Harry leaned back into his seat, closing his eyes. The familiar voices of Ron and Hermione - who had once again started their customary bickering - and the soft vibrating of the train as it made it's way through the southern part of Scotland finally managed to convince him that this was, in fact, not a dream.

No, the awful summer was really over and he really was back with his friends, back on his way to the one place he considered home: Hogwarts. Now everything would be all right and he didn't have to worry about the Dursleys for nearly ten months. He was a bit wary about whether there would be new nasty surprises - Harry hadn't forgotten what had happened last June - but surely nothing that might happen could be as bad as staying with his aunt, uncle and their son for two whole month, could it?

Well, of course, there was Sirius Black... The man had been in the muggle news quite regularly over the summer, but Harry hadn't paid much attention to it. What could a lunatic murderer possibly want in a town like Little Whinging, where people would call the police when someone who looked only remotely foreign or unusual rested on a park bench for more than 5 minutes, 'since we don't want any riffraff in a respectable neighbourhood!'? And then, after the Marge-incident, as Harry kept calling it, when Uncle Vernon had forbidden him to leave the house at all, he had had no reason whatsoever to be concerned about assassination-attempts.

His obliviousness about what the escape of a mass-murderer from a high-security prison might mean for him and his upcoming year at school had only been shattered the previous evening, when Harry had accidentally overheard Mr and Mrs Weasley talking about the very Sirius Black Aunt Petunia had been so hysterical about.

Apparently, the man was a wizard and had been a high-ranking Death Eater during the time Voldemort had still been at large. That wasn't what Harry was worried about, though. After everything he had read about the war and its aftermath (and he did have read quite a few books about this subject, even if Ron and Hermione didn't know about it), Harry knew that there were plenty of Death Eaters who had escaped justice, who could have attacked him whenever they wanted when he had been in Diagon Alley or at school.

No, what had shocked Harry was that it had been this man, this criminal, who was responsible for Harry having to grow up with the Dursleys.

Sirius Black was the one who had betrayed his parents to Voldemort, who had told Voldemort everything he needed to know in order to annihilate the Potter family. If it hadn't been for Sirius Black, Harry would still have his parents, he would have grown up knowing about magic, having friends, and he probably would never have been beaten black and blue for doing accidental magic.

Harry wasn't sure why a Death Eater had been friends with his parents, how Lily and James Potter could have been so blind not to notice that they were entrusting their life (and the life of their child) to the right hand man of their enemy.

From what he had overheard from Mr and Mrs Weasley's argument, much of it had been kept secret after that fateful night in Godric's Hollow, but apparently, not even Dumbledore had managed to prevent the Daily Prophet from reporting that an old friend of James Potter, the heir of the Old and Nobel House of Black, had been thrown into Azkaban for assisting Voldemort in at least two counts of murder.

Now, however, the headmaster's insistence that Harry stayed with his relatives during the holidays had played right into Dumbledore's hands. If it hadn't been for Ron's forgetfulness, Harry would never have overheard the Weasley's argument about whether or not he, Harry, should be told about the fact that Black had likely broken out of Azkaban in order to kill the last remaining Potter. And if Mrs Weasley was to believed, that was exactly what Dumbledore had intended, to keep Harry ignorant of the danger he was in, in order to allow him to have a carefree childhood.

As if he had ever had something remotely similar to a carefree childhood...

Well, Harry supposed that he must have been happy for the first 15 months of his life, but after he had been dumped on his relatives' doorstep, he had hardly had any happy day.

Sure, it could have been worse. The Dursleys hadn't exactly starved him or beaten him to a pulp on a regularly basis, no. On the other hand, Harry had never been allowed to eat as much as he wanted to, he only always got Dudley's leftovers. And while the slaps Uncle Vernon often gave him didn't result in broken bones, they did leave bruises.

At least this had been the case until this summer...

When he had blown up Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, the man had been more furious than Harry had ever seen him before - and this included the incident when he had released a Boa Constrictor in a London zoo.

Harry had thought that the man would surely kill him, but just when he had torn open the front door in order to escape certain death, two wizards had appeared out of thin air on the pavement directly in front of Number 4 Privet Drive.

As it turned out, the two of them were employees of the Ministry of Magic, members of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squat, to be precise. In less than 5 minutes, the men had sorted out Aunt Marge, including altering her memory so that she would have no recollection of what had happened to her after insulting Harry's parents.

As one of Harry's guardians, though, Uncle Vernon had every right to know about magic, so of course, the wizards hadn't bothered to obliviate him, despite Harry's pleas. They had just admonished him that just as any child who was unable to control his magic, he would have to live with the consequences of what he had done, which included taking whatever punishments his guardians thought fit.

Even though the murderous rage was gone from his Uncle's eyes when the fat man had approached Harry once he had made sure that his sister was safely tucked into bed, recovering from the ordeal, Harry had known that this time, locking him into his room and feeding him through the cat-flap wouldn't be enough for the man.

Later, when he had been lying on the thin mattress in his cupboard, cradling what likely was a broken arm to his chest and trying not to breath in too deeply to minimize the pain from his ribs, Harry numbly thought that last summer hadn't been so bad after all.

Fortunately, his arm as well as the black eye he had spouted the next morning had healed rather quickly. Harry supposed it had something to do with him being a wizard. When he had arrived at the Leaky Cauldron the previous evening, neither Ron nor Hermione had mentioned anything that suggested that they suspected that their friend's summer had been even worse than the last one. And when he had used his left arm to drag his trunk across King's Cross, Hermione had been satisfied by the explanation he gave her, which included a made-up game in the streets of Little Whinging with some made-up muggle acquaintances.

"Well, boys," Hermione's voice pulled Harry out of his (rather depressing) thoughts, "we better get changed into our robes, it cannot be much longer."

With that, the young witch raised from her seat, and, after she had managed to get her robes out of trunk that was filled to the brim with books, left the compartment.

Ron gave Harry a questioning glance.

Harry shrugged his shoulders while pulling his own robes out of his rather empty trunk. He hadn't had time to buy more than absolutely necessary. "I suppose it's, you know, a girl's thing. We're in third year now, so we aren't little kids any more, are we? And they say that girls get weird when they grow older..."

Ron turned a little green. Unlike Hermione, he hadn't grown much over the summer, neither physically nor mentally.

"So, mate, uhm," Ron stammered, trying to direct the conversation into a less embarrassing direction, "have finished your homework? The essay Snape gave us was nasty, wasn't it? I didn't even manage two foot, and the greasy git has assigned four!"

Harry's stomach gave an unpleasant jolt. His trunk along with all his books had been locked into the attic when the cupboard under the stairs had once again become his room. He hadn't even so much as glanced at the summer work the teachers had assigned at the end of last term. Which meant that he probably wouldn't get any sleep the following night. Life just wasn't fair.

CLONK

Harry whirled around, his heart beating fast and blood pumping in his veins. If the last few weeks had taught him anything than that is was absolutely vital to be alert of his surroundings at any given time. You never knew when Dudley would come to the decision that his cousin's life wasn't already difficult enough or when Uncle Vernon would decide to check in to his family during the day to make sure that his nephew hadn't done anything freakish to his dear wife or his precious son.

"Sorry, mate," Ron apologized before bending down to pick up the large red object that seemed to have fallen out of his trunk when he had rummaged through it to find his least threadbare robes.

"What's this?" Harry asked curiously, leaning forward to examine what turned out to be a figurine reminiscent of a cat made of red and golden stone.

"It's from Egypt, bill found it in one of the old graves the goblins wanted him to break into. He had to hand over all of the really valuable and nasty stuff, of course, but he was allowed to keep anything the goblins weren't interested in. When we visited him during our vacation, he told us we could each take a souvenir from all of his adventures. He has a whole room stuffed with things like this. I thought this critter would fit into our dormitory, being red and gold and everything."

Harry gave a non-committal grunt. He didn't want to insult Ron and his choice of decoration, but truth to be told, the cat was ugly.

Despite its unsightliness, though, there was something fascinating about that creature. He reached out to touch one of the cat's deep-brown eyes, which seemed to stare right back at him, and for a brief moment, Harry thought that he had seen them twinkling at him.

Shaking his head at his own stupidity, Harry took the figurine from Ron, who seemed to be proud to be the owner of such a, well, 'unusual' artefact. As soon as he had touched the cat, however, Harry drew in a sharp breath, which fortunately was covered by the opening of the compartment-door when Hermione, now wearing her black Hogwarts-robes, re-entered the room.

"Oh Ron!" she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of annoyance and amusement, "stop showing off Goddy already! Honestly, is there any person alive you haven't yet shown that ugly beast?"

"Goddy?" Harry asked blankly, immensely thankful that Hermione's arrival had provided him with an excuse to give the cat back to Ron, whose cheeks had become slightly red at their friend's word.

"Well, it's obviously a cat, even if whoever chiseller carved this beast clearly wasn't very talented. As you should know, cats and lions belong to the same family, and since red and gold are the colours of Godric Gryffindor I thought that 'Goddy' would be a good name for Ron's new pet." Hermione explained, having fallen into lecture mode.

"Ah. Hm," Harry nodded, indicating that he had understood her reasoning. His mind, however, was occupied with a completely different question: Where had that hideous stench come from that had suddenly filled the compartment when he had touched the stony creature? Non of his two friends seemed to have noticed anything unusual, Hermione hadn't even raised her eyebrows when she had walked into a room filled with an odour compared to that the meals the Nearly Headless Nick had served at his deathday-party had smelled positively delicious.

"Scabbers, no, go back into my pocket or that monster will eat you!" Ron yelled, when his old pet made an attempt to escape escape the close confinements of the boy's breast pocket.

"Crookshanks is in his box, Ron!" Hermione huffed, "and he isn't a monster, he's a cat with completely natural instincts."

In his attempts to grab his unwilling pet, Ron was a bit too enthusiastic and suddenly, the rat was soaring through the air, landing directly into Harry's lap.

For the second time in two minutes, the messy-haired boy drew in a sharp breath and barely managed to prevent himself from shouting at his best friend to get that critter off him. He didn't know why but somehow, this rat disgusted him. Which was strange, really, as normally, he liked animals, even spiders and beetles and other creepy-crawlies other people would give a wide berth. But this rat... there was something about it that made Harry's skin crawl, that caused him to feel physically ill, that made him want to run as far away as possible.

He barely managed to fight the impulse to simply throw Scabbers out of his lap. Ron wouldn't take it kindly if Harry killed his pet. Taking a deep breath to squeeze the nausea that threatened to overcome him, Harry carefully picked up Scabbers and returned the rat to its owner.

What was the matter with him, Harry thought when he finished buttoning up his robes. First that stench, now him almost panicking only because a rat had used him as a padding... perhaps his head had taken one two many blows from Uncle Vernon this summer.

Just then, the train started to slow down.

"Oh good, we're there. I hope they have the feast ready," Ron said brightly.

However, Hermione frowned. "Theoretically, we cannot be at Hogsmeade yet."

"Well, then, why has the train stopped?" Ron, obviously hungry, argued.

"I don't know. I suppose it might be because..."

"Hey guys, I think someone is entering the Express," Harry interrupted his two friends. Just when the words had left his mouth, the lights began to flicker before going out completely.

"Lumos!" Hermione, always quick in thinking, lit her wand.

"Good idea, 'Mione," Harry said and copied her action, as did Ron.

"I don't like this," Hermione said. She turned away from the window, unable to make out anything in the dark through the wet glass, and made her way to the compartment door.

Harry completely agreed with his friend. Somehow, this journey wasn't going at all what he had imagined it would be like. And now he had even started to shiver as the air suddenly seemed much colder than it had been minutes before. Great, just great. That was just what he needed, getting ill before his injuries had healed enough to prevent the medi-witch from discovering what his summer had been like.

A screech from the door pulled Harry out of his musings. Hermione was stumbling back into the compartment, her face ashen.

"Hermione, what happened?" Ron demanded, but all what the girl could do was to shake her head, unable to express what had caused her such a distress. However, soon an explanation wasn't necessary any more as the door was once again pulled open.

The creature that hovered in front of the three youth was terrifying. It was tall and black and clad in tattered robes and even though its hood covered the being's face, one thing Harry was absolutely sure about: this thing couldn't be human.

With the appearance of the heinous creature the temperature in the compartment had dropped drastically. The breath of the three terrified students condensed into clouds.

Despite the dizziness that had suddenly overcome him, Harry's eyes scanned the being that was at least seven feet high. What appeared to be a rotten hand looked out from under its robes. Harry swallowed convulsively. If the whole body of the creature looked like that - like the body of someone who had been in the water for much too long - the smell that now filled the compartment wasn't surprising.

Dimly, Harry thought that at least this time, Ron and Hermione seemed to be able to smell it, too. Then, however, the being drew in a deep rattling breath and somewhere far away, a woman started to scream.

The scream was unlike anything Harry had ever heard in his life. The woman's voice was so full of despair, full of dread, that he had no doubt that she was screaming for her life - literally. Desperately, Harry tried to turn around to Ron and Hermione, to tell them that they needed to find the woman and help her, fast. His body, however, wouldn't move.

Suddenly, a beam of bright green light was was filling Harry's vision, and equally suddenly, the screaming stopped. The silence that now filled the compartment was ominous.

But wait, he wasn't in the train any longer, was he? And where were Ron - Hermione? That creature that had come into their compartment only seconds ago - what had it done to his two friends?

When Harry looked around, all he saw were thick dark bars in front of his face. A prison cell...

Movements outside of his cell caught his attention. Perhaps there was someone who could help him, or at least explain to him what he had done to end up in a barred room. Harry squinted his eyes, but the blurry outlines of whoever was standing in front of his cell refused to came into focus. He tried to speak, tried to address whoever was there. All what came out of his mouth, though, was a hoarse gurgling.

Then, the someone let out a maniac laugh, and the strange sounds that came out of Harry's mouth died down.

The next thing he knew was that another one of those beams of green light was hurtling directly towards his face, and seconds later, his skull broke apart.

It was a pain unlike anything Harry had ever felt before. The fang of a Basilisk piercing his arm, Uncle Vernon seizing him out of his cupboard on his already broken arm - nothing had even come close to the pain he was feeling now. He wanted it to end, he wanted to die, he was sure that he couldn't be human any more as surely no human being could endure such a pain. Then, everything became black.

For what felt like hours, Harry drifted in and out of consciousness. At one point, he thought that he heard a man crying somewhere next to him. Then, he felt someone prodding and poking his forehead. It hurt, but he was too weak to protest. And it was so cold...

"... need to go... aurors... Dumbledore..."

"NO... the Dark Lord... precautions... isn't dead!"

The voices that were penetrating Harry's ears didn't make any sense. He was still cold, so cold, and he couldn't breath. 'Please someone help me, please,' Harry thought, too weak to utter any words.

"CRUCIO!"

Pain. So much pain. Harry felt how his mouth opened on its own accord, heard himself screaming in sheer agony - only that it wasn't his voice. The voice that came out of his mouth was the voice of a child. What-

"Harry! HARRY!"

Harry groaned and tried to move. His body was aching and he was feeling exhausted, as if he had just done yard work for 12 hours non-stop. The surface he was lying on was vibrating slightly, and the room around him was much too bright.

"Harry! Oh, why isn't there a teacher on board?" a female voice cried next to Harry's ear - Hermione!

Slowly, Harry opened his eyes - only to let out a hoarse yelp and squeeze them shut again when he looked into a pair of incredible big, sliver-grey eyes that were hovering only inches above his face.

"It's all right, Harry Potter, you can open your eyes again, the Eudaimony is gone." A dreamy voice said.

Carefully, Harry opened his left eye. The face with the enormous eyes was still close enough that he could feel the other person's body heat.

"Uhm, who are you?" Harry rasped.

"I'm Luna, Luna Lovegood. And you're Harry Potter, and those-" here, the grey eyes shifted towards the side, "are Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, your friends, and on the other side is Ginny Weasley, whom you rescued from the Chamber of Secrets last June."

"Eh, Luna, I think Harry might need a little bit more space so that he can breathe properly and sit up," Hermione interjected hesitantly.

"You think so?" Luna asked with mild interest, not pulling back even an inch, "he is still rather cold, you know. Eudaimony tend to do this to people who're not at peace with themselves."

"Ehm, yes, I have chocolate here, it helps against the effects Dementors have on people. Harry?" Hermione turned her attention from Luna Lovegood to Harry, offering him a bar of chocolate, "you might want to eat this. It'll help, I read about it in our new defence book. Seems as if Dementors are covered in third year, I'm glad that I read ahead. Of course, no third year can possibly fight a Dementor but at least we can counter its effects."

"Hermione, wait," Harry interrupted his friend, slowly sitting up and taking the offered chocolate. Luna withdraw enough to allow him to sit up from where he had been lying on the floor of the Hogwarts Express. Carefully, he leaned against the seats and looked around. On the seat next to him, Ginny Weasley was sitting, looking almost as bad as he was feeling. Across from her, Ron was slumped down in his seat, his face ashen. Hermione was kneeling on the floor next to him, and on his other side, a girl he had never seen before stared at him in a somewhat unnerving manner. He supposed that this must be Luna Lovegood - whoever she was.

"What happened? What are Dementors?" he finally asked.

Hermione hesitated. "What is the last thing you remember?"

"Well, we were dressing in our robes and then the train stopped. Someone was boarding the Express, I thing, and you went to investigate. And then..." it took a while for Harry to remember what hat happened next. Then, however, the image of that vile-looking creature floated back to the surface of his mind. "That - that... there was this... being."

Hermione nodded. "Yes. That was a Dementor. I don't know what it was doing here - well, searching for Sirius Black, obviously," she quickly corrected herself, "It has been all over the Prophet that the ministry has ordered the Dementors to find Black, using whatever means necessary. I wonder whether Dumbledore condoned this, there are first-years on the Express, and no teachers whatsoever to calm them down!" the young witch sounded genuinely furious.

"What if someone had a similar reaction to that monster as you? The Dementor was seconds away from attacking you! If it hadn't been for Luna here..." Hermione gave the blond witch next to her a sidewards glance. Luna seemed to be oblivious to Hermione's words, as she had started humming a soft tune Harry thought was vaguely familiar.

When Luna didn't offer any explanation about what she had done to drive the Dementor away, Harry asked the question that had bothering him since waking up on the compartment-floor. "But what happened to me? Why was I... unconscious? Who was screaming?"

"Nobody screamed, mate," Ron offered, sounding weary.

"Dementors," Hermione started hesitantly, searching for the right words, "they suck all happiness from their victim's soul and force you to relive your worst memories. The screaming your heard, it was probably you mu- someone from your past, a memory."

Harry purposefully ignored Hermione's almost-slip. "What happened then? When I was out, I mean?"

"Well, at first, it looked as if the Dementor would just leave, but then, it seemed to have a change of mind. I don't know what could possibly have caused it to act the way it did, but suddenly, it was inside the compartment, approaching you. You had already fallen to the ground, so it bend down. I believe it was about to kiss you..." Hermione sobbed the last words.

"Kiss me?" Harry asked, completely bewildered, "kiss me?!"

"Honestly, haven't you even looked into your new books?" Hermione was back to her usual self now, "the Dementor's Kiss, the ultimate punishment that awaits people like Black and Voldemort. The Dementors suck their victim's soul out of their body, through their mouth, leaving them empty shells. People who suffer the Dementor's Kiss continue breathing and having a heartbeat, but they don't have their soul any longer, for all intents and purposes they are dead - only worse."

"I still have my soul - do I?" Harry asked, alarmed.

"Of course you have, you oaf! You were lucky to have fallen to the ground next to Goddy, and the ugly cat seemed to distract the Dementor for a few moments - speaking of it, where is the beast?" Hermione asked, looking around.

"He took it," Ginny whispered.

"He - the Dementor took Ron's figurine?" Hermione asked disbelievingly.

Ginny nodded.

"That bastard!" Ron growled, still sounding rather shaken. "Well, but better Goddy than you, mate."

"Right. Well, the Dementor had just turned his attention back to you, Harry, when Ginny and Luna came into our compartment. There were several other Dementors searching the train and Ginny was in a pretty bad shape. Luna tried to get her away from those monsters, I think. I don't know what she did but somehow, she made the Dementor leave."

All four pairs of eyes turned toward the strange girl who was still humming a tune that Harry was positive about was muggle. She seemed to be completely unaware that the whole compartment had fallen silent and was waiting for her to give an explanation of how she had managed to drive a Dementor - a creature most adults were unable to fight against - away, without even raising her wand.

After a minute or so, Ginny addressed her year-mate. "Luna?"

"Hu?" Luna stopped humming and looked up, not at all bothered at the strange looks she received from the three third-years.

"Can you tell us what you did to get rid of the Dementor?"

"Of course I can," Luna answered brightly, smiling at no one in particular.

"Well, then, will you tell us?" Ginny finally said, when it became apparent that Luna wouldn't start speaking without further prompting.

