I think this is pretty clear, but I just wanted to let you know that this chapter in particular uses a lot of dialogue directly taken from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and I take no credit for any of that, even if I've reformatted it a bit for my story.

The Ravenclaws had told Tim to dress warm, but they hadn't told him about the snow. He supposed that, having lived in Gotham his whole life, he had naturally expected snow to start coming in late November at the earliest. Additionally, it was a mile-long walk to Hogsmeade, and Tim only started seeing snow within the last hundred yards. Cordelia described the village as though it was in its own little snow globe with a permanent half-foot of snow year-round.

Hogsmeade really looked like the set for A Christmas Carol. All the shops were relatively stout and simple, and he couldn't go a minute before he heard a bell ring somewhere. Not that he would be able to enjoy the place just yet. The group of Ravenclaws wandered on down the High Street, past joke shops and apothecaries and paper stores, towards a quieter, less frequented part of the town, and onto a side street. The modest, rundown pub was not too far off.

"Well, that's on-the-nose," muttered Tim, seeing the wooden sign over the pub upon which was painted a rather gory depiction of a bloodied, severed boar's head, like it was a bookstore that exclusively sold Lord of the Flies and wanted you, the customer, to be aware of that in advance.

"Looks like this is the place," Purdie said, though it wasn't necessary, given that there was a small herd of teenagers funneling into the door as they approached. Tim saw Luna look over her shoulder as though she had heard him and give the four of them a little wave before entering the building.

"You know Loony Luna?" Cordelia whispered to Tim, looking surprised.

Purdie nudged her unceremoniously with his elbow. "C'mon, Cori, don't call her that…" They all squeezed into the wooden door frame, which was shaking like it wasn't built to withstand several dozen children stampeding through it all at once.

In fact, the Hog's Head seemed like the type of place that served maybe a dozen or so people at a time, judging by how dusty the tables were and the shocked look on the bartender's face as he watched them enter. It was a grimy, filthy place, and yet it still seemed like the owner cared for it, if the lack of accumulated dust was anything to go off of. Like any new building Tim entered, he scanned the layout, quickly locating the windows (which couldn't be opened, they'd have to be broken if anyone was to get in or out) and points of entry (besides the door they just came in from, there was one more slightly tucked behind a wall in the back). There were five other customers in the room (excluding the many, many students that were shuffling inside, brushing the snow off their cloaks): the bartender, someone near the fireplace, two people near the bay windows, and one man sitting at the bar.

We're having a secret meeting in front of all these people? Tim thought to himself, glancing around to see if anyone else found this problematic.

Apparently not. One of Ron's brothers was busy ordering drinks for everyone while the rest of them sheepishly traipsed around the pub, stealing chairs from empty tables and taking their seats across from a very pale-faced Harry, who was whispering furiously with Hermione. At least they'd had the good mind to choose a spot away from the adults.

Tim slipped through the crowd and across the room to grab a chair for himself and someone else but also to take the opportunity to further assess the other customers here. As he passed by the witch near the fireplace, something shimmered out of the corner of his eye, and he caught sight of a golden ring that the woman seemed to be examining under a little eyeglass, turning it over in her fingers.

She's got a smoker's fingernails, he noticed. Her hands are large, filthy, and she has a pretty long ring finger. So she could possibly have more testosterone in her body, though it's not a certainty, I'm still not sure about the science on that. Broad shoulders, poor posture. That's a pretty impractical veil she's wearing. She's trying to hide herself. She's a smuggler, probably. Doesn't obtain the goods, but delivers them, pawns them off… She hasn't touched her drink. She's waiting for someone or something to happen.

The two figures at the window were hooded, speaking to each other in vaguely hushed tones, though not quietly enough to convince Tim that they were discussing sensitive material.

From Western Yorkshire, the accent is obvious. They're not faking it. They're not strangers, but they're not romantically involved, not with each other, at least. I'd say siblings, based on their proximity to one another and the frequent non-romantic physical contact. Both rather thin, with similarly calloused hands. They share a hobby. I'd venture it's a stringed instrument. They've been here for hours, since breakfast, seeing as they still have the plates. They must be catching up, and this must be their place to do it. We're not important to them.

And then there was the man at the bar, and, boy, did he look rough. Head covered in bandages, hairy, knobbly knees sticking out from his robes, and on his sixth glass of a smoking drink.

He does this every Saturday, heck, he sits in the same seat each time. He's ordered the same drink six times. The bandages aren't covering any injuries, they're to obscure his face from someone. He hasn't changed them in a while. He doesn't have the kind of money to spend on this, but he still does. At the rate he's drinking, he'll be too drunk to even comprehend what we'll be talking about.

