got butterbeer, I've got wine, I've got one last bottle of this oak-matured mead… hmm… meant to give that to Dumbledore for Christmas… ah well…" he shrugged "…he

can't miss what he's never had! Why don't we open it now and celebrate Mr. Weasley's birthday? Nothing like a fine spirit to chase away the pangs of disappointed love…"

He chortled again and Harry joined in. This was the first time he had found himself almost alone with Slughorn since his disastrous first attempt to extract the true memory from him. Perhaps, if he could just keep Slughorn in a good mood… perhaps if they got through enough of the oak- matured mead…

"There you are, then," said Slughorn, handing Harry and Ron a glass of mead each, before raising his own.

"Well, a very happy birthday, Ralph —"

"— Ron —" whispered Harry.

But Ron, who did not appear to be listening to the toast, had already thrown the mead into his mouth and swallowed it.

There was one second, hardly more than a heartbeat, in which Harry knew there was something terribly wrong and Slughorn, it seemed, did not.

"— and may you have many more —"

"Ron!"

Ron had dropped his glass; he half-rose from his chair and then crumpled, his extremities jerking uncontrollably. Foam was dribbling from his mouth and his eyes were bulging from their sockets.

"Professor!" Harry bellowed. "Do something!"

But Slughorn seemed paralysed by shock. Ron twitched and choked: his skin was turning blue.

"What — but —" spluttered Slughorn.

Harry leapt over a low table and sprinted towards Slughorn's open potion kit, pulling out jars and pouches, while the terrible sound of Ron's gargling breath filled the room.

Then he found it – the shrivelled kidney-like stone Slughorn had taken from him in Potions. He hurtled back to Ron's side, wrenched open his jaw and thrust the bezoar into his mouth. Ron gave a great shudder, a rattling gasp and his body became limp and still.

Chapter 15: 15: Chapter Nineteen – Elf Tails [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

"So, all in all, not one of Ron's better birthdays?" said Fred.

It was evening; the hospital wing was quiet, the windows curtained, the lamps lit. Ron's was the only occupied bed. Harry, Hermione, and Ginny were sitting around him; they had spent all day waiting outside the double doors, trying to see inside whenever somebody went in or out. Madam Pomfrey had only let them enter at nine o'clock. Fred and George had arrived at ten past.

"This isn't how we imagined handing over our present," said George grimly, putting down a large wrapped gift on Ron's bedside cabinet and sitting beside Ginny.

"Yeah, when we pictured the scene, he was conscious," said Fred.

"There we were in Hogsmeade, waiting to surprise him —" said George.

"You were in Hogsmeade?" asked Ginny, looking up.

"We were thinking of buying Zonko's," said Fred gloomily. "A Hogsmeade branch, you know, but a fat lot of good it'll do us if you lot aren't allowed out at weekends to buy our stuff anymore… But never mind that now." He drew up a chair beside Harry and looked at Ron's pale face. "How exactly did it happen, Harry?"

Harry retold the story he had already recounted, it felt like a hundred times to Dumbledore, to McGonagall, to Madam Pomfrey, to Ginny, and to Hermione.

"…and then I got the bezoar down his throat and his breathing eased up a bit, Slughorn ran for help, McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey turned up, and they brought Ron up here. They reckon he'll be all right. Madam Pomfrey says he'll have to stay here a week or so… keep taking essence of rue…"

"Blimey, it was lucky you thought of a bezoar," said George in a low voice.

"Lucky there was one in the room," said Harry, who kept turning cold at the thought of what would have happened if he had not been able to lay hands on the little stone.

Hermione gave an almost inaudible sniff. Having hurtled, white-faced, up to Harry outside the hospital wing and thrown her arms around him, demanding to know what had happened, she had been exceptionally quiet all day. She had hardly left his side and was still gripping his arm tightly, having taken almost no part in Harry and Ginny's obsessive discussion about how Ron had been poisoned, but merely stood beside them, clench-jawed and frightened-looking, until at last they had been allowed in.

"Do Mum and Dad know?" Fred asked Ginny.

"They've already seen him, they arrived an hour ago — they're in Dumbledore's office now, but they'll be back soon…"

There was a pause while they all watched Ron mumble a little in his sleep. "So the poison was in the drink?" said Fred quietly.

"Yes," said Harry at once; he could think of nothing else and was glad for the opportunity to start discussing it again. "Slughorn poured it out —"

"Would he have been able to slip something into Ron's glass without you seeing?"

"Probably," said Harry, "but why would Slughorn want to poison Ron?"

"No idea," said Fred, frowning. "You don't think he could have mixed up the glasses by mistake? Meaning to get you?"

"Why would Slughorn want to poison Harry?" asked Ginny. Hermione's grasp on his arm tightened.

"I dunno," said Fred, "but there must be loads of people who'd like to poison Harry, mustn't there? 'The Chosen One' and all that?"

"So you think Slughorn's a Death Eater?" said Ginny.

"Anything's possible," said Fred darkly.

"He could be under the Imperius Curse," said George.

"Or he could be innocent," said Ginny. "The poison could have been in the bottle, in which case it was probably meant for Slughorn himself."

"Who'd want to kill Slughorn?"

"Dumbledore reckons Voldemort wanted Slughorn on his side," said Harry. "Slughorn was in hiding for a year before he came to Hogwarts. And…" He thought of the memory Dumbledore had not yet been able to extract from Slughorn. "And maybe Voldemort wants him out of the way, maybe he thinks he could be valuable to Dumbledore."

"But you said Slughorn had been planning to give that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas," Ginny reminded him. "So the poisoner could just as easily have been after Dumbledore."

"Then the poisoner didn't know Slughorn very well," said Hermione, speaking for the first time in hours and sounding as though she had a bad head cold. "Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there was a good chance he'd keep something that tasty for himself."

"Er-my-nee," croaked Ron unexpectedly from between them. They all fell silent, watching him anxiously, but after muttering incomprehensibly for a moment he merely started snoring.

The dormitory doors flew open, making them all jump: Hagrid came striding toward them, his hair rain-flecked, his bearskin coat flapping behind him, a crossbow in his hand, leaving a trail of muddy dolphin-sized footprints all over the floor.

"Bin in the forest all day!" he panted. "Aragog's worse, I bin readin' to him — didn' get up ter dinner till jus' now an' then Professor Sprout told me abou' Ron! How is he?"

"Not bad," said Harry. "They say he'll be okay."

"No more than six visitors at a time!" said Madam Pomfrey, hurrying out of her office.

"Hagrid makes six," George pointed out.

"Oh…yes…" said Madam Pomfrey, who seemed to have been counting Hagrid as several people due to his vastness. To cover her confusion, she hurried off to clear up his muddy footprints with her wand.

"I don' believe this," said Hagrid hoarsely, shaking his great shaggy head as he stared down at Ron. "Jus' don' believe it… Look at him lyin' there… Who'd want ter hurt him, eh?"

"That's just what we were discussing," said Harry grimly. "We don't know."

"Someone couldn' have a grudge against the Gryfinndor Quidditch team, could they?" said Hagrid anxiously. "Firs' Katie, now Ron…"

"I can't see anyone trying to bump off a Quidditch team," said George.

"Wood might've done the Slytherins if he could've got away with it," said Fred fairly.

"Well, I don't think it's Quidditch, but I definitely think there's a connection between the attacks," said Hermione quietly.

"How d'you work that out?" asked Fred.

"Well, for one thing, they both should have been fatal and weren't, but that was pure luck. And neither the poison or the necklace seemed to reach the person who was supposed to be killed.

"Of course," she added broodingly, "that makes the person behind this even more dangerous, because they don't seem to care how many people they finish off before they actually reach their victim."

Before anybody could respond to this ominous pronouncement, the dormitory doors opened again and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley hurried up the ward. They had done no more than satisfy themselves that Ron would make a full recovery on their last visit to the ward; now Mrs. Weasley seized hold of Harry and hugged him very tightly.

"Dumbledore's told us how you saved him with the bezoar," she sobbed. "Oh, Harry, what can we say? You saved Ginny… you saved Arthur… now you've saved Ron.

"Don't be…I didn't…" muttered Harry awkwardly. It wasn't like the Burrow hadn't been attacked just a matter of weeks before, solely because Harry was there.

"Half our family does seem to owe you their lives, now I stop and think about it," Mr. Weasley said in a constricted voice. "All I can say is that it was a lucky day for the Weasleys when Ron decided to sit in your compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Harry."

Harry could not think of any reply to this and was almost glad when Madam Pomfrey reminded them that there were only supposed to be six visitors around Ron's bed; he and Hermione, who had reattached herself to Harry's arm after letting go when Mrs. Weasley embraced him, rose at once to leave and Hagrid decided to go with them, leaving Ron with his family.

"It's terrible," growled Hagrid into his beard, as the three of them walked back along the corridor to the marble staircase. "All this new security, an kids are still gettin' hurt… Dumbledore's worried sick… He don' say much, but I can tell…"

"Hasn't he got any ideas, Hagrid?" asked Hermione desperately.

"I spect he's got hundreds of ideas, brain like his," said Hagrid. "But he doesn' know who sent that necklace nor put poison in that wine, or they'dve bin caught, wouldn they? Wha' worries me," said Hagrid, lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder – Harry, for good measure, checked the ceiling for Peeves – "is how long Hogwarts can stay open if kids are bein' attacked. Chamber o' Secrets all over again, isn' it? There'll be panic, more parents takin their kids outta school, an nex' thing yeh know the board o' governors…"

Hagrid stopped talking as the ghost of a long-haired woman drifted serenely past, then resumed in a hoarse whisper, "…the board o' governors'll be talkin about shuttin' us up fer good."

"Surely not?" said Hermione, looking worried.

"Gotta see it from their point o' view," said Hagrid heavily. "I mean, it's always bin a bit of a risk sendin a kid ter Hogwarts, hasn' it? Yer expect accidents, don' yeh, wit hundreds of underage wizards all locked up tergether, but attempted murder, tha's diff'rent. 'S'no wonder Dumbledore's angry with Sn —"

Hagrid stopped in his tracks, a familiar, guilty expression on what was visible of his face above his tangled black beard.

"What?" said Harry quickly. "Dumbledore's angry with Snape?"

"I never said tha'," said Hagrid, though his look of panic could not have been a bigger giveaway. "Look at the time, it's gettin' on fer midnight, I need ter —"

"Hagrid, why is Dumbledore angry with Snape?" Harry asked loudly.

"Shhhh!" said Hagrid, looking both nervous and angry. "Don' shout stuff like that, Harry, d'yeh wan' me ter lose me job? Mind, I don' suppose yeh'd care, would yeh, not now yeh've given up Care of Mag —"

"Don't try and make me feel guilty, it wont work!" said Harry forcefully. "What's Snape done?"

"I dunno, Harry, I shouldn'ta heard it at all! I — well, I was comin' outta the forest the other evenin' an' I overheard 'em talking — well, arguin'. Didn't like ter draw attention to meself, so I sorta skulked an' tried not ter listen, but it was a — well, a heated discussion an' it wasn' easy ter block it out."

"Well?" Harry urged him, as Hagrid shuffled his enormous feet uneasily.

"Well — I jus' heard Snape sayin' Dumbledore took too much fer granted an maybe he — Snape — didn' wan' ter do it anymore —"

"Do what?"

"I dunno, Harry, it sounded like Snape was feelin' a bit overworked, tha's all — anyway, Dumbledore told him flat out he'd agreed ter do it an' that was all there was to it. Pretty firm with him. An' then he said summat abou' Snape makin' investigations in his House, in Slytherin. Well, there's nothin' strange abou' that!" Hagrid added hastily, as Harry and Hermione exchanged looks full of meaning. "All the Heads o' Houses were asked ter look inter that necklace business —"

"Yeah, but Dumbledore's not having rows with the rest of them, is he?" said Harry.

"Look," Hagrid twisted his crossbow uncomfortably in his hands; there was a loud splintering sound and it snapped in two. "I know what yeh're like abou' Snape, Harry, an' I don' want yeh ter go readin' more inter this than there is."

"Look out," said Hermione tersely.

They turned just in time to see the shadow of Argus Filch looming over the wall behind them before the man himself turned the corner, hunchbacked, his jowls aquiver.

"Oho!" he wheezed. "Out of bed so late, this'll mean detention!"

"No it won', Filch," said Hagrid shortly. "They're with me, aren' they?"

"And what difference does that make?" asked Filch obnoxiously.

"I'm a ruddy teacher, aren' I, yeh sneakin' Squib!" said Hagrid, firing up at once. There was a nasty hissing noise as Filch swelled with fury; Mrs. Norris had arrived, unseen, and was twisting herself sinuously around Filch's skinny ankles.

"Get goin," said Hagrid out of the corner of his mouth.

Harry did not need telling twice; he took Hermione's hand and they hurried off – Hagrid's and Filch's raised voices echoed behind them as they went. They passed Peeves near the turning into Gryffindor Tower, but he was streaking happily toward the source of the yelling, cackling and calling.

When there's strife and when there's trouble

Call on Peevsie, he'll make double!

So Dumbledore had argued with Snape. In spite of all he had told Harry, in spite of his insistence that he trusted Snape completely, he had lost his temper with him… He did not think that Snape had tried hard enough to investigate the Slytherins…or, perhaps, to investigate a single Slytherin: Malfoy?

Was it because Dumbledore did not want Harry to do anything foolish, to take matters into his own hands, that he had pretended there was nothing in Harry's suspicions?

That seemed likely. It might even be that Dumbledore did not want anything to distract Harry from their lessons, or from procuring that memory from Slughorn. Perhaps Dumbledore did not think it right to confide suspicions about his staff to sixteen-year-olds…

The Fat Lady was snoozing and not pleased to be woken, but swung forward grumpily to allow them to clamber into the common room, which was mercifully empty. It did not seem that people knew about Ron yet; Harry was very relieved: he had been interrogated enough that day.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said, and suddenly he was engulfed by her arms. He stood still, but after a moment he returned her embrace, rubbing small circles on her back and leaning his head into her hair.

"It could've been you," she whispered; he could feel her tears on his neck.

Harry didn't respond, instead pulling her impossibly closer. He could feel every curve, how her body seemed to mould so perfectly with his as they stood there.

"He's okay, he's safe," he said and added, after a beat, "I'm safe."

She sniffed before pulling out of the hug, but she kept her arms wrapped around him, hooking them around the back of his neck. She leant back, just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were shining; with tears, anger, fear… and something else; boring into his own intensely.

Like at Slughorn's party, if he had been asked to he'd have been able to describe every minute detail of her face down to the last pour.

Like at Slughorn's party, he wasn't sure who moved first, or if they'd even moved at all.

Like at Slughorn's party, he felt himself leaning down, his eyes beginning to close as her brown orbs fluttered shut too.

But this time, their lips met.

Slowly, almost cautiously, but perfectly in sync, they met. And then they met again. And again. And suddenly they were moving together of their own accord. And her hands were digging into

the back of his neck, ruffling his air. And his were coming up to caress her face. And then he felt his tongue moving out, pushing gently for her lips to part. And they did. And it tasted so good and so right and so true.

And then they stopped. She had that look back. That look of blazen determination, but mixed with the gleam that had been behind the sadness.

He kept his hands where they were, holding her face gently. But she moved hers, stroking his cheeks and his chin with the tips of her fingers. And there were tears welling up in her eyes, but she was smiling, and then she was moving in again, but this time the kiss was sweeter; more comforting, less frantic. And it felt just as good and as right and as true as before, even though Harry could taste the saltiness of her tears.

They pulled back again. He couldn't take his eyes off her and she had her gaze fixed squarely on him. Finally, he regained the ability to speak.

"I…"

She looked concerned.

"I really need to stop making girls cry when I kiss them…"

And then she laughed. And she was smiling into the next kisses and he was too. Because somehow, they'd found each other. And he knew he wanted it and now he knew that she wanted it too.

Eventually, he dropped his hands into hers and, without a word, they eased over to one of the armchairs by the fire. He sat and she squeezed in, leaning into him. She was crying slightly, but he knew those tears were just the emotion of the day coming out. This wasn't Cho. This was Hermione.

A line had been crossed. An invisible line that could easily have remained intact, but one that maybe should never have been there in the first place. He pulled her closer as she snuggled her head into the crook of his neck. She seemed to hesitate, but then kissed him on the underside of his chin.

Moments later, he felt her relax in his arms as sleep claimed her, and it was without a thought of poisoned wine, bezoars, Ron or Snape that he felt himself nodding off, too.

"There you are, Potter!"

Harry jumped to his feet in shock, his wand at the ready. He had been quite convinced that the common room was empty. Then again, he was also sure he'd fallen asleep with Hermione cradled in his arms, and it had been dark, and now there was weak daylight casting in through the windows.

Cormac McLaggen stood facing him.

"Just getting up early to get a bit of practice in," said McLaggen in his typically smug tone, and Harry noticed he was holding his broom. Disregarding Harry's drawn wand, he continued: "Look, I saw them taking Weasley up to the hospital wing yesterday. Didn't look like he'll be fit for next week's match."

It took Harry a few moments to realise what McLaggen was talking about.

"Oh…right…Quidditch," he said, putting his wand back into the belt of his jeans and running a hand wearily through his hair. "Yeah…he might not make it."

"Well, then, I'll be playing Keeper, won't I?" said McLaggen.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Yeah, I suppose so…"

He could not think of an argument against it; after all, McLaggen – despite Hermione's efforts – had certainly performed second-best in the trials. "Excellent," said McLaggen in a satisfied voice.

"So when's practice?"

"What? Oh…there's one on Monday evening."

"Good. Listen, Potter, we should have a talk beforehand. I've got some ideas on strategy you might find useful."

"Right," said Harry unenthusiastically, considering if he should ask McLaggen whether he'd seen Hermione, but thought better of it. "Well, I'll hear them tomorrow, then… need to go and get a shower… see you."

Harry darted up the stairs before McLaggen could respond. Once he'd washed and put on some fresh clothes, he checked the map for Hermione's dot. He found her in the Great Hall.

Heading down to meet her, Harry suddenly felt nervous.

Why? It's only Hermione.

Only Hermione? Only Hermione?

She's my best friend.

I don't think best friends did what you two did last night.

He spotted her halfway down an empty Gryffindor table, leaning over a copy of The Prophet and absentmindedly stirring a coffee.

"Morning," he said as he slid in next to her.

"Morning," she said. "Sleep well?" She asked, with a slight blush on her cheeks.

Harry smiled. "Err… yeh, actually. How about you?"

Her blush grew. "Not bad."

"Good," said Harry, and before he had chance to think better of it he kissed her on the cheek.

"Harry," Hermione gasped quietly, looking around the Hall, but there were hardly any other students there. It was still early, and given it was Sunday, most people allowed themselves an extra few hours in bed.

"What?" Harry asked, trying to keep any hint of hurt out of his voice.

She doesn't want it after all. She was just… upset. She fancies Ron. She was upset over Ron and you took advantage.

However, he must have failed to do so, because she smiled comfortingly, gripping his hand under the table and intertwining her fingers with his.

"It's not that," she said, as if reading Harry's mind. "I… I just think we might have to be a bit careful because, well…"

"Ron," Harry finished for her, and she nodded.

"I – at least until he gets out of the hospital wing, and then we can tell him…"

"Tell him what?"

"Erm…" Hermione started, but for once she hadn't seemed to think ahead. Harry smirked.

"That we're together?"

"Erm… Well," she looked up at him. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes," Harry said quickly. "If… If that's what you want?"

"It is," Hermione said, her eyes glistening over slightly as she smiled.

Harry almost laughed out loud, a surge of unbridled joy running through him. He beamed at her, squeezing her hand, and couldn't resist stealing a quick, chaste kiss which, despite her earlier protests, she accepted.

"Harry!"

"Okay," he chuckled, noticing how natural it felt, kissing Hermione. Kissing Cho had been awkward. "Promise that was the last one… For now. Y'know, it'd help if you'd stop looking so adorable…"

She rolled her eyes before returning to her copy of The Prophet. Harry sipped a bit of her coffee before putting some pancakes on his plate, determined to at least enjoy breakfast with her.

"Hey," he said as he drizzled some syrup on his pancakes. "McLaggen – or should I say Cormac" – this earned him a smack on the arm – "woke me up this morning. Already jumping in Ron's slot on the team."

Hermione grimaced.

"So," Harry continued with a grin, trying to make it sound casual but also knowing he was going to venture onto a bit of a tricky subject. "Just who were you trying to make jealous when you took that git to the party?"

Hermione took a breath. "Harry…"

"Well, I just thought it was Ron –" Harry pushed on. He needed to know.

"It wasn't Ron," Hermione cut him off quickly, before adding, somewhat sheepishly, looking down. "It's never been Ron."

"Oh," said Harry. "Right."

If it had never been Ron, then why did she ask Ron to the party to begin with? Why had she been so upset over Lavender and Ron getting together? Again, as if reading his mind, Hermione interjected his thoughts.

"Harry… Look I, I was confused, a bit… I –" she looked stumped, but managed to find the words. "I was scared, Harry," she added with a whisper.

"What d'you me –"

"I was scared of… us. I don't know, it sounds stupid. But I – I didn't think you felt the same away and I… Well I just thought with Ron." She stopped, looking up at him. "I just thought, maybe if I got Ron to pay attention, you'd notice. Or maybe I'd feel something... more, eventually. I don't know. I never – I feel awful, trying to use him."

"Hermione… I…"

"No, it wasn't right. But I… I thought you liked Ginny and…"

"You know you were wrong, though?" Harry said with a raised eyebrow.

Hermione flushed. "Well, yes. Now. And then when Lavender and Ron…. And he was being such a prat… And…"

He stopped her flow with another squeeze of her hand.

"It's fine," he said. "Just… I just needed to know."

"It's not like I didn't make enough hints," she said with a smirk.

"What, suggesting snogging in the Three Broomsticks and then getting drunk?" He shot back, but making it clear he was joking.

"Oi! I was not drunk!"

"Whatever you say."

The news that Ron had been poisoned spread quickly over the next few days, but it did not cause the sensation that Katie's attack had done. People seemed to think that it might have been an accident, given that he had been in the Potions master's room at the time, and that as he had been given an antidote immediately there was no real harm done. In fact, the Gryffindors were generally much more interested in the upcoming Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, for many of them wanted to see Zacharias Smith, who played Chaser on the Hufflepuff team, punished soundly for his commentary during the opening match against Slytherin.

Harry, however, had never been less interested in Quidditch. Between visiting Ron and his burgeoning relationship with Hermione, which had been restricted to a few stolen kisses whenever they managed to get some brief time alone, he was also rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy; still checking the Marauder's Map whenever he got chance. He sometimes made detours to wherever Malfoy happened to be, but had not yet detected him doing anything out of the ordinary. And still there were those inexplicable times when Malfoy simply vanished from the map.

But he did not get a lot more time to consider the problem, what with Quidditch practice and homework, which made seeing Hermione even more difficult; in fact, the most time they ever really spent together was either in the Library, stalked by Madam Pince, who would surely have scolded them at any sign of public affection, or at the hospital wing, visiting Ron, where they couldn't exactly sit kissing, and he knew she felt as apprehensive as he did about telling Ron about recent developments between them.

To top it all off, he was now being dogged wherever he went by Cormac McLaggen and Lavender Brown.

He could not decide which of them was more annoying. McLaggen kept up a constant stream of hints that he would make a better permanent Keeper for the team than Ron, and that now that Harry was seeing him play regularly he would surely come around to this way of thinking too; he was also keen to criticise the other players and provide Harry with detailed training schemes, so that more than once Harry was forced to remind him who was captain.

Meanwhile, Lavender kept sidling up to Harry to discuss Ron, which Harry found almost more wearing than McLaggen's Quidditch lectures. At first, Lavender had been very annoyed that nobody had thought to tell her that Ron was in the hospital wing — "I mean, I am his girlfriend!"— but unfortunately she had now decided to forgive Harry this lapse of memory and was keen to have lots of in-depth chats with him about Ron's feelings, a most uncomfortable experience that Harry would have happily forgone.

"Look, why don't you talk to Ron about all this?" Harry asked, after a particularly long interrogation from Lavender that took in everything from precisely what Ron had said about her new drew robes to whether or not Harry thought that Ron considered his relationship with Lavender to be "serious."

"Well, I would, but he's always asleep when I go and see him!" said Lavender fretfully.

"Is he?" said Harry, surprised, for he had found Ron perfectly alert every time he had been up to the hospital wing, both highly interested in the news of Dumbledore and Snape's row and keen to abuse McLaggen as much as possible.

"Is Hermione still visiting him?" Lavender demanded suddenly.

"Yeah. Well, they're friends, aren't they?" said Harry uncomfortably.

"Friends, don't make me laugh," said Lavender scornfully. "She didn't talk to him for weeks after he started going out with me! But I suppose she wants to make up with him now he's all interesting…"

"Would you call getting poisoned being interesting?" Harry shot back angrily, knowing he'd have to leave or he'd end up hexing her if she slated Hermione again, and he was in no mood for the first person to know about their relationship to be Lavender bloody Brown.

"Anyway, got to go, there's McLaggen coming for a talk about Quidditch," said Harry hurriedly, and he dashed sideways through a door pretending to be solid wall and sprinted down the shortcut that would take him off to Potions where, thankfully, neither Lavender nor McLaggen could follow him.

On the morning of the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, Harry dropped in on the hospital wing before heading down to the pitch. Ron was very agitated; Madam Pomfrey would not let him go down to watch the match, feeling it would overexcite him.

"So how's McLaggen shaping up?" he asked Harry nervously, apparently forgetting that he had already asked the same question twice.

"I've told you," said Harry patiently, "he could be world-class and I wouldn't want to keep him. He keeps trying to tell everyone what to do, he thinks he could play every position better than the rest of us. I can't wait to be shot of him. And speaking of getting shot of people," Harry added, getting to his feet and picking up his Firebolt, "will you stop pretending to be asleep when Lavender comes to see you? She's driving me mad as well."

"Oh," said Ron, looking sheepish. "Yeah. All right."

"If you don't want to go out with her anymore, just tell her," said Harry.

"Yeah…well…it's not that easy, is it?" said Ron. He paused. "Hermione going to look in before the match?" he added casually.

Harry's stomach churned slightly, a now-familiar guilty sensation returning. Even if Hermione insisted she had nothing more than friendly feelings for Ron, it seemed pretty clear to him that Ron felt differently about her.

"No, she's already gone down to the pitch with Ginny," he said, trying to push aside thoughts of just how Hermione had wished him luck earlier that morning.

"Oh," said Ron, looking rather glum. "Right. Well, good luck. Hope you hammer McLag— I mean, Smith."

"I'll try," said Harry, shouldering his broom. "See you after the match."

He hurried down through the deserted corridors; the whole school was outside, either already seated in the stadium or heading down toward it. He was looking out of the windows he passed, trying to gauge how much wind they were facing, when a noise ahead made him glance up and he saw Malfoy walking toward him, accompanied by two girls, both of whom looked sulky and resentful. Malfoy stopped short at the sight of Harry, then gave a short, humourless laugh and continued walking.

"Where're you going?" Harry demanded.

"Yeah, I'm really going to tell you, because it's your business, Potter," sneered Malfoy.

"You'd better hurry up, they'll be waiting for 'the Chosen Captain' — 'the Boy Who Scored' — whatever they call you these days."

One of the girls gave an unwilling giggle. Harry stared at her. She blushed. Malfoy pushed past Harry and she and her friend followed at a trot, turning the corner and vanishing from view.

Harry stood rooted on the spot and watched them disappear. This was infuriating; he was already cutting it fine to get to the match on time and yet there was Malfoy, skulking off while the rest of the school was absent: Harry's best chance yet of discovering what Malfoy was up to. The silent seconds trickled past, and Harry remained where he was, frozen, gazing at the place where Malfoy had vanished…

"Where have you been?" demanded Ginny, as Harry sprinted into the changing rooms. The whole team was changed and ready; Coote and Peakes, the Beaters, were both hitting their clubs nervously against their legs.

"I met Malfoy," Harry told her quietly, as he pulled his scarlet robes over his head. "So I wanted to know how come he's up at the castle with a couple of girlfriends while everyone else is down here…"

"Does it matter right now?"

"Well, I'm not likely to find out, am I?" said Harry, seizing his Firebolt and pushing his glasses straight. "Come on then!"

And without another word, he marched out onto the pitch to deafening cheers and boos.

There was little wind; the clouds were patchy; every now and then there were dazzling flashes of bright sunlight.

"Tricky conditions!" McLaggen said bracingly to the team.

"Coote, Peakes, you'll want to fly out of the sun, so they don't see you coming —"

"I'm the Captain, McLaggen, shut up giving them instructions," said Harry angrily. "Just get up by the goal posts!"

Once McLaggen had marched off, Harry turned to Coote and Peakes. "Make sure you do fly out of the sun," he told them grudgingly.