"I told him that Stubby Boardman wasn't in this compartment and that if I were an Eudaimony, I wouldn't listen to Fudge because it's obvious that he only wants to cover up his own failure to reach an agreement with the Heliopaths about whether or not England should allow them to breed. I don't think I managed to convince him, though, but at least he told me that he would discus the matter with his fellow Eudaimonies before siding with the goblins. Oh, and then I agreed that it could take the Cat of Gryffindor if he would leave Harry Potter alone. He was already rather torn between Harry and the Cat, so it wasn't really difficult to convince him to take the Cat. I hope you don't mind, Ronald Weasley, but I'm sure that if you decide that the Cat of Gryffindor is of more value than the soul of your friend the Eudaimony wouldn't mind to swap." All of this, the girl said in a dreamy voice Harry found rather hypnotising.

For several moments, the three third-years just stared at Luna, not knowing what to think about all of this. To them, it seemed that the second-year was slightly insane. Only Ginny didn't seem to be bothered by the way Luna was speaking - and neither the content of her statements. However, Harry wasn't so sure whether this was only due to the fact that as Luna's year-mate, Ginny was likely used to the other girls oddness, or if it wasn't more because of the after-effects of the Dementors. Considering what Hermione had told him and what had happened to Ron's sister the previous school-year, he wouldn't be surprised if Ginny felt just as bad as he did.

"So you just asked the Dementor to leave and it obeyed to you?" Hermione asked doubtfully.

Luna hummed and nodded her head. "Yes. That's what you normally do if you don't enjoy someone presence. I don't know why people keep shooting spells at their fellow creatures, it's rather impolite, I think. Especially considering the fact that Eudaimonies are highly sensitive beings."

Again, this statement was followed by silence.

"Why do you keep calling the Dementors 'Eudaimony?" Hermione, having finally found her voice again, asked.

"Only people who aren't at peace with themselves and their life have to fear Eudaimonies, hence their naming of these wondrous beings. To the rest of us, Eudaimonies are perfectly harmless creatures. Of course, there aren't many of us any more, so I fear that soon, the poor Eudaimonies will just be another one of those completely misunderstood species."

Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged meaningful looks. It was quite obvious that all of them were thinking the same thing: Luna Lovegood and Hagrid surely would make great friends.

With unseeing eyes, Harry looked down on the open book lying on the table in front of him. Those texts were useless! Perhaps he should just forget the whole matter and concentrate on his homework.

He had already read what must have been several dozens of books about Halloween 1981, about the night his parents were killed and Voldemort vanished.

However, non of these books had explained satisfactorily what exactly had happened in the Potter's home in Godric's Hollow, whether Voldemort had been there alone or if he had had enforcers with him, how long Harry had been lying in the rubble of his nursery before Hagrid had taken him out of there, or what had transpired after Voldemort had killed Lily Potter.

Most of the books Harry had consulted so far didn't even mention Sirius Black, and the few that did didn't provide any actual information about the first few hours after Voldemort's demise. Rumours, yes, that trash that called themselves books was full of them, but factual information - no.

If it hadn't been for what Harry had heard and felt during his encounter with the Dementor on the Hogwarts Express two weeks previously - and in all of his run-ins with those creatures that had followed to first one - he might have found it amusing to read about what people believed had happened in the time between Voldemort's arrival at his parent's house and Harry's disappearance in the muggle-world. As things stood, though, he couldn't find any joy even in the most ridiculous stories.

One book claimed that the Saviour of the Wizarding World had absorbed most of Voldemort's magic, making him practically all-powerful and Voldemort little more than a squib, should "those scaremongers" be right and he did one day return.

In another one, Harry had read a fascinating story about him being abducted by goblins before Hagrid had arrived at the scene, who had taken him to Gringotts in order to conduct an inheritance-test (why such a test had to be done by goblins Harry hadn't been able to figure out) in order to prove their theory that in reality, Harry wasn't the son of James and Lily Potter but the love-child of some woman named Bellatrix Lestrange and Voldemort himself, who had been abducted shortly after his birth by Dumbledore in order to raise him to become a weapon. According to this theory, it had been the abduction of her child that had lead to Bellatrix Lestrange becoming mad.

Most authors, however, simply seemed to believe that Harry had been lying in his destroyed crib until Hagrid had arrived an hour or two later and subsequently taken him to his relatives.

That didn't add up.

Harry didn't know much about his early childhood, but Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had told him often enough that November the 2nd 1981 had been the worst day in their life, as it had been the day Harry had arrived.

To ease the pain that resulted from having to relive the memories how they had found a baby on their doorstep, the Dursleys made something special on that day each year. They had visited football games and amusement parks, and in a year when Petunia was particularly upset they had even flown to the Mediterranean for two days.

Harry, of course, had to stay inside his cupboard during those outings, making the day just as painful for him as it was for his family.

There was no doubt in Harry's mind that he had arrived in Surrey on November the 2nd. And even though the books were vague and differed on many aspects, in one thing they were unanimous: That Voldemort had vanished on the eve of Halloween, on the eve of October the 31st.

So what had happened in the 24 hours between the dark wizard's downfall and Hagrid rescuing Harry out of the ruins that had once been his home?

The half-giant himself had told Harry that he had taken him to Little Whinging by a flying motorbike, and Harry had no doubt that a flying motorbike couldn't possibly be slower than an ordinary one. And even if your motorbike was old and slow and if you obeyed every single traffic rule that had ever been invented, it couldn't last more than two to three hours to cover the distance between Godric's Hollow and Little Whinging. So the time the journey had taken only accounted for a fraction of the time that was missing, the time between him getting his scar and being dumbed on the doorsteps of Number 4 Privet Drive.

What had happened in the remaining hours, before Hagrid had taken him?

Until barely two weeks ago, Harry had lived in the believe that Voldemort had been alone when attacking his family. He had never really thought about the time that was missing between the murders and his own arrival at his relatives. Somehow, it had never occurred to him to question what Hagrid and Dumbledore had told him about that night, and any doubts he might have had he had simply explained away.

That was no longer working now, though.

The things he heard when the Dementors were near were clear evidence that something else had happened during that night or the next day, before Hagrid had taken him.

Briefly, Harry had entertained the idea that Hagrid had indeed arrived mere hours after the attack, and then simply hide with baby Harry because of the muggles that must have noticed the explosion of the upper half of the building.

Then, however, he remembered the voices he heard when the Dementors were near. Voices that talked about Voldemort as their master, voices that thought that he, Harry, was the key to bring Voldemort back. Voices that had crucioed Harry.

Harry breathed in deeply to force the dizziness away that was threatening to overcome him. It was bad enough that he heard those voice, felt the pain of the torture curse each time the dreadful guards of Azkaban came too close to him. He didn't need to re-experience those horrible events when he was safely tucked away in a dark corner of the library, too.

This corner of the Hogwarts library had been the place where the boy-who-lived had spent most of his free time since his arrival at the castle about two weeks ago. He was infinitely grateful for his cloak of invisibility, as it provided him with the means to escape from Gryffindor tower during those endless sleepless nights.

It wasn't that Harry couldn't sleep, no. Actually, he felt more tired most of the time than ever. But the recurring nightmares that woke him up several times each night had quickly convinced him that it was better to sleep as little as possible.

To keep himself awake - and to find out what exactly had happened to him that night, what exactly the adults were refusing to tell him - Harry had started to scour the countless bookshelves in the library for more information about himself.

Of course, Ron and Hermione had noticed that Harry spend much more time in Hermione's favourite part of the castle than he had the past two years.

At first, his best female friend had been thrilled, but it had quickly become apparent that Harry hardly dedicated any time to his homework. Not only this, but Harry also refused to tell his friends what exactly he was looking for.

Hermione had told him numerous times that if he just confided in them, they could search together, so that he had more time for his schoolwork. Ron hadn't been thrilled by the prospect of having to read through books that didn't deal with Quidditch, so the boy had been rather glad when Harry had declined Hermione's offer.

As a result of Harry's new-found desire to become a teacher's pet, Ron had started to spend more time with two of his other dorm-mates, Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas. At least these two didn't turn down Ron's invitations to play a game of chess.

He felt a bit bad about abandoning Harry like this, as even to Ron it was obvious that Harry was in a rather bad mood ever since the incident with the Dementor on the train. But then, you could still be friends even if you didn't spend the entire time together, could you? It wasn't as if he and Harry had had a fight or anything like this.

Hermione, of course, had taken to accompany Harry to the library ever since their first day back at the school. She was a bit disappointed when it became apparent that Harry didn't particularly value her offers to help him, but with the amount of work she had to do to keep ahead of all of her classes - she had taken quite a number this year - the smart witch was secretly grateful for Harry's reclusiveness, as it allowed her to work on her own assignments while still not being completely alone amongst the Ravenclaws that mostly populated the library.

And of course, Harry's habit of spending his free time in the library provided her with a perfect opportunity to keep an eye on her best friend without having to neglect her studies.

In contrast to Ron, Hermione doubted that Harry simply was 'in a bad mood'. The changes in him were too fundamental to be explained by something as "after-holidays-depression", something which Ron (and several others) seemed to suffer from.

Just as every year, the teachers had their first big conference about two weeks into the school-year.

At this time, the new first-years had normally halfway settled in and the upper years had once again become used to having daily lessons. The summer work was graded, the first fights had been fought and resolved and it started to become apparent whether a student seemed to struggle in one or more subjects.

This year, though, the most serious problems weren't house rivalries or bad grades.

"How are we supposed to teach the students anything with those monsters being all around the castle? Half of the student's body suffers from depressions and Poppy already had to hand out more than a pound of chocolate!" the agitated Transfiguration-Professor hissed.

"My dear Minerva, I have spoken to Cornelius numerous times and he repeatedly assured me that the Dementors would never enter the castle and didn't pose a threat to the children. It's unfortunate that they cannot enjoy roaming the grounds as they used to, but surely it's better than the alternative. I could never forgive me if Sirius Black attacked one of our students."

"No danger?! Have you forgotten what those- those abysmal beasts did to Harry?!"

"Of course not, Minerva," Dumbledore replied in an infuriatingly calm voice, "I'm well aware that Harry suffers more than most students do. We all know why this is," he looked around the table meaningfully.

"He doesn't only 'suffer' as most students do, Albus. You heard the accounts of Miss Granger, Miss Lovegood and Mr and Miss Weasley. A Dementor attacked Harry, attacked him, Albus! The boy is lucky that Mrs Lovegood was able to drive that creature away from him - however she did accomplish such a feat."

"Now, now, Minerva, we cannot be sure that this is really what happened on the train. The students were distraught when they arrived at the school, they might have misinterpreted the situation - quite understandable, of course, encountering a Dementor for the first time always is a horrible experience. But I'm sure that no Dementor would try to attack a student."

"Clearly Potter exaggerated the incident to get attention," Snape cut in, "the boy is even more insolent than last year. He even had the audacity to completely ignore me during class in favour of scribbling nonsense in his potion textbook!"

"Severus! You saw Harry when he first came into the castle, he looked horrible! Not to mention that he has so far refused to talk about what happened on the Express to anyone - Poppy, his friends, me as his head of house... The boy has been completely withdrawn these past two weeks, you can hardly call this trying to get attention!"

Snape sneered at his colleague but refrained from actually saying anything. Because even though he would never admit it, he had noticed that Potter seemed to be rather bothered by his encounter with the Dementor. Or rather, encounters, as the one on the train hadn't been the only one. Something in the boy-who-lived seemed to attract the Dementors. Potter could hardly leave the castle without being swamped with those creatures.

The Dementors had (so far) refrained from approaching the boy closer than about 150 feet, but even on that distance, they did have an effect on the arrogant Gryffindor.

Of course, his Slytherins - the third years in particular - had quickly picked up on Potter's vulnerability to the Dementors and were taunting him mercilessly. Until now, Snape had let the bullying pass, but not even he, a master in mind magic, could suppress the guilt he was feeling entirely.

As if he didn't know exactly what memories the Dementors forced Potter to re-live again and again and again...

Professor McGonagall - supported by Sprout and Flitwick - lamented over the the presence of prison guards at a school for another five minutes until Dumbledore put his food down and insisted that they needed to move on to more urgent subjects, such as the Quidditch try-outs that would be held the upcoming weekend and surely excite the students to no end.

"No student had suffered any lasting harm from the Dementors. Poppy herself assured me that even Mr Potter only had a slight case of hypothermia upon his arrival at the castle. However," he raised his voice when it seemed that his deputy wanted to interrupt him once again, "I agree with you that we should contemplate the idea of having one or two members of the staff aboard the Express in the future. Now, Minerva, how had Miss Granger reacted to the ministry's refusal to provide her with a time-turner to facilitate her education?"

The transfiguration-Professor grumbled something undoubtfully mutinous before answering her employers question. "Not very well, as you can imagine. However, when I assured her that she still could take all of her electives if she was prepared to study independently, she seemed to be relieved. I warned her about the workload, but she insisted upon taking every class Hogwarts offers. We should keep a close eye on her, though, in order not to miss any signs of exhaustion. I still hope that she will decide to drop one or two subjects of - well, of lesser use," the side-along glance she gave Professor Trelawny didn't go unnoticed by any of her colleagues, except the Divination Professor herself.

Harry hurried through the corridors of his school, deep in thoughts. Once again he had spend the entire evening in the library. He had been so absorbed in his readings that he had missed the bell that signalled that curfew would start soon. Now he could only hope that he wouldn't cross the Potion Master's path, or he would be in trouble.

Not that he cared that much if the hostile man gave him a detention or two. Scrubbing cauldrons would at least give him the opportunity to do something else than constantly brooding over his worst memories.

Only that they couldn't be actual memories, could they?

If he at least knew everything that had happened that night, if he at least could be sure about who the voices belonged to. Slowly but surely, his lack of knowledge was driving him mad.

Despite his best efforts not to give Ron and Hermione any reason to worry (the two of them had been bad enough the first days after the Dementor-incident on the train, constantly nagging him with questions and exchanging worried looks they thought he wouldn't notice), his two best friends were becoming suspicious.

Ron hadn't been too bad. After Harry had told him in no uncertain terms that he wouldn't give up his research in favour of playing chess, the other boy hadn't made any further attempts to bother Harry.

For a short while, Harry had felt guilty after his outburst - Ron had nothing to do with what the Dementors did to him, after all. When he had witnessed Dean, Seamus and his best friend sprawled on the cosy sofas in front of the fireplace in the tower, the latter one laughing roaringly about a joke one of the boys had just told, Harry had felt a small pang of betrayal. Sure, her was glad that Ron wasn't particularly upset by Harry's withdrawal, but it had still hurt to learn how easily his best mate could replace him.

Hermione was a different matter. While she, too, had stopped harassing Harry and trying to get him to talk about what he had seen when the Dementor had tried to attack him, the girl constantly kept her eyes glued to him. Harry could hardly demand that she didn't went to the library quite so often, though. The mere thought made him snort. As if anybody could keep Hermione away from her beloved books.

When he heard footsteps approaching, Harry quickly dashed into a nearby classroom

As quietly as possible, he crept into the corner farthest away from the door and hid in the shadow under one of the windows. Whoever this was would hopefully not search this little chamber of all rooms for any wayward students.

When the sound of the steps started to recede, Harry exhaled and stood up. He would wait for another minute or two before he would make the rest of the way to the tower.

Turning around, he looked out of the window. He was fairly high up in the castle so he had a beautiful view across the grounds.

In the distance, he could see two tiny lights. Hagrid must still be awake, he thought. Tomorrow, he might visit the the kind man. It would be good to speak to someone who - hopefully - wouldn't eye him as if he would collapse any moment.

Harry was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the sudden coldness. Only when somewhere far away, a woman started to scream, he became aware of the creature that was hovering in the air about a hundred feet away from the window. Then, the pain started.

Without sparing a second thought at the risk of being caught by a teacher out of his common room long after curfew, Harry did the only sensible thing he could think of: He turned around and ran. He might be a coward, but he couldn't bear the thought of having to hear everything - and perhaps more - yet again.

He didn't stop until he was only two corridors away from the portrait of the Fat Lady, panting harshly. The miserable summer he had had had completely flattened his stamina.

This had been his fourth run-in with a Dementor, not counting the one on the train to Hogwarts.

The second time had, of course, been when the carriages that brought the students from the train station in Hogsmeade up to the castle had passed the gateway to the grounds.

Harry, still busy trying to convince his friends that he was fine, had been caught completely unaware and promptly passed out for the second time in barely two hours.

This had resulted in rather than enjoying the welcoming feast with his classmates, Harry had found himself in the infirmary where he had been forced to stay the entire night. Luckily, Madame Pomfrey had refrained from casting any diagnostic-charms at him or even doing a physical exam. That would have been simply too much, the whole castle full of teens discovering in one single day that Harry Potter wasn't just too weak to tolerate the mere presence of a Dementor, but also the fact that the boy-who-lived was too pathetic to defend himself against a muggle.

Of course, though, this had been all but a small mercy. From the moment he had entered the Great Hall the next morning onwards, Malfoy and his cronies had ridiculed him. And while the people from the other three houses hadn't joined the Slytherins in their bullying, Harry did have noticed the looks he received from almost everyone. The boy-who-lived too weak to deal with a pathetic Dementor?

His third run-in with a Dementor had been when the Gryffindors were on their way to their first Herbology class of the school year. Out of nowhere, three of the horrible beings had appeared and gone directly after Harry, completely disregarding the other students.

Harry thought that was strange. Weren't Dementors supposed to feed on happy feelings? He sure as hell hadn't been the happiest student amongst that bunch of third years. Or perhaps they sought out those people they could affect the most? Had Hermione been wrong, did Dementors thrive on causing despair rather than robbing their victim of all their happiness?

But then, it hardly mattered, as the fact remained the same: Non of the other student attracted the guards of Azkaban in a similar fashion as Harry did.

That day on the grounds, Harry had still been convinced that he was merely weak. It hadn't occurred to him yet that he was the prime target of the beasts. Therefore, he had just tried to stay calm and relaxed when the Dementors had swooped down on him, mostly in order to avoid being ridiculed by the Slytherins even more.

Despite the incredible coldness, Harry had started to sweat.

Then, the screams had started and his vision had become blurry. Dimly, he had noticed that he had started to sway and the hand that was grabbing his side, trying to keep him on his feet.

Harry didn't know how long Hermione, whose hand had hold him up, as he had learned when he had woken up in the infirmary much later, how long she had managed to keep him upright, as by then, the screaming of the woman had given way to a mad laughter.

It wasn't the high, cold voice of Voldemort he had heard during his previous encounters with Dementors, though. No, it had been a woman's voice that had laughed and laughed and laughed and finally screamed the word Harry would never be able to forget.

"Crucio!"

Harry's head had exploded and everything he felt was pain.

There simply were no words to describe the agony that curse - and Harry was sure that it was a curse, even if he had never heard it before - caused him. The pain was all-encompassing, it was as if his humanity simply ceased to exist.

Even now when he was only thinking about that moment - hours, weeks, an eternity - while being completely safe inside the castle, Harry had to gag.

And then it had stopped.

The next thing he knew was that a strange, hissing voice was whispering peculiar sounding words into his ear. He seemed to be lying on some sort of hard surface and the smell of burning was lying heavily in the air.

"It's enough. Wormtail, take that beast away from the boy, it's obviously not working. I think we need to employ more... straightforward means."

"Bu-but our Ma-ma-master ne-never let me han-handle hi-hi-his precious sna-snake," a man with a disgustingly sweet voice protested, "I really do-don't think he wo-wo-would want me to-"

The far harsher voice of a man answered the man obviously called 'Wormtail'. "Coward! If the snake kills you it won't be a great loss, you filthy rat. Now go, before I murder you personally!"

"O-of co-o-ours, Yaxley," Wormtail answered, defeated.

A few moments later, the voice belonging to Yaxley spoke once again. "Hand me the ritual knife, Bellatrix."

When the cold metal cut into his forehead, the pitiful cries of a baby filled Harry's ears.

It was only in the evening of the same day that Harry had woken up again, several hours after the Dementors had been forced to return to their posts at the edge of the grounds and the unconscious boy had been brought to the infirmary.

Neither Ron nor Hermione (both of whom had waited at their friend's bedside for him to wake up) could tell Harry what exactly had driven the Dementors away. They only knew that Hagrid had snatched his limp form away from the dark creatures even before several teachers - attracted by the screams of a great deal of Gryffindors ans Slytherins alike - had arrived at the scene, shooting silvery stuff out of their wands towards the dark creatures.

After Hagrid had rushed him to the hospital wing, Madame Pomfrey had apparently run several tests on Harry while the boy was still unconscious, but either she hadn't found any clue why he was so vulnerable to the prison guards or she had decided that it was better for Harry not to know the details, as she had simply released him with a stern admonition to stay as far away from the Demetors as possible

Harry let out a bitter laugh as he remembered her words. As if he sought out those creatures voluntarily.

Well, but at least the medi-witch had decided that the Dementors couldn't have possible harmed him physically and therefore, she had refrained from doing more than casting spells at him. While his bruises were slowly fading, Harry doubted that Madame Pomfrey would not have noticed them when actually doing a physical exam.

It took another attack before the teachers started to realize that it was not Gryffindorish recklessness that was the cause of all the trouble Harry had found himself into not even two weeks into the school-year.

