Harry slipped back comfortably into life at Hogwarts. The castle was his home, its halls and corridors his territory, its rules and routine the only security he had ever known. After six years, the magnificence of its formal ceremonies held no terrors for him; its vagaries and unpredictable changes elicited amusement rather than panic.

With the other sixth form Gryffindors he had watched with a sense of indulgent superiority as the Sorting Hat decided the fate of the quaking and extremely small, or so they seemed, first years. He had barely listened to Dumbledore’s speech, (something about ‘new challenges, old challenges’), and when the magical banquet appeared and gasps of delighted surprise filled the air, he relaxed with a smile and the feeling that he was back where he truly belonged. Hermione felt it too. Squeezing his hand under the table she whispered,

“Good to be back, isn’t it?”

At HighTable the staff were talking animatedly. Harry let his eyes travel along the row of familiar faces. Flitwick, Trelawney (re-instated, obviously), Madame Hooch, Professor McGonagall, Sprout (already rather mud-stained) and, next to her, Professor Grubbly-Plank. So where was Hagrid this time? Further along, half awake, his head propped on his hand, was Professor Lupin. He had been stifling yawns all through Dumbledore’s introduction, (“We are delighted to welcome back Professor Remus Lupin as teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts…”), and now looked as though he might fall asleep at any minute. Hermione had noticed him on the train, curled up in the corner of a carriage, dead to the world, and he had slept for the entire journey, so they hadn’t had a chance to speak to him yet. Harry wondered how close it was to the full moon.

At the far end of the row of teachers sat Professor Snape. Harry stared at the sallow face, the greasy dark hair, the hooked nose and felt himself tense. A chill of loathing tingled down his spine and he gave an involuntary shudder. Sensing him, Snape looked up and for a moment their eyes locked, black versus green. Harry forced himself to hold the gaze for a fraction longer than necessary, an act of defiance. It’s never too soon to start.

Over at the Slytherin table there was much hilarity, most of it at his expense, Harry guessed. He acknowledged Malfoy with a nod. Ron caught the gesture and, gagging slightly on his mouthful of pie, he remonstrated:

“Consorting with the enemy, Captain? What do you think this is, the Neutral Zone? Resistance is futile.”

When Harry didn’t reply, Ron turned his attention back to the important things in life: pudding and pumpkin juice.

“Ten Forward’s done us proud tonight. Replicators been working overtime.”

“We don’t know what you’re on about, Ron,” Hermione countered. “But if you are disparaging the amount of work that the house elves have done to get all this spread ready…”

“No, it’s all fantastic. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It just, sort of, comes out,” he apologised.

Harry had already taken a fair amount of stick for his hair. Now the Slytherin faction came in for the kill.

“Hey, Baldy,” drawled Malfoy. “What’d you do? Swallow your mother’s Exfoliating Potion? Oh, I’m so sorry, I forgot - you don’t have a mother! Or a father! Dear, dear. How remiss.”

“So how is your father, then? Heard from him at all? Are they allowed letters in Azkaban?” Harry retaliated, more viciously than he’d intended.

“Touché, Potter!” Malfoy recovered quickly, but Harry realised that his gibe had hit home.

“Look, I didn’t mean …” The last thing he wanted to do right now was to antagonise Malfoy.

“You’ll keep, Potter. You’ll keep.” The Slytherins ambled off.

That had hardly resolved the hair question. His fellow Gryffindors were equally agog. Harry produced his cover story:

“Jiggler Nits. Billions of ‘em. Awfully itchy. Had to have my head shaved.”

“Yuk!”

“Nasty!”

“Poor you!”

The reactions ranged from sympathy to distaste, but Harry noticed that his classmates had, en masse, taken a step back. He wondered if anyone would dare sit next to him in class.

Harry practised Occlumency now every night. Even in those first moments of shock and revulsion after reading the letter, he had known that this skill would play an essential part in his plan. In the final weeks at the Dursleys’, while the August sun blazed and his Begonias blossomed, he practised, locked in his room.

He practised now, at bedtime, breathing deeply, emptying his mind, stilling his thoughts, burying his consciousness further and further within himself and sealing it there, a seam of energy, unreachable, un-mined. A sheer rock-face stood sentry to his thoughts. He firmed, reinforced, strengthened, honed, buffed and polished it from slate to granite to marble… It had to be diamond, or crystal, at least, before he could be certain that Snape would find no crack, no foothold.

