Chapter Eight: Fair Winds Turn into Foul

Ron was nodding in approval as he read off their schedules. (They'd had to run after Professor McGonagall and get them after she completely forgot to pass them on.) "Newt-Level Transfiguration at nine, Newt-Level Potions at eleven and Newt-level Care of Magical Creatures at two. Not a bad schedule, except for the fact that almost all the classes are completely mixed."

"Yeah, and the fact that we have to spend two hours in the dungeon with Snape," Harry said darkly.

"Snape will be nicer this year," Hermione said conclusively, looking back and forth between the two of them. "From what I've heard, he actually enjoys teaching the higher-level classes."

"Well, as surprising as that is," Harry finally spoke up, after trying hard to imagine Snape enjoying anything other than torturing his students with impossible instructions, slanderous ridicule and open derision, "he's never had to teach a higher level class with me in it."

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look. "It's time for class. At least Potions isn't for another two hours."

"Hurrah," Ron said despondently as he stood.

"Ron, it's the beginning of term," Hermione snapped at him. "Would it hurt you to try to be excited about school for just one day?"

Ron just grumbled, "Why isn't Harry getting a lecture? He's not excited, either."

"Yes, Harry, that's true," Hermione said with a nod in his direction. "Both of you need to improve your studies this year. I know you have a lot on your minds, but really . . ."

And as the three of them moved toward the door, Hermione grew brisker and more authoritative with each second. Ron, however, grew gloomier, as Hermione outlined her plans of study for each afternoon after classes. She was determined to keep an outline of all the information given in class every day, so that studying would be less difficult and she would retain more. It was a good plan, Harry guessed, but after six years of knowing Hermione, he still didn't understand her. How could anyone care about learning stuff that much?

It had never seemed that important to him, and now, all he could think about was if any of the stuff he learned would actually come in handy when he faced Tom for the last time. If it didn't benefit him directly, was it even worth going to class? Hermione would say, "YES!" But given a choice, Harry would take "alive-and-failing-three-classes" over "dead-but-would-have-graduated-top-of-his-class" anyday.

He realized that he'd been silent too long as Hermione slowed down to walk beside him. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Harry glanced over at her before mumbling, "I'm fine."

She glanced around the hallway before drawing closer to Harry and lowering her voice. "Ron told me exactly what happened with Susan, and I'm even more shocked than you were. I think you were exactly right to push her away, and if she was hurt, then that's her fault." Hermione's eyes were narrowed and her face so grim that she was a bit scary at that moment. "What I want to know before I go talk to her—"

"No! Hermione, don't—"

"I know you're uncomfortable with it, but you don't have to be anywhere near me when I do it."

Harry stomped down on his temper and ground out the words, "I don't need you to—"

Hermione rushed on in a low voice. "I know you don't, but the truth of the matter is that I thought I knew Susan and I wouldn't have expected her to act like that. Either she's changed a good bit over the summer, or she bears serious watching, Harry. I'm going to find out which. Now, all I need to now from you is whether she has ever seemed to show an interest in you before." Harry shook his head, checking with Ron, who shrugged. "Ever flirted?" Harry stared at her blankly. "I mean, has she put her hand on your arm and leaned in to whisper in your ear, or giggled like Lavender whenever you came near." Hermione imitated the whispering lean, fluttered her eyelashes at him in a peculiar way, and Harry suddenly had a realization.

"The giggling thing . . . that means they're flirting with me?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Good grief, yes! Although, truly, Lavender is just giggly about all boys, so I wouldn't take it personally with her. Has Susan ever behaved like that around you before?"

"No. Not at—wait," Harry paused as he remembered her during the crush after his speech. She'd been really funny then. "Yeah, she . . . er—blushed a bit when she was talking to me right after the Sorting and all that."

"Oh," Hermione said in a disappointed voice. "Well, still, she hasn't ever tried to kiss you before, has she?"

Harry shook his head and started walking to Transfiguration again, hoping Hermione would take the hint. She did, after declaring that she would go to Dumbledore with her findngs, and the subject was dropped, for now. Harry was pleased with that, since classes were sure to be extremely taxing.

"Ron," Harry said just as they reached class, "where was Ginny headed?"

"Uh, she has Care of Magical Creatures first thing," Ron said, reaching to open the door for his friends to enter. "Last I heard her say was that you should do an independent study on the nature of dreams, if you're planning on sleeping this late every day."