He shook hands with the Hufflepuff Captain, and then, on Madam Hooch's whistle, kicked off and rose into the air, higher than the rest of his team, streaking around the pitch in search of the Snitch. If he could catch it good and early, there might be a chance he could get back up to the castle, seize the Marauder's Map, and find out what Malfoy was doing…

"And that's Smith of Hufflepuff with the Quaffle," said a dreamy voice, echoing over the grounds. "He did the commentary last time, of course, and Ginny Weasley flew into him, I think probably on purpose, it looked like it. Smith was being quite rude about Gryffindor, I expect he regrets that now he's playing them — oh, look, he's lost the Quaffle, Ginny took it from him, I do like her, she's very nice…"

Harry stared down at the commentator's podium. Surely nobody in their right mind would have let Luna commentate? But even from above there was no mistaking that long, dirty-blonde hair, nor the necklace of butterbeer corks… Beside Luna, Professor McGonagall was looking slightly uncomfortable, as though she was indeed having second thoughts about this appointment.

"…but now that big Hufflepuff player's got the Quaffle from her, I can't remember his name, it's something like Bibble — no, Buggins —"

"It's Cadwallader!" said Professor McGonagall loudly from beside Luna. The crowd laughed.

Harry stared around for the Snitch; there was no sign of it. Moments later, Cadwallader scored. McLaggen had been shouting criticism at Ginny for allowing the Quaffle out of her possession, with the result that he had not noticed the large red ball soaring past his right ear.

"McLaggen, will you pay attention to what you're supposed to be doing and leave everyone else alone!" bellowed Harry, wheeling around to face his Keeper.

"You're not setting a great example!" McLaggen shouted back, red-faced and furious.

"And Harry Potter's now having an argument with his Keeper," said Luna serenely, while both Hufflepuffs and Slytherins below in the crowd cheered and jeered. "I don't think that'll help him find the Snitch, but maybe it's a clever ruse…"

Swearing angrily, Harry spun round and set off around the pitch again, scanning the skies for some sign of the tiny, winged golden ball.

Ginny and Demelza scored a goal apiece, giving the red-and-gold-clad supporters below something to cheer about. Then Cadwallader scored again, making things level, but Luna did not seem to have noticed; she appeared singularly uninterested in such mundane things as the score, and kept attempting to draw the crowd's attention to such things as interestingly shaped clouds and the possibility that Zacharias Smith, who had so far failed to maintain possession of the Quaffle for longer than a minute, was suffering from something called "Loser's Lurgy."

"Seventy-forty to Hufflepuff!" barked Professor McGonagall into Luna's megaphone.

"Is it, already?" said Luna vaguely. "Oh, look! The Gryffindor Keeper's got hold of one of the Beater's bats."

Harry spun around in midair. Sure enough, McLaggen, for reasons best known to himself, had pulled Peakes's bat from him and appeared to be demonstrating how to hit a Bludger toward an oncoming Cadwallader.

"Will you give him back his bat and get back to the posts!" roared Harry, pelting toward McLaggen just as McLaggen took a ferocious swipe at the Bludger and mishit it.

A blinding, sickening pain… a flash of light… distant screams… and the sensation of falling down a long tunnel…

And the next thing Harry knew, he was lying in a remarkably warm and comfortable bed and looking up at a lamp that was throwing a circle of golden light onto a shadowy ceiling. He raised his head awkwardly. There on his left was a familiar-looking, freckly, red-haired person.

"Nice of you to drop in," said Ron, grinning. Harry blinked and looked around. Of course: he was in the hospital wing. The sky outside was indigo streaked with crimson. The match must have finished hours ago…as had any hope of cornering Malfoy. Harry's head felt strangely heavy; he raised a hand and felt a stiff turban of bandages.

"What happened?"

"Cracked skull," said Madam Pomfrey, bustling up and pushing him back against his pillows. "Nothing to worry about, I mended it at once, but I'm keeping you in overnight. You shouldn't overexert yourself for a few hours."

"I don't want to stay here overnight," said Harry angrily, sitting up and throwing back his covers. "I want to find McLaggen and kill him."

"I'm afraid that would come under the heading of 'overexertion,'" said Madam Pomfrey, pushing him firmly back onto the bed and raising her wand in a threatening manner. "You will stay here until I discharge you, Potter, or I shall call the headmaster."

She bustled back into her office, and Harry sank back into his pillows, fuming. "D'you know how much we lost by?" he asked Ron through clenched teeth.

"Well, yeah I do," said Ron apologetically. "Final score was three hundred and twenty to sixty."

"Brilliant," said Harry savagely. "Really brilliant! When I get hold of McLaggen —"

"You don't want to get hold of him, he's the size of a troll," said Ron reasonably. "Personally, I think there's a lot to be said for hexing him with that toenail thing of the Prince's. Anyway, the rest of the team might've dealt with him before you get out of here, they're not happy…"

There was a note of badly suppressed glee in Rons voice; Harry could tell he was nothing short of thrilled that McLaggen had messed up so badly. Harry lay there, staring up at the patch of light on the ceiling, his recently mended skull not hurting, precisely, but feeling slightly tender underneath all the bandaging.

"I could hear the match commentary from here," said Ron, his voice now shaking with laughter. "I hope Luna always commentates from now on… Loser's Lurgy… Bloody brilliant."

But Harry was still too angry to see much humour in the situation, and after a while Ron's snorts subsided.

"Hermione came in to visit while you were unconscious," said Ron, cautiously.

"Right," said Harry, trying to hide any tone in his voice, but his imagination had zoomed into overdrive, rapidly constructing a scene in which Hermione, weeping over his lifeless form, had confessed her feelings for him to Ron, who had given them his blessing…

"She was, well, pretty upset," Ron said. Harry looked across at him, wincing as he turned his head. "Like," Ron continued, the confusion evident in his voice. "… really upset. She was bloody distraught, really. Madam Pomfrey made a potion to calm her down."

"Where is she?" Harry said at once, unable to stop himself. Ron's expression changed slightly, so Harry added, as innocently as he could: "I mean, if she was given a potion I thought she'd be in here too."

"Nah," said Ron. "She didn't take it in the end. Ginny came, too, calmed her down a bit and they left. Probably about an hour ago, now. She was a right mess, though. Even when Pomfrey said you'd be fine."

Harry gulped. Was he really going to have to have this conversation with Ron so soon.

After a few seconds, he guessed it was better to get it over with, but just as he was going to speak, Ron said: "Oh, Ginny said you only just arrived on time for the match. How come? You left here early enough."

"Oh…" said Harry, as whatever jumble of thoughts and confessions he was going to say to Ron went out of his head. "Yeah… well, I saw Malfoy sneaking off with a couple of girls who didn't look like they wanted to be with him, and that's the second time he's made sure he isn't down

on the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the school; he skipped the last match too, remember?" Harry sighed. "Wish I'd followed him now, the match was such a shi–…"

"Don't be stupid," said Ron sharply. "You couldn't have missed a Quidditch match just to follow Malfoy, you're the captain!"

"I want to know what he's up to," said Harry. "And don't tell me its all in my head, not after what I overheard between him and Snape —"

"I never said it was all in your head," said Ron, hoisting himself up on an elbow in turn and frowning at Harry, "but there's no rule saying only one person at a time can be plotting anything in this place! You're getting a bit obsessed with Malfoy, Harry. I mean, thinking about missing a match just to follow him…"

"I want to catch him at it!" said Harry in frustration. "I mean, where's he going when he disappears off the map?"

"I dunno…Hogsmeade?" suggested Ron, yawning.

"I've never seen him going along any of the secret passageway on the map. I thought they were being watched now anyway – Hermione said there's no way out of the castle now."

"Well then, I dunno," said Ron.

Silence fell between them. Harry stared up at the circle of lamplight above him, thinking… If only he had Rufus Scrimgeour's power, he would have been able to set a tail upon Malfoy, but unfortunately Harry did not have an office full of Aurors at his command…

He thought fleetingly of trying to set something up with the D.A., but there again was the problem that people would be missed from lessons; most of them, after all, still had full schedules…

There was a low, rumbling snore from Ron's bed. After a while Madam Pomfrey came out of her office, this time wearing a thick dressing gown. It was easiest to feign sleep; Harry rolled over onto his side and listened to all the curtains closing themselves as she waved her wand. The lamps dimmed, and she returned to her office; he heard the door click behind her and knew that she was off to bed.

This was, Harry reflected in the darkness, the third time that he had been brought to the hospital wing because of a Quidditch injury. Last time he had fallen off his broom due to the

presence of dementors around the pitch, and the time before that, all the bones had been removed from his arm by the incurably inept Professor Lockhart…That had been his most painful injury by far…he remembered the agony of regrowing an armful of bones in one night, a discomfort not eased by the arrival of an unexpected visitor in the middle of the–

Harry sat bolt upright, his heart pounding, his bandage turban askew. He had the solution at last: There was a way to have Malfoy followed — how could he have forgotten, why hadn't he thought of it before?

But the question was, how to call him? What did you do? Quietly, tentatively, Harry spoke into the darkness.

"Kreacher?"

There was a very loud crack, and the sounds of scuffling and squeaks filled the silent room. Ron awoke with a yelp. "What's going —?"

Harry pointed his wand hastily at the door of Madam Pomfrey's office and muttered, "Muffliato!" so that she would not come running.

Then he scrambled to the end of his bed for a better look at what was going on. Two house- elves were rolling around on the floor in the middle of the dormitory, one wearing a shrunken maroon jumper and several woolly hats, the other, a filthy old rag strung over his hips like a loincloth. Then there was another loud bang, and Peeves the Poltergeist appeared in midair above the wrestling elves.

"I was watching that, Potty!" he told Harry indignantly, pointing at the fight below, before letting out a loud cackle. "Look at the ickle creatures squabbling, bitey bitey, punchy punchy—"

"Kreacher will not insult Harry Potter in front of Dobby, no he won't, or Dobby will shut Kreacher's mouth for him!" cried Dobby in a high-pitched voice.

"— kicky, scratchy!" cried Peeves happily, now pelting bits of' chalk at the elves to enrage them further. "Tweaky, pokey!"

"Kreacher will say what he likes about his master, oh yes, and what a master he is, filthy friend of Mudbloods, oh, what would poor Kreacher's mistress say —?"

Exactly what Kreacher's mistress would have said they did not find out, for at that moment Dobby sank his knobbly little fist into Kreacher's mouth and knocked out half of his teeth.

Harry and Ron both leapt out of their beds and wrenched the two elves apart, though they continued to try and kick and punch each other, egged on by Peeves, who swooped around the lamp squealing, "Stick your fingers up his nosey, draw his cork and pull his earsies —"

Harry aimed his wand at Peeves and said, "Langlock!" Peeves clutched at his throat, gulped, then swooped from the room making obscene gestures but unable to speak, owing to the fact that his tongue had just glued itself to the roof of his mouth.

"Nice one," said Ron appreciatively, lifting Dobby into the air so that his flailing limbs no longer made contact with Kreacher. "That was another Prince hex, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," said Harry, twisting Kreacher's wizened arm into a half nelson. "Right — I'm forbidding you to fight each other! Well, Kreacher, you're forbidden to fight Dobby. Dobby, I know I'm not allowed to give you orders —"

"Dobby is a free house-elf and he can obey anyone he likes and Dobby will do whatever Harry Potter wants him to do!" said Dobby, tears now streaming down his shrivelled little face onto his jumper.

"Okay then," said Harry, and he and Ron both released the elves, who fell to the floor but did not continue fighting.

"Master called me?" croaked Kreacher, sinking into a bow even as he gave Harry a look that plainly wished him a painful death.

"Yeah, I did," said Harry, glancing toward Madam Pomfrey's office door to check that the Muffliato spell was still working; there was no sign that she had heard any of the commotion. "I've got a job for you."

"Kreacher will do whatever Master wants," said Kreacher, sinking so low that his lips almost touched his gnarled toes, "because Kreacher has no choice, but Kreacher is ashamed to have such a master, yes —"

"Dobby will do it, Harry Potter!" squeaked Dobby, his tennis-ball-sized eyes still swimming in tears. "Dobby would be honoured to help Harry Potter!"

"Come to think of it, it would be good to have both of you," said Harry. "Okay then…I want you to tail Draco Malfoy." Ignoring the look of mingled surprise and exasperation on Ron's face, Harry went on, "I want to know where he's going, who he's meeting, and what he's doing. I want you to follow him around the clock."

"Yes, Harry Potter!" said Dobby at once, his great eyes shining with excitement. "And if Dobby does it wrong, Dobby will throw himself off the topmost tower, Harry Potter!"

"There won't be any need for that," said Harry hastily.

"Master wants me to follow the youngest of the Malfoys?" croaked Kreacher. "Master wants me to spy upon the pureblood great-nephew of my old mistress?"

"That's the one," said Harry, foreseeing a great danger and determining to prevent it immediately. "And you're forbidden to tip him off, Kreacher, or to show him what you're up to, or to talk to him at all, or to write him messages or… or to contact him in any way. Got it?"

He thought he could see Kreacher struggling to see a loophole in the instructions he had just been given and waited. After a moment or two, and to Harry's great satisfaction, Kreacher bowed deeply again and said, with bitter resentment, "Master thinks of everything, and Kreacher must obey him even though Kreacher would much rather be the servant of the Malfoy boy, oh yes…"

"That's settled, then," said Harry.

"I'll want regular reports, but make sure I'm not surrounded by people when you turn up. Ron and Hermione are okay. And don't tell anyone what you're doing. Just stick to Malfoy like a couple of wart plasters."

"Kreacher will not say to Master unless the Weazer and Mudb–"

"Kreacher!" Harry snapped. "If you call Hermione 'Mudblood' again, you will throw yourself off the top tower." Ron looked horrified, but Harry wouldn't have it.

Kreacher stood still, looking at Harry with pure disdain.

"Kreacher…," Harry said, slowly. "You do not call Hermione that. She is Hermione or Miss to you. Do you understand?"

Kreacher starred back, but then nodded and, with a crack, both House Elves disappeared.

Chapter 16: 16: Chapter Twenty – Lord Voldemort's Request [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Harry and Ron left the hospital wing first thing on Monday morning, restored to full health by the ministrations of Madam Pomfrey and now able to enjoy the benefits of having been knocked out and poisoned, the best of which was that Hermione was friends with Ron again.

Hermione, having kissed them both on the cheek – albeit lingering longer on Harry's and planting it far closer to the corner of his mouth, though Ron looked too surprised at the kiss he'd received to realise – even walked them both down to breakfast, bringing with her the news that Ginny had argued with Dean.

"What did they row about?" Ron asked as they turned onto a seventh-floor corridor that was deserted but for a very small girl who had been examining a tapestry of trolls in tutus.

She looked terrified at the sight of the approaching sixth years and dropped the heavy brass scales she was carrying.

"It's all right!" said Hermione kindly, hurrying forward to help her. "Here…" She tapped the broken scales with her wand and said, "Reparo."

The girl did not say thank you, but remained rooted to the spot as they passed and watched them out of sight; Ron glanced back at her.

"I swear they're getting smaller," he said, before continuing. "What did Ginny and Dean row about, Hermione?

"Oh, Dean was laughing about McLaggen hitting that Bludger at Harry," said Hermione.

"It must've looked funny," said Ron reasonably.

"It didn't look funny at all!" said Hermione hotly, "It looked terrible and if Coote and Peakes hadn't caught Harry he could have been badly hurt!"

Ron pulled a face at Harry, rolling his eyes. Harry smiled, but it was far less to do with Ron's reaction than it was the fact Hermione was being so protective of him.

"Anyway, I said as much and Ginny agreed, then she started having a go at Dean."

With Hermione walking in between them, he gave her hand a quick squeeze. He had no ill- feeling towards Dean, but if it came to picking a side between him and Hermione, there was only going to be one winner.

"Hey, Harry," Came a dreamy voice from behind them.

"Oh, hi, Luna."

"I went to the hospital wing to find you," said Luna, rummaging in her bag. "But they said you'd left…"

She thrust what appeared to be a green onion, a large spotted toadstool, and a considerable amount of what looked like cat litter into Ron's hands, finally pulling out a rather grubby scroll of parchment that she handed to Harry.

"…I've been told to give you this."

Harry recognised it at once as another invitation to a lesson with Dumbledore. "Tonight," he told Hermione, once he had unrolled it.

"Nice commentary last match!" said Ron to Luna as she took back the toadstool and the cat litter. Luna smiled vaguely.

"You're making fun of me, aren't you?" she said. "Everyone says I was dreadful."

"No, no, I'm serious!" said Ron earnestly. "I can't remember enjoying commentary more! What is this, by the way?" he added, holding the onion-like object up to eye level.

"Oh, it's a Gurdyroot," she said, stuffing the cat litter and the toadstool back into her bag. "You can keep it if you like, I've got a few of them. They're really excellent for warding off Gulping Plimpies." And she walked away, leaving Ron chortling, still clutching the Gurdyroot.

"Got to love her… Luna," Ron said with a smile, as they set off again for the Great Hall.

"Well, clearly the way to win your affection is a Gurdyroot," Hermione teased. Ron turned pink as Harry laughed.

"Shut up!" Ron said. "I just mean she's grown on me. I mean, I know she's insane, but it's in a good —"

He stopped talking very suddenly. Lavender Brown was standing at the top of the nearest staircase, looking thunderous.

"Hi," said Ron nervously.

"C'mon," Harry muttered to Hermione, discreetly taking her hand as they sped past, though not before they had heard Lavender say, "Why didn't you tell me you were getting out today? And why was she with you?"

"I've got a feeling that," – Hermione cast her eyes back over her shoulder – "might not be lasting too much longer."

"Hmm," said Harry, smiling, relishing a few minutes alone with her. "You sound rather happy about that, Granger… should I be worried?"

Hermione shot him a look, but Harry continued, enjoying his chance to tease her.

"I mean… You did just kiss him… In front of me!"

"Oh, shut up!" She said, pushing him. "You're such a gi – Harry!"

Hermione didn't get to finish her insult, as at that moment Harry dragged her through a tapestry he knew hid a shortcut. Without a second thought, he wrenched it open and pulled her in.

"Such a what?" He asked suggestively.

"Git," she breathed. "Oh, Harry," and she cut herself off by clashing her lips onto his.

Five minutes later, they emerged cautiously back into the corridor; Hermione rightening her hair while Harry straightened his tie, both blushing profusely.

Fortunately, they managed to make their way down to the Hall moments before Ron arrived, looking both sulky and annoyed. Though he sat with Lavender, Harry did not see them exchange a word all the time they were together.

"You know," Harry whispered to Hermione, not failing to notice her shiver as his breath caught on her neck. "We're going to have to tell him soon, or they'll break up because of it."

"What d'you mean?" Hermione asked, far too innocently.

"Well," Harry said. "Lavender thinks you fancy Ron."

"Oh."

"Oh come on, it's not like you hadn't figured that? Well, to be fair, she wouldn't have been the only one –"

That comment earned Harry a stamp on the foot. Hermione looked at Ron and Lavender.

"I know," she said. "I… We need to tell him. But… I just."

"Don't want to hurt him." Harry finished her sentence for her. She nodded glumly.

All that day, Harry remained in a particularly good mood. With Ron and Hermione now friends again, it felt like they were able to laugh at Ron's plight without it coming across as nasty, and any time Ron retorted, Harry and Hermione would simply mock 'Won-Won' or 'Lav-Lav' to shut him up, though he took it well enough.

Hermione even consented to look over – or, in other words, finish writing – Harry's Herbology essay, something she had been resolutely refusing to do up to this point, because she had

known that Harry would then let Ron copy his work; even Harry planting some feathered kisses on what he now knew was a particularly sensitive spot on her neck had not previously persuaded her to help him.

"Thanks a lot," he said, rubbing her back and shoulders as he looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly eight o'clock. "Listen, I've got to hurry or I'll be late for Dumbledore…"

She did not answer at first, but merely crossed out a few of his feebler sentences in a weary sort of way.

"Oh… go on, then," she said, trying to act stern, but he could see the smile creeping on her face. "I'll wait up."

Grinning, Harry hurried out through the portrait hole and off to the headmaster's office. The gargoyle leapt aside at the mention of toffee eclairs, and Harry took the spiral staircase two steps at a time, knocking on the door just as a clock within chimed eight.

"Enter," called Dumbledore, but as Harry put out a hand to push the door, it was wrenched open from inside. There stood Professor Trelawney.

"Aha!" she cried, pointing dramatically at Harry as she blinked at him through her magnifying spectacles. "So this is the reason I am to be thrown unceremoniously from your office, Dumbledore!"

"My dear Sybill," said Dumbledore in a slightly exasperated voice, "there is no question of throwing you unceremoniously from anywhere, but Harry does have an appointment, and I really don't think there is any more to be said —"

"Very well," said Professor Trelawney, in a deeply wounded voice. "If you will not banish the usurping nag, so be it…Perhaps I shall find a school where my talents are better appreciated…"

She pushed past Harry and disappeared down the spiral staircase; they heard her stumble halfway down, and Harry guessed that she had tripped over one of her trailing shawls.

"Please close the door and sit down, Harry," said Dumbledore, sounding rather tired. Harry obeyed, noticing as he took his usual seat in front of Dumbledore's desk that the Pensieve lay between them once more, as did two more tiny crystal bottles full of swirling memory.

"Professor Trelawney still isn't happy Firenze is teaching, then?" Harry asked.

"No," said Dumbledore, "Divination is turning out to be much more trouble than I could have foreseen, never having studied the subject myself. I cannot ask Firenze to return to the forest, where he is now an outcast, nor can I ask Sybill Trelawney to leave. Between ourselves, she has no idea of the danger she would be in outside of the castle. She does not know — and I think it would be unwise to enlighten her — that she made the prophecy about you and Voldemort, you see."

Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh, then said, "But never mind my staffing problems. We have much more important matters to discuss. Firstly — have you managed the task I set you at the end of our previous lesson?"

"Ah," said Harry, brought up short. What with apparition lessons and Quidditch and Ron being poisoned and getting his skull cracked and his determination to find out what Draco Malfoy was up to, not to mention Hermione, Harry had almost forgotten about the memory Dumbledore had asked him to extract from Professor Slughorn. "Well, I asked Professor Slughorn about it at the end of Potions, sir, but, er, he wouldn't give it to me."

There was a little silence.

"I see," said Dumbledore eventually, peering at Harry over the top of his half-moon spectacles and giving Harry the usual sensation that he was being X-rayed. "And you feel that you have exerted your very best efforts in this matter, do you? That you have exercised all of your considerable ingenuity? That you have left no depth of cunning unplumbed in your quest to retrieve the memory?"

"Well," Harry stalled, at a loss for what to say next. His single attempt to get hold of the memory suddenly seemed embarrassingly feeble. "Well…the day Ron swallowed love potion by mistake I took him to Professor Slughorn. I thought maybe if I got Professor Slughorn in a good enough mood —"

"And did that work?" asked Dumbledore.

"Well, no, sir, because Ron got poisoned —"

"— which, naturally, made you forget all about trying to retrieve the memory; I would have expected nothing else, while your best friend was in danger. Once it became clear that Mr. Weasley was going to make a full recovery, however, I would have hoped that you returned to the task I set you. I thought I made it clear to you how very important that memory is. Indeed,

I did my best to impress upon you that it is the most crucial memory of all and that we will be wasting our time without it."

A hot, prickly feeling of shame spread from the top of Harry's head all the way down his body. Dumbledore had not raised his voice, he did not even sound angry, but Harry would have preferred him to yell; this cold disappointment was worse than anything.

"Sir," he said, a little desperately, "it isn't that I wasn't bothered or anything, I've just had other — other things…"

"Other things on your mind," Dumbledore finished the sentence for him. "I see." Silence fell between them again, the most uncomfortable silence Harry had ever experienced with Dumbledore; it seemed to go on and on, punctuated only by the little grunting snores of the portrait of Armando Dippet over Dumbledore's head.

Harry felt strangely diminished, as though he had shrunk a little since he had entered the room. When he could stand it no longer he said, "Professor Dumbledore, I'm really sorry. I should have done more… I should have realised you wouldn't have asked me to do it if it wasn't really important."

"Thank you for saying that, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. "May I hope, then, that you will give this matter higher priority from now on? There will be little point in our meeting after tonight unless we have that memory."

"I'll do it, sir, I'll get it from him," he said earnestly.

"Then we shall say no more about it just now," said Dumbledore more kindly, "but continue with our story where we left off. You remember where that was?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry quickly. "Voldemort killed his father and his grandparents and made it look as though his Uncle Morfin did it. Then he went back to Hogwarts and he asked…he asked Professor Slughorn about Horcruxes," he mumbled shamefacedly.

"Very good," said Dumbledore. "Now, you will remember, I hope, that I told you at the very outset of these meetings of ours that we would be entering the realms of guesswork and speculation?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thus far, as I hope you agree, I have shown you reasonably firm sources of fact for my deductions as to what Voldemort did until the age of seventeen?"

Harry nodded. "But now, Harry," said Dumbledore, "now things become murkier and stranger. If it was difficult to find evidence about the boy Riddle, it has been almost impossible to find anyone prepared to reminisce about the man Voldemort. In fact, I doubt whether there is a soul alive, apart from himself, who could give us a full account of his life since he left Hogwarts.

However, I have two last memories that I would like to share with you." Dumbledore indicated the two little crystal bottles gleaming beside the Pensieve. "I shall then be glad of your opinion as to whether the conclusions I have drawn from them seem likely."

The idea that Dumbledore valued his opinion this highly made Harry feel even more deeply ashamed that he had failed in the task of retrieving the Horcrux memory, and he shifted guiltily in his seat as Dumbledore raised the first of the two bottles to the light and examined it.

"I hope you are not tired of diving into other people's memories, for they are curious recollections, these two," he said. "This first one came from a very old house-elf by the name of Hokey. Before we see what Hokey witnessed, I must quickly recount how Lord Voldemort left Hogwarts.

"He reached the seventh year of his schooling with, as you might have expected, top grades in every examination he had taken. All around him, his classmates were deciding which jobs they were to pursue once they had left Hogwarts. Nearly everybody expected spectacular things from Tom Riddle, prefect, Head Boy, winner of the Award for Special Services to the School. I know that several teachers, Professor Slughorn amongst them, suggested that he join the Ministry of Magic, offered to set up appointments, put him in touch with useful contacts. He refused all offers. The next thing the staff knew, Voldemort was working at Borgin and Burkes."

"At Borgin and Burkes?" Harry repeated, stunned.

"At Borgin and Burkes," repeated Dumbledore calmly. "I think you will see what attractions the place held for him when we have entered Hokey's memory. But this was not Voldemort's first choice of job. Hardly anyone knew of it at the time — I was one of the few in whom the then headmaster confided — but Voldemort first approached Professor Dippet and asked whether he could remain at Hogwarts as a teacher."

"He wanted to stay here? Why?" asked Harry, more amazed still.

"I believe he had several reasons, though he confided none of them to Professor Dippet," said Dumbledore. "Firstly, and very importantly, Voldemort was, I believe, more attached to this

school than he has ever been to a person. Hogwarts was where he had been happiest; the first and only place he had felt at home."

Harry felt slightly uncomfortable at these words, for this was exactly how he felt about Hogwarts too.

"Secondly, the castle is a stronghold of ancient magic. Undoubtedly Voldemort had penetrated many more of its secrets than most of the students who pass through the place, but he may have felt that there were still mysteries to unravel, stores of magic to tap.

"And thirdly, as a teacher, he would have had great power and influence over young witches and wizards. Perhaps he had gained the idea from Professor Slughorn, the teacher with whom he was on best terms, who had demonstrated how influential a role a teacher can play. I do not imagine for an instant that Voldemort envisaged spending the rest of his life at Hogwarts, but I do think that he saw it as a useful recruiting ground, and a place where he might begin to build himself an army."

"But he didn't get the job, sir?"

"No, he did not. Professor Dippet told him that he was too young at eighteen, but invited him to reapply in a few years, if he still wished to teach."

"How did you feel about that, sir?" asked Harry hesitantly.

"Deeply uneasy," said Dumbledore. "I had advised Armando against the appointment — I did not give the reasons I have given you, for Professor Dippet was very fond of Voldemort and convinced of his honesty. But I did not want Tom Riddle back at this school, and especially not in a position of power."

"Which job did he want, sir? What subject did he want to teach?" Somehow, Harry knew the answer even before Dumbledore gave it.

"Defence Against the Dark Arts. It was being taught at the time by an old Professor by the name of Galatea Merrythought, who had been at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years.

"So Voldemort went off to Borgin and Burkes, and all the staff who had admired him said what a waste it was, a brilliant young wizard like that, working in a shop. However, Voldemort was no mere assistant. Polite and handsome and clever, he was soon given particular jobs of the type

that only exist in a place like Borgin and Burkes, which specialises, as you know, Harry, in objects with unusual and powerful properties.

