"Callidus."

Hermione spoke his name with such hesitance and caution that he immediately bolted upwards, realizing that he may have lowered his guard and fallen asleep on the table. He blinked at her, hoping that his expression was composed, his eyebrows lifting slightly. In the fourth floor classroom where they studied, the stretch of silence was especially weighty, though silence was less of a burden than having Gryffindors fretting about him. He was aware that Ginny and Caiside were looking at him as well, though Caiside's expression was chilled in contrast to the concern in Hermione's and Ginny's eyes. He wasn't certain which was worse, but as Hermione leaned towards him, he decided that Caiside's coldness was preferable to this invasive worry, though in Caiside's case, it was because she still hadn't forgiven him for his remarks, even if she was no longer avoiding him.

"We're worried about you," Hermione continued, as Callidus attempted to unobtrusively edge away from that encroaching concern.

"You have no reason to worry." Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say because Hermione's expression became obstinate.

"You were just napping on the table!" Ginny pointed out. "And it wasn't even the first time this week! You've got circles under your eyes that look like bruises, skin tone that might cause people to mistake you for an inferius, and you aren't making cutting remarks."

Callidus narrowed his eyes at Ginny. "It seems too merciful to waste wit on someone too feeble-minded to understand it."

Caiside shook her head. " Weak. So weak."

"Oh, what would you know?" Callidus snapped.

"Stop!" Hermione interposed. "Enough of this! There's no reason to be so childish. We're just trying to help you. As Ginny pointed out, you haven't been yourself lately. Even if you have no concern for your physical well-being, what about your grades? I've noticed you struggling with some of the practice questions we've been given."

Callidus scowled. "I'm having no trouble with the material."

"I didn't say that," Hermione said, slowly and gently, and just shy of patronizing. "But exams are coming up, and surely you can't deny that you haven't quite been, well, in top form." She studied him for a moment, and he glanced away, unable to meet her eyes.

"I said, I'm fine." This time, his words came out as more of a growl.

Alarmingly, Hermione's expression only became more sympathetic. "I had a feeling you'd say that. You know, there's no shame in seeking help when you need it. You're just one person, and no one would expect one person to stand up to a group of their upperclassmen."

He narrowed his eyes. "What makes you think this has anything to do with the fifth years? Besides, I imagine the greater shame would be pushing other people too hard and losing their friendship."

"You wouldn't!" Ginny cried.

But Hermione remained firm, showing that side of her that was more Gryffindor than Ravenclaw. "It's not hard to guess that you're having problems with the fifth years when you clam up about it anytime we ask. You might think that you're being subtle, but everything about the way you behave gives it away. But friends help one another. And since we're your friends, we're helping you, whether you want it or not. It's hardly our fault if you're too pigheaded to seek help when you need it. You should have spoken to an adult about this whole thing months ago."

"You've helped me enough. In fact, I'm returning to the dungeons. There's a great deal that I have yet to do."

With surprising speed, Hermione reached a hand out with a folded note between her fingers. The expression in her eyes was unyielding. "Take it."

He gave her suspicious look, before snatching the note from her hands, and reading it. When he realized what was on the note, his nostrils flared, and a red haze of rage passed across his eyes. Teeth clenched and voice dangerously low, he said: "You spoke of my personal problems to Dumbledore?"

"He's in the best position to help you," Hermione stubbornly argued.

"Dumbledore?" he repeated furiously. "If you are so concerned, why not just bring the issue to Madam Pomfrey?"

"Because Madam Pomfrey would have just treated your symptoms. There's a deeper issue, and it's clear to everyone but you that you can't handle it on your own. You're going to visit the Headmaster's office tonight, and if you don't show up, he's going to know that something is wrong, and we're just going to have to get more people involved. I'm sure Professor Slughorn would be more than willing to speak to you. Or if you're not comfortable with him, you can always speak to Professor McGonagall."

"No!" Callidus burst out. "No. No Slughorn, and no McGonagall. I'll speak to Dumbledore, but it will be on my terms."

Hermione nodded with a look of satisfaction, relaxing back in her chair, reminding him of a lion that had sheathed its claws. Merlin save him from Gryffindors.