None of them seemed like a threat, at least, not physically. The lady beside the fireplace seemed like she could be listening in, but Hermione didn't find her problematic enough to move the meeting, and Tim trusted her judgement, seeing as she knew this place better than he did. He set his chair down next to Aruna, who handed him a bottle of a non-alcoholic drink called butterbeer and pointed to Ron's brother (Tim was almost certain this wasn't the one who'd been ordering from the barman), who gestured for Tim to fork over some cash.

"Thanks," Tim nodded, and tossed the boy a Galleon he had fished from his pocket.

The boy glanced down at the coin, and his eyes widened considerably. "It's two Sickles, mate." Tim shrugged, popping the top off of his bottle. If there was one thing of which he had too much in this world, it was money.

"Yeah, I know," he replied, even though he hadn't actually known. "Happy early Christmas. Or whatever you celebrate."

The boy grinned and grabbed Tim's shoulder, giving it a good shake. "Oh, I like you. Here, gimme a second." He fished around in the paper bag tucked under his arm and produced a metal cylinder labeled 'Non-Explodable Luminous Balloons! The Everlasting Party Favor.'

"Don't let the label fool you," the boy whispered, handing it to Tim. "We asked the blokes at Zonko's to package them like that so we don't get flagged. It's full of Dungbombs." He winked overenthusiastically. "Use 'em wisely."

"Thanks…?" Tim wasn't really sure what to say. A banned item with a name like 'Dungbombs' being gifted to him? Honestly, he was flattered that someone trusted him with something so obviously destructive.

"George Weasley. Ron's told us about you."

"He has?" What was there to tell? The boy winked again and backed away, meeting his twin brother and handing over the money. He whispered something to him and pointed over at Tim. The other brother followed his hand and caught sight of Tim. In response, Tim gave him a little wave.

By this point, most of the students had already sat down, and Tim could see Harry staring blankly into the crowd. It was like he hadn't known this meeting was going to happen until five minutes ago.

"Er," Hermione started once everyone had fallen silent. "Well—er—hi." Tim instantly felt sorry for her. Clearly, she was not used to public speaking, nor did she have the confidence to pretend otherwise. She glanced around the student body, and her eyes eventually fell on Tim. He gave her an encouraging thumbs up.

She smiled nervously. "Well…erm…well," Say something, Tim thought sympathetically, say anything, "you know why you're here. Erm…well, Harry here had the idea—I mean—" Tim chuckled, seeing the way Harry glared at her "—I had the idea—that it might be good if people who wanted to study Defense Against the Dark Art—and I mean, really study it, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us, because nobody could call that Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Hear, hear," Tim heard Anthony call out behind him, and he was much inclined to agree.

Hermione was getting into it, now. "Well, I thought it would be good if we, well, took matters into our own hands." She paused and looked over at Harry. "And by that, I mean learning how to defend ourselves properly, not just theory but the real spells—"

"You want to pass your Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. too though, I bet?" said Michael Corner on Tim's right.

Yeah, because passing tests is what school is all about, thought Tim dryly.

"Of course I do," she responded, sounding a little miffed that she had been cut off like that. "But I want more than that, I want to be properly trained in Defense because…" Because the world is violent, and a self-defense course that fails to teach self-defense is like asking to get mugged? "Because…" Because a war is coming, and you children are going to be forced into it way too early?

"Because Lord Voldemort's back." Oh, yeah, that too.

Around Tim, the students reacted like Hermione had just said a terrible racial slur. Someone shrieked. Tim watched a girl spit out her butterbeer unceremoniously. Purdie, who sat on Tim's left, let out a very audible whimper.

Constantine had warned Tim about using Voldemort's real name around wizards, that it was taboo, that people were scared of it, but Tim hadn't seen anyone react to it before. It made sense. When people were uncomfortable with a topic, they were uncomfortable with its associated words. Racism, child abuse, mental illnesses, rape—the list goes on and the Muggle world was full of things people would rather pretend didn't exist. Of course, Tim had made sure before using his name that 'Voldemort' didn't have some horrible connotation like an actual modern racial slur might, because, if that was the case, Tim would gladly call the wizard by another name. Seeing as it really wasn't, Tim didn't feel the same pressure to call him by another name unless in specific company. Harry, for example, felt strongly about using the man's real name, so Tim didn't mind saying it in his company. But amongst more skittish wizards, 'You-Know-Who' would have to do, as to not draw too much attention to himself.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Well… that's the plan anyway. If you want to join us, we need to decide how we're going to—"

"Where's the proof You-Know-Who's back?" God, could they just let Hermione finish what she was trying to say?