Oliver Wood had been quite adamant about starting Quidditch-training early and so it was that Harry, together with the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch-team, had been speeding through the air above the Quidditch pitch, throwing the Quaffle to each other in order to warm up for the actual training, when the Dementors had decided to attack for the fourth time.

As soon as Harry had felt the first bouts of coldness, he hadn't wasted any further time and had flown straight towards the castle. Being regarded as a coward was better than experiencing everything he had heard and seen and felt during the previous incidents yet another time. At least that time, no Slytherin had been present and it had only been his team-mates that had witnessed his shame.

It took the rest of the team several moments to realized why their seeker had left. Then, they had followed him straight.

That time, Harry managed to avoid passing out and therefore having to endure Madame Pomfrey's care for a third time. Of course, though, Harry's fellow Gryffindors insisted upon telling their head of house about the most recent attack, despite Harry's protests that it didn't really matter as the teachers were well aware of his susceptibility to Dementors.

This time, though, not even Snape had been able to claim that Harry had, with his usual Gryffindor bravado, disregarded the headmaster's warning and come too close to the borders of the school-grounds. Unlike the greenhouses, the Quidditch pitch, being situated between the castle and the Forbidden Forest, was not even close to the borders of the grounds. There was no way that the Dementors should have felt the presence of a human soul with the Gryffindors being on the pitch.

It had been after this fourth incident that the heads of houses had decided that it was too dangerous for the students to leave the castle unaccompanied.

From the following day onwards, the theoretical lessons in Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures were relocated to one of the unused classrooms inside the castle, and the younger students were forbidden to make their way to the practical classes without at least one teacher or NEWT-student present. Even the Quidditch practice was strictly supervised

Most students found it annoying, but even if he wouldn't admit it (it wouldn't do to show even more weakness), Harry was grateful. Since the new rules had come into force, he hadn't been attacked again.

Well, until this very evening, that was.

Although you could hardly call him seeing a Dementor staring at him from about 100 feet away an attack, or could you?

But why, why kept those creatures following him? How was it possible for them to sense Harry even from that far away? Would they ever leave him in peace again? Or would the guards of Azkaban hunt him down until they had gotten his soul?

"Password?"

The voice startled Harry. Without him really noticing, his feet had carried him to the entrance of Gryffindor Tower.

"Fortuna Major," Harry replied quickly, hoping to avoid a lecture by the Fat Lady about being out of his common room after curfew.

"Hmpf," the Fat Lady, clearly annoyed, stated, but she had no other choice than to allow the wayward boy in.

As Harry had expected, given how late he was, the common room was almost empty. What he hadn't expected, though, was finding his two friends sitting in a dim corner, obviously waiting for him.

Now that he thought about it, it wasn't really a surprise that Ron and Hermione hadn't gone to bed without making sure that Harry safely returned to the tower. The three of them had practically been inseparable for the last two years. But after his behaviour of the last two weeks Harry thought it odd that they would still be willing to forego sleep for him.

Well, perhaps if Hermione had threatened Ron not to check his homework any longer if he didn't agree to wait for their friend? That would have surely convinced the red-head. And the witch herself hadn't seemed at all disconcerted by Harry's refusal to acknowledge her presence in the library or talk to her more than absolutely necessary.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed once she had caught sight of him.

"Hi Hermione, Ron," Harry responded quietly, avoiding the girl's eyes.

He wasn't sure why he was so reluctant to talk to his friends.

Yes, there was the fact that he couldn't bear the thought of Ron and Hermione looking at him with pity, and he certainly wanted to avoid that rumours spread that he was mentally unstable or even dangerous. He hadn't forgotten second year. But if he didn't stop being affected by the Dementors the way he was, those rumours would soon start anyway, he suspected.

No, the real reason he was distancing himself from his friends was that Harry felt that the appearance of the Dementors had somehow plunged him into a completely different world. A world made of darkness, pain, curses, fire, stench, fear, madness. A world that bore no semblance to the peaceful, ordered and benign world of Hogwarts. A world that Harry feared would drive him into insanity sooner or later.

But the worst was that in this world, Harry was completely alone.

Seeing Ron and Hermione and everything they represented, what could have been his, Harry's, if it hadn't been for... for That... it was simply too much to bear.

And so Harry made his way through the common room, nodding at his best friends, before simply vanishing behind the door that lead to the boys' dormitories.

He felt completely hollow.

Ron looked at Hermione with raised eye-brows. "See, I told you! He doesn't want to have anything to do with us. Don't know why you are bothering."

"Because he's our best friend, Ronald!" Hermione answered sharply.

"Well, he clearly has lost his interest. We should just leave him alone, I'm sure he'll come to us sooner or later, once he realizes that he cannot possibly beat you in reading the entire library as quickly as possible. Or perhaps he's still embarrassed about fainting whenever the Dementors are near. If it had been me I would sure as hell not leaving the dorm except for meals and classes!"

Hermione gave an impatient sigh. Maybe she had been too generous when granting Ron the emotional scope of a teaspoon.

"Some of you might already have heard about a magical creature named 'Boggart'," Professor Lupin, the new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, smiled at the third-years that had formed a semicircle around a dark, occasionally-shaking cupboard on one end of the teacher's room.

Some of the students shifted and a few turned pale. Most of them stared at the professor blankly, though.

"A Boggart is a dark creature of unknown appearance. His physical characteristics are unknown because- yes, Miss Granger?"

"Boggarts are shape-shifters. They will take whatever form they sense the human facing them most fears, so naturally, nobody knows what a Boggart looks like if it's completely alone. There are a few theories, of course, I have read several books about dark creatures, and Melville Metus suggests that Boggarts don't have an actual form while being alone at all, he claims that they are practically spirit-like, while Timothy Timor wrote they are-"

"Yes, yes, correct, very good, Miss Granger, but I'm afraid we won't cover those theories just now," Professor Lupin interrupted the eager girl. He turned back to the class in general. "Now, as Miss Granger explained, a Boggart will turn into an image of your biggest fear. It won't be able to harm you, though, so even if your biggest fear is being killed by an Inferius, the Boggat will merely take the form of an Inferius and act in a threatening manner. Let me assure you that this has been enough to drive some powerful witches and wizards insane, though, so you shouldn't take this lessons lightly even if you are in no danger of physical injuries."

"Now, Boggarts like small, dark spaces, and as surely all of you have already guessed, one of these nasty little creatures has moved into this cupboard here during the summer. We will spend today's lesson learning how to get rid of it. There is a neat little spell that's easy to learn but difficult to cast effectively when faced with a Boggart. The incantation is 'Ridiculous'. Now, please repeat this - without your wands for now."

Obediently, the class followed the instructions, some of them warily, some of them - those who hadn't forgotten the highly dangerous pixies their last teacher in this subject had presented them with - with barely contained contempt.

Just as in every other class this school-year, Harry stood at the very back of the room in order to avoid the constant pointing and staring. He tried to listen to Professor Lupin's words, but he could hardly keep his eyes open. The last few nights had been a nightmare - literally. Each and every time he had fallen asleep he had dreamed about the screams of his mother, the maniac laughter of Voldemort, Bellatrix Lestrange casting an Unforgivable at him, Yaxley cutting open his forehead and the hissing voice of Nagini that ordered him to release her master.

With every passing day Harry felt worse, despite everything he had found out about what must have happened the night his parents had been murdered . Or what his head made him believe had happened, Harry wasn't sure about this. Perhaps he had really gone insane and was imagining things.

Because how for Merlin's sake was this possible?

How was it possible that something like this had happened and no one - Hagrid, Dumbledore, anyone who had seen him after That Night - had noticed a thing? Or perhaps they had noticed but didn't care? Hell, they might even condone what those Death Eaters had done to him, thinking that it would make Harry weaker and therefore reducing the chances that he, being exposed to dark magic at such an early age, would become dark himself.

And even though he had - until now - refused to believe it, there was that little voice inside Harry's mind that told him that with the help of a little bit of Polyjuice Potion, it could even have been Dumbledore and his allies themselves that had tortured him.

He really had to stop thinking these things. Those thoughts were making him feeling sick.

And you never knew whether there was some sort of magic that allowed other people to read your thoughts. If Harry had learned anything during the time he had spent in the wizarding world, then that nothing was impossible. And no one, not a single human being, must find out about his thoughts. Because if his theories were correct, once they discovered that Harry had started to question their loyalty, Dumbledore and everyone who was involved in this ploy surely would make sure that Harry once again became the naïve, oblivious little boy.

Well, and if his theories weren't correct than all of Harry's friends would be disappointed in him and probably punish him because those thoughts were proof enough that Harry was evil.

By now, the class had proceeded to practising the wand-movement of the spell designed to fight the Boggart. Harry quickly took his own wand and copied his classmates' swings and swirls. He didn't want to earn a detention for not paying attention in class. From their first lesson onwards, the new DADA teacher had given Harry weird looks. He wasn't sure what to make of the man.

At first, he had been convinced that Professor Lupin didn't like him, but whenever the Professor had talked to Harry (which hadn't been often, mind you), he was very kind. The stares unnerved Harry still, though.

"Very good, class," Professor Lupin smiled at the assembled third-years, "I think you are ready to try this spell on the Boggart. Please stand in a line and leave enough space in front of the cupboard. You'll fight the Boggart one after the other, everyone will have his or her turn. Remember what I told you about thinking of something that will make your Boggart look funny. Laughter is the most effective weapon against those creatures. Casting the spell without any amusing thoughts in your mind will not do them any harm."

Harry swallowed convulsively. He must have zoned out longer than he had thought, as he couldn't remember the Professor telling them anything about making the Boggart look funny. How was he supposed to do this? He wasn't even sure what form his Boggart would take, so how was he supposed to think of something that would make him laugh when facing the beast?

Luckily, Harry managed to get a position at the end of the line of mostly eager students without it being to obvious that he would rather not fight the Boggart. Now at least he would have some time to gather his thoughts before being faced with his biggest fear.

But what would it be? What was his biggest fear?

Yes, there was Voldemort. But apart from the face that had stuck out of Quirrel's head back in first year, Harry had no idea how that guy looked like. So how would the Boggart be able to take his form? And then, it wasn't as if he really feared Voldemort very much. Of course, on some kind of abstract level, he was afraid of the evil wizard. The man wanted him dead and everything. But dying was hardly Harry's greatest fear...

But what other form was his Boggart likely to take?

Bellatrix Lestrange? Yaxley? Nagini, Lord Voldemort's snake? That of the mysterious person called "Wormtail"?

A few days ago, Harry had decided that books that only dealt with what Voldemort had done to him and his parents would not get him anywhere. Therefore, he had moved on to the texts that were more about the war in general, about the dark wizard's history, how he had gained followers and the crimes they had committed before their master's downfall.

And there, he had found the names he couldn't get out of his mind since the Dementors had forced him to remember the worst hours of his life - or parts of them, at least.

Both Bellatrix Lestrange and Yaxley had been high-ranking followes of Voldemort. Death Eaters. While Bellatrix Lestrange - together with her husband and her brother - had been imprisoned in Azkaban shortly after the war, for reasons Harry didn't understand Yaxley had remained free.

As Harry had already guessed after thinking about the memory more carefully, Nagini was a snake. Voldemort 'pet-snake', to be precise.

But Wormtail? Non of the books he had consulted had mentioned someone with this name, and Harry thought that it had to be some kind of weird nick-name. So 'Wormtail' could literally be everyone.

Therefore, it was all but impossible for the Boggart to take the appearance of Wormtail. Probably equally unlikely was it that it would take the form of Nagini, as Harry wasn't afraid of snakes at all, no matter who the owner of the animal was.

That only left Bellatrix Lestrange and Yaxley. Both of whom Harry had found pictures in one of the books.

But then, there had been pictures of various other Death Eaters. And who knew whether those three had been the only one present that evening? Weren't all Death Eaters equally dangerous and blood-thirsty? And then, it weren't really the Death Eaters he was afraid of, but rather what they had done to him... and the fact that he wasn't sure whether the pieces he remembered were everything that had happened or whether they had done other, perhaps even more horrible things to him.

So what form would a Boggart take if one's biggest fear were the unknown horrors you had to go through in the past?

And then he couldn't rule out the possibility that the Boggart would take on a completely different form. The one of a Dementor. Or - and here Harry almost started to hyperventilate, which earned him a sneer from the Hufflepuff standing in front of him - it could assume the appearance of his Uncle.

Harry didn't know whether he should be more afraid of having to face Uncle Vernon at Hogwarts or the reaction his classmates would undoubtedly have on the revelation that Harry Potter's biggest fear was to confronted with his enraged muggle relative.

The line of students in front of Harry became shorter and shorter and with each student that fought the Boggart, Harry's nervousness increased. When it was Ron's turn, a gigantic spider - not dissimilar to the Acrumantulas they had met last year - appeared in front of the cupboard, and Harry managed a small smile. This was so... Ron.

Now that he paid more attention to his classmates, he noticed that most of them seemed to be afraid of dark or dangerous creatures of one type or another.

That was odd.

As far as Harry was concerned, there were far more dreadful things than Banshees and Mummies and scary teachers. Like your family being tortured or murdered in front of you. Or being locked up for days on end, not knowing whether you would make it out of your prison alive. Being abandoned by your friends.

Of course, it would be rather humiliating if those fears were played out in front of a whole class of nosy teens. And now that he thought about it, he couldn't be the only one who had suffered from the effects of the last wizarding war, could he? Other students must have endured similar awful things.

Would a teacher really risk that your most terrible experiences became known to the entire school? Or hadn't Professor Lupin said the entire truth when explaining how a Boggart worked? Then, perhaps, Harry didn't have to worry about his memories becoming public...

"Your turn, Miss Granger," Professor Lupin called once a Hufflepuff Harry didn't know had reduced what Harry was quite sure had been a vampire to a pile of ash.

Only one student left, then it would be Harry's turn. If only the lesson was already over...

Just as if Hogwarts had heard Harry's silent pleas, the bell that announced the end of the lesson rang. Maybe...?

"Don't worry about the bell, I will inform your respective teachers that we needed a few more minutes to finish off that Boggart," Professor Lupin smiled at them as if he had just presented them with a particularly large gift.

Well, most of the third-years that hadn't yet fought the Boggart did look relieved, Hermione in particular, despite the fact that her Boggart had just turned into a teacher Harry didn't know who started to humiliate the girl for only getting 95 percent of the marks in a test instead of the usual 100 one.

Harry had no idea whether this was something that had really happened to his friend or not, but he supposed that Hermione's obsession with getting perfect marks in every single subject had to have its reasons.

"Ridiculous!" shouted a determined-looking Hermione, and suddenly, the advancing teacher was completely naked.

"And Mr Smith, please," the Professor called, nodding approvingly at Hermione.

Shit shit shit. In a few seconds, Professor Lupin would call him and Harry still had no idea what form his Boggart would take - let alone how he was supposed to force the creature to look funny. He prayed that he wouldn't loose it in front of the entire classroom when he was confronted with what supposedly was be his biggest fear.

For a brief moment, Harry had the crazy idea that perhaps the Boggart would be equally confused about what exactly Harry Potter's biggest fear was as the boy himself. If the beast tried to take on the form of Voldemort, Bellatrix Lestrange, a Dementor and Uncle Vernon at the same time, perhaps it would be enough for Harry to summon the mirth to successfully cast the spell...

A sound that was a mixture of a sob and a laugh escaped him, but nobody noticed. Or at least this was what Harry thought. He didn't notice the concerned gaze Hermione was giving him.

"Mr Potter, your turn!"

The door of the staff room opened but Harry didn't notice. His heart was pounding so hard, it almost felt as if the organ tried to escape his much-too-tight chest.

He stepped forward. There was a sluggish, bright orange mass on the floor which had to be the remnants of his predecessor's Boggart.

Before Harry could figure out what exactly this was, the mud started to transform.

In less than a second, a fully fledged Dementor was hovering in the middle of the teacher's room, only three or four feet away from Harry.

The screaming started instantly. Only this time, it wasn't in Harry's head.

"Not Harry, please, take me instead, not my son!"

For the briefest moment, the hooded head of the Boggart - of the Dementor - shifted into the grey face of Voldemort.

"Stand aside, you silly girl - AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Green light filled the room.

As if hit by a spell, Harry fell to the ground.

Before he could regain his bearings, a sharp kick in his ribs forced the breath out of him.

"BOY! You will pay for this!" A second kick hit Harry in the head. His vision started to blacken. "Hexing Marge! After everything we have done for you. You will move back to your cupboard, freak, we should never have you let out of there in the first place!"

The pain that shot through him after a well aimed kick in his private parts was so fierce, Harry actually lost consciousness for a moment or two.

When he opened his eyes again, Bellatrix Lestrange looked back at him, her twisted face only inches away from his own.

"CRUCIO!"

"RIDICULOUS!" A voice, vaguely familiar, shouted from somewhere far, far away. It was the last thing Harry heard before passing out for good.

When the Potion Master had entered the staff room right after an irritably cheerful Flitwick, the last thing he had expected was to find half of the third-years assembled around an open cupboard, a pile of slime even more disgusting than the average potion-ingredient dumbed in front of it.

The only thing that was even more startling then the fact that Lupin hadn't bothered to levitate the cupboard out of what should be a place where the teachers were safe from the annoying little blighters was Potter. Or, more precisely, the terrified expression on the face of the normally arrogant clone of his father.

Yes, he remembered the headmaster saying something about giving the werewolf permission to let his students practice the Boggart-banishing spell on the being that had made itself at home between spare robes and other, long forgotten items, but that didn't mean that he had been prepared for... this.

The clothes of the large group of students on the right side of the room where in various stages of disarray. For Lupin's sake, Snape really hoped that this were the ones that had already fought the Boggart - there was no way he would wait what likely would be an hour in order to retire to a staff room that wasn't contaminated with pupils!

"Oh my-" the diminutive charm's professor let out a squeak, which drew Snape's attention away from the delightful images about the entirety of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff third-years scrubbing cauldrons in order to make up for ruining the potion master's break.

Well, that was unexpected. Of course, he had known about Potter's vulnerability to the Dementors, but he hadn't expected that the arrogant brat would be more afraid of the guards of Azkaban than of the man who had killed his mother and nearly him, too. How typically of a Gryffindor, being foolishly brave when it came to life-and-death situations but cowardly when being confronted with the less pleasant aspects of life.

His internal rant was cut short when an all too familiar voice started to scream.

"Not Harry, please, take me instead, not my son!"

Snape froze when he heard Lily's please for mercy, the desperate attempts of the witch to protect her son from the vilest wizard that had ever existed. He had cradled Lily's body only minutes after her death, but he hadn't been there during the last moments of the only human being he had ever loved with all his heart.

The pain the memories caused was so intense that for a few moments, he could only stand there and watch in silent horror how the Boggart changed into Voldemort.

When the green light of the killing curse flashed through the room, several students screamed. No one of them had ever seen Voldemort, but they knew enough to recognize the ashen face as that of the man they were too afraid to even name.

When Harry Potter fell to the ground, almost as if he had indeed been hit by the killing curse, Snape could hear the sound of vomiting from the other side of the room. For a heart-stopping moment, the Potion Master himself thought that the boy he had sworn to protect was dead.

He was almost glad when an incredibly obese man appeared where moments ago, Voldemort had been standing. And even when the man started to kick the half-conscious Gryffindor on the floor, yelling insults, Snape only felt relieved. The Boggart wouldn't focus on a lifeless person. The dead didn't feel fear any more.

Finally, just when the Boggart had transformed into Bellatrix Lestrange and was about to cast the cruciatus curse at the boy, Snape came out of his daze. Even Lupin seemed to be too stunned to prevent a student from being tortured right in front of him so-

"RIDDIKULUS!" Snape shouted, pointing his wand at the twisted face of the Dark Lord's most loyal (and insane) follower. For the briefest moment, a red-haired figure appeared where Bellatrix had been standing. Then, with a final wave of his wand, the figure exploded and dissolved into thin air.

The silence that now filled the room was eerie.

"Lupin," Snape snarled, when his former classmate just continued to stare at the son of one of his best friend's, "you'd better get Madame Pomfrey to take care of Potter and the rest of your students."

That rose the DADA-Professor from his paralysis. To his credit, he sent off a silvery figure with instructions for the medi-witch to come to the teacher's room as quickly as possible before starting to apologize to his colleague.

"Severus, I'm so sorry - that shouldn't have happened! Who knows what else the Boggart would have done to Harry if you hadn't arrived in time. I really-"

"Stop the rambling," Snape bit back through gritted teeth, "that wouldn't have happened if you had used the brain you are rumoured to possess before allowing Harry Potter of all people to fight a Boggart. I cannot imagine you have forgotten what became of your friends!"

"Now now, Severus, I'm sure that Remus here only had Harry's best interest at heart. It is really not that common that the beings a Boggart mimics can actually do physical harm to their victims," Professor Flitwick tried to sooth the agitated potion professor down.

Before Lupin or Snape could continue with their self-incrimination respectively verbal abuse, the tiny professor stepped towards the students that were huddled in the far corner of the teacher's room, as far away from the scene of the horrific battle as possible.

