“By all accounts, he is no loss!” blustered Fudge. “It seems he has been responsible for several deaths!”

“But he cannot now give testimony, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore. He was staring hard at Fudge, as though seeing him plainly for the first time. “He cannot give evidence about why he killed those people.”

“Why he killed them? Well, that's no mystery, is it?” blustered Fudge. “He was a raving lunatic! From what Minerva and Severus have told me, he seems to have thought he was doing it all on You-Know-Who's instructions!”

“Lord Voldemort was giving him instructions, Cornelius,” Dumbledore said. “Those people's deaths were mere by-products of a plan to restore Voldemort to full strength again. The plan succeeded. Voldemort has been restored to his body.”

Fudge looked as though someone had swung a heavy weight into his face. Dazed and blinking, he stared back at Dumbledore as though he couldn't quite believe what he had just heard. He began to sputter, still goggling at Dumbledore.

“You-Know-Who... returned? Preposterous. Come now, Dumbledore...”

“As Minerva and Severus doubtless told you,” said Dumbledore, “we heard Barty Crouch confess. Under the influence of Veritaserum, he told us how he was smuggled out of Azkaban, and how Voldemort - learning of his continued existence from Bertha Jorkins – went to free him from his father, and used him to capture Harry. The plan worked, I tell you. Crouch has helped Voldemort to return.”

“See here, Dumbledore,” said Fudge, and Harry was astonished to see a slight smile dawning on his face, “you – you can't seriously believe that. You-Know-Who – back? Come now, come now ... certainly, Crouch may have believed himself to be acting upon You-Know-Who's orders – but to take the word of a lunatic like that, Dumbledore...”

“When Harry touched the Triwizard Cup tonight, he was transported straight to Voldemort,” said Dumbledore steadily. “He witnessed Lord Voldemort's rebirth. I will explain it all to you if you will step up to my office.”

Dumbledore glanced around at Harry and saw that he was awake, but shook his head, and said, “I am afraid I cannot permit you to question Harry tonight.”

Fudge's curious smile lingered.

He too glanced at Harry, then looked back at Dumbledore and said, “You are – er – prepared to take Harry's word on this, are you, Dumbledore?”

There was a moment of silence, which was broken by Sirius growling. His hackles were raised, and he was bearing his teeth at Fudge.

“Certainly I believe Harry,” said Dumbledore. His eyes were blazing now. “I heard Crouch's confession, and I've heard Harry's account of events. The two stories make sense. They explain everything that has happened since Bertha Jorkins' disappearance last summer.”

Fudge was clutching his bowler hat in both hands tightly, looking mutinous. Dumbledore paused before continuing, “You are not to be convinced, I see. It is proof you require, and I will give it to you. If you would kindly come up to my office,” and with that he swept out of the room, radiating the indefinable sense of power Harry had felt after Dumbledore had Stunned young Crouch.

The Minister hesitated for a moment, watching as Dumbledore disappeared down the corridor. Snape sent him a glare that was usually reserved only for his most detested of students (one with which Harry was far too accustomed), promptly hurrying Fudge after the Headmaster.

His protests echoed back into the Hospital Wing, only snatches of which could be distinguished – exclamations of “believe”, “lunatic”, and “preposterous” among them – before the last muffled sounds of his hurried footsteps finally ceased.

Professor McGonagall spared Harry a sympathetic glance, her lips as thin as he'd ever seen them, before turning and swiftly following the two Wizard's out of the Hospital Wing. Snape kept his leering gaze upon the professors back until she disappeared from view, seemingly deep in thought.

He lingered for a moment, unsure of whether to follow and instead turned to the present Weasleys (and Hermione) at Harry's bedside, whilst pointedly ignoring the huge black dog.

“Molly, a word, if you please?” asked Snape silkily, and at Mrs Weasley's nod, hastened out of the Hospital Wing in a flurry of billowing robes.

Harry watched the two leave as Mrs Weasley gave him a watery smile over her shoulder. They slipped out and allowed the door to close softly behind them, only their indistinct mumbles filtering into the room.

“What do you think that's about?” Harry asked quietly. Ron, Hermione and Bill all jumped. None of them had realised that he was awake. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“How long have you been up?” inquired Ron. A relieved smile was upon his face, and he quickly pulled a chair closer to Harry. Both Hermione and Bill did the same, neither knowing what to say.

“Long enough,” replied Harry shortly, “Fudge thinks I'm as mental as Skeeter's been making me out to be, doesn't he?” Sirius sniffed indignantly at the mention of the slandering Witch.

“Ironic, really,” said Ron, a small humourless grin upon his face. He said nothing more.

“Don't worry, Harry. Professor Dumbledore will have everything sorted, you'll see,” said Hermione some-what awkwardly. She patted his hand with hers for a moment in reassurance, and in a softer, more determined tone, said, “He won't take this lying down.”

Harry gave her a small smile. Nodding his head, he turned to see Mrs Weasley's re-entering the Hospital Wing. Snape was no where to be seen. She looked rather frazzled, but still managed to give them a slightly forced smile.

“I'm sorry, dear,” she said to Harry, “but I have to leave. Someone has to tell Arthur what's happened ...”

“I'll got to Dad,” said Bill, standing up and reaching for his cloak. “I'll go now.”

“Are you sure, Bill?” asked Mrs Weasley, uncertainly. Bill gave her a confident nod as he finished tying his cloak. “Alright then. Tell Arthur about Fudge. He knows what Fudge is. It's Arthur's fondness for Muggles that's held him back in the Ministry all these years. Fudge thinks he lacks proper wizarding pride.”

“Leave it to me,” said Bill.

“Oh, and tell him that Albus will be in contact with him shortly,” said Mrs Weasley. Bill nodded again, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder, and kissing his mother on the cheek before quickly striding from the room.

The remaining few sat in silence for a moment, before Mrs Weasley pattered to Harry's bedside and began fussing with the covers.

“And you should be asleep,” she said in a motherly fashion. “Hermione, Ron, off to bed with you, now.”

Ron opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs Weasley abruptly stopped her fretting with Harry's quilt and placed her hands on her hips threateningly. Her youngest son snapped his mouth shut at her fierce glare. He moodily stood and began to trudge towards the door, Hermione in toe.

“Night, Harry,” He called back, giving Harry a small wave. Harry returned it but was quickly cut short by the overpowering hug Hermione trapped him in. She then ran back to her place behind Ron, giving Harry a teary smile (which Ron promptly rolled his eyes at). Harry grinned at them.

“Goodnight, Harry,” said Hermione, before both she and Ron were impatiently ushered out of the ward by Mrs Weasley.

“And as for you ...” said Mrs Weasley pointedly to the enormous obsidian hound that sat defiantly next to the hospital bed. The dog glared at her.

“It's alright, Mrs Weasley,” said Harry hastily, “he can stay.”

The Weasley matriarch looked sceptical, but with a sigh consented to allow the “flee-ridden mutt” to stay in the ward, much to Harry's relief. She then trotted to his bedside table and stirred the goblet of tasteless potion before offering it to him.

“You're to drink all of it,” she said with a kind smile, “or Madam Pomfrey will have my head.”

Harry removed his glasses and placed them neatly on the table to his left. He then reached for the goblet Mrs Weasley offered, downing it in one. The edges of his vision floated within a drowsy haze for a moment. His limbs were heavy, encased with lead. He was soon numbed and senseless, finally succumbing to the blissful, dreamless sleep.

*

The next time he awoke it was to the sound of hissing voices and vehement footsteps of whichever occupants were in the ward. He did not move for a moment. The noises were going in and out of frequency, much like a badly tuned Muggle radio.

