Dear readers: I needed to add a few details in. Some of the students got testy, having a smaller part than they think they deserved. And I agreed. I've made a few changes and added depth. Please re-read this chapter, 34, and 35 BEFORE you read 36. They all have relevant edits.

Thanks for going along on this journey. If you read it, review it! Tell me what you think.

Cheers, DN

The week following his release from the Hospital Wing was as exhausting as they come, even if he had been a full-blooded wizard. He was due for another Blood-Builder in the coming weekend, with at least two more to follow, a prospect that was both pleasing, as it would be good to get back to feeling like himself again, but also unpleasant, given the pain involved. Perhaps the first one was the most painful. At this thought, he scoffed. Knowing how most Potions series worked, it was more likely that the first one was the easiest. It couldn't be helped. He needed all his strength. He'd placed his need for privacy above his responsibilities to protect those around him to the best of his capabilities. He couldn't feel much satisfaction in having saved her life, given that he might have prevented her injuries had he been at his full strength.

Now that he required all 7th and 8th year students to take Advanced Potions, his teaching all Potions classes would a greater class load than he'd ever taught before, along with his Headmaster duties. The following weeks, at least, would be better. Older students would be taking their O.W.L.s one week and N.E.W.T.s the next, for which the Headmaster was deeply grateful, as this meant that, for those weeks, at least, they wouldn't be in their regular classes. After that, one more week of classes, then results, the leaving feast, and graduation. Then summer. The prospect of the quiet, emptiness of the castle, students and staff having departed for the summer holiday, no longer had the appeal that it had had in the past. Images of himself, haunting the hospital wing to watch over a still-comatose Morgan, furthered his sense of depletion.

He had taken up teaching Morgan's classes as a pledge to her, as an homage to her while she recovered. If she did awake, she would see that he valued her, that he'd sacrificed for her. He even pledged to teach as she would have, as much as he could do, given that he'd only ever observed her teaching style during their research collaboration. Also, he had no one else to whom to delegate. None of the other staff was free, teaching their own classes and conducting study halls for the students preparing for exams or acting as proctors. The Hogwarts staff was composed of remarkably capable wizards and witches, but Potions was a very specialized branch of magic. As much an art as a science, requiring unique skills possessed only by those with a particular talent. Horace Slughorn had seemingly vanished after the war, though some rumors had him taking up residence in Bermuda to recover from his own traumas. Clearly, the only rational thing to do was to teach it all himself.

He had less time than he'd wanted to prepare to teach Morgan's classes. Her lesson plans were nowhere to be found, but probably secure within her locked and charmed desk drawers, away from the prying eyes of students trying to get advanced information on what was coming or the content of exams. He pondered the effort it might take to undo her charms, then opted not to, picturing her temper should she discover them broken. He dug deep into his old files to find his lesson plans.

With the question of content now decided, the question of technique came to mind. Would these students be prepared to meet his exacting standards? He doubted it. Her rather lax teaching style wasn't likely to motivate students enough to be as careful and methodical as was required for such an art as Potion-making.

He put down his quill and stared around at the dimness. He hadn't visited his old office in the dungeon for quite some time, given that he'd transferred to Defence Against the Dark Arts two years ago then taken up residence in the Headmaster's office the previous school year. All these months of distance between them made it even longer. Her presence suffused the room. Her numerous books lined the shelves, few, if any, of which had a copy in the Hogwarts Library. An illustration of Stonehenge there, her cauldrons lined up be size and material, her fresh parchment stack, her quill and inkstand. Her energy pulsed as he sat at what formerly had been his desk, but now was completely hers. Closing his eyes and inhaling, he could still make out the scent of rosemary and lavender, making his heart ache further. He was a trespasser here now. He rose, pacing the room in concern, running his fingers over the spines of her personal library, thinking wistfully of his own. Would she ever awaken, even survive? He ran through all the awful possibilities that he'd listed to himself before, every imaginable pain or disability. All his plans, every different scenario, hinged on at least her coming out of the coma enough for him to show her his regret, for him to ask (once again) for her forgiveness, for him to show her how much he cared, for him to pledge himself to her. For himself, little mattered beyond her forgiveness and acceptance of him. Any further struggle, he would help her overcome. No matter the difficulty or challenge, he would help her meet it, be her ally. But if she never regained consciousness, never knew, what then? He would have to face that some other time. For now, what she needed that he could provide was a teacher for her students. He pledged once more in his heart to teach as she would have taught. He snapped back to the present moment, facing her poster of Stonehenge.

