It was over. It was finally all over.

Severus Snape sat slumped against a shop wall, panting heavily, his lungs working hard enough that the movement of his chest could be easily seen. His legs were stretched out in front of him, but the right one was terribly injured. In fact, it had almost been completely severed just below the knee, an inch-wide strip of muscle and skin the only thing holding it on.

Pain-filled, glassy eyes were staring at the body that was sprawled out several yards away. Minerva is dead, the thought kept echoing through his head. They killed Minerva. And it was all his fault. He’d been surrounded by his former . . . associates, a Cutting Curse having already hit him, and they were winding up to either torture him horribly, or kill him – or both – when Minerva McGonagall had appeared behind them, uttering a shrill war-cry.

Unfortunately, her skills were no match for the greater numbers she faced, and someone had hit her from behind with a Killing Curse. The image of her body outlined in green, and the look of surprise on her face, would haunt Severus for the rest of his days.

The noise level began increasing, as the inhabitants of Hogsmeade Village slowly crept out of their hiding places. A few students, finding their friends injured or worse, were beginning to cry, sharp wails that cut through Severus’ head like a knife. Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before someone summoned the Headmaster.

Severus quailed at the thought of seeing Professor Dumbledore, and having to admit that Minerva – his Deputy Headmistress, long-time friend and possible lover – had been killed because of him. If he hadn’t been so stupid as to allow himself to be surrounded . . .

His chest tightened, as he fully considered the thought that he’d never be able to speak with Minerva again. Never hear her brogue as they bantered back and forth over who deserved the Cup more, Slytherin or Gryffindor. Never see the sparks fly from her eyes as she hotly defended Potter against some infraction or the other.

And Potter . . . Severus winced at the thought. He didn’t know whether the boy was alive or dead. He didn’t like to think of what chaos would descend over the Wizarding world if their Saviour, the precious Boy-Who-Lived, didn’t live anymore.

At least three other students were dead. Nobody would be forgetting this Hogsmeade weekend in a hurry. He himself was injured, Minerva was . . . gone. There should have been two extra professors in the village, but he had no idea what had happened to them.

“Pro-professor?” a small voice came from the other side of him. Rolling his head that way, Severus was surprised to realise that it had come from Potter. Covered in dirt and blood, and dragging a long sword behind him, Potter looked as shell-shocked as Severus felt. But at least he was still alive, and not kidnapped by the wannabe Death Eaters.

“Potter,” he croaked, and coughed harshly. The movements jolted his leg, and he hissed in pain. “Are you injured?”

“No-not really.” The boy stumbled forward a step, his gaze fixing on Severus’ lower leg. It was a bit hard to tell, but it looked as though whatever blood had remained in the boy’s face had just drained out of it. Severus hoped he wasn’t going to be sick, or pass out. “S-sir, you-your l-leg—” he stammered.

“There’s nothing you can do for it,” Severus informed him. Really, he didn’t think there was anything anybody could do for it now, although there was a very slim chance that Poppy Pomfrey could repair it, if she saw to it soon. Regretfully, it would likely take too long for the village to be secured, and for all the wounded to be transported up to the castle. I shall have to ask Mad-Eye Moody where he got his leg from, Severus thought, wryly.

Potter suddenly let out a loud gasp and dropped the sword, with an echoing, metallic clangggg. Severus closed his eyes briefly in resignation. The boy had seen Minerva’s body. “Pro-professor McG-McGonagall?” Potter breathed. “No. Oh, no!” He fell to his knees beside Severus, hiding his face in his hands for a moment.

“Potter . . .” Severus found his voice trailing off. He didn’t know what to say to Potter. He wasn’t very good at words of comfort, especially not when the hurt was so fresh for him as well. He wasn’t entirely sure the boy would accept it from him, anyway; not after the debacle earlier this year, after the incident at the Duelling Club.

And also, truth be told, there was a tiny seed of resentment, buried deep inside. Potter was only a second year. He was not supposed to be in Hogsmeade at all, but the events of the past few months had overwhelmed the boy, and he’d attempted to run away during a Hogsmeade weekend.

Unfortunately, a couple of what had been low-level Death Eaters had spotted him, completely by accident, and had decided to revenge the destruction of their lord. After calling in a large group of their friends and comrades, a pitched battle had begun through the streets of the village.

The castle had been bombarded with alarms and messages of all sorts, and Severus and Minerva had not hesitated, but had rushed straight to the village, leaving Filius and Pomona to organise a rescue team that could serve as medics.

“Potter . . .” Severus tried again, but still the right words wouldn’t come. “Where did you get that sword?” he asked instead.

The boy looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and his face pale. Then he glanced down and behind him, to where the sword lay glistening in the spreading pool of Severus’ blood. He had cast a clotting charm on himself as soon as he’d been able, but he didn’t dare too anything too permanent yet, just in case there was a chance of saving his leg. Cauterising the wound to stop the blood would involve a lot more pain and effort to reattach the limb, and the healers might even have to cut away a bit more.

