Disclaimer: Characters and settings (other than the Potions swot) are property of JK Rowling et alia. I make no money out of this. Dammit.

ooOOoo

Chapter 76

In the end, it came down to rock, paper, scissors. Harry won. Or lost, depending on perspective. "I'm the rider, then," he said, still with his hand in a fist for rock.

"So we'll be taking my broom," Draco said, apparently trying to make the most of not being the rider, using two fingers in what had been "scissors" to scratch his chin and, incidentally, make a rude sign at Harry. Harry didn't take offence – he was the winner and could take the moral high ground. His broad grin only made Draco scowl all the more. Simon had gone off to sulk on the far side of the paddock after making his feelings clear on dunderhead colts who tried to trick him with empty paper bags. Draco sighed and went back to rubbing his upper arm, which must be quite sore. "Good," he added. "Firebolts have untamperable stabilising spells on them I wouldn't trust surviving the barrier."

"Anything tricky about the Nimbus 2001? Just in case there's a change of plan and I have to ride it." It was amazing, Harry thought, the way they were talking like it was already decided it would be them riding Simon instead of Dumbledore and Flitwick. He hoped it wasn't going to be one of those self-fulfilling prophecies, where he and Draco went because they subconsciously placed themselves on that road. If Simon accepted Dumbledore as a rider then Harry would have to accept that too, he reminded himself for the hundredth time.

Draco considered. "It can list a bit to the left. That's partly the reason the permanent stability charms were implemented for the Firebolts. It's faster than the 2000 but I get the feeling they sacrificed manoeuvrability for speed. Climbs like a Bowtruckle, though."

"I'll keep that in mind if I have to choose between turning and altitude," said Harry, comfortable to be back on old territory of talking brooms. It eased the fact that one or both of them could be dead in the next two days. Or (worse thought) wishing they were dead. It was a companionable sort of conversation all the way back to the castle, keeping Harry's thoughts off the morbid and fast approaching future.

They were agreed that Hogsmeade had to be alerted, because even Draco had to admit that wiping out the village wouldn't be helpful long term. Neither said anything explicit about the danger, although Draco had stopped smiling, not even managing a smirk when they bumped into Neville, also on the way to the Infirmary after accidentally swallowed someone's Potions experiment and turning purple with little yellow flowers. Harry's hands had a fine tremor and he felt like he was sometimes floating far above, sometimes diving deep into the minutiae of Hogwarts life now, and he had a terrible craving for chocolate. But Draco had to go to the Infirmary to get a salve for the latest bite and Harry found himself wandering alone around the castle, wishing he was with Ron and Hermione in the dorm, even if it meant doing homework with them, just because it meant he wouldn't be dwelling over impending death, doom, ruin, et cetera. But he wasn't up to facing down the rest of Gryffindor, who were still twitching over his threat to let Voldemort into the common room. The anti-Voldie potion might be something to distract him…

He went up to check in on it and found Comrade Tyrol perched over the shaking contraption. Elmsworthy merely looked up for the brief time it took to inform Harry everything was under control. If Harry was looking for Hermione, she wasn't due here until nine-thirty.

Elmsworthy wasn't really the conversational sort – not when it came to anything Harry could understand, like brooms and horses and impending death. A vast array of tubes and several boiling cauldrons covered with what looked like glass (and were probably impermeable spells) were still busy distilling the special grade of water needed, bubbling away with the low menacing roil Harry associated with Potions class (and Snape breathing down his neck telling him he was an idiot). Moving away from them, he went to take a closer look at the percussion mechanism Hermione and Elmsworthy had constructed. The machine (if such it could be termed) appeared quasi-alive. It crouched on six legs like some sort of metallic insect –as if Hagrid had crossed a gwern mantis with a suit of armour. From what Harry could make out from the blur which was the vibrating bottle, the anti-Voldie potion wasn't yet finished, although the proto-potion was currently a rather pretty golden colour. Elmsworthy was studying it as if it held the secrets of the universe. Perhaps it did when you were a Slytherin potions swot.