Though his meeting with Dumbledore was only a few hours away, he found himself disinclined to spend the rest of his evening with the Gryffindors; especially not after what they had done. Besides, he needed the time to organize his thoughts, and consider what he would say to the Headmaster. Moments later, he was once again cursing his fate, and cursing his wretched tiredness, because if he had been clear-minded, he would have thought to ask the Gryffindors what, precisely, they had said to Dumbledore. He debated turning back, but in the end decided that he couldn't bear to see their smug faces (though if he was honest with himself, they were more likely to look worried than smug.) He would just have to act with his normal caution, giving away as little information as possible, and letting the Headmaster lead the conversation. Such thoughts weren't terribly reassuring, but they were better than nothing.

By the time he made his way towards Dumbledore's office for their appointment, his anger remained hot within him, rather than chilling to something more frigid and controlled. He knew that it was because he was sleep deprived, that in this state, he could not hope to match wits with the wily Headmaster, but he did not doubt Hermione when she said that by avoiding this appointment, he would only be making things worse for himself.

With an aggravated sigh, he muttered: "Cockroach clusters," and made his way up the stairs to that familiar circular office. It was strange to think that only a year ago, he was so much closer to Professor Dumbledore. He supposed that he had been unmoored then, uprooted from everything that was familiar to him and tossed into a new world, not only losing his parents and Lily, but shedding the trappings of all that was muggle-related, and immersing himself in wizarding society. Strange to think that all that existed now was a new life that he was building for himself, one accomplishment at a time.

"Good evening, Callidus." Dumbledore's blue eyes were bright and merry, appearing every bit the genial and dotty grandfather, complete with shimmering copper-colored robes, embroidered with arcing bronze sparks that swirled and faded against the light. It was strange how, despite his ridiculous garb, the man was never swallowed by his clothing, but seem to own each inch of fabric with his deep, immovable confidence.

"Good evening, Professor." It wasn't that Callidus was in the mood for pleasantries, it was merely that he did not trust himself in his current, mentally deficient state. Most of his energy was directed towards keeping his expression impassive.

"Lemon sherbert?"

Callidus eyed the candies mistrustfully, but as far as he could remember, Dumbledore's candies had never held any sort of trap. He realized that he was dithering, trying to buy himself time and avoid the confrontation that was already nipping at his heels.

"No, thank you," he answered, after an inordinately long moment staring at that proffered dish of yellow sweets.

"I understand that your friends are concerned about you."

Callidus silently cursed. Shouldn't there have been more trifling remarks, words scattered here and there as the Headmaster danced around the main point? But wait - as much as Dumbledore might have enjoyed verbal fencing, he was still a Gryffindor. Now to come up with a suitable response.

"Gryffindor's are ever sticking their noses where they don't belong." Should he sneer or not? Merlin, was he second-guessing even his body language? He wanted so badly to return to his dormitory for a long nap.

"Ah, but one of the benefits of good friends is that they may offer a fresh set of eyes, a new perspective, if you will."

"But those on the outside can still fail to grasp the complexities of a situation."

Dumbledore gave him a lingering look, before Callidus swiftly dropped his eyes, belatedly remembering that the old man was capable of reading minds. Had he already given everything away? And yet, wouldn't he have sensed the intrusion in his mind? He couldn't let his burgeoning anxiety rattle his composure, but already, his body was betraying him, his stomach fluttering uneasily.

"I am not here to force you to do or reveal anything against your will, Callidus," Dumbledore said, letting his gentle voice wash over Callidus's nerves. "I cannot make you seek help if you do not wish to have help. I can only say that you need only ask if you find yourself struggling with something. It isn't my intention to obstruct you."

The words startled him. Was the Headmaster speaking of his current situation, or was he obliquely referencing what had happened last year? Curse his lack of sleep! Curse those fifth years for stirring up such trouble in his life. Dumbledore's words were tempting - more tempting than he could have imagined when he was angrily pacing the corridors earlier in the evening. Nothing sounded better then to unburden himself to someone powerful enough to take care of his problems, and yet, this was Dumbledore. As much as he wanted to let loose, and then curl himself up in his bed to sleep days and days away, he couldn't bring himself to trust the other man.

But there was something he wanted that wasn't a matter of trust. There was something he wanted and perhaps Dumbledore was the only person who could help him in this. He lifted up his eyes, not meeting the Headmaster's, but staring toward the frame of a portrait behind him. Should he take the plunge? He couldn't think of any reasons why not. On the other hand, he was tired enough that he couldn't think of much reasons for anything at all.

"I would like help learning Occlumency."

Just as calmly, Dumbledore asked: "You have a good reason for this?"

"The pursuit of knowledge," Callidus answered, a biting edge to his words that he couldn't repress.

"While a worthy goal, I'm sure that you know that the pursuit of knowledge isn't an unequivocal good. Surely, if you have such a strong desire to learn this obscure art, you have a deeper reason for doing so."

