See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

Well. This chapter's up over a week after the last update, but before the deadline I set for myself. I really am underestimating my surprising ability to cram in time for writing. : ) Thanks to all my reviewers!

Chapter 14

"Was it just me," asked Ron, "or did Snape look different?"

Harry and Ron had met Hermione early that morning in the Gryffindor common room before breakfast. Harry stretched in his armchair. "I suppose so. Did he cut his hair?" None of them had seen Snape at all during the summer at 12 Grimmauld Place, a fact which they fully appreciated. "I wasn't really paying attention. I mean, we knew he was going to get the Defence position."

"Well, yes, we knew. But no-one else did," Hermione said. "Did you see the expression on Neville's face?"

Ron snorted. "Who can blame him?" The three of them got up and started for the portrait hole, having noticed an increase in the trickle of people exiting the common room. "No-one likes Snape. You reckon he'll be gone by the end of the year?"

"Hopefully," Harry said. "But knowing him, he's the one who's going to break the jinx, I'll bet." He sounded glum.

Hermione sighed heavily. "Well, at least we know what to expect, you do realise that?"

"Insults," muttered Ron. "Ten points from Gryffindor. No, make that twenty. Calling us dunderheads. Of course we know what to expect."

Trying to imitate Snape's tone of voice, Harry drawled, " 'I am fully astonished that you have managed to get even that small modicum of information into your heads…'"

Ron shook his head. "Harry, give it up. That's nowhere close to his voice. No-one can act like Snape—he's got that sort of character that won't let you do it." He paused, and then added, as they entered the Great Hall, "Not like you actually want to, right?"

"You think I have a death wish?" Harry muttered back.

"Sometimes," Hermione said, looking meaningfully at Harry, "both of you two—your actions seem to say that you do."

"Oh, thanks, Hermione," Ron said, the sarcasm obvious in his voice. "That is so helpful. So encouraging." The three of them sat down, and Harry looked up at the staff table. Snape wasn't there, but Hagrid was, and the half-giant cheerfully waved at them.

"Oh Merlin," Harry said, a sudden feeling of dread coming over him. He smiled weakly back at Hagrid and gave him a wave lacking the usual exuberance. "Are—are any of you taking Care of Magical Creatures?"

Hermione seemed to have realised what Harry had. "No," she said quietly.

"No," said Ron. He stole a glance at Hagrid. "Er—"

"We can always say that it couldn't fit into our schedules…" Harry began, his voice trailing off. He didn't think Hagrid would take it well if he were to tell his friend that he had chosen not to take N.E.W.T. Care of Magical Creatures because he would prefer to live instead of being mangled by dangerous, obviously lethal magical animals.

"I suppose so," Hermione said uncertainly.

After they had eaten, they remained in their seats. Professor McGonagall passed down the row of seated Gryffindor students, confirming everyone's class schedules to make sure that the necessary O.W.L. grades had been achieved in order to continue with their selected N.E.W.T. classes.

Hermione was promptly cleared for all of her classes, as expected, and quickly hurried off to her Ancient Runes class. Neville, on the other hand, took a little longer; McGonagall advised him to take Charms instead of Transfiguration, and Harry felt a little amused when he heard that Neville's grandmother had herself failed her Charms O.W.L. Parvati and Lavender both inquired about the centaur Firenze, and looked rather disappointed when McGonagall, her voice slightly disapproving, informed them that, no, Firenze was not teaching the sixth-year Divination classes. Harry and Ron were quickly cleared for the same classes: Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Transfiguration, and Potions. Ron was delighted with the schedules. "Look—we've got a free period now.. and a free period after break… and after lunch… excellent!"

They returned to their common room, buoyed by the prospect of a free period to relax. Katie Bell, the only remaining member of the original Gryffindor Quidditch team Harry had joined in first year, waved them over to her. "Congratulations on that," she said, pointing to the Quidditch Captain's badge Harry had pinned to the front of his robes. "Tell me when you call trials."

"Trials?" Harry said, blinking. "You don't need to try out, you're a great player—"

Katie shook her head, frowning. "Don't start off like that," she said. "There's always fresh blood, and it's best to go through all of the people who try out. There might be a second year who's as much of a genius at Chasing as you are at Seeking. And teams go wrong if you keep the old timers, or if you put friends on the team even though they aren't as skilled as some others…"

Ron was faintly red in the face, and looked rather uncomfortable, fiddling with a quill in his hands.