"Any thoughts on getting that guy you're not meant to know about to take the potion?" Harry asked.

Elmsworthy had, of course. Harry suspected he could ask him if he'd ever had any thoughts on redesigning socks to help Boggarts with athlete's foot and get a resounding "Funny you should ask." "Well," said Elmsworthy. "I thought about a bow and arrow – if you have a hollow point in the arrow like a Muggle dumdum bullet –"

"A what?"

"Hollow or soft nose bullet – you know, Muggle guns…?" Harry nodded and Elmsworthy continued: "There's this place I went to in India once which is famous because it started making special bullets which spread on impact. Small hole going in, big one coming out. Muggles love putting holes in each other. For some people it's a job, for others it's just a fun hobby…"

"I get the picture. I thought you liked Muggles."

"I like them the same as I like Wizards."

Loathed and despised, in that case, although Harry thought it prudent not to say that. He nodded politely instead.

"So," said Elmsworthy, "I initially thought you could use a Muggle technique to transmit the potion in one easy shot. So to speak."

"Initially?"

"Initially. Because I hear he's got hide like a dragon now, and spells that stop sharp objects coming within three inches of him. Otherwise I'd've suggested tipping a non-magical dart in the potion and biffing it at him. We've got a set of darts down in Slytherin and the irony of using one of those would have been lovely. Wonder how he eats without a knife and fork? Maybe he's switched to chopsticks…"

Harry had to agree. (About the darts – he didn't want to think about Voldemort's table manners.) But it was worrying the details Elmsworthy had about Voldemort. Three inches? How could he possibly know the field? Harry hadn't known, and he'd been there when Voldemort had been resurrected. And then had Voldemort chucking spells at him. He shivered. Cruciatis had not been nice. "D'you think there's anyone around who can play darts?" He'd meant the question only as a sad attempt at humour, but nearly fell over backwards when Elmsworthy replied:

"Well, don't count on Dumbledore or Flitwick. Although they could probably charm one to go where they want. But Malfoy's a dab hand. When he wants to hit the bullseye he does. Little twit's wasted as a Seeker. He should have been slotted in as a Chaser yonks ago."

"Ah. That's nice to know." Harry was tossing up between being worried and being very very worried. "Er… how do you know this?"

"Well, not that I like having Malfoy hurling pointy objects around the common room when I'm there, but I have seen him play on occasion. Parker's not bad either, but I wouldn't recommend having her around when you're trying to rid the world of evil. Unless it's her you're trying to bump off, of course." He almost managed a smile to show he was joking. Possibly joking. Probably, like Ron liked to say, it was one of those funny-because-it's-true jokes.

Harry rubbed at his scar. It didn't hurt, but it gave him something to do with his hand, which was shaking. So was the other one, but he only had the one scar. For a short moment during which he frightened himself with how close he was to laughing aloud he wondered if asking Voldemort to give a matching scar on the other side of his forehead would help. "No, I mean how come you thought it best to mention Malfoy being good at darts?"

Elmsworthy twitched his nose and didn't even deign to look at Harry. "Just thought you might be interested."

"Oh. How much longer d'you think the potion will take?" he made the mistake of asking.

Elmsworthy considered for a brief moment. "Well, given the provisional matrix imposed upon the trifold scheme of the base and the fact that the potentization has probably only reached about seventeen percent of its minimum threshold – give or take a deviation of, shall we say, three percent to compensate for the lack of concrete empirical standards – I'd say that –"

But Harry had backed up to the door by this time, pretended someone was calling his name, and quietly shut it behind him.

Ask a silly question…

He went back to Gryffindor for only the time it took to retrieve some parchment and quills and be ignored by everyone (which suited him fine, the ingrates), then went to the library and pretended to do homework, but found he couldn't concentrate. He spent a fruitless two hours wrestling with the Asping-Tweedle Symposium of 1622 and its implications for standardisation of potions, but kept thinking of the potion rattling away, hopefully turning from gold to silver, and everything else seemed like a symposium on twaddle compared with the fact that he had to somehow get the potion onto Voldemort or, if Elmsworthy was to be believed, under Voldemort's scaly, impenetrable, spell-bolstered skin…

Harry threw down his quill in disgust and went to see if there were any books on making crossbows.

ooOOoo

"Harry! All right there, Harry?"