Harry colored slightly and Ron burst out laughing as he walked by. "Been having a few of those kinds myself lately, mate."

"Oh, honestly," Hermione said in a muffled voice.

Transfiguration was a two-hour review of six previous years of study, all done in a room full of students from all four houses, including a tired-looking, barely-smirking Malfoy. But Harry barely had time to contemplate the pleasant reasons for Malfoy's lack of insults as they were instructed to transform a hair pin into a beetle, a beetle into a pin cushion, a pin cushion into a turtle and finally, a turtle into a goblet. At the end of the four transfigurations, the final goblet was judged on not just uniform shape and color, but bonus points were given for artistic merit.

"Artistic merit?" Ron whispered furiously to Harry when McGonagall was on the other side of the room helping Terry Boot capture his scuttling pin cushion. Both of them already had turtles of a sort on their table, looking . . . well, for lack of a better word, shell-shocked. "How am I supposed to make a nice-looking goblet out of a lopsided, slightly soft turtle?" Ron poked at it with his wand, which sank into the turtle's velvety shell and produced a squeak, which startled Ron.

"Is it supposed to do that?"

"Ron," Hermione said in a low voice, "stop hurting your turtle! If you don't like the way it looks, it's your fault. And, anyway, it doesn't matter what your turtle looks like, it's the will power within the spell that makes the goblet what you want it to be. Just concentrate!"

Harry, listening to them, decided to try the gray screen to help him focus better. Looking at the slightly-gray and extremely big-headed turtle in front of him, he figured he had nothing to lose. Pulling up the gray screen in his mind, Harry blocked all extraneous thought, setting one hand on the dodgy-looking turtle sitting dumb on the table in front of him, and holding up his wand. On the gray screen, he conjured an image of a beautiful silver chalice, etched with flowing scrollwork hiding running wolves and their mates howling at the moon. The stem arced inward toward the middle, then flowed back out to a rounded, pearl-studded base. With a dull, satin finish, it was very simple and appealing. Harry paused. The way it came to him, completely designed and whole, made him wonder if he had seen it somewhere before.

With that image firmly in mind, he waved his wand. The slow rush of power from his wand was different than normal, and the turtle was frustratingly slow to transform. But Harry didn't lose concentration and when the final changes were made, the chalice Harry had held in his mind was now there, sitting on the table. He smiled and reached for it just as he heard several other gasps around him.

"Mr. Potter—" Professor McGonagall stopped before his table, one hand held to her chest, "May I see your chalice, please?"

Harry hesitated, then passed it over to her.

"Good job, Harry," Hermione nodded at him, then turned back to her own small, perfectly formed turtle with a determined expression.

Ron was looking at the chalice, shaking his head.

Finally, Professor McGonagall looked up. "Class, this is a stunning representation of the art of Transfiguration. Highest marks, Mr. Potter."

> > > > > > > > > > > > > >

"This is the worst potion ever to grace a cauldron in my Newt-Level Potions, Mr. Potter. Kudos on bringing my teaching career to an all-time low," Snape said in that well-articulated, malicious tone reserved for Harry. "Apparently, reckless bravery and consummate skill in navigating the wonders of celebrity life does not make one adept at Potions. No, when part or all of one's gray matter is taken up forming speeches to make ready to give your adoring public, well, then your Studies can only come a dismal second or third."

There was the usual patter of laughter from the Slytherins, a few overeager high fives at Harry's expense, though Malfoy seemed to be less than involved. Ron was growing angry beside him as usual, tensing up and clenching his fists, but this was what Harry had been expecting from Snape—stinging criticism leading into a tirade on the danger of pride and recklessness concluded by a scathing review of the speech he'd been led into making by Dumbledore. To hear Snape talk, you'd think Harry had got up there and read off a list of his most becoming attributes, followed by a demonstration of bare-chested, well-oiled prowess.

". . . only the most self-delusional type of person would treat his fellow students to such a one-sided display . . . "

But, as Snape was surely realizing by now, as spittle flew from his lips, his words were having less and less effect on Harry. The gray screen that had become so useful was helping him block all response to the embittered words. Instead, Harry felt an aura of peace overtake him. Snape was a git, but how could anyone be so mistaken? Did he even believe what he was saying?