Voldemort was sent to persuade people to part with their treasures for sale by the partners, and he was, by all accounts, unusually gifted at doing this."

"I'll bet he was," said Harry, unable to contain himself.

"Well, quite," said Dumbledore, with a faint smile. "And now it is time to hear from Hokey the house-elf, who worked for a very old, very rich witch by the name of Hepzibah Smith."

Dumbledore tapped a bottle with his wand, the cork flew out, and he tipped the swirling memory into the Pensieve, saying as he did so, "After you, Harry." Harry got to his feet and bent once more over the rippling silver contents of the stone basin until his face touched them. He tumbled through dark nothingness and landed in a sitting room in front of an immensely fat old lady wearing an elaborate ginger wig and a brilliant pink set of robes that flowed all around her, giving her the look of a melting iced cake.

She was looking into a small, jewelled mirror and dabbing rouge onto her already scarlet cheeks with a large powder puff, while the tiniest and oldest house-elf Harry had ever seen laced her fleshy feet into tight satin slippers.

"Hurry up, Hokey!" said Hepzibah imperiously. "He said he'd come at four, it's only a couple of minutes to and he's never been late yet!" She tucked away her powder puff as the house-elf straightened up. The top of the elf's head barely reached the seat of Hepzibah's chair, and her papery skin hung off her frame just like the crisp linen sheet she wore draped like a toga.

"How do I look?" said Hepzibah, turning her head to admire the various angles of her face in the mirror.

"Lovely, madam," squeaked Hokey.

Harry could only assume that it was down in Hokey's contract that she must lie through her teeth when asked this question, because Hepzibah Smith looked a long way from lovely in his opinion. A tinkling doorbell rang and both mistress and elf jumped.

"Quick, quick, he's here, Hokey!" cried Hepzibah and the elf scurried out of the room, which was so crammed with objects that it was difficult to see how anybody could navigate their way across it without knocking over at least a dozen things: There were cabinets full of little

lacquered boxes, cases full of gold-embossed books, shelves of orbs and celestial globes, and many flourishing potted plants in brass containers. In fact, the room looked like a cross between a magical antique shop and a conservatory.

The house-elf returned within minutes, followed by a tall young man Harry had no difficulty whatsoever in recognising as Voldemort. He was plainly dressed in a black suit; his hair was a little longer than it had been at school and his cheeks were hollowed, but all of this suited him; he looked more handsome than ever. He picked his way through the cramped room with an air that showed he had visited many times before and bowed low over Hepzibah's fat little hand, brushing it with his lips.

"I brought you flowers," he said quietly, producing a bunch of roses from nowhere.

"You naughty boy, you shouldn't have!" squealed old Hepzibah, though Harry noticed that she had an empty vase standing ready on the nearest little table. "You do spoil this old lady, Tom… Sit down, sit down…Where's Hokey? Ah…"

The house-elf had come dashing back into the room carrying a tray of little cakes, which she set at her mistress's elbow.

"Help yourself, Tom," said Hepzibah, "I know how you love my cakes. Now, how are you? You look pale. They overwork you at that shop, I've said it a hundred times…"

Voldemort smiled mechanically and Hepzibah simpered. "Well, what's your excuse for visiting this time?" she asked, battering her lashes.

"Mr. Burke would like to make an improved offer for the goblin-made armour," said Voldemort. "Five hundred Galleons, he feels it is a more than fair —"

"Now, now, not so fast, or I'll think you're only here for my trinkets!" pouted Hepzibah.

"I am ordered here because of them," said Voldemort quietly. "I am only a poor assistant, madam, who must do as he is told. Mr. Burke wishes me to inquire —"

"Oh, Mr. Burke, phooey!" said Hepzibah, waving a little hand. "I've something to show you that I've never shown Mr. Burke! Can you keep a secret, Tom? Will you promise you won't tell Mr. Burke I've got it? He'd never let me rest if he knew I'd shown it to you, and I'm not selling, not to Burke, not to anyone! But you, Tom, you'll appreciate it for its history, not how many Galleons you can get for it."

"I'd be glad to see anything Miss Hepzibah shows me," said Voldemort quietly, and Hepzibah gave another girlish giggle.

"I had Hokey bring it out for me…Hokey, where are you? I want to show Mr. Riddle our finest treasure…In fact, bring both, while you're at it…"

"Here, madam," squeaked the house-elf, and Harry saw two leather boxes, one on top of the other, moving across the room as if of their own volition, though he knew the tiny elf was holding them over her head as she wended her way between tables, pouffes, and footstools.

"Now," said Hepzibah happily, taking the boxes from the elf, laying them in her lap, and preparing to open the topmost one, "I think you'll like this, Tom…Oh, if my family knew I was showing you…They can't wait to get their hands on this!"

She opened the lid. Harry edged forward a little to get a better view and saw what looked like a small golden cup with two finely wrought handles.

"I wonder whether you know what it is, Tom? Pick it up, have a good look!" whispered Hepzibah, and Voldemort stretched out a long-fingered hand and lifted the cup by one handle out of its snug silken wrappings. Harry thought he saw a red gleam in his dark eyes. His greedy expression was curiously mirrored on Hepzibah's face, except that her tiny eyes were fixed upon Voldemort's handsome features.

"A badger," murmured Voldemort, examining the engraving upon the cup. "Then this was…?"

"Helga Hufflepuff's, as you very well know, you clever boy!" said Hepzibah, leaning forward with a loud creaking of corsets and actually pinching his hollow cheek. "Didn't I tell you I was distantly descended? This has been handed down in the family for years and years. Lovely, isn't it? And all sorts of powers it's supposed to possess too, but I haven't tested them thoroughly, I just keep it nice and safe in here…"

She hooked the cup back off Voldemort's long forefinger and restored it gently to its box, too intent upon settling it carefully back into position to notice the shadow that crossed Voldemort's face as the cup was taken away.

"Now then," said Hepzibah happily, "where's Hokey? Oh yes, there you are — take that away now, Hokey."

The elf obediently took the boxed cup, and Hepzibah turned her attention to the much flatter box in her lap.

"I think you'll like this even more, Tom," she whispered. "Lean in a little, dear boy, so you can see…Of course, Burke knows I've got this one, I bought it from him, and I daresay he'd love to get it back when I'm gone…"

She slid back the fine filigree clasp and flipped open the box. There upon the smooth crimson velvet lay a heavy golden locket. Voldemort reached out his hand, without invitation this time, and held it up to the light, staring at it.

"Slytherin's mark," he said quietly, as the light played upon an ornate, serpentine S.

"That's right!" said Hepzibah, delighted, apparently, at the sight of Voldemort gazing at her locket, transfixed. "I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, but I couldn't let it pass, not a real treasure like that, had to have it for my collection. Burke bought it, apparently, from a ragged- looking woman who seemed to have stolen it, but had no idea of its true value —"

There was no mistaking it this time: Voldemort's eyes flashed scarlet at the words, and Harry saw his knuckles whiten on the locket's chain.

"— I daresay Burke paid her a pittance but there you are…Pretty, isn't it? And again, all kinds of powers attributed to it, though I just keep it nice and safe…"

She reached out to take the locket back. For a moment, Harry thought Voldemort was not going to let go of it, but then it had slid through his fingers and was back in its red velvet cushion.

"So there you are, Tom, clear, and I hope you enjoyed that!" She looked him full in the face and for the first time, Harry saw her foolish smile falter.

"Are you all right, dear?"

"Oh yes," said Voldemort quietly.

"Yes, I'm very well…"

"I thought — but a trick of the light, I suppose —" said Hepzibah, looking unnerved, and Harry guessed that she too had seen the momentary red gleam in Voldemort's eyes.

"Here, Hokey, take these away and lock them up again…The usual enchantments…"

"Time to leave, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly, and as the in tie elf bobbed away bearing the boxes, Dumbledore grasped Harry once again above the elbow and together they rose up through oblivion and back to Dumbledore's office.

"Hepzibah Smith died two days after that little scene," said Dumbledore, resuming his seat and indicating that Harry should do the same. "Hokey the house-elf was convicted by the Ministry of poisoning her mistress's evening cocoa by accident."

"No way!" said Harry angrily.

"I see we are of one mind," said Dumbledore. "Certainly, there are many similarities between this death and that of the Riddles. In both cases, somebody else took the blame, someone who had a clear memory of having caused the death —"

"Hokey confessed?"

"She remembered putting something in her mistress's cocoa that turned out not to be sugar, but a lethal and little-known poison," said Dumbledore. "It was concluded that she had not meant to do it, but being old and confused —"

"Voldemort modified her memory, just like he did with Morfin!"

"Yes, that is my conclusion too," said Dumbledore. "And, just as with Morfin, the Ministry was predisposed to suspect Hokey —"

"— because she was a house-elf," said Harry bitterly. He had rarely felt more in sympathy with the society Hermione had set up, S.P.E.W.

"Precisely," said Dumbledore. "She was old, she admitted to having tampered with the drink, and nobody at the Ministry bothered to inquire further. As in the case of Morfin, by the time I traced her and managed to extract this memory, her life was almost over — but her memory, of course, proves nothing except that Voldemort knew of the existence of the cup and the locket.

"By the time Hokey was convicted, Hepzibah's family had realised that two of her greatest treasures were missing. It took them a while to be sure of this, for she had many hiding places, having always guarded her collection most jealously. But before they were sure beyond doubt that the cup and the locket were both gone, the assistant who had worked at Borgin and Burkes, the young man who had visited Hepzibah so regularly and charmed her so well, had resigned his post and vanished. His superiors had no idea where he had gone; they were as surprised as anyone at his disappearance. And that was the last that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very long time.

"Now," said Dumbledore, "if you don't mind, Harry, I want to pause once more to draw your attention to certain points of our story. Voldemort had committed another murder; whether it was his first since he killed the Riddles, I do not know, but I think it was. This time, as you will have seen, he killed not for revenge, but for gain. He wanted the two fabulous trophies that poor, besotted, old woman showed him. Just as he had once robbed the other children at his orphanage, just as he had stolen his Uncle Morfin's ring, so he ran off now with Hepzibah's cup and locket."

"But," said Harry, frowning, "it seems mad…Risking everything, throwing away his job, just for those…"

"Mad to you, perhaps, but not to Voldemort," said Dumbledore. "I hope you will understand in due course exactly what those objects meant to him, Harry, but you must admit that it is not difficult to imagine that he saw the locket, at least, as rightfully his."

"The locket maybe," said Harry, "but why take the cup as well?"

"It had belonged to another of Hogwarts's founders," said Dumbledore. "I think he still felt a great pull toward the school and that he could not resist an object so steeped in Hogwarts history. There were other reasons, I think…I hope to be able to demonstrate them to you in due course.

"And now for the last recollection I have to show you, at least until you manage to retrieve Professor Slughorn's memory for us. Ten years separate Hokey's memory and this one, ten years during which we can only guess at what Lord Voldemort was doing…"

Harry got to his feet once more as Dumbledore emptied the last memory into the Pensieve.

"Whose memory is it?" he asked.

"Mine," said Dumbledore. And Harry dived after Dumbledore through the shifting silver mass, landing in the very office he had just left. There was Fawkes slumbering happily on his perch, and there behind the desk was Dumbledore, who looked very similar to the Dumbledore standing beside Harry, though both hands were whole and undamaged and his face was, perhaps, a little less lined.

The one difference between the present-day office and this one was that it was snowing in the past; bluish flecks were drifting past the window in the dark and building up on the outside ledge. The younger Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for something, and sure enough, moments after their arrival, there was a knock on the door and he said, "Enter."

Harry let out a hastily stifled gasp. Voldemort had entered the room. His features were not those Harry had seen emerge from the great stone cauldron almost two years ago: They were not as snakelike, the eyes were not yet scarlet, the face not yet masklike, and yet he was no longer handsome Tom Riddle. It was as though his features had been burned and blurred; they were waxy and oddly distorted, and the whites of the eyes now had a permanently bloody look, though the pupils were not yet the slits that Harry knew they would become. He was wearing a long black cloak, and his face was as pale as the snow glistening on his shoulders.

The Dumbledore behind the desk showed no sign of surprise. Evidently this visit had been made by appointment.

"Good evening, Tom," said Dumbledore easily. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you," said Voldemort, and he took the seat to which Dumbledore had gestured — the very seat, by the looks of it, that Harry had just vacated in the present. "I heard that you had become headmaster," he said, and his voice was slightly higher and colder than it had been. "A worthy choice."

"I am glad you approve," said Dumbledore, smiling. "May I offer you a drink?"

"That would be welcome," said Voldemort. "I have come a long way."

Dumbledore stood and swept over to the cabinet where he now kept the Pensieve, but which then was full of bottles. Having handed Voldemort a goblet of wine and poured one for himself, he returned to the seat behind his desk.

"So, Tom…to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Voldemort did not answer at once, but merely sipped his wine. "They do not call me 'Tom' anymore," he said. "These days, I am known as —"

"I know what you are known as," said Dumbledore, smiling, pleasantly. "But to me, I'm afraid, you will always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the irritating things about old teachers. I am afraid that they never quite forget their charges' youthful beginnings."

He raised his glass as though toasting Voldemort, whose face remained expressionless. Nevertheless, Harry felt the atmosphere in the room change subtly: Dumbledore's refusal to use Voldemort's chosen name was a refusal to allow Voldemort to dictate the terms of the meeting, and Harry could tell that Voldemort took it as such.

"I am surprised you have remained here so long," said Voldemort after a short pause. "I always wondered why a wizard such as yourself never wished to leave school."

"Well," said Dumbledore, still smiling, "to a wizard such as myself, there can be nothing more important than passing on ancient skills, helping hone young minds. If I remember correctly, you once saw the attraction of teaching too."

"I see it still," said Voldemort. "I merely wondered why you — who are so often asked for advice by the Ministry, and who have twice, I think, been offered the post of Minister —"

"Three times at the last count, actually," said Dumbledore. "But the Ministry never attracted me as a career. Again, something we have in common, I think."

Voldemort inclined his head, unsmiling, and took another sip of wine. Dumbledore did not break the silence that stretched between them now, but waited, with a look of pleasant expectancy, for Voldemort to talk first.

"I have returned," he said, after a little while, "later, perhaps, than Professor Dippet expected… but I have returned, nevertheless, to request again what he once told me I was too young to have. I have come to you to ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to teach. I think you must know that I have seen and done much since I left this place. I could show and tell your students things they can gain from no other wizard."

Dumbledore considered Voldemort over the top of his own goblet for a while before speaking.

"Yes, I certainly do know that you have seen and done much since leaving us," he said quietly. "Rumours of your doings have reached your old school, Tom. I should be sorry to believe half of them."

Voldemort's expression remained impassive as he said, "Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore."

"You call it 'greatness,' what you have been doing, do you?" asked Dumbledore delicately.

"Certainly," said Voldemort, and his eyes seemed to burn red. "I have experimented; I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed —"

"Of some kinds of magic," Dumbledore corrected him quietly. "Of some. Of others, you remain… forgive me…woefully ignorant."

For the first time, Voldemort smiled. It was a taut leer, an evil thing, more threatening than a look of rage.

"The old argument," he said softly. "But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore."

"Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places," suggested Dumbledore.

"Well, then, what better place to start my fresh researches than here, at Hogwarts?" said Voldemort. "Will you let me return? Will you let me share my knowledge with your students? I place myself and my talents at your disposal. I am yours to command."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "And what will become of those whom you command? What will happen to those who call themselves — or so rumour has it — the Death Eaters?"

Harry could tell that Voldemort had not expected Dumbledore to know this name; he saw Voldemort's eyes flash red again and the slitlike nostrils flare. "My friends," he said, after a moment's pause, "will carry on without me, I am sure."

"I am glad to hear that you consider them friends," said Dumbledore. "I was under the impression that they are more in the order of servants."

"You are mistaken," said Voldemort. "Then if I were to go to the Hog's Head tonight, I would not find a group of them — Nott, Rosier, Mulciber, Dolohov — awaiting your return? Devoted friends indeed, to travel this far with you on a snowy night, merely to wish you luck as you attempted to secure a teaching post."

There could be no doubt that Dumbledore's detailed knowledge of those with whom he was traveling was even less welcome to Voldemort; however, he rallied almost at once.

"You are omniscient as ever, Dumbledore."

"Oh no, merely friendly with the local barmen," said Dumbledore lightly. "Now, Tom…" Dumbledore set down his empty glass and drew himself up in his seat, the tips of his fingers together in a very characteristic gesture. "Let us speak openly. Why have you come here tonight, surrounded by henchmen, to request a job we both know you do not want?"

Voldemort looked coldly surprised. "A job I do not want? On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very much."

"Oh, you want to come back to Hogwarts, but you do not want to teach any more than you wanted to when you were eighteen. What is it you're after, Tom? Why not try an open request for once?"

Voldemort sneered. "If you do not want to give me a job —"

"Of course I don't," said Dumbledore.

"And I don't think for a moment you expected me to. Nevertheless, you came here, you asked, you must have had a purpose."

Voldemort stood up. He looked less like Tom Riddle than ever, his features thick with rage. "This is your final word?"

"It is," said Dumbledore, also standing.

"Then we have nothing more to say to each other."

"No, nothing," said Dumbledore, and a great sadness filled his face. "The time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you to make repayment for your crimes. But I wish I could, Tom…I wish I could…"

For a second, Harry was on the verge of shouting a pointless warning: He was sure that Voldemort's hand had twitched toward his pocket and his wand; but then the moment had passed, Voldemort had turned away, the door was closing, and he was gone.

Harry felt Dumbledore's hand close over his arm again and moments later, they were standing together on almost the same spot, but there was no snow building on the window ledge, and Dumbledore's hand was blackened and dead-looking once more.

"Why?" said Harry at once, looking up into Dumbledore's face. "Why did he come back? Did you ever find out?"

"I have ideas," said Dumbledore, "but no more than that."

"What ideas, sir?"

"I shall tell you, Harry, when you have retrieved that memory from Professor Slughorn," said Dumbledore. "When you have that last piece of the jigsaw, everything will, I hope, be clear…to both of us."

Harry was still burning with curiosity and even though Dumbledore had walked to the door and was holding it open for him, he did not move at once.

"Was he after the Defence Against the Dark Arts job again, sir? He didn't say…"

"Oh, he definitely wanted the Defence Against the Dark Arts job," said Dumbledore. "The aftermath of our little meeting proved that. You see, we have never been able to keep a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher for longer than a year since I refused the post to Lord Voldemort."

Chapter 17: 17: Chapter Twenty-One – The Unknowable Room [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Harry wracked his brains over the next week as to how he was to persuade Slughorn to hand over the true memory, but nothing in the nature of a brain wave occurred and he was reduced to doing what he did increasingly these days when at a loss: pouring over his Potions book,

hoping that the Prince would have scribbled something useful in a margin, as he had done so many times before.

"You won't find anything in there," said Hermione firmly, late on Sunday evening. They may now be stealing off for kisses whenever possible, but the book had not received any honeymoon period.

"Don't start, Hermione," said Ron. "If it hadn't been for the Prince, I wouldn't be sitting here now."

Harry ignored their bickering. He had just found an incantation – "Sectumsempra!" –scrawled in a margin above the intriguing words "For enemies," and was itching to try it out, but thought it best not to in front of Hermione. Instead, he surreptitiously folded down the corner of the page.

They were sitting beside the fire in the common room, Hermione and Ron sat on the couch either side of Harry, who was on the floor, leaning back against it; the only other people awake were fellow sixth years.

There had been a certain amount of excitement earlier when they had come back from dinner to find a new sign on the notice board that announced the date for their apparition test. Those who would be seventeen on or before the first test date, the twenty-second of April, had the option of signing up for additional practice sessions, which would take place, heavily supervised, in Hogsmeade.

Ron had panicked on reading this notice; he had still not managed to apparate and feared he would not be ready for the test. Hermione, who had now achieved apparition twice, was a little more confident, but Harry, who would not be seventeen for another four months, could not take the test whether ready or not.

"At least you can apparate, though!" said Ron tensely. "You'll have no trouble come July!"

"I've only done it once," Harry reminded him; he had finally managed to disappear and rematerialise inside his hoop during their previous lesson; Hermione's beam of delight had made Harry much happier than the feat itself.

Having wasted a lot of time worrying aloud about apparition, Ron was now struggling to finish a viciously difficult essay for Snape that Harry and Hermione had already completed. Harry fully expected to receive low marks on his, because he had disagreed with Snape on the best way to tackle dementors, but he did not care: Slughorn's memory was the most important thing to him now.

"I'm telling you, the stupid Prince isn't going to be able to help you with this, Harry," said Hermione, more loudly. "There's only one way to force someone to do what you want, and that's the Imperius Curse."

"Yeah, I know that, thanks," he shot back, not looking up from the book. As much as he felt for her, she didn't half know what buttons to press sometimes. "That's why I'm looking for something different. Dumbledore says Veritaserum won't do it, but there might be something else, a potion or a spell…"

"You're going about it the wrong way," said Hermione, though with more patience this time. "Only you can get the memory, Dumbledore says. That must mean you can persuade Slughorn where other people can't. It's not a question of slipping him a potion, anyone could do that —"

"What… So I am 'The Chosen One' now?"

"Oh, ha ha," Hermione said, narrowing her eyes but smiling a little all the same.

"How do you spell 'belligerent'?" said Ron, shaking his quill very hard while staring at his parchment. "It can't be B — U — M —"

"No, it isn't," said Hermione, pulling Ron's essay toward her. "And 'augury' doesn't begin O — R — G either. What kind of quill are you using?"

"It's one of Fred and George's Spell-Check ones, but I think the charm must be wearing off."

"Yes, it must," said Hermione, pointing at the title of his essay, "because we were asked how we'd deal with dementors, not 'Dug-bogs', and I don't remember you changing your name to 'Roonil Wazlib' either."

"Ah no!" said Ron, staring horror-struck at the parchment. "Don't say I'll have to write the whole thing out again!"

"It's okay, we can fix it," said Hermione, pulling the essay toward her and taking out her wand.

"I love you, Hermione," said Ron, sinking back in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily.

Hermione turned faintly pink, her eyes meeting Harry's momentarily, but merely said, "Don't let Lavender hear you saying that."

"I won't," said Ron into his hands. "Or maybe I will, then she'll ditch me."

"Why don't you ditch her if you want to finish it?" asked Harry.

"You haven't ever chucked anyone, have you?" said Ron. "You and Cho just —"

"Sort of fell apart, yeah," said Harry, quickly, now avoiding Hermione's eyes. Thankfully, it seemed she was focused too much on fixing Ron's essay to notice; either that, or she simply didn't much care about Harry's disastrous relationship with Cho. Given she'd talked him through most of it anyway, he assumed fairly quickly it was probably the latter.

"Wish that would happen with me and Lavender," said Ron gloomily, watching Hermione silently tapping each of his misspelled words with the end of her wand, so that they corrected themselves on the page. "But the more I hint I want to finish it, the tighter she holds on. It's like going out with the giant squid."

"There," said Hermione, some twenty minutes later, handing back Ron's essay.

"Thanks a million," said Ron. "Can I borrow your quill for the conclusion?"

Harry, who had found nothing useful in the Half-Blood Prince's notes so far, looked around; the three of them were now the only ones left in the common room, Seamus having just gone up to bed cursing Snape and his essay. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and Ron scratching out one last paragraph on dementors using Hermione's green quill. Harry had just closed the Half-Blood Prince's book, yawning, when —

Crack.

Hermione let out a little shriek; Ron spilled ink all over his freshly completed essay, and Harry said, "Kreacher!"

The house-elf bowed low and addressed his own gnarled toes. "Master said he wanted regular reports on what the Malfoy boy is doing, so Kreacher has come to give —"

Crack.

Dobby appeared alongside Kreacher, his tea-cozy hat askew. "Dobby has been helping too, Harry Potter!" he squeaked, casting Kreacher a resentful look. "And Kreacher ought to tell Dobby when he is coming to see Harry Potter so they can make their reports together!"

"What's this?" asked Hermione, still looking shocked by these sudden appearances. "What's going on, Harry?"

Harry hesitated before answering, because he had not told Hermione about setting Kreacher and Dobby to tail Malfoy; house-elves were always such a touchy subject with her.

"Well…they've been following Malfoy for me," he said.

"Night and day," croaked Kreacher.

"Dobby has not slept for a week, Harry Potter!" said Dobby proudly, swaying where he stood.

Hermione looked indignant. "You haven't slept, Dobby? But surely, Harry, you didn't tell him not to —"

"No, of course I didn't," said Harry quickly, realising glumly that any chances he might have had of few goodnight kisses if Ron went up early were now looking remote. "Dobby, you can sleep, all right, and you too Kreacher. But has either of you found out anything?" he hastened to ask, before Hermione could intervene again.

"Master Malfoy moves with a nobility that befits his pureblood," croaked Kreacher at once. "His features recall the fine bones of my mistress and his manners are those of —"

"Draco Malfoy is a bad boy!" squeaked Dobby angrily. "A bad boy who — who —" he shuddered from the tassel of his tea cozy to the toes of his socks and then ran at the fire, as though about to dive into it. Harry, to whom this was not entirely unexpected, caught him around the middle and held him fast. For a few seconds Dobby struggled, then went limp.

"Thank you, Harry Potter," he panted. "Dobby still finds it difficult to speak ill of his old masters."

Harry released him; Dobby straightened his tea cozy and said defiantly to Kreacher, "But Kreacher should know that Draco Malfoy is not a good master to a house-elf!"

"Yeah, we don't need to hear about you being in love with Malfoy," Harry told Kreacher. "Let's fast forward to where he's actually been going."

Kreacher bowed again, looking furious, and then said, "Master Malfoy eats in the Great Hall, he sleeps in a dormitory in the dungeons, he attends his classes in a variety of —"

"Dobby, you tell me," said Harry, cutting across Kreacher. "Has he been going anywhere he shouldn't have?"

"Harry Potter, sir," squeaked Dobby, his great orb-like eyes shining in the firelight, "the Malfoy boy is breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is still keen to avoid detection. He has been making regular visits to the seventh floor with a variety of other students, who keep watch for him while he enters —"

"The Room of Requirement!" said Harry, smacking himself hard on the forehead with Advanced Potion Making. Hermione and Ron stared at him. "That's where he's been sneaking off to! That's where he's doing… whatever he's doing! And I bet that's why he's been disappearing off the map — come to think of it, I've never seen the Room of Requirement on there!"

"Maybe the Marauders never knew the room was there," said Ron.

"I think it'll be part of the magic of the room," said Hermione. "If you need it to be unplottable, it will be."

"Dobby, have you managed to get in to have a look at what Malfoy's doing?" said Harry eagerly.

"No, Harry Potter, that is impossible," said Dobby.

"No, it's not," said Harry at once. "Malfoy got into our headquarters there last year, so I'll be able to get in and spy on him, no problem."

"But I don't think you will, Harry," said Hermione slowly, and she actually moved forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Malfoy already knew exactly how we were using the room, didn't he, because that stupid Marietta had blabbed. He needed the room to become the headquarters of the D.A., so it did. But you don't know what the room becomes when Malfoy goes in there, so you don't know what to ask it to transform into."

"There'll be a way around that, there's got to be" said Harry, though he certainly couldn't think of one right now. "You've done brilliantly, Dobby."

"Kreacher's done well too," said Hermione kindly; but far from looking grateful, Kreacher averted his huge, bloodshot eyes and croaked at the ceiling,

"The Mud —"

"Get out of it," Harry snapped at him, and Kreacher made one last deep bow and disapparated. "You'd better go and get some sleep too, Dobby."

"Thank you, Harry Potter, sir!" squeaked Dobby happily, and he too vanished.

"How good is this?" said Harry enthusiastically, turning to Ron and Hermione the moment the room was elf-free again. "We know where Malfoy's going! We've got him cornered now!"

"Yeah, it's great," said Ron glumly, who was attempting to mop up the sodden mass of ink that had recently been an almost completed essay. Hermione pulled it toward her and began siphoning the ink off with her wand.

"But what's all this about him going up there with a variety of students'?" said Hermione, who really did seem to be taking this seriously, now. "How many people are in on it? You wouldn't think he'd trust lots of them to know what he's doing—"

"Yeah, that is weird," said Harry, frowning. "I heard him telling Crabbe it wasn't Crabbe's business what he was doing… so what's he telling all these… all these…" Harry's voice trailed away; he was staring at the fire. "God, I've been stupid," he said quietly. "It's obvious, isn't it? There was a great vat of it down in the dungeon… He could've nicked some any time during that lesson…"

"Nicked what?" said Ron.

"Polyjuice Potion," Hermione said at once, making eye contact.

"He must've stolen some of the potion Slughorn showed us in our first lesson… There aren't a whole variety of students standing guard for Malfoy… it's just Crabbe and Goyle as usual… Yeah, it all fits!" said Harry, jumping up and starting to pace in front of the fire.