The free period passed quickly, too quickly for Harry and Ron. Reluctantly, they left the bright and sunny common room for the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom four floors below. When they arrived, Hermione was already there, outside with some of the others, and was carrying an armful of heavy books. "I've got so much homework from Runes," she said, looking rather strained. "A fifteen inch essay, two translations, and reading by Wednesday! Would you believe it?"

"Shame," Ron said, not looking sympathetic at all. "But you shouldn't have taken so many classes."

"And dropped some?" Hermione said, sounding incredulous. "You expect me to do that?" The tone of her voice was positively murderous.

Harry and Ron looked at each other. Harry said, "No. We're not quite that optimistic."

"Harry!"

The others had congregated outside the door to the classroom during their short conversation, and were warily waiting for Snape to appear. The moment class was scheduled to begin, the door creaked wide open. Exchanging guarded glances with each other, the students entered the room.

Unlike the previous year, when Umbridge had imposed her sickly sweet (disgustingly so) personality upon the classroom, this year the room seemed completely bare. The windows were wide open, light streaming into the room, and the desks and chairs were arranged neatly. Other than that… Harry quickly scanned the room, but there was nothing else. The walls were bare, the whiteness of the walls extraordinarily stark.

There was no sign of Snape.

"I don't see Snape anywhere," Ron said quizzically, glancing around.

"And he takes points off of us for being late," Harry muttered. The students were sitting down at the desks, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione chose desks somewhere in the middle, not particularly enamoured of sitting up front, especially considering the teacher… "Pot calling the kettle black."

"Your use of a trite saying is as unimaginative as always, Potter, and also wrongly applied, as I am right here," came Snape's cold, incisive voice out of nowhere. Ron yelped and turned his head to look around the room, as did many of the other students—but there was only the empty air. "And considering that none of you—none of you—have realised where I am, it seems obvious to me that all of you are utterly lacking in Defence skills. How long would you last in a duel, I wonder?"

Hermione whispered, "He must have Disillusioned himself, I think—"

"Miss Granger, while I did indeed Disillusion myself, it does no good for you to know that after I have revealed myself by speaking." Snape's voice was dry and slightly sardonic.

Hermione turned a little pink. On the other side of the room, Malfoy sniggered.

The air at the teacher's desk suddenly seemed to ripple in waves, and Snape appeared, standing in front of it.

The students in the classroom stared. Snape had… changed. That was the only word. Changed. His skin was several shades browner, tanned and taut; his dark hair was cut short, ebony strands falling across his forehead; his black eyes glittered coldly, and the rays of sunlight cast strange shadows across his face, emphasising the sharp, ruthless planes of his cheekbones and the downward twisted corners of his mouth. Harry blinked. About the only wholly familiar thing he could see in Snape was his glare.

A few chairs away, Parvati Patil gasped loudly. "His hair," she whispered without any sign of embarrassment to Lavender Brown, who giggled.

Snape, on the other hand, did not seem at all perturbed by the students' stares. He gazed around the room. "I did not ask you to take out your books," he said curtly. Hermione hastily stowed away her copy of Confronting the Faceless. "I wish to speak to you, and I want your full attention."

The whole room was silent. Snape had that peculiar talent of being able to speak and make his voice heard, without anyone willing to interfere. And it was only enhanced by his appearance; no-one dared make any comment, although Harry grudgingly thought it was at least an improvement over Snape's former looks. "Now," he said, "you have had five teachers in this subject throughout your time at Hogwarts, I believe. Some of them, unfortunately, have been more incompetent than others—"

Next to Harry, Ron coughed "Lockhart!" at the same time Hermione muttered "Umbridge!" Harry thought of Quirrell. Then he thought, Well, Snape probably means Lupin too. Hates to think that Lupin managed to get the job before he did…

"Given the… lack of depth as such, I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in the 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 much more advanced. So," he continued, standing stock still, "we shall begin immediately. All of you, I assume, are complete novices in the use of nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of a nonverbal spell?"—Hermione's hand shot up into the air—"And does anyone know besides Miss Granger?"

