Hogwarts was never boring, especially if you were the famed Boy-Who-Lived, but the rest of September and October was just chalk full of surprises for Harry, making him wish more than ever that he could just be normal. Lockhart's complete and utter incompetence in the classroom really wasn't all that stunning, but the fact that Harry actually preferred a month's worth of detention in the dungeons with Snape, scrubbing cauldrons and chopping frogs' livers (which had finally ended, thank Merlin) over just one night's detention with the pompous arse signing his fan mail was. Not that Snape, of course, wasn't pompous in his own way, but hell, at least the man was good at what he taught. A thought which immediately made Harry feel like he'd just tasted something unpleasant, actually respecting Snape above another professor. It was madness.

Then there was the quite big shock in finding Malfoy had bought his way onto the Slytherin Quidditch team (well, maybe that part wasn't too surprising), by purchasing every member a Nimbus 2001. An event that very nearly caused Oliver Wood to go into cardiac arrest, and which Harry had to admit made him feel a bit apprehensive. He knew his Seeker abilities could outstrip Malfoy's any day, but supposedly those new Nimbuses were really something special...

He'd also never expected boring, pointless Astronomy to become his favorite class.

And just because there hadn't been enough excitement packed into those past two months, October really had to go out with a bang. Which was why, after attending a rather miserable deathday party for the Gryffindor house ghost, Harry found himself standing dumbly in the hallway, staring at a very dead-looking Mrs. Norris while what looked like the entire rest of the student body stared at him. Why did these things keep happening?

Feeling rather numb and out of sorts, Harry and friends followed Dumbledore to Lockhart's office with Filch, Lockhart unsurprisingly following along with McGonagall, Snape, and Jenkins. Normally the sight of Lockhart's numerous portraits trying to hide the fact they were in hair rollers, ducking out of sight so as not to be seen, would have amused him greatly. Glancing once more at the much hated cat, he just felt a bit sick.

*"It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably the Transmogrifian Torture — I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved her…"*

Harry noticed Hermione mouthing the spell to herself and Ron roll his eyes at the Defense professor's prattling and wondered how they could be so nonchalant when they were likely in serious trouble. Weren't they worried? What if they were expelled? If Dumbledore believed Filch and not them, they were sure to be.

Harry was so busy concentrating on controlling his breathing to keep from hyperventilating and passing out on Lockhart's floor, he all but missed Dumbledore's announcement that Mrs. Norris wasn't dead but petrified (what did that mean?) instead. That same horrible, gut-wrenching feeling he'd had at the beginning of the year was back with a vengeance, making him extremely glad he'd missed the Halloween feast. If they really were expelled... No, no, he'd thought this out before. He had some plans just in case; and he had his parents' inheritance at his disposal, he would be all right. He would never have to go back to living fulltime at the Dursleys. No matter what. Still, that didn't mean that just because he would never have to return there he wanted to leave Hogwarts either...

*"He did it, he did it!" Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. "You saw what he wrote on the wall! He found — in my office — he knows I'm a — I'm a —" Filch's face worked horribly. "He knows I'm a Squib!" he finished.*

Well, that certainly managed to break through his haze of panic. *"I never touched Mrs. Norris!" Harry said loudly, uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at him, including all the Lockharts on the walls. "And I don't even know what a Squib is."

"Rubbish!" snarled Filch. "He saw my Kwikspell letter!"*

Harry fought the urge to clamp his hands over his ears and shut his eyes tight just to block everything out, choosing to clench said appendages into fists by his side instead, because anger was always better than hiding. It was getting harder to breathe again, and he wasn't even entirely sure why he was getting so worked up. Hadn't Dumbledore said something about second years being unable to do this anyway?

*"If I might speak, Headmaster," said Snape from the shadows, and Harry's sense of foreboding increased; he was sure nothing Snape had to say was going to do him any good.

"Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth as though he doubted it. "But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn't he at the Halloween feast?"

Harry, Ron and Hermione all launched into an explanation about the deathday party. "… there were hundreds of ghosts, they'll tell you we were there —"

"But why not join the feast afterward?" said Snape, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. "Why go up to that corridor?"

Ron and Hermione looked at Harry.

"Because — because —" Harry said, his heart thumping very fast; something told him it would sound very far-fetched if he told them he had been led there by a bodiless voice no one but he could hear, "because we were tired and wanted to go to bed," he said.

"Without any supper?" said Snape, a triumphant smile flickering across his gaunt face. "I didn't think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties."

"We weren't hungry," said Ron loudly as his stomach gave a huge rumble.

Snape's nasty smile widened.

"I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful," he said. "It might be a good idea if he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be honest."*

Harry had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from retorting. I'll just bet you do, you slimy git. Now that the threat of expulsion didn't seem to be hanging over his head, Harry found it very easy to fall back into his usual behavior. That is, he found it very easy to focus once more on his intense hatred for the Hogwarts Potions Master rather than that horrible sense of underlying panic. At least it was normal.