A headache was starting to pound in the forefront of his skull and a slight disorientation kept him where he was, safely pinned under the covers Mrs. Weasley had tucked securely around him.

A minute or two past without any lull in the heated argument that was currently raging around him. Their harsh whispers started to become clearer. He dared not open his eyes for fear that whoever it was would notice. He was curious to know what they were debating, especially now that his name had cropped up.

“... Potter ... stable ...” Harry lifted his head off the pillow slightly, freeing his right ear. The pounding in his head increased for moment.

He winced at the ache then brought his attention back to the loudly whispered conversation.

“Harry is as sane as you or I, Cornelius,” said a slightly disgruntled Albus Dumbledore, Harry would recognise his voice anywhere. “The scar on his forehead has not addled his brains. I believe it pains him when Lord Voldemort is close by or feeling particularly murderous.”

Harry had been right. Fudge thought he was completely nutty. That bloody Rita Skeeter, Harry thought venomously. It wouldn't shock him to hear that she'd already had the Triwizard fiasco printed in the Daily Prophet for the morning's issue.

“You'll forgive me Dumbledore, but I've heard of curse scars acting as an alarm bell before ...” Fudge sounded no less stubborn.

“You fool!” another voice broke in, that of Professor McGonagall, “Cedric Diggory! Mr Crouch! No matter your opinion of curse scars, these deaths were not the random work of a lunatic!”

“I see no evidence to the contrary!” snarled Fudge. Harry couldn't believe it. He had always regarded Fudge as a stubborn, rather pompous wizard, but wholly kind despite it. Now all he heard was a short, angry little man, refusing, point-blank, to accept the prospect of disruption in his comfortable, ordered world – that Voldemort may have risen. “Only the word of a madman and a teenager that ... well -”

“I saw Voldemort come back!” Harry bellowed, startling everyone that had gathered at the end of his bed. He couldn't lie there and listen to it any longer, headache be damned. Fudge was being ridiculous!

They stared at him, Fudge, McGonagall, Snape, and Madam Pomfrey. All but Dumbledore, he was still regarding the Minister with a cool fury. Sirius nor Mrs. Wealsey (who he assumed had returned home), he noted, were present.

“I saw the Death Eaters! I can give you their names! Lucius Malfoy -”

Snape made a sudden movement, but as Harry looked at him, Snape's eyes flew back to Fudge.

“McNair – Avery – Nott – Crabbe – Goyle -” Harry continued.

“You are merely repeating the names of those who were acquitted of being Death Eaters thirteen years ago!” said Fudge angrily. “You could have found their names in old reports of the trials! For heavens sake Dumbledore -”

“Then how do you explain Crouch?” Harry spat. “You can't deny that there must have been a reason!”

“He was a lunatic! There's nothing more to it!” Fudge shouted, stepping towards Harry's bed.

Snape also strode forward, directly in front of the Minister, blocking his advance towards Harry. He roughly lifted the sleeve of his left arm and shoved it at Fudge.

“There,” said Snape harshly. “There. The Dark Mark. It isn't as clear as it was earlier this evening, when it burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death Eater had the Mark burnt into him by the Dark Lord. It was a means of distinguishing each other, and as a means of summoning us to him. When he touched the Mark of any Death Eater, we were to Disapparate, and Apparate instantly at his side. It's been growing clearer all year. There's all the proof you need.”

Fudge hastily stepped back from Snape, as though he was brandishing his wand at him with an Unforgivable in mind. He was shaking his head.

“What are you and your staff playing at Dumbledore?” Fudge hissed. “It seems to me you are all determined to start a panic that will destabilise everything we have worked for these thirteen years.”

“You will lose it all, whether you choose to believe us of Voldemort's return or not,” said Dumbledore calmly. “We must decide what to do with the time that has been given to us. There is precious little of it. We may still be able to save the situation if you take the necessary measures. You must begin tonight.”

Fudge took a step away from Dumbledore, too. He was shaking his head vigorously now, no longer meeting the Headmasters determined gaze.

“It can't – It's not possible, Dumbledore. He can't be – returned? Ludicrous,” said Fudge quietly. He didn't sound so sure of himself.

“Whether it is ludicrous or not, it has indeed come to pass, Cornelius. Do not be the one the wizarding world blames when the murders begin -” said Dumbledore coolly, pausing as Fudge snapped his gaze back to him. “Oh yes, they will begin. They will not be quarantined to tonight's events. It is a virtual certainty, Cornelius. Do not step aside and allow history to record you as the wizard who gave Voldemort his second chance to destroy the world we have worked so arduous to rebuild. Act now and be remembered as the greatest, and bravest, Minister for Magic we have ever known.”

“It's madness -” Fudge began, still shaking his head emphatically.

“Take the necessary precautions. Put aside your ideals of the so-called purity of blood. The last member of a pure-blood family, as old as any, has been destroyed by your Dementor. Look what he chose to do with his life. Do not be blinded to what is happening under your very nose,” said Dumbledore patiently, stepping towards the Minister insistently.

“What of my position, Dumbledore? If the Ministry held me responsible for a full-blown hysteria in the wizarding world – that's it – end of my career -” Fudge blustered.

“By the love of the office you hold, Cornelius!” Dumbledore's voice rose, the aura of power around him palpable, his eyes blazing once more, “You place too much importance on such tedious and insubstantial commodities. Give Lord Voldemort his chance and there will be no office for you to run, there will be no Ministry, and there will be no Minister. There will only be one Lord and his followers.”

“What do you propose I do? Go to the Ministry? Inform them of You-Know-Who's apparent re-emergence? And on what basis? The word of a madman and a teenager?” said Fudge, scowling in Harry's direction.

“That's exactly what you should do,” said Dumbledore. Fudge opened his mouth to interrupt but was silenced by the Headmasters raised hand. “A few will require evidence, undoubtedly.”

Dumbledore reached inside his robes and brought from its many folds a small stone basin, the very one, Harry recognised, he had discovered in the Headmasters office earlier in the year.

The ceaselessly swirling contents of the Pensieve glowed silver white, softly blanketing the dimly lit ward. Dumbledore then brought out his wand and touched the tip to his temple, gently pulling a long silver sliver that had attached itself to the end of it. He placed the memory carefully within the basin, stirring it into the gas-like liquid.

He presented the Pensieve to Fudge and said, “It is my account of Barty Crouch's confession. It should suffice the majority.”

Fudge took the basin gingerly, as though expecting something dark and menacing to leap from its glittering, luminous depths.

“You spoke of measures, Dumbledore. What did you have in mind?” asked Fudge uncertainly.

“Remove Azkaban from the control of the Dementors,” said Dumbledore. Fudge looked distraught but did not say anything. “You cannot leave Lord Voldemort's greatest supporters in the care of creatures that won't hesitate to join him as soon as he asks. They will not remain loyal to the Ministry. Voldemort can offer them much more scope for their powers.”

Fudge was beside himself but hesitantly nodded his head.

“Second – you must send envoys to the giants,” Dumbledore pressed on.

“The giants? You can't be serious, Dumbledore -” Fudge began furiously.

“Extend them the hand of friendship, now, before the chance is lost,” the Headmaster continued, “or Voldemort will persuade them, as he did before, that he alone in the wizarding community can give them their rights and their freedom.”

“If anyone discovered I had approached the giants -” gasped Fudge.

“Oh, will you forget about yourself for a moment, for Merlin's sake!” screeched Professor McGonagall, her choler rising. “It is not about you and your blasted career. It is about securing the continuation of the society we have been striving to create for over a decade.”

“My dear woman -”

“Cornelius. Without the giants Voldemort will lose his most formidable of supporters. We will have the upper hand. We will have stopped him from gaining the kind of power he had thirteen years ago,” said Dumbledore, “we will win.”