But Hermione was still the only one with her hand up.

Snape looked somewhat annoyed. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

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

"An answer," Snape said pointedly, "copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six, showing lack in creativity, but correct in essentials." (Ron rolled his eyes.) "Those who have the ability to cast nonverbal spells gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course." Snape paused, his eyes sweeping around the room. "It requires an intense concentration and mind power which some people lack." His voice was dry, almost clinical; but his gaze lingered upon Harry, who glared back, knowing that Snape must be thinking of their Occlumency lessons.

Snape stepped forward, drawing his wand. "Now," he said, "if I were to curse one of you in this class, I doubt you would know who, and when to prevent it." He turned towards the side, and flicked his wand; a row of round targets, concentric circles and all, came into existence. "Watch," Snape said, and Harry looked up, a little surprised; all of the venom he normally associated with Snape had faded away, and there was an intense concentration in Snape's face that Harry had never seen before.

No. Had seen once before. Harry suddenly remembered: the centaurs gathering around them, their faces angry and hostile; Snape, his hand clenched into a fist, slowly moving; a wall of white fire, obscuring their sight, and Hermione gasping in horror and surprise and awe and saying, "Oh my god, what is he doing?" Then the flames dying down, and Snape looking at the centaur, and the centaur looking back at Snape, a strangely regretful look on Snape's face, a calmly resolute look on the centaur's… and what did they say to each other? What did they say?

Harry was jerked from his reverie by the sudden smashing sounds he heard. Snape was pointing his wand at the targets, jets of light flying from the tip of his wand and smashing the targets to bits. It was fluid, his line of destruction never once stopping, and he had been silent the entire time.

The students were silent as well. "That," said Snape, and his voice was impossibly soft and low, the others straining to hear, "is the beauty of nonverbal spells." He turned to face them, his face once again set in his usual countenance of vague distaste. "Did you know I would use Reducto?" he asked. "Or perhaps another jinx? Or Stupefy? Your enemy, with luck, will not know what you mean to do, and that is what makes nonverbal spells necessary.

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

Harry and Ron exchanged glances. It seemed as though this was going to be a long lesson.

oOo

Severus walked around the classroom, watching the students practise their nonverbal spells. Quite a lot of the students were cheating, much to Severus's irritation; they were merely whispering the incantation instead of actively trying to silently cast the spells. Of course, Severus assumed that they would not be doing such a thing if they knew that Severus would be taking points away from whatever respective House whenever he saw a denizen of said House whispering. Hermione Granger had been the only one so far who had managed to repel a jinx, that of Neville Longbottom (Jelly-Legs Jinx), and Severus grudgingly gave Gryffindor ten points in his mind. He would tell them at the end of class exactly how many points they had lost. It wasn't his fault so many Gryffindors happened to be in his N.E.W.T. Defence class, was it? And cheating as well? He rather thought it would be very entertaining to see the students' reactions.

It was not half so entertaining for Severus to look at their faces and remember their future fates. Of course, right after the… merge of his two minds, if he could call it that, he had utterly stifled his memories, his emotions, and was relieved that most of the classes were over, so as not to see the victims of the war, alive—and speaking—and walking—and breathing. But completely burying all that below his quicksilver Occlumency shields was not healthy for his mental state, he knew, and he had to deal with it. The summer had softened the sharp pangs of his memories of future-past (past-future? future of past present?); it had made the memories more… palatable (not exactly, thought Severus. As though they could ever be palatable.) to him. So he looked at the students, and watched their progress, and silently, inevitably, aloofly (or at least he tried to be distant in doing so) compartmentalised their fates.

There was Seamus Finnigan, who had defied his mother's wishes and returned to Hogwarts, only to go down like so many others during the attack on the castle—Yaxley, Severus remembered, had boasted of his tally, which included Finnigan's torture and death. There was Dean Thomas, who had cursed several Death Eaters and caused irreparable physical disabilities to them, before being felled by a Killing Curse in defence of his family—although, Severus had heard, his actions had not been in vain; his mother and siblings had escaped and faded, Severus assumed, into the Muggle world.