McGonagall had just opened her mouth as if she was going to speak, and nothing too nice either by the look on her face, when Jenkins' light-hearted voice said evenly, "Now, Severus, there's really no reason for all that, is there? Even if these three aren't being entirely truthful, Professor Dumbledore already pointed out that there's no way any of them could be responsible; they're only twelve." He smiled kindly down at the wide-eyed Gryffindors. "And being they're only twelve, I'm sure there are some secrets that aren't meant to be shared with a lot of old duffers like us, right?" He gave them a wink, forcing a shy smile from each. "Since they haven't committed any crime, they don't have to tell us why they were there if they don't want to. As you said, they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."

*Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. His twinkling light-blue gaze made Harry feel as though he were being X-rayed.

"Innocent until proven guilty, Severus," he said firmly.

Snape looked furious.*

Harry felt like a crushing weight had just been lifted off him.

There was a bit more hub-bub about it all. Filch was still furious and vehemently demanding someone be hanged for the crime, Dumbledore did his best to placate the man, assuring him his cat could be returned to normal (Ron swore softly in disappointment under his breath and Hermione elbowed him sharply) using those ghastly Mandrake plants in a potion.

*"I'll make it," Lockhart butted in. "I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep —"

"Excuse me," said Snape icily. "But I believe I am the Potions master at this school."

There was a very awkward pause.* Harry held his breath, silently praying the overgrown bat would hex Lockhart into next week (and maybe get himself sacked in the process). Honestly, who in their right mind was stupid enough to get between Snape and his precious potions?

Dumbledore dismissed them then and they all but dashed away, ducking into an empty classroom a floor up from Lockhart's office. Harry was personally feeling a sudden rush of adrenaline now that they were safely in the clear. *"D'you think I should have told them about that voice I heard?"

"No," said Ron, without hesitation. "Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the wizarding world."*

That... managed in one sentence to deflate Harry's happiness, much like the abrupt popping of a balloon. Hearing voices no one else could hear... He swallowed thickly and tried not to dwell on it too much. *"What was that writing on the wall about? The Chamber Has Been Opened… What's that supposed to mean?"*

When they left the classroom about five minutes later, planning on hurrying up to the Gryffindor common room before Snape could slink out of the shadows and give them detention or take points or whatever else the git felt like doing that particular night, they were surprised to see a teacher was indeed standing in the hall, though luckily it wasn't Snape. Professor Jenkins stood there, eyebrows slightly raised, and from his position of leaning comfortably against the wall, arms loosely crossed over his chest, Harry had the feeling the man had known they were in there. Known and waited for them to come out. He bit his lip nervously, wondering if they were in trouble again.

But, of course, Jenkins just smiled, straightening up and walking towards them in a completely non-threatening manner. He certainly didn't look angry. In fact, he seemed just as cheerful as always. "Sorry to bother you lot again, but I was hoping to speak with Harry for a few minutes." His expression immediately grew a bit more sober. "Unless, of course, you're too tired. It is late, and after everything that happened..." He looked down at the smallest child, obviously waiting for his verdict.

Harry felt like Christmas had come early. “Tired? Me? Not at all.” He opened his eyes extra wide, just in case the professor got it in his head to argue. “You guys go on back,” he added absently to his friends. “I'll see you in a bit.”

The other two Gryffindors stared at him in obvious surprise. “Harry—” Hermione began, probably about to tell him it was late and they had to get up early for classes the next day and all in all try and talk him out of his decision for whatever reasons she had to disapprove. He blatantly ignored her, trotting obediently after the professor instead, never sparing a backwards glance.

The man led him silently up several staircases, and Harry easily recognized it as the way to the Astronomy tower. Once they'd neared it, Jenkins took a sharp right down a little-used corridor, letting a hand fall carelessly on the boy's thin shoulder and steering him into the third door on the left. “Here we are.”

Stepping in, Harry felt his mouth make an 'o' at the room, eyes darting to and fro to take everything in. Astronomy had never been of much interest for him, but he had to admit the messy room he'd just stepped into with its paintings of the night sky and starcharts covering the walls, not to mention all the odd little gadgets and gizmos littered about was pretty wicked. Looking up, he caught his breath at the large, moving model of the solar system hovering above them. “Your office, professor?”

“Yes.” The man was studying his face with obvious amusement. “Do you like it?”

“It's brilliant!” he said truthfully, gaze still on the ceiling. It was certainly better than McGonagall's fairly boring one with nothing of real interest in it and Snape's really creepy one with all the preserved dead things floating in jars. “Is all this yours?”

“Yes and no. Some of the things here were left by Professor Sinistra, some are from my personal collection.” He made his way to a cluttered desk, navigating through the organized chaos of the room with familiar ease. “Do have a seat, Harry,” he said softly, motioning to the rickety wooden chair in front of the desk. “Would you be amenable to a spot of tea?”

“Tea?” Harry blinked, coming back to himself. “Ah, yes, sir, tea would be great.” He sat and shifted around a bit, the chair creaking as he did so. It certainly wasn't the most comfortable of seats.