"Five points from Gryffindor for ignoring a professor!"
Harry perked up at that. "Sorry, sir, hadn't realized that you were actually done," he said with the smallest amount of irritation possible. Snape just glared down at him with black, fathomless eyes. Harry met his gaze easily, with no challenge, no anger and saw the oddest flicker in the man's eyes. The hate . . . wavered, and for a moment, Harry saw a vision of Snape bending over him at Malfoy Manor, and he remembered how the man had risked his life to get him his wand and the potions that had given him enough strength to fight, and how almost kindly he had seemed at that moment—the lone voice of protection in that hour of horror.

Snape recoiled as if struck.

Harry blinked, startled until he realized that Snape had been reading his mind. To have that moment flung back in his face, when he was at his formidable, most detestable self . . .

Snape had whipped around almost immediately, and was slowly walking toward the front of the room. Harry was not trying to read his mind, but could feel from his seat that the man was desperately trying to pull himself together, and for the first time, Harry wondered if that hated persona of the Potions Master was merely a role he played. What other reason could there be for such a delay in his sarcastic wit? The dark figure at the front of the room was standing deadly still, as though he could not face the room of students at present.

Harry looked over at Ron only to find a Cheshire grin on his mate's face.

Beyond him at the next table, Hermione looked at Harry with wide eyes. "What did you do?" she mouthed at him. Harry shrugged. Beside her, Parvati Patil gave Harry a nod and look that clearly said, "Good job!"

Slowly, whispers grew in the room until Snape's voice rang out, "BOOKS OUT!" At the command in his voice, the students all scrambled to get their texts out of their bookbags, several knocking implements to the floor from their potion-making. "CHAPTER ONE. READ NOW!" Without turning around, Snape strode toward his office, opened the door and entered, slamming it shut behind him.

At the other end of the room, Malfoy jumped to his feet, his voice dripping venom, "What did you do, Potter?"

Harry shook his head, at a complete loss to explain away something so strange. "I didn't do anything," he finally said, "I was just . . . thinking of . . . this summer. That's all."

Draco's face lost all color, and he looked around the room as if they were accusing him. Then he sat, abruptly.

Harry watched the Slytherin and exchanged looks with Ron.

"Harry!" Seamus was leaning over his table to whisper to him, "what did you do to the two of them? And, can you do it every day?"

The class tittered and giggled behind their hands, all except the Slytherins, who had started reading almost immediately. Harry saw several of them shooting dirty looks in Malfoy's direction, but he was too busy reading to notice. Or so Harry thought, until Blaise's venomous look was followed by a jerk that must have been a vicious kick to Malfoy's shin beneath the cover of the table. Malfoy's body clenched in reflex, and his eyes widened slightly, but for all intents and purposes, he appeared to keep reading.

Harry felt a surge of anger against Blaise, but shook it off. Malfoy deserved whatever his mates dished out now that his body guards had deserted him. In all fairness, they hadn't passed the O.W.L. for this class, but neither had they been sticking by Malfoy at other times, either. In fact, they seemed to have been ignoring him.

Harry turned back to his book, determined to do the work assigned now that no one could predict the man's behavior. More likely than not, Snape would find a way to punish Harry for what happened today. But while he read, his mind kept fogging over and puzzling back over Malfoy's problem—his sudden transformation into a Slytherin with no family and no fortune with which to prop him up. He was at the bottom of his House's food chain. It might have been something the prat needed to experience badly, after all the abuse he'd dished out over the years, but being powerless and bullied was something Harry knew too much about to treated lightly. It wasn't too many years ago that he had been in a similar situation, made a social leper by his cousin's heavy-handed dealings, completely unable to fight back against those who lobbed insults and accusations at him—powerless.

But not anymore . . . .

Harry allowed himself a sudden, brief smile—well, maybe more like a lopsided smirk. If Snape's reaction just now had been a correct indicator, Harry had just mastered Occlumency.

> > > > > > > > > > > > > > > >

Lunch was eventful that day, interrupted on two accounts, both of them events that reverberated through the halls of Hogwarts for the remainder of the year. The first came mid-way through Harry's meal.