“It is not a war -” began Fudge.

“Not yet,” Snape stepped in. “Rest assured, the Dark Lord has already begun his plans for the downfall of the wizarding community. The pieces are moving, Minister. He will play this game ruthlessly and those who do not oppose him will die at the hands of his pawns.”

He spoke in a deadly soft voice. One that would make even Draco Malfoy run a mile in the opposite direction. The Potions Master continued dangerously, “innocents caught in the crossfire will be shown no mercy. Children, Muggles, young wizards, all incapable of defending themselves. All will perish. All subjected to the Unforgivables. And all will have their blood on your hands.”

The Minister of Magic deflated at these words. He turned his attention back to Dumbledore, the Pensieve firmly clutched in his hands, and said, “That's it then. You're giving me this burden ...” He sounded positively terrified at the prospect.

“I wouldn't dream of it, Cornelius. We must all unite to defeat this enemy. My services as, I'm sure, that of my colleagues, are at your disposal until such a time that Voldemort is defeated,” said Dumbledore assuredly.

“If Voldemort has indeed returned. I'll depart for London at once. We'll begin plans for the Dementors removal as soon as possible.”

He nodded to himself in reassurance, then turned and hastily shuffled out of the Hospital Wing. He paused at the door, before turning to Harry and returning to his bedside.

“Your winnings,” said Fudge, dropping a heavy pouch of rattling coins onto the bedside table, “One thousand galleons, as promised. There should have been a presentation ceremony but under the circumstances -”

He then continued towards the door, with only the departing words of, “I'll be in touch, Dumbledore.”

“Of course, Cornelius. Farewell,” replied Dumbledore.

The Minister's footsteps died away, and the Headmaster turned to Harry.

“I think more rest is in order, Mr. Potter,” said Dumbledore kindly, his eyes twinkling over his half-moon glasses once more. Harry could only nod mutely, headache returned with vengeance.

Madam Pomfrey quickly bustled into her office in search of the Dreamless Sleep potion Harry required. Harry couldn't help himself.

“Professor ...” began Harry slowly, “What else will we need to do? Recruiting the giants surely won't be enough -”

“Certainly, Harry. More is required,” said Dumbledore, “We must rely on our fellows to help us in this fight. Do not concern yourself for the time being. We may still have a few tricks up our sleeves yet.”

With that he gave Harry a gentle smile and a wink, shook hands with Snape and Professor McGonagall and swept out of the ward just as Madam Pomfrey returned with a goblet in hand.

Professor McGonagall gave him a nod as she too departed the Hospital Wing.

“Goodnight, Potter,” she said as she reached the doors.

“Professor,” Harry called after her. She paused at the door, glancing at him over her shoulder, “You don't perhaps know where my dog's ran off to? Only he was supposed to stay here -”

McGonagall didn't smile but he could have sworn her lips were slightly less pursed than before.

“Sorry, Potter. I don't know. I expect Mr. Filch will find him wandering the corridors before long,” said the Head of Gryffindor curtly. He swore he saw amusement in her eyes at his horrified expression. She continued, “I'll instruct Mr. Filch to return him to you ... unharmed,” she added, as an afterthought.

“Enough questions for tonight, Potter. Come along, now, drink up,” Madam Pomfrey persisted, waving the Dreamless Sleep potion under his nose. Snape stepped forward.

“I hate to delay Mr. Potter's recovery,” sneered Snape, “but I'd like a word with him before he is incapacitated.”

Oh no, Harry thought, mortified. What had he done now? Perhaps Snape was going to try and blame him for tonight's events. Or for thieving from his private stores. Of course that had been Crouch, but he was sure Snape would try to lay the blame on him somehow. Maybe he was going to be expelled. The death of another student was his fault. He had told Cedric to take the Cup with him. Or he could just be doing this to torture him. Or trying to get an opportunity to take house points away from Gryffindor. Or ...

“You can stop that ceaseless train of thought, Potter,” Snape's cold voice cut into his rampaging mind. “You should know,” he sneered, “that your godfather will not be returning.”

Harry snapped his gaze to the Potions Master, sitting up straighter in the bed and paying close attention to whatever Snape had to say.

“And no, he is not currently locked in Mr Filch's office with Mrs. Norris,” scoffed Snape, “he has been sent away on the Headmaster's behest.”

Snape turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the ward. The Potions Master seemed to feel this was a satisfactory explanation. It was not.

“Professor?” Harry called, “Professor! Sent away? To do what?”

Snape glared at him with all the loathing he could muster.

“That,” he said, “is none of your business, Potter.”

And he left.

Harry had been relegated to the Hospital Wing until further notice. He woke around midday with the intention of locating Ron and Hermione to tell them the news of Fudge's agreement to help in the fight against Voldemort.

His plea had been forbidden.

“If I see you further than three feet from that bed, Potter,” Madam Pomfrey had scolded, a stern finger poking him firmly in the chest with every word, “I will box your ears and be sure to arrange a detention for you ...” and as Harry began to protest, added, “with Professor Snape.”

That kept Harry quiet. He had no desire to be anywhere near the insufferable Potions Master if he could avoid it. He was, instead, left to his own thoughts.

He spent the afternoon thinking of yesterday's events. He and Cedric seizing the Triwzard Cup, together. A Hogwarts victory ... Harry gave a bitter smirk at the cruel irony. Of Cedric's body lying, wide-eyed, upon the cold graves. Of his mother, his father. Their voices. Voldemort, re-emerging from the steaming cauldron. Wormtail clutching the bloody stump that had once served as his hand. Mad-Eye Moody reverting to Barty Crouch. Dumbledore's fury. Fudge's denial. Cedric's innocence.

It all swirled around in his mind, each thought being instantly replaced by another, then another, then another. It was all too much. He wanted to run. To escape. Perhaps Madam Pomfrey could provide him with more Dreamless Sleep potion?

“Harry?”

He couldn't stay here. He needed to leave. Needed to save Cedric. A Time Turner. Why not? They used one last year. Saved Buckbeak. Surely Cedric is of more import than a Hippogriff?

“Harry?” He was brought out of his internal rambling. Mrs Weasley was standing by his bedside, a small bunch of grapes in her hands. She looked dreadfully concerned, as though she were worried about Ron or one of her other children. There were plenty of them to worry about, after all.

He turned to his bedside table where the sack of gold had been left, untouched.

“I don't want that gold,” he said, in an expressionless voice. “You have it. Anyone can have it. I shouldn't have won it. It should've been Cedric's.”

The thing with which he had been fighting against on and off ever since he had come out of the maze was threatening to overpower him. He could feel a burning, prickling feeling in the inner corners of his eyes. He blinked and stared up at the ceiling.

“It wasn't your fault, Harry,” Mrs Weasley whispered.

“I told him to take the cup with me,” said Harry. Now the burning feeling was in his throat, too. He couldn't be more thankful that neither Ron nor Hermione were there.

Mrs Weasley set the grapes down on the bedside cabinet, bent down, and put her arms around Harry. He had no memory of ever being hugged like this, as though by a mother. The full weight of everything he had seen the previous night seemed to fall in upon him as Mrs Weasley held him to her. All the memory's, the thoughts, started spinning in his head until he could hardly bear it, until he was screwing up his face against the howl of misery fighting to get out of him.

It wriggled its way from his burning, congested throat and escaped choked, strangled and short. Mrs Weasley held him tighter, her arms bringing him closer. The dam broke.