"They're stupid enough to do what they're told even if he won't tell them what he's up to, but he doesn't want them to be seen lurking around outside the Room of Requirement, so he's got them taking Polyjuice to make them look like other people… Those two girls I saw him with when he missed Quidditch — ha! Crabbe and Goyle!"

"Do you mean to say," said Hermione in a hushed voice, "that that little girl whose scales I repaired —?"

"Yeah, of course!" said Harry, staring at her. "Of course! Malfoy must've been inside the room at the time, so she — what am I talking about? — he dropped the scales to tell Malfoy not to come out, because there was someone there! And there was that girl who dropped the toadspawn too! We've been walking past him all the time and not realising it!"

"He's got Crabbe and Goyle transforming into girls?" guffawed Ron. "Blimey…no wonder they don't look too happy these days. I'm surprised they don't tell him to stuff it."

"Well, they wouldn't, would they, if he's shown them his Dark Mark?" said Harry.

"The Dark Mark we don't know exists," said Hermione skeptically, rolling up Ron's dried essay before it could come to any more harm and handing it to him.

"We'll see" said Harry confidently.

"Yes, we will," Hermione said, getting to her feet and stretching in the way she knew drove Harry mad. "But, Harry, before you get all excited, I still don't think you'll be able to get into the Room of Requirement without knowing what's there first. And I don't think you should forget" — she heaved her bag onto her shoulder and gave him a very serious look — "that what you're supposed to be concentrating on is getting that memory from Slughorn. Good night."

Harry watched her go, feeling slightly disgruntled. It was always hard with Ron around for them to show any kind of serious affection for each other, but her exit had left him feeling particularly cold. Once the door to the girls' dormitories had closed behind her he rounded on Ron. "What d'you think?"

"Wish I could disapparate like a house-elf," said Ron, staring at the spot where Dobby had vanished. "I'd have that apparition test in the bag."

Harry did not sleep well that night. He lay awake for what felt like hours, wondering how Malfoy was using the Room of Requirement and what he, Harry, would see when he went in there the following day, for whatever Hermione said, Harry was sure that if Malfoy had been able to see the headquarters of the D.A., he would be able to see Malfoy's, what could it be? A meeting place? A hideout? A store-room? A workshop? Harry's mind worked feverishly and his dreams, when he finally fell asleep, were broken and disturbed by images of an angry Hermione berating him for following Malfoy, who turned into Slughorn, who turned into Snape…

Harry was in a state of great anticipation over breakfast the following morning; he had a free period before Defence Against the Dark Arts and was determined to spend it trying to get into the Room of Requirement. Hermione, who was sat across from him, was now rather ostentatiously showing no interest at all, which irritated Harry further, because he knew she might be a lot of help if she wanted to.

"Look," he said quietly, putting a hand on hers atop the Daily Prophet, which she had just removed from a post owl, to stop her from vanishing behind it. "I haven't forgotten about Slughorn, but I haven't got a clue how to get that memory off him, and until I get a brain wave why shouldn't I try to find out what Malfoy's doing?"

He felt her hand twitch under his, and her features softened. For a moment he thought he'd got through, but then she said: "I've already told you, you need to persuade Slughorn. It's not a question of tricking him or bewitching him, or Dumbledore could have done it in a second. Instead of messing around outside the Room of Requirement,"— she jerked her hand and the Prophet out from under Harry's and unfolded it to look at the front page — "you should go and find Slughorn and start appealing to his better nature."

Harry turned back to his breakfast, stabbing a fried egg with particular venom. Wasn't she his girlfriend, now? Wasn't she supposed to be supportive?

"Anyone we know —?" asked Ron, as Hermione scanned the headlines.

"Yes!" said Hermione, causing both Harry and Ron to gag on their breakfast.

"But it's all right, he's not dead — its Mundungus, he's been arrested and sent to Azkaban! Something to do with impersonating an Inferius during an attempted burglary, and someone called Octavius Pepper has vanished. Oh, and how horrible, a nine-year-old boy has been arrested for trying to kill his grandparents, they think he was under the Imperius Curse."

They finished their breakfast in silence. Hermione set off immediately for Ancient Runes; Ron for the common room, where he still had to finish his conclusion on Snape's dementor essay, and Harry for the corridor on the seventh floor and the stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls to do ballet.

Harry slipped on his invisibility cloak once he had found an empty passage, but he need not have bothered. When he reached his destination he found it deserted. Harry was not sure whether his chances of getting inside the room were better with Malfoy inside it or out, but at least his first attempt was not going to be complicated by the presence of Crabbe or Goyle pretending to be an eleven-year-old girl.

He closed his eyes as he approached the place where the Room of Requirement's door was concealed. He knew what he had to do; he had become most accomplished at it last year. Concentrating with all his might he thought: I need to see what Malfoy's doing in here… I need to see what Malfoy's doing in here… I need to see what Malfoy's doing in here…

Three times he walked past the door; then, his heart pounding with excitement, he opened his eyes and faced it — but he was still looking at a stretch of mundanely blank wall. He moved forward and gave it an experimental push. The stone remained solid and unyielding.

"Okay," said Harry aloud. "Okay…I thought the wrong thing…" He pondered for a moment then set off again, eyes closed, concentrating as hard as he could: I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps coming secretly…I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps coming secretly… After three walks past, he opened his eyes expectantly.

There was no door. "Oh, come off it," he told the wall irritably. "That was a clear instruction. Fine."

He thought hard for several minutes before striding off once more. I need you to become the place you become for Draco Malfoy…

He did not immediately open his eyes when he had finished his patrolling; he was listening hard, as though he might hear the door pop into existence. He heard nothing, however, except the distant twittering of birds outside. He opened his eyes.

There was still no door.

Harry swore. Someone screamed. He looked around to see a gaggle of first years running back around the corner, apparently under the impression that they had just encountered a particularly foulmouthed ghost.

Harry tried every variation of I need to see what Draco Malfoy is doing inside you that he could think of for a whole hour, at the end of which he was forced to concede that Hermione might have had a point: The room simply did not want to open for him. Frustrated and annoyed, he set off for Defence Against the Dark Arts, pulling off his invisibility cloak and stuffing it into his bag as he went.

"Late again, Potter," said Snape coldly, as Harry hurried into the candlelit classroom. "Ten points from Gryffindor."

Harry scowled at Snape as he flung himself into the seat beside Hermione. Half of the class were still on their feet, taking out books and organising their things; he could not be much later than any of them.

"Before we start, I want your dementor essays," said Snape, waving his wand carelessly, so that twenty-five scrolls of parchment soared into the air and landed in a neat pile on his desk. "And I hope for your sakes they are better than the tripe I had to endure on resisting the Imperius Curse. Now, if you will all open your books to page — what is it, Mr. Finnigan?"

"Sir," said Seamus, "I've been wondering, how do you tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost? Because there was something in the paper about an Inferius —"

"No, there wasn't," said Snape in a bored voice.

"But sir, I heard people talking —"

"If you had actually read the article in question, Mr. Finnigan, you would have known that the so-called Inferius was nothing but a smelly sneak thief by the name of Mundungus Fletcher."

"I thought Snape and Mundungus were on the same side," muttered Harry to Hermione. "Shouldn't he be upset Mundungus has been arrest —"

"But Potter seems to have a lot to say on the subject," said Snape, pointing suddenly at the back of the room, his black eyes fixed on Harry. "Let us ask Potter how we would tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost."

The whole class looked around at Harry, who hastily tried to recall what Dumbledore had told him the night that they had gone to visit Slughorn.

"Er — well — ghosts are transparent —" he said.

"Oh, very good," interrupted Snape, his lip curling. "Yes, it is easy to see that nearly six years of magical education have not been wasted on you, Potter. 'Ghosts are transparent.'"

Pansy Parkinson let out a high-pitched giggle. Several other people were smirking. Hermione gave a barely audible groan. Harry took a deep breath and continued calmly, though his insides were boiling, "Yeah, ghosts are transparent, but Inferi are dead bodies, aren't they? So they'd be solid —"

"A five-year-old could have told us as much," sneered Snape. "The Inferius is a corpse that has been reanimated by a Dark wizard's spells. It is not alive, it is merely used like a puppet to do the wizard's bidding. A ghost, as I trust that you are all aware by now, is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the earth, and of course, as Potter so wisely tells us, transparent."

"Well, what Harry said is the most useful if we're trying to tell them apart!" said Ron from the desk next to Harry's and Hermione's. "If we come face-to-face with one down a dark alley, we're going to be having a look to see if it's solid, aren't we, we're not going to be asking, 'Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?'"

There was a ripple of laughter, instantly quelled by the look Snape gave the class.

"Another ten points from Gryffindor," said Snape. "I would expect nothing more sophisticated from you, Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot apparate half an inch across a room."

"No!" whispered Hermione, grabbing Harry's arm as he opened his mouth furiously. "There's no point, you'll just end up in detention again, leave it!"

"Now open your books to page two hundred and thirteen," said Snape, smirking a little, "and read the first two paragraphs on the Cruciatus Curse."

Ron was very subdued all through the class. When the bell sounded at the end of the lesson, Lavender caught up with Ron, Harry and Hermione and abused Snape hotly for his jibe about Ron's apparition, but this seemed to merely irritate Ron further, and he shook her off by making a detour into the boys' bathroom with Harry.

"Snape's right, I'm useless," Ron said.

"You might as well do the extra practice sessions in Hogsmeade and see where they get you," said Harry reasonably. "It'll be more interesting than trying to get into a stupid hoop anyway. Then, if you're still not — you know — as good as you'd like to be, you can postpone the test, do it with me over the summer — Myrtle, this is the boys' bathroom!"

The ghost of a girl had risen out of the toilet in a cubicle behind them and was now floating in midair, staring at them through thick, white, round glasses. "Oh," she said glumly. "It's you two."

"Who were you expecting?" said Ron, looking at her in the mirror.

"Nobody," said Myrtle, picking moodily at a spot on her chin. "He said he'd come back and see me, but then you said you'd pop in and visit me too"— she gave Harry a reproachful look — "and I haven't seen you for months and months. I've learned not to expect too much from boys."

"I thought you lived in that girls' bathroom?" said Harry, who had been careful to give the place a wide berth for some years now.

"I do," she said, with a sulky little shrug, "but that doesn't mean I can't visit other places. I came and saw you in your bath once, remember?"

"Vividly," said Harry.

"But I thought he liked me," she said plaintively. "Maybe if you two left, he'd come back again. We had lots in common. I'm sure he felt it."

And she looked hopefully toward the door. "When you say you had lots in common," said Ron, sounding rather amused now, "d'you mean he lives in an S-bend too?"

"No," said Myrtle defiantly, her voice echoing loudly around the old tiled bathroom. "I mean he's sensitive, people bully him too, and he feels lonely and hasn't got anybody to talk to, and he's not afraid to show his feelings and cry!"

"There's been a boy in here crying?" said Harry curiously. "A young boy?"

"Never you mind!" said Myrtle, her small, leaky eyes fixed on Ron, who was now definitely grinning. "I promised I wouldn't tell anyone, and I'll take his secret to the —"

"— not the grave, surely?" said Ron with a snort. "The sewers, maybe."

Myrtle gave a howl of rage and dived back into the toilet, causing water to slop over the sides and onto the floor. Goading Myrtle seemed to have put fresh heart into Ron. "You're right," he said, swinging his schoolbag back over his shoulder, "I'll do the practice sessions in Hogsmeade before I decide about taking the test."

And so the following weekend, Ron joined Hermione and the rest of the sixth years who would turn seventeen in time to take the test in a fortnight. Harry felt rather jealous watching them all get ready to go into the village; he missed making trips there, and it was a particularly fine spring day, one of the first clear skies they had seen in a long time. However, he had decided to use the time to attempt another assault on the Room of Requirement.

"You'd do better," said Hermione, as he walked her down to the entrance hall – Ron ahead of them with Lavender, who like Harry was too young to take her test but had demanded Ron let her walk him down to the hall – "to go straight to Slughorn's office and try and get that memory from him."

"I've been trying!" said Harry, which was perfectly true. He had lagged behind after every Potions lesson that week in an attempt to corner Slughorn, but the Potions master always left the dungeon so fast that Harry had not been able to catch him. Twice, Harry had gone to his office and knocked, but received no reply, though on the second occasion he was sure he had heard the quickly stifled sounds of an old gramophone.

"He doesn't want to talk to me, Hermione! He can tell I've been trying to get him on his own again, and he's not going to let it happen!" And then he leaned in, saying in a whisper through gritted teeth: "A bit like you. When was the last time we were alone and you weren't having a go at me?"

This, too, was perfectly true. They had hardly spent any time together alone in the last week or so – it wasn't helping that Harry had absolutely no idea how to break it to Ron that his two best friends had started dating.

"Well, you've just got to keep at it, haven't you," Hermione answered, before adding suggestively, "maybe you'll get your rewards when you do," causing Harry to blush.

"Well," Harry said as they approached the back of the queue of students waiting to file past Filch, who was doing his usual prodding act with the Secrecy Sensor, "good luck. C'm here."

As they stopped he gave her a hug, just about managing to resist the urge to kiss her.

"Thanks," she smiled as they parted. "Look, Harry," – she added as she straightened his collar – "all I'm saying is Dumbledore needs you to do this. Please, try to think of something."

In no mood for any more arguments, Harry nodded before squeezing her hand and moving forward towards Ron.

"Good luck, mate!" He said, patting Ron on the back.

With that, he turned and climbed the marble staircase again, determined, whatever Hermione said, to devote an hour or two to the Room of Requirement.

Once out of sight of the entrance hall, Harry pulled the Marauder's Map and his invisibility cloak from his bag. Having concealed himself, he tapped the map, murmured, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," and scanned it carefully.

As it was Sunday morning, nearly all the students were inside their various common rooms, the Gryffindors in one tower, the Ravenclaws in another, the Slytherins in the dungeons, and the Hufflepuffs in the basement near the kitchens. Here and there a stray person meandered around the library or up a corridor. There were a few people out in the grounds, and there, alone in the seventh-floor corridor, was Gregory Goyle. There was no sign of the Room of Requirement, but Harry was not worried about that; if Goyle was standing guard outside it, the room was open, whether the map was aware of it or not.

He therefore rushed up the stairs, slowing down only when he reached the corner into the corridor, when he began to creep, very slowly, toward the very same little girl, clutching her heavy brass scales, that Hermione had so kindly helped a fortnight before. He waited until he was right behind her before bending very low and whispering, "Hello… you're very pretty, aren't you?"

Goyle gave a high-pitched scream of terror, threw the scales up into the air, and sprinted away, vanishing from sight long before the sound of the scales smashing had stopped echoing around the corridor.

Laughing, Harry turned to contemplate the blank wall behind which, he was sure, Draco Malfoy was now standing frozen, aware that someone unwelcome was out there, but not daring to make an appearance. It gave Harry a most agreeable feeling of power as he tried to remember what form of words he had not yet tried.

Yet this hopeful mood did not last long. Half an hour later, having tried many more variations of his request to see what Malfoy was up to, the wall was just as doorless as ever. Harry felt frustrated beyond belief Malfoy might be just feet away from him, and there was still not the tiniest shred of evidence as to what he was doing in there. Losing his patience completely, Harry ran at the wall and kicked it.

"OUCH!"

He thought he might have broken his toe; as he clutched it and hopped on one foot, the invisibility cloak slipped off him.

"Harry?" He spun around, one-legged, and toppled over. There, to his utter astonishment, was Tonks, walking toward him as though she frequently strolled up this corridor.

"What're you doing here?" he said, scrambling to his feet again; why did she always have to find him lying on the floor?

"I came to see Dumbledore," said Tonks. Harry thought she looked terrible: thinner than usual, her mouse-coloured hair lank.

"His office isn't here," said Harry, "it's round the other side of the castle, behind the gargoyle—"

"I know," said Tonks. "He's not there. Apparently he's gone away again."

"Has he?" said Harry, putting his bruised foot gingerly back on the floor. "Hey — you don't know where he goes, I suppose?"

"No," said Tonks.

"What did you want to see him about?"

"Nothing in particular," said Tonks, picking, apparently unconsciously, at the sleeve of her robe. "I just thought he might know what's going on. I've heard rumours… people getting hurt."

"Yeah, I know, it's all been in the paper," said Harry. "That little kid trying to kill his —"

"The Prophet's often behind the times," said Tonks, who didn't seem to be listening to him. "You haven't had any letters from anyone in the Order recently?"

"No one from the Order writes to me anymore," said Harry, "not since Sirius —"

He saw that her eyes had filled with tears.

"I'm sorry," he muttered awkwardly. "I mean… I miss him, as well."

"What?" said Tonks blankly, as though she had not heard him. "Well… I'll see you around, Harry…"

And she turned abruptly and walked back down the corridor, leaving Harry to stare after her. After a minute or so, he pulled the invisibility cloak on again and resumed his efforts to get into the Room of Requirement, but his heart was not in it. Finally, a hollow feeling in his stomach and the knowledge that Ron and Hermione would soon be back for lunch made him abandon the attempt and leave the corridor to Malfoy who, hopefully, would be too afraid to leave for some hours to come.

He found Ron and Hermione in the Great Hall, already halfway through an early lunch.

"I did it — well, kind of!" Ron told Harry enthusiastically when he caught sight of him. "I was supposed to be apparating to outside Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop and I overshot it a bit, ended up near Scrivenshafts, but at least I moved!"

"Good one," said Harry, sitting down across from Ron and next to Hermione. "How'd you do?" he asked her.

"Oh, she was perfect, obviously," said Ron, before Hermione could answer. "Perfect deliberation, divination, and desperation or whatever the hell it is — we went for a quick drink in the Three Broomsticks after and you should've heard Twycross going on about her — I'll be surprised if he doesn't pop the question soon —"

"Really," said Harry with a grin to Hermione, who was blushing. She looked so cute it was taking him all he had not to pull her in for a deep, luscious kiss, but he had to settle for sliding his hand down her leg and giving her knee a squeeze. "Well done."

"And what about you?" asked Hermione. "Have you been up at the Room of Requirement all this time?"

"Yep," said Harry. "And guess who I ran into up there. Tonks!"

"Tonks?" repeated Ron, looking surprised.

"Yeah, she said she'd come to visit Dumbledore."

"If you ask me," said Ron once Harry had finished describing his conversation with Tonks, "she's cracking up a bit. Losing her nerve after what happened at the Ministry."

"It's a bit odd," said Hermione, who for some reason looked very concerned. "She's supposed to be guarding the school, why's she suddenly abandoning her post to come and see Dumbledore when he's not even here?"

"I had a thought," said Harry tentatively. He felt strange about voicing it; this was much more Hermione's territory than his. "You don't think she can have been… you know, in love with Sirius?"

Hermione stared at him. "What on earth makes you say that?"

"I dunno," said Harry, shrugging, "but she was nearly crying when I mentioned his name, and her Patronus is a big four-legged thing now. I wondered whether it hadn't become… you know… him."

"It's a thought," said Hermione slowly. "But I still don't know why she'd be bursting into the castle to see Dumbledore, if that's really why she was here."

"Goes back to what I said, doesn't it?" said Ron, who was now shovelling mashed potato into his mouth. "She's gone a bit funny. Lost her nerve. Women," he said wisely to Harry, "they're easily upset."

"And yet," said Hermione, coming out of her reverie, "I doubt you'd find a woman who sulked for half an hour because Madam Rosmerta didn't laugh at their joke about the hag, the Healer, and the Mimbulus mimbletonia."

Ron scowled as Harry burst out laughing, and his frustrations grew deeper when Lavender – who had arrived for lunch with most of the other students – stalked up the table.

"Ron, you said we would have lunch in the common room!"

"Oh… er, yeh," said Ron meekly. "Erm… sorry, I... err... forgot."

"Forgot?" said Lavender hotly, shooting a nasty look at Hermione. Harry narrowed his eyes. If she said anything to Hermione he wasn't sure he would be able to hold back. Fortunately, in that regard, all of her ire was currently focused on Ron.

"We need to talk," she demanded, twisting on the spot and marching towards the door. Ron sighed and, with a resigned look back at Harry and Hermione, stood and followed.

"He really needs to end it," said Harry absentmindedly, taking a bite of an apple.

"Although…" Hermione said, slowly. He turned to her, and her mouth was curling up into a grin. "If Ron and Lavender aren't having lunch in the common room…"

"Then it should be free," Harry said, grinning too. Suddenly, he found he had a very different kind of hunger.

Chapter 18: 18: Chapter Twenty-Two – After The Burial [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

bPatches of bright blue sky were beginning to appear over the castle turrets, but these signs of approaching summer did not lift Harry's mood. He had been thwarted, both in his attempts to find out what Malfoy was doing, and in his efforts to start a conversation with Slughorn that might lead, somehow, to the Potions master handing over the memory he had apparently suppressed for decades.

"For the last time, just forget about Malfoy," Hermione told Harry firmly.

They were sitting with Ron in a sunny corner of the courtyard after lunch. Hermione and Ron were both clutching a Ministry of Magic leaflet — Common Apparition Mistakes and How to Avoid Them — for they were taking their tests that very afternoon, but by and large the leaflets had not proved soothing to the nerves.

Ron gave a start and tried to hide behind Hermione as a girl came around the corner.

"It isn't Lavender," said Hermione wearily.

"Oh, good," said Ron, relaxing.

"Harry Potter?" said the girl. "I was asked to give you this."

"Thanks…"

Harry's heart sank as he took the small scroll of parchment. Once the girl was out of earshot he said, "Dumbledore said we wouldn't be having any more lessons until I got the memory!"

"Maybe he wants to check on how you're doing?" suggested Hermione, as Harry unrolled the parchment; but rather than finding Dumbledore's long, narrow, slanted writing he saw an untidy sprawl, very difficult to read due to the presence of large blotches on the parchment where the ink had run.

Dear Harry, Ron and Hermione,

Aragog died last night. Harry and Ron, you met him and you know how special he was. Hermione, I know you'd have liked him.

It would mean a lot to me if you'd nip down for the burial later this evening. I'm planning on doing it round dusk, that was his favourite time of day.

I know you're not supposed to be out that late, but you can use the cloak. Wouldn't ask, but I can't face it alone.

Hagrid

"Look at this," said Harry, handing the note to Hermione.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she said, scanning it quickly and passing it to Ron, who read it through, looking increasingly incredulous.

"He's mental!" he said furiously. "That bloody thing told its mates to eat Harry and me! Told them to help themselves! And now Hagrid expects us to go down there and cry over its horrible hairy body!"

"It's not just that," said Hermione. "He's asking us to leave the castle at night and he knows security's a million times tighter and how much trouble we'd be in if we were caught."

"We've been down to see him by night before," said Harry.

"Yes, but for something like this?" said Hermione. "We've risked a lot to help Hagrid out, but after all — Aragog's dead. If it were a question of saving him —"

"— I'd want to go even less," said Ron firmly. "You didn't meet him, Hermione. Believe me, being dead will have improved him – a lot."

Harry took the note back and stared down at all the inky blotches all over it. Tears had clearly fallen thick and fast upon the parchment…

"Harry…" Hermione said, as if reading his thoughts. It had been common before they started nipping away for kisses in deserted classrooms. Now she was all but in sync with him most of the time. "You can't be thinking of going?"

"I –" Harry started. "Well, it's just – it's Hagrid..."

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look and rubbed his arm a little. Ron just stared at him as if he, too, were mental.

"I know…" Hermione said. "If… if you really want to go then I, I'd go with you,"

"Ey?" Ron stared at her now, but she ignored him.

"But Harry, it's a really pointless thing to get detention for."

Harry sighed. "Yeah, I know," he said. "I s'pose Hagrid'll have to bury Aragog without us."

"Yes," Hermione said, though it was clear she too felt guilty, albeit evidently relieved. "Look," she continued far too brightly, changing the subject. "Potions will be almost empty this afternoon, with us all doing our tests… Try and soften Slughorn up a bit then!"

"Fifty-seventh time lucky, you think?" said Harry bitterly.

"Lucky," said Ron suddenly. "Harry, that's it — get lucky!"

"What d'you mean?" Harry said, but Hermione interrupted.

"Of course! Why didn't I think of it earlier?"

Harry stared at her, and then it clicked. "Felix Felicis?" he said.

"Yes," said Hermione, breaking into a big smile.

"I dunno…I was sort of saving it…"

"What for?" demanded Ron incredulously.

"What on earth is more important than this memory, Harry?" asked Hermione.

Harry didn't answer, looking away from her and trying to hide the blush now on his cheeks. The thought of that little golden bottle had hovered on the edges of his imagination for some time; vague and unformulated plans that involved Ron somehow being happy to see Hermione and Harry together had been fermenting in the depths of his brain, unacknowledged except during dreams or the twilight time between sleeping and waking…

"Harry? Are you still with us?" asked Hermione.

"Wha —? Yeah, of course," he said, pulling himself together. "Well…okay. If I can't get Slughorn to talk this afternoon, I'll take some Felix and have another go this evening."

"That's decided, then," said Hermione briskly, getting to her feet and performing a graceful pirouette. "Destination… determination… deliberation…" she murmured. Harry caught her eyes and flashed her a smile.

"Oh, stop that," Ron begged her, "I feel sick enough as it is — quick, hide me!"

"It isn't Lavender!" said Hermione impatiently, as another couple of girls – who Harry recognised as the twins who were at the only one of Slughorn's dinner parties he had attended – appeared in the courtyard and Ron dived behind her.

"Cool," said Ron, peering over Hermione's shoulder to check. "Blimey, they don't look happy, do they?"

"They're the Montgomery sisters and of course they don't look happy, didn't you hear what happened to their little brother?" said Hermione.

"I'm losing track of what's happening to everyone's relatives, to be honest," said Ron.

"Well, their brother was attacked by a werewolf. The rumour is that their mother refused to help the Death Eaters. Anyway, the boy was only five and he died in St. Mungos, they couldn't save him."

"He died?" repeated Harry, shocked. "But surely werewolves don't kill, they just turn you into one of them?"

"They sometimes kill," said Ron, who looked unusually grave now. "I've heard of it happening when the werewolf gets carried away."

"What was the werewolf's name?" said Harry quickly.

"Well, the rumour is that it was that Fenrir Greyback," said Hermione.

"I knew it — the maniac who likes attacking kids, the one Lupin told me about!" said Harry angrily. Hermione looked at him bleakly.

"Harry, you've got to get that memory," she said, sitting back down next to him. "It's all about stopping Voldemort, isn't it? These dreadful things that are happening are all down to him…"

The bell rang overhead in the castle and both Hermione and Ron jumped to their feet, looking terrified.

"You'll do fine," Harry told them both, as they headed toward the entrance hall to meet the rest of the people taking their apparition test.

"Ron!" A girl screamed, and Ron groaned as Lavender ran up and flung her arms around him. Hermione shook her head and scoffed, but carried on walking with Harry. It was then that they spotted Draco Malfoy, stalking off towards the dungeons.

"God, Malfoy looks… Well, do you think he looks… ill?" Hermione said.

"Hard to tell with him," said Harry, though it did seem like Malfoy seemed skinnier than normal, and Harry remembered how he had looked at Slughorn's Christmas party. "Anyway, guess I'll find out in Potions won't I," he said as they reached the entrance hall. "Good luck," he added, giving Hermione's hand a squeeze. "You'll be brilliant."

"Oh, God, don't say that, but thanks," said Hermione, before adding, with a significant look, "and you too!".

Harry gave her a smile and headed off in the same direction as Malfoy, half considering if he did have to use the Felix Felicis to get the memory from Slughorn, then perhaps he'd try telling Ron about him and Hermione at the same time. He didn't know how much longer he could keep up their facade when he couldn't even do a simple thing like give his girlfriend a kiss for good luck.

There were only three of them in Potions that afternoon: Harry, Ernie, and Malfoy.

"All too young to apparate?" said Slughorh genially, "Not turned seventeen yet?"

They shook their heads. "Ah well," said Slughorn cheerily, "as we're so few, we'll do something for fun. I want you all to brew me up something amusing!"

"That sounds good, sir," said Ernie sycophantically, rubbing his hands together. Malfoy, on the other hand, did not crack a smile.

"What do you mean, 'something amusing'?" he said irritably.

"Oh, surprise me," said Slughorn airily.

Malfoy opened his copy of Advanced Potion Making with a sulky expression. It could not have been plainer that he thought this lesson was a waste of time. Undoubtedly, Harry thought, watching him over the top of his own book, Malfoy was begrudging the time he could otherwise be spending in the Room of Requirement.

And Hermione had been right. He looked thinner, and certainly he looked paler; his skin still had that greyish tinge, probably because he so rarely saw daylight these days. But there was no air of smugness, excitement, or superiority; none of the swagger that he had had on the Hogwarts Express, when he had boasted openly of the mission he had been given by Voldemort… There could be only one conclusion, in Harry's opinion: the mission, whatever it was, was going badly.

