Monday morning at breakfast, Harry received a note from Snape, notifying him of his first Mind Arts lesson that evening at eight in Anna's office. When Harry had told Hermione and Neville about Dumbledore having him learn the Mind Arts, they had reacted with, respectively, amazement and surprise. Hermione had been awed that magic allowed wizards to read one another's minds, while Neville had been astonished that Dumbledore intended to teach the magic to a twelve-year-old.

'It's supposed to be really hard to learn, even for adult wizards,' he had said. 'Gran can only do the basics, and she's considered a very good witch.'

'Dumbledore did say that the earlier you start to learn, the better you'll be able to do it,' Harry had told him.

'Well, even so, Dumbledore has to be really confident in your abilities to even consider having you learn it.'

'Do you think Dumbledore would teach us?' Hermione mused.

Harry shrugged. 'He didn't say. I don't think so, though.'

'Oh,' Hermione breathed, sounding miffed and her expression falling. 'Why does he think we shouldn't learn it?'

'Oh, no, I…I didn't mean to say that he thinks you shouldn't learn it,' Harry explained quickly, realising that he had worded the meaning wrongly. 'I meant that he…he wouldn't want to teach you himself because he's busy. That's why he made me take lessons with Snape, remember?'

'But still, he didn't say anything about teaching us the Mind Arts,' Hermione replied. 'Why don't we get to learn? It sounds so incredible. And…I mean…if you need it to protect it yourself, shouldn't we also learn it to protect ourselves and you?'

'Maybe he didn't want to take the risk of teaching too many people?' Neville suggested. 'I mean, it is highly illegal.'

Hermione shrugged, still looking rather crestfallen. 'You have a point, I guess,' she said quietly.

'Maybe I could…I don't know…give you my notes or something like that,' Harry suggested, trying to console her. 'And you could learn it on your own. You're good at that.'

Hermione shrugged again. 'Neville said it's really difficult, though,' she noted, though her expression did seem to be slightly uplifted.

Harry was, for obvious reasons, equal parts looking forward to and dreading the Mind Arts lesson that night, and he speculated heavily over what Snape was going to teach him and how – to the detriment of his attention in his classes. Finally, at a quarter to eight, he quietly left the Gryffindor Common Room and made his way to Anna's office.

His heart beating rapidly, out of either excitement or dread, he knocked on the door. He wondered if it was going to be Anna or Snape who would answer the door, or if Anna would stay during the lesson. That, Harry thought, would be much preferable to and far more comfortable than spending ninety minutes alone with Snape.

One of those questions was quickly answered. 'Enter!' Snape called from inside.

Slowly, Harry opened the door and stepped inside. The office was the same as it had always been – cluttered by books but with a lack of personal effects – except for, of course, who was in it. To Harry's great disappointment, Anna was nowhere to be seen, and instead, it was Snape who was waiting for him behind the desk, his arms crossed over his chest and looking as dour as ever.

'Close the door, Potter.'

Harry did as Snape asked and shut the door behind him. As he did so, Snape stood up from his desk and strode over to the door. 'Move aside,' he ordered.

As Harry shifted to the side, Snape drew his wand and pointed it at the door. He waved it several times and muttered two spells under his breath that Harry could not catch. After that, he tapped the wand twice against the doorknob before placing his hand on it, holding it there for a few seconds. There was a series of clicking noises, and when the room fell silent again, he removed his hand.

'What was that for?' Harry asked.

Snape slowly turned to him, an irritated expression on his face. 'You may not be in Potions, Potter, but I am still your teacher, and as such, I shall expect you to address me as "Professor" or "Sir" at all times. Is that clear, Potter?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'As always, Potter, the obvious is lost on you,' Snape lamented as he walked back towards the desk. 'The highly illegal nature of what I am doing here means naturally that precautions must be taken to prevent the uninvited from catching wind.' He paused to pick a book up from the desk. 'I have no desire to go to Azkaban, least of all for you.'