“As Severus— pardon me, Professor Snape already mentioned, deathday parties rarely have any food fit for a growing young boy.” A tray ladened with two steaming cups and a large plate of biscuits popped into existence from nowhere, teetering dangerously on the stacks of papers it had landed on. Jenkins carelessly levitated it to a safer spot and busied himself with spoiling one of the cups. “Milk, sugar?”

“Yes, please. A lot.” Harry immediately flushed after the words, berating himself for behaving like such a child, but the professor just smiled and added copious amounts of each.

“There you are,” he said, handing the cup over to the boy's much smaller hands. “Please, help yourself. No need to be shy.”

Taking a chocolate biscuit (Ron wasn't the only one who was hungry after missing dinner) he very nearly swallowed it whole, immediately reaching for another one. “Thank you, sir.”

“Really, it's nothing.” The man watched as Harry stuffed himself with baked goods for a few minutes before softly asking, “Are you all right, Harry? After what happened?”

The boy paused, cookie halfway in his mouth. All right? “Why wouldn't I be, sir?” It wasn't like much of anything had really happened, after all. He and his friends hadn't gotten in any trouble, and as for being accused of something they didn't do... well, nothing new there. Harry in particular was constantly accused of things he didn't do.

Like, say, attempting to add a snail's shell to a Hair-Raising potion in Potions class.

The man shrugged idly, as though he were merely curious and not at all concerned. “You just seemed awfully upset, that's all.” His eyes fixed back on the boy, and despite his light tone they were very serious. “I hope you didn't take Professor Snape's accusations to heart.”

Harry blinked. Snape? The professor thought he'd been worried over Snape? “Oh, no, sir, not me. Snape's always saying things like that about me. He hates me.” Like before, the lack of Snape's title went completely ignored. The boy stuffed a ginger biscuit into his mouth, trying to look adult and nonchalant, only to find it had been bigger than anticipated and could barely all fit properly, making his cheeks puff out like a squirrel's. Shifting awkwardly to bring a hand up and half-cover his mouth, he chewed like mad, hoping the professor hadn't noticed, all the while blushing steadily redder.

“Well now, Harry, I'm not sure I'd say Severus hates you.” Jenkins frowned thoughtfully before giving Harry a quick once over, brow creased in worry. “Though I must say, he does seem to give you a hard time rather often. It would almost appear he's always watching you specifically, waiting for you to... well, slip up, I suppose.”

Harry sat up straight at the edge of his seat, forcing the massive lump of food down his throat and nearly choking himself, all the while waving his arms excitedly. “Right, right? He does, doesn't he?” Roughly brushing away the moisture that had sprung to his eyes when he nearly became the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Suffocate-on-an-Overly-Sweetened-Dessert, he flashed the Astronomy professor a hearty grin, barely able to believe what he was hearing. Everyone knew Snape had it out for him, but never, never before had an adult admitted it. “He's always trying to get me in trouble, professor. He says I'm a spoiled brat and all I ever do is break the rules.” He made a face. “I do not always break the rules, and the few times I have, I had to. I mean, last year when I broke the rules I stopped Voldemort from coming back to life! He's really unfair about it all.”

Once his tirade was done, Harry felt a bit foolish, thinking it had been awfully overzealous of him to all but yell his woes out like that. Very immature; but Jenkins was surveying him with understanding in his eyes, making him feel warm and happy all over.

“I hardly think you're a brat, Harry. Rather, quite the opposite.” He drained his tea, giving the boy another long, searching look, the smallest of frowns marring his features. “I'd say compared to most children your age, you're decidedly not bratty. I may not have known you for very long, but I often wonder if you truly realize the extent of your own self-worth.”

Harry held his breath, not sure whether or not he was comfortable with where this conversation was going. A teacher in primary school just a few years back had once said something similar, had then gotten too close to things Harry never wanted to talk about, was terrified to ever even consider talking about. He'd had to start acting up in class, had to act like a real brat, like Dudley, in order to throw her off the scent. In order to make her dislike him, or at the very least, not like him as much as she had.

It was something he never wanted to have to do again. He could still remember how sick it had made him feel.

“Well, it's getting quite late, isn't it?” Jenkins said suddenly, his tone much lighter once again. Setting his cup down carefully and watching as dishes were whisked away again, he stood, Harry quickly scrambling to do the same. “Come on, Harry, I'll walk you back to your common room. Wouldn't do for you to get in trouble for being out past curfew after everything that happened earlier.”

No, it certainly wouldn't.

The walk back was silent, Jenkins' face maintaining that carefree, happily neutral expression he generally wore, making it look like he was always somewhere half in a daydream. He left Harry at the portrait of the Fat Lady with a pat on the shoulder and a very genuine, “Any time you want to talk about anything, Harry, anything at all, my door's always open to you. I truly enjoyed our little chat tonight.”

Harry watched him go feeling like he was floating on clouds. His only regret was that the man hadn't ruffled his hair this time.