Cheered by this thought, Harry skimmed through his copy of Advanced Potion Making and found a heavily corrected Half-Blood Prince's version of "An Elixir to Induce Euphoria," which seemed not only to meet Slughorn's instructions, but which might – Harry's heart leapt as the thought struck him – put Slughorn into such a good mood that he would be prepared to hand over that memory if Harry could persuade him to taste some…

"Well, now, this looks absolutely wonderful," said Slughorn an hour and a half later, clapping his hands together as he stared down into the sunshine yellow contents of Harry's cauldron. "Euphoria, I take it? And what's that I smell? Mmmm… you've added just a sprig of peppermint, haven't you? Unorthodox, but what a stroke of inspiration, Harry. Of course, that would tend to counterbalance the occasional side effects of excessive singing and nose-tweaking… I really don't know where you get these brain waves, my boy…unless —" Harry pushed the Half-Blood Prince's book deeper into his bag with his foot. "— it's just your mother's genes coming out in you!"

"Oh…yeah, maybe," said Harry, relieved.

Ernie was looking rather grumpy; determined to outshine Harry for once, he had most rashly invented his own potion, which had curdled and formed a kind of purple dumpling at the bottom

of his cauldron. Malfoy was already packing up, sour-faced; Slughorn had pronounced his Hiccuping Solution merely "passable."

The bell rang and both Ernie and Malfoy left at once.

"Sir," Harry began, but Slughorn immediately glanced over his shoulder; when he saw that the room was empty but for himself and Harry, he hurried away as fast as he could.

"Professor — Professor, don't you want to taste my potion —?" called Harry desperately. But Slughorn had gone. Disappointed, Harry emptied the cauldron, packed up his things, left the dungeon, and walked slowly back upstairs to the common room.

Ron and Hermione returned in the late afternoon.

"Harry!" cried Hermione as she climbed through the portrait hole. "Harry, I passed!"

"Well done!" he said as she came up to him, beaming, and – not caring who saw – pulled her into a tight embrace. "Knew you would."

He allowed himself just to hold her for a moment before asking, quietly: "What about Ron?"

"He — he just failed," whispered Hermione, turning her head towards the portrait hole as Ron came slouching into the room looking most morose. "It was really unlucky, a tiny thing, the examiner just spotted that he'd left half an eyebrow behind… How did it go with Slughorn?"

"No joy," said Harry, as Ron joined them. "Bad luck, mate, but you'll pass next time — we can take it together."

"Yeah, I s'pose," said Ron grumpily. "But half an eyebrow – like that matters!"

"I know," said Hermione soothingly, "it does seem really harsh…"

They spent most of their dinner roundly abusing the apparition examiner, and Ron looked fractionally more cheerful by the time they set off back to the common room, now discussing the continuing problem of Slughorn and the memory.

"So, Harry — you going to use the Felix Felicis or what?" Ron demanded.

"Yeah, I s'pose I'd better," said Harry. "I don't reckon I'll need all of it, not twelve hours' worth, it can't take all night… I'll just take a mouthful. Two or three hours should do it."

"It's a great feeling when you take it," said Ron reminiscently. "Like you can't do anything wrong."

"What are you talking about?" said Hermione, laughing. "You've never taken any!"

"Yeah, but I thought I had, didn't I?" said Ron, as though explaining the obvious. "Same difference really…"

As they had only just seen Slughorn enter the Great Hall and knew that he liked to take time over meals, they lingered for a while in the common room, the plan being that Harry should go to Slughorn's office once the teacher had had time to get back there. When the sun had sunk to the level of the treetops in the Forbidden Forest, they decided the moment had come, and after checking carefully that Neville, Dean, and Seamus were all in the common room, they sneaked up to the boys' dormitory.

Harry took out the rolled-up socks at the bottom of his trunk and extracted the tiny, gleaming bottle.

"Remember, Harry," Hermione said. "We know Slughorn likes to have a glass of mead before bed, and we know he likes gifts... Just, stick to our strategy..."

"Well, here goes," said Harry, and he raised the little bottle and look a carefully measured gulp.

"What does it feel like?" whispered Hermione. Harry did not answer for a moment. Then, slowly but surely, an exhilarating sense of infinite opportunity stole through him; he felt as though he could have done anything, anything at all…and getting the memory from Slughorn seemed suddenly not only possible, but positively easy…

He got to his feet, smiling, brimming with confidence. "Excellent," he said. "Really excellent. Right…I'm going down to Hagrid's."

"What?" said Ron and Hermione together, looking aghast.

"No, Harry — you've got to go and see Slughorn, remember? We've got a plan." said Hermione.

"No," said Harry confidently. "I'm going to Hagrid's, I've got a good feeling about going to Hagrid's."

"You've got a good feeling about burying a giant spider?" asked Ron, looking stunned.

"Yeah," said Harry, pulling his invisibility cloak out of his bag. "I feel like it's the place to be tonight, you know what I mean?"

"No," said Ron and Hermione together, both looking positively alarmed now.

"This is Felix Felicis, I suppose?" said Hermione anxiously, holding up the bottle to the light. "You haven't got another little bottle full of — I don't know —"

"Essence of Insanity?" suggested Ron, as Harry swung his cloak over his shoulders.

Harry laughed, and Ron and Hermione looked even more alarmed. "Trust me," he said, strolling confidently to the door. "I know what I'm doing. Or, at least, Felix does."

He pulled the invisibility cloak over his head and set off down the stairs, Ron and Hermione hurrying along behind him. At the foot of the stairs, Harry slid through the open door.

"What were you doing up there with her?" shrieked Lavender Brown, staring right through Harry at Ron and Hermione emerging together from the boys' dormitories. Harry heard Ron spluttering behind him as he darted across the room away from them.

Getting through the portrait hole was simple; as he approached it, Ginny and Dean came through and Harry was able to slip between them. As he did so, he brushed accidentally against Ginny. "Don't push me, please, Dean," she said, sounding annoyed. "You're always doing that, I can get through perfectly well on my own…"

The portrait swung closed behind Harry, but not before he had heard Dean make an angry retort. Harry strode off through the castle. He did not have to creep along, for he met nobody

on his way, but this did not surprise him in the slightest. This evening, he was the luckiest person at Hogwarts.

Why he knew that going to Hagrid's was the right thing to do, he had no idea. It was as though the potion was illuminating a few steps of the path at a time. He could not see the final destination, he could not see where Slughorn came in, but he knew that he was going the right way to get that memory. When he reached the entrance hall he saw that Filch had forgotten to lock the front door. Beaming, Harry threw it open and breathed in the smell of clean air and grass for a moment before walking down the steps into the dusk.

It was when he reached the bottom step that it occurred to him how very pleasant it would be to pass the vegetable patch on his walk to Hagrid's. It was not strictly on the way, but it seemed clear to Harry that this was a whim on which he should act, so he directed his feet immediately toward the vegetable patch, where he was pleased, but not altogether surprised, to find Professor Slughorn in conversation with Professor Sprout. Harry lurked behind a low stone wall, feeling at peace with the world and listening to their conversation.

"I do thank you for taking the time, Pomona," Slughorn was saying courteously, "most authorities agree that they are at their most efficacious if picked at twilight."

"Oh, I quite agree," said Professor Sprout warmly. "That enough for you?"

"Plenty, plenty," said Slughorn, who, Harry saw, was carrying an armful of leafy plants. "This should allow for a few leaves for each of my third years, and some to spare if anybody over- stews them… Well, good evening to you, and many thanks again!"

Professor Sprout headed off into the gathering darkness in the direction of her greenhouses, and Slughorn directed his steps to the spot where Harry stood, invisible.

Seized with an immediate desire to reveal himself, Harry pulled off the cloak with a flourish. "Good evening, Professor."

"Merlin's beard, Harry, you made me jump," said Slughorn, stopping dead in his tracks and looking wary. "How did you get out of the castle?"

"I think Filch must've forgotten to lock the doors," said Harry cheerfully, and was delighted to see Slughorn scowl.

"I'll be reporting that man, he's more concerned about litter than proper security if you ask me…But why are you out then, Harry?"

"Well, sir, it's Hagrid," said Harry, who knew that the right thing to do just now was to tell the truth. "He's pretty upset…But you won't tell anyone, Professor? I don't want trouble for him…"

Slughorn's curiosity was evidently aroused. "Well, I can't promise that," he said gruffly. "But I know that Dumbledore trusts Hagrid to the hilt, so I'm sure he can't be up to anything very dreadful…"

"Well, it's this giant spider, he's had it for years…It lived in the forest…It could talk and everything —"

"I heard rumours there were acromantulas in the forest," said Slughorn softly, looking over at the mass of black trees. "It's true, then?"

"Yes," said Harry. "But this one, Aragog, Hagrid has known it years and it died last night. He's devastated. He wants company while he buries it and I said I'd go."

"Touching, touching," said Slughorn absentmindedly, his large droopy eyes fixed upon the distant lights of Hagrid's cabin. "But acromantula venom is very valuable… If the beast only just died it might not yet have dried out… Of course, I wouldn't want to do anything insensitive if Hagrid is upset… but if there was any way to procure some… I mean, it's almost impossible to get venom from an acromantula while it's alive…"

Slughorn seemed to be talking more to himself than Harry now. "…seems an awful waste not to collect it…might get a hundred Galleons a pint…To be frank, my salary is not large…"

And now Harry saw clearly what was to be done. "Well," he said, with a most convincing hesitancy, "well, if you wanted to come, Professor, Hagrid would probably be really pleased… Give Aragog a better send-off, you know…"

"Yes, of course," said Slughorn, his eyes now gleaming with enthusiasm. "I tell you what, Harry, I'll meet you down there with a bottle or two…We'll drink the poor beast's — well — not health — but we'll send it off in style, anyway, once it's buried. And I'll change my tie, this one is a little exuberant for the occasion…"

He bustled back into the castle, and Harry sped off to Hagrid's, delighted with himself.

"Yeh came," croaked Hagrid, when he opened the door and saw Harry emerging from the Invisibility Cloak in front of him.

"Yeah — Ron and Hermione couldn't, though," said Harry. "They're really sorry."

"Don — don matter… Hed've bin touched yeh're here, though, Harry…"

Hagrid gave a great sob. He had made himself a black armband out of what looked like a rag dipped in boot polish, and his eyes were puffy, red, and swollen. Harry patted him consolingly on the elbow, which was the highest point of Hagrid he could easily reach.

"Where are we burying him?" he asked. "The forest?"

"Blimey, no," said Hagrid, wiping his streaming eyes on the bottom of his shirt. "The other spiders won' let me anywhere near their webs now Aragog's gone. Turns out it was only on his orders they didn' eat me! Can yeh believe that, Harry?"

The honest answer was "yes"; Harry recalled with painful ease the scene when he and Ron had come face-to-face with the acromantulas. They had been quite clear that Aragog was the only thing that stopped them from eating Hagrid.

"Never bin an area o' the forest I couldn' go before!" said Hagrid, shaking his head. "It wasn' easy, gettin' Aragog's body out o' there, I can tell yeh — they usually eat their dead, see… But I wanted ter give 'im a nice burial… a proper send-off…"

He broke into sobs again and Harry resumed the patting of his elbow, saying as he did so, for the potion seemed to indicate that it was the right thing to do: "Professor Slughorn met me coming down here, Hagrid."

"Not in trouble, are yeh?" said Hagrid, looking up, alarmed. "Yeh shouldn' be outta the castle in the evenin', I know, it's my fault —"

"No, no. When he heard what I was doing he said he'd like to come and pay his last respects to Aragog too," said Harry. "He's gone to change into something more suitable, I think… and he said he'd bring some bottles so we can drink to Aragog's memory…"

"Did he?" said Hagrid, looking both astonished and touched. "Tha's — tha's righ' nice of him, that is, an' not turnin' yeh in either. I've never really had a lot ter do with Horace Slughorn before… Comin' ter see old Aragog off, though, eh? Well… he'd've liked that, Aragog would…"

Harry thought privately that what Aragog would have liked most about Slughorn was the ample amount of edible flesh he provided, but he merely moved to the rear window of Hagrid's hut, where he saw the rather horrible sight of the enormous dead spider lying on its back outside, its legs curled and tangled.

"Are we going to bury him here, Hagrid, in your garden?"

"Jus' beyond the pumpkin patch, I thought," said Hagrid in a choked voice. "I've already dug the — yeh know — grave. Jus' thought we'd say a few nice things over him — happy memories, yeh know —" His voice quivered and broke.

There was a knock on the door, and he turned to answer it, blowing his nose on his great spotted handkerchief as he did so. Slughorn hurried over the threshold, several bottles in his arms, and wearing a somber black cravat. "Hagrid," he said, in a deep, grave voice. "So very sorry to hear of your loss."

"Tha's very nice of yeh," said Hagrid. "Thanks a lot. An' thanks fer not givin Harry detention neither…"

"Wouldn't have dreamed of it," said Slughorn. "Sad night, sad night…Where is the poor creature?" though the gleam in his eyes suggested Slughorn was not remotely upset.

"Out here," said Hagrid in a shaking voice. "Shall we — shall we do it, then?"

The three of them stepped out into the back garden. The moon was glistening palely through the trees now, and its rays mingled with the light spilling from Hagrid's window to illuminate Aragog's body lying on the edge of a massive pit beside a ten-foot- high mound of freshly dug earth.

"Magnificent," said Slughorn, approaching the spiders head, where eight milky eyes stared blankly at the sky and two huge, curved pincers shone, motionless, in the moonlight. Harry thought he heard the tinkle of bottles as Slughorn bent over the pincers, apparently examining the enormous hairy head.

"Its not ev'ryone appreciates how beau'iful they are' said Hagrid to Slughorn's back, tears leaking from the corners of his crinkled eyes. "I didn' know yeh were interested in creatures like Aragog, Horace."

"Interested? My dear Hagrid, I revere them," said Slughorn, stepping back from the body. Harry saw the glint of a bottle disappear beneath his cloak, though Hagrid, mopping his eyes once more, noticed nothing. "Now…shall we proceed to the burial?"

Hagrid nodded and moved forward. He heaved the gigantic spider into his arms and, with an enormous grunt, rolled it into the dark pit. It hit the bottom with a rather horrible, crunchy thud. Hagrid started to cry again.

"Of course, it's difficult for you, who knew him best," said Slughorn, who like Harry could reach no higher than Hagrid's elbow, but patted it all the same. "Why don't I say a few words?"

He must have got a lot of good-quality venom from Aragog, Harry thought, for Slughorn wore a satisfied smile as he stepped up to the rim of the pit and said, in a slow, impressive voice, "Farewell, Aragog, king of arachnids, whose long and faithful friendship those who knew you won't forget! Though your body will decay, your spirit lingers on in the quiet, web-spun places of your forest home. May your many-eyed descendants ever flourish and your human friends find solace for the loss they have sustained."

"Tha was…tha was…beau'iful!" howled Hagrid, and he collapsed onto the compost heap, crying harder than ever.

"There, there," said Slughorn, waving his wand so that the huge pile of earth rose up and then fell, with a muffled sort of crash, onto the dead spider, forming a smooth mound. "Lets get inside and have a drink. Get on his other side, Harry…That's it…Up you come, Hagrid…Well done…"

They deposited Hagrid in a chair at the table. Fang, who had been skulking in his basket during the burial, now came padding softly across to them and put his heavy head into Harry's lap as usual. Slughorn uncorked one of the bottles of wine he had brought.

"I have had it all tested for poison," he assured Harry, pouring most of the first bottle into one of Hagrid's bucket-sized mugs and handing it to Hagrid. "Had a house-elf taste every bottle after what happened to your poor friend Rupert."

Harry saw, in his mind's eye, the expression on Hermione's face if she ever heard about this abuse of house elves, and decided never to mention it to her.

"One for Harry…" said Slughorn, dividing a second bottle between two mugs, "…and one for me. Well"— he raised his mug high — "to Aragog."

"Aragog," said Harry and Hagrid together. Both Slughorn and Hagrid drank deeply. Harry, however, with the way ahead illuminated for him by Felix Felicis, knew that he must not drink, so he merely pretended to take a gulp and then set the mug back on the table before him.

"I had him from an egg, yeh know," said Hagrid morosely. "Tiny little thing he was when he hatched. 'Bout the size of a Pekingese"

"Sweet," said Slughorn.

"Used ter keep him in a cupboard up at the school until… well…" Hagrid's face darkened and Harry knew why: Tom Riddle had contrived to have Hagrid thrown out of school, blamed for opening the Chamber of Secrets. Slughorn, however, did not seem to be listening; he was looking up at the ceiling, from which a number of brass pots hung, and also a long, silky skein of bright white hair.

"That's not unicorn hair, Hagrid?"

"Oh, yeah," said Hagrid indifferently. "Gets pulled out of their tails, they catch it on branches an' stuff in the forest, yeh know…"

"But my dear chap, do you know how much that's worth?"

"I use it fer bindin' on bandages an' stuff if a creature gets injured," said Hagrid, shrugging. "It's dead useful… very strong."

Slughorn took another deep draught from his mug, his eyes moving carefully around the cabin now, looking, Harry knew, for more treasures that he might be able to convert into a plentiful supply of oak-matured mead, crystallised pineapple, and velvet smoking jackets. He refilled Hagrid's mug and his own, and questioned him about the creatures that lived in the forest these days and how Hagrid was able to look after them all. Hagrid, becoming expansive under the influence of the drink and Slughorn's flattering interest, stopped mopping his eyes and entered happily into a long explanation of bow-truckle husbandry.

The Felix Felicis gave Harry a little nudge at this point, and he noticed that the supply of drink that Slughorn had brought was running out fast. Harry had not yet managed to bring off the refilling charm without saying the incantation aloud, but the idea that he might not be able to do it tonight was laughable: indeed, Harry grinned to himself as, unnoticed by either Hagrid or Slughorn – now swapping tales of the illegal trade in dragon eggs – he pointed his wand under the able at the emptying bottles and they immediately began to refill.

After an hour or so, Hagrid and Slughorn began making extravagant toasts: to Hogwarts, to Dumbledore, to elf-made wine, and to — "Harry Potter!" bellowed Hagrid, slopping some of his fourteenth bucket of wine down his chin as he drained it.

"Yes, indeed," cried Slughorn a little thickly, "Parry Otter, the Chosen Boy Who — well — something of that sort," he mumbled, and drained his mug too.

Not long after this, Hagrid became tearful again and pressed the whole unicorn tail upon Slughorn, who pocketed it with cries of, "To friendship! To generosity! To ten Galleons a hair!"

And for a while after that, Hagrid and Slughorn were sitting side by side, arms around each other, singing a slow sad song about a dying wizard called Odo.

"Aaargh, the good die young," muttered Hagrid, slumping low onto the table, a little cross-eyed, while Slughorn continued to warble the refrain. "Me dad was no age ter go…nor were yer mum' an' dad, Harry…"

Great fat tears oozed out of the corners of Hagrid's crinkled eyes again; he grasped Harry's arm and shook it.

"Bes' wiz and witchard o' their age… I never knew… terrible thing…terrible thing…"

And Odo the hero, they bore him back home

To the place that he'd known as a lad

sang Slughorn plaintively.

They laid him to rest with his hat inside out

And his wand snapped in two, which was sad

"…terrible," Hagrid grunted, and his great shaggy head rolled sideways onto his arms and he fell asleep, snoring deeply.

"Sorry," said Slughorn with a hiccup. "Can't carry a tune to save my life."

"Hagrid wasn't talking about your singing," said Harry quietly. "He was talking about my mum and dad dying."

"Oh," said Slughorn, repressing a large belch. "Oh dear. Yes, that was — was terrible indeed. Terrible… terrible…"

He looked quite at a loss for what to say, and resorted to refilling their mugs.

"I don't — don't suppose you remember it, Harry?" he asked awkwardly.

"No — well, I was only one when they died," said Harry, his eyes on the flame of the candle flickering in Hagrid's heavy snores. "But I've found out pretty much what happened since. My dad died first. Did you know that?"

"I — I didn't," said Slughorn in a hushed voice.

"Yeah… Voldemort murdered him and then stepped over his body toward my mum," said Harry. Slughorn gave a great shudder, but he did not seem able to tear his horrified gaze away from Harry's face. "He told her to get out of the way," said Harry remorselessly. "He told me she needn't have died. He only wanted me. She could have run."

"Oh dear," breathed Slughorn. "She could have… she needn't… That's awful…"

"It is, isn't it?" said Harry, in a voice barely more than a whisper. "But she didn't move. Dad was dead, but she didn't want me to go too. She tried to plead with Voldemort… but he just laughed…"

"That's enough!" said Slughorn suddenly, raising a shaking hand. "Really, my dear boy, enough… I'm an old man… I don't need to hear… I don't want to hear…"

"I forgot," lied Harry, Felix Felicis leading him on. "You liked her, didn't you?"

"Liked her?" said Slughorn, his eyes brimming with tears once more. "I don't imagine anyone who met her wouldn't have liked her…Very brave… Very clever, very funny... Miss Granger reminds me…"

Harry pounced on those words, knowing Slughorn's fondness for Hermione. He knew he was safe; Felix was telling him that Slughorn would remember nothing of this in the morning.

"We're together, me and Hermione, sir."

"Oh, dear boy. I – congratulations!" Slughorn said, as if Harry had just told him he and Hermione were expecting a child.

"You say she reminds you of my mother?"

"Yes – very much," Slughorn hiccuped.

"Well, you wouldn't want the girl who reminds you so much of Lily Evans to suffer, would you? Because Hermione's a muggleborn, and if You-Know-Who gets back in power…"

"Don't! Don't! My dear boy – oh, Lily… It was the most horrible thing… "

"But you won't help her son," said Harry. "Or the girl that her son loves? She gave me her life so that I could live, so that I could love, but you won't give me a memory?"

Hagrid's rumbling snores filled the cabin. Harry looked steadily into Slughorn's tear-filled eyes. The Potions master seemed unable to look away.

"Don't say that," he whispered. "It isn't a question… If it were to help you, of course… but no purpose can be served…"

"It can," said Harry clearly. "Dumbledore needs information. I need information."

Looking Slughorn straight in the eye, Harry leaned forward a little.

"I am the Chosen One. I have to kill him. I need that memory."

Slughorn turned paler than ever; his shiny forehead gleamed with sweat. "You are the Chosen One?"

"Of course I am," said Harry calmly.

"But then… my dear boy… you're asking a great deal… you're asking me, in fact, to aid you in your attempt to destroy —"

"You don't want to get rid of the wizard who killed Lily Evans?"

"Harry, Harry, of course I do, but —"

"You're scared he'll find out you helped me?" Slughorn said nothing; he looked terrified. "Be brave like my mother, Professor…"

Slughorn raised a pudgy hand and pressed his shaking fingers to his mouth; he looked for a moment like an enormously overgrown baby.

"I am not proud…" he whispered through his fingers. "I am ashamed of what — of what that memory shows… I think I may have done great damage that day…"

"You'd cancel out anything you did by giving me the memory," said Harry. "It would be a very brave and noble thing to do."

Hagrid twitched in his sleep and snored on. Slughorn and Harry stared at each other over the guttering candle. There was a long, long silence, but Felix Felicis told Harry not to break it, to wait. Then, very slowly, Slughorn put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his wand. He put his other hand inside his cloak and took out a small, empty bottle. Still looking into Harry's eyes, Slughorn touched the tip of his wand to his temple and withdrew it, so that a long, silver thread of memory came away too, clinging to the wand tip. Longer and longer the memory stretched until it broke and swung, silvery bright, from the wand. Slughorn lowered it into the bottle where it coiled, then spread, swirling like gas. He corked the bottle with a trembling hand and then passed it across the table to Harry.

"Thank you very much, Professor."

"You're a good boy," said Professor Slughorn, tears trickling down his fat cheeks into his walrus moustache. "And you've got her eyes… Just don't think too badly of me once you've seen it…"

And he too put his head on his arms, gave a deep sigh, and fell asleep.

Chapter 19: 19: Chapter Twenty-Three - Horcruxes [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Harry could feel the Felix Felicis wearing off as he creeped back into the castle. The front door had remained unlocked for him, but on the third floor he met Peeves and only narrowly avoided detection by diving sideways through one of his shortcuts. By the time he got up to the portrait of the Fat Lady and pulled off his invisibility cloak, he was not surprised to find her in a most unhelpful mood.

"What sort of time do you call this?"

"I'm really sorry — I had to go out for something important —"

"Well, the password changed at midnight, so you'll just have to sleep in the corridor, won't you?"

"You're joking!" said Harry. "Why did it have to change at midnight?"

"That's the way it is," said the Fat Lady. "If you're angry, go and take it up with the headmaster, he's the one who's tightened security."

"Fantastic," said Harry bitterly, looking around at the hard floor. "Really brilliant. Yeah, I would go and take it up with Dumbledore if he was here, because he's the one who wanted me to —"

"He is here," said a voice behind Harry. "Professor Dumbledore returned to the school an hour ago." Nearly Headless Nick was gliding toward Harry, his head wobbling as usual upon his ruff.

"I heard it from the Bloody Baron, who saw him arrive," said Nick. "He appeared, according to the Baron, to be in good spirits, though a little tired, of course."

"Where is he?" said Harry, his heart leaping.

"Oh, groaning and clanking up on the Astronomy Tower, it's a, favourite pastime of his —"

"Not the Bloody Baron — Dumbledore!"

"Oh — in his office," said Nick. "I believe, from what the Baron said, that he had business to attend to before turning in —"

"Yeah, he has," said Harry, excitement blazing in his chest at the prospect of telling Dumbledore he had secured the memory. He wheeled about and sprinted off again, ignoring the Fat Lady who was calling after him.

"Come back! All right, I lied! I was annoyed you woke me up! The password's still 'tapeworm'!"

But Harry was already hurtling back along the corridor and within minutes, he was saying "toffee eclairs" to Dumbledore's gargoyle, which leapt aside, permitting Harry entrance onto the spiral staircase.

"Enter," said Dumbledore when Harry knocked. He sounded exhausted. Harry pushed open the door. There was Dumbledore's office, looking the same as ever, but with black, star-strewn skies beyond the windows.

"Good gracious, Harry," said Dumbledore in surprise. "To what do I owe this very late pleasure?"

"Sir — I've got it. I've got the memory from Slughorn." Harry pulled out the tiny glass bottle and showed it to Dumbledore.

For a moment or two, the headmaster looked stunned. Then his face split in a wide smile.

"Harry, this is spectacular news! Very well done indeed! I knew you could do it!"

All thought of the lateness of the hour apparently forgotten, he hurried around his desk, took the bottle with Slughorn's memory in his uninjured hand, and strode over to the cabinet where he kept the Pensieve. "And now," he added, placing the stone basin upon the desk and emptying the contents of the bottle into it. "Now, at last, we shall see. Harry, quickly…"

Harry bowed obediently over the Pensieve and felt his feet leave the office floor. Once again he fell through darkness and landed in Horace Slughorn's office many years before. There was the much younger Slughorn, with his thick, shiny, straw-coloured hair and his gingery-blond moustache, sitting again in the comfortable winged armchair in his office, his feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, a small glass of wine in one hand, the other rummaging in a box of crystallised pineapple. And there were the half dozen teenage boys sitting around Slughorn with Tom Riddle in the midst of them, Marvolo's gold-and-black ring gleaming on his finger.

Dumbledore landed beside Harry just as Riddle asked, "Sir is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?"

"Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you," said Slughorn, wagging his finger reprovingly at Riddle, though winking at the same time. "I must say, I'd like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are."

Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.

"What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your careful flattery of the people who matter — thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you're quite right, it is my favourite —" Several of the boys tittered again. "— I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of Magic within twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple, I have excellent contacts at the Ministry."

Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed again. Harry noticed that he was by no means the eldest of the group of boys, but that they all seemed to look to him as their leader.

"I don't know that politics would suit me, sir," he said when the laughter had died away. "I don't have the right kind of background, for one thing."

A couple of the boys around him smirked at each other. Harry was sure they were enjoying a private joke, undoubtedly about what they knew, or suspected, regarding their gang leader's famous ancestor.

"Nonsense," said Slughorn briskly, "couldn't be plainer you come from decent wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you'll go far, Tom, I've never been wrong about a student yet."

The small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock behind him and he looked around.

"Good gracious, is it that time already? You'd better get going boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay in tomorrow or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery."

One by one, the boys filed out of the room. Slughorn heaved himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk. A movement behind him made him look around; Riddle was still standing there.

"Look sharp, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect…"

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away…"

"Sir, I wondered what you know about… about Horcruxes?'

Slughorn stared at him, his thick ringers absentmindedly clawing the stem of his wine glass.

"Project for Defence Against the Dark Arts, is it?" But Harry could tell that Slughorn knew perfectly well that this was not schoolwork.

"Not exactly, sir," said Riddle. "I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it."

"No… well… you'd be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that'll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom, that's very dark stuff, very dark indeed," said Slughorn.