Snape thrusted the book to Harry, who hastily took it. 'Consider this your textbook,' he said of the tome titled Þe Minden Hide Poweres. 'You must read any and all pages I tell you to read, and never read any pages I do not tell you to read. Its instructions are of little value, but the exercises it contains are critical. Depending on the slowness of your progress, you will be assigned exercises to practise, and I expect you to practise them many times a day in different settings so that you may become accustomed to using what you have learned in any situation. This means in class, at meals, in your common room, in your dormitory – everywhere. I emphasise this once again in case your mind has failed to grasp the importance of this the first time: practising these exercises are critical. Do not allow me to catch you being lazy and neglecting them, Potter. Do you understand?'

'Yes, Professor Snape.'

'Are you certain you actually understand?' Snape asked with a hint of a sneer.

'Yes, Professor,' Harry repeated tiredly.

Snape began to pace, once more not bothering to even acknowledge Harry. 'The Mind Arts. A beautiful branch of magic that simple-minded fools will never even begin to grasp. It has no concrete definition, it can never be explained out of a book, it defies conventional magical theory, and it requires both toughness and flexibility at once. The difference between defence and attack is so blurred that a good attack is a great defence, and a good defence is a great attack. It can save lives, and it can end others in such horrible ways that make the worst curses pale in comparison. Many attempt to unlock its secrets, and many fail after years of struggle.' Snape stopped to stare Harry in the eyes. 'Dumbledore believes you are capable, Potter. I, having seen your potion-making, am naturally more sceptical. Nonetheless…we shall try…'

'We shall begin with Occlumency,' Snape continued, resuming his pacing, 'the most foundational of the Mind Arts. Reduced to the simplest terms, Occlumency revolves around creating a magical defence of the mind, while Legilimency is more concerned with a magical intrusion into another's. Simpletons are inclined to call Occlumency the opposite of Legilimency, but they are ignorant. There is no defence without attack, and there is no attack without defence. The two are bound and conceptually inseparable. Without one, there is not the other.'

'Now, Occlumency will be different from all other magic that you have attempted. Instead of directing transcendental energy outwards to create effects, Occlumency instead diverts it inwards. It obfuscates and confuses what a Legilimens can gather from your mind. An excellent Occlumens may even be capable of deception, deliberately providing the Legilimens with false information.'

Snape paused for a moment, perhaps to allow that information to sink in, before he continued. 'Unlike what dull believe, even the best Occlumency provides no universal protection, no impermeable shield, against incursions into the mind. The world's greatest Occlumens will be helpless against an active Legilimency attack conducted with the aid of spells. However, Occlumency provides protection against a far more dangerous foe: passive Legilimency. True, passive Legilimency cannot gather anywhere near as much and as detailed information as active Legilimency can, but unlike active Legilimency, which requires proximity and concentration, not to mention spell-work, on the part of the caster, passive Legilimency can be performed at any time, in any place, with no warning nor signs, and, for the untrained, no knowledge that it is occurring – all reasons why it is a far more insidious and oft-encountered adversary than active Legilimency. Yet even though passive Legilimency is capable only of gleaming information from the surface of your consciousness, you would be horrified to know the magnitude of information that one can gather from even only a cursory glance into an unprotected mind.'

'Now, Potter, we shall see if you are truly capable,' Snape said, and Harry could almost detect a thirst in his voice to witness Harry's failure. 'Before we can even speak of "Occlumency" and "Legilimency", you must first learn how to redirect your transcendental energy. Similar to cast magic, after your first breakthrough attempt, the process will become exponentially easier, until eventually, you will be able to do it without conscious effort. However, unlike your first week of Finding Magic, Potter, this will be the farthest thing from trivial, for this redirection requires a sort of mental organisation and clarity that many a wizard…' he looked at Harry with a suppressed grin of satisfaction, '…lacks…'

'Sit, Potter,' Snape ordered, pointing at the chair opposite Anna's desk, and Harry immediately and obediently followed, not wishing to give Snape any reason to anger. 'You are now to attempt to make this breakthrough. What you are to do is, in theory, simple, though in practice, it is often anything but. As opposed to "finding your magic", there will be no easier way to achieve this.'

'What should I do?' Harry asked once he was seated. 'Sir?'