"Hey, Colin." Harry'd been wallowing in his inability to find anything to get the potion under Voldemort's skin. Right now his best hope was sending Voldemort a box of potion-centred chocolates. Shame Valentine's Day was over half a year away. It was close to the late curfew granted the students as a sop for having to stay at Hogwarts over the summer rather than go home, and Harry was weighing up returning to Gryffindor and scowls over risking Filch catching him out after hours. Filch was looking good at the moment. He hadn't found anything promising for delivering potions through spell-toughened hide. Because he didn't know the specific spells Voldemort was using, anything he could try would have a ninety-nine percent chance of failure. He wished he could have talked to Charlie, who must have some ideas, what with working with dragons. His tiredness and the last lingering trails of today's headache made it far too easy for him to fall into a low mood. He was strangely reluctant to go to bed; the thought that it could be the last night's sleep he'd ever have made him want to keep walking the corridors, as if by ignoring the need to sleep he could push time back as far as it could go. He had the terrible sensation of slowly, inexorably falling; sliding down the slate roof, this time without Simon to stop him plummeting to his death, and the image of him holding himself in place with his fingernails kept creeping up on him, leaving him short of breath.

So anything was a welcome distraction right now, even the overly-enthusiastic face of Colin Creevey beaming at him.

Colin was better than examining the contents of his own head.

Colin waved a brown paper envelope. "Fresh from the drying line," he said proudly. "The roll of film from – well, thought you'd like to have your own copies." He beamed up at Harry as he handed over the envelope.

"Thanks, Colin. I appreciate it." Which was true. Even despite the hero worship Colin was a generous soul. Harry sometimes felt bad he didn't like him more.

Colin grinned sheepishly. "I appreciate the fact you stopped Malfoy from murdering me."

Oh, thought Harry. Those photos. "Any time." He turned to go but Colin stepped in front of him.

"Hey, Harry! Watch this!" Colin took a photo and tapped his wand to it. "Iconoholo!" The image of Colin's little brother Dennis reading a book rose from the paper. "I wanted to show Mum and Dad that Dennis actually does some work here. Cool, right, Harry?"

Harry tried to sound enthusiastic. "It's a great spell, Colin. Nice shot of Dennis, too. First time I can remember seeing him reading a book, though…"

"Uh, I had to ask him to sit for it. It's actually one of my books – he'd lost his that day. But don't tell Mum and Dad, right, Harry?"

"Right, Colin. Don't worry." It wasn't as if Harry would ever meet Colin's parents, he thought morbidly. "I'm sure they'll love the picture."

"Ta." Colin grinned proudly.

Harry took the photos and slipped out of the castle. Filch hadn't closed the doors yet. If they closed while he was out, well and good. He could spend the night up with Simon. The bloody great cupboard-lover. He couldn't repress a snigger at the memory of Draco being bitten. It was a bright spot in an otherwise gloomy day. Simon had been livid and Draco lucky to get off with only the one set of bruises. Poetic justice didn't often take equine form.

He decided not to go up to the paddock just yet. Simon might still be in a foul temper and Harry arriving without peppermints or apples or even a slice of bread might set him off again. Harry wondered some days if the horse realised it was meant to be a lower life form. Well, he wasn't going to be the one who tried to convince Simon of that. Simon might attempt to demonstrate the reality of what it meant to be "lower" by means of a trampling.

Feeling nostalgic for flying, he wandered another direction, avoiding the garden on the way where the last of Hogwarts' couples were taking advantage of the darkness to twine themselves around each other with whispers and kisses. Harry took a jealous pleasure in the knowledge that Hogwarts' chastity wards would stop them having too much fun – Luna wouldn't even let him hold her hand, so he didn't see why anyone else should be happy. He walked on faster, not wanting anyone to see him, and certainly not see him when he was alone and they were not. He had the nastiest urge to call Filch out this way, just to get the couples in trouble, and had to work hard to squelch it. He set off at a brisk walk.