"But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you – sorry, I mean, if you can't tell me, obviously – I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could – so I just thought I'd–"

It was very well done, thought Harry, the hesitancy, the casual tone, the careful flattery, none of it overdone. He, Harry, had had too much experience of trying to wheedle information out of reluctant people not to recognise a master at work. He could tell that Riddle wanted the information very, very much; perhaps had been working toward this moment for weeks.

"Well," said Slughorn, not looking at Riddle, but fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of crystallised pineapple, "well, it can't hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul."

"I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir," said Riddle. His voice was carefully controlled, but Harry could sense his excitement.

"Well, you split your soul, you see," said Slughorn, "and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form…"

Slughorn's face crumpled and Harry found himself remembering words he had heard nearly two years before: "I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost… but still, I was alive."

"…few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable."

But Riddle's hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his longing. "How do you split your soul?"

"Well," said Slughorn uncomfortably, "you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature."

"But how do you do it?"

"By an act of evil — the supreme act of evil. By committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: He would encase the torn portion —"

"Encase? But how —?"

"There is a spell, do not ask me, I don't know!" said Slughorn shaking his head like an old elephant bothered by mosquitoes. "Do I look as though I have tried it – do I look like a killer?"

"No, sir, of course not," said Riddle quickly. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to offend…"

"Not at all, not at all, not offended," said Slughorn gruffly, "It is natural to feel some curiosity about these things…Wizards of a certain caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic…"

"Yes, sir," said Riddle. "What I don't understand, though – just out of curiosity – I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn't it be better, make you

stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn't seven –?"

"Merlin's beard, Tom!" yelped Slughorn. "Seven! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case… bad enough to divide the soul… but to rip it into seven pieces…"

Slughorn looked deeply troubled now: He was gazing at Riddle as though he had never seen him plainly before, and Harry could tell that he was regretting entering into the conversation at all.

"Of course," he muttered, "this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic…"

"Yes, sir, of course," said Riddle quickly.

"But all the same, Tom… keep it quiet, what I've told — that's to say, what we've discussed. People wouldn't like to think we've been chatting about Horcruxes. It's a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know… Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it…"

"I won't say a word, sir," said Riddle, and he left, but not before Harry had glimpsed his face, which was full of that same wild happiness it had worn when he had first found out that he was a wizard, the sort of happiness that did not enhance his handsome features, but made them, somehow, less human…

"Thank you, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. "Let us go…"

When Harry landed back on the office floor Dumbledore was already sitting down behind his desk. Harry sat too and waited for Dumbledore to speak.

"I have been hoping for this piece of evidence for a very long time," said Dumbledore at last. "It confirms the theory on which I have been working, it tells me that I am right, and also how very far there is still to go…"

Harry suddenly noticed that every single one of the old headmasters and headmistresses in the portraits around the walls was awake and listening in on their conversation. A corpulent, red nosed wizard had actually taken out an ear trumpet.

"Well, Harry," said Dumbledore, "I am sure you understood the significance of what we just heard. At the same age as you are now, give or take a few months, Tom Riddle was doing all he could to find out how to make himself immortal."

"You think he succeeded then, sir?" asked Harry. "He made a Horcrux? And that's why he didn't die when he attacked me? He had a Horcrux hidden somewhere? A bit of his soul was safe?"

"A bit…or more," said Dumbledore. "You heard Voldemort, what he particularly wanted from Horace was an opinion on what would happen to the wizard who created more than one Horcrux, what would happen to the wizard so determined to evade death that he would be prepared to murder many times, rip his soul repeatedly, so as to store it in many, separately concealed Horcrux. No book would have given him that information. As far as I know – as far, I am sure, as Voldemort knew – no wizard had ever done more than tear his soul in two."

Dumbledore paused for a moment, marshalling his thought, and then said, "Four years ago, I received what I considered certain proof that Voldemort had split his soul."

"Where?" asked Harry. "How?"

"You handed it to me, Harry," said Dumbledore. "The diary, Riddle's diary, the one giving instructions on how to reopen the Chamber of Secrets."

"I don't understand, sir," said Harry.

"Well, although I did not see the Riddle who came out of the diary, what you described to me was a phenomenon I had never witnessed. A mere memory starting to act and think for itself? A mere memory, sapping the life out of the girl into whose hands it had fallen? No, something much more sinister had lived inside that book… a fragment of soul, I was almost sure of it. The diary had been a Horcrux. But this raised as many questions as it answered. What intrigued and alarmed me most was that that diary had been intended as a weapon as much as a safeguard."

"I still don't understand," said Harry.

"It worked as a Horcrux is supposed to work — in other words, the fragment of soul concealed inside it was kept safe and had undoubtedly played its part in preventing the death of its owner. But there could be no doubt that Riddle really wanted that diary read, wanted the piece of his soul to inhabit or possess somebody else, so that Slytherin's monster would be unleashed again."

"Well, he didn't want his hard work to be wasted," said Harry. "He wanted people to know he was Slytherin's heir, because he couldn't take credit at the time."

"Quite correct," said Dumbledore, nodding. "But don't you see, Harry, that if he intended the diary to be passed to, or planted on, some future Hogwarts student, he was being remarkably blasé about that precious fragment of his soul concealed within it. The point of a Horcrux is, as Professor Slughorn explained, to keep part of the self hidden and safe, not to fling it into somebody else's path and run the risk that they might destroy it — as indeed happened: That particular fragment of soul is no more; you saw to that.

"The careless way in which Voldemort regarded this Horcrux seemed most ominous to me. It suggested that he must have made – or had been planning to make – more Horcruxes, so that the loss of his first would not be so detrimental. I did not wish to believe it, but nothing else seemed to make sense. Then you told me, two years later, that on the night that Voldemort returned to his body, he made a most illuminating and alarming statement to his Death Eaters. 'I who have gone further than anybody along the path that leads to immortality.' That was what you told me he said. 'Further than anybody!' And I thought I knew what that meant, though the Death Eaters did not. He was referring to his Horcruxes, Horcruxes in the plural, Harry, which I don't believe any other wizard has ever had. Yet it fitted: Lord Voldemort has seemed to grow less human with the passing years, and the transformation he had undergone seemed to me to be only explainable if his soul was mutated beyond the realms of what we might call 'usual evil'…"

"So he's made himself impossible to kill by murdering other people?" said Harry. "Why couldn't he make a Philosopher's Stone, or steal one, if he was so interested in immortality?"

"Well, we know that he tried to do just that, in your first year," said Dumbledore. "But there are several reasons why, I think, a Philosopher's Stone would appeal less than Horcruxes to Lord Voldemort.

"While the Elixir of Life does indeed extend life, it must be drunk regularly, for all eternity, if the drinker is to maintain the immortality. Therefore, Voldemort would be entirely dependant on the Elixir, and if it ran out, or was contaminated, or if the stone was stolen, he would die just like any other man. Voldemort likes to operate alone, remember. I believe that he would have found the thought of being dependent, even on the elixir, intolerable.

"Of course he was prepared to drink it if it would take him out of the horrible part-life to which he was condemned after attacking you, but only to regain a body. Thereafter, I am convinced, he intended to continue to rely on his Horcruxes. He would need nothing more, if only he could regain a human form. He was already immortal, you see… or as close to immortal as any man can be.

"But now, Harry, armed with this information, the crucial memory you have succeeded in procuring for us, we are closer to the secret of finishing Lord Voldemort than anyone has ever

been before. You heard him, Harry: 'Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces…isn't seven the most powerfully magical number…' Yes, I think the idea of a seven-part soul would greatly appeal to Lord Voldemort."

"He made seven Horcruxes?" said Harry, horror-struck, while several of the portraits on the walls made similar noises of shock mid outrage. "But they could be anywhere in the world – hidden – buried or invisible –"

"I am glad to see you appreciate the magnitude of the problem," said Dumbledore calmly. "But firstly, no, Harry, not seven Horcruxes: six. The seventh part of his soul, however maimed, resides inside his regenerated body. That was the part of him that lived a spectral existence for so many years during his exile; without that, he has no self at all. That seventh piece of soul will be the last that anybody wishing to kill Voldemort must attack — the piece that lives in his body."

"But the six Horcruxes, then," said Harry, a little desperately, "how are we supposed to find them?"

"You are forgetting… you have already destroyed one of them. And I have destroyed another."

"You have?" said Harry eagerly.

"Yes indeed," said Dumbledore, and he raised his blackened, burned-looking hand. "The ring, Harry. Marvolo's ring. And a terrible curse there was upon it too. Had it not been – forgive me the lack of seemly modesty – for my own prodigious skill, and for Professor Snape's timely action when I returned to Hogwarts, desperately injured, I might not have lived to tell the tale. However, a withered hand does not seem an unreasonable exchange for a seventh of Voldemort's soul. The ring is no longer a Horcrux."

"But how did you find it?"

"Well, as you now know, for many years I have made it my business to discover as much as I can about Voldemort's past life. I have travelled widely, visiting those places he once knew. I stumbled across the ring hidden in the ruin of the Gaunt's house. It seems that once Voldemort had succeeded in sealing a piece of his soul inside it, he did not want to wear it anymore. He hid it, protected by many powerful enchantments, in the shack where his ancestors had once lived, with Morfin having been carted off to Azkaban, never guessing that I might one day take the trouble to visit the ruin, or that I might be keeping an eye open for traces of magical concealment.

"However, we should not congratulate ourselves too heartily. You destroyed the diary and I the ring, but if we are right in our theory of a seven-part soul, four Horcruxes remain."

"And they could be anything?" said Harry. "They could be oh, in tin cans or, I dunno, empty potion bottles…"

"You are thinking of Portkeys, Harry, which must be ordinary objects, easy to overlook. But would Lord Voldemort use tin cans or old potion bottles to guard his own precious soul? You are forgetting what I have showed you. Lord Voldemort liked to collect trophies, and he preferred objects with a powerful magical history. His pride, his belief in his own superiority, his determination to carve for himself a startling place in magical history; these things, suggest to me that Voldemort would have chosen his Horcruxes with some care, favouring objects worthy of the honour."

"The diary wasn't that special."

"The diary, as you have said yourself, was proof that he was the Heir of Slytherin. I am sure that Voldemort considered it of stupendous importance."

"So, the other Horcruxes?" said Harry. "Do you think you know what they are, sir?"

"I can only guess," said Dumbledore. "For the reasons I have already given, I believe that Lord Voldemort would prefer objects that, in themselves, have a certain grandeur. I have therefore trawled back through Voldemort's past to see if I can find evidence that such artefacts have disappeared around him."

"The locket!" said Harry loudly, "Hufflepuff's cup!"

"Yes," said Dumbledore, smiling, "I would be prepared to bet — perhaps not my other hand — but a couple of fingers, that they became Horcruxes three and four. The remaining two, assuming again that he created a total of six, are more of a problem, but I will hazard a guess that, having secured objects from Hufflepuff and Slytherin, he set out to track down objects owned by Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Four objects from the four founders would, I am sure, have exerted a powerful pull over Voldemort's imagination. I cannot answer for whether he ever managed to find anything of Ravenclaw's. I am confident, however, that the only known relic of Gryffindor remains safe."

Dumbledore pointed his blackened fingers to the wall behind him, where a ruby-encrusted sword reposed within a glass case.

"Do you think that's why he really wanted to come back to Hogwarts, sir?" said Harry. "To try and find something from one of the other founders?"

"My thoughts precisely," said Dumbledore. "But unfortunately, that does not advance us much further, for he was turned away, or so I believe, without the chance to search the school. I am forced to conclude that he never fulfilled his ambition of collecting four founders' objects. He definitely had two – he may have found three – that is the best we can do for now."

"Even if he got something of Ravenclaw's or of Gryffindor's, that leaves a sixth Horcrux," said Harry, counting on his fingers. "Unless he's got both?"

"I don't think so," said Dumbledore. "I think I know what the sixth Horcrux is. I wonder what you will say when I confess that I have been curious for a while about the behaviour of the snake, Nagini?"

"The snake?" said Harry, startled. "You can use animals as Horcruxes?"

"Well, it is inadvisable to do so," said Dumbledore, "because to confide a part of your soul to something that can think and move for itself is obviously a very risky business. However, if my calculations are correct, Voldemort was still at least one Horcrux short of his goal of six when he entered your parents' house with the intention of killing you. He seems to have reserved the process of making Horcruxes for particularly significant deaths. You would certainly have been that. He believed that in killing you, he was destroying the danger the prophecy had outlined. He believed he was making himself invincible. I am sure that he was intending to make his final Horcrux with your death. As we know, he failed. Almost three years ago, however, he used Nagini to kill an old muggle man, and it might then have occurred to him to turn her into his last Horcrux. She underlines the Slytherin connection, which enhances Lord Voldemort's mystique; I think he is perhaps as fond of her as he can be of anything; he certainly likes to keep her close, and he seems to have an unusual amount of control over her, even for a Parselmouth."

"So," said Harry, "the diary's gone, the ring's gone. The cup, the locket, and the snake are still intact, and you think there might be a Horcrux that was once Ravenclaw's or Gryffindor's?"

"An admirably succinct and accurate summary, yes," said Dumbledore, bowing his head.

"So…are you still looking for them, sir? Is that where you've been going when you've been leaving the school?"

"Correct," said Dumbledore. "I have been looking for a very long time. I think… perhaps… I may be close to finding another one. There are hopeful signs."

"And if you do," said Harry quickly, "can I come with you and help get rid of it?"

Dumbledore looked at Harry very intently for a moment before saying, "Yes, I think so."

"I can?" said Harry, thoroughly taken aback.

"Oh yes," said Dumbledore, smiling slightly. "I think you have earned that right."

Harry felt his heart lift. It was very good not to hear words of caution and protection for once. The headmasters and head-mistresses around the walls seemed less impressed by Dumbledore's decision; Harry saw a few of them shaking their heads and Phineas Nigellus actually snorted.

"Does Voldemort know when a Horcrux is destroyed, sir? Can he feel it?" Harry asked, ignoring the portraits.

"A very interesting question, Harry. I believe not. I believe that Voldemort is now so immersed in evil, and these crucial parts of himself have been detached for so long, he does not feel as we do. Perhaps, at the point of death, he might be aware of his loss…but he was not aware, for instance, that the diary had been destroyed until he forced the truth out of Lucius Malfoy. When Voldemort discovered that the diary had been mutilated and robbed of all its powers, I am told that his anger was terrible to behold."

"But I thought he meant Lucius Malfoy to smuggle it into Hogwarts?"

"Yes, he did, years ago, when he was sure he would be able to create more Horcruxes, but still Lucius was supposed to wait for Voldemort's say-so, and he never received it, for Voldemort vanished shortly after giving him the diary.

"No doubt he thought that Lucius would not dare do anything with the Horcrux other than guard it carefully, but he was counting too much upon Lucius's fear of a master who had been gone for years and whom Lucius believed dead. Of course, Lucius did not know what the diary really was. I understand that Voldemort had told him the diary would cause the Chamber of Secrets to reopen because it was cleverly enchanted. Had Lucius known he held a portion of his masters soul in his hands, he would undoubtedly have treated it with more reverence — but instead he went ahead and carried out the old plan for his own ends. By planting the diary upon Arthur Weasleys daughter, he hoped to discredit Arthur and get rid of a highly incriminating magical object in one stroke. Ah, poor Lucius…what with Voldemort's fury about the fact that he threw

away the Horcrux for his own gain, and the fiasco at the Ministry last year, I would not be surprised if he is not secretly glad to be safe in Azkaban at the moment."

Harry sat in thought for a moment, then asked, "So if all of his Horcruxes are destroyed, Voldemort could be killed?"

"Yes, I think so," said Dumbledore. "Without his Horcruxes, Voldemort will be a mortal man with a maimed and diminished soul. Never forget, though, that while his soul may be damaged beyond repair, his brain and his magical powers remain intact. It will take uncommon skill and power to kill a wizard like Voldemort even without his Horcruxes."

"But I haven't got uncommon skill and power," said Harry, before he could stop himself.

"Yes, you have," said Dumbledore firmly. "You have a power that Voldemort has never had. You can —"

"I know!" said Harry impatiently, despite what he'd said to Slughorn earlier about how his mother had died so he could love. "I can love!" It was only with difficulty that he stopped himself adding, "Big deal!"

"Yes, Harry, you can love," said Dumbledore, who looked as though he knew perfectly well what Harry had just refrained from saying. "Which, given everything that has happened to you, is a great and remarkable thing. You are still too young to understand how unusual you are, Harry."

"So, when the prophecy says that I'll have 'power the Dark Lord knows not,' it just means — love?" asked Harry, feeling a little let down.

"Yes — just love," said Dumbledore. "But Harry, and forgive me now if I am encroaching on private matters, but I do not do so lightly. What you feel for Miss Granger, would you describe that as anything to be simply disregarded as 'just love'?"

Harry was stopped in his tracks. "I – err…" Dumbledore was smiling faintly now. "No," Harry finally finished. No, it's much more.

"Harry, never forget that what the prophecy says is only significant because Voldemort made it so. I told you this at the end of last year. Voldemort singled you out as the person who would be most dangerous to him – and in doing so, he made you the person who would be most dangerous to him!"

"But it comes to the same —"

"No, it doesn't!" said Dumbledore, sounding impatient now, his smile gone. Pointing at Harry with his black, withered hand, he said, "You are setting too much store in the prophecy!"

"But," spluttered Harry, "but you said the prophecy means —"

"If Voldemort had never heard of the prophecy, would it have been fulfilled? Would it have meant anything? Of course not! Do you think every prophecy in the Hall of Prophecy has been fulfilled?"

"But," said Harry, bewildered, "but last year, you said one of us would have to kill the other —"

"Only because Voldemort made a grave error, and acted on Professor Trelawney's words! If Voldemort had never murdered your father, would he have imparted in you a furious desire for revenge? Of course not! If he had not forced your mother to die for you, would he have given you a magical protection he could not penetrate? Of course not, Harry! Don't you see? Voldemort himself created his worst enemy, just as tyrants everywhere do! Have you any idea how much tyrants fear the people they oppress? All of them realise that, one day, amongst their many victims, there is sure to be one who rises against them and strikes back! Voldemort is no different. Always he was on the lookout for the one who would challenge him. He heard the prophecy and he leapt into action, with the result that he not only handpicked the man most likely to finish him, he handed him uniquely deadly weapons!"

"But —"

"It is essential that you understand this!" said Dumbledore, standing up and striding about the room, his glittering robes swooshing in his wake; Harry had never seen him so agitated.

"By attempting to kill you, Voldemort himself singled out the remarkable person who sits here in front of me, and gave him the tools for the job! It is Voldemort's fault that you were able to see into his thoughts, his ambitions, that you even understand the language in which he gives orders and yet, Harry, despite your privileged insight into Voldemort's world, you have never been seduced by the Dark Arts, never, even for a second, shown the slightest desire to become one of Voldemort's followers."

"Of course I haven't!" said Harry indignantly. "He killed my mum and dad!"

"You are protected, in short, by your ability to love!" said Dumbledore loudly. "The only protection that can possibly work against the lure of power like Voldemort's. In spite of all the temptation you have endured, all the suffering, you remain pure of heart, just as pure as you were at the age of eleven, when you stared into a mirror that reflected your heart's desire, and it showed you only the way to thwart Lord Voldemort, and not immortality or riches. Harry, have you any idea how few wizards could have seen what you saw in that mirror? Voldemort should have known then what he was dealing with, but he did not!

"But he knows it now. You have flitted into Lord Voldemort's mind without damage to yourself, but he cannot possess you without enduring mortal agony, as he discovered in the Ministry. I do not think he understands why, Harry, but then, he was in such a hurry to mutilate his own soul, he never paused to understand the incomparable power of a soul that is untarnished and whole."

"But, sir," said Harry, making valiant efforts not to sound argumentative, "it all comes to the same thing, doesn't it? I've got to try and kill him, or —"

"Got to?" said Dumbledore. "Of course you've got to! But not because of the prophecy! Because you, yourself, will never rest until you've tried! We both know it! Imagine, please, just for a moment, that you had never heard that prophecy! How would you feel about Voldemort now? Think!"

Harry watched Dumbledore striding up and down in front of him, and thought. He thought of his mother, his father, and Sirius. He thought of Cedric Diggory. He thought of Mr. Weasley being attacked and the Burrow nearly going up in flames. He thought of Hermione, who had taken that curse for him even though she'd urged him not to run off to the Department of Mysteries. He thought of how much he knew he felt for her… loved her. He thought of all the terrible deeds he knew Voldemort had done. A flame seemed to leap inside his chest, searing his throat.

"I'd want him finished," said Harry quietly. "And I'd want to do it."

"Of course you would!" cried Dumbledore. "You see, the prophecy does not mean you have to do anything! But the prophecy caused Lord Voldemort to mark you as his equal… In other words, you are free to choose your way, quite free to turn your back on the prophecy! But Voldemort continues to set store by the prophecy. He will continue to hunt you…which makes it certain, really, that —"

"That one of us is going to end up killing the other," said Harry. "Yes."

But he understood at last what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him. It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to

choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew – and so do I, thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents – that there was all the difference in the world.

Chapter 20: 20: Chapter Twenty-Four – Sectumsempra [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

Exhausted but delighted with his night's work, Harry was even happier to find a sleeping Hermione, curled up on her favourite sofa near the fire, waiting for him in the common room. Walking over quietly as not to wake her suddenly, he squatted down in front of her.

"Hermione," he whispered, stroking her forehead gently with the knuckle of his index finger. She stirred, but did not wake up. Looking around to double-check they were alone, he placed a feathery kiss on her lips, which formed a smile as he pulled back.

"Hey," he said as her eyes fluttered open.

"Mmm…" she breathed, still half-asleep. "What time is it?"

"Late."

"Hey," she said, now fully coming too. "How did it go?"

"Really well," Harry answered with a smile. "But I'll tell you tomorrow, yeh? You look shattered."

Hermione pouted, but allowed him to pull her up by the hand. Once they were stood together, she lay her head comfortably on his shoulder.

"Can't we just sleep down here tonight?" She asked drowsily.

Harry smiled. He wanted nothing more, but it wouldn't be a smart move.

Reading his mind effortlessly again, Hermione said: "I know… I know. We can't."

She pulled back, and the look she gave him nearly made his heart melt, the adrenaline of the night paving way for a painful desire to be with her.

He kissed her. Lazily and lovingly, putting as much emotion into it as he could. Hermione, though sleepy, returned it in equal measure. Slow and tender.

Eventually, they broke apart, and she took him silently by the hand and walked towards the entrance to the dormitories, before letting go with a sleepy smile.

"Night, Harry," she said, with a final, soft, kiss.

As he had promised, he told Hermione – and Ron – everything that had happened during next morning's Charms lesson, having first cast the Muffliato spell upon those nearest them. They were both satisfyingly impressed by the way he had wheedled the memory out of Slughorn and Ron was positively in awe when he told them about Voldemort's Horcruxes and Dumbledore's promise to take Harry along, should he find another one.

"Wow," said Ron, when Harry had finally finished telling them everything; Hermione having turned slightly pink when he mentioned what Dumbledore said about love being the most powerful weapon, albeit he left out the headmaster's direct reference to their relationship.

Ron was waving his wand very vaguely in the direction of the ceiling without paying the slightest bit of attention to what he was doing. "Wow. You're actually going to go with Dumbledore… and try and destroy… wow."

"Ron, you're making it snow," said Hermione patiently, grabbing his wrist and redirecting his wand away from the ceiling from which, sure enough, large white flakes had started to fall. Lavender Brown, Harry noticed, glared at Hermione from a neighbouring table through very red eyes, and Hermione immediately let go of Ron's arm.

"Oh yeah," said Ron, looking down at his shoulders in vague surprise. "Sorry… looks like we've all got horrible dandruff now…"

He brushed some of the fake snow off Hermione's shoulder. Lavender burst into tears. Ron looked immensely guilty and turned his back on her. Hermione looked at Harry sheepishly, and he knew why a second later when Ron leaned in.

"We split up," he told Harry out of the corner of his mouth, "Last night. When she saw me coming out of the dormitory with Hermione. Obviously she couldn't see you, so she thought it had just been the two of us…"

"Ah," said Harry. "Well — you don't mind it's over, do you?"

"No," Ron admitted. "It was pretty bad while she was yelling, but at least I didn't have to finish it."

"Coward," said Hermione, though with no vigour. "Well, it was a bad night for romance all around. Ginny and Dean split up too, Harry."

"How come?"

"Oh, something really silly… She said he was always trying to help her through the portrait hole, like she couldn't climb in herself…"

"Oh crap, that was me," Harry whispered.

"What d'you –"

"When I snuck out of the portrait hole underneath the cloak, I bumped into her by accident!"

Harry glanced over guiltily at Dean on the other side of the classroom. He certainly looked unhappy.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Hermione said, and she placed a reassuring hand on top of his. "They've been a bit rocky for ages."

"Flitwick," said Ron, who didn't seem to care that Ginny and Dean had split up, in a warning tone. The tiny little Charms master was bobbing his way toward them, and Hermione was the only one who had managed to turn vinegar into wine; her glass flask was full of deep crimson liquid, whereas the contents of Harry's and Ron's were still murky brown.

"Now, now, boys," squeaked Professor Flitwick reproachfully. "A little less talk, a little more action… Let me see you try…"

Together they raised their wands, concentrating with all their might, and pointed them at their flasks. Harry's vinegar turned to ice; Ron's flask exploded.

"Yes… for homework," said Professor Flitwick, reemerging from under the table and pulling shards of glass out of the top of his hat, "practice."

They had one of their rare joint free periods after Charms and walked back to the common room together. Ron seemed to be positively lighthearted about the end of his relationship with Lavender.

Hermione caught Harry's eye meaningfully. They knew they'd have to tell Ron soon and Harry thought, given he was his best mate, he really should be the one to do so. He didn't want another Hermione-Ron row with him in the middle, either. Though visions of Ron punching him hard in the face, accusing his two friends of betraying him and leaving him alone – especially now him and Lavender had broken up – kept coming into his mind's eye.

Harry barely noticed that they were climbing through the portrait hole into the sunny common room, and only vaguely registered the small group of seventh years clustered together there, until Hermione cried, "Katie! You're back! Are you okay?"

Harry stared; it was indeed Katie Bell, looking completely healthy and surrounded by her jubilant friends.

"I'm really well!" she said happily. "They let me out of St. Mungos on Monday, I had a couple of days at home with Mum and Dad and then came back here this morning. Leanne was just telling me about McLaggen and the last match, Harry…"

"Yeah," said Harry, "well, now you're back and Ron's fit, we'll have a decent chance of thrashing Ravenclaw, which means we could still be in the running for the Cup. Listen, Katie…"

He had to put the question to her at once. He dropped his voice as Katie's friends started gathering up their things; apparently they were late for Transfiguration.

"…that necklace…can you remember who gave it to you now?"

"No," said Katie, shaking her head ruefully. "Everyone's been asking me, but I haven't got a clue. The last thing I remember was walking into the ladies' in the Three Broomsticks."

"You definitely went into the bathroom, then?" said Hermione.

"Well, I know I pushed open the door," said Katie, "so I suppose whoever Imperiused me was standing just behind it. After that, my memory's a blank until about two weeks ago in St. Mungo's. Anyway, I'd better go, I wouldn't put it past McGonagall to give me lines even if it is my first day back…"

She caught up her bag and books and hurried after her friends, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione to sit down at a window table and ponder what she had told them.

"So it must have been a girl or a woman who gave Katie the necklace," said Hermione, "to be in the ladies' bathroom."

"Or someone who looked like a girl or a woman," said Harry. "Don't forget, there was a cauldron full of Polyjuice Potion at Hogwarts. We know some of it got stolen…"

In his mind's eye, he watched a parade of Crabbes and Goyles prance past, all transformed into girls.

"I think I'm going to take another swig of Felix," said Harry, "and have a go at the Room of Requirement again."

"That would be a complete waste of potion," said Hermione flatly, putting down the copy of Spellman's Syllabary she had just taken out of her bag. "Luck can only get you so far, Harry. The situation with Slughorn was different; you always had the ability to persuade him, you're brilliant at it," – she rolled her eyes slightly at his blush – "but you just needed to… tweak the circumstances a bit."

"Well surely –"

"Luck isn't enough to get you through a powerful enchantment, though," she continued, cutting him off. "Don't go wasting the rest of that potion. You'll need all the luck you can get if Dumbledore takes you along with him…" She dropped her voice to a whisper.

"Couldn't we make some more?" Ron asked Harry, ignoring Hermione. "It'd be great to have a stock of it… Have a look in the book…"

Harry pulled his copy of Advanced Potion Making out of his bag, and looked up Felix Felicis. "It's seriously complicated," he said, running an eye down the list of ingredients. "And it takes six months…You've got to let it stew…"

"Typical," said Ron. Harry was about to put his book away again when he noticed the corner of a page folded down; turning to it, he saw the Sectumsempra spell, captioned "For Enemies," that he had marked a few weeks previously. He had still not found out what it did, mainly because he did not want to test it around Hermione, but he was considering trying it out on McLaggen next time he came up behind him unawares.