A flash of irritation reflected across Snape's face. 'If you had not interrupted me just as I was to instruct you, Potter, you would already have found out,' he growled. 'You are to sit as still as you are possibly able, close your eyes, and attempt to think of absolutely nothing while allowing your transcendental energy to well up and flow freely. Absolutely nothing, Potter. Not the weather, not your homework, not even an itch. You must empty your mind completely until you feel nothing except the movement of transcendental energy around you. Do you comprehend?'

Harry nodded. 'What do I do after that, Professor?'

Snape's countenance grew annoyed again. 'I had asked you whether you understood, Potter, not if you had any questions,' he reprimanded. 'If we are to make progress here, you would do well to learn that. Nonetheless…after you reach that stage, you are to, as slowly as possible to avoid placing unnecessary thoughts into your mind, shape your transcendental energy so that it moves back in the very direction it came from. You will know when you are successful. There will be no need to think about this right now, Potter, for even the most skilled wizards have failed to even approach the required emptying of thought until after many attempts.'

'What are you waiting for, Potter? Begin.'

Harry closed his eyes and sat unmoving, trying to empty his thoughts as Snape had instructed. At first, he thought it simple. It was not difficult to stop thinking about things like his classes, his homework, or Snape's instructions. After a while, however, he realised that he had less so emptied his mind of thoughts as he had simply replaced the thoughts that he had with others. Instead of thinking about nothing, his mind was now focused on things like the temperature of the room, the feeling of the cushions of the chair against his back, or the texture of his clothes on his person.

He tried then to clear those thoughts from his mind, but as much as he tried, they refused to budge. Soon, he began to grow frustrated, something that only made his predicament worse, as in addition to all the thoughts which he could not purge, he was now forced to contend with his own vexed impatience.

Irritated, Harry shifted in his chair. 'Have you already forgotten my instructions, Potter?' Snape hissed nearly immediately. 'You were to sit as still as you could and empty your mind. Why did you move?'

'I…I was trying, Sir,' Harry replied. 'I just…didn't manage to completely empty my mind.'

'Then go back to trying,' Snape commanded curtly. 'You will never get anywhere if you give up at the slightest difficulty. Your father – '

Abruptly, Snape caught himself, stopping right in the middle of the sentence. 'Just get back to work,' he snapped irascibly after a short pause.

Harry began another attempt at the task, and he found it quite easy to get back to where he had been before he had interrupted himself. Once he got there, however, try as he might, he could make no further progress. Even when he successfully managed to stop thinking of one thing, something else immediately replaced it, putting him right back at where he had started.

'This will be all for tonight,' Snape suddenly said, jerking Harry back to reality. He checked his watch, and to his astonishment, it was already nine-thirty. 'Your exercise tonight is to attempt again to empty your mind before you go to bed. I expect you back here at eight on Wednesday night, when you shall continue attempting to learn to redirect your transcendental energy. Do not be late.'

With that, Harry was dismissed. Quickly, he made his way back to Gryffindor Tower. Hermione and Neville were there waiting for him, their faces filled with anticipation, expecting to hear about the excitement of the Mind Arts. Harry even felt a little sorry to disappoint them with the news that what Snape had had him do was nothing exciting at all.

'That doesn't sound very fun,' Neville remarked at the end of Harry's recount. 'I mean, Occlumency and Legilimency sound pretty fascinating, but the "redirection" part…'

'Well, I suppose there's often dull things that need to be done first before you can learn how to do the more exciting things,' Hermione, who was taking careful notes of everything he was telling her about Occlumency, observed. 'You just need to practise more. I'm sure you'll learn to do it soon enough. Maybe even tonight when you practise.'

'I suppose,' Harry replied, though perhaps because of his disappointment due to the lack of results from the night's work, he did not feel very confident in his verbal agreement. 'I guess I'll see how I do tonight…'

'Also, if you're not going to be using that textbook tonight, can I borrow it?' Hermione asked.

'Sure,' Harry replied offhandedly, sliding the book over to her. 'Snape thinks it's useless, though.'

'I'm sure there's at least some use in it,' Hermione said with a slight huff.

Harry had little luck that night, and his attempt to clear his mind achieved very little in the way of advancement. His practice the next day also yielded little result, whether it be him attempting it during his Potions practical as he waited for his cauldron to heat up to the designated temperature, over a relatively bland-tasting lunch, while Professor Katic lectured about some fine point of English grammar that he did not really care too much about, or in the library as he did his homework with Tracey. Not once did he feel his transcendental energy – or anything other than frustration.

