“I’m worried about him, Ron.” Hermione laid down her quill. For once they were making use of the annexe as the main Gryffindor common room was swarming with first years, playing a heated game of ‘Truth or Trick’. Her Charms homework (‘Ten inches on the benefits and disadvantages of the Conspicuous Nose Charm’) lay unfinished on the desk before her.

“First there’s all that weird business with the hair and the ear-ring, and now… There’s definitely something wrong, something he isn’t telling us. He’s so… …so preoccupied. And he’s spending all his free time in the Library. That’s not like Harry. We’ve hardly seen him all week. He hasn’t even been to visit Remus yet.”

That last point upset Hermione more than she cared to admit. The full moon had coincided with the start of term, so Remus had missed the first three days completely, and he was still looking pasty and frail. Their first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson had been very tame.

“I think he has a pretty rough time of it when he’s not at Hogwarts. I don’t think he can really afford to buy the Wolfsbane potion every month.”

She was fond of Professor Lupin and it distressed her to see him so haggard. The hostility, prejudice and sheer physical suffering he had to put up with in the outside world incensed her beyond measure.

“He’ll be better now he’s here and Snape can brew his stuff for him regularly.” Ron tried to reassure her.

“But wouldn’t you think Harry’d go to see him? I thought he cared. And, come to think of it, have you noticed how tired Harry is too? Isn’t he getting enough sleep?” She didn’t know whether to be annoyed with Harry or anxious.

Ron pondered for a moment.

“I think he’s having nightmares again. He keeps mumbling in his sleep. I can’t hear what he’s saying though. Something about a ‘car’ and ‘attack him’?” Ron tried to remember the words, but his mind was as blank as a fresh parchment.

“Hey, what about him and Malfoy?” he continued in sudden indignation. “What’s all that about? They’re speaking to each other, for Merlin’s sake! Makes you sick.”

“They actually sit together in Potions,” Hermione revealed. That was news to Ron. “Snape started it, ‘cos he wouldn’t let Harry sit at the back, but they do it automatically now. And there’s another funny thing: Harry and Snape haven’t had an argument all week.”

“Now that’s just not natural,” Ron agreed. “Perhaps Snape’s brainwashed him with all that Occlumency. Or done a Vulcan Mind Meld.” He spread his fingers and positioned them over his cheekbone and jaw.

“And there was I thinking we could get through an entire conversation without any bizarre space references.” Hermione stood up decisively. “Come on. We need to have a talk with him and sort this out. Let’s go and find him. Bet you a Chocolate Frog he’s in the Library.”

“Just hang on a tic while I change out of this jumper. It’s too tight. All my stuff seems to be getting small all of a sudden.”

“You’re growing, Ron. People do.”

“No, I mean really small. Tiny. Like it’s been shrunk. I think the house-elves must have mixed up a Shrinking Spell with their detergent or dusters or something.”

“That’s right. Blame them for everything. Hurry up, will you?”

The Fat Lady was reclining with her feet up and a large goblet of red wine in her hand.

“Off out?” she complained as they climbed through the opening. “And I was planning an early night.”

“We won’t be late,” Hermione promised.

“Cheers!” The portrait smiled.

They set off purposefully down the corridor.

“You know,” Hermione began. Her voice had that thoughtful, analytical quality that often preceded one of her better ideas. “Harry’s been asking the teachers an awful lot of odd questions lately. Do you remember that stuff he was asking Professor McGonagall, about the implications of animate versus inanimate Transfigurations? He asked her something about dimensions and changing sizes, I’m sure, because she started talking about the dangerous side-effects of Reducing and Inflating Charms. Said that Aunt Marge had been very lucky, and that Harry should have learned his lesson by now. I think she told him to talk to Professor Flitwick.”

“I saw him with Professor Binns on Tuesday,” Ron recalled. “And Harry doesn’t even take History of Magic any more. What’s he up to?” Belatedly he made the connection and stared at Hermione, perplexed. “You don’t mean Harry’s shrinking my clothes? Whatever for?”

Harry slammed the book shut with a sigh. (At the far end of the Library Madame Pince tutted her disapproval.) He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He’d been poring over ‘The Origins of Economic Sorcery’ for nearly two hours and he was still no nearer to discovering exactly what was involved in the Age of Attainment ritual. He felt stale and irritable and he had a wicked headache.

It had taken him three consecutive nights of sneaking out of the dorm in his Invisibility Cloak and searching through the ancient, dust laden tomes in the Restricted Section before he had even found the book that Professor Binns had unwittingly suggested: ‘Al-Ashtaar - Legacy of Mystic Materialism.’ And then another long night of peering at the dense text with his wand dimly on ‘Lumos’ before he’d found any reference to the Rite of Natqah and the duties of the Muntaqim.

At least he now knew what he was letting himself in for. If he’d understood correctly - but he was by no means sure that he had - once he had performed the Rite of Revenge and dishonoured Snape, his own claim as the heir of James Potter was legitimised, irrespective the results of the Attainment tests (whatever they were). If, on the other hand, he had to submit to the ritual tests before he’d had a chance to get back at Snape, then his claim on the Potter estate was null and void. Not only that, but he would be obliged publicly to acknowledge Snape’s paternity. The very thought nauseated him.