"Everything is fine now, children," the charms professor assured the frightened third-years, "Madame Pomfrey will take care of Mr Potter and your friend will be up and about in no time. No need to be embarrassed, Mr Longbottom, this can happen to the best of us if we are confronted with a sight like this," without further ado, he vanished the puddle of sick in front of the shy boy.

While Flitwick took care of the oh-so-traumatized students, Snape turned his attention to the black-haired boy still lying on the ground. While this normally would be Lupin's job - being both the teacher responsible for the mess and friend of the boy's parents - the now-shaking werewolf was in no condition to deal with the boy - brat.

"Potter? Potter!" Snape, crouching down next to Harry, spit.

The boy gave no indication whatsoever that he was aware of his most-hated teacher kneeling next to him.

Snape huffed. Of course the boy had passed out again. With more care than he would ever admit of having used, the teacher turned the pale third-year on his back. A thin layer of sweat was covering Potter's face.

Feeling his pulse, the potion professor was relieved to find that it was steady and strong, if a bit fast. His breathing, too, didn't seem to be laboured, but nevertheless Snape decided not to move the boy unnecessarily before Pomfrey arrived.

He had seen the kicks the Boggart had given him while imposing whoever the fat man had been. It was unlikely that the Boggart had managed to cause any real damage, but then, it was equally unlikely that a Boggart turned into several different forms in such a quick succession and that what had to be memories of That Night were played out loud without the Boggart taking on the form of the person that had originally spoken those words.

And clearly, Potter's Boggart hadn't turned into Lily when her screams had echoed through the teacher's room.

Leave it to Potter to run into trouble when dealing with a creature most second-years wouldn't have difficulty dealing with. But then, he really couldn't blame the boy for this stunt, the potion master silently admitted, not with Snape himself - an adult - still having trouble dealing with Boggarts.

But why, why couldn't the boy not be like his classmates for once and turning the Boggart into one nice and simple form that acted like a Boggart was supposed to act - doing no physically damage, being mostly silent and certainly not repeating the last words of long-dead people?

#####

The sound of a door being banged open interrupted Snape's train of thoughts.

"Professor Lupin, what happened?" the medi-witch demanded, "your note was a bit vague."

"Harry- I mean Mr Potter. We are currently covering Boggarts and were practising the Riddikulus-spell... I didn't realize this would be more than the poor boy could handle. And then, when Lily's voice started to scream- I was too shocked to do anything... Thankfully, Professor Snape arrived just in time to prevent the child from being tortured-"

If Snape hadn't interrupted the werewolf, Lupin would probably have continued his ramble. "Potter failed to cast the correct spell and fell unconscious. His Boggart turned into several different forms and even attacked him physical. I have not yet determined the damage the creature has caused, so you'd better get to work quickly. You Lupin," the potion master reached into one of the many pockets of his cloak and produced a small, crystal flask, "you will take this one and get the damned students out of here!"

When his colleague eyed him uncertainly, Snape rolled his eyes. "If I wanted to poison you I would wait until next week."

After he had drowned the calming draught, Lupin managed to pull himself together enough to make the students, who had by now started to gape shamelessly at the still unconscious boy, follow him out of the teacher's room. All except for two, that was.

"You will leave, too, Miss Granger, Mr Weasley," Snape barked at the two Gryffindors.

Ron paled even further when he received a glare normally reserved for Harry. He shrugged apologetically at Hermione before turning around, all but running from the room.

Hermione looked after Ron darkly before she bravely declared, "I won't leave Harry. I'm his friend and I want to know what happened to him and whether he'll be all right!"

"Miss Granger, I promise that you can visit Mr Potter once he has woken up, but for now, I need to ask you to leave. I need to examine my patient and I'm sure that even though he is your friend, Mr Potter wouldn't be comfortable with you witnessing his exam."

Hermione hesitated, but finally, she gave in. "Right. I will come to visit him after our next class. You'll take care of him, will you?"

When the witch had left, Madame Pomfrey turned towards the potion professor. "As far as I can tell, the boy is in no immediate danger. I will take him to the infirmary to do further tests, though. Could you please accompany me and give me a more detailed version of what happened here? Knowing what to look for would make it easier to determined whether Mr Potter has suffered any damage or not."

Snape gruffly muttered his agreement and followed the medi-witch, who was levitating a stretcher with the unconscious Potter-boy, through the floors to the hospital wing.

"... and since Lupin was incapable of doing anything except stare at what was happening, I cast the appropriate spell just in time to prevent the Boggart from uttering the second Unforgivable in barely a minute." Snape finished from where he was standing on the other side of the curtains that shielded the bed Harry Potter was lying on from the rest of the infirmary.

Madame Pomfrey mumbled something unintelligibly before casting a final spell and reappearing from behind the curtains.

"Magically, there is nothing wrong with the boy," she frowned, "well, apart from the slight fuzziness in the spells that has been there ever since the first time he came into my care."

Snape looked up interestedly, but the medi-witch shook her head. "You are neither his guardian nor his head of house, I cannot tell you anything. But as Mr Potter never complained about any unusual symptoms, I don't think it's anything we need to worry about - or at least not now. I still need to do a more thorough physical exam, though. Of course, the scanning spells didn't show anything, but you know how it is, they'd only show the most sever types of injuries that actually pose a strain to the wizard's magic.

Just then, a groan came out from behind the curtains.

Harry felt like shit. His whole body ached and he wondered what he had done this time to enrage Uncle Vernon enough to warrant a beating of this magnitude.

"Ah, Mr Potter, you are awake, very good," a cheerful, decidedly female voice suddenly spoke from somewhere above him.

Harry's eyes snapped open. What the- oh. The distinct face of the resident medi-witch of Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry slowly came into focus. He had really hoped that he would at least be able to avoid Madame Pomfrey until after the first Quidditch-match of the season. Not such luck, apparently.

But what could have happened that had resulted in his current condition? Had he fallen down the stairs like Neville had last year? Had he stumbled into a fight with Slytherins?

The image of a enormous black creature hovering directly in front of him swam into the forefront of his mind. A second or so later, the screams of his mother echoed through his head. A Dementor, then.

"Mr Potter, do you know why you're here?" the voice of the normally strict medi-witch was surprisingly soft.

"Ehm, a Dementor?" Harry offered.

"Close, but not quite. You passed out during Defence against the Dark Arts when the Boggart-" here, Harry briefly closed his eyes. Of course, the Boggart. He quickly focused back on the medi-witch's word, though, "yes, the Boggart Professor Lupin taught you about turned into a Dementor - and several other beings, if I have understood Professor Snape correctly."

Harry's head jerked around when Madame Pomfrey mentioned his most-hated professor. Sure enough, there he was, hovering at the edge of the curtains that blocked his bed from the main part of the hospital wing.

"Trust me, Potter, I'm about to be as thrilled at being here as you are," Snape growled, correctly interpreting Harry's look of horror.

Perfect, just perfect! Now the greasy git would make fun of his weakness probably until he left school, Harry thought bitterly. Why had Snape even been present when he had tried, and failed, to fight the Boggart? DADA was taught by Lupin, not Snape!

Then, however, Harry remembered that they had been in the staff room, and that the bell had already announced the end of the lesson. Great. Then how many other teachers had witnessed how Harry Potter had passed out because of a simple Boggart?

Madame Pomfrey cleared her throat. "I have already checked on you while you were unconscious. As far as I can tell, the Boggart and the creatures it turned into haven't done you any real harm, at least not magic-wise. I still need to examine you for any injuries that my spells might have been unable to detect."

"What things did it turn into, I mean apart from the Dementor?" Harry blurted out. He couldn't remember anything after coming face-to-face with one of these awful creatures, feeling the freezing cold, hearing the screams of his mother and Voldemort.

Madame Pomfrey looked at the potion master, and after a few moments of silent communication, it was Snape that spoke, looking at Harry intently. He hated to admit it, but he was rather intrigued by what he had witnessed.

"The Dark Lord's head appeared instead of the hood of the Dementor. Then, the Boggart turned into an severely obese man I was unable to identify. And finally, it shifted into the form of Bellatrix Lestrange."

Harry forced himself to remain calm. Throwing a fit or starting to scream in frustration wouldn't make his situation any better. The very thing he had hoped to avoid had happened: All of his classmates - not to mention Snape, of all people - now knew about what he was experiencing when facing Dementors. They all knew about things Harry had hoped to keep secret for the rest of his life. They knew and had probably already started to gossip about what they had seen, to spread rumours about what these things meant.

The next few days would be a nightmare.

"Mr Potter, are you ready for me to start the examination?"

'NO,' Harry inwardly screamed. He wasn't ready, and wouldn't be ready for quite some time. This wasn't happening, this couldn't be happening, all of his most-guarded secrets being discovered in one single day!

"I will take my leave, then," Snape said, nodding curtly towards the medi-witch.

"Of course, Severus," Madame Pomfrey sighed, "thank you for your assistance."

With one last indecipherable look at Harry, the potion master turned around and strode towards the doors that led out of the infirmary, his cloak billowing in its usual manner.

#####

"I need you to remove your clothes, Mr Potter. Please dress in the gown lying on your bedside table. I will be back momentarily."

Maybe she wouldn't notice. Maybe the injuries inflicted by his Uncle had healed enough for them to go undetected. Most of the bruises were already yellowing, after all, and the fierce ache in his left arm had reduced to a dull throbbing. He could even breathe normally again, his ribs having obviously healed.

So maybe...?

Once he was dressed in a gown that was open in the back, Harry sat awkwardly on the bed, waiting for the medi-witch to return.

"You are far too skinny, Mr Potter," Madame Pomfrey noted absent-mindedly when she re-entered the cubicle.

Harry scowled at his lap. As if it was his fault that Dudley ate so much that there were hardly any leftovers left once he was finished. Fortunately, the nurse didn't seem to intend to dwell on this subject.

"Well then, please lie down for me. I will first cast a few additional spells, you won't feel more than a slight tingling."

The last two year had taught Harry enough about the medi-witch to realize that any protest would be in vain. So he simply let the woman do her spells, his eyes resolutely focused on the ceiling, praying to whatever deity there was that she wouldn't discover his secret.

Because it wasn't as if she could help him anyway, was it?

His wounds had healed and no matter whether someone learned about what had happened at Privet Drive, he would have to return there nevertheless. Dumbledore had been quite adamant about Harry having to stay with his relatives every summer in order to be safe. And it wasn't really that bad. By next summer, his Uncle surely had calmed down again and Harry wouldn't need to worry about being seriously injured. And bruises could hardly be called serious injuries. He had had them practically constantly for as long as he could remember, and it wasn't as if this had done him any real harm.

"Mr Potter, why haven't you told me that you broke your left arm during the holidays?" Madame Pomfrey frowned at her patient.

"I- uhm, well, I though..." frantically, Harry tried to come up with a credible excuse, "it happened right at the beginning of the summer and my relatives took me to a muggle doctor. It was completely healed several weeks before school started, so I didn't think that there was any need to bother you."

The medi-witch's scowl became more prominent. "I don't appreciate it being being lied to, Mr Potter. From what my scans are showing me, the break only occurred four to six weeks ago. And while it indeed has healed rather well by muggle-standarts, magic can do a much better job. When we are finished here, I will provide you with a salve that contains small amounts of Skele-Grow. Don't worry," she reassured him when Harry paled, apparently remembering the last time he had to take this particular potion, "it won't be nearly as bad as taking the potion orally. If you apply the cream regularly for the next two weeks, the break should heal completely."

Harry mutely nodded. If making him using a cream on his arm for one or two weeks was all the medi-witch would do, all of his worries would have been unnecessary.

"Now, if you would please remove the grown, I need to see whether your run-in with the Boggart has caused any damage spells are unable to detect."

Reluctantly, Harry did as he was bid.

"Didn't I tell you to remove your clothes before dressing the gown?" Madame Pomfrey asked, hiding her amusement. This was hardly the first time a student hadn't considered their underwear to be clothes as well. She was nurse in a school full of teens. Hardly anyone of the students stripped stark naked voluntarily.

Harry blushed fiercely. "But the Boggart hardly did anything, and it wasn't the first time I fainted because of those Dementors!" he tried to argue.

"I wouldn't call casting dark curses and kicking you into the side nothing, Mr Potter."

"But it was only a Boggart! Professor Lupin told us that they cannot really harm us!"

"And still the Boggart affected you enough to stay unconscious for about fifteen minutes. What you experienced was hardly a normal occurrence, Mr Potter, and therefore, I will make sure that you haven't sustained any injuries. Now, please take off your underwear. The sooner you comply, the sooner you'll be able to leave my care."

Harry cast a dark look at the medi-witch. This was so embarrassing! And worse, it was completely unnecessary. He was fine! He didn't understand what all the fuss was about. Yeah, he had fallen unconscious, big deal... his head was feeling perfectly normal now, so obviously, it had only been the stress! And who cared if the kicks Uncle Vernon - or rather the Boggart - had given him had left a bruise or two? They would heal on their own, just like they always did!

Rather than putting the grown on the bedside table, Harry used the crumpled up piece of cloth to cover at least the most important parts from the unrelenting gaze of the medi-witch. Even though, he was bright red when the woman turned around again.

"Just as I thought," Madame Pomfrey huffed after taking in the state of the boy's upper body. Several dark red marks littered his right side.

"If we don't take care of them, these will become rather nasty bruises, Mr Potter. Now, let me see whether your ribs have sustained any damage." With that, she bend down to Harry and began to gently prod his torso.

Harry hissed in pain when the medi-witch pressed her fingers on a particularly tender spot.

"I'm sorry, Mr Potter, but I need to make sure that your ribs aren't contused. From the way these bruises look you are quiet lucky that non of them is broken, young man."

"It's fine, really," Harry hissed and tried to lean away from the medi-witch. His ribs had been perfectly fine until she had started to poke and squeeze them!

"You will apply the salve I'll give you for your arm on your ribs as well, Mr Potter, just to be sure. Additionally, I will give you a numbing salve to reduce your pain. Now let me finish my examination, then I will apply the first dose of salve and then you're free to go. I just need to..." she trailed off.

Startled by the sudden silence, Harry looked up from where he had played with a loose thread of the gown in his lap. Madame Pomfrey was eyeing his back, furrowing her eyebrows.

"Can you explain all those thin, faint lines on your back, Mr Potter?"

Harry frowned. What lines?

A second later it hit him.

But surely this couldn't be. Surely you couldn't still see those marks, not after all of these years. And anyway, it had only happened four or five times! Well, yes, he had to admit, perhaps it had been ten times, but still, this was years and years ago!

"Uhm, I don't know?" Harry squeaked, desperately wishing for his voice to sound more... natural. He really hated the fact that he couldn't lie. "Perhaps it's some kind of weird sunburn? My cousin and I, we spent most of our time out in the sun during the holidays. He goes to a boarding-school, too - one for muggles, obviously - and from what I have heard, his teachers are pretty strict and the boys don't have much free time during term. And with autumn coming, he won't have a lot of opportunities to get fresh air until next spring, so I kept him company..."

Harry was well aware that he was rambling, but maybe, just maybe, it would draw Madame Pomfrey's attention away from the marks on his backs.

It seemed to work, because the next thing he knew was the medi-witch mumbling something he couldn't understand, moving towards the foot-board of his bed.

Harry missed the thoughtful glance of the nurse.

#####

"All right, your legs seem to be fine," Madame Pomfrey muttered a few moments later, having lifted each of them to have a better look and obviously having found nothing wrong with them. "Now, please remove that grown from your lap, then you're finished."

"What?!" Harry asked flabbergasted, sure that he had misunderstood the witch.

"The Boggart gave you a rather nasty kick into your genitals, Mr Potter. Surely you don't want to risk losing the ability to father children some time in the future?" Madame Pomfrey asked him with raised eyebrows.

This wasn't happening. Surely this was only a nightmare and he would wake up any second now. Surely the medi-witch couldn't possible want to see his prick.

The impatient huff somewhere from his right suggested that this wasn't, in fact, a dream, though.

"Mr Potter, let me assure you that you don't have anything I haven't seen countless times before. I know this is uncomfortable, but the sooner we get this over with the sooner you can escape these rooms."

Harry closed his eyes. Then, he slowly removed the gown from his lap.

He flinched violently when a few moments later, a gloved hand touched him there.

"All right, everything looks fine," Madame Pomfrey announced briskly, knowing that it was best to ignore the student's discomfort so not to embarrass them further. "You can dress again, but please leave your upper body bare for now, I still need to apply the salve."

With that she left, both in order to fetch the necessary supplies and to allow her patient some privacy.

Ten minutes later, Harry all but ran out of the infirmary, a pot filled with slave for his arm and ribs clutched in his hands, hoping that he would never, ever having to return there.

Even the time he had to take Skele-grow in order to re-grow the bones in his arm Lockhard had vanished had been a more pleasant experience than this one. Imagine, stripping down in front of the nurse and then having the woman actually touching him there. Of course, Harry knew that he should probably be grateful for the witch to make sure that the nasty Boggart hadn't done any damage to this particular part of his anatomy, but still... his face burnt at the mere thought of what just had happened!

"Hello, Harry Potter."

The dreamy voice that suddenly addressed him made Harry almost jump with fright.

"Oh, eh, hello," he greeted back, having discovered the blond girl that had somehow driven the Dementors out of their compartment that day on the train. "Ehm, Luna was it, right?"

"Hm? Oh yes, Luna Lovegood. Everyone keeps calling me Loony though, I don't know why. Aren't nicknames supposed to be shorter than your actual name? It would make more sense for them to call me Loo, I believe..." she trailed off, staring into space.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. The girl was really, really strange, and he didn't know how to behave around her. "Ehm, thanks again for your help with the Dementor, you know, on our ride to school."

"Yes, I tried to tell the Eudaimonies that they shouldn't bother you that much, but then Professor Snape saw me bringing them potatoes from the kitchens. He was really upset and forbid me to speak to them every again. They really like you, though..."

All right, this girl clearly was mad. Had she really voluntarily approached the Dementors? To bring them potatoes?

Harry, not wanting to be rude, decided to simply ignore the matter. Luna was so much smaller than he, if she attacked him (you could never know with insane people), he was confident that he could beat her.

"Well, then, thanks for trying to convince the Dementors to leave me in peace," Harry said awkwardly, "I'll just go to dinner then. See you around, I suppose."

"Yes, since we attend the same school, I suppose we will see each other again," Luna nodded thoughtfully, "if I were you I would avoid the Great Hall for now, though. I think someone did something with the food at lunch, people can't seem to stop telling each other about how an Eudaimony, Voldemort and several other people attacked you. Don't they know that's rude to talk about people who aren't present?"

Harry's heart sank. Somehow, he had hoped that miraculously, the incident during DADA-class wouldn't be fed into the Hogwart's rumour mill. In his horror, he hardly registered that apart from Dumbledore, Luna was the first magical person he had ever heard using Voldemort's name.

"How bad is it?" he finally managed to get out.

"Pretty bad," Luna smiled at him, "but don't worry, Eudaimonies like getting attention."

When lunchtime drew nearer the following day, Harry grew more and more nervous. So far, he had managed to avoid the crowd, but after skipping both dinner and breakfast, he now felt ravenous. Which was quite a feat, considering that he had hardly had any appetite ever since returning to school.

After Luna had warned him that the whole school was gossiping about the incident during DADA-class the previous evening, Harry had gone straight to Gryffindor tower, retracting to the boy's dormitory.

No one had bothered him there since everyone believed that he was still in the care of the medi-witch. And when Ron and his other room-mates had entered their dorm, Harry had feigned sleep. Of course, those four had witnessed first-handedly what had happened, but Harry was in no mood to talk or to hear their excuses that they hadn't prevented that the form - or rather forms - of Harry's Boggart became public.

And this morning, Harry had waited until the other boys had left for breakfast before getting ready and going straight to the transfiguration classroom. Professor McGonagall had looked surprised when she entered the classroom fifteen minutes before the lesson was due to start, but she hadn't said anything. She, too, must have picked up on the rumours.

During transfiguration and later charms, his classmates had given Harry weird looks, but they couldn't very well continue their gossiping. Now, however, charms drew to a close and Harry dreaded the moment the bell would ring.

His face firmly fixed on the ground, the boy made his way to lunch. The nearer he came to the Great Hall, the more students crowded the corridors. His small statue prevented them from spotting him easily, but once the students had recognized who the black-haired person that hurried through the halls was, they would all fall completely silent.

Then, the whispering would start.

When Harry had arrived at the Great Hall, his face was burning. This was worse than in second year, when half of the school had believed him to be the Heir of Slytherin.

He sat down at the far end of the Gryffindor's table and reached for the pots and pans closest to him, not caring what he ate. The big lump in his throat made him wonder whether he would be able to eat anything at all - he could hardly breathe - but in the end, his hunger won.

Harry had made his way from Professor Flitwick's classroom to the Great Hall in what must have been a new record time, and now more and more pupils were pouring into the large room. The whispering that had started as slight gusts of wind grew into a fully fledged hurricane.