He also considered whether he should tell Tracey about his Mind Arts lessons. On one hand, he liked her and would certainly consider her among his friends, but on the other hand, despite the two of them being on quite good terms, he knew that she was not Hermione or Neville, who had gone through the gauntlet after Voldemort to rescue him. It was not that he did not trust her, but simply that he had no idea if she knew to guard this secret with as much care and dedication as Hermione or Neville would. In the end, and with a small measure of regret, he decided that for now, he would have to give her the same lie as he would give to everyone else.

His lesson on Wednesday failed to produce any results, neither did his lesson on Friday. Time and again over the course of that week as he practised the same exercise, Harry thought that he was on the verge of making a breakthrough in transcendental energy redirection, but time and again, the expected breakthrough did not in fact occur. The temporary disappointment of going back to his dormitories without having made progress became an exasperated despair. He was never going to learn to redirect his transcendental energy, never be able to learn to perform the Mind Arts.

It was thanks to this exasperation that the next Wednesday, after making it back from yet another unproductive session with Snape, that he decided to forego practising at all – there would be no use, anyway. He spent the evening with Neville and Hermione in the Common Room, talking and getting ahead on their assignments, before heading to sleep early, managing to fall asleep quickly thanks to the absence of stress from the practice.

He did not expect, however, for Snape to immediately find out at their very next lesson on Wednesday that he had neglected the practice. 'Do you care to explain to me why you had not practised since Monday?' he growled before Harry had even gotten settled in the chair.

Harry looked up at Snape, a shock and fear rising in him due to Snape's unexpected knowledge of his actions. Immediately, a debate kindled inside him. Should he lie and attempt to convince Snape that he had in fact done his exercises? He realised, however, that the most likely outcome of that would simply be to make his predicament even worse. Yet the option of admitting to Snape his negligence did not seem appealing, either, for he knew that it would simply infuriate the already irascible professor.

'Own it, Potter,' Snape snapped. 'Let me tell you this: until you master Occlumency, lying to me is useless, and you will never learn Occlumency if you do not follow my instructions and perform the exercises I tell you to perform!'

Harry gulped, staring at Snape. He had passively used Legilimency on him and saw right through him. At once, anger replaced his surprise. How dare Snape invade his mind like this? Sure, he knew that it was not right to skip doing what was essentially his homework, but at the same time, Snape had read his mind without permission, warning, or due cause – he had no reason to suspect that Harry had not done the exercise, after all.

'Being angry at me is useless,' Snape hissed, unapologetically continuing to use Legilimency. 'If you want to keep me from knowing exactly what you're thinking, then do the exercises you have been assigned. You're acting just like your father – always blaming others for the consequences of his own actions!'

'This is even secondary,' he continued, fuming. 'I hope you are realising that I am donating my valuable time to teach you an invaluable skill you may need one day to survive! Has your confrontation with the Dark Lord last May not taught your thick skull anything about how utterly useless you are against him? You are learning the Mind Arts so that when – when, Potter, not if – you meet him again, you may be able to survive for more than a second! If you choose to squander these lessons, then not only are you wasting my time, but you are also putting your own life and the future of the entire world in danger. Do you realise this, Potter? Even your father would never have been so selfish!'

Harry swore to himself that he would not neglect to do another one of Snape's exercises again, and every night after that, he diligently did what he was told. As much as he hated to admit it, Snape was right in his castigation of him. Dumbledore had impressed upon him how important it was to learn the Mind Arts, and he himself knew that he would need all the help he could get if he were to possibly survive another encounter with Voldemort without a miracle to save him. It was not like he had not been told that it was to be a difficult and tedious process to master the Mind Arts. He would be ashamed of himself if he gave in now, before he had even set half a foot in the door.


October went on, and the autumn settled in quickly. With the added time commitment of the Mind Arts lessons and the obligatory exercises, the reasonable second-year workload immediately ballooned to skirting the edge of manageable, and the amount of time he had available for leisure was being uncomfortably squeezed. Nonetheless, he carried on, understanding that there was really no choice not to do so.

