Chapter 14

I'm in a ground floor classroom in the west wing. There's a humongous map of Great Britain sellotaped to the wall on my left. A disassembled lego set rests on the teachers' table. On the blackboard, written with chalk, are the names of varied muggle appliances. The word telephone has been circled thrice.

I stifle a yawn. It is always splendid to start the day with Muggle Studies. No better time to get some extra sleep. Today, however, much to Miss Burbage's surprise (and mine), I am making a conscious attempt to stay awake. The reason, you see, is quite simple— Neville Longbottom takes this class.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Harry, you complain, you always go out of your way to avoid this obnoxious busybody. The last time you mentioned him you wanted to brain him with a telescope.

To which I say, all correct, my good fellow. I hear you— I admire your blood lust— I have taken your suggestion at face value— I have a miniature telescope hidden in my sleeve.

A creative murder weapon, if I do say so myself. Everyone expects avada kedavra, but no one expects a whirring telescope, swung like a baseball bat, to be the last thing they see. But there's a time and place for these things. First, there is dialogue. This is not strictly necessary, but the reluctance to resort to violence demarcates a civilised chappie from a malevolent maniac. Or so I'm told. I'm a simple man— I see something that needs breaking, you bet your sweet bippy I'm breaking it. Skulls included.

But peace first. Peace.

To facilitate this peace, I have taken the seat behind Longbottom. However, I am misled. I am beguiled. I am, god forgive me, enchanted. The back of his head looks wonderfully tempting.

My palms itch. At this point he's just asking for it, I reckon.

"Must resist," I croon, cross-eyed. I rock back and forth. Azkaban is chilly at this time of the year, and I've never been one for the cold.

"Huh? You say something?" Longbottom asks, turning around.

I freeze.

"Harry Potter," I whisper shadily. I smirk. I extend a hand. The other hand. The one at the end of the other arm. The arm without the telescope hidden in it. This, I hope, sufficiently demonstrates my high IQ— I always have contingency plans up my sleeve.

"A pleasure," I continue. "We're in the same year. I was hoping to pick your brain."

If I sound like a dubious ice cream man, beckoning a kid to come sit in the back of my van, then what of it? This is my usual vibe while dealing with strangers.

"I know who you are," Longbottom replies.

"Excellent," I hiss. "We must add facial recognition to your long list of accomplishments."

"Erm." He is stunned into momentary speechlessness by the brutal body blows delivered by my sarcasm. "Ok? I mean, we spoke four weeks ago, so . . ."

Frankly, I use whimsicality as a tool to soften people up. Have them warm up to me, you know. But in my nervousness and my agitation I seem to have missed the correct tone. Given Longbottom's expression, I am at serious risk of being written off as a demented hobgoblin.

Which I am. But he does not know that. Not yet. And it is in my best interests to keep it that way for the foreseeable future.

"Longbottom," I say, getting straight to the point. "I have something important to tell you."

Longbottom side-eyes me, then looks at Burbage.

"Can't it wait till the end of class?"

"Yeah, it can, no issues. It just concerns the Order of the Phoenix, that's all."

He whips around so fast that I'm surprised he does not break his neck.

"Voldemort?" He whispers.

I nod.

He scrutinises me with great intensity, then raises his hand.

"Professor!" He calls. "Potter and I need to meet Professor Dumbledore, ma'am. Could you please excuse us for the rest of the class?"

A storm of murmuring breaks out. I am now the recipient of several curious glances. This is what zoo animals must feel like.

If there's one thing to be said about Charity Burbage, it's that she's very charitable. She has let me skip classes in the past, whenever I need days off to prepare for tournaments. I think it's a matter of pride for her to see someone muggle-raised do so well.

"Of course," she says.

We pack our bags and walk out into the undulating shade. To my left are scenic vistas: golden grass, swirling snow, daedal hedgerows.

A silent corridor stretches out into eternity. Longbottom is still staring at me with such intensity that I find myself discomfited.

We walk. He's taller than me, I note, though only by a couple of inches. Stockier too. He used to be pudgy a year ago, but a lot of that flab has ironed itself out into solid muscle. On the other hand, I've always been wiry and whipcord lean— I opt for functionality over aesthetics. That said, it strikes me that at this range he could conceivably reach out and snap me in half if he so wished.

"I'm not coming to the office," I say, less because I believe he's taking me there and more as a method to penetrate the veil of silence.

"Professor Dumbledore heads the Order," he tells me.

"Yeah, I know. He and I are not on speaking terms, which is why I approached you."

His brow furrows.