Callidus compressed his lips, if only to keep himself from lashing out. He could feel his ire like a flow of magma in his veins, but that tiny voice of collected reason gripped him tight, warning him that this was no place to lose his temper, that his anger was borne of lack of sleep, and not the labyrinth of words from the old man.

For a long moment, the only sound that filled the space between them was the soft trilling of Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes. How much did Callidus want to learn Occlumency? He searched himself, trying to grasp the threads of his situation, though it was like wading through molasses. But when it came to him, the answer was simple. He wanted to learn Occlumency as much as he wanted to sleep, and he dearly wanted to sleep.

"I want to be able to protect myself," Callidus finally admitted.

Though Dumbledore's posture remained the same, Callidus felt a shift in the energy of the room, a sudden alertness. "Are you in some sort of danger?"

Callidus had no desire to admit to such a thing. He wanted to believe that he could take care of his problems on his own. But even if he did reveal his suspicions about the fifth years, what evidence did he have? Still, he thought he could admit to something without telling the full truth. "I'm not certain. I have a sense that something isn't right, but without the means to fully protect myself, I cannot gain a sense of what I am facing."

He still would not meet the Headmaster's eyes, but he could feel the other man's assessment, weighing and cataloging each word, judging his worthiness. He was suddenly glad of his exhaustion; he might want to fall asleep upon Dumbledore's desk, but at least he wasn't squirming.

"I do not have the time to give you personal lessons. That said, I'm still willing to give you what help I can." The Headmaster stood up and glided over to one of the bookshelves in the office, pulling out of the titles without first reading it. Did Dumbledore somehow know the precise location of each book he had on his shelf? Callidus wouldn't have been surprised if that was the case.

Gravely, Dumbledore handed Callidus the book. "Understand that what I'm giving you is for your eyes only. Occlumency is not approved by the Ministry, and indeed, it is an art that most witches and wizards are not even aware of. I'm giving you this book not because I have been persuaded of your need for self-defense, but because I trust you. I expect you to return it by the end of the year."

Callidus was certain that Dumbledore's words were deliberately crafted to tug on his emotions. He wanted to think that he would not fall prey to such obvious manipulations, and yet the Headmaster's words, and the look in his eyes sat heavily upon him.

Taking the book with both hands, Callidus said: "I understand." And despite his exhaustion, and the pressures of exams, diseases, and too many other things, Callidus felt the smallest seed of hope budding within him.

-o-

The end of the year burst upon Callidus with alarming rapidity, his days and nights blurred by words upon pages mingled with the ever-pervading feeling of exhaustion. The only day in which he managed a long stretch of desperately-needed sleep was Beltane, knowing that the majority of the Slytherins would be revelling. He was aware that missing the festivities could affect his social standing within Slytherin, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Contrary to what he might have expected, his heavy hours of sleep only served to make him feel worse, as if he had been run down by a herd of bicorns.

Callidus had become something of an expert at stealing minutes of sleep during his day, keeping his head hidden behind his course books in classes, nodding off during his lab sessions, and resting his head on the back of armchairs in the common room. Unfortunately, as skilled as he might have been in sneaking in moments of sleep, he seemed to lose skills in an inverse measure in everything else, barely able to keep up with conversations, news, and studying. Whatever paltry measure of intellectual acuity that he still had was spent on trying to learn Occlumency.

But there was one unexpected advantage to this state of incessant sleep deprivation: he was too tired to worry about Longbottom. Of course, on a rational level he was deeply concerned. The spider ears spell (which seem to feel worse in proportion to his tiredness) had kept him abreast of Longbottom's status, and that status was unquestionably dire. Strange to think that good-natured, round-faced, clumsy Longbottom could die. But thinking was all Callidus did, and he didn't even do it well. Because as fatigued as he was, he certainly couldn't feel anything. The limits of his feelings were that scratchy wooliness between his ears, and the inescapable pressure around his eyes. But such things were physical feelings. His emotions had long ago scurried away to some unknown place in his brain, only to die, abandoned and inconsequential.

His friends, both the Gryffindors, as well as Harry and Draco, were understandably worried. But it was easy enough to fob off Hermione and her lot by telling them that he had been to see Dumbledore and had already done all that he could. As for Harry and Draco, he was fairly certain that they believed him when he told them that he was merely stressed by exams and revisions, and even if they didn't believe him, he was certainly too tired to care. Besides, they were both still preoccupied by their chances of winning the Quidditch cup, since the Slytherins had slaughtered the Hufflepuffs in the mid-month match nearly a week ago (thanks in no small part to the advantage of the team's racing brooms). The odds were looking good for the Slytherins.