“Fawkes brought the Sorting Hat to me,” Potter said, his voice low and hesitant. “I disarmed one man, but then one of the prefects found me and told me to hide.” The boy closed his eyes. Severus didn’t ask if the prefect had survived. “I don’t know why Fawkes thought the Hat would be a good thing for me to have,” Potter continued, “but I was holding it, and wishing for something that would help, and suddenly the sword fell out of the Hat.”

Severus raised his eyebrows. Perhaps he’d lost more blood than he’d thought. “The sword . . . fell out of the Hat,” he repeated.

“I know how it sounds!” Potter burst out.

Opening his mouth – whether to berate or placate the boy, he didn’t know – Severus was interrupted by loud voices coming from just around the corner. They were indistinct, but he could easily pick out Filius’ high-pitched tones. Within seconds, the tiny silhouette of the Charms professor was at the end of their street, staring at the scene in front of him.

Several months earlier...

Harry felt a tugging on the back of his robes.

“Come on,” said Ron’s voice in his ear. “Move — come on...”

Ron steered him out of the Great Hall, Hermione hurrying alongside them. As they went through the doors, the people on either side drew away as though they were frightened of catching something. Unfortunately, they got no further, as Professor McGonagall was standing in the Entrance Hall, her hands clasped together in front of her and her mouth pursed.

“Mr Potter,” she said. “The Headmaster would like a word with you.” She looked at Ron and Hermione, and it was only then that Harry realised that she hadn’t actually been looking at him before. “Mr Weasley, Miss Granger. You are to go straight to your common room.”

His friends protested, but McGonagall was firm, and a few short minutes later, Harry was rushing to follow her along corridors and up stairs, until they came to a halt in front of a large, ugly gargoyle.

“Sherbet lemon,” McGonagall said, and the gargoyle obediently leapt aside. The wall behind it parted to show a circular staircase that was moving upwards almost like an escalator. Stepping gingerly onto it, Harry and McGonagall were borne upwards. The top of the staircase gave onto a short landing that ended in a plain wooden door. The only ornament was a golden doorknocker, in the shape of an eagle’s head.

McGonagall didn’t touch the doorknocker, but instead rapped her knuckles briskly on the door, before pushing it open. “Mr Potter, Headmaster,” she said, and placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, urging him inside.

“Ah, yes,” came Dumbledore’s voice from somewhere further in the office. “Thank you, Minerva. Come, Harry.”

Looking back at McGonagall over his shoulder, Harry was not comforted by the fact that his Head of House refused to look at him. He still had no idea what the problem had been down in the Great Hall, but now he was getting really worried, since it appeared that he was in big trouble.

Wishing that his friends had been allowed to accompany him, Harry walked forward. The area around the doorway was dark and dim, but then it suddenly opened up and out, stretching into a two-storey tall room. The curved walls were covered in bookcases, only interrupted by windows. A large fireplace was to his left, with a tall perch beside it. A very tattered looking, grey bird huddled on the perch, looking more miserable than Harry had ever thought a bird could be. It gave a minor squawk at seeing him, which descended into a strange trilling cough.

“Never mind Fawkes,” Dumbledore said, from behind the large desk in the middle of room. “He’s not at his best at the moment; too close to a burning day.” He waved a hand, and an armchair popped up in front of the desk. “Please take a seat, Harry,” he said.

As he hurried to do so, Harry was distracted by a whirl of silver in his peripheral vision. Glancing that way, he could see dozens of small, silver instruments, tucked away on the bottom shelf of a bookcase. They all appeared to be doing different things – some were emitting bubbles, some were twirling slowly, some were spitting out sparks, some were flashing various colours, and one was pinging away sadly to itself.

“Harry, before we begin, do you know why you’ve been brought here?” Dumbledore asked, nudging a small bowl of sweets on his desk closer to Harry.

“Um, no, sir,” Harry admitted. “Is it something to do with what happened in the Great Hall?”

“Yes, my boy, I’m afraid it is.” Dumbledore folded his hands together, and gave Harry a vaguely disappointed look. “Now, I’m sure you didn’t mean to scare your classmate, but—”

Frustrated, Harry couldn’t help but interrupt. “But, sir, I don’t understand! I stopped the snake from attacking Justin. Why is that scary?”

There was a brief hiss from behind him, and Harry looked round to see McGonagall staring at him. He couldn’t quite tell what her expression was, but he hastily looked away again.

“Hmm.” Dumbledore peered over the top of his glasses at Harry, then flicked a glance at a silver instrument on his desk that Harry hadn’t spotted before. It was silently puffing out clouds of bright red smoke. “Tell me, Harry, what exactly happened?” he asked.

“Well, we were supposed to be learning how to block spells in the Duelling Club, and Snape—” Harry caught Dumbledore’s gaze “—um, Professor Snape picked me and Malfoy, but Malfoy conjured a snake, and when Lockhart . . .” No reprimanding gaze this time. “Tried to get rid of it, he just made it angry, and it looked as if it was going to attack Justin, so I stepped forward and told it to leave him alone.” Harry shrugged. “And it did.”

There was another choking sound from behind him. Harry just hunched his shoulders this time.