Before he took any decisive action he wanted to ascertain his exact legal position as defined in the Rules of Attainment. He had found several allusions to it, but the archaic phraseology and legal jargon had him baffled. He stared dejectedly at the notes he had just taken:

‘…on the death of the stated parties on or before the Attainment date but before the Annulment date, assuming annual value growth of said property guaranteed in proportion to the claimant’s Initial declaration, whichever is the higher…’

It didn’t make any sense. He wasn’t even sure if it were relevant.

It was no good. He would have to rope in Hermione to help him. It was time to tell her the truth - well, an edited version of the truth. The notion of Snape’s being Harry’s long lost parent would, no doubt, appeal to her romantic sensibilities. He could play on that.

Having reached a decision, Harry felt more positive than he had done for days. Under Madame Pince’s vulturine gaze he returned the heavy book to the ‘Reference’ shelf, and left. He needed some fresh air to clear his head.

Draco Malfoy was alone in the Quidditch changing rooms. After practice the other members of the Slytherin team had gone on ahead, leaving him to secure the Bludgers and wipe down the brooms. There were drawbacks to being the captain. He started when Harry walked in.

“Malfoy.” Harry acknowledged him with a nod.

“Potter.”

The two boys eyed each other in silence. Harry was the first to yield,

“Malfoy, what I said the other day, about your father…”

“Forget it!”

“No. Just let me say this. I didn’t mean it and I’m sorry. OK?”

Malfoy made no reply, but neither did he walk away. Harry was encouraged to continue,

“Over the summer I had to deal with a lot of… …of stuff, about my father, and I know it’s tough.”

“Are you trying to be funny, Potter?” The blond boy’s hand had moved closer to his wand pocket. Harry tried to sound sincere.

“No, actually. For once I’m not.”

Malfoy shrugged and picked up his chamois leather.

“Nice broom!” Harry said, appreciatively.

“It’s the latest model. A Firebolt FIT - that’s Flame Injection Turbo.” Malfoy showed off his new acquisition proudly.

“Does it handle well?”

“Terrific acceleration and brilliant manoeuvrability. Turns on a Sickle. Your lot won’t stand a chance!”

He stopped, self-consciously aware that he had been carrying on a normal conversation with Harry Potter. Harry lifted his standard Firebolt ruefully, and asked,

“Do you, er, want to do some flying? Chase a Snitch, or something?”

Malfoy registered surprise and slowly shook his head.

“Another time, Potter. But, thanks.” He left the changing room. Harry allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. The seeds he had sown were sprouting nicely.

Professor Lupin opened the door and ushered Ron and Hermione inside.

“Come in. Come in. It’s lovely to see you. Harry not with you?”

His sitting-room was rather shabby and sparsely furnished, with two scuffed leather Oxford chairs, ox-blood red in better days, but now a faded tawny colour, darkening to the original rich mahogany around the buttoned back. A balding Turkish rug with all the knotting tassels frayed off lay on the floor in front of a huge, blazing log fire.

“I seem to feel the cold these days,” Lupin said, by way of explanation.

“How are you, Remus?” Hermione asked gently. Blushing, he busied himself with the tea-pot and cups, and settling a large copper kettle on its tripod over the flames.

“Oh, I’m fine,” he answered vaguely. “It’s so good to be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts again after all this time. I’ve got a really practical, wands-on syllabus lined-up for you - make a change from all that theoretical woffle you did last year. Though, of course, some of you did address that little problem by yourselves.”

“Just as well we did!” said Ron hotly.

Remus turned his face away, his whole body suddenly very still. Hermione guessed he was thinking about Sirius.

“We can never be sufficiently prepared,” he murmured. “Such a waste.”

Then, pulling himself together, he addressed them with a determined smile,

“So, where’s Harry this evening? Quidditch practice? He’s not gone and got himself in detention already?”

“We thought he might be with you. We’ve just looked for him in the library and he wasn’t there,” Ron answered. “Have you seen him?”

Lupin couldn’t conceal the look of sadness that wiped his face. He shook his head.

“Is there a problem?”

He listened with growing concern as they detailed the events of the past week, his expression grave.

“Has he mentioned his scar, at all?” he questioned them.

“No. Well, yes, if you count the bit about people seeing it. But he hasn’t said that it’s been hurting,” Hermione said.

“And you say that he goes out almost every night, and you have no idea where he goes?”

“Nope.”

After a while they moved onto other topics: life at the Burrow, Hermione’s summer holiday in Portugal, the ignominious relegation of the Chudley Cannons, quarantine measures being implemented to control the Dragon Scale Rot outbreak. Reluctantly Hermione got to her feet.

“We’d better be going. We told the Fat Lady we wouldn’t be late.” She approached Lupin. “Thanks for the tea. It’s really great to have you back, Remus. Can I give you a hug?”

Professor Lupin blushed again.