The stars were out and the moon should be rising soon. There was enough light for him to find his way to the Quidditch pitch and climb up to the top of the stands. Harry sat hunched down on one of the benches. A thin night breeze curled the Gryffindor flag above him and the flagpole pinged and rang softly as the rope of the flag struck it. As soon as he sat down Harry had cast a spell for a floating ball of light, which shone with a cool luminance, no stronger in its own way than the breeze, giving out a small personal light that was ample for his eyes without alerting the rest of Hogwarts to his whereabouts. In his hands was one of the photos Colin had taken before Harry's trip back in time.

It was, Harry thought as he studied it, quite pleasing in a stark fashion. There were no colours to the photo, and the black and white drew out lines and made the most of the few highlights; it had been an overcast day, he remembered. This was while Draco was still blind. In the photo Draco sat on an upturned bucket, his eyes not quite focussed on his hands. Even though his face was tilted down a little, Colin had caught that unconsciously arrogant set to his chin and upper lip.

Harry looked at the still picture of himself.

Colin's photos had given him the only opportunity he'd had to see himself in Muggle photos – all the ones the Dursleys took were of Dudley (Harry being pushed well out of the frame). It was strange to see himself caught like this. Here, he was squatting down in an old pair of Dudley's jeans. He'd finally found an excellent use for them: rubbish clothes that could cope with getting filthy dirty with oil, saddle-soap, sweat and a dozen types of dirt. He looked older in this picture than he looked in wizard photos – maybe because this one didn't move. Maybe because his face was finally reflecting his world view, on the verge of a conscious recognition that he wasn't meant to be living in it for very long. In one hand was a length of rope; in the other was the bridle he'd been cleaning. The metal buckles shone like silver.

Standing over Harry and Draco like a better class of monolith – one that taught apes to use tools – was the horse. The sun was just behind Simon's head, making it appear as if it were rising from behind the horse and accentuating the whole 2001 effect. The rope between Simon's headcollar and Harry's hand was slack as the horse loomed over the boys. While Draco's eyes were focussed on something he was listening to and Harry's were focussed on some inner thought that was troubling him, Simon's dark, shining eyes were firmly focussed on the here and now of the picture. Harry smiled. The photo quality was so good that even in the wandlight he could see the few stray hairs blowing up from the mane and the softer fur inside the horse's ears. The ears themselves were crisp against the pewter sky, and the coat looked like Harry could touch the picture and feel each gleaming hair. No wonder Colin had been so happy with his work. After blurred kneazles and the occasional blob that was meant to be Peeves, it must have been rewarding to get something like this. Draco was only slightly blurred around the edges, as was Harry; apparently this was the effect of magic on Muggle photo film. But Simon looked even more real than the fence behind them.

Weird. Harry flicked forward to another photo of himself and Draco with Simon looming over them again. As in the other picture, Draco was sitting on an upturned bucket. This time a small breeze had drawn out a strand of pale hair and his equally pale eyes were fixed unerringly on the camera with suspicion to rival Simon's. But Colin had taken this one recently – it was one of the series Luna had taken exception to, right before she sent Harry and Simon floating over the castle.

Simon looked just as super-real in this one. Almost three-dimensional, in fact. It was even better than the photos he'd seen in the library books on horses. Simon –

That was weird. For a moment he'd thought he'd caught a glimpse of someone else in the picture. Just his imagination.

No – there it was.

In a second bucket, this one drying upside-down on a fence post, was the blurred reflection of what looked like a human. It was a little disconcerting in such an otherwise honest picture. Maybe it was Colin. Come to think of it, Colin had taught him that nifty little spell… Harry hadn't thought he'd need to use it, but…

He tapped on the photo with his wand. "Iconoholo."

Out of the flat black and white photo rose, ghostlike, a three-dimensional picture. There was Harry and Draco in miniature, with a little Simon standing over them. It was all frozen. Even Simon's tail, which had been swishing at a fly, was transfixed in a rippling wave of tarnished silver. Now Simon looked like a Patronus rather than a monolith.