The only person who was not particularly pleased to see Katie Bell back at school was Dean Thomas, because he would no longer be required to fill her place as Chaser. He took the blow stoically enough when Harry told him, merely grunting and shrugging, but Harry had the distinct feeling as he walked away that Dean and Seamus were muttering mutinously behind his back.

The following fortnight saw the best Quidditch practices Harry had known as Captain. His team was so pleased to be rid of McLaggen, so glad to have Katie back at last, that they were flying extremely well. Ginny did not seem at all upset about the breakup with Dean; on the contrary, she was the life and soul of the team. Her imitations of Ron anxiously bobbing up and down in front of the goalposts as the Quaffle sped toward him, or of Harry bellowing orders at McLaggen before being knocked out cold, kept them all highly amused. Given the weather was nice, Hermione was also coming down to training, and Harry had received one or two Bludger hits because he wasn't keeping his eyes on the Snitch, but instead watching her in the stands.

Since the night he'd retrieved Slughorn's memory he'd hardly had any time alone with her; between practice, studying – which was now done with Ron, too – and her and Ron's prefect rounds. It also didn't help that, with spring now firmly in place, Hermione had taken to wearing more relaxed clothing when not in uniform, and – whether she knew it or not, which from the looks she had given him he thought she might be perfectly aware – it was driving him mad. The moments they had managed to get together, often in empty classrooms with the door locked, had become extremely heated very quickly and it had been all either of them could do to keep in control; Harry often having to go immediately for a cold shower.

All in all, the temptation to take another gulp of Felix Felicis was becoming stronger by the day, for surely this was a case for, as Hermione put it, "tweaking the circumstances".

The balmy days slid gently through May, and Ron seemed to be there at Harry's shoulder every time he saw Hermione. As much as he was delighted they were all friendly with each other again, Harry found himself longing for a stroke of luck that would somehow cause Ron to realise that nothing would make him happier than being told his best friends had fallen for each other and that he should leave them alone together for longer than a few seconds. But there seemed no chance of either while the final Quidditch game of the season was looming; Ron wanted to talk tactics with Harry all the time and had little thought for anything else.

Ron was not unique in this respect; interest in the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game was running extremely high throughout the school, for the match would decide the Championship, which was still wide open. If Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw by a margin of three hundred points – a tall order, and yet Harry had never known his team to fly better – then they would win the Championship. If they won by less than three hundred points, they would come second to Ravenclaw; if they

lost by a hundred points they would be third behind Hufflepuff and if they lost by more than a hundred, they would be in fourth place and nobody, Harry thought, would ever, ever let him forget that it had been he who had captained Gryffindor to their first bottom-of-the-table defeat in two centuries. He was also acutely aware that he'd be going head-to-head with Cho Chang, who was Ravenclaw's Seeker.

The run-up to this crucial match had all the usual features: members of rival Houses attempting to intimidate opposing teams in the corridors; unpleasant chants about individual players being rehearsed loudly as they passed; the team members themselves either swaggering around enjoying all the attention or else dashing into bathrooms between classes to throw up. Somehow, the game had become inextricably linked in Harry's mind with success or failure in his plans to tell Ron about him and Hermione. He could not help feeling that if they won by more than three hundred points, the scenes of euphoria and a nice loud after-match party might be just as good as a hearty swig of Felix Felicis.

In the midst of all his preoccupations, Harry had not forgotten his other ambition: finding out what Malfoy was up to in the Room of Requirement. He was still checking the Marauder's Map, and as he was unable to locate Malfoy on it, deduced that Malfoy was still spending plenty of time within the room. Although Harry was losing hope that he would ever succeed in getting inside, he attempted it whenever he was in the vicinity, but no matter how he reworded his request, the wall remained firmly doorless.

Five days before the match against Ravenclaw, Harry found himself walking down to dinner alone from the common room, Ron having rushed off into a nearby bathroom to throw up yet again, and Hermione having dashed to see Professor Vector about a mistake she thought she might have made in her last Arithmancy essay. More out of habit than anything else, Harry made his usual detour along the seventh-floor corridor, checking the Marauder's Map as he went. For a moment he could not find Malfoy anywhere and assumed he must indeed be inside the Room of Requirement again, but then he saw Malfoy's tiny, labelled dot standing in a boys' bathroom on the floor below, accompanied, not by Crabbe or Goyle, but by Moaning Myrtle.

Harry only stopped staring at this unlikely coupling when he walked right into a suit of armour. The loud crash brought him out of his reverie; hurrying from the scene lest Filch turn up, he dashed down the marble staircase and along the passageway below. Outside the bathroom, he pressed his ear against the door. He could not hear anything. He very quietly pushed the door open.

Malfoy was standing with his back to the door, his hands clutching either side of the sink, his white-blonde head bowed.

"Don't," crooned Moaning Myrtle's voice from one of the cubicles. "Don't…tell me what's wrong… I can help you…"

"No one can help me," said Malfoy. His whole body was shaking. "I can't do it…I can't…It won't work…and unless I do it soon…he says he'll kill me…"

And Harry realised, with a shock so huge it seemed to root him to the spot, that Malfoy was crying — actually crying — tears streaming down his pale face into the grimy basin. Malfoy gasped and gulped and then, with a great shudder, looked up into the cracked mirror and saw Harry staring at him over his shoulder.

Malfoy wheeled around, drawing his wand. Instinctively, Harry pulled out his own. Malfoy's hex missed Harry by inches, shattering the lamp on the wall beside him; Harry threw himself sideways, thought Levicorpus! and flicked his wand, but Malfoy blocked the jinx and raised his wand for another —

"No! No! Stop it!" squealed Moaning Myrtle, her voice echoing loudly around the tiled room. "Stop! STOP!"

There was a loud bang and the bin behind Harry exploded; Harry attempted a Leg-Locker Curse that backfired off the wall behind Malfoy's ear and smashed the cistern beneath Moaning Myrtle, who screamed loudly; water poured everywhere and Harry slipped as Malfoy, his face contorted, cried, "Cruci —"

"SECTUMSEMPRA!" bellowed Harry from the floor, waving his wand wildly. Blood spurted from Malfoy's face and chest as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the waterlogged floor with a great splash, his wand falling from his limp right hand.

"No —" gasped Harry. Slipping and staggering, Harry got to his feet and plunged toward Malfoy, whose face was now shining scarlet, his white hands scrabbling at his blood-soaked chest.

"No – I didn't –" Harry did not know what he was saying; he fell to his knees beside Malfoy, who was shaking uncontrollably in a pool of his own blood.

Moaning Myrtle let out a deafening scream: "MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!"

The door banged open behind Harry and he looked up, terrified. Snape had burst into the room, his face livid. Pushing Harry roughly aside, he knelt over Malfoy, drew his wand, and traced it over the deep wounds Harry's curse had made, muttering an incantation that sounded almost like song. The flow of blood seemed to ease; Snape wiped the residue from Malfoy's face and repeated his spell.

Now the wounds seemed to be knitting. Harry was still watching, horrified by what he had done, barely aware that he too was soaked in blood and water. Moaning Myrtle was still sobbing and wailing overhead. When Snape had performed his counter-curse for the third time, he half-lifted Malfoy into a standing position.

"You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even that…Come…" He supported Malfoy across the bathroom, turning at the door to say in a voice of cold fury, "And you, Potter…You wait here for me."

It did not occur to Harry for a second to disobey. He stood up slowly, shaking, and looked down at the wet floor. There were bloodstains floating like crimson flowers across its surface. He could not even find it in himself to tell Moaning Myrtle to be quiet, as she continued to wail and sob with increasingly evident enjoyment.

Snape returned ten minutes later. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

"Go," he said to Myrtle, and she swooped back into her toilet at once, leaving a ringing silence behind her.

"I didn't mean it to happen," said Harry shakily. His voice echoed in the cold, watery space. "I didn't know what that spell did."

But Snape ignored this. "Apparently I underestimated you, Potter," he said quietly. "Who would have thought you knew such dark magic? Who taught you that spell?"

"I – read about it somewhere."

"Where?"

"It was – a library book," Harry invented wildly. "I can't remember what it was call–"

"Liar," said Snape. Harry's throat went dry. He knew what Snape was going to do and he had never been able to prevent it…

The bathroom seemed to shimmer before his eyes; he struggled to block out all thought, but try as he might, the Half-Blood Prince's copy of Advanced Potion Making swam hazily to the forefront of his mind. And then he was staring at Snape again, in the midst of this wrecked,

soaked bathroom. He stared into Snape's black eyes, hoping against hope that Snape had not seen what he feared, but — "Bring me your schoolbag," said Snape softly, "and all of your schoolbooks. All of them. Bring them to me here. Now!"

There was no point arguing. Harry turned at once and splashed out of the bathroom. Once in the corridor, he broke into a run toward Gryffindor Tower. Most people were walking the other way; they gaped at him, drenched in water and blood, but he answered none of the questions fired at him as he ran past.

He felt stunned; it was as though a beloved pet had turned suddenly savage; what had the Prince been thinking to copy such a spell into his book? And what would happen when Snape saw it? Would he tell Slughorn – Harry's stomach churned – how Harry had been achieving such good results in Potions all year? Would he confiscate or destroy the book that had taught Harry so much…the book that had become a kind of guide and friend? Harry could not let it happen… He could not…

"Where've you —? Why are you soaking —? Is that blood." Ron was standing at the top of the stairs, looking bewildered at, the sight of Harry.

"I need your book," Harry panted. "Your Potions book. Quick…give it to me…"

"But what about the Half-Blood–"

"I'll explain later!"

Ron pulled his copy of Advanced Potion Making out of his bag and handed it over; Harry sprinted off past him and back to the common room. Here, he seized his schoolbag, ignoring the amazed looks of several people who had already finished their dinner, threw himself back out of the portrait hole, and hurtled off along the seventh-floor corridor.

He skidded to a halt beside the tapestry of dancing trolls, closed his eyes, and began to walk. I need a place to hide my book…I need a place to hide my book…I need a place to hide my book…

Three times he walked up and down in front of the stretch of blank wall. When he opened his eyes, there it was at last: the door to the Room of Requirement. Harry wrenched it open, flung himself inside, and slammed it shut.

He gasped. Despite his haste, his panic, his fear of what awaited him back in the bathroom, he could not help but be overawed by what he was looking at. He was standing in a room the size of a large cathedral, whose high windows were sending shafts of light down upon what looked like a city with towering walls, built of what Harry knew must be objects hidden by generations of Hogwart's inhabitants. There were alleyways and roads bordered by teetering piles of broken and damaged furniture, stowed away, perhaps, to hide the evidence of mishandled magic, or else hidden by castle-proud house-elves. There were thousands and thousands of books, no doubt banned or graffitied or stolen. There were winged catapults and Fanged Frisbees, some still with enough life in them to hover half-heartedly over the mountains of other forbidden items; there were chipped bottles of congealed potions, hats, jewels, cloaks; there were what looked like dragon eggshells, corked bottles whose contents still shimmered evilly, several rusting swords, and a heavy, bloodstained axe.

Harry hurried forward into one of the many alleyways between all this hidden treasure. He turned right past an enormous stuffed troll, ran on a short way, took a left at the broken Vanishing Cabinet in which Montague had got lost the previous year, finally pausing beside a large cupboard that seemed to have had acid thrown at its blistered surface. He opened one of the cupboard's creaking doors. It had already been used as a hiding place for something in a cage that had long since died; its skeleton had five legs. He stuffed the Half-Blood Prince's book behind the cage and slammed the door. He paused for a moment, his heart thumping horribly, gazing around at all the clutter… Would he be able to find this spot again amidst all this junk? Seizing the chipped bust of an ugly old warlock from on top of a nearby crate, he stood it on top of the cupboard where the book was now hidden, perched a dusty old wig and a tarnished tiara on the statues head to make it more distinctive, then sprinted back through the alleyways of hidden junk as fast as he could go, back to the door, back out onto the corridor, where he slammed the door behind him, and it turned at once back into stone.

Harry ran flat-out toward the bathroom on the floor below, cramming Ron's copy of Advanced Potion Making into his bag as he did so. A minute later, he was back in front of Snape, who held out his hand wordlessly for Harry's schoolbag. Harry handed it over, panting, a searing pain in his chest, and waited. One by one, Snape extracted Harry's books and examined them. Finally, the only book left was the Potions book, which he looked at very carefully before speaking.

"This is your copy of Advanced Potion Making, is it, Potter?"

"Yes," said Harry, still breathing hard.

"You're quite sure of that, are you?"

"Yes," said Harry, with a touch more defiance.

"This is the copy of Advanced Potion Making that you purchased from Flourish and Blotts?"

"Yes," said Harry firmly.

"Then why," asked Snape, "does it have the name 'Roonil Wazlib' written inside the front cover?"

Harry's heart missed a beat. "That's my nickname," he said.

"Your nickname," repeated Snape.

"Yeah…that's what my friends call me," said Harry.

"I understand what a nickname is, Potter," said Snape. The cold, black eyes were boring once more into Harry's; he tried not to look into them. Close your mind…Close your mind…But he had never learned how to do it properly…

"Do you know what I think, Potter?" said Snape, very quietly. "I think that you are a liar and a cheat and that you deserve detention with me every Saturday until the end of term. What do you think, Potter?"

"I – I don't agree, sir," said Harry, still refusing to look into Snape's eyes.

"Well, we shall see how you feel after your detentions," said Snape. "Ten o'clock Saturday morning, Potter. My office."

"But sir…" said Harry, looking up desperately. "Quidditch…the last match of the…"

"Ten o'clock," whispered Snape, with a smile that showed his yellow teeth. "Poor Gryffindor… fourth place this year, I fear…"

And he left the bathroom without another word, leaving Harry to stare into the cracked mirror, feeling sicker, he was sure, than Ron had ever felt in his life.

"I won't say 'I told you so,'" said Hermione later that evening in the common room.

"Leave it, Hermione," said Ron angrily.

Harry had never made it to dinner; he had no appetite at all. He had just finished telling Ron and Hermione, who had grown angrier with every passing word, what had happened, not that there seemed to have been much need.

The news had travelled very fast. Apparently Moaning Myrtle had taken it upon herself to pop up in every bathroom in the castle to tell the story; Malfoy had already been visited in the hospital wing by Pansy Parkinson, who had lost no time in vilifying Harry far and wide, and Snape had told the staff precisely what had happened. Harry had already been called out of the common room to endure fifteen highly unpleasant minutes in the company of Professor McGonagall, who had told him he was lucky not to have been expelled and that she supported wholeheartedly Snape's punishment of detention every Saturday until the end of term.

"I told you there was something wrong with that Prince person," Hermione said, evidently unable to stop herself. "And I was right, wasn't I."

"No, I don't think you were," said Harry stubbornly.

He was having a bad enough time without Hermione lecturing him; the looks on the Gryffindor team's faces when he had told them he would not be able to play on Saturday had been the worst punishment of all. He had just told Ginny that she would be playing Seeker on Saturday and that Dean would be rejoining the team as Chaser in her place.

"Harry," said Hermione sternly. He looked up, and was immediately taken back to the day he got back from the Burrow in January. Her eyes were glistening over, and she looked furious. "How can you still stick up for that book when that spell –"

"Will you stop harping on about the book!" snapped Harry, and he actually stood up. "The Prince only copied it out! It's not like he was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he was making a note of something that had been used against him!"

"I don't believe this," said Hermione, and now she was standing too. They were a yard apart, glaring at each other; as angry as he was, he also felt a severe need to close the gap and kiss her. "You're actually defending —"

"I'm not defending what I did!" said Harry quickly. "I wish I hadn't done it, and not just because I've got about a dozen detentions. You know I wouldn't have used a spell like that, not even on Malfoy, but the Prince hadn't written 'try this out, it's really good' — he was just making notes for himself, wasn't he, not for anyone else…"

"Are you telling me," said Hermione, "that you're going to go back —?"

"And get the book? Yeah, I am," said Harry forcefully.

"Listen, without the Prince I'd never have won the Felix. I'd never have known how to save Ron from poisoning, I'd never have —"

"— got a reputation for Potions brilliance you don't deserve," said Hermione nastily.

"What? Is that all you really care about?"

"No!" Hermione shot back, the hurt evident on her face.

"Well it seems like it, your precious potions record, because all you ever fucking do is –"

SMACK!

Harry was reeling, and for a moment he was seeing stars. Hermione had slapped him with such force his glasses had nearly come off. The common room had fallen deathly quiet.

"You…" she whimpered, barely audible even to Harry, so there was no chance anyone else other than Ron and Ginny, who were closest to them, could have heard it. "I care... about you."

She was crying now, her face red with anger and hurt.

"Her–"

"Y-you p-promised me, H-Harry," she said shakily. "Y-you promised me. And it was all just a lie, wasn't it?"

"Wha – No, I –"

"W-well, at least I know w-where I stand!"

And with that, she grabbed her bag and barged her way upstairs to the girls dormitories, the door slamming shut behind her. Harry looked to Ron, who snatched up a book at random and hid behind it. The rest of the Gryffindors were staring at him.

"What!?" He bellowed. "Got nothing better to do!?"

"Harry…" Ginny walked up to him. "Harry calm down. I – I'll talk to –"

"Just leave it, Gin," Harry said quickly, looking away. Not daring to look at Ron, he followed Hermione's example and raced upstairs.

It wasn't long after that Ron came up to bed, accompanied by Neville. Harry pretended to be asleep, even though he knew he was unlikely to get any rest that night.

"What was all that about?" Harry heard Neville asked Ron.

Ron grunted something in response, which sounded a lot like: "Not now, Neville."

There were Slytherin taunts to be endured next day, not to mention much anger from fellow Gryffindors, who were most unhappy that their captain had got himself banned from the final match of the season.

Harry's misery was compounded by the fact that Hermione was now resolutely ignoring him, with even more success than she had managed to avoid Ron whenever he had been with Lavender.

He didn't see her at breakfast or lunch that day, and Harry was concerned as to whether or not she had eaten at all. To make matters worse, Ron was also in a strange mood, as if he was slowly figuring something out. He was still amicable enough, but Harry noticed the red-head often casting sideways looks at him and Hermione.

When he still hadn't caught sight of Hermione at dinner, and she had steadfastly refused to acknowledge him in lessons, even moving her cauldron to a separate table in Potions, Harry checked the Marauders' Map that evening. He checked the library first, but she wasn't there. In fact, she was a matter of yards away from him in the girls' dormitories but, since Harry couldn't

get up the stairs due to the magical enchantments placed on them, it meant he had no opportunity to get to her.

The rest of the week followed the same pattern. Hermione avoiding Harry, and Ron casting dubious looks at both of them in lessons.

On the Friday evening, Harry gathered his team for their final practice of the season. They had clearly been affected by losing their Captain, and had lost the verve they had been flying with over previous weeks, but Ginny was more than able at Seeker.

He attempted to give them one, last morale-boosting speech, but everybody was rather subdued as they made their way back up to the castle.

"Harry," Ginny said briskly as the rest of the team left. "A word" – she shot a look at Ron, who had made to stand up – "alone." She grabbed his arm and steered him out of the changing room.

"What's up?" Harry asked, hoping very much the conversation Ginny wanted to have was about Quidditch.

"I spoke to Hermione," Ginny said.

"Right," Harry said, trying to sound casual.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Oh for God's sake, Harry, you prat. I know…"

Harry gave her a look.

"…About you two," Ginny continued.

"Oh." Said Harry. "Right. Err… how?"

"Merlin, you're dim, aren't you?" Ginny chided. "I was the one who told you to get a grip and tell her in the first place, remember?"

Harry nodded, looking down and ruffling his hair. Ginny carried on: "Anyway, I've known since our last match, when you got injured. I had to go and calm Hermione down she was so upset. But it's not like I wouldn't have noticed anyway, you've managed to hide it pretty well but you've been starring at her in every training session for the past few weeks."

"Erm…" Harry felt extremely uncomfortable. "So… what did she say?"

Ginny sighed. "I'm not going to tell you."

"Bu –"

"No, Harry. That's between me and Hermione. Just… She'll just need some time, okay?"

"Might not have much of that," Harry muttered, thinking of Voldemort and the prophecy.

"Oh, give over being such a dramatic git," Ginny said. "Right, come on, let's get back to Ron or he'll think we've gone off snogging."

Harry, Ron and Ginny walked back up to the castle together. Fortunately, Ginny cut Ron off whenever he started asking what their conversation had been about.

"Luna!" said Ginny happily as they made their way towards the Great Hall.

"Oh, hi Ginny," replied Luna Lovegood dreamily. "Hello Harry… Ron," she flashed a smile at both of them. She was really quite pretty, Harry thought.

"Hey Luna," he said.

"What's that you've got there this time, Luna?" asked Ron. Harry looked down at Luna's arms. Sure enough, she was carrying some strange-looking glasses which looked like a bigger version of her father's Spectrespecs.

"Oh, these are Enorgoggles," Luna replied happily. "For the match tomorrow."

She said the last part as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, despite the fact that Harry, Ron and Ginny all had blank looks on their faces.

"Right," said Ron slowly, eyeing the invention up cautiously. "And what do they do, exactly?"

"They make things look larger than they are," said Luna brightly. "So I can see the game."

"Like binoculars?" asked Harry.

"Well… yes and no. Binoculars can make you blind, you see. The light gets trapped in the glass and has nowhere to go but into your eyes," but these – Luna lifted the colourful, goggle-like glasses up – "don't do that."

"Right," said Ron, doing well to hide his amusement. "Err… guess you'll be supporting Ravenclaw?"

"No, not really. I prefer Gryffindor."

"Oh," Ron said in surprise. "Really? Well, that's err… don't let the others hear you say that," he finished with a laugh.

"Oh don't worry. I think they know already. I was just singing 'Weasley Is Our King' at dinner. They got rather mad…" Luna trailed off, as if her fellow house-mates getting angry over the fact she was openly praising the opposition's goalkeeper was strange behaviour.

"Well…" Ron stammered out. "Err… Thanks."

Ginny was smirking, though Harry wasn't sure whether it was at what Luna had said, or her brother's reaction.

"Good luck, Ronald!" said Luna. "I'll be keeping my eyes," – she held up the Enorgoggles again – "on you. Night, Ginny. Night Harry."

And with a pleasant wave and bright smile, Luna headed off towards the staircase. Harry, Ron and Ginny watched her go.

"Mental," murmured Ron, as they made their way into the Great Hall. Sure enough, the Ravenclaws looked mutinous, and shot Ron even more foul looks than would have been the case anyway. If anything, this seemed to lift Ron's mood even more. He puffed his chest out and plonked himself down across from Harry, who had already scanned the Hall and seen Hermione wasn't there, with Ginny sliding in next to them.

"Looks like someone's got a fan," she said with a smirk.

"Got to love Luna," Ron said with a chuckle, ignoring his sister's comment.

"Ooh, so maybe it's not Loony Lovegood after all," Ginny sniggered. "How about Lovely Lovegood…"

Ron flushed dark red, and the topic of Luna was avoided for the rest of dinner.

Making their way up to the common room, Harry's heart leapt as he saw Hermione making her way through the portrait hole, but by the time he'd managed to squeeze through a small crowd and make it into the room, she had already reached the stairs, and didn't even look back as he called her name.

In no mood to stay up any longer, Harry followed her example.

By the next morning, whatever he might have told Hermione about the Prince's book, Harry would have gladly exchanged all the Felix Felicis in the world to be walking down to the Quidditch pitch with Ron, Ginny, and the others.

It was almost unbearable to turn away from the mass of students streaming out into the sunshine, all of them wearing rosettes and hats and brandishing banners and scarves, to descend the stone steps into the dungeons and walk until the distant sounds of the crowd were quite obliterated, knowing that he would not be able to hear a word of commentary or a cheer or groan.

"Ah, Potter," said Snape, when Harry had knocked on his door and entered the unpleasantly familiar office that Snape, despite teaching floors above now, had not vacated; it was as dimly lit as ever and the same slimy dead objects were suspended in coloured potions all around the walls. Ominously, there were many cob-webbed boxes piled on a table where Harry was clearly supposed to sit; they had an aura of tedious, hard, and pointless work about them.

"Mr. Filch has been looking for someone to clear out these old files," said Snape softly. "They are the records of other Hogwarts wrongdoers and their punishments. Where the ink has grown faint, or the cards have suffered damage from mice, we would like you to copy out the crimes and punishments afresh and, making sure that they are in alphabetical order, replace them in the boxes. You will not use magic."

"Okay, Professor," said Harry, with as much contempt as he could put into the last three syllables.

"I thought you could start," said Snape, a malicious smile on his lips, "with boxes one thousand and twelve to one thousand and fifty-six. You will find some familiar names in there, which should add interest to the task. Here, you see…"

He pulled out a card from one of the topmost boxes with a flourish and read, "'James Potter and Sirius Black. Apprehended using an illegal hex upon Bertram Aubrey. Aubrey's head twice normal size. Double detention.'" Snape sneered. "It must be such a comforting thing that, though they are gone, a record of their great achievements remains."

Harry felt the familiar boiling sensation in the pit of his stomach. Biting his tongue to prevent himself retaliating, he sat down in front of the boxes and pulled one toward him. It was, as Harry had anticipated, useless, boring work, punctuated – as Snape had clearly planned – with the regular jolt in the stomach that meant he had just read his father or Sirius's names, usually coupled together in various petty misdeeds, occasionally accompanied by those of Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew. And while he copied out all their various offences and punishments, he wondered what was going on outside, where the match would have just started.

Harry glanced again and again at the large clock ticking on the wall. It seemed to be moving half as fast as a regular clock; perhaps Snape had bewitched it to go extra slowly? He could not have been here for only half an hour…an hour…an hour and a half…

Harry's stomach started rumbling when the clock showed half past twelve. Snape, who had not spoken at all since setting Harry his task, finally looked up at ten past one.

"I think that will do," he said coldly. "Mark the place you have reached. You will continue at ten o'clock next Saturday."

"Yes, sir."

Harry stuffed a bent card into the box at random and hurried out of the door before Snape could change his mind, racing back up the stone steps, straining his ears to hear a sound from the pitch, but all was quiet… It was over, then…

He hesitated outside the crowded Great Hall, then ran up the marble staircase; whether Gryffindor had won or lost, the team usually celebrated or commiserated in their own common room.

"Quid agis?" he said tentatively to the Fat Lady, wondering what he would find inside.

Her expression was unreadable as she replied, "You'll see."

And she swung forward.

A roar of celebration erupted from the hole behind her. Harry gaped as people began to scream at the sight of him; several hands pulled him into the room.

"We won!" yelled Ron, bounding into sight and brandishing the silver Cup at Harry. "We won! Four hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won!"

Ginny came towards him, dragging him into a hug, before whispering. "Go and get her back, you idiot…"

Harry looked up at her words. There was Hermione, standing in front of the window, the sunlight gleaming through it and silhouetting her perfectly. She had a hard, blazen look on her face. Without a word, he closed the gap between them and without thinking, without planning it, without worrying about the fact that fifty people – including Ron – were watching, Harry kissed her.

After several long moments — or it might have been half an hour — or possibly several sunlit days — they broke apart. The room had gone very quiet. Then several people wolf-whistled and there was an outbreak of nervous giggling. Ginny was beaming and Romilda Vane looked as though she might throw something, but Harry's eyes sought Ron.

At last he found him, still clutching the Cup and wearing an expression appropriate to having been clubbed over the head. For a fraction of a second they looked at each other, then Ron gave a tiny jerk of the head that Harry understood to mean: 'well — if you must.'

The creature in his chest roaring in triumph, he grinned at Hermione and gestured wordlessly out of the portrait hole. A long walk in the grounds seemed needed during which, if they had time, they could talk about the match.

Chapter 21: 21: Chapter Twenty-Five – The Seer Overheard [Printer Friendly Version of This Chapter]

The fact that Harry Potter was – officially – going out with Hermione Granger seemed to interest a great number of people, most of them girls, yet Harry found himself newly and happily impervious to gossip over the next few weeks. After all, it made a very nice change to be talked about because of something that was making him happier than he could remember being for a very long time, rather than because he had been involved in horrific scenes of dark magic.

"You'd think people had better things to gossip about," said Hermione, as she sat in the common room, curled up against Harry and reading the Daily Prophet. The simple pleasure of being able to do something like this, and not have to hide their affection, was enough for Harry as it was. "Three Dementor attacks in a week, and all that bloody fool Romilda Vane does is ask me if it's true you've got a Hippogriff tattooed across your chest!"

Ron and Ginny, who were sat on the floor, both roared with laughter. Harry ignored them.

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her it's a Hungarian Horntail," said Hermione, turning a page of the newspaper idly. "Much more macho."

"Thanks," said Harry, grinning. "And what did you tell her Ron's got?"