"... heard she tortured him... yes, Bellatrix Lestrange... Azkaban..."

"...wonder whether that's really true... only nightmares, or maybe he wants attention..."

"... Sirius Black, yes, he's related to Bellatrix Lestrange... right hand of you-know-who... and the screams, don't forgot the screams!"

"I think... muggle... went to the library to borrow a few books about him... don't think the ministry told the whole truce when..."

What probably was the worst, Harry thought gloomily when he took a second helping, wanting to eat enough to avoid having to attend dinner, what was worst was the fact that until now, the rumours seemed to be fairly accurate.

It would have been much easier to deal with his nosy classmates if they had come up with some really ridiculous stories about what forms Harry's Boggart had assumed. Then, he might even have managed to laugh about all of these annoying teens that couldn't stay out of other people's business. But from the snippets of conversation he he couldn't help to overhear, it seemed that for once, the truth was scandalous and exciting enough for his fellow students to work themselves into a frenzy.

The only positive thing you could say about the whole situation was that Snape had banished the Boggart immediately after it had taken on the form of the female Death Eater. Harry almost snorted at the absurdity of the situation. Who would have guessed that one day, it would be Snape who prevented Harry from getting into even more trouble than he already was? Because the man's timely appearance had at least led to non of the other things the Dementors had made him remember to become public. Harry could only imagine how much worse it would be if the other Death Eaters and even the snake had made an appearance in the teacher's room.

But that left the question, why hadn't their new DADA-teacher - the man responsible for the safety of the students during lessons - intervened when it had become obvious that Harry was too weak to even attempt to fight the Boggart? So far, Lupin had been nice enough. Harry thought it strange that suddenly, the man seemed to have decided to use his classes to torment him.

Swallowing his last bite, Harry quickly got up from his seat and made his way towards the exit, cursing the fact that he had taken a seat at the very back of the room. Now he had to pass those hundreds of nosy students, giving them further opportunity to gawk.

When he had finally made it into the Entrance Hall, Harry leaned against the next wall and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. If the gossiping didn't died down during the next day or two, he might start to take rations from breakfast or dinner. Going through this once each day was simply not an option.

Suddenly, all the embarrassment and confusion and anger - both at himself and at the other students - boiled up. That was just so... damn it! In his frustration, Harry lunged out and smashed his clenched fist against a jut of the wall.

"Shit!" he swore when his hand collided with the unforgiving rough and stony surface. That had hurt more than he had expected. He examined his hand more closely. Experimentally, he moved his fingers. Well, at least nothing seemed to be broken. However the punch had been hard enough to draw blood.

"Harry?"a sudden voice startled the boy.

Quickly, said boy looked around, hoping that whoever it was hadn't witnessed his little outburst. If things continued like this, he would be labelled mad before the week was over.

"Oh, hello Professor Lupin," Harry eyed the tired-looking man warily. What could the teacher possibly want?

"Harry, I'm really sorry for not noticing that you had such... difficulties fighting the Boggart immediately. I should have prevented the creature from attacking you like this, it would have been my responsibility as your teacher. I'm very, very glad that you weren't hurt more seriously, Professor Snape seems to have arrived just in time. I'd never thought that Snape of all people... well, never mind," he hurriedly amended, "I hope you'll accept my apology. It really wasn't my intention to let you suffer like this. If I had known... it was just, Lily's voice..." he trailed off, a vacant expression on his face.

"You knew... you knew my mother?"

Harry's hesitant question brought the DADA-Professor out of his reverie. "Yes, Harry, yes. Your mother and I, we were in the same year, and she was one of my best friends. I have never met a person as kind and accepting as Lily..."

The first students had finished their meal and started to trickle out of he Great Hall. They didn't even try to appear inconspicuous in their attempts to overhear the conversation between teacher and student.

"Why don't you join me into my office for a moment or two, I would have liked to talk to you about your... difficulties with the Dementors anyway." Professor Lupin offered when it became apparent that Harry wanted nothing more than to flee from all the staring.

Harry nodded jerkily. He wasn't sure what to make of the Professor, but surely everything would be better than to stay here, in clear view of practically everyone.

"Tea?" the Professor offered once they had reached his office.

Harry shook his head. After the last two years, he was wary of DADA-teachers. Sure, Lupin had known his mother, but that didn't have to mean anything. If he had really cared for his mother, why hadn't he made any attempts to stay into contact with her orphaned child?

"Well, yes, about those Dementors," when it became clear that Harry wasn't going to open up to him, Professor Lupin finally began, "I have heard that they affect you more than most students. Understandably, of course," he hurried to add when Harry's cheeks started to redden.

"And of course, after what I witnessed yesterday... I wasn't trying to lull you into a false sense of security when I said that Boggarts cannot physically harm you. I believe you have been told that it's highly unusual for a Boggart to behave the way yours did?"

Harry cleared his throat. "Yes. Professor Snape and Madame Pomfrey mentioned something along these lines."

The DADA-teacher nodded, absent-mindedly stirring his tea. "I had thought so. Well, since the ministry doesn't seem to have any intention of withdrawing the Dementors from the school any time soon, I thought that maybe you might want to learn how to defend yourself against these creatures. It's a very difficult spell, but if what I have heard about your abilities is correct, I do believe that you can learn it successfully. Normally, the defence against creatures such as Dementors isn't taught until at least NEWT-level, but if you are interested, well, I would be willing to give you private lessons."

Harry thought about the Professor's offer for a few moments. If this was a trap to have an opportunity to attack Harry, it would be a very bad idea to agree to such lessons. But the thought that he wouldn't have to relive those nightmarish details from the night his parents had been killed again and again and again... well, it was tempting. Really tempting.

Perhaps then, everything would go back to the way it had been before? Perhaps then, the nagging feeling that he was missing something important would stop? Perhaps then, the doubts he had about everyone he had trusted - Dumbledore, Hagrid, his friends - would stop?

"Ehm, how exactly does it work, this defence-spell against Dementors?" Harry asked, mostly to stall the moment he would have to make a decision.

"The charm is called the Patronus spell. The incantation is 'Expecto Patronus'. If cast successfully, an imprint of everything good and happy in your life will appear and drive the Dementor away. These creatures feed on happy feelings, as you probably already know, leaving the victim with only the most dreadful memories they have. Patroni, however, consist of pure happiness and thus, the Dementors cannot harm them. Conjuring one is very difficult, however, even for grown witches and wizards, as it requires immense concentration and sufficient control over one's mind. But as I said, I'm confident that you can manage it. Maybe by teaching you, I could make up for my failure to help you yesterday..."

Harry nodded absent-mindedly, not having heard half of the Professor's explanations. "Yes," he finally agreed, "yes, I think it would be good to learn how to fight off a Dementor. I think I would appreciate your help, Professor."

The ghost of a smile passed over Lupin's normally sad face. "Very well. I'm afraid we can only start our lessons the week after next, though. How about Tuesday evening, right after dinner?"

Even though the amount of pointing and whispering that followed Harry everywhere he went started to decrease after two or three days, the next few weeks were almost as horrible as the time when half of the school had believed him attacking his fellow students during second year. And while at the beginning the rumours about what had happened during that particular Defence against the Dark Art's class had been relatively accurate, after a few days, the thirst of the Hogwart's rumour mill for more exciting news won.

Harry tried his best to ignore everything that was going on around him, but it happened more and more frequently that students - even those he had never exchanged words with before - approached him directly, demanding answers to the most ridiculous questions.

When one sixth year from Ravenclaw asked Harry about whether it was true that his parents had been Death Eaters and that they had allowed Voldemord and Bellatrix Lestrange to conduct experiments on their child, Harry almost lost it.

His parents had died for him. How dared these people to suggest that they had not only not cared for his well-being, but that they had purposefully allowed their only child to be tortured?!

He didn't mind the detention he had to serve with Filch for hexing a student. At least the caretaker was his usual nasty self and didn't bother Harry with questions about his past.

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When Harry returned to the library for the first time after the disastrous DADA-class, he found to his dismay that each and every book that covered the events of Halloween 1981 and the Boy-who-lived had been borrowed. Well, at least he had already searched all of those books for any useful information. But he could only imagine what would happen if someone took the more outlandish stories about his past seriously.

It didn't take long until he was proven right and rumours about Harry Potter being the son of Bellatrix Lestrange and Voldemort started to spread.

His classmates didn't even bother to lower their voices when talking about Harry any more. On the contrary, from the looks Harry received he deduced that they were practically hoping to provoke him enough for him to spill more bits of juicy news during an impulsive outburst.

What the students didn't take into account, though, was that far from being enraged and disgusted by their tales, Harry was slowly starting to experience more and more doubts himself.

What if some of the gossip was true?

Even though he had not had any more run-ins with Dementors (real or otherwise) since that fateful DADA-class, Harry had by no means forgotten what he had heard and seen and felt in those horrible moments. If nothing of these things were true, if he had only ever been attacked by Voldemort, how was it possible for him to remember Bellatrix Lestrange? If nothing of these things were true, how was it that he had known the name of at least one other Death Eater, not to mention the incantation for the torture-curse, even before he had ever read them in any book?

Was it really possible that everything he had seen, heard, remembered the last few weeks were merely figments of his imagination?

How he wished that this was true. How Harry wished that all those nightmarish images were just that, nightmares. How he wished that everything surrounding that Halloween had been as simple and easy as he had believed it to be for the last two years. His parents being murdered by a madman, him being taken out of the ruins of their house by Hagrid and then being delivered to the Dursleys right away.

The doubts that this was how things had played out, though, were increasing with each passing day.

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In his desperation, Harry decided to pay a visit to the gamekeeper, the man who had claimed having rescued him from the rubble of the Potter's home on the very day of Harry's re-introduction to the wizarding world.

Of course, it wasn't as simple as that, not with the Dementors hovering on the edges of the grounds. Hedwig didn't mind delivering a short note to the man, though, in which Harry requested that the gamekeeper would meet him in the Entrance Hall half an hour before dinner would start.

"'arry! Goo' to see yo'!" Hagrid clapped his big hand on the small boy's shoulder, who was hovering hesitatingly near the entrance doors.

"Hello Hagrid," Harry greeted back, somewhat less enthusiastically.

"Hav'n' seen much o' yo', 'arry. Everythin' a' righ'? Why don' yo' join me fo' a cuppa?"

"We're not supposed to walk across the ground without a teacher or an older student present, Hagrid," Harry reminded him.

"An' I am a teach'r , 'm I not?" Hagrid laughed jovially, already ushering Harry out of the safety of the castle.

While this was certainly true, Harry couldn't help but to feel uneasy when the giant of a man led him across the grounds. Professor Lupin had said that even for fully-trained wizards it was difficult to fight off a Dementor, and Hagrid was neither fully trained nor did he have an intact wand. But then, he was good with creatures of all kinds, so surely he could handle a few Dementors?

"Go 'way, Fang!" Hagrid admonished his dog, who was jumping at them when he had opened the door to his hut. "Why don' yo' sit down, 'arry, I'll make tea."

"Right," Harry nodded jerkily and took the offered seat. Fang, Hagrid's enormous dog, took advantage of his sitting position and started to slobber his face. Harry couldn't help but to smile at this (after Fang had removed his tongue from his face, that was). Even if it felt as if everything had changed, that nothing was certain any more, at least the giant dog had stayed his usual friendly self.

"So, wha's on yo'r min', Harry? Not tha' I'm no' happy t' see yo', but hones'ly didn' e'cpect a vis't jus' now, with all thos' nas'y talk..." Hagrid asked, having positioned a large mug of tea in front of the boy.

It might have been the dim light, but for a moment or two, Harry was sure that Hagrid looked distinctively uncomfortable.

He cleared his throat and, trying to sound casual, started to speak, determined to come straight to the point. "Actually, these rumours... well, I was starting to wonder whether this really is what these rumours are, rumours... you've probably heard about the forms my Boggart assumed and, well, then there are the things I can see when the Dementors are close..." Harry trailed off, not yet prepared to reveal that he was well aware about the missing twenty-four hours. Yes, he had always trusted Hagrid - more than most people, actually - but the last few weeks had already left their mark on him.

"Ah, well, 'arry, yo' shouln' worry 'bout this. 'f cours' thes' are rumours. Yo'r mom 'n dad loved yo', 'arry, never eve' dou't this! An' don' yo' think I'd hav' noticed if som'thin' had bee' off when rescu'ing you from Godric' Hollow? No, 'arry, no need t' worry 'bout some stupid rumour'." The half-giant shook his had in what he believed was a reassuring manner.

"You really didn't notice anything unusual when you took me away from there? Anything at all? I mean, there must have been muggles who have heard the explosion and everything..."

"Na'. Nothin' un'sal at all. Was ther' befor' all those muggl's, yo' know. Got yo' out 'f ther' and straigh' to Prof'ssor Dumbl'dore. Would've seen if any... would've seen any wizardin' scum. O' cours', ther' was.. but no, couldn' have known, could'e? Don' worry, 'arry, yo'r classmat's ll stop soon 'nough."

Harry decided that it was time to leave shortly after this statement. If Hagrid wasn't even prepared to acknowledge that more than one or two hours had elapsed between the attack and him rescuing baby Harry out of the ruins, he would never tell him if he had seen other things. Things that might help Harry to piece together the puzzle of what had happened to him.

It really seemed that he was on his own when it came to finding out the truth about this crucial part of his past.

It was still early when the gamekeeper walked Harry back to the castle, and Harry was glad for it. He would never admit it, but the thought of having to pass the Dementors - however distantly - when he couldn't even see them properly was even more scary than seeing the looming forms of the black creatures in the distance turning around when they sensed the boy's presence on the grounds. Harry shivered at the mental image of the predatory looks he was sure they were eyeing him with.

When they had reached the flight of stairs that led to the entrance doors, Hagrid wished Harry a good night and took off towards the gates, presumably to have a pint or two at the Three Broomsticks.

"Hello Harry Potter. I didn't know that you meant that we would see each other this soon again. It's quite fortunate that third years start with Divination, isn't it. It's really important for seers to start practising their inner eye early on."

"Oh, ehm, hey Luna," Harry greeted the strange girl. He hadn't noticed her before, but this wasn't really surprising. The setting sun was bathing the stairs into a bright warm light and it was difficult to make out anything. In fact, the blurred outlines of the second year against the last beams of sunlight had something unearthly, ethereal. The soft music that was coming from the girl's direction only increased the sense of... unreality.

"Uhm, what are you doing out here? Aren't we supposed to stay inside, unless a teacher or older student is with us?" Harry finally asked when Luna just continued so stare at him - at least this was what he thought she was doing, though it was difficult to tell when you could only make our her slim dark form against all the brightness.

"The Professors told me I couldn't visit the Eudaimonies, they didn't say that we weren't allowed to sit on the stairs," she didn't sound offended in the slightest at Harry's suggestion that she might be breaking the rules. "I don't think they really know what they are doing, though, when prohibiting us from being on the grounds. Don't they know that without being in the sun, we will just die?"

"Eh, will we?" by know, Harry was somewhat used to Luna's quirks, but still, her last statement had taken him by surprise.

"Yes. We simply need the sun - all living beings do. Without the sun, non of us would be alive. Without the sun, magic wouldn't exist. Have you never noticed how it becomes more and more difficult to cast spells in winter and spring? I don't understand why the Founders chose Scotland of all places to build a magical castle... still, I don't want to be too far away from my dad in case he needs me, so I agreed to attend Hogwarts. That doesn't mean that I'll allow the teachers to stop me from developing my magic, though."

"Oh... right. Uhm, do you mind if I join you?" Harry didn't necessarily believe in being out in the sun being important for one's magic - he had always attributed the fact that it became more difficult to cast new spells correctly the longer the school-year continued to the material they covered becoming more and more difficult when the school-year progressed. Nevertheless, it felt good to be in the warm sunlight for once instead of the constant clamminess of the ancient castle. And he liked the music Luna was listening to.

"Of course not. You of all people need the sun, with all that darkness surrounding you."

Harry chose not to reply to this comment. It was a little too close to home just now.

"I thought that electronic devices didn't work at Hogwarts," Harry nodded at the small box next to Luna where he had discovered the music was coming from. It looked rather like the cassette recorder Dudley had owned before he had insisted on having a state-of-the-art CD-Player.

"Your friend's Ronald Weasley's dad fixed it for me. He's rather good at combining muggle technology with magic, you know."

Harry gave a non-committal grunt. Well, the car had worked almost flawlessly, and it wasn't Mr Weasley's fault that there were no petrol stations in the air.

"What are you listening to?"

"Bob Marley."

The name sounded vaguely familiar to Harry. There had been that programme on TV Dudley had insisted to watch, but Uncle Vernon had forbidden him to do so. One of the very few occasion where Dudley had been denied what he wanted - that's probably why Harry remembered it. Anyway, Uncle Vernon had complained to Aunt Petunia about the kind of people they showed on TV nowadays, corrupting the youth and promoting drugs, or something like this.

Harry decided that he liked the music. The fact that his relatives considered it trash only was an added bonus.

"Do you want some?" Luna asked after five minutes of comfortable silence.

Harry hadn't realized until this very moment that Luna was smoking what had to be a misshapen cigarette. It didn't smell like a normal cigarette either - which probably was why he hadn't realized it sooner.

"No, I don't smoke. Thank you, though."

Luna shrugged and took a pull on her cigarette.

"I didn't know that smoking was allowed at Howarts," Harry said carefully when he couldn't contain his curiosity any longer. Luna was twelve, thirteen at the most - there was no way that the teachers - or her parents, for that matter - would allow her to smoke on the school grounds, was there?

"It isn't." she didn't offer any explanations.

"Don't you worry that some of the teachers will catch you?" Harry asked, slightly bewildered at the girl's calmness. Not that he minded - Luna's behaviour had something soothing. It made him almost believe that no matter what, everything would be all right in the end.

"Oh, but they already know. I think Professor Dumbledore is quite happy that I decided to follow traditions and allow my magic to become more unique. The Slytherins always talk about blood purity, they forget that you have to try to ally with magic, being united with nature to become a strong magician."

Fortunately, Luna didn't seem to expect a response (Harry wouldn't have known what to say), and the two of them just continued to watch the setting sun, listening to the soft music, until it was nearly curfew.

When he made his way back to the tower, Harry felt slightly unsteady on his feet.

When Severus Snape returned to his quarters after making sure that all of his Slytherins were inside their common room, he poured himself a glass of fire whiskey before retreating to the large armchair in front of the fireplace. The first few weeks of the school-year had been rather challenging, to put it mildly. The Gryffindor Golden Boy was by no means the only one who was affected by the presence of the Dementors.

He had already had to accompany over a dozen of his snakes to the infirmary, and the last two weekends he had spent in his lab, brewing Pepper-Up, Calming draught and various other potions that would counteract the disastrous effects the guards of Azkaban had on the students. While chocolate helped better than anything else in the immediate aftermath of a confrontation with a Dementor, some students needed additional help to get over the things they had had to relive during those encounters.

For obvious reasons, the Slytherins - particularly the older years - were especially vulnerable to those horrible creatures. During the last years of the war, they had been small children, and with some of their parents being either Death Eaters or otherwise linked to the Dark Lord, they had witnessed things no child - and no adult either, for that matter - should ever be forced to see.

As far as he knew, non of the other heads of houses had to make so many tours to the hospital wing as he had. And he was fairly sure that it would only be a matter of time until one student would be affected in a way that surpassed Madame Pomfrey capabilities. Perhaps then, when a student was admitted to St Mungo's, the ministry would re-evaluate its decision to place Dementors at the edge of the school grounds. If Black wasn't caught soon, that was.

Despite the fact that Sirius Black had avoided capture for over two month now, Snape hadn't given up hope that the man would be caught some time in the near future.

He wouldn't allow himself to dwell on the possibility that the Dementors might stay at Hogwarts for several more month, or even the whole school-year. And while he was certainly worried about the safety of the students, his main reason for wishing that the next morning, the headline of the 'Prophet' would read "Black captured" was a more egotistical one: He couldn't bear the thought of having to see Lily's body again and again and again.

Dementors forced you to relive the worst moments of your life. And while Severus Snape certainly had enough bad memories to drive ten people into insanity, the only one he saw when a Dementor came too close was the one of how he had found the lifeless body of the only human being he had ever loved.

There simply were no word to describe the anguish he had felt when he had discovered that he was too late, that Lily Potter nee Evans was no more.

During the last twelve years, the Potion Master had tried his best to suppress the grief, the agony. It might not have been healthy, but it was the only way to cope with what had happened - with what his foolishness had inadvertently made possible - without committing suicide.

Now, however, with the dark creatures surrounding the school, containing the memories became more and more difficult. Sometimes impossible.

The horror he had felt when the other Death Eaters had informed him that someone had betrayed the Potters, and that their Master had already gone to Godric's Hollow to destroy the only person alive that could, one day, pose a danger to him.

The sight of the ruin of a house when he had apparated to the small village. How he had refused to think about the implications of him being able to see the Potter's hideout. How he had approached the premises, cast a Hominum Revelio, the fear that had overcome him when the spell had revealed that only one living being was inside the house.