He sobbed for what seemed an eternity. He desperately grasped Mrs Weasley's shoulder in a vice-like grip as though clutching a lifeline. He wept for Cedric, for his family, for his friends. He wept for himself, for the entire wizarding world. But, most of all, he wept for those who had yet to suffer ...

Mrs Weasley began rocking him, a gesture he found entirely new yet wholly comforting. She soothingly rubbed a patented circle on his back, muttering comforting nonsense. Finally, his throat raw and his eyes stinging, he pulled away. He began wiping at the tears on his burning cheeks, the occasional hitch of his breath interrupting the quiet.

It was not an uncomfortable silence. It felt ... right. His heart was slightly lighter than it had been since before entering the maze. The wringing knot in the pit of his stomach had loosened. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and, ashamed, sheepishly glanced at Mrs Weasley.

She was wiping her own tears, a watery half-smile on her face. She placed a hand on his cheek, and with a soft thumb, caressed the remaining tears that were idly slipping from his eyes. She then clutched his head to her shoulder for a moment, and said, “Don't worry, dear. We'll fix things. Albus, Arthur, Remus, Ron, Hermione. We all love you, Harry. We won't let anything happen to you. You'd sooner see Professor Snape wearing Ron's dress robes.”

She chuckled at the thought. Harry couldn't help but grin - the horrendous image of Snape wearing Ron's moth-eaten, two-hundred year-old dress robes was possibly traumatising. She released him and took a step back, sniffling here and there, and handing him the grapes she'd brought.

“I thought you might want something to pick at while you're here,” she said thoughtfully, “Arthur told me it's a Muggle custom to give grapes to hospital patients.”

Harry smiled at that. Another one of Mr Wealsey's Muggle tid-bits.

He reached for the grapes Mrs Weasley held out to him, said, “thank you,” and popped one into his mouth. It was more something to do then any actual hunger. He suspected that had been Mrs Weasley's plan.

“And, Ron and Hermione wanted me to tell you that they'll visit you as soon as Madam Pomfrey will allow it,” said Mrs Weasley, “I expect you'll be allowed to leave soon, dear.”

Harry nodded his head. He was not looking forward to facing the rest of the school. No doubt it would be a simulation of the events during the basilisk attacks in his second year. The thought made him feel sick.

He distracted himself by munching on more of the grapes Mrs Wealsey had brought him.

Crack!

“Harry Potter, sir!”

Harry jumped a foot in the air. Mrs Weasley gave a loud squeal of surprise.

Standing on his bed, near his feet, was Dobby. He was grinning widely, his large tennis ball eyes shinning with adoration. He was wearing a different coloured tea-cosy, this one a bright orange with large green baubles covering it. It resembled a rather flattened goldfish sporting a bad case of leprosy.

He was also adorning a woolly jumper that passed his knees in a horrendous magenta colour, and many flashing buttons in a variety of colours and styles pinned to it. The sleeves were so long they had been rolled up into thick bunches at his wrists.

On his feet, he wore one green and purple sock with miniature dragons. On the other he was wearing a red sock with small Christmas trees decorating it and the lyrics to some random Christmas carols.

He was his own travelling circus.

“Hello, Dobby,” said Harry wearily. Dobby usually meant trouble in his opinion, however unintentional.

“Dobby is coming to visit Harry Potter! Dobby is worried to hear that you's in the Hospital Wing again, sir. He is coming to see if Harry Potter is needing anything, sir,” said Dobby in a rush. He was smiling widely now, as though his Christmas had come early (maybe he thought it had, if that sock was any indication).

“No, thank you, Dobby. I'm fine,” said Harry.

Dobby looked crestfallen. His large bat-like ears drooped and he began wringing one sleeve of his jumper. Harry sighed.

“On second thought, could you bring us some tea, please Dobby?” asked Harry. The instantaneous reaction was startling. His blindingly toothy grin was back in place and his ears perked up higher then they had been.

“Yes, sir, Harry Potter, sir,” he squeaked ecstatically, and clicked his fingers. A tray appeared, floating magically a few inches above the bed. It was overladen with everything imaginable. A large, heavy-set tea pot, complete with yellow and red striped tea-cosy. Dobby's next hat, Harry thought. There was milk, sugar, cream, honey and several herbs, as well as a large plate of biscuits. It had everything Harry could possibly want.

“Is Harry Potter wanting something else, sir?” asked Dobby hopefully.

“No thanks, Dobby,” Harry said, inwardly cringing. Dobby nodded his head resignedly before disappearing with a crack!

Harry took the tray from its hazardous floating position and placed it on the hospital table to his right.

“I'll do that, Harry dear,” said Mrs Weasley, standing up and walking to Harry's other side. She began tinkering with the teapot just as Professor Dumbledore swept into the ward.

“I have excellent timing, if I do say so myself,” said Dumbledore, although the smile did not quite reach his usually jovial eyes.

“Cup of tea, Albus?” Mrs Weasley asked, already conjuring a third cup.

“Please, Molly. And some honey, if you will,” replied Dumbledore, before turning to Harry warmly, “how are you feeling, Harry?”

“Fine, thank you, sir,” answered Harry politely. He was uncomfortably aware of his reddened eyes, and hoped the Headmaster didn't notice, despite its futility. Dumbledore nodded in acknowledgement as Mrs Weasley handed both he and Harry their tea. They both settled down in the chairs at Harry's bedside.

“Harry, I'm afraid I have some rather unpleasant news for you,” Professor Dumbledore began gently, “I did not wish to concern you with such matters so soon. However, the Ministry is demanding evidence that only you can provide.”

Harry was aghast. How could they ask more of him? He had done what had been needed of him last night. He was trying to forget.

“B-but I've already -” blustered Harry.

“In the unfortunate presence of your godfather, Harry. I, as I'm sure you'll agree, would prefer to keep Sirius out of Azkaban. Such knowledge of his whereabouts would undoubtedly cause some unneeded complications at the present time,” explained Dumbledore patiently. He continued kindly, a small smile on his lips, “It is not an exam, Harry. You may decline. The information you can give me will only help to topple the Ministry's resolve but, rest assured, they are already wavering.”

Harry, despite the tightening knot in his stomach, nodded his consent. The Headmaster placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Harry. Your bravery knows no bounds.” The twinkle had returned.

--------

“She's gone bonkers,” declared Ron adamantly. “Completely 'round the twist!”

“Ron! I am not ill,” Hermione huffed in indignation. “It's a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

They were bickering again, something Harry was profoundly grateful for. He hadn't realised exactly how much he'd missed his friends and their arguments, or how terrible it would be if something were to happen to them. He cast that thought away. No point getting himself into a state about something that wouldn't happen.

Madam Pomfrey had yielded at last. It took an hour and a half of pouting, huffing and the general harassment of the school nurse who, after much toil, admitted defeat. Said Medi-Witch was in her office while Ron and Hermione visited. He wasn't to be let out of the ward until the following evening therefore, for the time being, they were to make the most of being alone.

“Fine Hermione, I admit it. You're right,” said Ron, sarcastic hand gestures and all. “That's exactly where he is. Right at You-Know-Who's side, licking his boots.”

“How can he be at his side and lick his boot?” Harry interjected, hoping to distract the two from their debate. Ron sent a mock glare his way.

“He's double-jointed,” he answered shortly.

“Honestly, Ronald,” said Hermione sceptically, rolling her eyes at the redhead. “He is not a Death Eater. No matter how much you'd like him to be.”

“That's what you just said!” Ron exclaimed, “you just said that Snape was probably with You-Know-Who!”

The aloof Potions Master had been missing from their Potions class that day. It wasn't like him to miss a chance to play his favourite game, 'Neville Baiting', despite recent developments. He hadn't been present at any of the meals either, nor been able to hand out detentions and deduct points from the other Houses. Snape's disappearance had attracted attention to say the least. The rumours flying around the school were numerous.