Again, they'd interrupted her flow, and Hermione weakly replied, "Well, Dumbledore believes it—"

"You mean, Dumbledore believes him." Okay, okay, this was supposed to be a meeting about learning self-defense, not the Harry-Potter-Question-Hour.

Ron jumped in this time. "Who are you?"

"Zacharias Smith," the boy answered, "and I think we've got the right to know exactly what makes him say You-Know-Who's back."

"The right to know?" Tim blurted out, turning around to face the blond boy, who appeared to be losing confidence quickly. "What gives you the right to know? He's only told you all a thousand times. Don't pretend otherwise."

"Look," he heard Hermione jump in, "that's really not what this meeting was supposed to be about—"

"It's okay, Hermione," said Harry, which was what got Tim to shut up and turn back around. The boy stepped forward, and Tim watched him take a deep breath.

"What makes me say You-Know-Who's back?" Harry repeated. "I saw him. But Dumbledore told the whole school what happened last year, and if you didn't believe him, you don't believe me, and I'm not wasting an afternoon trying to convince anyone." Tim nodded along. Exactly.

But the Hufflepuff just wouldn't shut up. "All Dumbledore told us last year was that Cedric Diggory got killed by You-Know-Who and that you brought Diggory's body back to Hogwarts. He didn't give us details, he didn't tell us exactly how Diggory got murdered, I think we'd all like to know—"

"To know what?" Tim growled. He wasn't trying to start a fight with Zacharias, he was just really getting on Tim's nerves for some reason. "You want Harry to tell you about how he watched another human being die? That's the most insensitive, entitled bullshit I've ever heard."

It was then that Tim realized that the reason that he was defending Harry so fiercely was because Tim had been in his position. "So you were on the phone with your father right before he was murdered? Do you remember that conversation?" "When you arrived at the scene, your father had been murdered only minutes earlier. What did he look like?" "What did it feel like when your father died only five days after your girlfriend?" "You watched your younger brother die? Why didn't you try to help him?"

"If you've come to hear exactly what it looks like when Voldemort murders someone, I can't help you," Harry said, his voice cold and even. "I don't want to talk about Cedric Diggory, all right? So if that's what you're here for, you might as well clear out."

So," Hermione squeaked, glancing back and forth between the three of them. "So…like I was saying…if you want to learn some defense, then we need to work out how we're going to do it, how often we're going to meet, and where we're going to—"

"Is it true that you can produce a Patronus?" Susan asked.

Tim would have been angrier about this interruption if it didn't immediately pique his interest. Patronuses were supposed to be very advanced magic, from what Tim had read, and, more importantly, they were the one thing guaranteed to successfully drive off dementors. Tim had tried to learn one on his own time to little success.

"Yeah," Harry said.

"A corporeal Patronus?"

"Er—you don't know Madam Bones, do you?"

"She's my auntie," she said. "I'm Susan Bones. She told me about your hearing." This was news to Tim. Harry had gone to a hearing? What for? "So—is it really true? You make a stag Patronus?" And he had a corporeal Patronus? Maybe Tim had underestimated Harry's magical aptitude.

"Yes," said Harry, as though this wasn't a big deal.

"Blimey, Harry!" someone else exclaimed. "I never knew that!"

"Mum told Ron not to spread it around. She said you got enough attention as it was," one of the Weasley twins (Fred, not George, he was pretty sure) told the others.

"She's not wrong," Harry mumbled just as the woman sitting near the fireplace shifted on her stool. Tim immediately took note of this, also noting that she was still holding that ring in her hand. It was safe to assume that she was listening into their conversation, her previous task forgotten. Tim filed that information away for later.

Terry added, "And did you kill a basilisk with that sword in Dumbledore's office? That's what one of the portraits on the wall told me when I was in there last year…"

Okay, why had no one told Tim about all the insane things Harry had done? No wonder this kid had trauma, he was facing basilisks and fighting Voldemort in his spare time.

"Er—yeah, I did, yeah."

"And in our first year," a Gryffindor boy continued, the one named Longbottom, "he saved that Philological Stone—"

"Philosopher's," Hermione hissed.

"Yes, that, from You-Know-Who."

Harry had a Philosopher's Stone?

"And that's not to mention," Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker, added, "all the tasks he had to get through in the Triwizard Tournament last year—getting past dragons and merpeople and acromantulas and things…" Harry shifted his weight from one foot to another, practically squirming. Obviously, he wasn't comfortable with all this recognition. Tim could relate.