Except that this wasn't Stonehenge or any other stone circle he'd seen before. It was different. The stones were small, not tall. In addition to the circles, there was a central stone with lines of smaller stones leading out from it, like spokes on a wheel, but with different lengths pointing in different directions. The sun, moon, and stars were illustrated above it and each direction of the compass. Different plants were illustrated with the circle, sweetgrass, tobacco, sage, and cedar. Minerals were there, and animals. It was a beautiful drawing, detailed and rich, layered. Depending on your view, you could see how the stones related to the days, the months, and the seasons. He could nearly feel the warmth of the stones in daylight and the breeze across the plain in the summer, and the chill of the scene during the long winter nights. At the bottom, a small signature, difficult to notice unless you were looking for it, unless you had begun to suspect you knew who the artist was already.

P. Alden.

This was the hand-drawn masterpiece her husband had been working on. It was for her, for her Potions work, showing how the cycles of days, months, and seasons related to the plants, minerals, and animals shown. No wonder she knew so much about astronomy. He dared not touch the item, mainly out of respect, but also partly of not knowing what charms it might have. She would value this above many of her other things and would have protected it with her powerful magic. He continued to look at it, to try to understand how the stones related to the sky, how the plants related to the rest. Like the plants of the Forbidden Forest, they must have properties that related to the sun, moon, and stars. Understanding this would be of great value.

He tore himself from the illustration, aching to think that her knowledge might pass with her, further determined to make things right, to sacrifice whatever was required, to give anything to win her heart. What would she want of him now?

Morgan's admonitions during their work with students while doing their collaborations returned to him. Encourage, not admonish. Praise, not criticism. Support, not punishment. The polar opposite of his teaching approach. The O.W.L.s would tell if this worked. He scoffed to himself. His years of experience had proven that relentless pressure, high expectations, and certain punishment produced students who were careful and successful. His Advanced Potions students had consistently had a 100% passing rate on their N.E.W.T.s, in part, no doubt, of the certainty of his displeasure should they come up short. This year could be different, as every student had to take Advanced Potions, not just his usual hand-picked class, selected for their promise, as well as their ability to avoid or at least tolerate his temper. Despite this, signs were encouraging that most of them, if not all, might earn a N.E.W.T. in a few weeks.

Slughorn had been considerably more lax in his approach, and it had shown. Even as a student, Snape had found it necessary to improve on the materials he'd been given. He was among the few of his peers who'd achieved N.E.W.T. level and fewer still who'd gone on to practice in the profession. He pushed back against the memory of what he'd done with his talents in his early years.

And yet, Morgan was a well-regarded Potioneer with many years of experience, as well, and she had a different view. Her students were used to her style. Perhaps it was time to consider different techniques. He would do the experiment. His students his way, her students her way (as much as possible). She would want this. No matter how difficult, nor how skeptical he was, he would try to do things the way he thought she might.

Monday, he'd stormed into her first-year class, as was his habit, but took time to take in the reaction of her students.

"I am Headmaster Severus Snape. I will be teaching Potions until Professor Hunter can resume teaching or the end of the year, whichever comes first," he began. He looked across the classroom onto a sea of worried and fearful faces. Her way, he said to himself. Before he had the opportunity to say more, small, shaking hands went up across the classroom. He hadn't even introduced the potion for the day. What could they possibly have questions about at this point? He recalled that she encouraged questions, so he opted not to either ignore or delay them. He gestured to one young wizard with dark skin and curly hair. "You, what is your name?"

The young wizard stood on quaking legs. "I'm Olawale Awoniyi, sir. Everyone calls my Wally, though." He paused, working up his courage. "Sir, I heard Professor Hunter is in the hospital wing and that she might not live. Is that true?" His voice cracked a bit, and tears filled his eyes. One by one, shaking voices asked about her. They had heard the rumors of her injuries and were worried. It was clear not a single head would be thinking of the classwork of the day, so he heaved a sigh, conjured a chair for himself at the front of the classroom and sat. He found that saying the words that she might never wake up, that it wasn't known what would happen, were more difficult to say than they were to simply think. There were a few tear-filled eyes; he found he shared many of their concerns.