“Yes, but not as a follower! Keep up, Ron. I meant as some sort of spy. He must be giving Professor Dumbledore information,” said Hermione thoughtfully.

“And how would you know?” asked Ron accusingly.

“I heard him speaking with your mother last night. Some of us actually pay attention,” the young witch threw back at him. Ron grumbled slightly but didn't say anything more. “He said something about an errand he had to do. Some of it wasn't clear, but I'm sure it has something to do with the Death Eaters.“

“Most likely,” Harry agreed, “he showed Fudge his Dark Mark last night.”

Ron went slightly pale at that. His mouth hung open. The look of horror slowly turned to disgust as the realisation finally sunk in.

“The greasy scum,” he spat, “I've been in the same room with that.” The thought apparently sickened him.

“That's not very fair, Ron. If he's spying for Dumbledore you can't really hold it against him,” Hermione scolded. She crossed her arms and sat straight in her chair.

“Maybe. If he is spying. Still doesn't make him any less foul does it?” said Ron.

“Perhaps,” said Hermione curtly. It was apparently the end of their conversation. She stood and strode to the window at the end of the ward, her back to the two wizards. Ron sent Harry a pointed look and shook his head.

“When are they letting you out of this place, Harry?” asked Ron, slouching slightly.

“In a day or two,” Harry answered miserably. He didn't know which was worse, staying in the Hospital Wing or having to face his peers. He wanted the torture to end in the most expeditious way possible.

“Maybe you can convince Pomfrey to let you out for breakfast tomorrow,” said Ron with a shrug.

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry sighed.

There was a tap at the window where Hermione was standing. Harry snapped his head up to see one of the schools barn owls hovering outside, pecking impatiently at the glass. Hermione hastily opened the window as the owl glided in and landed softly on one of the vacant bedside tables.

Tied to it's leg was a heavy, printed newspaper. Hermione's subscription of The Evening Prophet. She relieved the bird of it's burden and fished around in the pockets of her robes before revealing a small, dead mouse. She presented it to the owl, who took it gratefully before sweeping out of the still open window. She snapped it shut behind the bird and turned to see the disgusted faces of the two youths.

“I was going to give it to Crookshanks,” she explained sheepishly. She unfurled the bundled newspaper and quickly scanned the cover. She was tense as she read.

“There's nothing about the tournament,” said Hermione, clearly relieved. “The Ministry must be keeping it quiet.”

“Course there isn't,” said Harry bitterly, “Fudge wouldn't want his perfect little bubble to pop so soon.”

Ron nodded in agreement while Hermione continued to study the Prophet. She turned several pages before becoming immersed in an article of, apparently, some importance.

“Oh no,” she muttered. Harry glanced at Ron quizzically before turning to her.

“What is it, Hermione?” he asked. She didn't say anything, but handed the paper to him. Ron read over his shoulder. It was a short article topped with a picture of the Slytherin emblem. The headline read:

SLYTHERING SCOOP

There was much deliberation in the Ministry today after reports of an accident during the famous Triwizard Tournament, which was held at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year, writes Lysander Cursor, special correspondent. The reason of the calamity is still unclear but Ministry officials have claimed that due to the events there will now be special regulations placed upon the members of Slytherin House at the school.

“Current student members and faculty of the House will now be placed under Educational Decree Number Ten, effective immediately,” says Special Assistant to the Minister, Dolores Umbridge, “which clearly states that no Slytherin is to be outside of their common room after eight in the evening. No Slytherin will be allowed into the village of Hogsmeade without the supervision of staff members. There will be no use of magic outside of the school by any member of Slytherin, of age or otherwise.”

Upon further inquiry Ms. Umbridge was unable to provide substantial information. It has, however, been assured that these measures are, “To ensure the correct behaviour of the students, and their own safety”. No news yet as to the details of the events.

Harry couldn't believe it. Fudge had indeed taken measures - but this? It wasn't exactly what he'd hoped for.

“Oh no...”

“How brilliant is this?” Ron exclaimed excitedly. He, Harry and Hermione were walking towards the Great Hall for Harry's first evening back amongst the other students. It had been two days since the news of the Slytherin's restrictions had spread throughout the school in a plague of gossip, contempt and, most often, good cheer.

It was a rather horrifying display to watch.

“Hardly brilliant, Ron. How would you feel if you were in their position?” Hermione scolded impatiently. She'd regarded the whole situation as 'highly discrediting and undermining'. Harry could nearly smell the S.P.E.W.-like badges in the making.

They were slowly walking the final flight of steps to the Entrance Hall and Harry could barely stomach the thought of eating. He felt far more nervous now then he had been before any Quidditch match.

It will be all right, he assured himself nervously. The noise and chatter from the Great Hall became louder as he neared the open double doors, the warmth spilling out into the deserted hall. According to Ron and Hermione, Dumbledore had spoken to the school that morning, requesting that they didn't badger him or ask him questions about the Tournament. Harry was eternally grateful.

The last stragglers that hadn't left for dinner skirted him in the corridors, he noticed, refusing to meet his gaze. Others whispered behind their hands as he walked by. They obviously believed Skeeter's articles about how disturbed and possibly dangerous he was. Perhaps they were formulating their own idea's about how Cedric died, Harry thought sardonically. He found he didn't care very much.

The three walked wearily into the Hall. A wave of silence descended with the occasional mutter and pointing finger in Harry's direction as they made their way to the Gryffindor table. The tension was almost palpable.

They took a seat near the end of the table amongst Neville, Ginny and Seamus, all of whom were nodding at Harry warmly. Harry took the seat between Hermione and Neville, sitting across from Ron and his sister. He attempted to make himself as small and insignificant as possible and awkwardly began piling food on his plate.

Gradually, the buzz of gossip began again and most of the students turned back to their meals. Harry dared a glance towards the staff table, catching Dumbledore's eye. He gave Harry a reassuring nod, his eyes slightly less jubilant than they could have been.

Harry returned the nod and brought his attention back to his full plate, most of which, he noted, had been Hermione's doing. He glared at her while she returned a highly innocent expression and Ron snickered. Harry sighed and slowly began to cleave through the mound. Conversation around him restarted and flitted into his mind occasionally, mostly Ron and Seamus discussing Quidditch.

Eventually the topic changed to the Slytherin's and their newly imposed regulations.

“It's the best thing they could've done!” said Seamus, his voice dripping with sadistic happiness. Ron agreed profusely.

“Too right. Malfoy won't be able to flaunt that wand of his around any more,” he said happily. Harry had to grin at that. Malfoy wouldn't have the courage to begin harassing them now.

“Really, you're being very narrow minded,” said Hermione, an expression too alike their Head of House for comfort.

“Fudge must've had a good reason, even if it is a little extreme,” said Ginny matter-of-factly. Neville nodded in agreement.

“Don't tell me you've joined the bloody 'we love Slytherin' band wagon and all?” Ron asked him.

“We don't love the Slytherins. We're just saying it's a bit unfair,” said Ginny defensively.

“A bit unfair? It's Death Eaters we're dealing with. Nothing's 'a bit unfair,” exclaimed Ron haughtily.

Harry didn't say anything. He stared at his still full plate, picking at some of the roast pork.

“We're well aware of who -” Hermione kicked Ron's shin beneath the table, “we are dealing with, Ron,” she said warningly. She gave him an exasperated expression and inclined her head towards Harry (who was blatantly ignoring them).

“Oh,” he said feebly, his ears reddening slightly. He returned his attention to his meal.