He was sleeping better too. It was weeks since the last nightmare had screamed into his dreams. Were his defences already so strong, or was Voldemort laying low, secretly regrouping? His scar had also been quiet, on the whole. It throbbed sometimes, occasionally it gave a twinge, but it too seemed to be biding its time, waiting and clandestinely plotting.

Hermione was being so sweet and protective. It would be a shame to deceive her. She would be useful, though, in her concern. Ron? No, Ron would get too emotional; he’d give the game away. Resistance is futile? He mustn’t be told anything. He’d be upset, of course, but he’d get over it. He’d come round to his way of thinking in the end. What other way was there?

The others… the others would prove more problematical. Need to tread very carefully there, very carefully indeed…

Harry had selected his NEWT subjects based on the idea that he was going to become an Auror. He wasn’t even sure that that was what he wanted to do any more. Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms and Potions (with subsidiary Herbology) formed the core of his time-table. Professor McGonagall must have pulled a lot of strings to get him accepted in Potions - he certainly hadn’t achieved an O grade in his OWL. Ron had failed his completely. He had opted for Muggle Studies instead - much to his Dad’s delight.

Hermione had found it extremely difficult to drop any subjects at all.

“I don’t mind giving up the Study of Ancient Runes, but I’m really good at Arithmancy. Perhaps I could do an extra non-examination course, just for fun.”

“Whatever turns you on. We’ll stick to Quidditch.”

Hermione was sprawled on the couch in the Gryffindor common room, reading the Daily Prophet, with Crookshanks draped over her knee like a shaggy, ginger sheepskin. Although they now had access to the sixth form annexe - an attractive, well-equipped quiet study room, with a 24 hour juice and toast bar – they still preferred the main room with its crackling fire and squashy chairs.

“Anything happening in the world?” asked Harry. “I’m so out of touch.”

Hermione scanned the headlines critically,

“This rag’s getting almost as bad as The Quibbler. Listen to this: ‘Wiz-kids? Scandalous rise in teenage pregnancy. Ministry makes a move,’” she quoted. “Forget it. What else? …er, ‘Outbreak of Scale and Tail Disease amongst Hebridean Black Dragons. Five cases reported.’ …er, ‘Natural Front demo against Magically Modified wheat’.”

She flicked through the pages to the business section. “What about this? ‘Record Rise in Rural Refurbishment’!” she scoffed. “See what I mean? Have all the sub-editors OD’ed on Alliteration Gums? This used to be a serious paper!” She threw it to the floor in disgust.

“If you’ve finished with it, can I have the Sports page?” asked Ron, apologetically.

“That cat is getting disgustingly fat,” commented Harry.

“Yeah, what’ve you been feeding him? Feline supplement Number 34?” Ron looked up from his article on the Chudley Cannons.

“If that’s one of your silly quotes,” said Hermione severely, “you’re making it up. They don’t have cats in space.”

“Data does. Harry’s got a point, though. Crookers is a bit of a tub.”

“No he’s not. He’s cuddly and boo-ti-ful!” Hermione bent forward and buried her face in the pale golden fur.

“Seriously, though, he’s different,” said Harry. “All he does is sleep all day. He used to be so …”

“Vicious?” suggested Ron. Harry ignored him.

“Active, Alert. Cunning. Didn’t you ever watch him hunting Doxies? He used to be mobile, Hermione, for goodness’ sake!”

She gave an embarrassed shrug,

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“Notice?”

“That he’s a little more ‘relaxed’ than he used to be.” She tickled Crookshanks under the chin and he craned his neck up in ecstasy then rolled over onto his back with all four woolly paws in the air.

“Relaxed?” said Ron, “He’s virtually vegetative!”

“My parents had him ‘done’,” explained Hermione. “You know, the ‘snip’,” she added, sotto voce.

Ron winced and stroked the fluffy tummy in sympathy.

“Bad luck, old boy. Life’s a bitch. No more ‘lean, mean killing machine’.”

Harry had a thoughtful expression.

“I wonder if it works on people,” he said.

“I can think of one vindictive bastard who might benefit,” laughed Ron.

“History is littered with examples,” Hermione began humourlessly. “Think of the eunuchs employed as harem attendants or functionaries at the Oriental courts, or under the Roman emperors. Or the castrati in Italian opera…” she broke off and gave Harry an incredulous look. “You’re not serious? You don’t mean Snape?”

“Why not?” said Harry coldly, “He deserves it.”

“That is one mental image I could have lived happily without.” Ron grinned. Then, seeing that Hermione was distressed, he changed the subject.

“How about a game of Wizard Chess, Harry?”

“Maybe later. I’ve got some stuff to do. I’m going to the library.” Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.