Harry focussed on that bucket on the fence. "Project."

A ripple of silver off to the side took shape. It wasn't blurred enough to hide the identity of this third person.

Luna. That's right; she'd been absolutely furious and had had to conceal it from Simon. Luna hated upsetting the horse… He enlarged her image and looked at it fondly. She was staring at the three in the photo intently, some odd, unreadable emotion written in capital letters on her face. Seriousness thinned her lips, giving her that "familiar stranger" look he'd seen on rare occasion. Harry felt his heart flutter just a little when he followed her gaze to himself. Then his heart sank and soured as he realised she wasn't looking at him. Was she looking at Malfoy? If Draco had been carrying on with Luna after all his "we're just friends" blather Harry would kill him.

She wasn't looking at Draco.

That odd, intense look was solely for Simon.

Luna was too weird for words some days, Harry thought with a sigh that caught in small hooks inside his chest. It wasn't fair that it still hurt him that they weren't friends anymore. He missed her. He missed her smile – the real one that took him in and allowed him into her world of odd angles and horses which could fly. He missed the smell of her hair and the feel of her lips. He missed the way she listened to him like he was a real person instead of an anomaly. He missed – he even missed her Space Bunny theories. It was almost as if she'd died ahead of schedule; nobody had told her that she was supposed to leave Harry alone yet, that she was supposed to wait until everyone else died so it'd be his fault…

Harry realised he'd stopped breathing and the breeze felt extra cool on his eyes, which were too wet. He forced himself to breathe normally, which was hard due to the constriction that went all the way down his throat and into his chest.

He tapped the photo with his wand and released the spell, nox'd his own light and lay back on the bench with one foot dangling, staring up at the flag, willing himself to think of nothing. Above it were the stars coming out in little pinpricks. Eventually he heard footsteps and closed his eyes, hoping they'd go away.

They didn't. Of course.

"Lumos. Harry?"

Remus. Harry didn't want to talk to him.

The bench creaked as it took the werewolf's weight. "That's a good photo. One of Colin's?"

Harry nodded. "I'm surprised you're not going to go on about how dangerous it is for me to have a psychopathic Muggle animal looming over me."

"Simon's not a psychopath. I've met enough to know the difference. I should never have called him that. He's merely an animal that's easily provoked into fight or flight. Great shot of him. May I?" Harry didn't resist as Lupin took the photos and flicked through them. He paused at the one Harry had been looking at earlier, the one with the sun just peeping over Simon's head, and smiled, the lines of tiredness crinkling briefly around his eyes in the light of the floating spell-ball. "Hmm. Ever seen that movie Space Odyssey? He reminds me of one of the monoliths."

Harry didn't feel much like smiling, but one crept up on him anyway.

"I… have been thinking about the Sickle you found."

A vicious impulse took Harry. "Oh. Bring back any happy memories for you?"

Remus winced, which was fine by Harry. Harry wanted to be left alone. "Not exactly. Harry…"

"If you've come to say sorry you're a bit too late. Snape's dead already. I must say, you and Sirius have been pretty restrained in your partying. Must be the whole Voldemort and inevitable death by starvation for the rest of us thing."

"I was never happy he died, Harry."

"No? There's a switch." Harry wished Remus would go away. How nasty did he have to be to make him leave him alone?

But Remus, like Simon in the glasshouse, stayed, although he had the sense not to dig around in the past.