He was feeling rather good about things after his first Potions class of the year. Snape had not made a reappearance in the dungeon, nor did he show up at his usual place at the Faculty table to dine. Also absent, Harry noticed with a niggling of curiosity, Professor Dumbledore was not there, either. Professor McGonagall was, however, in her usual spot, engaged in a hearty discussion with Hagrid and Professor Haverlime. All three of them were shooting him rather approving looks, which made Harry think they must have been discussing his turtle-to-chalice Transfiguration project. The inner parts of him were beginning to glow, he felt so good.

In fact, Ginny remarked to him that he looked like a cat who'd fallen into a vat of cream, which led into a fun discussion of Harry's escapades for the day by his class mates. Ginny seemed most impressed by Dean's account of the interaction with Snape, especially when she understood, by whispered comments from Hermione and a finger signal from Ron, that Harry had actually used Occlumency to block Snape and only show him in his mind what he wanted him to see.

Ginny leaned over the table and fixed Harry with a very knowing smile. Harry smiled back, expecting admiration and getting ready some humble, deflecting words to say . . .

"If you want that big ego of yours deflated any, you know where to find me," she said sweetly.

Dean and Seamus howled with laughter. Even Ron snorted.

"Well, I didn't—I didn't say I thought it was so great!" Harry protested.

Then Ginny giggled at him, throwing him off completely. Harry turned to Hermione, eyebrows raised, which set Ron off laughing. Then she laughed, too. It seemed like everybody knew what was going on except him.

Harry was giving up and digging back into his steak-and-kidney pie when a lone owl shot through the Great Hall, causing quite a disturbance among the students. Owl Call was always in the mornings, so it was with bewilderment and great curiosity that everyone watched its course. The first years were all looking confused. Many students automatically turned to look at Harry—Ginny, Ron, Hermione and Neville among them—and Harry stared right back at them.

"What?"

"I don't think it's heading for him," Ginny said tersely.

"No, it's not," Hermione agreed, giving Ginny a look. "But it must be an emergency of some kind, if it couldn't wait for Owl Call in the morning."

"Right," Harry said automatically. "Hey, that's a Howler!"

And it was. The word was repeated across the hall many times as the bright, obnoxiously red letter came into view gripped by the dark barn owl's talons. The owl swerved in the direction of the Slytherin table. Gasps were heard, and many feet shuffled as those who couldn't see stood, trying to get a better view. Harry was trying desperately to see who was sitting at that end of the table when someone bolted up and ran.

It was Malfoy.

"What's he think he's doing?" Ron asked everyone loudly.

"Run Malfoy!" Pansy shrieked. "You coward!"

Then another rushing figure cut Malfoy off, and he fell sprawling on the hard stones. He rolled over and had a staring contest with Blaise Zabini, who was now standing over him with a practically feral grin on his face. "I think you'll want to take this one, Malfoy." Then the zooming owl was upon them, and the Howler dropped in Malfoy's lap.

Malfoy stared at it as the envelope shook, steamed and hissed. He looked more shaken than Harry had ever seen him, but finally he made a move to grab the envelope and toss it into the air as if the very paper itself might be poisoned.

The Howler screamed as it made a high arc in the air, then exploded. The proud, harsh voice of Lucius Malfoy filled the air, and Harry forgot to breathe.

"LONG LIFE TO THE NAME OF MALFOY AND DEATH TO ITS ENEMIES! YOU FILTHY, PURILE VAGABOND—HOW DARE YOU! HOW DARE YOU CONTINUE TO ATTEND HOGWARTS WITH CHILDREN OF HONEST HERITAGE AND NOBLE ASPIRATIONS AFTER BETRAYING ME, DISHONORING MY NAME AND TURNING YOUR BACK ON EVERYTHING I HAVE TAUGHT YOU. HOW DARE YOU CONTINUE TO MASQUERADE AS A MALFOY! YOU HAVE NO NAME AND ARE NOW NO BETTER OFF THAN A MUDBLOOD."

Harry listened to every word, rage building within him so that he trembled—not with fear, but with power—fierce power that ached to blast Lucius Malfoy into ash. His wand was clenched tightly in his hand, slick with sweat.