When he finally answered enough of their questions and was able to turn their attentions to the Potion of the day, he brought to mind Janiss Alden's words. Rather than grading papers at the desk and leaving the students to figure things out, he lectured on the properties of the ingredients and the finer points of the process while they set up. Students regarded him with continued trepidation, not sure when the harsh and punitive Professor Snape they'd heard so much about from older students and seen at mealtimes would show up. As expected, one young student knocked over her set-up, now nearly finished. The cauldron clanked off its stand, rolled across the bench, and clattered to the floor. There went up a collective gasp, but rather than looking at the young witch, all eyes were on him.

Instinctively, he rounded on the young witch with long sandy hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. "What is your name, Miss?" he asked, eyeing the equipment strewn around her.

"Amarantha Oglethorpe." Snape growled. "Sir," she squeaked out, her lower lip shaking as much as her knees.

Usually, he found terrified students who had fouled up a satisfying outcome. They should be terrified, if they were such dunderheads as to be so careless. Today, he had a strange reaction. Her fear at his temper, following so quickly from fear for Dr. Hunter, seemed absurd. They were already all nearly falling apart with worry for her. To make matters worse by assigning a detention, one that he himself would be loath to host, taking time away from visiting her, seemed unduly cruel. What purpose would it serve, really? What would Morgan do?

"Miss Oglethorpe, I suggest that you pick up your equipment and reassemble it." This was met with shocked silence throughout the classroom. "Now," he said, probably more harshly than he meant. He would keep working on that. "The rest of you, get on with it. There is not much time left, given how much time we spent on questions. You'll all need to make good use of your time. The Cure for Boils is simple enough, but you'll need sufficient time for it to brew. I assume you all know how to crush snake fangs correctly?" The students quickly returned to their work, grinding, slicing, and brewing. Soon, he was surrounded by the delicious odor of pungous onions, ginger, flobberworm mucus, and horned slugs perfuming the air.

Another thought of Morgan came to him. "Those of you with long hair, step back," he instructed, then waved his wand. Those with long hair found it suddenly tightly braided, captured by a tie that corresponded to their house colors. Their grimaces and stretched foreheads told him that the braids were perhaps a bit too tight, so with a Finite Incantatem, he reversed the first braids and redid them a tiny bit looser. "You'll find yourself less likely to need an Augamenti spell this way," he noted. The students returned to their work.

Overall, he found their work to be of fully acceptable quality, with only one or two exceptions. As they handed in their final Potions, several students said "Good day, Professor Snape," before exiting. No previous student, at least those not in Slytherin house, had bade him good day before. He muttered a "Good day" in reply, digging through his memory for their names. It was rather late in the year, he admonished himself, to be putting your student's names to their faces. Someone was heard to say, a young Gryffindor, maybe Oglethorpe or Awoniyi, say to another "Weasley was just pulling our leg. He's not scary at all!" Once they had all gone, he noted that they had also all cleaned up after themselves. Her students didn't leave behind cauldrons for detention students. Because she didn't host detention. Interesting and novel. There were little time to think about the implications of this. The fifth-years would arrive shortly, then lunch, then one period to himself for school business, then the third years. By the time dinner would arrive, he would be grateful for a chance to simply sit and eat. Then he recalled the evening study halls, grading, and school business he would otherwise have taken care of during the day and realized he would have to eat dinner quickly and get on with it.

It was only much later, in the solitude of his rooms, preparing for a much-needed rest, that he pondered over the day. Just what was it the students were seeking from him, asking so many questions about Morgan, seeking his approval, hoping for his praise? If they needed coddling and reassurance, they should go to their mothers and fathers. At this notion, Snape sat and pondered. They couldn't. They were here, his charges. This was his job. A father. That's what Morgan would want him to be to them. That's what she was meaning when she disapproved of his punitive style; she wanted him to be more fatherly. His pledge, that he would do things as she would have done, now took on a more challenging aspect. Of course he could manage not to give detentions or excessively long essays, of course he could grade the results less stringently. But to be more…"fatherly." To be "fatherly" at all. That might be very difficult.