When Remus went to sit down next to Harry, Harry swung away and tried to stand up, hiding his face, not daring to make eye contact. It wasn't just that he didn't want Remus to know he'd been crying earlier, he didn't want to be provoked into it again – something very easy at the moment when he was so tired and the worst thoughts crowded out anything positive. He certainly didn't want to look at Lupin and be reminded of why he'd been upset. And he didn't want to like Lupin again because that meant that when Remus died (because he'd die soon just like everyone else was going to) Harry would have someone else to mourn. Sometimes Harry thought maybe it was best if he died, because then he wouldn't have to be left behind…

A gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him and froze the terrible thoughts churning around in his mind, and for a moment there was only him and Remus who was like family and the faint breeze and this moment was enough and Harry tried as hard as he could to will it into infinity and never leave, wrapping his arms around himself in the effort…

"Harry. Harry." The hand gripped tighter as Harry's shoulder shook under it. "Harry…"

"Stop saying my name! I know it! I know it just fine!" And then he stopped being able to speak as his throat closed over. He didn't resist as arms wrapped around him and hugged him tight, but leaned into the hold instead, welcoming it even as he knew Remus couldn't stop time and shut out the horrors of the real world. Not even the barrier could do that.

Remus pulled his close, rocking him slightly. "Shh. It's going to be all right."

"No, it won't." He was going to die. His friends were going to die. If they died together and met in whatever afterlife existed, shouldn't he have been cheered up at the thought? But he wanted to live. He didn't want to die. And even more than he wanted to live, Harry wanted his friends to live, too. All of them. The ones who were pleased when he came into the room. The ones who planned out lives for themselves and saw him in them, not minding that Harry couldn't imagine himself in the future. Even the ones who didn't want to hold his hand now, and the ones who'd been subsumed by darkness before he'd been born or lied and said they betrayed him for his own good or sat beside him now and loved him but couldn't be told the truth of what was going on inside the mind of Harry James Potter because they thought they knew what was best for him and were wrong wrong wrong.

"Yes, it will. I've had friends die. Everyone has. Or if not, they will. You go on. Life goes on. Your friends wouldn't want it any other way for you. Even the ones you've lost. Especially, I expect, the ones you have lost."

"He wasn't my friend." Harry's voice was muffled against Remus' shoulder.

Remus' hand gripping his shoulder tightened briefly. "I think he was. Not Professor Snape, no; but Severus – he was your friend. I remember that. Harry Lovegood."

"Dumbledore wiped his memory. He wouldn't have remembered me other than as a shadow."

"You were still a friend to him. Even if for only a short time. And he was yours. It's the truest, saddest part of what was hidden by the Sickle. You're allowed to grieve for your friend, Harry."

Harry leaned against Remus' side and Remus tightened his arm around his shoulders.

They sat on the bench until it grew too cold and Remus suggested they go inside. Despite the cold and the fact he was shivering, Harry was ready to stay outside, perhaps even go up and sleep in the stable, but Remus gently reasoned that it was safer inside the castle for a human who didn't have the senses of an animal like a horse. He must have sensed Harry's reluctance to return to Gryffindor before everyone else was asleep, because he suggested Harry come back to his own rooms for cocoa first.

Harry only realised it was a mistake when they got back and found Sirius was already there. He'd had been too groggy to consider this possibility, although in retrospect it was obvious. Remus playing peace-maker again. What made it even worse was Lupin being called away by Filch, who was having trouble with a group of Ravenclaws. Filch gave Harry a look of deepest, darkest suspicion that was only equalled by the one he threw at Sirius as he complained bitterly to Remus about the students and how irritating it was when Flitwick was closeted with Dumbledore and not taking care of his House. Remus sighed and said yes, of course he would help. He grimaced apologetically at Harry as he left, and suggested asking the house elf who was going to bring the cocoa if it wouldn't mind going back for some food as well… and would Harry mind waiting for Remus to come back? Hopefully he wouldn't be long… and if Harry could ask the house elf to add macaroons to the order he'd be grateful.

Harry supposed he could wait and remember about the macaroons. It wasn't like he had anywhere to go and he was feeling peckish (although the thought of sleeping in the little room and listening to some more Pink Floyd had its appeal).

After Remus left, Harry examined the bookshelves. He was so tired the floor was wallowing slightly, as if Hogwarts was a giant ship at sea but he needed a distraction. There were some interesting books on the Dark Arts, copies of which hadn't made it to the Library. Harry flicked through one and was immediately depressed. How could anyone be interested in the Dark Arts? He didn't want power. He just wanted to be left alone.