“Well, it's still bloody marvellous. No more late night detentions with Snape,” said Seamus happily. Too much of their evenings were being spent scrubbing cauldrons in the frigid dungeons.

“Never thought about that,” said Neville quietly, as though he were afraid that the Potions Master might over hear. “What do you think he'll do now?”

“Dunno,” said Ron eagerly, “maybe he'll have to stop giving detentions out altogether.”

“Or send you to another teacher for them,” sighed Hermione, “do try to use your mind Ronald.”

“I would but someone's made me lose it,” he shot back. Hermione huffed indignantly and angrily pierced a new potato.

Harry glanced towards the teachers table expectantly, waiting to find the obsidian gaze of the Potions Master upon them as though he knew exactly what they were discussing. Snape's seat was vacant.

“That's strange,” Harry muttered to himself. Hermione glanced at him.

“What is?” she asked curiously.

“Snape,” said Harry, “he's still not here.”

“No,” said Hermione matter-of-factly, “but I expect he'll be back soon or Dumbledore would have found a replacement before now. I'm sure of it.”

“And just when we were getting used to a peaceful life without Potions,” said Ron wistfully. Neville laughed nervously.

“You never know,” added Seamus hopefully, “we might have a substitute tomorrow. It's been ages since he disappeared, hasn't it?”

“Maybe it's just been difficult to find a replacement at such short notice,” said Ginny.

“Can't help but wonder where he's gotten to, though. Not even the Slytherins know,” Seamus said suspiciously. Hermione huffed indignantly.

“You'd think after four years you'd get past this trust issue with him. Dumbledore has his reasons, that should be enough for everyone,” she said haughtily.

“Yeah, but I'm still worried,” said Harry quietly.

“About Snape?” Ron asked disbelievingly.

“No. That he's betrayed us.”

*

Wednesday. It meant early morning Potions for the Slytherins and Gryffinors, who walked towards the dungeons in relatively high spirits, Snape not having made an appearance at breakfast once again. Harry was slightly more subdued as he trudged towards the familiar classroom.

They all took their seats and began talking amongst themselves, without any anticipation for a lesson that day. How wrong they were.

The heavy door to the classroom slammed open noisily, startling everyone in the room into a stunned silence. They all stared toward the entrance when no one entered. Harry and Ron shared a quizzical look. In the doorway a short, heavyset figure hovered before taking a single step into the room. It obviously wasn't Snape.

This man was significantly shorter, about a head shorter than Harry and was wearing what appeared to be a Muggle suit beneath his open outer robes. His stern face portrayed no emotion except mild irritation, as though the presence of the students was nothing but a fly he couldn't seem to swat. Harry instantly disliked him. The man took another, slow step into the room and surveyed them.

“Remain in your seats,” he said sternly, his voice pompously educated, “do not move, do not speak.” With that, he turned towards the door, nodded to a companion no one had noticed and walked fully into the room.

Sounds of a struggle from outside drew the attention of both the Gryffindors and Slytherins as another man, taller and apparently the muscle of the two, dragged a thinner figure in. They wrestled with each other for a moment before Butch, as Harry decided to call him, lifted one meaty fist and brought it forcefully against the other's face. A face Harry barely recognised.

The curtain of black hair was greasier than ever and the large hooked nose was swollen and bruised, as though it has been broken. One obsidian eye was tinged with black and blue and the lip began bleeding anew from the blow. Again, Butch raised his hand making his captive flinch away from him and fight with renewed vigour.

The other students began to piece together the identity of the Butch's prisoner and a resounding gasp echoed throughout the room. Hermione placed a hand over her mouth in horror. The Slytherins were outraged. They began to rise from their seats to protest but the shorter of the two men rose a hand.

“Please, remain in your seats,” he said forcefully, not an ounce of politeness in his tone despite the words. The Slytherins hesitantly lowered themselves back into their chairs. He then turned to the bound Snape, “where?”

Snape stared at him disdainfully, his lip curling in a snarl. The shorter man took a threatening step towards him. “Where?” he asked again, angrily. Snape glared at him, then looked away. The man pursued his gaze. He stepped closer, straightening himself to his full height, locking eyes with the Potions Master. Snape spat in his face.

Crack. Butch had struck him again, this time sending him to the floor where he landed awkwardly on his left arm. He hissed at the searing pain while Tweed, as Harry named him, wiped disgustedly at his face with a handkerchief. He tutted at him as though he were nothing more than a misbehaving child.

“Fine, I was willing to do this on your own terms. As this is not the case ...” he pulled out his wand, “Legilimens.”

Harry looked to Hermione in confusion. He'd never heard of such a spell. She shook her head at him, a gesture which said she'd tell him later. He returned his attention back to Snape who seemed to be fighting an internal battle. He and Tweed seemed to be in some sort of trance, their eyes were locked and unblinking. Tweeds finally lifted his wand, breaking the spell.

Snape shuddered and his shoulders slumped. He didn't move from his position on the floor. He was breathing heavily and had closed his eyes. Harry couldn't sit there any longer. He rose angrily from his seat.

“Sit,” Tweeds barked, not even looking at him.

“No,” said Harry defiantly. Tweeds turned to him impatiently. Snape glanced at him but Harry couldn't fathom the emotion in his eyes.

“Well, well, well,” Tweeds muttered. “If it isn't Harry Potter.” Harry glared at him. “This doesn't concern you, lad. Sit down.”

“It concerns all of us if it concerns Hogwarts,” countered Harry stubbornly.

“It doesn't concern Hogwarts. It concerns him,” he nudged Snape with the tip of a boot, “and myself.”

Snape sneered at the man and gave Harry a warning look. Harry ignored it.

“He's a part of Hogwarts. All of the Professors are.”

“Technically, Slytherin isn't,” said Tweeds slickly, “not any more.”

Harry gaped at him. Was that true? That couldn't be right. He glanced towards the other students in the room, all of whom looked just as startled and confused as he felt. Hermione stood then.

“Doesn't make them any less human,” she said furiously. Harry resisted the urge to smile at her.

“And who might you be, dear?” asked Tweeds sleazily.

“Hermione Granger,” she answered shortly.

“Granger. Muggleborn, am I right?”

“Yes,” she said hesitantly. Harry felt the same way. He wanted to know what Tweeds was getting at. The pompous man simply nodded, as though to say that that explained everything. Hermione bristled. Ron stood from his seat then, as did Neville and a few other Gryffindors, all of whom were fuming at the implication.

“Don't you dare even think it!” Ron snarled, his face becoming as red as his flaming hair.

“Don't I dare? I cast no aspersions, lad,” Tweeds took a step towards the three of them. He fell to the floor in a tangle of robes as he did. Harry stared in surprised, then looked towards Snape. As the man had lain forgotten he's swept the legs out from under Tweeds, which earned him a heavy smack to the back of the head from Butch. “I've had enough of you!” Tweeds shouted furiously at Snape as he brandished his wand.

He raised it, opened his mouth and -

“Expelliarmus!” There was a brilliant flash of light, and with a great splintering and crashing sound Tweeds was thrown backwards into a vacant chair at the other end of the classroom, smashing it apart. Everyone in the room turned to stare towards the doorway, where Albus Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall and Mad-Eye Moody were standing, Dumbledore in front, his wand outstretched.

The look upon Dumbledore's face as he stared down at the unconscious and bleeding form of Tweeds was nearly as terrible as it had been when he's Stunned Barty Crouch. There was cold fury in every line of the ancient face, there was no benign smile or twinkling in the eyes behind the spectacles.

He stepped into the classroom and Butch shuffled hurriedly away. Away from both him and Snape, who still sat staring at Tweeds. Professor McGonagall went straight to Snape, while Moody went to inspect the unconscious man.