At the moment, he was sitting at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, listlessly poking holes into his food, and barely even sensing the arrival of the owl post, despite the way that the flap of their wings ruffled his limp hair. He thought that Pansy might have made a disparaging remark about his appearance, but then again, her remark about oiliness might have been about the food and not his hair.

Next to him, he heard Harry whispering: "Finally!" And that caused him to sit up and take heed. Finally what? He peered over at Harry, and even with his dulled wits, it was clear that Harry's expression was gleeful. It didn't take an expert to be able to read Harry's face. Frankly, it was a blessing that he managed to be even a little more subtle than a Hufflepuff (which wasn't saying much).

Following Harry's gaze, he was unsurprised to see that Harry was looking towards Rowle. Harry might not be subtle, but his ability to act in stealth was at least Slytherin-worthy. Callidus still had no clue what Harry had been doing in regard to the seventh year girl.

Rowle appeared to be drinking pumpkin juice and looking more-or-less normal. Callidus frowned and narrowed his eyes. No, not normal. There was an air about her, a subdued but undeniable sprightliness that lifted her features and made one almost think that she could be a nice person. She looked - happy? In fact, she wasn't sitting next to her usual friends, but was sitting next to one of the Slytherin boys, (De Vere, or something like that, whom Callidus recognized from ARMED). Rowle was then reaching for something on the table, and when her hand brushed against De Vere's and they both blushed and smiled. He tried to rack his brain, searching for some mention that Pansy might have made about a new couple, but all he could mentally hear was Pansy's garbled voice rambling about hair, Crabbe and Goyle, and the cruelty of teachers. Useless!

Mystified, his gaze skated back towards Harry, who looked incredibly pleased, but his green eyes were watching both Rowle, De Vere and the owls. It occurred to him that over the weeks, he had noticed Harry observing Rowle when Rowle was busy looking at someone across the table. Had that someone been De Vere? Had Harry set them up? Callidus shook his head. Merlin, he really needed sleep. His thoughts were becoming ridiculous!

Still, he watched the scene with Rowle, because Harry, though attempting not to stare, was still for all intents and purposes, staring. A barn owl swooped down towards the seventh years, carelessly dropping what look like a rolled magazine on Rowle's plate, and Callidus had a sudden feeling of where this was going. It may have been months ago, but he hadn't forgotten his earlier conversations with Harry about muggle magazine subscriptions.

"Harry, are you even paying attention to me?" he heard Draco say. But his words seemed far away, like something from the end of a tunnel, not only to Callidus but apparently Harry as well. And Draco, while sometimes oblivious, was far from stupid, following Harry's line of sight to the seventh years, where a small drama was set to burst.

The seventh years around Rowle were leaning forward towards the magazine in curiosity. They certainly weren't acting shocked and appalled like Callidus would have expected, if she had received a muggle magazine. But then, what was Harry so excited about? He was clutching his utensils so tightly that he might have been trembling underneath his robes.

And then it happened. The boy next to Rowle, De Vere, leaned forward and tapped his wand on the magazine, and the cover changed from a tasteful green to lurid pinks and purples, with giant flashing words, and a woman on the cover. The seventh years leaned in even closer, all of them trying to make sense of the cover of Rowle's magazine, when they all reared back, as if a venomous snake had just been dropped in their midst (and as highly as Slytherins may have regarded snakes, they were rightly cautious).

Across from him, he heard Pansy asking: "What is Euphie reading? Is that a -"

Rowle was still in her seat, her face bloodless. She was shaking her head, staring down at the magazine cover as if it were her own personal nightmare, and Callidus suspected that this wasn't far from the truth. The Slytherins around her had not stood up (they would never make a gesture so overt as to draw the eyes of all the other students in the Great Hall) but had shifted in their seats so that they were sitting a clear distance apart from Rowle.

Even from the other end of the table, Callidus could make out the words on Rowle's lips, though he couldn't hear her: "This isn't mine. This isn't mine."

One of Rowle's friends was pointing down at it accusingly, expression horrified and betrayed, clear to see only because she was sitting with her back to the rest of the hall, the expression sending shockwaves through the Slytherin table.

"Can't deny it, when it's got your name on it, Rowle," Harry said, so low that Callidus thought he was the only one to have heard, until he saw Draco's mouth drop open.