Harry, Hermione, and Neville were spending more time apart thanks to all that they now had to do, and the time he spent with Tracey was also only a fraction of what it had been in September. Anna, meanwhile, was acting strangely when they visited her on the weekends. She seemed irascible, prone to snapping, and continually in a generally poor mood. When Harry asked her if she was all right, however, she would always insist that there was nothing wrong.

Hogwarts would not be Hogwarts, too, without its strange and sometimes comical happenings, and the second month of the term presented no exception. Dean was one of those who encountered such an occurrence. At the beginning of the Potions practical on the third Friday of that month, brightly coloured frogs began to erupt out of his bag, much to his fright and confusion. The frogs soon began to flood across the floor, jumping onto tables and chairs, or even into cauldrons, causing complete chaos. It was only after the initial shock had subsided that the scourge was stopped with a simple Finite from Snape. At once, the tide of frogs subsided, and those previously jumping around the room disappeared into thin air, though the mayhem the amphibians caused took longer to clean up. Unfortunately, Snape also took away twenty points from Gryffindor for what he called 'horseplay', even though Dean vehemently – and sincerely, in Harry's opinion – denied that he had been responsible for the bedlam in the slightest.

Speculation over who had been responsible for the prank quickly circulated around the school. Surprisingly, the usual suspects, Fred, George, and Lee, denied any and all involvement, insisting that they had nothing against Dean, nor that he would have been anywhere near their preferred target for a practical joke. After all, Ron existed.

'Why should we go out and annoy a bloke minding his own business when mum already gave us ready prey?' George had enquired.

Frogs exploding out of Dean's bag would not be the last trick of the unknown prankster, however. The next Wednesday night, Justin Finch-Fletchley's telescope suddenly and inexplicably stopped functioning during their Astronomy practical. The lesson had been to identify the stars and constellations of the autumn season. Most people found what they were looking for without much issue, but Justin continually and repeatedly complained about being unable to locate the objects that they were looking for. Whenever Professor Sinistra came to help him, however, she would find that there was, in fact, nothing wrong. Justin had been pointing the telescope at the correct patch of the sky, and Professor Sinistra found the star which was to be located with ease. Yet, every time, when Justin returned to his telescope, he simply could not find the star or constellation, no matter how hard he tried.

Justin's ordeal elicited no small amount of laughter, most notably from the Slytherins, but from a sizable number of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, too. The only House that found no humour in his suffering was, unsurprisingly, Hufflepuff. Many members of that House were angrily searching the Astronomy Tower with their eyes, trying to locate whomever it was who was causing Justin his trouble. The culprit was excellent at his or her craft, though – or perhaps not even on the Astronomy Tower at all.

Miraculously, the moment the practical ended, Justin's telescope reverted right back to normal, and he was able to see all the stars that he had previously been unable to find. Furious at having been the target of such a prank, he stomped from the Astronomy Tower, most of his House storming away with him, something that induced yet more cackling from many of the others.

'"Professor Sinistra, my telescope's not working again!"' Ron imitated to his friends as the Gryffindors left the Astronomy Tower, earning laughs of approval from them. 'You have to admit, even though it was probably a Slytherin who did it, that it was hilarious.

'Remember the look on his face?' Sally-Anne howled before miming the expression to startling accuracy, causing yet another round of laughter from that group of friends.

Given the humiliation, it was not surprising, then, that Justin seemed to refuse to talk to anyone except a select few fellow Hufflepuffs the next day. When Harry attempted to console him in Defence Against the Dark Arts that afternoon, Justin gave only a grunt and a nod in reply. His performance during Lockhart's exercise was impacted, too, him taking several balls to the face and stomach over the course of the 'battle'. That debacle seemed to only worsen his mood.

Before Harry knew it, October was coming to an end. With the end of the tenth month approached Halloween, a day whose arrival Harry dreaded immensely. Of course, it was the day on which his parents had died, on which he had been robbed of any chance at living a life like Tracey's or Neville's, but to speak the truth, that was not the main reason for his gloom. Rather, it was the inevitability of another day of a tacky, asinine public spectacle, complete with, no doubt, yet another unneeded article about him in the Daily Prophet which would hold him up as some hero even though, in reality, he had done nothing at all.