At first, Snape had been sure that it was the Dark Lord whom is wand had shown him. But the seconds had trickled by and no Dark Mark had been burnt into the sky above the house, and neither had the Dark Lord reappeared from the building. Why should he linger?

And so, hope had flared up inside the spy.

What if... what if, by some sort of miracle, the Dark Lord had been defeated? Severus Snape didn't believe in prophecies, but what if?

Still, though, there had been three people living in the house, not just Lily Potter. What if one of the two he didn't care about had survived? Then everything he had done - betraying the Dark Lord, placing his fate in the hands of Albus Dumbledore, making himself vulnerable - had been in vain.

There was no other way to find out what had happened in the Potter's house than to look for himself. If it turned out that it indeed was the Dark Lord who had survived the fight, Snape would be killed instantly, sure. But it wouldn't matter. If Lily Potter was dead he didn't have a reason to continue to live anyway.

And so, the Ex-Death Eater had entered the Potter's last residence.

When he found James Potter lying on the floor in the hallway, unseeing eyes still open, he couldn't help but to feel some kind of vindictive pleasure. Even much later, Snape wouldn't feel guilty about this. He had never claimed that he was a good man. No, he had returned to the light side solely for egotistical reasons. And the man whose body he had almost stumbled over that night had made his years at Hogwarts a living hell.

His heart beating faster now that the chances that it had indeed been Lily who had survived had increased, the Potion Master made his way up the stairs.

Only one door was open.

From where he was standing, he could spot a changing table. It had to be the nursery, then. That meant the Dark Lord had reached his destination.

There was no chance that the baby could have survived this, was there? But that meant...

Not wanting to allow his hopes getting up only to have them crushed later on, Snape covered the last few meters in record time, entering the nursery, casting a quick glance at the destruction, before his eyes fell on a sea of awfully familiar red hair.

When he fell to the ground next to the body of the love of his life, he didn't even register the hoarse, gurgling sound that came out of his own mouth, nor the tears that were streaming down his face.

It could have been an eternity, it could have been seconds that Severus Snape had cradled Lily Potter's corpse, for the first - and last - time in his life crying freely, openly showing all the pain, the despair, he felt.

The shock, the hollowness, the bitterness - those feelings had only surfaced later. During the first few moments after discovering that Lily was dead, Snape had simply felt the the most intense pain a human being could suffer, only that in his case, the pain was increased by the certain knowledge that it had been his fault that the witch had been murdered.

When the numbness had started to set in and Snape's senses had began working again, he had become aware of the sobs and cries that echoed through the otherwise silent room. Only after several more minutes, reason caught up with his senses. It wasn't important any more, not now, not now that he knew that Lily was dead, but why hadn't his former Master killed him by now? He certainly had had an abundance of opportunities while Snape had been unconscious with grief.

His earlier spell had clearly shown that one person was alive inside this house. There was no way- surely it couldn't be...?

But his unasked question had already been answered, as it had been by this point that Severus Snape had realized that despite the fact that the sobs coming out of his own mouth had stopped, the crying continued.

Slowly, his gaze turned away from the empty green eyes of Lily Potter. When he turned his head around, Snape actually flinched when an identical replica of those very eyes stared back at him from behind light brown bars. Only that this pair of eyes was very much alive.

The black-haired child in the cot was crying loudly, making Snape wonder how it was possible that he hadn't noticed it until then. There certainly had been no sound from a distraught child when he had climbed up the stairs or entered the room. He barely registered the small cut on the boy's forehead, or the drops of blood that were running down his face, now mixed with tears.

Harry Potter was looking alternatively between his deceased mother and the foreign person in front of his bed. Snape couldn't tear his eyes away from the baby's face. Or more precisely, from his eyes. He had only ever seen Lily and James Potter's child at Order meeting and of course had never been close enough to tell that the boy didn't just have the same eye-colour as his mother. No, his eyes were an exact copy of those of his mother. Only that now his eyes were full of confusion and fear and hurt, an expression he couldn't remember ever having seen on Lily's face.

For a brief moment, raged had flared up in Snape. These eyes' should be Lily's! He would rather see hurt or even hate in her eyes than the complete emptiness that was now all that was left in the green orbs of the woman in his lap.

The rage was gone as quickly as it had come, though, and once again all that was left was hollowness.

A short while later, after carefully positioning Lily's body on the ground, Severus Snape stood up. Soon, this place would be swarmed with either aurors or Death Eaters, and he didn't want to be found by either of them. Not that he cared if he was killed. He didn't plan to be alive when the sun rose again anyway. No, he simply had no strength left be confronted with any other human being.

As if on command, Harry Potter's soft cries stopped when the tall, dark man - not dissimilar to the one that had entered his room earlier, making his mother fall to the floor - rose from the ground. Expectantly, he looked up to the dark figure, reaching out with his arms. "Up!"

Snape stared at the boy with a blank expression. The child was now an orphan. What would happen to him?

"Mama?" When the dark man didn't show any reaction to Harry's request to be lifted up and held and comforted, he pointed his little fingers at the body of his mother, eyeing the person in front of his bed curiously.

That simple word proved to be to much for Snape. The fact that Lily Potter did no longer exist hit home with an unbearable certainty. Stumbling, he turned around, heading towards the door. He couldn't breath any more, couldn't think - he felt as if his very being would simply break apart if he stayed in this house only for one more second.

"Mama!"

Snape was already gone. He didn't hear the child's desperate attempts to make his mother stand up again, to make her comfort him and make the hurt on his forehead go away.

The Potion Master was pulled out if his memories when the clock chimed midnight. He knew he should go to bed - it wasn't healthy to take Pepper-Up regularly - but he knew for sure that if he would go to sleep now, he would have horrible nightmares again. Nightmares of what he had seen and felt the night his Lily had been murdered. But also nightmares about her son. Because he, Severus Snape, had been the one who had left a fifteen months old crying baby in his cot in a destroyed house.

At that time, the Potion Master hadn't even thought about whether it was, well, ethical, to leave such a young child alone in a room with the corpse of his mother. In fact, he hadn't thought about it until very, very recently. Until that day he had seen what forms Potter's Boggart assumed, to be precise.

He had expected the boy to see the Dark Lord, maybe even the Dark Lord in his different forms. After all, that Halloween had by no means be the only occasion when Harry Potter had been confronted with the evil wizard.

When he had entered the teachers room on that day, Snape had even been prepared that Potter's Boggart might at one point turn into the body of Lily Potter - though he didn't know how he would have coped with this. He would probably have ended up in a state much worse then the werewolf's.

But Bellatrix Lestrange? Bellatrix Lestrange who was about to cast a Crucio at him?

Snape grudgingly admitted that the annoying boy might have spent more time with his studies than he had previously thought, but even if he had seen a picture of the crazy witch in one of the many books that had been written about the last war, Potter certainly couldn't have known the sound of her voice. Nor should he have known about the torture curse, which was only covered in Defence against the Dark Arts at NEWT-level, if at all.

And why, if he had only ever seen pictures, should the boy be afraid of her, of all Death Eaters? The female Lestrange might have been the craziest one of that lot, but she had by no means been the most dangerous one - her insanity had seen to that.

And then there had been the large, beefy man Snape was almost certain had been a muggle. Who was he? Why was Potter equally afraid of him as he was of the Dark Lord and one of his Death Eaters?

The most worrisome question, however, was how the Gryffindor's Boggart had been able to physically hurt the boy. That shouldn't be possible, unless... unless a person's fears weren't only fears, but had actually come to pass. But surely a pampered prince like Potter couldn't have experienced things that were as bad as the average person's worst fear?

No, of course it wasn't possible! The Boggart had turned into Bellatrix Lestrange, and Snape knew with absolute certainty that the boy could have never, ever met her! The witch had been incarcerated in Azkaban only weeks after the Potters had been attacked, there simply was no way for something like this to have happened!

Yet the Head of Slytherin couldn't deny what he had witnessed, both in the teachers room and later in the infirmary.

As hard as he tried, Snape could no longer suppress the awful suspicion that had started to form in his mind quite a while ago.

That Night, he had left a defenceless child alone in a house that had recently been the scene of an attack of the Dark Lord. He knew for sure that his former Master had told some of his Death Eaters what he planned to do that night. So what if some of the more loyal Death Eaters had decided to follow their Master, to witness his greatest victory, the victory over the only human being that could have defeated him?

It was even possible that the Dark Lord had brought some of his followers voluntarily, in order to have witnesses for how he killed his 'equal', as the prophecy had said.

When their Master had failed to reappear after bringing half of the Potter's house down, how likely was it for those possible observers to simply stay outside and leave?

Of course, this left the question why they hadn't attacked Severus himself when he had entered - and later left - the destroyed building. However, as everyone had still thought him to be a loyal follower, it wasn't out of question that Bellatrix - and whoever else might have been there - hadn't thought it suspicious that he, too, had arrived at the scene. The Dark Lord was well known for only telling each one of his inner circle certain parts of his plans, after all.

If Death Eaters had entered the house after Snape had left... if they had found Voldemort missing, but the child that had been prophesied to conquer him still alive... what would they have done?

Snape doubted that the Dark Lord was really dead. He knew that the man - if you could still call him that - had taken measures to prevent his own demise. Probably, other Death Eaters had known this as well - maybe in even more detail than he had. And of course, there was also the simple fact that there had been no body.

Was it possible that some of his 'colleagues' had used the child to somehow determine what had happened to their Master? There were ways to extract information even from the mind of a baby. Though how Potter could have survived this - survived this (largely) sane - that was beyond Snape.

He poured himself a final glass of whisky, emptied it quickly and decided that this night was the perfect night to make use of one of the more delicate potions he had in store. To hell with all that caution! He needed sleep, restful sleep, and he certainly wouldn't get it if Potter kept haunting him the whole night.

Honestly, wasn't it bad enough that the boy kept annoying him at daylight? Did he really need to sabotage his nights, too?

Still, the feeling of guilt - the thought that he could have prevented whatever else had happened to the child that Halloween - didn't leave Snape until right before he finally fell asleep. Maybe it would be a good idea to keep an even closer look on the boy than he already did - if only to fulfil the promise he had given Lily.

"Hello, Harry," Professor Lupin greeted the boy with a friendly smile on his face. Stepping aside to allow the Gryffindor to enter his office, he asked, "do you want some tea before we begin?"

Harry looked around the professor's office curiously. The last time he had seen it, the walls had been plastered with pictures of the very inhabitant of the office himself. And while he was glad that Lupin hadn't done the same, the emptiness of the room was almost worse than the blinking and twinkling it had been filled with during Lockhart's time. It looked as if the new teacher hadn't bothered to unpack more than absolutely necessary, and Harry wondered how long the man planned to stay.

"Ehm, no, thank you," Harry hurriedly answered when he became aware that Lupin was still eyeing him questioningly. "I'd rather if we begin immediately."

"Very well, then, Harry. Why don't you have a seat, I believe it would be prudent to go through the theory first before we actually try the spell," he gestured to the rickety chair in front of his desk.

Obediently, Harry sat down, and while he waited for the man to take the seat opposite of him, he briefly wondered why Lupin kept calling him 'Harry'. All of the other teachers referred to the students by their last names. And now that he thought about it, he couldn't recall the professor addressing any other student by their resepctive first name. Except him.

Somehow, this made Harry feel uncomfortable. He had never met the man before, he knew virtually nothing about him. Lupin, on the other hand, probably thought that he knew everything about the boy-who-lived, as did most people in the wizarding world.

Normally, Harry would only be annoyed by this - as far as he was concerned, all those people were simply daft, believing that a child could have defeated Voldemort and than survived all kinds of ridiculous adventures during his childhood. He wasn't the character from a fairy tale - he was a boy, a completely average third-year!

However, there was something in the DADA-teacher's behaviour that made Harry more than just angry or uncomfortable. The man behaved as if he and Harry were close friends, as if they had known each other for years. And those looks... they suggested some type of intimacy that simply didn't exist. If he had a choice, he'd rather not be alone in a room with the man.

But as things were, Lupin was the only teacher who had offered him any real help in defending himself against the Dementors. And if he wanted to survive the school-year, he'd better accept the man's proposal.

"Well, Harry, the charm I'm going to teach you is a difficult one. Many full-grown witches and wizards are unable to produce a patronus. It requires immense control over your mind as well as magical power. However, I'm confident that with enough practice, you will be able to learn it."

Harry had the distinct impression that the professor had wanted to say more, but he just swallowed and continued in the same cheerful voice, which didn't sound entire natural.

"As I have said, the ultimate goal is to produce a corporeal patronus, though even a non-corporeal one can be of great avail when being confronted with Dementors and related creatures. A patronus is a physical embodiment of everything good in your life, of all your happy memories, so to say. As it cannot experience despair, the Dementors cannot cause it any harm. Thus, a strong enough patronus can dispel Dementors, while weaker, non-corporeal ones can at least buy you time."

"The incantation for the Patronus-Charm is fairly simple. It will do nothing if not spoken with the right intention in mind, though. We will practise the wording first. Without wand, please. Now, please repeat after me," Professor Lupin made pause and Harry sat up straighter, "Expecto Patronum. Ex-pec-to Pa-tro-num."

Harry rehearsed the two words silently for a few times. They didn't seem particularly complicated. Then, he tried to speak them out loud, "Expecto Patronum."

"Very good, Harry, yes, very good. Now, I'm afraid that this is only the easy part. In order to achieve anything, you need to concentrate on all the happiness that is present in your life. At the beginning, it's easier to focus on one or two happy memories instead of actual happiness. However, the spell will be more effective once you have learned to extract the instances of happiness out of several memories and combine them to one single emotion."

Harry looked at Lupin in bewilderment. That sounded a lot like those esoteric rubbish some of his Aunt's friend spouted every now and then.

Lupin had apparently noticed Harry's less than thrilled expression. "You don't need to worry about this just yet, Harry. For now, it will be enough if you just recall the happiest memory you have and concentrate on the feeling you had in that particular situation. This way, you should still be able to produce a patronus. However, if you some day wish to become more proficient in this branch of magic, you'll need to work on your abilities to separate the emotions you experienced in one situation from your thoughts and the actual events that occurred, and then working with all of these separately. It'll help you in other branches of magic as well."

"Right," Harry nodded. Concentrating on a happy memory while stating the incantation didn't sound too complicated. "Ehm, will we go out in order to practise or will you bring one of the Dementors inside?" he tried his best not to let his nervousness show, though he wasn't sure how convincing he was.

"What- no, Harry, it will probably take you quite some time until you can cast the charm successfully even without a Dementor present. And even at this stage, you will not yet try it out on a real Dementor but on a Boggart."

"A Boggart?" Harry asked, feeling nauseous. Ever since the... incident he had been even more afraid of Boggarts than of Dementors. He almost snorted at the thought of what form a Boggart would take on if he had to face it now. Perhaps there was a way to find out what those creatures truly looked like.

"Yes, but don't worry," Lupin smiled reassuringly, "I will simply cast a stunning spell at the Boggart as soon as it has assumed the form of a Dementor. It will be unable to shift forms then, and you can practice as long as you need to without having to worry about it taking on the appearances of any other humans or beings you might be afraid of."

"Okay," Harry answered. He still wasn't completely comfortable with the idea, but it surely was better than to allow the Boggart to change its form at its leisure. "So, for now I will just practise the Expecto Patronum spell, yes?" he clarified.

"Yes," Lupin confirmed, "we'll better stand up, then you can move around more freely."

Harry did as he was told. Lupin swished his wand and the desk as well as the chairs floated to one side of the room, leaving a large open space in the middle of the office.

Lupin stepped to Harry's side, probably only to have a better look at whether Harry made any mistakes. Still, the man's close proximity made him feel uneasy.

"If you have chosen a happy memory, just begin casting the spell. I will observe you and intervene if necessary."

Harry took a deep breath. He already had decided on which memory he would take. He couldn't remember having ever felt as happy as he had during the first time he had ridden on a broom.

He concentrated on the incredible feeling of racing through the air. Raising his wand, he stated as clearly as possible, "Expecto Patronum!"

Nothing happened.

Well, perhaps he just hadn't concentrated hard enough. "Expecto Patronum!" Harry tried again, "Expecto Patronum!"

But no matter how hard he focused on the memory, there was no sign that his wand was more than an ordinary stick and the words he was saying again and again more than nonsensical expressions.

After what had to be ten minutes of unsuccessful attempts to produce a patronus - or at least get any reaction at all - Harry lowered his wand and looked at his teachers, slightly confused. He hadn't expected to get it perfect within just a few minutes, but surely there had to happen at least something, hadn't there?

"That was really good, Harry," Lupin said encouragingly, "I didn't expect you to cast the spell successfully during our first lesson - quite the contrary. It's a bit unusual that you don't get any reaction at all, sure, but it's not unheard of. Some people simply take longer to get the hang of the spell than others."

"Now, it's getting late and I don't want you to miss curfew. I'd suggest that we meet two times a week in order to practise. Does that sound agreeable, or do you think it's too much? I know that third-year can be rather busy with the new electives and everything...?"

"No, two times a week is good," Harry hurriedly said, "I'll need to speak with Wood, though, he tends to schedule Quidditch-practices quite spontaneously."

"All right. What about this Friday? Then you have a few days to practise on you own. That's very important, Harry, especially if you struggle a bit with getting used to the type of magic necessary to produce a patronus."

Equally relieved and disappointed, Harry left the DADA-Teacher's office. Disappointed because he hadn't managed to make anything happen and relieved because the Professor crept him out.

####
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Friday evening came and went and Harry was no closer to producing a patronus than he had been after his first private lesson with the DADA-teacher. The two of them agreed on meeting each Tuesday and Friday evening to practise, and with Quidditch-training and homework for two additional subjects, Harry's weeks became quite busy. He wouldn't have minded if he at least had made some improvements in his patronus lessons, however, that wasn't the case.

After a few weeks, even Lupin - who had until then been very confident that Harry's magical abilities were up to the task - seemed to become more and more doubtful. So instead of letting Harry try to cast the spell again and again, the professor moved back to the theory and questioned Harry on the memories he was using when attempting the charm.

At that point, Harry himself had already started to wonder whether the happiness he had felt during his first broom ride was strong enough, and so he had already tried out several different memories on his own. Therefore, he wasn't convinced that choosing yet another one would do any good.

When he told Lupin about the images he had used until then, he was surprised that the teacher didn't consider them strong enough. If neither flying nor winning the house cup, passing all of his exams (including potions) or finding out that he was a wizard and would leave the Dursleys in order to go to a magical school was strong enough, what else would be? He simply didn't have any really happy memories from the time before his 11st birthday.

The weird look Lupin gave him when Harry admitted the latter didn't help matters, as he became increasingly wary about what to tell the man and what to better keep silent about.

Some people might thought it comforting when a teacher was particularly nice to you after confessing that your home-life wasn't ideal, but Harry only became more distrusting at the shift in his professor's behaviour. He neither wanted nor needed the man's pity!

He was perfectly capable of dealing with the Dursleys himself, he had done so for twelve years already. No one else had ever questioned his relatives' behaviour towards their nephew, not even Hagrid who had seen first-handedly how they treated him.

And he didn't appreciated the fact that Professor Lupin seemed to take advantage of the Dursley's shortcomings in order to get closer to Harry himself.

Because this was what had happened after Harry's confession about the first ten years of his life. The questions the teacher had then started to ask had absolutely nothing to do with finding a happy enough memories to make the patronus charm work for Harry. No, they became more and more personal and more of that kind that a good friend would ask, but certainly not a teacher.

What was worse, though, was that Professor Lupin constantly invited Harry into his quarters even outside of their classes, or that he had actually tried to hug his pupil after a particularly strenuous lesson. Such kind of behaviour simply was inappropriate for a teacher, Harry thought.

In short, Harry really was unsure whether it was a good idea to continue with the patronus lessons, especially since he had yet to make any progress whatsoever.

When he didn't have school, private lessons or Quidditch-training, Harry continued to hide in the library. He felt much more comfortable in the dusky, quiet hall than in the common room, where every few minutes someone would try to engage him into a conversation, which mostly turned out to be attempts to get more information about his Boggart and everything it entailed.

Even though they still sat next to each other in classes, he hadn't really spoken to Ron and Hermione for weeks. Sometimes, he felt lonely, but most of the time he was grateful for being alone. If he was alone, he didn't need to pretend to be in a good mood, to be someone he was not.

A few times, the female one of his (former?) best friends had tried to speak to him, so Harry had taken to avoid her in order not to be faced with the witch's awkward questions.

Honestly, it wasn't her damned business how much Harry ate or slept or whether his grades were dropping! The school-year had barely started, the final exams were miles away! And for his eating and sleeping habits, well, he was absolutely sure that even someone like Ron would lose his appetite if his thoughts constantly revolved around blood, torture and whom you could still trust.

While the amount of time he spent hidden away in the library hadn't helped Harry's grades, he had found out something that might be of crucial importance for his private lessons with Lupin.