"Why would you not be speaking to Albus Dumbledore?"

"Personal reasons."

If anything, the scrutiny grows more intense.

"Right. Sorry," he says.

He's learnt from the best— he's effective at holding his silence. It encircles me. Suffocates me. Simultaneously feels judgemental and condemnatory.

"It's not due to my dad's background," I blurt.

"Never said it was."

"Nor due to what Skeeter calls my attempts to gather power."

He chuckles at this.

"Learnt not to pay any attention to her writings," he says. "Personal experience, see? Don't worry, I don't think you're a dark lord."

We turn a corner and take the staircase to the first floor. The stairs moves. There are a couple of false steps in the middle. Everyday I grow more convinced that the founding fathers designed this place to kill us all.

"It's true you produced Protego Diabolica though," He says. "Skeeter got that part right. Professor Dumbledore showed me the memory."

There's no judgement in his tone. Just curiosity, admiration, and— unless my ears deceive me— a hint of envy.

"He did, did he?" I stop. I turn to face Longbottom. "Does he talk about me often?"

"Nah, never." He shakes his head. "First time was three nights ago, cuz' Kingsley— that's Kingsley Shacklebolt— floo'd through in a panic and told us about the spell you'd used. Dumbledore got the memory off him. We watched it together. Bloody hell, mate, you're really good."

"You watched the entire Grimsditch fight?"

"Um, no. Just the last bit."

"Then you know I was disqualified. And you know why."

"I do." He grimaces. "I mean, I agree with them, yeah. It's dangerous, what you did. But you were fully in control and, er, no one got hurt. So tough luck, ay?"

"Tough luck indeed."

"The Order thing," he follows up, just as we reach the top of the stairs, "if there's people's lives on the line, you need to tell me now."

"Nothing so drastic," I reply. "Else I'd not be dawdling along. Say, Longbottom, what d'you know about the vampire tribe in Marseilles?"

"Ah, nothing. Don't take Creatures, mate."

So I launch into the story Lacroix told me. This might sound off the cuff, but I've carefully considered the pros and cons of this approach: what I'm aiming at, you see, is the principle of reciprocity.

My plan is as follows: instead of forcing the confrontation by doing something insane, I intend to take the subtle approach. So here I am, sharing confidential information out of the goodness of my heart. And it is quite clear to Longbottom that I want nothing in return. I'm just a little saint, like him; like him, all I want is the betterment of the world.

Or so I let him believe. Obviously, there's more going on here. What I really want is for him to feel a subconscious pressure to repay me. People like him always feel it. So I won't ask for that duel today. I won't ask tomorrow. I won't ask next week either. I want to establish a decent rapport first; I want the fact that I helped his cause to congeal in the back of his mind. Then, and only then, will I suggest a spar.

Of course, he could still refuse. But I think I have a good read on this guy.

As I trail off, his expression is disturbed.

I conjure a vial. I put my wand to my temple and fish for the relevant memory. Withdraw a sticky gob of silver.

Toss it into the vial and cork it.

"For Dumbledore," I say. "Just in case he wants to watch."

Neville Longbottom takes it from me. He's deep in thought.

"Thanks."

He looks at me again— the intensity of his stare has diminished.

"You're a good guy, Potter."

"For a Slytherin," I add wryly.

"For a Slytherin, yeah," he laughs. "Say, what are you doing this weekend?"

"Practising, as I always do."

"Uh, during Hogsmeade weekend?"

My heart leaps to my throat. I've been away from Hogwarts for so long that I have my dates mixed up. I need to plan something for Trace, I realise.

"I thought Hogsmeade was next month."

"It's in four days." Longbottom pauses, considers what he's about to say next, then takes the plunge.

"Say, if you're interested, a few friends and I are holding a get together. Hog's Head. Come see us if you have the time."

"What's it about?"

"Resistance," he says, his face hard. "Remember that, yeah? Drop in at about twelve. No pressure; if you don't want to come, then cool. But if you do, then you're welcome— you might find it right up your alley. Oh, and if I'm not there yet, and if anyone asks, say I invited you. You're free to bring friends. Tracey's okay— Malfoy's not."

"I don't speak to the git anyway."

"Great." He holds up the vial. "Please excuse me now, I need to give this to Professor Dumbledore. See you around."

My heart is light as I turn away. I am halfway there when it comes to executing Daph's plan. Of course, I'm not stupid: the talk of resistance suggests louring clouds on the horizon. But as long as I don't get involved, I think, I can't very well see how anyone takes umbrage with it. After all, as I said many aeons ago, there's nothing wrong with keeping all your options open and listening to every offer.