“Come along, Severus,” she whispered to him. “Get up ... that's it ...” She helped Snape to his feet where he swayed slightly, before she gripped him by his uninjured arm. She looked towards Dumbledore, “hospital wing?”

Dumbledore rose a hand and gestured for them to wait a moment. He was watching Moody intently. Mad-Eye was rifling through the pockets of the other Wizard, pulling out cards and other documentation.

“Dermot Aeger. Auror,” he said shortly. Dumbledore nodded and turned to the students.

“I must firstly apologies to each of you,” he said gravely to the class, “such events so soon after the Tournament – it is unthinkable.” He glanced towards Harry. “I must ask for your discretion with this matter for the time being, until the appropriate actions have been taken.”

The class nodded, wide-eyed and watched as Moody began prodding Butch for information in the background. “You're free to return to your dormitories,” said Dumbledore, and as everyone shuffled out of the classroom pointed to each of them in turn and said, “Except for Mr Potter, Mr Weasley and Miss Granger, if you please.”

Harry, Ron and Hermione glanced at each other worriedly.

“Dumbledore, I really must protest -” began McGonagall sternly. Snape was leaning heavily against her now.

“I'm sure a moment can be spared, Minerva -” he paused at the muffled sound of protest from Butch as Moody bound and gagged him with a fierce, 'how does it feel?' before he continued, “Please take Severus to the hospital wing.”

She shook her head irritably but didn't say anything as she helped a nearly unconscious Snape out of the dungeons.

“Always in the thick of things, aren't we?” said Dumbledore kindly, gracing them with a sad smile. Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at each other uncertainly. “I need to know how the situation got so out of hand before we arrived.”

They all began at once.

“They were hitting Snape -” Harry began.

“Called Hermione a Mudblood -”

“Abusing Slytherin's rights -”

Dumbledore rose a hand to stop the tirade of excuses and half-tales.

“One at a time,” he said patiently, “from the beginning. Harry?”

“Well, they were hitting Snape, taking advantage of him. It wasn't fair so ...” he hesitated, “I tried to stop him. He used a spell on him, I don't know what it was -”

He looked towards Hermione. She kept her eyes firmly on Dumbledore.

“He performed Legilimency on him, Professor,” she said.

“I see,” said Dumbledore knowingly. “And how did the tw of you become involved in this fray?”

Hermione and Ron recounted the tale of how they had gotten involved with Aeger and his croney.

“It seems you have been quite involved in a political battle,” said Dumbledore, “but I must ask the you refrain in the future. It is better to be thought a fool, then speaking and removing all doubt. One say there may be a battle you cannot win.”

With that he graced them with a kind smile and exited the classroom, with Moody in toe. Butch and Aeger were floating precariously behind them.

That weekend found Harry in Hogsmeade, accompanied by Ron and the twins (Hermione had felt more of her time should be dedicated to successfully reading every book in the library). With much relief from finally being allowed out of the school grounds, the foursome walked with high spirits towards Honeydukes sweet shop. Fred and George spent most of their time teasing Ron, who'd look to Harry for support and was found wanting.

They quickly made their way into the heavily crowded shop, pushing past a group of third years with a muttered apology (or in Fred and George's case, 'watch it!'). After demolishing an intricate display of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans and struggling to the front of the shop through the hoard of students and other, more unfortunate, customers, the four of them had bought their purchases and were walking swiftly towards the Three Broomsticks.

As they hurried along the hustling street, Harry half-heartedly listened to the conversation flitting around him, but he didn't participate. He watched distractedly as the old cobbles whirled past his feet in a whirl of colour, occasionally a well-worn boot or newly purchased high-heel coming into his line of vision. None of it seemed to register however. The light from the ever humid sun glared down upon him and he studied the mass of shadows that danced by.

“Oof!”

He collided with someone in the street. He brought himself back to awareness and realised that he'd kept walking past the Thee Broomsticks altogether and had instead bumped into -

“Attempt some form of perception, Potter,” snarled an incredibly irate Professor Snape, who seemed far more annoyed then was the norm. “Despite its difficulties.”

“Sorry, Professor,” Harry muttered quickly, and looked around for either the twins or Ron. They weren't in the street. They'd left him! He turned back to Snape with the intention of asking if he'd seen where Ron had disappeared to, he was too late. The Potions Master was already striding back towards an irritated Professor McGonagall. With her stood a large group of disgruntled Slytherins, apparently arguing about where they should go next. The sight was indeed ... odd. Harry was more pleased now then ever before that the Sorting Hat hadn't placed him in Slytherin.

“If you are unable to make a reasonable decision amongst yourselves than I'm afraid I will choose for you,” Professor McGonagall threatened exasperatedly. The gaggle of students paused for a moment and stared at her in horror before arguing more hurriedly and fiercely than ever before. Harry grinned as McGonagall rolled her eyes, seemingly at the end of her tether. Snape wasn't doing anything to help the situation either. In fact, he wasn't doing anything at all. If Harry hadn't known better, he would have sworn that the Potions Master was actually sulking!

“Harry?” Ron called to him from the entrance of the pub. “Are you coming or what?”

Harry nodded and quickly retraced his steps. He pushed open the door Ron had just disappeared behind and was instantly enveloped within the warm, friendly atmosphere that was the Three Broomsticks, full of the bombinating hum of cheery conversation. A streak of flaming red hair flew past him towards the bar, and looking in the other direction he spotted Ron and Fred sitting in the corner, all of their newly purchased sweets scattered on the table. He quickly went to join them.

“All right there, Harry?” Fred asked cheerfully. “Thought we lost you for a minute.”

“Yeah, sorry. Wasn't paying attention,” Harry responded evasively. He had no desire to go into detail about his private thoughts.

“George is getting a round in,” said Fred eagerly. “I reckon with the place this busy we might be able to get some Firewhiskey.” Harry glanced around. Indeed, poor Madam Rosmerta was rushed off her feet. There seemed to be an endless stream of Hogwarts personnel, students and staff alike, rushing in and out of the pub. More wizards from the village and some others besides were there too, all of whom were demanding drink after drink at the bar. Harry would have hated to have been Madam Rosmerta. He could just about see the top of George's vibrant hair in the midst of the crowd.

“Best sit back, lads,” said Fred languorously as he leaned his chair back on two legs and placed his feet on the table. “We might be here for a while.” Ron shook his head bemusedly at that, looking towards George, who was bobbing up and down on his feet trying to get the barmaid's attention, with a look somewhere between sympathy and laughter. Harry grinned.

“Fizzing Whizbee, Harry?” Ron offered, holding out a colourful box to him.

“No thanks,” he said, he didn't really relish the thought of levitating around the pub, and with Fred there, who knew what he and his twin had done to it.

“We haven't poisoned it, you know,” said Fred, feigning hurt. Harry raised an eyebrow at him sceptically, to which Fred smirked mischievously. He then reached forward and patted Harry on the shoulder proudly. He said, “we've taught you well.”

Harry laughed at that. Indeed, they had.

“Oi! Careful!” came George's indignant warning as he struggled through the mass of bodies towards the three of them in the corner, whilst balancing all four bottles of Butterbeer. “Make way! Coming through!”

He finally reached them after forcefully shoving a Hufflepuff fourth year out of the way with an elbow. He glared at them.

“A little help would have been nice!” He said as he placed the bottles on the table. He gestured to himself, “look at the state of me!”

Harry had to admit, he was a mess. While barging through the crowd he had sloshed warm Butterbeer down the front of his robes, effectively ruining them. Ron snorted a laugh, Fred attempted a neutral expression but failed miserably and Harry grinned at him.