In a desperate attempt to further his ability to fight off Dementors, he had skimmed through several books about dark creatures and how to deal with them. In some of these books, it had read that some people simply were unable to produce a patronus at all, no matter how hard they tried. Namely, people who had either practised a considerable amount of dark magic and people who had been exposed to too many instances of the same kind of magic.

Harry was fairly certain that he had never cast a spell that could be considered dark. And while the magic that had killed Quirrell at the end of his first year might have been dark, this bout of magic had nothing to do with him. It had been Voldemort's intention to kill Harry and his mothers determination to save her son that had lead to Quirrell being reduced to a pile of ash, certainly nothing Harry had done.

And even if that incident in the deepest dungeons of the castle was considered dark magic in the eyes of the patronus charm, it was by no means enough to satisfy the criteria of 'repeated and regular use of dark magic' that was necessary to exclude you from being able to produce a patronus.

Evidently, it was all but impossible that his inability to produce the Dementor-fighting being was due to wielding dark magic. The only other option was, though, that he himself had been the victim of dark curses powerful enough to leave a permanent trace. The Cruciatus Curse and peculiar rituals surely qualified as such.

But it couldn't be! Because everything those Death Eaters had done to him the night he had lost his parents only were some crazy dreams, hallucinations, figments of his imagination! Harry didn't want to believe that anything of the incidents he kept seeing had truly happened, he couldn't believe it. Because if he did, how was it possible to survive with such a knowledge?

The fragments of conversation he could remember - no, fragments his fantasy had made up! - not only hinted at Voldemort not really being gone (that Harry already knew) but that he, Harry, was the key to bring the evil wizard back.

If that was true... no, if that had been true, than Harry wouldn't be at Hogwarts, go to school as if he was an ordinary boy, return to his non-magical relatives each summer, who would be completely unable to defend themselves if Voldemort used the holidays to break out of where he was trapped in Harry's body - or come back in any other fashion.

If Voldemort could return because of Harry's survival, surely the ministry would have put him down by know, wouldn't it? They had stationed Dementors around a school because of an escaped Death Eaters, there was no way that they would allow a boy that kept Voldemort alive to roam a castle full of children.

Even though, the nagging feeling that there was some truth behind what he witnessed in his dreams and when facing Dementors wouldn't leave Harry alone.

What if the ministry simply didn't know that the boy-who-lived was also the boy-who-kept-he-who-must-not-be-named alive? As far as he knew, Voldemort hadn't exactly been close to the government, so this was a very real possibility.

And then there was Dumbledore.

Dumbledore, who had done nothing to prevent Harry from running head-first into situations that might have very well killed him. Dumbledore, who was said to know everything that was going on at his school and still hadn't managed to figure out that it had been a Basilisk who had been attacking students on two separate occasions during the last fifty years, something a second year had accomplished (albeit a rather intelligent one, to be fair). Because it was ever so far-fetched that the heir of the house of the snakes attacked muggleborn with, well, a snake, Harry thought cynically.

And at the end of his first year, why was it that exactly when Harry had desperately needed an adult that took him seriously both portkeys and apparation as well as the floo-network had been out of order? If she had wanted, Professor McGonagall could have contacted her employer within minutes, if only to make sure that there really was not a jot of truth in the claims of the three firsties.

Now that he thought about it, Harry remembered other instances that made him question what Dumbledore's real motives were.

The troll at Harry's first Halloween at the school. Why had the headmaster sent the students out of the safety of the Great Hall out into the castle, where somewhere, a murderous creature was lurking?

Allowing man-eating spiders to live in a forest near a school full of adventurous and often reckless students.

Gifting Harry with his father's invisibility cloak to allow him to get into even more mischief (or worse). Of course, he couldn't prove that one, but how likely was it that James Potter had given such a valuable cloak to someone who coincidentally had almost the same handwriting as Dumbledore?

When the man wanted to kill Harry, why not murdering him directly, letting it look like an accident? Why those elaborate traps?

Or perhaps Dumbledore wanted to somehow test his famous student? Assess his magical strength, his ability to cope with dangerous situations, determine how far he would go to protect the ones he loved?

That seemed much more likely, considering that the teachers (and sometimes the headmaster himself) had made sure that Harry and his friends would learn just enough to survive their adventures.

But why would Dumbledore do such a thing? Yes, Harry was aware that he was considered special by most wizards and witches, but an intelligent man like the headmaster, who additionally knew everything about Harry's performance in class, should by now know that while he might have done something extraordinary in the past, by now Harry was only an ordinary boy.

Why all those effort, why all this scheming, testing and manipulation? It didn't make sense!

Any yet, and yet... with the arrival of the Dementors, the doubt what Dumbledore's real intentions regarding his famous student were had been planted firmly in said student's mind. Harry didn't believe that he would ever be able to trust the man as completely as he had before.

Since the day he had practically rescued Harry from his Boggart, Snape had taken to observe his most-hated student more closely, just as he had promised himself that he would. What he learned was, at the very least, worrisome.

Over the past few weeks, Potter's behaviour had changed dramatically. No longer was he the rash, easily to provoke Gryffindor. Hardly ever he rose to Snape's baits. In fact, he didn't even seem to notice most of the insults and snide remarks the Potion Master threw at him during lessons. His complete and utter ignorance of his most-hated teacher would have been quite a Slytherin thing to do, if it hadn't been for the fact that Snape wasn't the only teacher the boy refused to pay attention to.

Quite the contrary, actually. From what he overheard in the teacher's room, Potter hadn't actively participated in any class since he had been released from the infirmary. Not only that, his homework - if he done it at all - was sloppy and by no means adequate, even in subjects he had previously shone in.

That really puzzled the potion professor. He knew for a fact that Potter spent practically his entire free time in the library. Initially, he had rather hoped that this was an attempt by the boy to distract himself from the awful memories the Dementor's had awoken in him. His hopes had quickly been dashed when he had taken a look at the books the Gryiffindor had perused, though.

This had been a relatively easy task. Several years ago, the librarian had had enough of the mess the students made when they were supposed to put the books they had used back to the right places on the shelves on their own. Rather than going through each and every feet of shelves to find misplaced books, Madame Pince had set up special baskets in which the students had to deposit books they no longer needed. Every few hours (or whenever one of the baskets was full), she would empty it with some rather ingenious spells she had created herself, and the books would find their way back to the right shelves on their own.

Thus, Snape only had to rummage through the basket Potter had put his books into before the librarian could clean up.

What he found had been rather disconcerting.

The Gryffindor Golden Boy was practically absorbing every bit of information he could get about the activities of the Death Eaters during the war. That he wanted information about the female follower of the Dark Lord that had shown up in the teacher's room, that, Snape could understand. But why for Merlin's sake was the boy almost equally obsessed with Yaxley? He couldn't have encountered the Death Eater who had escaped justice and left Britain shortly after his trial, could he?

From the books that listed all known followers of the Dark Lord, including the crimes they had committed and their sentences, and the texts about pure- and halfblood families, Snape concluded that Potter must be searching for one particular wizard or witch, though he had no idea who this could be. Surely the lists of Death Eaters should have answered all of the Gryffindor's questions?

More concerning than his attempts to gain information about a subject Binns didn't cover in History of Magic, though, was that Potter had tried learn more about dark curses - which couldn't have been an easy task, since he obviously didn't have the permission to read through books from the restricted section.

That he had read through books about Dementor's and how to fight them, on the other hand, didn't surprise Snape. Every sensible person would do this, and he was actually glad that the boy seemed to take this threat seriously.

The potion master knew, of course, that one of his colleagues had started to give Potter private lessons to help him to master the patronus charm, the only really effective weapon against Dementors.

At first, Lupin had been more cheerful than he had ever seen the man before, which was probably due to the fact that he got to spend more time with the only thing left from his old friends (Snape sneered at the very thought of the so-called 'Marauder's'). And additionally, the werewolf probably thought that by helping Potter now, he could make up for the twelve years during which he had acted as if his deceased friend and Lily never had had a child.

The initial enthusiasm had long since made way for increasing frustration on Lupin's side, though. The man couldn't comprehend the fact that Harry seemed to be less gifted than both of his parents. And Potter's rather obvious lack of fondness for his father's friend didn't help matters either.

While Snape didn't care for Lupin's feelings in the slightest, he was rather surprised by Potter's apparent wariness towards the wolf.

When he had heard that Dumbledore had hired Lupin of all people as the new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, one of his first thoughts had been that it would be a nightmare to deal with Potter when he had the support of one of his father's buddies. Thus, Snape was appropriately puzzled by how the Gryffindor behaved around the DADA-teacher.

Then, however, it wasn't as if Potter had fulfilled any other of his expectations. Not this year.

He hadn't sneaked out of school to hunt Black down on his own. He hadn't given interviews to the Daily Prophet about how he felt that the man who had (by all intents and purposes) murdered his parents had escaped from a high-security cell in Azkaban. And he certainly didn't enjoy the attention he got as the tragic hero who had witnessed how his mother had been slaughtered by the Dark Lord. And that he had, in fact, witnessed the whole event from just a few feet away, that had been made abundantly clear by his Boggart - something the whole castle had talked about for several weeks, Snape couldn't have helped to notice.

But while all of those occurrences and shifts in Potter's behaviour were disquieting, the more immediate issue was a different one: The boy's physical condition had deteriorated noticeably over the last few weeks.

The dark shadows under the Gryffindor's eyes suggested that he hadn't had a decent night's sleep for quite some time, and his paleness now rivalled Snape's own.

The most alarming sign that something was really wrong was the boy's severe weight-loss, though.

The Potion Master didn't believe that all of this could be explained by a few bad memories and some whispering amongst the students. He was well aware that Potter had endured similar treatment from his peers last year, and then, it had hardly seemed to bother him at all.

No, Snape was positive that there was something else behind the boy's behaviour.

Normally, he wouldn't have paid any attention to whatever ludicrous problem a student that wasn't in his house might have. But this was Harry Potter, the boy destined to one day defeat the Dark Lord once for all. Therefore, allowing him to waste away was simply not an option.

And if he had become just a little bit curious about what was going on inside his most-hated student's mind, well, that just would made the egregious task of keeping an eye on Potter and, if necessary, reversing any blemish, a little less egregious.

It was another one of those nights where Harry was unable to fall asleep. Even though he was incredible tired, he couldn't stop thinking about the mess his life had become in just a few short months. If only the patronus-charm wasn't that difficult. If only Sirius Black hadn't broken out of Azkaban. If only Professor Lupin hadn't taught the third-years about Boggarts...

Christmas was just one and a half weeks away and still Harry had made no headway in regards to fighting off the Dementors. And what was worse, even the few people who had - until recently - treated him relatively normal had by now started to eye him with a mixture of contempt and pity.

The prime example were Fred and George Weasley, who had presented him with a special map a week ago, a map that showed each secret passageway as well as any person in the castle and on the grounds.

But when Harry had refused to use the map to sneak out of the castle to Hogsmeade, where all of the older students had gone that day, the twins had looked at Harry as if he had suddenly grown an extra head.

He could understand that Ron's brothers were hurt that Harry didn't seem to appreciate their gift and he had to concede that it was unusual for him to refuse to break a few school-rules, but he hadn't though that it would be this incident that would drive two of the last people who hadn't yet taken to avoid him to do just that. Not after everything else that had happened this term, like him falling unconscious several times, that weird thing with his Boggart, becoming acquainted with what had to be the craziest witch of the school and the constantly escalating rumours that continued to spread through the castle.

However, Harry had to admit that, for a Gryffindor (and the boy-who-lived to boot), he was acting rather cowardly. But no matter what the twins and everybody else was thinking about him, he couldn't bring himself to go anywhere near the Dementors, no matter whether he was underground or not. He just wanted to forget everything he had seen and heard and felt, and if that meant that he couldn't leave the castle ever again, then he was all right with this.

An the day when everyone from third-year and above except Harry had visited the small village near Hogwarts hadn't turned out bad or boring, not at all.

Harry had, for a change, been able to concentrate on his homework without the constant staring of his class-mates, and the remainder of the day he had spent with Luna Lovegood.

He wasn't sure whether he and Luna could be considered 'friends'. He didn't know all that much about the second-year. And while Harry, too, had told the Ravenclaw next to nothing about himself, the girl nevertheless seemed to know an extraordinary amount of details about the Gryffindor. So much, in fact, that Harry had started to wonder whether Divination was perhaps more than a lot of guesswork.

But friends or not, he enjoyed the companionship of the strange girl. Apart from her unique views about magic, it was liberating to interact, for a change, with someone who considered his 'difficulties' with Dementors - or Eudaimonies, as Luna kept calling them - as entirely natural.

Restlessly, Harry rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes for what had to be the hundredth time this night. If this strange sleeping disorder he seemed to suffer from didn't get better some time soon, he would undoubtedly end up in the hospital wing for yet another time.

Even Snape was giving him weird looks during potion-classes and meals in the Great Hall as well as every time Harry had the misfortune to run into the man in the corridors. As this happened more and more frequently, Harry had started to wonder whether the greasy git was stalking him. Of course, it was entirely possible that he imagined things, had hallucinations. The rumours about him being mentally disturbed hadn't escaped the boy's attention.

The hurried scrambling of small, clawed feet on the wooden floor of the third-year boy's dormitory brought Harry out of his reverie. Quickly, he closed his eyes, knowing that his little visitor would bolt if it discovered that Harry was watching its movements.

A few moments later, a scratching sound that suggested that Ron's pet used his shoes to climb up onto the four-poster bed penetrated Harry's ears. Sure enough, the light weight that suddenly landed next to his left knee confirmed that Scabbers had once again decided that the snoring of its master was too loud to get a proper rest.

The first time Scabbers, Ron's old pet-rat, had made it onto Harry's bed had scared the hell out of the boy.

It had been several weeks ago and for a change, Harry had been deeply asleep. Just as almost every night, a vivid nightmare about Bellatrix Lestrange, Yaxley and other faceless Death Eaters had awoken him, his shirt and pants he slept in drenched with sweat, his voice hoarse, almost as if he had screamed himself raw. Which was probably exactly what had happened, actually, considering the nature of his dream and the fact that Neville, on behalf of all the third-year boys, had requested that Harry cast silencing charms on the curtains of his bed weeks ago.

Harry had gladly obliged. He wasn't particularly keen on his class-mates finding out about the content of his dreams. Not that it would have done much harm, considering how low their opinion of the boy-who-lived already had been at that time.

When the silencing charm had been in place, Harry decided that now that he already was working on his curtains, he could go all the way and spell them so that no light from the inside of the curtained area would we visible from the rest of the dormitory. Then, he wouldn't have to worry about the other boys discovering that the most cowardly Gryffindor the house had ever seen couldn't sleep without his wand lit.

Anyway, when Harry had opened his eyes that night, he had stared right into two tiny orbs of light. Two orbs of light that stared back.

It had taken a few moments until he had comprehended what he was seeing. Once he had realized that someone - or something - was watching him, though, he had given a rather undignified squeak and scrambled to the foot of his bed as quickly as possible.

He had recognized his mistake when he wanted to draw his wand only to discover that he was wearing sleep-pants. His wand was lying on his bedside table, directly next to the- Harry blinked. This was...

"Scabbers!" he groaned, feeling both relieved and embarrassed at the same time. Relieved because it wasn't a dark creature or even Death Eater who had been watching him while he had been asleep, and embarrassed because the way he had reacted to a completely harmless rat.

His heart-rate had already started to slow down and he was about to chase Ron's pet away and lie down again when he became aware of something odd. Despite the ruckus he had made, Scabbers hadn't done so much as blinked. Sure, the rat was used to the boys exuberant behaviour, but Harry had witnessed on more than one occasion that Scabbers was anything but brave.

"Ssssh," Harry made, trying to scare the animal away.

Scabbers, however, didn't give any sign that suggested that it intended to return to its owner's bed any time soon.

It wasn't as if Harry had anything against sharing his bed with animals per se. No, he would welcome Hedwig or even Hermione's cat any time. But this rat...it gave him an uneasy feeling even in the best of circumstances. And now the creature was sitting on his pillow, staring at him in such an unnerving manner... was this even normal for rats? Scabber's look was almost... calculating. As if it was waiting for something. As if it hadn't yet decided what to do, as if was planning something...sinister.

Mentally, Harry had groaned at his own cowardice. It was just a rat, an old rat even. Rats weren't capable of setting up elaborate traps to capture, torture or kill a human being.

Still, the nagging feeling that this wasn't an ordinary rat hadn't left Harry alone ever since that night.

Sometimes - well, most of the time - he was convinced that he was only overreacting. He hadn't particularly liked Ron's rat even before the incident, quite the contrary. Touching it had made his skin crawl and he had had the urge to vomit whenever Ron had deposited his pet with him for one reason or another.

Perhaps now, his nerves already strained thanks to the Dementors, the nightmares and how the whole student's body was treating him, his intense dislike had just increased? It was probably fortunate that the boys he shared a dormitory with had yet to find out that Harry panicked because of a cute little pet-rat. It would only fuel the rumours that the boy-who-lived had lost his marbles.

As if to prove himself that he wasn't controlled by some petty phobia, Harry hadn't put up spells that would prevent any unwanted visitor from coming to his bed during the night. A rat couldn't harm him, his fear was completely irrational. His already injured pride wouldn't allow him to guard his bed against the pets of his dorm-mates.

No matter how often Scabbers visited him, though, his aversion to the rat didn't lessen at all. But after he had woken up that first time with Scabbers eyeing him intently and - as far as he could tell - listening to his mumblings during particularly vivid nightmares on numerous other occasions, Harry now preferred to be awake when the animal made its way onto his bed. Then, at least, Scabbers wouldn't scare the hell out of him when he woke up. This was why he had stopped chasing the rat away whenever he heard how the tiny claws made their way over the floor. It wouldn't do any good anyway, as Scabbers would just make a second or third attempt later.

Scabbers, however, didn't seem to be inclined on joining Harry onto his bed when the boy was still awake, and so Harry had taken to feign sleep as soon as he heard the tell-tale scratching.

This night wasn't any different, and even though the close proximity of the rat unnerved the black-haired Gryffindor, at one point he did fall into a restless, nightmare-filled sleep.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"

The terrified scream of his (former) best friend had Harry wide-awake in less than a second. Before he had the chance to do so much as to grab his wand or even his glasses, he picked up the sound of hurried footsteps and the clacking of a door.

"Ron? Wha'sse mat'er?" the sleepy voice of Seamus asked from the other side of the room.

The sound of rustling fabric suggested that the other boys were pulling their curtains aside to see what had made Ron scream as if he was being slaughtered. Despite their recent estrangement, Harry still cared about the red-head, and so he followed the other boys' lead.

He hardly noticed that Scabbers had disappeared during all the commotion.

Ron was sitting in his bed, ghostly white, his entire form shaking. He made an attempt to speak, but all that came out of his mouth was a hoarse wailing.

"Ron?" Dean had climbed out of his bed and made his way over to the obviously terrified boy hesitantly. "Did you have a nightmare? Are you ill?"

"Do you need Madame Pomfrey?" Neville contributed.

"Si- Si- Sirius Bla- Black! With a knife!"

What followed was deafening silence.

"Are you sure you didn't have a nightmare?" Dean finally asked.

But Harry had already noticed that the curtains around Ron's bed weren't drawn away like those of the other boys. No, they were torn, and the shreds were scattered across the floor. And there, at the food of the other Gryffindor's bed, lay a long, silver knife.

Minutes later, the Gryffindor tower was swamped with teachers. Aurors from the Ministry of Magic followed a short while later. After an initial search and questioning of the Fat Lady, it was determined that it was unlikely that Sirius Black was still somewhere inside the tower. But since they were dealing with one of the most dangerous criminals of all time, no one was prepared to take any chances. The students had to assemble in their common room, where the headmaster tried to sooth the agitated children who had so unceremoniously been roused from their slumber.

"It appears that Sirius Black has managed to gain entrance to this tower with the intent to cause harm to one or several students," Dumbledore said, for once no hint of cheerfulness in his voice, "The Aurors believe that he had already left the tower when the first teachers arrived, but I'm sure you'll understand that we need to make sure that no harm will befall you within these walls. Therefore, I have to ask you to stay in the common room until further notice."

"Those of you who have friends or siblings in other houses, rest assured that Aurors have already secured the other three towers respective dungeons as well. As we speak, the heads of houses deliver the same message to their students. Once we are sure that the escapee isn't hiding out in one of the houses, the Aurors will move on to search the rest of the school. I'm afraid you won't be able to leave the tower until the entire castle is deemed secure. If that means you have to stay in here when the time for breakfast arrives, the house elves will of course serve you your food here. Classes are likely to be cancelled anyway, as the teachers and I need to determine what to do to prevent such a situation from occurring in the future."

"The third-year boys as well as the prefects and any other student who believes that he or she has noticed anything unusual that might be related to Black forcing his way into the tower please be available to the Aurors for questioning. If you have any further concerns, please speak with your head of house or Professor Lupin, both of whom will be staying here until the Aurors have finished their search."

As soon as Dumbledore had finished his speech, the students started to chatter. It wasn't any day that a mass murdered broke into what was practically your home and tried to kill one of your fellow students. Said student had already been brought to the infirmary where Madame Pomfrey was treating Ron for shock, guarded by several more Aurors, of course.

