Due to forces beyond his control, a man of great skill may be brought low. But if he is truly at the peak of said skill, such a man may then devise the perfect counter.

-Excerpt from A Study in Magic, by John Watson, MD

-oOo-

If anyone thought the headmaster looked more tired than usual that evening, none decided to voice their thoughts. Albus Dumbledore quietly sat in the center of the staff table, not doing much of anything. His twinkling eyes had faded to a dim luster; dark rings encircled them, though none could see, hidden as they were by minor glamours.

It had been many years since Dumbledore had slept the easy, carefree sleep of the young and unburdened. For him, slumber came grudgingly, often only by the aid of potions. Too many thoughts, that was the problem. A brain that refused to shut off.

Lately, his mind tended to turn to that night. The night he cast the Killing Curse. Again and again he saw it re-play. He even dreamed of it, the small cottage on the edge of Godric's Hollow, and the death of Tom Riddle.

But even as the deed was shamefully recalled, he continued to churn and process. Wasn't it strange, the way Tom had died? In every instance Dumbledore could recall, the Killing Curse acted instantly. It was not a dramatic spell. Once hit, a victim did not die an actor's death. There was no last breath. A man hit by avada kedavra simply and suddenly ceased to live.

Yet Voldemort did not. After he was hit by the fatal spell, he had turned and faced his murderer. As morally horrifying the act remained, Dumbledore could not deny the scholarly allure of such an unusual occurrence. It implied new aspects to the Unforgivable Curse; a field of study hideously hampered by ethical and legal restraints. As it was, Dumbledore contented himself with a likely hypothesis.

Like most emotion-based magic, intent was the driving force behind a Killing Curse. Without wishing a target dead, from the very bottom of your heart, the incantation would fail. Intellectually, Dumbledore had known Voldemort needed to die, but to act on that knowledge was something else entirely. Even as he cast the spell which saved England during its darkest hour, the headmaster could clearly and regretfully remember the young, idealistic student, Tom Riddle.

"...don't you think so, Albus?"

Dumbledore shook himself from his reverie, and looked to his left. McGonagall was watching him expectantly. One answer later he found himself getting quickly sucked into the surrounding conversation, but did not fail to notice Harry Potter leaving the Great Hall with friends close behind.

The Boy Who Lived had friends, then. Dumbledore did not know whether to be happy, sad, or indifferent to this development. With a small inward cringe, he found himself wishing the boy would be more withdrawn. Colder. That would be things easier for everyone. He could imagine the future waiting for Longbottom and the Granger girl. Anyone who stood by Harry would see pain. They would see war. And Voldemort would not hesitate to strike and use anyone at Harry's side.

Dumbledore sighed. He knew, that future was coming soon, and yet...

He watched as the trio slipped out of the great hall. Off to mischief, if their faces were anythign to go by. Dumbledore smiled softly. The boy seemed happy. That was good.

Wasn't it?

-oOo-

Harry, Hermione and Neville entered the library, drew a piercing glare from the librarian, Madam Pince, and made their way to a large table near the back.

Neville sat and glanced over his shoulder. "Does she look at everyone like that?"

"You get used to it," answered Harry. He reached down the front of his robes and pulled out a rolled parchment, spreading it over the table. The corners, to Hermione's protest, were tacked in place.

"Don't worry," said Harry, making sure the tack had set properly, "I'll fix it later."

Hermione drummed her fingers on the tabletop, and nervously looked over her shoulder. "You know a spell to refinish furniture?"

Harry again reached down the front of his robes. "I'll look one up while we wait for the others." He pulled a massive book from his neckline and set it down with a decisive thump.

Hermione looked from the book to Harry's robes and back again.

Neville held up a hand and shook his head. "Waitwaitwait. You have a mokeskin?"

Harry grinned as Hermione sidled closer and tried to read the book's title. "Yep."

"It's a pretty good one to fit something that big."

Harry fingered the pouch around his neck. "That's what McGonagall said. We found it in my family vault. It and my trunk."

Neville nodded and Hermione slid the book towards her. "Gertrude's Grimoire," she read, tracing the title. "Does Hogwarts have a copy?"

Neville leaned towards the now open book. "You're reading Gertrude's?"

"Problem?" asked Harry.

"No. Just, not a lot of kids..."

"Read old lady books?"

Neville gave a weak smile and shrugged. "Well, yeah."

Hermione interrupted, words thick with disbelief. "Rugs?" She flipped through the book. "How can you have whole chapter about rugs?"

"I know," said Harry. "Isn't it great?"

Hermione didn't notice his endorsement, and flipped pages faster and faster. "How to change rug colors. How to change rug weave styles. Change stitch styles. Change texture. Clean. Charm. Repair. Shrink. Tassels. Bells?" She shut the book loudly. "This thing is useless! Why do I need a rug with bells?"

Harry pulled the insulted book into his arms and gave it a pat of appreciation.

"What about rug bells?" asked a voice.