Hannah Abbott, who, after her mother's death (this year, Severus thought, her mother was killed… will be killed, this year), did not come to Hogwarts for her seventh year; but she stayed at Susan Bones's house, and when the Death Eaters came for them, the two Hufflepuffs together put up a savage fight, taking the wizards by surprise ("Hufflepuffs are loyal; loyalty can be extraordinarily strong when wielded as a reason to fight." Dumbledore, smiling, talking, saying that to Severus; eyes twinkling brightly, looking pointedly at him.). Parvati Patil and Padma Patil—the twins; nothing like the infamous Weasley twins in their closeness, mutually distant, often quarreling; and yet, despite all their irreconcilable differences, when Death Eaters stormed upon Diagon Alley, Parvati and Padma herded a group of young children into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and, along with Fred and George Weasley, used the store's unusual supply stores to wreak havoc upon the Dark Lord's followers, disorienting and wounding many, all of them escaping through the Floo before closing it off from their attackers.

And yet theirs were the stories that blurred into the war. The real targets: Potter, Granger, Weasley … Severus glanced at the three children, who had been forced to grow up too soon, just like him…

… and frowned. Weasley's face was red with effort, his mouth firmly closed as to fight against the temptation of cheating and muttering an incantation quietly. Potter had a rather sceptical look on his face, as though to convey the thought that this was a waste of time.

My dear children, Hogwarts said almost proudly.

Well.

Severus strode over to them, and Weasley and Potter instantly turned to look at him, their faces a little alarmed. He recalled the impertinence with which Potter had responded in sixth year—the other sixth year—(and really, he shouldn't have answered that way, Severus thought, irritated) and decided to take a different tack, as Potter obviously was paranoid. Constant vigilance and all that.

God, this was insane. Moody's words were beginning to stick.

"It seems clear to me," he began, his voice low, "that neither of you have any concentration whatsoever. You must focus upon that one incantation, think it in your mind, and prepare to force that spell out of your wand. So…" he cocked his head to one side, surveying the two sixth-years with a disdainful air. Potter looked defiant; Weasley, apprehensive. Which one shall I choose? Severus asked.

Try Ron, suggested Hogwarts. I think Harry has had enough of mental concentration, especially after the Occlumency lessons.

Severus was more scornful, and only scoffed. I became a good enough Occlumens by the age of fifteen. If I could do it, then the Boy-Who-Lived, who so miraculously defeated the Dark Lord, certainly can as well.

Well, he hasn't had the same experiences as you. You were in Slytherin, and you were a very private person…

You're meaning to say that I'm more talented, of course, Severus noted smugly.

No, I'm meaning to say that you're absolutely insufferable, retorted Hogwarts.

Severus mentally snickered, and turned his attention back to the Gryffindor sixth-years. "Weasley," he said, and was amused to see Weasley look even more uneasy, "you do know the incantation for the Shield charm, right?" There was a certain emphasis in his words that seemed to imply that, no, Ronald Bilius Weasley did not (Molly Weasley herself was addled in the brains to saddle her son with such an odious middle name, Severus thought. Even Hogwarts thought so.). It was the sort of tone that always fired up his students and made them work harder, if only to prove him wrong. In any case, if they did, he never publicly acknowledged it, as befitted his notorious reputation.

"Yes," Weasley gritted out between his clenched teeth.

"How very surprising, then," Severus replied, making sure to put just the right amount of unholy glee into his voice. "Shall we see how badly you do?" He drew up his wand in a sudden, graceful movement. Flipendo!

He felt the slightest of resistance against the spell as Weasley sought to block the nonverbal assault with a hastily cast mental Protego, but his efforts were in vain; the Gryffindor ignominiously flew back and crumpled to the ground in an awkward heap, gangly legs and arms flying.

Potter looked angry, but said nothing, hurrying over to Weasley. "Ow," Weasley moaned as Potter helped him to his feet. "That hurts."

"A most… astute observation, Mr Weasley," Severus said noncommittally, sliding his wand back out of sight. "Five points from Gryffindor, as it seems that you have yet to understand exactly how you should be casting nonverbal spells. What a tragedy, I'm sure."