“You should've said something,” said Fred casually. George smacked him across the head. “Hey!”

Ron rolled his eyes at his two, supposedly, older brothers and turned to Harry while the twins bickered.

“Wanna go to Zonko's later?” he asked. Harry nodded, but glanced worriedly at the twins.

“Only if those two stay well away,” he said. “I don't really fancy being turned into any animals today.”

“Too right,” laughed Ron. There was an uproar in the noise level then, and the two of them turned towards the source. Near the bar there was a small group of Slytherins, none of whom Harry recognised as being in his year. They were completely unsupervised, which strictly went against the new regulations, and Harry wondered how they'd managed to escape the hawk-like gaze of the Professors. Around them were Gryffindors older than Harry. He recognised Lee Jordan, the twins' friend, in the throng. They were taunting them.

“Where's your Slytherin cunning now?” One boy snarled as he shoved a smaller member of the group belligerently.

“Death Eater!” Another accused angrily. Others began to join the fray, shouting insults at the Slytherins and roughly manhandling them. Fred and George stood up on their chairs to get a better look. A Slytherin, an older member, began to argue back. He was practically nose to nose with one of the Gryffindor's.

Smack! The Gryffindor, someone in Fred and George's year, had brutally thrust his fist at the Slytherin, hitting him squarely in the chest. The fight broke out. The Slytherin retaliated with a blow of his own, and the two began to swipe at each other, wands apparently forgotten. They pulled, bit, punched and kicked at each other ferociously..

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” Fred and George began to chant excitedly, and Ron stood on his chair to watch as well, transfixed. Others joined in with the twins, and a crowd gathered around the two brawling boys.

Harry could do nothing but sit there, a hapless spectator. He felt useless. The two boys continued to pummel each other with no regard to any of those watching. Madam Rosmerta ran to them in her fury and attempted to pry them apart. She received a fist of her own for her troubles. A domino effect began as other customers began to involve themselves, hurtling towards the two boys, only to be stopped by someone. They in turn began to attack each other. The situation deteriorated.

He couldn't stand it any longer. He forced himself through the mercilessly battling crowd, avoiding swift kicks and tossed bodies as he went. People were freely bleeding, children were screaming, men were bodily throwing themselves at opponents and women were shouting for them to cease. It was complete chaos. Harry shouldered through, earning a bruise here and there, before he finally reached the still warring Hogwarts students. He didn't know what to do, he searched his mind for something, anything that would help. He pulled out his wand.

“Locomotor Mortis!” He yelled, pointing his wand at the offending target - the Gryffindor. His leg's went instantly stiff and rigid. The surprise of the unexpected attack caused the Gryffindor to panic, ultimately sending him to the ground and unable to move. The Slytherin looked to Harry in shock, his profusely bleeding lip upturning into a grin. Harry couldn't return it.

A fiery shower of red sparks suddenly fell around them, instantly getting everyone's attention. The crowd stopped immediately and stared towards the caster – Snape. He stood in the doorway with his wand in one hand and Professor McGonagall on his other side. Harry could tell that he was beyond furious.

“All Hogwarts students,” McGonagall said dangerously, glancing around the room, “are to return to the school. Immediately.”

The room was paralysed. They stood, sat and lay in a mystified heap seemingly without breathing. Every student, regardless whether they were in Gryffindor or not, stared at the Professor as still as though she had attempted to curse them with an Unforgivable.

“Now!” Snape barked furiously. A flurry of movement followed his order and the students limped out with a little more than physical bruises. Ron quickly grabbed all of his and Harry's purchases before hurriedly jogging to join him in the marching battalion of wizarding neophytes towards the school. Neither Professor McGonagall or Snape said a word on the solemn promenade back to Hogwarts, but each student felt the bestial glare on their backs, a glare that burnt them far more than the broiling summertide sun ever could.

“I'm guessing we're not going to Zonko's then,” Ron muttered dryly.

They reached the doors of the school and the two Professors strode to the front of the gathering company. Eyeing each of them, McGonagall began, “you will all return to you dormitories until further notice. You are not permitted to leave,” she glanced at the twins. “And I sincerely hope each of you can explain yourselves.”

Harry was sure there was an unspoken 'or else' there. He began to walk with Ron back to the common room.

“Except -” said Snape. Everyone froze as they began to split up, heading towards their respective House dormitories. “Mr Towler, Mr Potter and Mr Harper. Follow me."

Ron gawked at Snape darkly before shooting a sympathetic look towards Harry, who sighed resignedly. He began to trudge towards the Potions Master and realised that the other names belonged to the now mauled Gryffindor and Slytherin in the Three Broomsticks. Snape led the way towards the dungeons, with Professor McGonagall in tow.

Fantastic, Harry thought ruefully. How was it that he somehow managed to get involved in everything? He followed silently after Snape and towards his office, while Towler and Harper shot disgusted looks pointedly at the other. Harry got the distinct impression that that must be how Malfoy and himself looked to Hermione. No wonder she thinks we're ridiculously immature.

They stood apprehensively in front of Snape's desk where the two Professors stood with their arms crossed, mirror images of the other. Quite the doppelgänger duo. Harry fidgeted nervously with the sleeve of his robe. This reminded him too much of his second year.

“Well?” McGonagall demanded. The three of them exchanged hesitant glances and remained silent. She let them flounder for something satisfactory to say which would correspond with their need for self preservation.

“Well what, Professor?” Towler asked quietly. Harry nearly cringed at the fierce glare from his Head of House.

“What in Merlin's name was that – that catastrophe?” she screeched.

“Why ask me, ma'am?” asked Towler innocently. Harry mentally gaped at him in disbelief. Was he suicidal?

McGonagall was beside herself. She opened her mouth as though to say something but quickly shut it and turned away from them altogether to, Harry thought, to restrain herself from deafening them.

“Because, Mr Towler,” Snape cut in icily, “the three of you seemed to be in the very thick of things. As usual,” he added as he pointedly fixed Harry with his stony glare. Towler kept silent then. Harry couldn't say that he blamed him.

“Harper,” snapped Snape. “Explain.”

The Slytherin jumped slightly in response and hesitated a beat. He seemed to be fishing for the right words.

“The Gryffindors were harassing younger members of the House, Professor. Bullying them,” he paused. “It turned into a riot.”

Bloody Slytherin! Harry mentally cried incredulously. Snape snapped his glare onto him as though he had heard, Harry would have sworn that he had.

“The full truth, Mr Harper,” growled Snape warningly. “You aren't bruised and bloody without reason, I hope.”

“No, Professor,” said Harper quietly. “I tried to stop them.”

“Unless I'm mistaken, it was Potter who was standing between Mr Towler and yourself,” McGonagall interjected. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. At least she was there to make sure that Snape didn't take advantage of the situation for his own vindictive benefit. “What were you doing, Potter?”

“The same, Professor,” he said softly.

“Fifty points from each of you,” McGonagall said despondently.

“But they started -” Towler began indignantly, pointing an accusing finger towards Harper.

“It doesn't concern me who started what,” McGongall snapped savagely. “Never has this school been so dishonoured, so violated. Never. In all my years -”

She stomped out of the room ferociously, slamming the office door forcefully behind her. The silence after her departure was deafening. Snape glared at them fiercely, before following her and wrenching the door open. He stood by it and jerkily gestured for them to leave. They trudged out one by one, heads down to avoid the leer he sent towards them.

The Potions Master hurled the door closed as Harry left the office They split up, hurriedly making their way back to the safety of their common rooms. Towler turned to Harry as he reached the bottom of the stairs from the dungeons, just as Harper disappeared down one of the dank corridors. He glowered at Harry for a moment. He muttered,

“Traitor.”