The Daily Prophet still managed to disappoint, however, despite Harry's already low expectations. The headline run on the thirty-first was somehow even worse than the one from a year ago. A Magnificent, Momentous Day, it simply read, as if today was supposed to be some sort of festival, on which only celebration and joy were to be expressed.

After seeing that headline, Harry did not want to look at the paper again, but as with many other things he did not want to do, a morbid sort of curiosity pushed him to begin reading. A moving picture was plastered on the front page, and he was surprised by the person whom the picture depicted. It was not him – thankfully – but rather, it was Fudge. The picture did not have sound, but it was obvious that Fudge was giving an address, something corroborated by the title above the picture, which read Minister Fudge Commemorates Anniversary: Full 15 Minute Speech Inside.

Harry turned to page three of the paper, wondering what exactly Fudge could possibly say about the defeat of Voldemort eleven years ago to fill up fifteen minutes. He skimmed the transcript, and it became quite clear that Fudge was not in fact saying very much at all – two full paragraphs were wasted on what could have simply been condensed to a two-sentence expression of gratitude towards those who had fought against Voldemort. What Fudge did say was more so talking about himself than anything he was supposed to be making a speech about. Time and time again, he underscored his government's accomplishments in fighting the dark arts and reiterated ad infinitum his commitment to fighting the rise of any new dark lords in Voldemort's place – as if Voldemort had been defeated once and for all, Harry thought.

By the end of the speech, Harry felt nothing but boredom. Uninterested, he turned the page, and there, he found something that quickly dispelled his ennui. At the centre of the page was a large pencil sketch of none other than himself. It was not the most accurate – the shape of Sketch-Harry's face was off, and his hair was too neatly combed – but the resemblance was certainly there.

Despite immediately feeling a frightened anticipation of what he was going to find, Harry nonetheless began to read the article titled Harry Potter: A Profile of a Saviour. The characteristic of the piece which immediately struck Harry was the noticeably poor quality of the writing. Most articles in the Daily Prophet were written relatively well, yet the language of this one made it sound like it was written by someone who barely paid attention in primary school English lessons – certainly a far cry from even a student in Professor Katic's Elementary Studies. The same, basic words were repeated over and over again – sometimes even in the same sentence – and there were noticeable errors with punctuation.

More obvious than even that, however, was how evident it was that the author had next to no knowledge of Harry except that he was a Hogwarts student, was twelve years old, and was in Gryffindor. The writer seemed to think Ron was his best friend, even going so far as to say that they were 'inseparable', and of all people to quote about him, the writer chose to interview Lucius Malfoy, who gave a generic, canned response about him being 'clever' – whatever that was supposed to mean.

What struck Harry as most hilarious – or perhaps sad – was the fact that the article included quotations from himself, which, as he had never been interviewed in his life, he had obviously never given. 'I'm studying hard to make my parents proud,' one quotation said, while another claimed that he supposedly enjoyed helping everyone around Hogwarts, because 'it reminded him of his parents'.

'What in the world?' Harry breathed, flabbergasted by the insanity of these statements. It was not that he did not study, nor that he did not want to make his parents proud, nor that he refused to help people, but he knew for a fact that he would never actually say the things that Rita Skeeter – the author of the article – claimed that he had said.

'What?' Neville asked. He and Hermione leaned in, looking at the paper for a long moment. 'Oh, it's Rita Skeeter,' he said in an unsurprised voice.

Harry looked at Neville, not getting the significance of the name. 'What about Rita Skeeter?'

'She's a reporter,' Neville replied. '"Reporter". She…well, I have no idea why the Daily Prophet published an article by her. She usually writes for this newspaper called The Cauldron. Actually, maybe calling it a newspaper's giving it a bit too much credit. At least half the stories in it are just faked celebrity scandals. The other half…well, Gran says it's because of the other half that she never lets me look at it. Skeeter's apparently one of their top contributors, if that tells you anything about them. The Cauldron is so bad that Filch actually banned it from Hogwarts, and honestly, maybe he made the right decision for once.'