It was a rather hectic half hour later, during which Severus surveyed the room and snapped at his students about concentration, that the sixth-years finally left the room, still muttering under their breaths about the loss of points—from all the Houses (and cautiously looking back to see that Severus did not overhear them; Severus decided, albeit reluctantly, to humour their perceptions, if only so they could leave as quickly as possible.). After the last student had nervously slipped through the door, Severus sat down on the top of his desk and rubbed his forehead, trying to ward off an impending headache. The only student who had managed a fully successful nonverbal spell had been Hermione Granger—Severus supposed that she had attained that feat partly because of the single-minded focus which she applied to most areas of her life, although that did not necessarily mean open-mindedness in Severus's view.

Even Draco had not done so well. The blond Slytherin had looked rather pale, his face wan; though at least he retained enough of his usual persona to laugh at Granger, Severus thought. It was odd that such a derisive gesture should be such a relief to his mind, but he still recalled the other sixth year (the "past" sixth year, which was odd, considering this was sixth year as well…), when Draco had withdrawn into himself over the course of the year, looking more and more haggard as the months passed by. That time, Severus knew that Draco had not been sleeping well; later, only a few hours after he had killed Albus, the two of them stood in a room at Castellum Serpens, Draco sobbing into his robes and saying, "I couldn't do it, Professor, I couldn't—I'm—I'm glad you were there, the Dark Lord said he'd kill my parents, and Mother was all by herself at the manor—I kept thinking of how he'd kill her, but I still couldn't do it—"

Family creates reasons for people to become strange bedfellows, he thought, head resting in his upturned hands, elbows on the desk. I did as the Dark Lord bade me do because I was spying and his Death Eaters had killed my mother and I wanted to strike back against them; Draco did as the Dark Lord told him to do because he feared for his parents' lives. From different ends of the spectrum: a poor, self-sufficient half-blood and a rich, somewhat spoiled pureblood. But in the end, we fled together, and we made our choices partly because of family.

But he still lowered his wand, and I would not have done it—would not have killed Albus— if he had not asked, and demanded. And… perhaps that makes some small difference in us, that separates the other Death Eaters from Draco and me. It was partly because of family, but also… it was partly because of who we were. Who we are.

It was an oddly comforting thought.

oOo

As soon as they had left the Potions classroom, Ron promptly said, "So, Hermione, do you know if you're going to use the Felix Felicis?"

Hermione, fighting to suppress a smile about to break across her face, said, "Well, no. But it is nice to have it, isn't it?"

The striking golden potion splashed merrily in the vial as she retrieved it from her bag and held it up. There was again that bubbling feeling Hermione felt, as though the day couldn't be any better. Professor Slughorn seemed to like her, she had brewed the best potion in the class, and as a reward, she had received a vial of Felix Felicis, the potion of good luck (good luck! Wasn't that absolutely auspicious?)… She checked to make sure that the vial was secured with an Unbreakable charm, and then stowed it away.

On Hermione's other side, Harry brushed the messy fringes of his black hair out of his bright green eyes. "That lesson wasn't too bad, I suppose," he said. "Still…" he drew out his copy of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage, once brand new; now its pages were somewhat more damp than before, sagging from the moisture present in the dungeons. "I didn't do too well. Did you see what mine looked like?" There was a certain tone to his voice that very nearly sounded like amusement. "You could've mistaken it for burnt treacle pudding, I swear."

"And mine?" added Ron, raising an eyebrow. "Not even close. Anyhow, you deserve it, Hermione. Glad to see you can still beat Malfoy."

"When hasn't she?" Harry said, grinnng. "Well, then—hey, wait a moment, Hermione, where are you going?"

"To the library!" Hermione called back. "I want to do some research!"

"Research?" Ron yelled, a tinge of outrage in his voice. "On the first day of classes? Cor blimey, Hermione, you're wrong in the head!"

"Thanks for the compliment," Hermione said dryly, and turned around the corner, heading for the Hogwarts library.

The Hogwarts library: Hermione's favourite place to be. Throughout the first few months of her first year, when she had felt isolated and alienated from her Housemates, the library had been her refuge. Even now, with Harry and Ron her friends, the library was still a pleasant place to be; there would undoubtedly be a reference on what exactly the Felix Felicis potion did. And Hermione wanted to know; she always did.

She came to the entrance of the library and pushed open the door, careful to let the door close quietly behind her—or otherwise Madam Pince would have been upon her in an instant. Irma Pince did not mind Hermione, who was a regular visitor to the Hogwarts library, but she was nonetheless always savage towards anyone who caused so much as a second of a disturbance in her precious sanctum sanctorum of written texts. She protected her books with the fierceness of a mother lion guarding her cubs, except that she didn't roar; she screeched.