His sources for examples were few, and deeply flawed. His own father was an ignorant and violent brute of a man, forever criticizing, never approving, always ready to insult or ridicule. He detested his father, even now, even more so in realizing how like him he'd become, despite having no children. Those students entrusted to him, he shamed and intimidated in equal measure with his instruction, passing along to another generation bitterness, anger, and resentment. Only for Harry Potter was it truly necessary to have been distant, to have kept him firmly at a distance. All the others, those who'd come before him, he'd been as fatherly as his own father to. The long-standing need to repel others, to isolate himself, to remain free from prying eyes that might endanger his precarious position, had this become too much a habit to modify?

Snape cursed under his breath,

A father. Someone who would reassure them and protect them, guide them. Someone with experience to help them find the right path. Not simply a taskmaster, though he could deliver well on that. No, what they needed now, in these times, what Dumbledore had been in his time, was a father. He would need to be a father, not just to Harry, but to every student in the school.

With that rather unsettling thought, this vast expansion of his sense of the scope of his duty, he realized sleep would be hard to come by. He turned his feet once more toward the Hospital Wing.

"You should come to the infirmary and talk to him, Harry. He's there every day with Dr. Hunter unless he's teaching or conducting school business. He even sleeps in a chair beside her bed, in case she comes out of her coma overnight. I've never seen him this way before." Hermione struggled to find the right word. "Tender. He really cares for her. He's constantly asking Madame Pomfrey and I about her progress, though there hasn't really been any. I've been trying to find signs of some kind of improvement in her condition, just to see some hope in his face. But there hasn't been much."

Harry was displeased to have his good friend bring this up first thing after breakfast. Maybe it was all the pressure of studying for N.E.W.T.s, maybe it was not knowing what was going to happen to him next year, maybe it was having not eaten much breakfast due to a gnawing stomach ache. Whatever the cause, he nerves were jangly and he was in no mood for a lecture from anyone. He wished he'd just packed up his books before breakfast and been able to go straight to the library from there, rather than being cornered in the common room with Hermione's harangue.

"I wouldn't want to intrude," Harry replied, in a haughty voice that sounded much too similar to Hermione herself from many years ago. He tried to modulate his tone, with little success. "Besides, it's his place to come to me. Clearly, I'm no priority to him, same as ever."

"He's been a little bit busy, Harry," she said, not very kindly. "He's been teaching all of Dr. Hunter's classes, most of his own, conducting O.W.L. exams, preparing for N.E.W.T. exams, as well as keeping up with her condition. And he's not back to 100% himself yet."

"His taking those hexes was probably a botched suicide attempt," Harry said fiercely. "Snape's an expert duelist; you've seen him take on McGonegal herself, even. It would have taken someone extraordinary to defeat him, and the papers all claim Ames was a second-rate wizard."

Hermione looked thoughtful. "I really don't know for sure, he hasn't said anything about himself or why they were there in Hogsmeade in the first place, but he had almost no blood in him when he arrived. He was very weak."

"I hadn't heard he was bleeding in all this." He hadn't heard very much about the event at all, other than the baseless speculations in the Daily Prophet. There had been far less discussion of this than usual among students or overheard from staff, which was surprising, given the usually robust gossip mill that operated within the castle.

"I don't think he was wounded in that way. He probably didn't have enough blood in him before the duel and that's why Ethinian Ames was able to get the better of him. Madame Pomfrey said she'd never seen someone so depleted of blood. He barely had enough to live when he got here."

Harry snorted dismissively. "He could have given himself a Hemocrease potion if he'd cared to live."

"Hemocrease potion is only half of the Blood-Builder; the Hemoscendo spell can't be done well alone. The potion is only half; you have to do the spellwork, too. And one person alone can't get the angle right. If he had been giving himself Hemocrease, it would have only done about a quarter of what is should do. And Snape's not a Healer. It takes specialized skills, you know." Hermione was clearly offended by his implication that the Healing arts could be done well by any witch or wizard. Harry turned his attention back to the fireplace, though it was empty, now that the warmer weather had come on. He was about to protest further, when Ron and Ginny walked up, books, parchments, quills and ink ready to go.

"Son of a Bludger, I'm sick of studying for N.E.W.T.s," Ron said, clapping Harry on the back. "Have you heard back about colleges yet, Harry?"