So I whistle as I walk. I conjure myself a cane and a top hat, because why not? I am Harry Potter— I was meant for finer things, and you are damn right i am going to trot about like I own the fucking world.

The bell reverberates somewhere far above. For the first time in my life, I decide I want to be on time for a class. I lift my hat. I slick my hair back, Malfoy-style. It is important, I feel, to convey an impression of total sleaziness. A talent for shoe-licking, if you will. Umbridge and I might have gotten off on the wrong foot, but that was a month ago: now I am a changed man, contrite and repentant; it would not do to make a bad impression on the High Inquisitor right after my return, especially when I need her to sign that permission slip for my trip to Switzerland.

As I turn into an empty corridor, I find myself ambushed by a blonde and a brunette.

"You're being kidnapped," the brunette announces imperiously.

This in itself is no surprise. Over the course of my stay at Hogwarts, I have been the unfortunate victim of various kidnappings at the hands of sundry blondes and brunettes. No, what surprises me is that this is not the usual blonde and brunette duo that masterminds my repeated abductions.

"Oh god, they're multiplying," I whisper, awed, as I stare into the solemn faces of Luna Lovegood and Astoria Greengrass.

I take my hat off. I press it to my chest. A sign of respect.

"What can I do for you, guv'nor?" I ask.

"Dramatic, what?" demands Miss Drama Queen herself, crossing her arms.

"Shh, not here." The Lovegood girl puts a finger to her lips."They can hear us."

"Yes, Harry. They can hear us. So shush. And hurry!"

"Who?" I ask, vanishing my cane.

I am ignored. Tori grabs my arm and tries dragging me along. Tries being the key word. Given she's about half my weight and a foot shorter, it's a miracle we're not going backwards. I stay put— for ten seconds she resembles a labrador straining against a leash. Then she gives up, hunches over, and lets go of my arm.

"Haa—ry!" She complains, panting. "You're doing me a concern, you brute."

"Who can hear us?" I ask again.

"Can't tell you. It's top secret."

"Nargles." The Lovegood girl gives me a beatific smile.

Tori covers her face. Her shoulders shake.

"Nargles?" I ask.

"Mm hmm." Lovegood slips her finger into her ear and twists.

"They sit 'n wait under mistletoe," she sings, digging. "Steal things. Socks and suspenders. And shoes too, and, oh, they're tiny— and mischievous— and— and—"

She chokes with excitement and swallows her words. Gives me a shy smile, ducks her head and skips over to the balustrade.

"Look, Tori!" She says, pointing. "Jellywigs! Jellywigs in the great lake!"

Tori slumps further. She resembles a depressed alcoholic ten pints into the foulest poison known to man. She heaves a sigh, removes her hands from her face, stands erect with some difficulty, and stomps her foot twice.

"Help me," she begs Lovegood. "You take his right leg, I'll take the left, and we'll carry him to the belfry, as planned."

"You could just ask," I suggest. "I'm not a sack to be lugged about, you know; I'm a thinking, feeling, sensitive human being."

Tori stamps her leg a third time.

"Oh phooey. Don't be silly. No one ever asks politely. Every romantic thriller must start with an abduction."

"Romantic thriller, eh?" I leer at her. "You're too young for me, girlie."

It takes a moment for comprehension to dawn. When it does, you'd think I'd suggested she sleep with a blast ended skrewt.

"Ew, no." She scrunches her nose. "Don't be gross. You're my bro, it'd be incest."

I exhale a low, ominous laugh.

"That's my fetish."

"Then we'll find you another sister to romance," she consoles. "Mine's available." She elbows me in the ribs. "Hint, hint."

"Ah, yes. The inferior Greengrass."

"She really is, isn't she?" Tori says smugly. She preens and flicks her hair back.

"Daph can count to ten though," I point out. "I'm not sure you can."

"My only weakness," Tori admits, clutching her heart. "But honestly, Harry. We need to talk."

I look at my watch. It is a utilitarian piece from Diagon. Muggle clocks don't work at Hogwarts.

"I was supposed to be in Defence five minutes ago," I say.

Colour flees her cheeks.

"Merlin, go!" She urges. "We'll talk later. You don't know what Umbridge's like—"

"Relax." I place my hat atop her head. Then I start walking the way she was dragging me.

The DADA classroom is in the opposite direction.

"Harry, it can wait." She adjusts the hat and skips after me anxiously. Lovegood, I notice, has abandoned her vigil over jellywigs, whatever on god's green earth they are. She accompanies us, humming.