'Oh, so it's like a tabloid,' Hermione said. 'Tabloids are "newspapers" with really sensational stories,' she added in response to Neville's look of confusion. 'They're like what you said about The Cauldron – filled with stupid celebrity rubbish and fakes.'

Neville nodded. 'Well, I'm curious how much The Cauldron paid the Daily Prophet to publish a Skeeter story,' he mused. 'The Prophet usually publishes much better stuff than this. Anyway, Harry, just ignore Skeeter. Making things up is just her hobby. Nobody actually takes her seriously.'

Having already experienced the Prophet's reporting of him the previous year, Harry did not actually feel overly affected by this issue, and certainly not by Rita Skeeter's comically bad reporting – except perhaps amusement. The stories were about as thoughtless as ever, but if Harry discounted the Skeeter article – which he readily did – there was in fact less coverage of him personally than last year. That did not mean that he wanted to see more of the day's Prophet, though, and when breakfast ended, he tossed it unceremoniously into the bin.

They spent the majority of the morning doing homework, managing to finish much of the weekend's assignments by lunchtime. After lunch, Neville and Hermione headed to Quidditch Club for a broadcast of a friendly match between Puddlemere United and VfQ Wittenberg, apparently two of the best sides on the continent. Harry, meanwhile, went to the library to continue working on his homework with Tracey, hoping to finish the rest of his assignments before dinner.

The two of them decided to work on their Potions assignment – the last thing Harry had to do before he would be all done. The exercise, like nearly everything Snape assigned in Potions, was needlessly tedious, requiring them to predict the possible properties of twenty combinations of random ingredients. It was not even difficulty that annoyed him – most of the answers could be deduced from tables in the textbook – but rather the simple fact that there were so many of them, all of which required some ten minutes of searching to answer.

The sun was already close to setting when Harry finally finished. He looked up at Tracey, and to his surprise, she was still staring at the tenth problem, having only done two in the last hour. Immediately, this struck Harry as unusual – Tracey had always been faster than this – a feeling that was further exacerbated as he watched her gaze blankly at the same page of the textbook for several full minutes, not moving, not turning the page, not seeming to gather anything from her reading.

'Are you stuck?' Harry asked.

It took Tracey a moment to react, and yet another to respond. 'Oh, no, I'm fine,' she replied hastily. 'The answer's an inert potion, right?'

Harry nodded. 'That's what I got.'

Tracey gave a somewhat half-hearted smile and immediately went back to her work – except that she was not actually working. As with before, she was less doing her assignment than staring at the textbook. Problem eleven was relatively easy – a simple glance at the right table would reveal that it would produce a potion base for temperature-effect potions – but despite that, even after twenty minutes, Tracey had still not arrived at an answer.

'Is everything all right?' Harry enquired, knowing that something was obviously off. 'You seem to be…having a lot of trouble.'

Tracey looked up, and following a slight hesitation, she nodded. 'Yeah, I'm fine.'

'Are you sure?' Harry pressed. 'You've been staring at the textbook for the last twenty minutes – '

'Yeah, I'm fine,' Tracey interrupted, sounding suddenly a little annoyed. 'I was just thinking about the problem.'

Harry, seeing that Tracey did not want to talk, gave up and let her get back to her work. Having finished his homework and without anything else to do, he pulled out the novel that he had purchased at Flourish and Blotts in August and resumed reading it. The subject was not bad – it told the story of a girl who had built a broom to explore the stars – though the way it was written seemed rather uninspired, especially compared to the muggle books he had read in the past. It was probably just that particular book, though.

'Is it normal for friends from when you were a child to stop being your friends if you get older?' Tracey suddenly asked at just about five minutes before dinner.

Now, it was Harry's turn to be taken off guard. He looked up and blinked. 'What?'

Tracey gulped and hesitated, as if unsure whether she wanted to repeat what she had said. 'I just asked…well, is it normal for friends from when you were little to not be your friends later?' she finally repeated.

'I…uh…I don't know?' Harry answered. 'I…I didn't really have any friends when I was little.'

'Wait, does this have anything to do with Daphne or Pansy?' he asked on a hunch.

There was a long pause before Tracey nodded. 'Yeah,' she said quietly.