He thought of Severus, who'd wanted to be left alone and had turned to the Dark Arts in a futile effort to achieve this.

This was even more depressing than the book.

To cap it off, Sirius sat down on the sofa and tried to talk to him. This was a decided downside of waiting.

"Harry…"

A house elf appeared with a tray and Sirius startled. Harry asked if there were any macaroons Professor Lupin could have. The house elf looked so pleased to be given such a task it might have been told it had just been awarded the Order of Merlin, first class, as it disappeared with a soft pop. Lupin must be popular with the house elves, Harry thought.

"Harry…"

Sirius jumped again and swore softly as the house elf popped back with macaroons and scones so fresh the butter was melting into them. The sweet-sharp smell of strawberry jam rose. Harry's mouth watered and he hoped Remus wouldn't mind him starting without him.

"Harry, I wish it hadn't been necessary to tell Dumbledore, but the safety of everyone here was under threat."

The Dark Arts book still open in one hand, a fast-disappearing scone in the other, Harry kept his eyes scanning the bookshelf. That was much better than actually reading the book or talking to Sirius. Amazing. Remus had (Harry did a quick count) all the Narnia books, and by the slightly foxed look to them (possibly slightly werewolved) they were well-loved. He'd never thought Remus the type to go for Muggle fantasy. "So instead of coming and talking to me you went and told on me instead."

"It wasn't like that." Sirius sounded like his patience (never a virtue with him) was particularly threadbare tonight. "I knew he could be trusted."

Harry snapped the book closed and turned to face him. "So I couldn't be?"

There were shadows around and in Sirius' eyes. "Harry… I'm not saying this right…"

"So why didn't you wait and get Remus to say it instead?" Harry sneered. He was too tired for this. But maybe a fight was what he needed. He was tired of having to be the reasonable one all the time. "Like in the Infirmary when he apologised for you trying to use him as a murder weapon."

Sirius went pale then pink, reminding Harry of Draco caught on the hop, and took a sharp breath. He ran a restless hand through his hair. "He told me to do my own dirty-work for a change." His voice was very soft. He grinned ruefully. "But Harry… I finally twigged over something James left me in his will… been carrying it around all this time… or since I had Crookshanks fetch it from my vault in Gringotts along with some money back in your third year… Merlin knows how the Aurors put it into my vault. James – James always reckoned it was the most important lesson he learned at Hogwarts, but he never found out how he learned it."

He pulled out a yellowing piece of paper that looked like it had been torn from a notebook.

Harry opened it. His jaw dropped as he read:

I, James Potter, will cease and desist being an arrogant, big-headed bully. And grow up.

"I thought you could shed some light on it," Sirius said softly.

Harry started laughing and found he couldn't stop.

Luckily Remus came back at that point. The Ravenclaws couldn't have been too far out of control. He looked alarmed at finding Harry losing the last of his own control, however, and shot an angry look at Sirius, who stood and backed away, hands raised.

"I only said –"

"Oh, bugger off, Sirius," growled Remus.

Harry found that funny, too.

"Harry, sit down. Sirius, go and make yourself useful… the kitchen needs cleaning…"

Sirius disappeared, face stricken.

"Drink this, Harry."

"What is it?"

"A calming potion. Here. Look. Three drops in my cocoa. I'm drinking it. God knows I need it…" he grumbled.

Harry felt bad and stopped laughing. Remus really did look like he needed something for stress. Like a long holiday with no full moon. He accepted his cocoa with its three drops of the potion and drank.

He felt better almost immediately. But tired. Incredibly tired.

"When did you last get a decent night's sleep, Harry?"

"Can't remember."

"Hm. You were up early this morning."

"So were you."

"True. Do you want to go back to your dormitory or stay in the spare bedroom?"

"What about Sirius?"

"He's slept on the floor before."

Harry's eyelids were drooping. The question was taken out of his hands before he could really think too hard about it, because the next thing he was aware of was the dim sense of being wrapped in a blanket and Remus carrying him into a dark room (werewolves were really strong, he thought muzzily) and there was a bed and…

He slept.

ooOOoo