"No, Umbridge can. Family first, them's the rules. If I can't spare ten minutes for you, then I'd be setting a bad example."

"Can I be family too?" Lovegood asks.

"Oh ah," I croak. Me at my most eloquent, that.

"Shame." Lovegood goes back to humming.

"This overflow of sudden familial love is not worth detention, o' wise old patriarch," Tori mumbles. She looks guilty. "I've heard nasty rumours about the things Umbridge does to students."

I nod with exaggerated sluggishness.

"When you are old, like me, you come to tolerate these things, young 'un. I don't blame her. Oh no. She's a bureaucrat. It's a cursed existence. Like being sauteed in fiendfyre. Or Sisyphus rolling a boulder up a hill for eternity. Frankly, Tori, I find your lack of sympathy for the poor woman appalling. She's your average intern: overworked, underpaid, nitpicked to tears by the entire organisation. And much like your average intern, she's struggling to come to terms with her irrelevance. So leave her alone. Let Dolores Umbridge suffer through her midlife crisis with dignity. So what if she murders some children on the side to decompress? It's not like anyone will miss those little shits anyway."

"You are a little shit about to get murdered, you fool," Tori cries, stamping her foot.

"Ah." I pause mid stride. I stroke my chin contemplatively. "Yes, I see the problem with that. I don't feel like dying yet, you know."

We ponder over the philosophical implications of memento mori.

"Eh, I'll risk it," I say with a shrug. "So, what d'you want to talk about?"

"I need an interview," Lovegood says. "We've investigated you, daddy and I, and we're convinced you're the linchpin behind the Rotfang conspiracy."

"Yes it was me," I confess. "It was me all along. Gosh, this is embarrassing. Foiled yet again by a four foot nothing waif and her hard-nosed journalism."

Lovegood giggles.

"That was a joke," she murmurs. "But thank you for playing along. You're really nice, Harry Potter."

Thousand-megawatt grin, meet Harry's feckless astonishment. I am always taken aback by such sincerity. Nicety and I have a blood feud, as you well know.

"He is, isn't he?" Tori gushes. "He's the sweetest, kindest, nicest, wisest big bro—"

"Stop buttering me up, brat, and tell me what you want from me."

Astoria Greengrass is a girl of many masks. Now she wears coyness like a second skin. When she speaks, she's breathy, giggly and girlish.

"I'm in love, Harry."

"Who's the unfortunate victim?"

If there's a God, then please don't say Neville Longbottom, I pray. I remember our conversation from a month ago, but I cling on to the desperate hope that she's changed her mind in the meantime.

"Neville Longbottom."

"Sabotage," I swear, shaking my fist at the sky. "I've been stitched up. I talk to the guy ten minutes ago, only for you to swoop in immediately afterwards with this sacrilegious confession. Well, I don't buy it. There's no way this can be a coincidence."

"Fine, I saw you two out of my classroom window," Tori grumbles, flustered.

"And then you decided to ambush me with this violent delinquent for company." I point at Luna Lovegood. "Oh, bravo! That, dear sister, was the unkindest cut of all. Two on one, against little ol' me, your trusting, oblivious, half-wit of a brother; and all the while, there I was, quiet as a mouse, cowering defenceless, hoping to escape notice—"

"Everything's fair in love and war," Lovegood interrupts.

"What love?" I ask. "Tori, have you ever spoken to this bloke?"

Her silence speaks volumes.

"You don't even know him," I say. "Why do you like him?"

A brief silence.

"He's very brave," she says defiantly, jutting her chin out. "And mild mannered. And kind. And charismatic too, I've seen him from afar. He's good at turning enemies into friends. Helps that he's easy on the eye as well. Does a girl need more reasons?"

"And you gathered all this without exchanging a single word?" I ask gently, raising an eyebrow.

"It's not like I don't want to!" She cries, frustrated. "But I'm in the year below. We share no classes. No one takes me seriously either and Daph's always around, acting as an impediment. Like she wants me to stay single forever. Then there's the Gryffindor Slytherin thing." She bows her head. "What if Neville hates me before he even knows me?"

There's a tremor in her tone.

Now, I know what you are thinking. Tori adores the idea of Neville Longbottom, not the man himself— she sees a caricature, if you will, rather than an actual person. It's shallow; it's superficial.

But I am in no position to condemn it. I was in a similar situation with Fleur Delacour. Besides, every relationship has to start somewhere. Not many people have the good fortune Trace and I have. And if it dies out, as it most likely will— as it did between me and Delacour—then Tori would still grow from the experience.