"Look," Harry started, commanding silence within the ranks like a leader might. "I…" He bit his lip. "I don't want to sound like I'm trying to be modest or anything, but…" He glanced at either side of him, where Ron and Hermione stood supportively. "I had a lot of help with all that stuff…"

"Not with the dragon, you didn't," Michael cut in, jumping to Harry's defense. "That was a seriously cool bit of flying…"

"Yeah, well—"

"And nobody helped you get rid of those dementors this summer," Susan added. Why am I only now learning that Harry fought dementors over the summer?

"No," Harry admitted reluctantly, "no, okay, I know I did bits of it without help, but the point I'm trying to make is—"

"Are you trying to weasel out of showing us any of this stuff?" Zacharias piped up, and Tim was starting to get really ticked off by his voice.

"Here's an idea," Ron said, crossing his arms like he was trying to pick a fight, "why don't you shut your mouth?"

"Well, we've all turned up to learn from him, and now he's telling us he can't really do any of it."

"That's not what he said," Cordelia argued, turning around to point an accusatory finger at the boy.

"Would you like us to clean out your ears for you?" George suggested, reaching into his paper bag again and retrieving some sort of magical surgical instrument, if Tim was to hazard a guess.

"Or any part of your body, really," Fred corrected, slipping it out of George's hand, "we're not fussy where we stick this." Aruna snickered, a ghost of a smile gracing her lips. As tensions rose, Hermione cleared her throat. Had she even been able to finish what she originally wanted to say?

"Yes, well, moving on…the point is, are we agreed we want to take lessons from Harry?" On this issue, at least, everyone was in agreement. Purdie raised up his butterbeer in a mock toast.

Hermione let out a sigh of relief, her shoulders drooping slightly. "Right," she breathed. "Well, then, the next question is how often we do it. I really don't think there's any point in meeting less than once a week—"

"Hang on," said a Gryffindor girl, holding up her hands in front of her, "we need to make sure this doesn't clash with our Quidditch practice."

"No," Cordelia agreed with a nod, "nor with ours."

"Nor ours," added Zacharias.

"I'm sure we can find a night that suits everyone," Hermione conceded, "but you know, this is rather important, we're talking about learning to defend ourselves against V-Voldemort's Death Eaters—"

"Well said!" cheered a boy to Tim's right. "Personally, I think this is really important, possibly more important than anything else we'll do this year, even with our O.W.L.s coming up!" He puffed out his chest and surveyed the room, as if waiting for the applause. "I, personally, am at a loss to see why the Ministry has foisted such a useless teacher upon us at this critical period." Though he kept on using the word 'personally,' Tim could tell that he was trying to act as a voice for the people, that he thought he was saying something profound that the others were too scared to voice. "Obviously, they are in denial about the return of You-Know-Who, but to give us a teacher who is trying to actively prevent us from using defensive spells—"

"We think the reason Umbridge doesn't want us trained in Defense Against the Dark Arts," Hermione butted in (Tim inwardly gave a little cheer at her assertiveness), "is that she's got some…some mad idea that Dumbledore could use the students in the school as a kind of private army. She thinks he'd mobilize us against the Ministry."

Aruna snorted, taking a swig of butterbeer. "Nice." Not that this revelation came as much of a surprise to Tim; how many times had he heard parents argue that the current curriculum at Brentwood Academy was secretly a part of some bigger 'agenda?'

"Well, that makes sense," said Luna. "After all, Cornelius Fudge has got his own private army."

Harry cocked his head. "What?"

"Yes, he's got an army of heliopaths."

"No, he hasn't," Hermione grumbled, shooting Luna a frustrated look, which the girl did not seem to see.

"Yes, he has."

"What are heliopaths?" Longbottom asked innocently.

"I think we're getting off track," muttered Purdie over the rim of his bottle.

"They're spirits of fire," Luna explained patiently. "Great tall flaming creatures that gallop across the ground burning everything in front of—"

"They don't exist, Neville," Hermione told the boy, who looked a little disappointed.

"Oh yes they do!"

Hermione huffed, "I'm sorry, but where's the proof of that?"

"There are plenty of eyewitness accounts, just because you're so narrow-minded you need to have everything shoved under your nose before you—"

"Hem, hem," a student (another Weasley?) said, apparently channeling her inner Umbridge "Weren't we trying to decide how often we're going to meet and get Defense lessons?"

"Yes," Hermione agreed, lifting up a finger, as though she was not the one getting off-topic, "yes, we were, you're right…"

"Well, once a week sounds cool," said one of the Gryffindors.

"As long as—" Gryffindor's Quidditch girl started.