"A Pygmy Puff, but I didn't say where." Ron scowled as Ginny rolled around laughing.

"Watch it," he said, pointing warningly at Harry and Hermione. "Just because I've given my permission doesn't mean I can't withdraw it —"

"Your permission", scoffed Ginny from next to her brother. "Since when did you give Harry or Hermione permission to do anything? Anyway, you said yourself you'd rather it was Harry than Krum or McLaggen."

"Good to know I'm the best of a bad bunch," said Harry, which earned him a gentle elbow to the ribs from Hermione.

"Yeah, I would," said Ron grudgingly. "And just as long as you don't start snogging each other in front of me all the time —"

"You filthy hypocrite! What about you and Lavender, thrashing around like a pair of eels everywhere?" demanded Ginny. "Anyway, they're your best friends, not your family. Plus they hid it for ages you prat, just so they wouldn't hurt your feelings. You can't tell them not to do it now!"

After their lengthy walk around the lake on the day their relationship finally became public knowledge, Harry and Hermione had made their way back to the post-Quidditch party and, together, told Ron what had gone on between them. He took it, in all honesty, better than Harry had imagined, with an accepting: "Just, y'know, try and keep the snogging to a minimum around me, if you could. "

They hadn't exactly quizzed him about his feelings for Hermione, if indeed he had any, but Harry's main worry had been Ron's tendency to become jealous and, so far at least, he hadn't been, or at least hadn't acted that way.

"I was thinking…" Hermione whispered while Ginny and Ron bickered. "Maybe we could take a walk tonight."

Harry raised his eyebrows.

"What about the curfew?"

"Well," Hermione said, a slight blush creeping up her cheeks. "I was thinking we could use the cloak…"

"Wow. Breaking the rules, Granger?"

"I prefer to say bending them…" Hermione replied, a gleam in her eye.

Harry laughed but, nevertheless, found himself down in the common room some hours later, waiting with the cloak. Darkness had fallen and Harry had made sure to cast the Muffliato spell around the dorm before he had got up, ensuring nobody knew he had left.

"Hey," came a voice from the stairs. Harry swallowed hard. Hermione stood at the foot of the steps, a silky, silver nightgown draped over her shoulders and a pair of matching slippers, and Harry felt heat rising everywhere.

"Hey," he meekly managed in response.

Biting her lip and smiling sensually at his reaction, Hermione glided over and took his hand. "Put the cloak over us," she breathed, and he didn't need asking twice. They passed out through the portrait hall and into the corridor. Wordlessly, she reached up and took off Harry's glasses. His breath hitched, more in an instinctive reaction than anything else.

"Hermione?"

"Just, trust me, and keep your eyes shut," she said, placing a feathery kiss on his lips, and any resistance or trepidation he had melted away as she took his hand and led him on. He did as he was told, though even if he had opened his eyes, the fact she had removed his glasses would have rendered them all but useless anyway.

Soon after, they came to a stop. Harry heard the opening of a door, and then the noises of the castle were silenced as the door closed behind them with a soft click of the lock. He felt Hermione's hand leave his and the cloak was lifted up and off of him.

"Stay there," Hermione instructed. Some moments later, the noise of running water came to his attention, but before he had time to react, Hermione's lips were on his again.

"Ready?" she whispered. He nodded, and a gentle pair of hands placed his glasses back on. He opened his eyes.

They were in the Prefect's bathroom. The huge bath was already nearly full, and steam was billowing out. Hermione stood there, the nightgown still draped over her shoulders, but her expression was one Harry was sure he would have imprinted in his mind until the day he died. It was shy, but blazen, and her eyes portrayed such love and desire that he wished he could dive in and swim in the chocolate pools.

Slowly, Hermione parted the gown and, with a mix of sheer delight and stunned awe, Harry realised she was wearing nothing else. With all his might, he maintained eye contact until – after what felt like an eternity – she finally dropped the gown at her feet.

And then he took her in. Every inch of her luscious frame. Her hair fell loosely down her shoulders, bordering her beautiful, slender neck, and she was so in proportion and pristine and perfect.

"I –" he started, but she cut him off with another kiss – fiercer this time – and then he was lost in dizzying bliss.

The days passed by in a whirl of happiness, bar Snape's detentions. Given the news of his and Hermione's relationship had spread across the whole school, he was sure the slimy git was keeping him later and later every time, while making pointed asides about Harry having to miss the good weather and the varied opportunities it offered.

One slow evening in June, Harry was sitting beside a window in the common room, supposedly finishing his Herbology homework but in reality reliving a particularly happy few hours he had enjoyed with Hermione down at the lake.

However, his reverie was interrupted when the subject of his daydream dropped into the seat between him and Ron with a purposeful look – not unlike the one she had worn on the night they had finally taken their relationship to another level. This time, though, Harry had the distinct feeling he was not in for such a treat.

"I want to talk to you, Harry."

"What about?" he said suspiciously. Ron looked as if he was considering making a run for it, worried he was about to become embroiled in a heart-to-heart between his two best friends.

"The so-called Half-Blood Prince."

He had not dared to return to the Room of Requirement to retrieve his book, and his performance in Potions was suffering accordingly, though Slughorn, who held Hermione in such high regard, had jocularly attributed this to Harry being lovesick – much to the general disgust of the Slytherins. But Harry was sure that Snape had not yet given up hope of laying hands on the Prince's book, and was determined to leave it where it was while Snape remained on the lookout. Also, he wasn't certain, despite his apologies, he was entirely out of the woods with Hermione, either.

"Oh, not again," he groaned. "Will you please drop it?" He reached out and took her hand. "I haven't gone back for it, have I…"

He tried a cute, pleading look, but Hermione read him like a book.

"I'm not dropping it," she said firmly, releasing his hand and digging in her bag, "until you've heard me out. Now, I've been trying to find out a bit about who might make a hobby of inventing dark spells –"

"He didn't make a hobby of it –"

"He – who says it's a he?"

"We've been through this," said Harry. "Prince, Hermione, Prince!"

"Right!" said Hermione, red patches blazing in her cheeks as she finally pulled a very old piece of newsprint out of her bag and slammed it down on the table in front of Harry. "Look at that! Look at the picture!"

Harry picked up the crumbling piece of paper and stared at the moving photograph, yellowed with age; Ron leaned over for a look, too. The picture showed a skinny girl of around fifteen. She was not pretty; she looked simultaneously cross and sullen, with heavy brows and a long, pallid face. Underneath the photograph was the caption: Eileen Prince, Captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones Team.

"So?" said Harry, scanning the short news item to which the picture belonged; it was a rather dull story about inter-school competitions.

"Her name was Eileen Prince. Prince, Harry."

They looked at each other and Harry realised what Hermione was trying to say.

"No. No way."

"What?"

"You think she was the Half-Blood…? Oh, come on."

"Well, why not? Harry, there aren't any real princes in the wizarding world! It's either a nickname, a made-up title somebody's given themselves, or it could be their actual name, couldn't it? No, listen!" – she took his hand back now, this time in both of hers; Ron was looking resolutely out of the window – "If, say, her father was a wizard whose surname was "Prince", and her mother was a muggle, then that would make her a 'half-blood Prince'!"

"Hermione –"

"But it would! Maybe she was proud of being half a Prince!"

"Listen, Hermione, I can tell it's not a girl. I can just tell."

"The truth is that you don't think a girl would have been clever enough," said Hermione angrily, releasing his hand once more.

"How can I be going out with you and not think girls are clever?" said Harry, stung by this.

Hermione's expression softened, and she blushed slightly, but didn't look like she was about to let the subject drop.

"It's the way he writes," he said softly, leaning over, placing a hand on her knee and giving it a slight squeeze. "I just know the Prince was a bloke, I can tell. This girl hasn't got anything to do with it."

He leaned back.

"Where did you get this, anyway?"

"The library," said Hermione, predictably, standing up. "There's a whole collection of old Prophets up there and I'm going to find out more about this Eileen Prince if I can."

"Well then… enjoy yourself," said Harry, a bit too harshly. He had been looking forward to seeing her all day and could not help but feel frustrated.

"I will," said Hermione hotly. "And the first place I'll look," she shot at him, as she reached the portrait hole, "is records of old Potions awards!"

Harry scowled after her for a moment, then continued his contemplation of the darkening sky. He had been wanting to spend the rest of the evening together, but rather didn't fancy doing so under the intrusive gaze of Madam Pince.

"She's just never got over you outperforming her in Potions," Ron chuckled, returning to his copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. "Happy to snog you, but can't be having you be better at her than Potions."

"It's not that," Harry said, rubbing his eyes, now feeling guilty. "She just… worries."

Ron shrugged and looked back at his book.

"You don't think I'm mad, wanting that book back, do you?" Harry asked after a beat.

" 'Course not," said Ron robustly. "He was a genius, the Prince. Anyway… without his bezoar tip…" he drew his finger significantly across his own throat, "I wouldn't be here to discuss it, would I? I mean, I'm not saying that spell you used on Malfoy was great –"

"Neither am I," said Harry quickly.

"But he healed all right, didn't he? Back on his feet in no time."

"Yeah," said Harry; this was perfectly true, although his conscience squirmed slightly all the same. "Thanks to Snape…"

"You still got detention with Snape this Saturday?" Ron continued.

"Yeah, and the Saturday after that, and the Saturday after that," sighed Harry. "And he's hinting now that if I don't get all the boxes done by the end of term, we'll carry on next year."

Harry went back to reliving his and Hermione's afternoon by the lake, but was shaken from his thoughts by the appearance at his side of Jimmy Peakes, who was holding out a scroll of parchment.

"Thanks, Jimmy… hey, it's from Dumbledore!" said Harry excitedly, unrolling the parchment and scanning it. "He wants me to go to his office as quick as I can!"

They stared at each other.

"Blimey," whispered Ron. "You don't reckon…he hasn't found…?"

"Better go and see, hadn't I?" said Harry, jumping to his feet.

He hurried out of the common room and along the seventh floor as fast as he could, passing nobody but Peeves, who swooped past in the opposite direction, throwing bits of chalk at Harry in a routine sort of way and cackling loudly as he dodged Harry's defensive jinx. Once Peeves had vanished, there was silence in the corridors; with only fifteen minutes left until curfew, most people had already returned to their common rooms.

And then Harry heard a scream and a crash. He stopped in his tracks, listening.

"How – dare – you – aaaaargh!"

The noise was coming from a corridor nearby; Harry sprinted towards it, his wand at the ready, hurtled round another corner and saw Professor Trelawney sprawled upon the floor, her head covered in one of her many shawls, several sherry bottles lying beside her, one broken.

"Professor —"

Harry hurried forwards and helped Professor Trelawney to her feet. Some of her glittering beads had become entangled with her glasses. She hiccoughed loudly, patted her hair and pulled herself up on Harry's helping arm. "What happened, Professor?"

"You may well ask!" she said shrilly. "I was strolling along, brooding upon certain dark portents I happen to have glimpsed…" But Harry was not paying much attention. He had just noticed where they were standing: there on the right was the tapestry of dancing trolls and, on the left, that smoothly impenetrable stretch of stone wall that concealed —

"Professor, were you trying to get into the Room of Requirement?"

"…omens I have been vouchsafed — what?" She looked suddenly shifty.

"The Room of Requirement," repeated Harry. "Were you trying to get in there?"

"I – well – I didn't know students knew about -"

"Not all of them do," said Harry. "But what happened? You screamed…it sounded as though you were hurt…"

"I – well," said Professor Trelawney, drawing her shawls around her defensively and staring down at him with her vastly magnified eyes. "I wished to – ah – deposit certain – um – personal items in the Room…" And she muttered something about 'nasty accusations'.

"Right," said Harry, glancing down at the sherry bottles. "But you couldn't get in and hide them?" He found this very odd; the Room had opened for him, after all, when he had wanted to hide the Half-Blood Prince's book.

"Oh, I got in all right," said Professor Trelawney, glaring at the wall. "But there was somebody already in there."

"Somebody in —? Who?"demanded Harry. "Who was in there?"

"Who? I have no idea," said Professor Trelawney, looking slightly taken aback at the urgency in Harry's voice. "I walked into the Room and I heard a voice, which has never happened before in all my years of hiding – of using the Room, I mean."

"A voice? Saying what?"

"I don't know that it was saying anything," said Professor Trelawney. "It was…whooping."

"Whooping?"

"Gleefully," she said, nodding. Harry stared at her.

"Was it male or female?"

"I would hazard a guess at male," said Professor Trelawney.

"And it sounded happy?"

"Very happy," said Professor Trelawney sniffily.

"As though it was celebrating?"

"Most definitely."

"And then —?"

"And then I called out, 'Who's there?'"

"You couldn't have found out who it was without asking?" Harry asked her, slightly frustrated.

"The Inner Eye," said Professor Trelawney with dignity, straightening her shawls and many strands of glittering beads, "was fixed upon matters well outside the mundane realms of whooping voices."

"Right," said Harry hastily; he had heard about Professor Trelawney's Inner Eye all too often before.

"And did the voice say who was there?"

"No, it did not," she said. "Everything went pitch black and the next thing I knew, I was being hurled out of the Room!"

"And you didn't see that coming?" said Harry, unable to help himself.

"No, I did not, as I say, it was pitch–" She stopped and glared at him suspiciously.

"I think you'd better tell Professor Dumbledore," said Harry. "He ought to know Malfoy's celebrating – I mean, that someone threw you out of the Room."

To his surprise, Professor Trelawney drew herself up at this suggestion, looking haughty.

"The Headmaster has intimated that he would prefer fewer visits from me," she said coldly. "I am not one to press my company upon those who do not value it. If Dumbledore chooses to ignore the warnings the cards show –" Her bony hand closed suddenly around Harry's wrist. "Again and again, no matter how I lay them out –" And she pulled a card dramatically from underneath her shawls. "– the lightning-struck tower," she whispered. "Calamity. Disaster. Coming nearer all the time…"

"Right," said Harry again. "Well…I still think you should tell Dumbledore about this voice and everything going dark and being thrown out of the Room…"

"You think so?" Professor Trelawney seemed to consider the matter for a moment, but Harry could tell that she liked the idea of retelling her little adventure.

"I'm going to see him right now," said Harry. "I've got a meeting with him. We could go together."

"Oh, well, in that case," said Professor Trelawney with a smile. She bent down, scooped up her sherry bottles and dumped them unceremoniously in a large blue and white vase standing in a nearby niche.

"I miss having you in my classes, Harry," she said soulfully, as they set off together. "You were never much of a Seer… but you were a wonderful Object…"

Harry did not reply; he had loathed being the 'Object' of Professor Trelawney's continual predictions of doom. "I am afraid," she went on, "that the nag — I'm sorry, the centaur — knows nothing of cartomancy. I asked him — one Seer to another — had he not, too, sensed the distant vibrations of coming catastrophe? But he seemed to find me almost comical. Yes, comical!"

Her voice rose rather hysterically and Harry caught a powerful whiff of sherry even though the bottles had been left behind.

"Perhaps the horse has heard people say that I have not inherited my great-great- grandmother's gift. Those rumours have been bandied about by the jealous for years. You know

what I say to such people, Harry? Would Dumbledore have let me teach at this great school, put so much trust in me all these years, had I not proved myself to him?"

Harry mumbled something indistinct. "I well remember my first interview with Dumbledore," went on Professor Trelawney, in throaty tones. "He was deeply impressed, of course, deeply impressed… I was staying at the Hog's Head, which I do not advise, incidentally — bed bugs, dear boy – but funds were low. Dumbledore did me the courtesy of calling upon me in my room at the inn. He questioned me… I must confess that, at first, I thought he seemed ill-disposed towards Divination… and I remember I was starting to feel a little odd, I had not eaten much that day…but then…"

And now Harry was paying attention properly for the first time, for he knew what had happened then: Professor Trelawney had made the prophecy that had altered the course of his whole life, the prophecy about him and Voldemort.

"…but then we were rudely interrupted by Severus Snape!"

"What?"

"Yes, there was a commotion outside the door and it flew open, and there was that rather uncouth barman standing with Snape, who was waffling about having come the wrong way up the stairs, although I'm afraid that I myself rather thought he had been apprehended eavesdropping on my interview with Dumbledore – you see, he himself was seeking a job at the time, and no doubt hoped to pick up tips! Well, after that, you know, Dumbledore seemed much more disposed to give me a job, and I could not help thinking, Harry, that it was because he appreciated the stark contrast between my own unassuming manners and quiet talent, compared to the pushing, thrusting young man who was prepared to listen at keyholes – Harry, dear?"

She looked back over her shoulder, having only just realised that Harry was no longer with her; he had stopped walking and they were now ten feet from each other.

"Harry?" she repeated uncertainly. Perhaps his face was white, to make her look so concerned and frightened. Harry was standing stock-still as waves of shock crashed over him, wave after wave, obliterating everything except the information that had been kept from him for so long… It was Snape who had overheard the prophecy. It was Snape who had carried the news of the prophecy to Voldemort. Snape and Peter Pettigrew together had sent Voldemort hunting after Lily and James and their son… Nothing else mattered to Harry just now.

"Harry?" said Professor Trelawney again. "Harry – I thought we were going to see the Headmaster together?"

"You stay here," said Harry through numb lips. "But, dear… I was going to tell him how I was assaulted in the Room of –"

"You stay here!" Harry repeated angrily. She looked alarmed as he ran past her, round the corner into Dumbledore's corridor, where the lone gargoyle stood sentry. Harry shouted the password at the gargoyle and ran up the moving spiral staircase three steps at a time. He did not knock upon Dumbledore's door, he hammered; and the calm voice answered "Enter" after Harry had already flung himself into the room.

Fawkes the phoenix looked round, his bright black eyes gleaming with reflected gold from the sunset beyond the window. Dumbledore was standing at the window looking out at the grounds, a long, black travelling cloak in his arms.

"Well, Harry, I promised that you could come with me."

For a moment or two, Harry did not understand; the conversation with Trelawney had driven everything else out of his head and his brain seemed to be moving very slowly.

"Come… Come with you…?"

"Only if you wish it, of course."

"If I…"

And then Harry remembered why he had been eager to come to Dumbledore's office in the first place.

"You've found one? You've found a Horcrux?"

"I believe so."

Rage and resentment fought shock and excitement: for several moments, Harry could not speak.

"It is natural to be afraid," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not scared!" said Harry at once, and it was perfectly true; fear was one emotion he was not feeling at all. "Which Horcrux is it? Where is it?"

"I am not sure which it is – though I think we can rule out the snake – but I believe it to be hidden in a cave on the coast many miles from here, a cave I have been trying to locate for a very long time: the cave in which Tom Riddle once terrorised two children from his orphanage on their annual trip; you remember?"

"Yes," said Harry. "How is it protected?"

"I do not know; I have suspicions that may be entirely wrong." Dumbledore hesitated, then said, "Harry, I promised you that you could come with me, and I stand by that promise, but it would be very wrong of me not to warn you that this will be exceedingly dangerous."

"I'm coming," said Harry, almost before Dumbledore had finished speaking. Boiling with anger at Snape, his desire to do something desperate and risky had increased tenfold in the last few minutes. This seemed to show on Harry's face, for Dumbledore moved away from the window, and looked more closely at Harry, a slight crease between his silver eyebrows.

"What has happened to you?"

"Nothing," lied Harry promptly.

"What has upset you?"

"I'm not upset."

"Harry, you were never a good Occlumens –" The word was the spark that ignited Harry's fury.

"Snape!" he said, very loudly, and Fawkes gave a soft squawk behind them. "Snape's what's happened! He told Voldemort about the prophecy, it was him, he listened outside the door, Trelawney told me!"

Dumbledore's expression did not change, but Harry thought his face whitened under the bloody tinge cast by the setting sun. For a long moment, Dumbledore said nothing.

"When did you find out about this?" he asked at last.

"Just now!" said Harry, who was refraining from yelling with enormous difficulty. Suddenly, he could not stop himself. "AND YOU LET HIM TEACH HERE AND HE TOLD VOLDEMORT TO GO AFTER MY MUM AND DAD!"

Breathing hard as though he were fighting, Harry turned away from Dumbledore, who still had not moved a muscle, and paced up and down the study, rubbing his knuckles in his hand and exercising every last bit of restraint to prevent himself knocking things over. He wanted to rage and storm at Dumbledore, but he also wanted to go with him to try and destroy the Horcrux; he wanted to tell him that he was a foolish old man for trusting Snape, but he was terrified that Dumbledore would not take him along unless he mastered his anger…

"Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. "Please listen to me."

It was as difficult to stop his relentless pacing as to refrain from shouting. Harry paused, biting his lip, and looked into Dumbledore's lined face.

"Professor Snape made a terrible –"

"Don't tell me it was a mistake, sir, he was listening at the door!"

"Please let me finish." Dumbledore waited until Harry had nodded curtly, then went on.

"Professor Snape made a terrible mistake. He was still in Lord Voldemort's employ on the night he heard the first half of Professor Trelawney's prophecy. Naturally, he hastened to tell his master what he had heard, for it concerned his master most deeply. But he did not know – he had no possible way of knowing – which boy Voldemort would hunt from then onwards, or that the parents he would destroy in his murderous quest were people that Professor Snape knew, that they were your mother and father–"

Harry let out a yell of mirthless laughter. "He hated my dad like he hated Sirius! Haven't you noticed, Professor, how the people Snape hates tend to end up dead?"

"You have no idea of the remorse Professor Snape felt when he realised how Lord Voldemort had interpreted the prophecy, Harry. I believe it to be the greatest regret of his life and the reason that he returned —"

"But he's a very good Occlumens, isn't he, sir?" said Harry, whose voice was shaking with the effort of keeping it steady. "And isn't Voldemort convinced that Snape's on his side, even now? Professor…how can you be sure Snape's on our side?"

Dumbledore did not speak for a moment; he looked as though he was trying to make up his mind about something. At last he said, "I am sure. I trust Severus Snape completely."

Harry breathed deeply for a few moments in an effort to steady himself. It did not work.

"Well, I don't!" he said, as loudly as before. "He's up to something with Draco Malfoy right now, right under your nose, and you still–"

"We have discussed this, Harry," said Dumbledore, and now he sounded stern again. "I have told you my views."

"You're leaving the school tonight and I'll bet you haven't even considered that Snape and Malfoy might decide to–"

"To what?" asked Dumbledore, his eyebrows raised. "What is it that you suspect them of doing, precisely?"

"I…they're up to something!" said Harry and his hands curled into fists as he said it.

"Professor Trelawney was just in the Room of Requirement, trying to hide her sherry bottles, and she heard Malfoy whooping, celebrating! He's trying to mend something dangerous in there and if you ask me he's fixed it at last and you're about to just walk out of school without–"

"Enough," said Dumbledore. He said it quite calmly, and yet Harry fell silent at once; he knew that he had finally crossed some invisible line.

"Do you think that I have once left the school unprotected during my absences this year? I have not. Tonight, when I leave, there will again be additional protection in place. Please do not suggest that I do not take the safety of my students seriously, Harry."

"I didn't–" mumbled Harry, a little abashed, but Dumbledore cut across him.

"I do not wish to discuss the matter any further."

Harry bit back his retort, scared that he had gone too far, that he had ruined his chance of accompanying Dumbledore, but Dumbledore went on, "Do you wish to come with me tonight?"

"Yes," said Harry at once.

"Very well, then: listen." Dumbledore drew himself up to his full height. "I take you with me on one condition: that you obey any command I might give you at once, and without question."

"Of course."

"Be sure to understand me, Harry. I mean that you must follow even such orders as 'run', 'hide' or 'go back'. Do I have your word?"

"I – yes, of course."

"If I tell you to hide, you will do so?"

"Yes."

"If I tell you to flee, you will obey?"

"Yes."

"If I tell you to leave me, and save yourself, you will do as I tell you?"

"I–"

"Harry?"

They looked at each other for a moment.

"Yes, sir."

"Very good. Then I wish you to go and fetch your cloak and meet me in the entrance hall in ten minutes' time."

Dumbledore turned back to look out of the fiery window; the sun was now a ruby-red glare along the horizon. Harry walked quickly from the office and down the spiral staircase.

His mind was oddly clear all of a sudden. He knew what to do. Thankfully, Ron and Hermione were sitting together in the common room when he got back.

"What did Dumbledore want?" Ron said at once.

"Harry, are you okay?" Hermione added anxiously.

"I'm fine," said Harry shortly, racing past them. He dashed up the stairs and into his dormitory, where he flung open his trunk and pulled out his invisibility cloak, the Marauder's Map and a pair of balled-up socks. Then he stepped back down the stairs two-at-a-time and into the common room, skidding to a halt where Ron and Hermione sat, looking stunned.

"I haven't got much time," Harry panted, "Dumbledore thinks I'm just getting my cloak. Listen…"

Quickly he told them where he was going, and why. He did not pause either for Hermione's gasps of horror or for Ron's hasty questions; they could work out the finer details for themselves later.

"…so you see what this means?" Harry finished at a gallop. "Dumbledore won't be here tonight, so Malfoy's going to have another clear shot at whatever he's up to. No, listen to me!" he hissed angrily, as both Ron and Hermione showed every sign of interrupting. "I know it was Malfoy celebrating in the Room of Requirement. Here –"

He shoved the Marauder's Map into Hermione's hand.

"You've got to watch him and you've got to watch Snape, too. Use anyone else who you can rustle up from the D.A. Those contact Galleons will still work, right? Dumbledore says he's put

extra protection on the school, but if Snape's involved, he'll know what the protection is, and how to avoid it, but he won't be expecting you lot to be on the watch, will he?"

"Harry –" began Hermione, standing, her eyes huge with fear. He cut her off with a kiss, making it as deep as he dared in the time he had.

"I haven't got time to argue," he said when they broke apart, keeping his hand on her cheek. "Take this as well —" he thrust the socks into Ron's hands.

"Thanks," said Ron. "Er — why do I need socks?"

"You need what's wrapped in them, it's the Felix Felicis. Share it between yourselves and Ginny too. I'd better go, Dumbledore's waiting–"

"No!" said Hermione, fear evident in her voice as she grabbed at his sleeve. Ron unwrapped the tiny little bottle of golden potion, looking awestruck. "We don't want it, you take it, who knows what you're going to be facing?"

"I'Il be fine, I'll be with Dumbledore," said Harry, and with all his might he pulled away from her. "I want to know you're all okay… don't look like that, Hermione. I'll see you later…"

And he was off, hurrying back through the portrait hole towards the entrance hall. Dumbledore was waiting beside the oaken front doors. He turned as Harry came skidding out on to the topmost stone step, panting hard, a searing stitch in his side.

"I would like you to wear your cloak, please," said Dumbledore, and he waited until Harry had thrown it on before saying, "Very good. Shall we go?"

Dumbledore set off at once down the stone steps, his own travelling cloak barely stirring in the still summer air. Harry hurried alongside him under the invisibility cloak, still panting rather a lot.

"But what will people think when they see you leaving, Professor?" Harry asked, his mind on Malfoy and Snape.

"That I am off into Hogsmeade for a drink," said Dumbledore lightly. "I sometimes offer Rosmerta my custom, or else visit the Hog's Head…or I appear to. It is as good a way as any of disguising one's true destination."

They made their way down the drive in the gathering twilight. The air was full of the smells of warm grass, lake water and wood smoke from Hagrid's cabin. It was difficult to believe that they were heading for anything dangerous or frightening.

"Professor," said Harry quietly, as the gates at the bottom of the drive came into view, "will we be apparating?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "You can apparate now, I believe?"

"Yes," said Harry, "but I haven't got a licence."

He felt it best to be honest; what if he spoiled everything by turning up a hundred miles from where he was supposed to go?

"No matter," said Dumbledore, "I can assist you again."

They turned out of the gates into the twilit, deserted lane to Hogsmeade. Darkness descended fast as they walked and by the time they reached the High Street night was falling in earnest. Lights twinkled from windows over shops and as they neared the Three Broomsticks they heard raucous shouting.

"– and stay out!" shouted Madam Rosmerta, forcibly ejecting a grubby-looking wizard. "Oh, hello, Albus…you're out late."

"Good evening, Rosmerta, good evening…forgive me, I'm off to the Hog's Head… no offence, but I feel like a quieter atmosphere tonight…"

A minute later they turned the corner into the side street where the Hog's Head's sign creaked a little, though there was no breeze. In contrast to the Three Broomsticks, the pub appeared to be completely empty.

"It will not be necessary for us to enter," muttered Dumbledore, glancing around. "As long as nobody sees us go…now place your hand upon my arm, Harry. There is no need to grip too hard, I am merely guiding you. On the count of three — one…two…three…"

Harry turned. At once, there was that horrible sensation that he was being squeezed through a thick rubber tube; he could not draw breath, every part of him was being com-pressed almost past endurance and then, just when he thought he must suffocate, the invisible bands seemed to burst open, and he was standing in cool darkness, breathing in lungfuls of fresh, salty air.

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