Harry grunted his negative response, realizing he would inevitably have to interact with Snape on this topic, whether he wanted to or not. Never mind his reasons, Harry simply could not forgive Snape for his attempt at self-destruction. The man seemed to be capable of saving the wizarding world, but incapable of saving himself. Harry deeply resented all he owed to Severus Snape, because his debt made it difficult to simply hate him wholesale. He had chosen him as his godfather in some fit of madness. He would need to see him about college, though. It was better to get on with it, rather than delay, so he could make plans for the future. If he had gotten into one or more colleges, he would need to make a choice. The thought that he either had not gotten into any or only gotten into one worried him, but there was nothing to be done about it now. The fact that this discussion might both further delay his taking off to the library to study for exams as well as get him away from Hermione's pestering increased its appeal, however.

"You can't hate Professor Snape forever, Harry. By your own choice, he is your godfather and will be so until death. I thought you'd gotten over this."

Harry gritted his teeth as Hermione spoke, Ron and Ginny looking on, as well, gauging his reaction. Despite her sensible words, he was entirely certain he could hate Severus Snape forever. Harry stopped for a moment and took a breath. He tried with some difficulty to recall the reasons that had moved him to ask for this relationship. He owed him his life, several times over. Beneath prickly exterior, he had been working for good at great risk. Snape also had some of his blood in him, and therefore was something of his parents now, in a real, living sense.

Why was Snape so incredibly frustrating to him? He knew now why the Headmaster had needed to show him no favor before the defeat of the Dark Lord, but why now? An old habit? Or did he genuinely dislike him, given that his eyes reminded him of Lily? And the rest of him reminded him of James, who bullied him and won the witch he loved? Snape was always difficult, always complex, never obvious or straightforward. But he always had a logic to what he was doing, even if that logic was obscure to everyone else. What was his logic now, in trying to destroy himself?

Ginny's response sent his aggravation up another notch. "Yeah, I'm surprised you can't cut him a little slack. He's had a difficult life, at least according to what you saw in the Pensieve." She was really getting on his nerves of late, and he was in no mood for more pressure now.

"That makes no sense, Gin," Ron said. Harry was relieved to have at least one ally in his resentment. "Harry had a tough childhood, too, living in a cupboard under the stairs, losing his parents, those rotten people treating him so badly all the time." Ron sat down among the cushions on the old sofa in the common room, setting aside his satchel, looking like he'd much rather take an after-breakfast snooze rather than crack open a book.

"I make no sense? You're the one who's left all your N.E.W.T. studying until just this week, despite spending nearly the entire year in the library. Let's see about this. Yes, Harry, you had a rotten upbringing, but once you got to school, everyone already knew you as The Boy Who Lived. You were a celebrity even before you got your Hogwarts letter. Snape was no one, right? Just some weird, half-blood kid. You had your parent's fortune; he had nothing."

"What the heck does that mean," Harry barked, glaring at Ginny. "That I paid for my friends? If that's why you're here, you can just bugger off." Hermione let out a gasp and Ron stared open-mouthed at Harry, his mouth falling open at this outburst.

Ginny gave him a stubborn look, then spoke again with exaggerated patience. "Harry, that's not at all what I mean and you know it. What I mean is, imagine yourself showing up at school and no one had any idea who you were, and you were no one. You'd need to prove yourself. And you'd want to figure out a way to make some money, too. He was probably up there getting Sorted and thinking about how he wished he had more money and could fit in somehow, so the Hat put him in Slytherin for his ambition. Somehow, despite the fact that he's brave, smart, and loyal, he wound up in Slytherin. The strongest trait he had at the age of 11 was ambition, because he was coming from nothing." She looked at Hermione and shrugged in that infuriating way girls do, like they both knew something no one else did.

Hermione sat on the arm of the sofa and furrowed her brow in thought. "That's a good point, Gin. I hadn't considered that. Then once he was in Slytherin, they would have encouraged all the worst impulses he had and used his hopes for acceptance to their advantage. It probably wasn't long before he found a way to make money from his skills, teaching curses, inventing new ones, making potions. That's how he made his living before he became a teacher. He was a Potioneer for the Death Eaters. According to the Daily Prophet, he made a fine living in those days." She turned to Ron. "What if we hadn't been in his carriage that first day, Ron? What if Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson had seen Harry first? Maybe things would have been a lot different."

Ron snarled at her and waved off her concern. "You're mental, Hermione. Seriously mental. You've lost your sense, studying too much. We'd have been friends, no matter what, right?" he said, turning to Harry.