"Yes, yes, we know about the Quidditch," Hermione grumbled. She had made her stance on Quidditch fairly clear to Tim over the past couple weeks.

"And don't you dare try to schedule it over Friday night," Anthony warned, brandishing his butterbeer like a weapon. "Hell, while you're at it, don't schedule it on Saturday mornings either. I skipped kiddush for this shit," he complained, though he drank his own butterbeer nonetheless.

"O-of course," she assured him. "Well, the other thing to decide is where we're going to meet…"

Tim had asked Hermione about this the other day, which was something she said she hadn't been thinking about until he asked her. If they were trying to keep this club on the down-low, where could they reasonably cast spells on a weekly basis without drawing attention to themselves.

"Library?" someone said.

Before Tim could comment on this, Harry told her, "I can't see Madam Pince being too chuffed with us doing jinxes in the library."

"Maybe an unused classroom?" another suggested.

"Yeah," Ron agreed, nodding solemnly, "McGonagall might let us have hers, she did when Harry was practicing for the Triwizard…"

Tim looked to Hermione and Harry for their opinion on this idea, but neither looked too hopeful about the idea.

"Right, well, we'll try to find somewhere," Hermione finally concluded after a moment. "We'll send a message round to everybody when we've got a time and a place for the first meeting."

She procured a long piece of parchment and a quill from her bookbag. "I-I think everybody should write their name down, just so we know who was here." Why did she suddenly sound so nervous about it? She hesitated for a moment, looking back and forth between the parchment and the crowd. "But I also think that we all ought to agree not to shout about what we're doing. So if you sign, you're agreeing not to tell Umbridge—or anybody else—what we're up to." A sensible request, in Tim's opinion.

Without so much as a second thought, Fred snatched the quill right out of Hermione's hand and signed his name with a flourish, handing it wordlessly to George, who followed suit. He then passed the parchment to Zacharias, who looked less than enthusiastic about the whole affair.

"Er…" he started, looking anywhere but at Harry. "Well…I'm sure Ernie will tell me when the meeting is."

"I—well, we are prefects," a fellow Hufflepuff said. "And if this list was found…well, I mean to say…you said yourself, if Umbridge finds out…" Tim agreed that this would be a very incriminating piece of evidence in the wrong hands. And if Hermione really wanted to keep record of everyone who showed up today, why would she put it into the hands of the students, knowing that some would be hesitant to sign their name? She could have just as easily written down their names while Harry was talking.

"You just said this group was the most important thing you'd do this year," Harry commented, raising an eyebrow.

"I—yes," said the boy (Ernie, apparently), "yes, I do believe that, it's just…"

Hermione looked offended, "Ernie, do you really think I'd leave that list lying around?" she snapped.

"No. No, of course not," Ernie muttered. "I—yes, of course I'll sign."

Three cheers for peer pressure, Tim thought wryly to himself, taking the parchment from Ernie and holding it for a moment in his hands.

A thought occurred to him…was this a magical contract? Why else would Hermione be so insistent on each person signing their own name? He put the quill to the paper and scribbled down 'Tim Wayne.' He could ask Hermione about it later. Maybe then he'd sign his real name.

Currently, he had more pressing matters to attend to; over near the fireplace, the veiled witch had stood up, stuffing away her artifacts into her robes, and was now trying to slip out of the pub before the students left. While the others were busy signing and chatting amongst themselves, Tim quietly followed her out the door and down another offshoot of the road, hidden in between two dark, boarded-up buildings. Keeping close to the shadows, Tim slowly crept up on her, slipping his wand out of his pocket and readying it, his other hand hovering over his other pocket, ready to grab a shuriken if needed.

The lady's hand disappeared into her robes, and Tim bent down into a fighting stance, tiptoeing closer, staying in her blind spots. As he expected, she pulled a wand from her robes, and before she could so much as lift it, Tim abandoned his cylinder of Dungbombs and dashed forward to ambush her. In less than a second, he had grabbed her wand wrist and twisted it behind her, pulling her arm back and forcing her into an armlock, and shoved his wand under her neck.

"Why were you sp—?" Tim didn't get to finish his question because there was a sharp crack, like someone had snapped their fingers right next to his ear, and then Tim's vision went blank.

Oh, things are about to go down, y'all.

Also, on an entirely different note, I think the idea of Cordelia calling Luna "Loony" is hilarious because I headcanon that Luna is on the autism spectrum and I write Cordelia as autistic as well (please tell me if I've written them all right, I don't consider myself neurodivergent), so the idea of her calling Luna "Loony" feels like she isn't aware of her own neurodivergence, which she isn't actually aware of at this point in her life.