How was Callidus to make sense of all of this? He wished that there was a spell that could drive the fogginess from his mind, to keep him from sinking into the grasping hands of his lassitude. That Harry was somehow at the very heart of this, he had no doubt, but had Harry really sent Rowle a muggle magazine under a glamour? How would he have guessed that the other Slytherins would reveal the illusory cover? Because if that had been Harry's plan all along, it ranked incredibly high in terms of being a remarkable piece of manipulation. After all, no one would believe Rowle would subscribe to a muggle magazine herself, but if that magazine was under a glamour to look like something else? He never would have guessed that Harry could think so many steps ahead, even for a mere prank, even if it involved Rowle whom Harry loathed to the core of his being.

"What is this about?" Draco was hissing, his hands grasping at Harry's arm. "What did you do?"

But Harry seemed to have lost his grip on himself, because a helpless laugh was burbling from his mouth, and no amount of pressing his lips together could stop it. The other second years were looking at him askance, and as if realizing that his emotions could undo him, Harry reined in his laughter, his amusement showing only in the dancing brightness of his eyes. And as much as Callidus dislike Rowle, still he never imagined a situation where he might find himself laughing at the stricken expression on her face, the white trembling lips and limp trembling hands, the way Harry was. Was this the Harry he knew?

And then, as if matters weren't bewildering enough, a loud horn-like sound blared mournfully through the Great Hall, followed by inhuman whoops, and reed-like warbles and keening notes. Where was the sound even coming from? Now it wasn't only the Slytherins who are frozen in their seats but everyone else as well.

"Merlin, was that today?" Callidus heard Harry mutter. "I should have asked Luna to trigger it another day -" but his words were drowned out by the cacophony of sounds around them, coming not from a person, not from a thing, but from the very stones of Hogwarts itself.

Suddenly, Draco stood up, and Harry was jerked from his seat with no warning. Sleep-fogged though he was, Callidus knew that this involved him and stood up as well, following Draco as he all but dragged Harry out of the Great Hall. The chaotic sounds around them meant that their departure was entirely unseen. Callidus stepped upon a stone that let out a melodic whistle, and even in his muddled state, he could work out that certain stones had been spelled to make noises, effectively turning Hogwarts into a musical instrument.

Was it the Weasleys again? Though they might not have owned up to the bird and whipped cream prank, everyone thought it was them. But then, what did Harry mean about Luna 'triggering it?' Did they even know anyone that went by the name Luna? Draco led them around a bend, up a flight of stairs, before pulling Harry into a partially secluded alcove, with Callidus at their heels.

"Was this you?" Draco was asking, his gray eyes sparking with some dark and unreadable emotion.

Harry's expression became conflicted, losing his earlier glee. "Was what -"

Clutching the front of Harry's robes, Draco yanked him closer, before suddenly slamming him against the wall of the alcove, a move shocking in its physicality, for Draco always thought problems were meant to be solved with wands and not force. "Was this you? Euphemia Rowle and - and -" Draco's expression was wild, nostrils flaring.

"Draco -" Callidus cut in warningly, but his friend was deaf to him.

"You wouldn't have understood -" Harry stammered out, green eyes wide and confused.

"And even this - this ruckus?"

In Callidus's dulled state, it took a moment for him to realize that Draco was referencing this newest prank, if prank was what it was. The noises that had seemed so clamorous and pervasive before were now a distant thing, meaningless in the face of the words, both said and unsaid, between them.

Brows drawn together, Harry said: "You would have thought it was stupid - you think all pranks to make people feel better are st-"

"You didn't even think to tell me?" Draco demanded, voice breaking, pressing Harry closer to the wall. "You didn't even try -"

"I -"

"And maybe I wouldn't have understood," Draco continued in a rush, "but I thought we were brothers - I thought -"

Harry was shaking his head, looking pained. "I'm sorry - I -"

And suddenly the worst feeling that Callidus had ever felt ripped through his chest, as if a beast made entirely of claws and fangs was trying to shred his heart to bits. Distantly, like spots in his peripheral vision, he was aware of the sudden heavy magic that surrounded him and those near to him, setting his magical sensitivity ablaze though he was making no effort to sense out the magic in the air, but he couldn't think of such things through the searing whiteness of pain. He fell to his knees, but the jarring of his bones against stone was nothing to the terrible shattering within his chest. He thought that he might have been screaming, but he couldn't tell. When blackness came, it was a mercy.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! And since this chapter ends on a cliff-hanger, I'll post my next update mid-week