"LET IT BE KNOWN THAT I WILL DO EVERYTHING IN MY POWER TO HAVE YOU THROWN OUT OF HOGWARTS. AND THEN I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND REVENGE WILL BE MINE, YOU NAMELESS—"

Harry jerked to his feet, sending the raging torrent of power through his wand with a primal bellow. Time seemed to slow and the only thing that existed was that—that thing with Lucius Malfoy's voice. Hatred oozed out of every pore of Harry's body, propelling and filling the jet of red light with deadly intent. Halfway there, the streak of red caught flame. A gasp of either horror or amazement went around the hall, but Harry felt only satisfaction as students at the Ravenclaw table hit the floor to get out of the way. The Howler was still spitting out curses as the ball of flame hit and with a loud, satisfying whoosh, the envelope went up in a roar of blue fire and disappeared.

Harry breathed several deep breaths in and out before he could hear clearly above the loud thumping of his own heart. Beside him, Ron was also standing, wand out, looking stunned. Ginny and Hermione were trading looks, their expressions grim. Awed sighs and exclamations were still breaking across the hall, and Harry began to feel exposed as everyone stared. He sat down and tucked his wand back up his sleeve in as little motion as possible. Ron lowered his wand beside Harry and shuffled a bit, looking fiercely around the hall.

Finally, as if he could stand it no longer, he yelled, "Well, what did you expect him to do? It was a very mean letter!" Then he sat down beside Harry with a thump and shifted in his seat again, as if trying to get comfortable himself with what just happened.

Hermione was the first to speak. "Harry, what spell was that?"

He met her eyes briefly, "Incendio. I think."

"Oh," she said in a surprisingly matter-of-fact voice. "Well, not only did you not say the incantation out loud, but you also put so much power behind it that you caught the very air on fire."

"So," he said back, a bit defiantly. He caught glances being exchanged around the table. "It was a very mean letter," he echoed Ron weakly.

Professor McGonagall's strident voice came from the Faculty Table as she stood to her feet, "Ten points from Gryffindor and a detention with Filch, Mr. Potter, for dangerous spellwork in the middle of the Great Hall. And Mr. Zabini—ten points from Slytherin for that outrageous display."

Harry's heart sunk. But Zabini, who was walking away from Malfoy with a smug smile, only nodded and smirked in Harry's direction. Malfoy was still on the floor, not moving.

"Who cares about the points, Harry—worth it to see Lucius Malfoy's Howler blow like that," Dean said in an awed voice.

"Yeah," Neville agreed, looking even more nervous than usual, "I don't think I've ever heard one that bad before."

"That bad?" Ron asked with an incredulous look. "I don't think I could have ever come up with anything more perfect in my entire life," he said in a supremely happy voice.

Harry turned to stare at him.

"Ron," Hermione hissed, "how can you say that?" She leaned over the table to speak more quietly, but the urgency in her voice was loud and clear. "You know what this means to someone like him. He's no one now. He has no name, no inheritance—nothing!"

Ron, scowling, said, "How can you defend him? I know it's bad, but come on! Is there anyone who's paraded around their name and their pureblood status more than Malfoy? How absolutely perfect is it that everything he's boasted about for six years was just pulled out from under him? His Dad said he was worse than a . . . well, a you-know. I mean, it's horrible, yeah, but . . . you've got to see how perfect it is." The pleading tone of his voice softened Hermione's look.

"Well, be that as it may, if Harry's right, then Malfoy, or whatever you want to call him now, was disowned for trying to warn Harry this summer. Isn't that right?" She turned to Harry, a worried expression on her face.

Harry blinked, but then nodded, his stomach feeling as though someone had just dumped a live coal into it. Malfoy's warning owl this summer had been intercepted by his father and that had started it all—the Portkey, the torture—everything. Malfoy hadn't really helped him, but he had tried. Beside him, Ron was starting to argue back, but Harry's mind was drifting. In spite of himself, he was hearing that voice again and it was as if he were still there in Malfoy Manor—in agony, ashamed of his helplessness.

"Have you ever imagined what revenge feels like, Harry?"

"Have you . . .?"

"Harry?"

"Harry!"

Harry suddenly came to with a violent shudder and realized everyone at the table was looking expectantly at him. Going for the obvious, he mumbled, "I'm fine." He shifted in his chair and waited for the inevitable harping about to begin. Second time in two days he'd gone barking mad. Hermione'd never let him off this time. Maybe he could cut out now; he'd almost eaten enough. Then he felt everyone's focus shift around him and he turned to see Malfoy standing unsteadily to his feet.