Hermione started over to the magical book that Madam Pince had set next to her desk. It was a highly useful tool; one would write down a subject, or a title, or an author, and within minutes that person would be informed of where to find their desired manuscript. She picked up the elaborately peacock feathered quill that lay nearby—Peacock feather? she thought, I never thought Madam Pince would be so extravagant—and tapped the rectangle in which "subject" was written. She wrote on the blank paper in her neat, cursive handwriting, Felix Felicis potion.

Several seconds later, a short list of titles appeared on the smooth parchment. Hermione dug a sheet of crumpled parchment out of her own bookbag and laid it on top of the page. "Transcribere," she said, and watched as the titles, in spidery black words (the script looking much like that of Irma Pince), bled into existence onto her paper. Then, looking at the titles of the books, she went off to retrieve the texts. Heading directly to the potions section, she navigated her way amongst the bookshelves. "QP, two three nine, point F six, L five six, nineteen fifty-two…" she muttered to herself. "Ah, there it is!"

She plucked out Chance Luk's Potion of Fortune and Luck. A few aisles down, she found Moste Valuable Potions (Difficilis Macian), by Sceadu Memor. Carrying both books to her usual table, she sat down in a chair and opened Moste Valuable Potions, scanning its list of described potions.

1. Felix Felicis

2. Rememorari

3. Veritaserum

4. Callahan's Brew

Each potion alone seemed to take up a sizeable bulk of the book. She set it to one side and picked up Potion of Fortune and Luck. It was a slimly bound volume, a dark wine red colour with bronze lettering on the cover. She opened it to the table of contents. Quickly scanning down, she found "Chapter Five: Results of Taking Felix Felicis," and smiled.

Of course, it is not recommended to take this particular potion for a long length of time; inevitably, the person being affected will begin to become giddy and lightheaded at random moments, often sounding somewhat scatterbrained.

That sounds like Dumbledore, Hermione thought, and tried not to giggle at the at the sudden, random thought of the white haired wizard trying on a set of robes with little tropical fish swimming around his clothed arms.

Despite its reputation, Felix Felicis is not truly a "good luck" potion so much as it is a potion which weighs the situation, according to one's mind, and prods you to take the best path. Since it is hard to brew—one caldron of Felix Felicis, as mentioned before in Chapter Three, needs a little less than two months to simmer—and the side effects appear after constant use, researchers are not quite sure if one may still encounter unlucky occurrences after imbibing the potion.

Hermione frowned. "So it doesn't guarantee luck," she muttered to herself. "It just—shapes your choices depending on the situation. I suppose…" She drew her eyebrows together, and continued reading.

The two books were tucked away into her bookbag when she finally left the library. It was almost dinnertime before she went back to the Gryffindor common room, and then off to the Great Hall with her friends.

oOo

Some of the dialogue in this chapter is also from HBP (Ch. 9: The Half-Blood Prince). And since Harry already knew Slughorn was taking the Potions position and would let him into N.E.W.T. Potions, he and Ron both have new copies of the book, and therefore the moniker of the "Half-Blood Prince" has not yet been brought to their attention.

"Transcribere" is Latin for "transcribe." I based that series of numbers and letters (which Hermione was muttering to herself) relating to the books on the Library of Congress Classification, trying to stick to the structure, although I randomly chose numbers. In LC classification, Q is for science, so I picked that, then a "P" for potions. The next few letters and numbers are all random, until "L," which is used to signify an author's last name, and the "nineteen fifty-two" is for the year of publication.

The name Chance Luk… is there really any need to elaborate: ) "Sceadu" is Old English for "shade," while "memor" is Latin for "mindful." "Difficilis" is Latin for "difficult," literally "not easy," and "macian" is Old English for "make." "Rememorari" is late Latin for "remember." Callahan's Brew is a potion mentioned in Nomad1's Conspiracy of Silence series.

(looks pointedly at people with story on alert/favorites list who have not reviewed yet) Hope you enjoyed this chapter! The next one, I think, will be set at the Ministry and Azkaban. Please review!

Talriga