With shaking knees, Harry sank down on one of the many sofas. Even if he hadn't known in advance that he was the boy Sirius Black was after, the way the teachers and Aurors acted around him would have made it clear that Ron had only been a casualty - or would have been, if he hadn't woken up at exactly the right moment.

Professor McGonagall had cast several different protection spells Harry hadn't even heard about on him as soon as she had come running into the boy's dormitory, summoned by a frantic Percy. When the first Aurors had arrived, they had practically formed a circle around him and only when it became clear that Black had long since left this particular dormitory they had scattered around the entire tower, with only two of them left to protect the boy-who-lived if necessary.

Harry hadn't paid much attention to the man who didn't seem to have an inch of skin not marred by one curse scar or another and the young woman with pink hair who had shielded him for the last five minutes or so. He had been too occupied by the intense guilt he was feeling that once again, Ron had been hurt because of him being friends with the boy-who-lived.

Of course, he had to admit that it was probably a mere coincident that it had been Ron's bed that Black had raided first, but still, this was the third year in a row Ron had been injured by someone who ultimately wanted to kill him, Harry.

Perhaps it would be easier for everyone if one of them - Voldemort, Black, some gigantic spiders or whoever - fulfilled the deed already, Harry thought gloomily.

"So, well, you all right?" the pink-haired Auror asked.

Harry's head snapped up. "Yeah," he muttered, perfectly aware that he was being rude. Still, he wasn't in the mood for small-talk.

"Hmm," the woman hummed, "I'm Tonks, by the way, I'm an Auror in training. Only have started a few months ago, mind you, but Moody - that's the man with all those scars and the scary eye - seems to think that I'm good enough to assist in real missions already. It's nice to be back at Hogwarts, actually, would never have thought that I would miss my old school. I have never been to Gryffindor common room, though, it's quite nice. Not as good as Hufflepuff, of course, but still." She took a few steps forward to have a better look at the flights of stairs that led up to the dormitories, and promptly stumbled over one of the lower tables next to the sofas.

"For Merlin's bloody sake!" she cursed, her face turning a few shades darker when she noticed that some of the other Gryffindors had watched her clumsy movements and were now giggling.

"Hmpf. This is serious business, kids, no reason to laugh. Well, I'll better see what Moody and Dumbledore are discussing," she added, turning around to Harry once more, "otherwise the paranoid git will accuse me of slacking again. You stay put, Potter!"

With that firm order, the young trainee stepped next to her superior, who was indeed in a deep conversation with the headmaster. Every now and then, Moody and Dumbledore looked in Harry's direction, frowning slightly.

As much as Harry strained his ears, he couldn't understand more than a few words from what was likely a discussion about him. He really hated this, adults speaking about him as if he was a toddler that couldn't possibly be allowed to have a say in matters concerning himself.

Words like "too dangerous", "miracle... rash decisions... chasing him down on his own" and finally "Christmas holidays... back home" penetrated his ears.

Great. Now they were planning on sending him back to the Dursleys. What a lovely prospect, spending Christmas in his cupboard.

But at least he would be away from the Dementors. That was something, wasn't it?

Thankfully, no Dementors searched the Hogwarts Express when it brought all of the students back to London half a week later.

Predictably, the headmaster together with his teachers had decided to close the school for the Christmas holidays in order to enhance the wards around the castle.

The day after Sirius Black had forced his way into Gryffindor tower, the whole school had been in upheaval. No on had closed an eye that night, and it had only been at about 11 o'clock the next day that the Aurors declared that Black must have already left the premises and the students were allowed out of their common rooms again.

Classes had resumed the day after, but hardly anyone (Ravenclaws and Hermione excluded) paid any attention to the teacher's lectures. Instead, the students tried to engage their professors into discussions about Sirius Black, how it was possible that the Dementors hadn't detected him when he had entered the school grounds and of his role in the last war.

This latter topic had at least resulted in some serious talks about the time when Voldemort and his followers had been at large. Most of the students only knew very little about that time, having either been too young to really comprehend what was going on or not even been born yet. And their older relatives weren't exactly keen on discussing such a sore topic with their young charges, no matter on which side of the war they had fought.

The supporters of Voldemort of course tried to keep a low profile, and giving your offsprings information about things you wanted to keep secret was not exactly wise if you intended for those things to stay, in fact, secret. Additionally, the more gruesome details might discourage their children from following their fathers' and mothers' footsteps.

And while the people who had fought on what was widely considered the 'light' side weren't as tight-lipped as the former Death Eaters, they still preferred not to think about those terrible times when they hadn't dared to trust anyone, when friends and family had been ripped away from them and you could never be sure whether you would still be alive at the end of the day.

If Harry would have paid attention to his surroundings, he would have noticed that some of the Slytherins looked rather thoughtful these days, and not at all comfortable about being in the same house - or even dorm - as people as Draco Malfoy.

But the black-haired Gryffindor had been too busy worrying about Black, the fact that the man - who had already facilitated the murder of his parents - had almost killed his former best friend, not to mention the Dementors, whose number had been increased after the escaped prisoner's break-in into the castle, or the Dursleys, who wouldn't be thrilled to have their nephew back months earlier than they had expected.

He could only hope that Uncle Vernon wasn't still angry because of what he had done to the man's sister the previous summer.

Harry didn't know whether it had been a good idea to send Hedwig to Surrey with a short note that explained that his school would close over the holidays and that he would need to return to Privet Drive. However, he hadn't wanted to risk giving his Uncle a heart-attack by showing up on their doorstep unannounced - not that he cared about the fat man's health, but he wasn't suicidal. Not yet, anyway.

Of course, he hadn't gotten any reply (not that he had expected one), and so he didn't know whether someone would collect him from King's Cross. Fortunately, he still remembered which train Hagrid had dropped him off at the evening of his eleventh birthday, so he was fairly confident that he would make it to Little Whinging one way or another.

Harry had purposefully chosen a compartment at the very end of the train, in the hope that no one would bother him there. By now, even Hermione seemed to have gotten the message that he wasn't in the mood for company at the moment - well, hadn't been for the last few months, to be fair - but that didn't mean that the other students wouldn't try to harass him during the ride, as it would be their last opportunity to stare and point at Harry Potter for two whole weeks.

While it had been Ron whom Black had attacked and therefore had been in the spotlight for the first day or two after the incident, the general focus had quickly turned back to Harry once it had become public that Sirius Black was the one who had betrayed the Potters twelve years ago and now intended to kill the last member of the family.

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall had of course tried to keep this secret, but Harry, Hermione and Ron were by no means the only ones who knew about the gamekeeper's tendency to babble out secrets. Additionally, the involvement of the Aurors had led to the Daily Prophet catching wind of what had happened at Hogwarts, and from then on it had only been a matter of days until even the last person knew everything about Black's real reasons for breaking out of Azkaban and his newest attempt on a person's life.

What Harry hadn't expected, though, was that after what had happened on the journey to Hogwarts on September 1st, several teachers and even a few Aurors would accompany the students on their journey back.

It was just his luck that Snape seemed to be responsible for supervising that section of the train Harry had chosen to sit in. Three times, the moody teacher had already looked into Harry's compartment, even though there had been no sign of any Dementor intending to search the Express.

Harry didn't know what to make of the man. Over the last two years, he had gained plenty of experiences on how to deal with an angry, resentful and unfair Snape. The behaviour the man had displayed during the last few weeks, though - since the incident with the Boggart, to be precise - had been completely out of character. He had hardly insulted Harry at all, and even though he had had to serve a few detentions, they hadn't been nearly as unpleasant as normally.

Harry even contemplated the possibility that Hermione had spoken to their professor, as Snape almost seemed to have taken over her job and was following him wherever he went, observing him. However, that didn't make sense. Surely Hermione would have gone to Professor McGonagall or even Professor Dumbledore before turning to the one professors who was infamous for his bias against Gryffindor?

A few times, an even more disturbing thought than the notion of Hermione confiding in Snape of all people had crossed Harry's mind.

What if Madame Pomfrey hadn't believed his excuse about how he he acquired the scars on his back? At that time, Harry had simply been relieved that the medi-witch hadn't dwelt on that subject. But how likely was it that a medically trained professional had believed such a poor excuse? Weird sunburn, all right...

But again, why should the medi-witch have chosen to talk to Snape rather than Harry's head of house or the headmaster? Yes, Snape had been the one who had brought him to the infirmary that day, but surely that didn't give the man the right to know everything about Harry's medical history?

And still, Harry couldn't shake off the feeling that his potion professor knew much more about him than he was comfortable with.

If that was true, though, then the man had behaved pretty decently. The Snape he had thought he knew wouldn't have wasted such a perfect opportunity to ridicule his most-hated student, to let his Slytherins know about Harry's weaknesses, to give them even more ammunition to humiliate the boy-who-had-vanished-the-employer-of-their-parents.

Harry was pulled out of his musings when the door to his compartment opened. He stiffened when once again, it was Snape, clad in his customary black cloak, who was looming in the doorway. Sure, the man hadn't been nearly as nasty as usual, but that didn't mean than Harry felt more comfortable around him. Quite the contrary, actually. The Gryffindor third-year preferred people he knew what to expect from. In this respect, the Dursleys were perfect. They had made it pretty clear that they hated their nephew ever since he could remember, and nothing that Harry had done had made them change their mind.

"Potter," the potion professor addressed his pupil after eyeing him with an unreadable expression for several seconds.

"Yes?" Harry asked curtly, "Professor?" he amended upon receiving a glare from his teacher.

"I trust that your head of house has informed you that under no circumstances you are to leave your relatives' house?"

"Yes. Yes, Professor McGonagall mentioned something like this," Harry answered dismissively.

"Potter, that isn't some more or less important school rule you seem to hold yourself above anyway. I had hoped that the near miss on your friend's life would have made you aware of the fact that there is more at stake than one or two weeks worth of detentions."

Harry glared at the man angrily. As if he didn't already feel guilty enough about the whole disaster! "Of course I am, Professor," he replied coldly, "I do not plan to violate the rules Professor McGonagall and the headmaster have laid down for my stay with the Dursleys."

What Harry didn't tell was that it was unlikely that he would have any opportunity to leave Number 4 Privet Drive anyway. Not after last summer. If he was lucky, his relatives had decided to let him have back Dudley's second bedroom and only lock him up there. If he wasn't so lucky and he had to put up with his old cupboard... well, he was still pretty small for a thirteen years old.

"See that you don't," the potion master drawled, giving Harry one of the death-glares he was famous for, "the escaped convict isn't the only one you should worry about. The Dementors that have so far guarded Hogwarts will use the next two weeks to search the country for Black. I believe that it would be... unwise, for you to run into them when there is no wizard around actually capable of driving them away."

Harry wanted to be angry at the man for making fun of his weakness, but he couldn't summon the energy necessary for such a strong emotion. Instead, he focused on the the untidy stitches on the knee of Dudley's old jeans Harry was currently wearing. Unfortunately, sewing was one of the few chores he had never been forced to learn during his childhood. Still, an untidy seam was better than the big hole that had been there before - and warmer, for that matter, something he had learned to appreciate very early in his life.

Snape cleared his throat, and when he next spoke he sounded actually uncomfortable - an emotion Harry hadn't known the man was capable of feeling.

"I see that you have decided to leave your owl at Hogwarts. You are, of course, perfectly aware that under-aged wizards are prohibited from using magic except if their life is in imminent danger. Considering how prone you are to land yourself in trouble, I thought it would be wise to equip you with a device that would allow you to call for help if the need should arise."

With that, the potion master handed his (until recently) most-hated student a small box.

Somewhat flabbergasted, Harry took it, eyeing the nondescript tiny wooden cradle warily. Given that it was Snape who had presented him with that box, it couldn't be anything good, could it?

"Now, open it!" the portion professor demanded impatiently, "I don't have all day!"

If this was a prank, it was a pretty lame one, Harry thought. He was half-expecting that the box would explode or spray him with some nasty potion-ingredients as soon as he opened it, but nothing happened. In it, he found a small glassy orb, similar to the Rememberal Neville had received in first year.

"This orb is a device that will enable you to call for aid. If you feel that a visit of an adult wizard is in order, you simply need touch the globe. The amount of... distress you are experiencing will lead to a matching orb lighting up accordingly. Depending on the urgency of the situation, help will arrive instantly or at the next possible opportunity."

Harry nodded at the professor, still rather dumbfounded. That was actually pretty... well, thoughtful, to provide him with a device like this. Still, Harry doubted that he would need it. As far as he knew, neither Dementors nor Death Eaters could enter the house of his relatives, and it wasn't as if he would ever leave the premises. The only dangerous situation that could possibly arise was that of him doing accidental magic, and thus provoking his uncle. But there was no way that he would let anyone know about what was going on inside Number 4 Privet Drive, no matter how sever the trashing was.

"Just to make sure that you have understood me correctly, you are to use the orb no matter of the actual type of danger you might find yourself confronted with, is that clear?" Snape asked, almost as if he had read Harry's thoughts.

"Right. Uhm, thank you, Sir," Harry nodded quickly, wanting to end the awkward situation as fast as possible.

Snape was already turning around, intending to leave the compartment, when Harry remembered that he had yet to ask a rather important question. "Uhm, Sir, who will come if I touch that ball?"

Snape, turning around again, gave the boy an undecipherable look. "That, Mr Potter," he stated expressionlessly, "is non of your concern."

He was out of the compartment before Harry had time to comprehend the answer.

Snape didn't know what was wrong with him. He, the one teacher feared even by witches and wizards who had left Hogwarts more than a decade ago, was actually nervous at the thought of approaching an annoying Gryffindor third-year. Well, as a matter of fact, it wasn't the prospect of having to face Harry Potter that had him worried, but rather the thought of what he had to do next.

At least Potter had chosen to sit on his own, which would make the task a little easier. He could only image what the reaction would have been if some of his fellow Gryffindors had chosen to keep the boy company. They would probably destroy the device he had procured for the boy as soon as he had left the compartment, convinced that, as it came from the head of Slytherin, it had to be some sort of dark artefact.

Snape nearly snorted at the thought. Normally, Solicitals where used by mothers of little children, to let them know whether their child was in distress when they weren't in the same room as their offspring. To avoid any uncomfortable questions, he had even put a glamour on himself when he had apparated to Diagon Alley to buy one. The trouble he went through because of Potter! His life had been much easier when he had still hated the boy, when his only worry had been to keep the boy alive so that one day he could fulfil his purpose and destroy the Dark Lord once for all.

At that time, he would never have dreamt of ever being concerned about Potter's well-being. But since non of his colleagues seemed to be prepared to bring the boy back into line, it was (once again) left to Snape to make sure that the Gryffindor survived the school-year.

Only that telling himself that he only wanted to keep the boy alive wasn't working any longer.

Oh, it wasn't as if he hadn't tried, but after his observations over the past few months, and especially after the conversation he had had with the medi-witch a few days prior, he couldn't hide from the truth any longer: That he. Severus Snape, was worried about Harry bloody Potter's mental state. Perhaps it was time to retire from his job as a spy-amongst-death-eaters, as he was obviously becoming soft.

Yes, the Greasy Git from the Dungeons was actually concerned about the son of his arch-nemesis.

But then, it wasn't that much of a surprise. Potter's physical condition alone made it abundantly clear that something was very wrong with the boy.

The Gryffindor had always been skinny, but now he was positively gaunt. If Snape hadn't known better, he would have thought that Potter was anorectic. Actually, he didn't know any better, but somehow, he doubted that this was the case. He - as well as the medi-witch - had observed the boy's eating habits closely. And while Potter hardly ate anything (when he showed up to meals at all), the little he did eat was by no means low-calorie or of any particular texture, nor did it belong to a specific group of food. In short, the boy's eating habits didn't suggest that he was suffering from an eating disorder.

No, both the potion master and Madame Pomfrey had agreed that it likely was the amount of stress Potter had gone through during the last few months that had resulted in him losing his appetite.

Even Snape had had to admit that it wasn't a very far-fetched idea. The numerous encounters the boy had had with dementors alone would have been enough to cause even the most resilient person to fall into a depression.

And considering what it was that Potter was experiencing during his encounters with those creatures (and quite likely in his sleep now, too), it was almost a miracle that he hadn't yet resorted to anything more... drastic.

Potter's hallucinations (and Snape really prayed that this was what these images were - hallucinations, and no actual memories), however, weren't the only reason why the teacher had decided that the Gryffindor needed a means to contact someone during the time Hogwarts was closed.

During the enlightening conversation he had had with the medi-witch a few days ago, the spy had sensed that there was something else that troubled the nurse.

Snape knew that as a healer, Madame Pomfrey had taken an oath not to speak of her patient's medical condition or history to anyone except close relatives and people expressly excluded from that rule. It had, after all, been due to this oath that she hadn't told the potion master more than the basic details after he had 'rescued' Potter from the boy's Boggart .

However, Snape hadn't been a spy for nothing. He was well aware how to convince reluctant people to provide him with information he deemed important. It helped that he was one of the four heads of houses and thus in a position similar to that of a guardian to the students attending Hogwarts. And then, it hadn't been as if Madame Pomfrey had particularly keen on keeping the information he needed secret, especially not after Dumbledore had announced that Hogwarts would close for the Christmas holidays and all students had to return home.

"Do I really need to remind you that, if the well-fare of a student who isn't yet of age and who doesn't have any magical guardians is concerned, your obligation to secrecy doesn't apply?" Snape had hissed angrily when the medi-witch had proved rather stubborn.

"You know as well as I do that this only applies to the student's head of house!" Madame Pomfrey had whispered back, "last time I checked, Harry Potter was in Gryffindor!"

The potion master nearly snorted. The last thing he needed was Potter being a Slytherin. The boy managed to give him a headache even when he was safely stored away in the tower full of bloody lions! "And you know that there is an exception to this rule if there is reason to believe that the respective head of house doesn't have the student's best interest at heart," he growled back, smirking at Pomfrey's bewildered look.

"Why shouldn't Minerva have Harry's best interest at heart? She loves the boy!"

"Yet she allowed Dumbledore to place him with his relatives. And neither has she ever said anything against the man's unorthodox handling of the boy and his stunts during the past few years. You're not blind, Poppy, you must have seen the looks Potter has given Dumbledore over the past months. You could almost think that he believes that Dumbledore is the Dark Lord reincarnated!"

Snape had been satisfied when the medi-witch actually looked uncomfortable at his last statement. He didn't have any clue why Potter seemed so distrustful of Dumbledore all of the sudden, and neither did he care. However, if the boy's strange behaviour worked to his advantage...

"He has scars," Madame Pomfrey said in a hushed voice, startling Snape out of his thoughts.

He looked at her as if she had lost his mind. "This is Harry bloody Potter we are talking about, of course he has a scar!" he growled.

"I didn't mean that one," the medi-witch huffed angrily, "but those on his back. Some of them seemed pretty recent, while others were clearly many years old. When I asked him about them, he came up with a ridiculous excuse. The story he told me about how he broke his arm during the summer wasn't very convincing either."

Comprehension dawned on the teacher's face. "So you think...?"

"Yes," Madame Pomfrey gave Snape a dark look, knowing that there was no reason to became any more specific. The medi-witch was well aware of her colleagues other job, having provided him with medical aid whenever he needed it. She knew perfectly well that the man was able to read between the lines.

It had been at this exact moment that everything had fallen into place and the potion master suddenly understood.

The condition Potter had been in when he had first come to Hogwarts. The state of all of his clothes except his school uniform. The boy's defensive attitude towards adults. His disregard for rules and his own safety. Dumbledore's mentioning about how Potter had begged him to be allowed to stay at Hogwarts during the summer holidays. The obese muggle his Boggart had turned into.

While Snape could no longer say that he hated Potter, he was by no means fond of him either. But that didn't mean that he felt comfortable about allowing a thirteen year old child returning into the 'care' of his abusive relatives.

Briefly, he had contemplated pressuring Albus into letting him stay at the castle, or even sending him to those blasted Weasleys. But with the threat of Black looming over them, he knew that his only chance of having his way would be to reveal everything he knew to the headmaster, and currently, Snape wasn't sure whether this would be a wise decision.

Potter clearly was wary about the man, and the potion master doubted that this was only due to him being responsible for Potter having to grow up in less than ideal conditions. After all, the mistreatment had likely been going on for years already, so why should Potter suddenly start to keep his guard around Dumbledore? The boy had literally worshipped the man during his first two years at school.

What if Potter had reason to believe that Dumbledore was hiding something else? Snape knew better than anyone that Dumbledore could out-manipulate most Slytherins...

No, better not risking anything. True, Potter might sustain some additional injuries due to Snape keeping quiet, but if it would mean that he could protect the boy from far more serious danger some time in the future, it was worth it, wasn't it?

Still, his conscience wouldn't allow the potion master to let the boy leave the relative safety of the castle without any protection whatsoever. He could only hope that Potter had gotten the message and that the stubborn boy would indeed use the Solicital should it become necessary.

Omitting the fact that it would be his most-hated teacher that would come to the Gryffindor's aid would hopefully help matters.