The Prat moved like someone fifty years older. He actually swayed, lifting his head to meet the gaze of all those staring at him with something of a mix of horror and defiance. He didn't seem to notice Harry among them as he turned and walked slowly out of the Great Hall, to the echoing laughter of the Slytherins.

Harry's gut twisted again, in spite of the fact that the git was the person he most hated in the world—well, next to his father.

"Come on, Harry," Ron said with disgust, "He wasn't trying to help you when he sent that owl. It was a set-up! The-Prat-Who-Cannot-Be-Named was lying from the start. Ginny," Ron turned to her, ignoring the driving aughter from down the table, "you know what I'm saying, don't you? There's no way he's telling the truth, right?"

"The-Prat-Who-Cannot-Be-Named," Dean said, wiping his eyes, "oh—that's a good one, Ron." Ron turned, grinned, and gave him a casual high five. Beside them, Seamus was laughing so hard that he was snorting pumpkin juice out of his nose.

"Right, Ginny?" Ron goaded her.

"Shut it, Seamus," Ginny snapped at him, "you're spraying pumpkin juice like a faucet." He sobered up pretty quick, grabbing the napkin Hermione thrust in his direction. Ginny paused, looking over at Harry with a pensive pucker between her eyebrows. "I don't know. Harry's a pretty good judge of people—"

"And I'm not?" argued Ron.

"Right," Ginny confirmed easily. "But . . . I don't know what to think. I've always hated Draco Malfoy, but . . . he's not Draco Malfoy any more, is he?"

Harry felt another dull ache. It was odd to try and grasp the idea that Malfoy, or whatever he should be called now, was just as high up on Lucius' hit list as was Harry.

"Well, think whatever you want. All I know is that now he has even more reason to hate you," Ron said pointedly before stuffing his mouth with a forkful of potatoes. Harry saw a few worried looks passed around the Gryffindor table. Neville cast a sympathetic glance at Harry and then looked down at his full plate of food. He pushed a pea around with his fork.

"Well, then," Hermione said in a brisk voice, "we'll have to keep an eye on him and make sure we know what he's up to."

Harry perked up at the tone in her voice; she sounded as though she was about to launch off into a plan. But just at that moment, all the food on the Gryffindor table vanished, along with the plates, silverware and goblets.

"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed, as if this was the last interruption in his meal he could stand, "I was going to eat that Yorkshire pudding! All right," he stood up and turned around to face as much of the stunned Hall as he could, "who did it? I want my food back now!"

"I don't think they can help you, Ron," Hermione said, tugging him down by the sleeve. "Everyone's food has been taken, even the Faculty."

Harry, already watching the conference of teachers at their table, helped tug Ron back down. Hagrid was standing, ready to walk off, and Professor Haverlime was obviously placating him. Professor Sprout was already on the floor, moving rather quickly to the Ravenclaw table. Professor McGonagall determinedly limped her way down the stairs, calling out for those nearby to stay seated as she headed up the main aisle and to the doors. Professor Flitwick was making his way to the Hufflepuff first years. Some of them were looking over at Harry and whispering, of course.

Harry turned quickly away, but caught a lot more heads turning to look at him. He looked back down at the empty table and stared at its surface grumpily. He hadn't done it.

"Maybe you should say something, Harry," Ginny whispered to him.

Harry looked up at her, "Like what? 'Don't stare at me; I didn't do it?'"

"Don't be stupid," she snapped. "Say something calming, like you know Dumbledore would if he were here."

"I'm sure he'll be along in a minute," Harry said after staring at her as if she were mad. "And if something needs to be said, one of the Professors will say it. That's what they're here for."

Ginny raised one very finely arched eyebrow at him, as if to say, You know that's not true.

But it was true! Sure, Harry was the One, or whatever, but did that mean he had to go all Lockhart and take up public air whenever he could? He wasn't going to do it and they could just bloody well sign someone else up if that's what they wanted.

His gaze skipped over to the Ravenclaw table, where several students were apparently having the same conversation with Cho Chang, who looked as if she were teetering on the edge of giving in. She pulled her arm away from overeager girl beside her—a Twitchtie, it looked like—and started to stand.

Just as she did, the doors at the end of the Great Hall opened and Professor Dumbledore walked in, accompanied by Snape, a nearly-full flask in his hand, his dark robes billowing behind him. They moved rapidly into the Hall and stopped midway, meeting McGonagall there. There was a brief, whispered conversation and then Dumbledore turned outward.