That said, I can think of a thousand reasons to discourage this madness. But as I look at Tori, pale, sickly, trembling, her head bowed, I don't have the heart to do so. It's her sickness that softens me. If it's in my power to bring a smile to her face, then I do so— it's how it's always been.

"What do you want me to do?"

She looks up. Hope glimmers in her eyes.

"If you ever become friends with him, could you introduce us?'" She begs. "It's all you have to do, promise. Leave the rest to me."

"You could ask Trace to do that for you," I point out. "She sits next to him in Runes, I've heard."

"Tracey isn't subtle," Tori grumbles. "I've seen her go about trying to set people up. She's like a rampaging hippogriff. Rubs folks the wrong way, sometimes."

She taps her foot.

"Also, you're a bloke. You must understand him, like, telepathically or something. So your introduction will mean a lot more than hers. Please?"

This is quite clearly harebrained thinking, but once again I don't have the heart to call it out. I can see how much this means to her.

"I'll see what I can do," I say.

She lights up. Not a shadow of her former grief remains. I have the fleeting impression that I've been set up. Come to my parlour, said the spider to the fly.

"Thanks, Harry. In return I'll help you date my sister."

"I'm already seeing Trace."

There's no mistaking the shock on her face this time. Her mouth drops open into an O.

"What? Since when?"

"Yesterday."

"But what about my sister?"

"What about her?"

"You'd backstab her like this? Leave her cold and pining? Unsatisfied and virginal?"

"Yes."

"But that's not chivalrous at all! You were the chosen one, Harry. Meant to melt the ice. I had you earmarked as brother in law."

"Yes, well. What can I say? Fate has condemned the Greengrass sisters to spinsterhood."

Astoria Greengrass pouts.

"But . . . what about the blonde haired, green-eyed, speccy minions I was supposed to reign over?"

I reach for the top of her head and take back my hat. I muss up her hair with the other hand even as I do so.

"They'll continue to exist in your imagination, I'm sure."

Thus it goes. We chit-chat about everything and nothing for ten more minutes. Then they take my leave. And so, by the time I make my way to DADA, I am half an hour late.

Still perfectly salvageable, I convince myself. Just increase the smarminess and the shoe licking by a factor of ten. Start with a compliment. Remember, whatever you do, start with a compliment.

I round the corner. I reach the class. I knock the door. I extend my hat like a begging bowl. The world's smallest violin plays in the back of my head.

"Professor Umbridge!" I greet, putting on my best smile. "Allow me to congratulate you for having grown horizontally since we last met."

Dead silence. Granger looks mortified. Longbottom chokes back a laugh. Trace stares at me in horrified fascination. Daph buries her face in her textbook.

Umbridge puffs up. She looks ready to eat the table. This is quite clearly the secret behind her impressive girth.

"I've had enough of you, Potter," she snarls. "Detention with me for the entire week. And fifty points from Slytherin."

Oh dear.

There I go, putting my foot in my mouth again.

Endnotes

I took a week off. Did not touch my PC until Thursday. The burnout hit so bad that for the first four or five days I was sure there was something seriously wrong with me. Physically I was fine, but mentally I was two seconds slower to everything. Felt like my thinking capacity had halved overnight. Couldn't concentrate, couldn't read, barely got through my daily tasks, and so on.

Felt better after that, though. Hence the chapter. I know it's short, and it was meant to be ten thousand plus words; but honestly, I don't want to burn out like that again. And long chapters are a bitch and a half to write. But anyway, short or long, stuff will get written. Eventually. Trust me bros.

No Hall of Prophecies plotline. More on this later.

I dunno if this came across, but I wish to clarify that Harry is well aware of what he's doing. He just plays up certain things because he's written as a snarky git. But removing that, what Astoria says about gruesome detentions triggers his curiosity. So since he's already late, and since he's most likely getting detention anyway, he decides to eat it in style, just to see what Umbridge's cooked up.

Similarly, he has no respect for Umbridge. He's unlikely to maim her or some shit, since she's a Ministry official and could make things difficult for him, but the entire permission slip thing is just him having a laugh. If push comes to shove and she doesn't give him permission, he'd simply go to tournaments anyway (albeit without a healer or a second). And if she expels him for that, then he wouldn't mind, because if this isn't clear enough he couldn't give less of a shit about Hogwarts. He's a pro duellist — he has a career and knows what he wants from life. Getting kicked from school would hardly register as an inconvenience.

I'm just explaining his psychology here: this is not how it plays out.