The three students turned and saw Luna Lovegood emerge from behind a nearby bookcase. The girl sat next to Hermione and fixed Harry with a serious look. "I've always wanted a rug with little bells around the edges."

Hermione scooched her chair over. Luna had sat down close enough to brush shoulders. "Whatever for?" she asked warily.

Luna folded her arms onto the table and rested her head on them. "I always liked those little bells shops have over the doors. You know, to let them know when someone comes in. I wanted to put one on my bedroom door, but it seemed a bit tacky."

Hermione nodded. She could understand that. A great big bell over your door did seem a little overdone. Her eyes traveled down Luna's neck, noticing the unusual jewelry around it.

Very unusual, thought Hermione. She peered closer. Was that necklace made from bottle caps?

Tacky indeed.

"...So of course that was out of the question." said Luna, recapturing Hermione's attention. "I thought it'd make a good compromise. Little bells going all the way around the edge." The girl outlined an imaginary rug in the air.

Harry slowly nodded. "I'll write down the spell for you."

Luna beamed. "That's very kind."

Neville and Hermione were struggling to think of some polite comment for the conversation, when more arrivals made themselves known.

Susan and Hannah emerged from an aisle and approached the group with small waves of greeting. Hannah walked behind her partner, casting worried looks over her shoulder towards the librarian's desk.

Susan plopped down at the table and draped an arm over her chair back. She nodded around at the seated students and made room for Hannah to sit next her. "Are we late?"

Harry nodded back. "Hey Susan, Hannah. No, your not late. We're still waiting for our last- oh, never mind."

Everyone turned and saw Zacharias slouch up the table. He chose a seat away from the other students and tipped the chair back onto two legs. "So, Potter, what's the master plan?"

Harry pulled a pen from his robes. "It's nice to see you too, Zack." Zacharias gave a small snort.

Harry continued. "I'm sure we all have things to do, so I'll keep this brief." He tapped his pen onto the parchment tacked to the table. "This is a rough blueprint of the place we were tested in. With it, I thought of a plan that should net us one sphere, at the very least."

Susan rubbed her hands together. "That's what I'm talking about," she chortled. "Let's hear it. Some kind of cool magic?"

Harry grinned. "Nope." He ignored the looks of confusion and rapidly outlined his plan, marking and labeling points on the map as he spoke. "The plan is simple and utilizes minimal magic. Main point: Quirrell is one person, we are seven. The idea is to distribute ourselves throughout the house in a synchronized, coordinated movement. We'll move out in an initial group, and place people at intervals through the hallways as we move. One person stays in the kitchen as a reserve, one stays in the hallway outside the kitchen door, and another at the intersection; these people are called Anchors. The rest split into pairs and take the three hallways; these people are Agents."

Harry pointed to a hallway on the map. "This is the northern corridor, the one me and Neville took last time. It's approximately twice as long as the others. One person needs to wait halfway down it while their partner goes ahead. The east and west halls only need one Agent each."

Harry glanced around the table, making sure everyone was following, and continued. "The weak point is the intersection. If the Anchor at the intersection is removed, whoever's at the kitchen door should move forward to take his place. The reserve then takes the kitchen door spot."

Hermione raised her hand. "I understand, but why do we need to leave people spaced out like that? At the intersection and the door and everywhere?"

"Because," said Harry, "You can throw a ball faster than you can run. If you're being chased you throw the sphere down the hallway to the intersection Anchor, they throw it to the Anchor outside the kitchen door, and he tosses it inside. Same thing with the northern corridor. Whoever retrieves the sphere can throw it to his partner down the hallway, who throws it to the intersection and so on."

Zacharias rolled his eyes. "What a muggle plan. Sounds like you'll all be playing cricket in the dark."

Harry didn't look at Zack. "Then I'm sure you won't mind being the reserve, Zacharias." Ignoring the Zack for the moment, Harry addressed the rest of the table. "The whole plan relies on speed. You have to move fast enough that Quirrell only has time to stop one or two of us before someone gets a sphere through. If he keeps to the same pattern as last time, we should make it."

Harry reached into his robe, pulled out six pieces of parchment, and handed them around the table. "Everyone take a map, and we can decide the roles."

After a few minutes of conversation, Harry marked down everyone's assignment on his own map, un-tacked it, and rolled it up. "We've got a few days before the next test, so try to memorize the map and your task."

Susan pumped her hand in the air. "This time Quirrell's going down!"

"Ahem."

Susan turned, hand still thrust in the air, and beheld a very irate librarian. Madam Pince tapped her toe, drumming a beat that reminded Harry of an executioner's drum roll.

She leveled a icy glare at the assembled students. "I think," she growled, "That overly-boisterous plots can be planned elsewhere."

Harry noticed Luna's lip twitch upward, and recalled her comment from two day's ago. He looked up at the glowering matron, "I wouldn't it a plot, per-"

Before his defense was properly voiced, the Boy Who Lived was dragged away by a gaggle of cowed first-years.