"My dear students, we are so sorry to have interrupted your meal this afternoon. Your food will be returned shortly to you. Let's all stand, shall we?" The students exchanged looks, as one doubtful as to the true nature of the interruption. Harry was among the first to stand, and he studied the Headmaster during the loud clatter as everyone re-situated themselves, standing and facing the middle of the room.

Professor Dumbledore's face was serene, but there was a fierce sharpness about his gaze that Harry found startling. "How are we all feeling today? We're at the halfway point of the first day; perhaps we might take a little assessment. Anyone experiencing a loss of feeling in their limbs? Any excruciating pain in the abdomen? Anywhere else? No? That's nice. How about vomiting?" Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape were turning in opposite directions, looking around the room as intently as if they were using Legilimency on every student in their scope. Harry felt Snape's eyes on him like laser beams and he flinched when words were suddenly cast into his mind, "Take the poison antidote—now, you fool!"

Snape's mouth hadn't even twitched and his gaze had moved on, but Harry had no doubt he had heard correctly. With sudden dread blossoming in his stomach, he flicked his wrist to get his wand into his hand. Ron's head whipped over and he silently got out his wand as well. Harry shook his head when Ron's eyes met his, but his friend didn't put away his wand.

Harry whispered, "Venenum." The trigger word started the spell and with a small sucking sound, a pellet of the universal antidote appeared on Harry's right palm. He popped it into his mouth and let the bitter taste envelope his tongue. While Dumbledore continued calling out symptoms that progressively grew lighter in seriousness, Harry quickly called out more pellets and gave one to Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville and Dean. Seamus was reaching for his when the Great Hall doors again opened, this time with a bang, and Madame Pomfrey stumbled in. Heaving great breaths, she nodded at Dumbledore and fell back against the door, resting while she got her breath. Harry gave a pale Seamus his pellet and noticed that Hermione had a tight grip on Ron's arm.

Harry's gaze traveled back over to Ginny, and he was horrified to see how glassy her eyes had gone. She looked pale as a ghost. Suddenly, fear crushed his chest. He'd given her an antidote, but only after Ron and Hermione. What if it wasn't in time? What if—

"Ginny?"

She didn't answer; she swayed on her feet.

"Ginny!" Before he knew it, Harry was halfway over the table, reaching for her. "Ginny—what is it?"

Startled, she blinked as if waking from a trance and then stared at him. Harry, one foot on the bench behind him, one hipbone carving itself into the table, felt as if it took her years to answer in a tremulous voice, "I'm fine, Harry. I'm fine." Then her gaze wandered around and took in all the people looking at the two of them, and she swiped at her watering eyes. Leaning over suddenly in his direction, Ginny gave Harry a quick kiss on the cheek. Without blinking, she said, "It's just that . . . I'd die if anything ever happened to you." And in the brown warmth of her eyes, Harry saw that it was the absolute truth. He felt hands on his arms, pulling him back across the table, but he had eyes only for Ginny and the way that pink flush on her cheeks seemed to make her whole face glow.

Then his feet were back on the ground and Ron was jerking him around whispering, "Sorry, mate, but look . . ."

Professor McGonagall stood at the door. Striding into the room with a quick gait was Charlie Weasley. His face was sober, and he was heading right for Harry.

That was one of the longest minutes of Harry's life, watching the bearer of obviously bad news make his way across the long room to him in the silence that had overtaken the room. His mind tossed out possibilities and just as quickly discarded them. It was useless to wonder who had been attacked by Tom, or what trail of blood had been left by Death Eaters, or what new threat loomed on the horizon. Harry squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and cleared his mind. Whatever it was, he could handle it.

But when Charlie stopped in front of him and gestured Hermione over to stand with Harry, surprise was the foremost thought in Harry's mind. Hermione grabbed Harry's hand, squeezing tightly, and Ron eased into the space behind them. "Harry, Hermione, I'm sorry," Charlie began in a breathless, low voice. He was obviously loathe to say more, but what came out of his mouth next was probably the last thing Harry expected to hear:

"It's Dobby—Dobby the House Elf—he's dead. He was found an hour or so after doing his usual clean-up duties in the Gryffindor rooms, clutching a piece of toast in his hand. He'd only taken one bite."