'What happened?'

Another long silence. 'You can't tell anyone,' Tracey demanded.

'Of course I won't.'

Tracey sighed. 'Daphne…I don't know what's going on with her,' she said, sounding rather desperate. 'She…she's always with Pansy and her friends – 'friends'. They always put themselves away in a corner of the Common Room and just…talk… They don't even do anything – none of them do homework with each other – they just sit around and talk. I don't know what they're even talking about, and Daphne never tells me. I thought that maybe…maybe with what Draco did, Daphne would stop spending all her time around them, but when Pansy went back to him...she also did. And even when she's around me…she…she acts a little bit like Pansy now – you know, doesn't show emotion, talks really…stilted. I mean, she's not really just like Pansy, but still… What if she turns into Pansy? That's…that's even worse than her just getting up and leaving me…because…because if it comes to that…I don't know if I'll be able to spend time around her anymore. I'll have to be the one to…to…'

Harry did not know what to say. He did not have any experience to draw from to advise Tracey. 'I…well…I guess sometimes it happens,' he finally said. 'Childhood friends no longer being friends when they grow up, I mean. Isn't that…isn't that what happened with you and Pansy?'

'I don't want that to happen!' Tracey shrieked suddenly. 'It's already happened with Pansy! I can't have Daphne become like her, too!'

'I mean…you can't exactly stop Daphne if she wants to…to become like Pansy.'

'But…but I don't want her to!'

'I don't know, maybe you can…you can talk to her?' Harry suggested. 'About all this? Maybe she might…I don't know…go back?'

'How am I supposed to even start talking about that?' Tracey asked. 'What, should I say, "Hey, I don't like you being around Pansy" or something? How do you think she'd react?'

'I'm sure you can make it sound a little…uh…nicer.'

'What, "I don't like how you're acting"?'

Harry shrugged. 'That sounds all right.'

'How would Daphne react to being told that?'

'I don't know, I'm not her,' Harry answered. He paused for a moment. 'Well, like I said before, if she really thinks you're her best friend, then she'd probably at least…I don't know…consider what you're saying, won't she?'

Tracey looked doubtful. 'I don't know… Daphne…I don't know how well she'd take that,' she said slowly. 'She…I don't think she'd appreciate being told what to do.'

'You won't exactly be telling her what to do, right?' Harry propositioned in return. 'You'd just be…telling her what you think. It's not like you're saying "don't talk to Pansy" or something.'

Tracey considered this for a moment before shaking her head. 'I can't see that going well.'

'Okay…well, okay, not that, then. What else do you want to do?'

There was a long minute of silence. 'Maybe I just shouldn't say anything right now,' Tracey said quietly. 'Maybe Daphne will realise that Pansy and Draco and those people are dumb… Maybe soon she'll go back to the way things were before. If she really keeps going that way…maybe then I should try to say something…'

Harry knew immediately that was far too optimistic – his experience with Dudley told him that leaving someone be to do something he did not like would simply make it worse, though he did not know how to put it in a way that would sound palatable to Tracey. After some contemplation, he decided that perhaps, it would be best to simply agree with Tracey for now. He did not want to make her day worse by trying to argue with her, and after all, Daphne was not Dudley. Maybe she would respond differently than he would. Anyway, he thought, it was not like his own past attempts to speak to Dudley over his behaviour had produced much productive results.

'Maybe she'll come around,' Harry reassured, trying to sound confident in his own words. 'If she keeps…uh…becoming more like Pansy, you probably should talk to her. I mean, at that point, things could only get better, right?'

Tracey nodded. 'Hopefully it'll never come to that, though,' she said. 'I…I really can't stand the thought of losing two of my friends in one year…'

'Even if you do, you could always make new friends,' Harry pointed out.

Tracey looked slightly disturbed, however, at the thought of Harry's suggestion coming true, despite him framing it as an assurance. 'I'd prefer to just not think about that,' she breathed, her face beginning to fall again.

'Oh, I…uh…I mean, I'm sure it won't happen,' Harry said swiftly, trying to rescue the situation. 'She'll come around,' he added, trying to inject some confidence into his voice. 'Look, why don't we go down to dinner? We're already late.'