Harry was now getting peeved with Ron, too, as there was more of a question in his voice than he meant to let on. "Of course, no doubt," Harry said firmly. But inside, he was thinking about that scenario. What if he had met Malfoy first and hadn't seen the rude side of him until later? What if Malfoy had been the one to shape his views of the Wizarding world, told him that Pure-bloods were better than half-bloods or Muggles? Would he have been seduced by that thought?

No, of course not. No way. That was easy to say now, but when he was 11, so much younger, so much less mature, so much less sure of himself, what might have been? His connection to Voldemort, all those dark feelings inside him, what if Malfoy had been there at just the right moment? Harry dismissed that thought with a shudder. Never. But he could imagine it clearly enough to suppose that Snape might have felt more of the pull that Dark Magic held, and might have been surrounded not by friends urging him to do the right thing, but by shrewd manipulators urging him to do the profitable thing, to help them in their own plans and ambitions. "But I was almost Sorted in Slytherin."

Every face in the room within earshot turned towards him, waiting for him to explain further. He hadn't remembered that he'd never mentioned this to anyone before. "Yeah, when I was Sorted, the Hat took a long time, because it wasn't sure where I should be, Slytherin or Gryffindor. But I said I wanted Gryffindor, and that mattered." He looked at Ron. "Because I knew you were in Gryffindor."

There was a moment of stunned silence. Ginny spoke first. "So, if you had met Malfoy first and he hadn't shown himself to be a complete jerk…"

"Which would have been impossible for him for a whole six hours on the train…" intoned Ron.

"Yeah, but if he hadn't, you might have thought better of Slytherin and not been so determined to be in Gryffindor. And things could be very different now."

"And all because you just happened to wander into the carriage where Ron was," Hermione said rather faintly.

Harry was not pleased to think of this alternative world. Sure, he had friends in other houses, maybe he would have been friends with Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the rest anyway. But House loyalty was strong and your housemates were really your core group. This crowd was really trying his patience this morning, but Crabbe and Goyle? No, that tested his imagination too much. "Why would you ever question my loyalty to you like this?! All I've ever done is be a decent friend and do the best I can, and this is what I get? Suspicion that I might just dump you all, trot off, and be a Slytherin?"

Ginny raised a hand in protest, but Harry rounded on her, now shouting. Every face in the common room turned to watch the sparks fly. "If I haven't proven myself yet to you, I can't imagine why you still hang around me! Maybe I just need to find some better set of friends to buy!" Shocked silence hung on every face. No one was able to move, despite the desire to avoid the sight of the rest of an ugly scene.

Harry was just about to extend his shouting match to the rest of the Gryffindors when he noticed a red-faced House Elf, dressed in the green-lined Slytherin robes that identified the loyalties of most of Snape's personal staff, shaking near his knees. "A message for Harry Potter, from the Headmaster," he said, his voice quaking, handing over a small parchment scroll, giving a short bow, and vanishing back out the portrait hole in the blink of an eye.

Harry snatched the scroll, tied with a green silk ribbon and sealed with wax that bore the Hogwarts crest and knew before he ripped it open from whom it came. Snape. He plucked off the wax seal, untied the ribbon, and unrolled the scroll. The message was very short.

"Godson,

If you were able to find some time away from studying, I'd be most appreciative of your company. I have some news from your college applications, and other things to discuss with you.

Your godfather,

SS."

Harry held the scroll and felt something more than the message alone. Something, but what? A pull of some kind. He thought about heading to the library, but the pull within him said he really did need to go see Snape. Blast it, he'd charmed the scroll, the manipulative weasel. Despite the fact that he had now been given an excellent alternative to being forced to study in the library with this group of unreliable turncoats, he was irritated just the same at this intrusion on his valuable time, given the impending exams for which he should be studying.

Hermione noticed Harry's turmoil and cautiously broke the icy silence. "He's put a Drawing Charm on it, hasn't he? It must be important, then. You'd better go. You'll only wind up wasting your time if you try to do anything else in the meantime. You'll just be thinking of going and not able to stay focused on what you're doing."

"I was planning on studying." Harry was even more aggrieved by the snickering and rolling eyes this statement elicited from his friends. Except for Ginny, who was casting him daggers, eyes narrow, brow furrowed, her wand hand twitching in anger. Without another word, though there were many choice ones he wanted to bark out, he pocketed the scroll and pointed his feet in the direction of the Headmaster's office, still feeling the stony stares of his friends on his back as he left nearly as fast at the House Elf had.