“I see. And have you spoken to many snakes before?” Dumbledore asked, making a gesture with his hand that Harry thought meant more to McGonagall than it did to him, as there came the sound of the door softly closing a moment later.

“Uh, no, just one.” Harry blushed, remembering the previous snake he’d spoken to. “I accidentally freed a boa constrictor from London Zoo. It wanted to go to Brazil.”

“I see,” repeated Dumbledore. He closed his eyes for a moment, then sighed. “Harry, I am afraid that not all wizards share your ability to talk to snakes. In fact, only one other has had the talent in the last fifty years, and he did not use it well.”

“Um . . .” Harry wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that.

“Unfortunately, it means that being a Parselmouth, or being able to speak Parseltongue, the snake language, is classed as a Dark ability.” Dumbledore sighed again and shook his head. “I’m afraid it causes us a bit of a problem, Harry.”

“It does?” Harry twisted his fingers together, anxiously. He still didn’t quite see the problem with stopping Justin from being attacked.

“Yes, Mr Potter, it does,” said McGonagall’s voice from behind Harry, and he jumped, almost falling off the chair as he whirled around. He hadn’t realised she’d come back into the room. Professors Snape, Flitwick and Sprout were behind her. “You used a Dark talent against a classmate, however inadvertently, which means that you will have to share a House with them, until you’ve made it up to them.”

“But I was saving Justin from the snake!” Harry protested. “How am I supposed to make up for that?! And . . . wait. Share a House? What does that mean?”

“It means, Potter,” said McGonagall, heavily, “that from this moment, you are no longer a member of Gryffindor House.” Before Harry could protest again, she waved her wand over him, and the red trim and Gryffindor crest on his robes disappeared.

Did this mean he was being expelled? Harry felt his chest constrict with panic. The Dursleys would never let him live it down if he went home now, in complete failure. And he’d have to attend school with Dudley again. Dudley would never let him live it down!

Before he started to actually hyperventilate, Sprout waved her wand. “Until Mr Finch-Fletchley agrees that you have made reparations for using a Dark ability against him, you will be a member of Hufflepuff House,” she said.

Harry looked down to see the new crest and yellow trim on his robes, and felt as if he could cry.

“Here is a copy of your new timetable,” Sprout added, thrusting a piece of parchment in Harry’s direction. She did not look thrilled about the new addition to her House.

Harry’s hand was beginning to tremble as he took it from her, but if any of the professors noticed, they made no mention of it.

A small popping noise made Harry look at Dumbledore. The silver instrument on his desk was now contentedly puffing out yellow smoke. The Headmaster nodded at this, then looked up at the small group in front of his desk.

“I believe Harry may like to return to his new dormitory now,” he said. “Pomona, if you would . . . ?”

“Of course, Albus,” said Sprout. She gestured at Harry. “Come along, Potter. I’ll show you where to go and tell you the password.”

“Um, my things?” Harry started, but McGonagall interrupted.

“The castle has already relocated your belongings, Mr Potter,” she informed him, looking down her nose at him.

Harry felt his heart sink lower. That meant he wouldn’t have a chance to talk with Ron and Hermione tonight. He wouldn’t see them until breakfast tomorrow . . . and he wouldn’t be able to sit with them then, either, he realised. He’d have to wait until their first break, since Gryffindors only shared Herbology with the Hufflepuffs, and that wasn’t until Monday. What must his friends be thinking? What would they think, when they discovered that his things weren’t in the dorm anymore?

“Come along, Mr Potter.” Sprout chivvied him out of the Headmaster’s office and down the spiral staircase, all without actually touching him. It reminded him unpleasantly of Aunt Petunia, shooing him outside or into his cupboard, but not wanting to dirty her hands by touching him. He felt the burning pressure of approaching tears in his eyes, and swallowed heavily.

At first, Sprout seemed to be leading him towards the kitchens, but then she turned off just before the corridor with the painting. They then went on such a meandering route that Harry was sure he’d never find his way back – if he ever managed to find his way out again in the first place.

Eventually, they came to a halt in front of a large painting that had several badgers gambolling around in a grassy meadow. The largest one paused and looked out at them.

“A badger’s home is his sett,” said Sprout. The badger blinked, and the portrait swung open.

Harry’s first impression of the Hufflepuff common room was that it rather resembled a large bee. Alternating stripes of yellow and black decorated the walls, with the window frame – if a wall happened to have a window – painted in the opposite colour. Bookshelves were scattered around, but the primary feature appeared to be large puffy armchairs, along with a few beanbags, all of which were, again, either yellow or black.

Most of Hufflepuff seemed to be in the common room, and were all talking over each other. It wasn’t really that much louder than the Gryffindor common room, but it still seemed overwhelming to Harry. Justin seemed to be holding court in the middle of the room, sitting in a chair looking pale. A sandy-haired boy that Harry didn’t really know was standing at Justin’s shoulder, almost as if he thought he was a bodyguard. Two girls were sat on beanbags at Justin’s feet, looking very anxious.

Professor Sprout cleared her throat, and everyone leapt to attention. “It seems that we have gained a new Badger,” Sprout said. “Until he has made reparations to Justin, Mr Potter will be a member of Hufflepuff House.”

Hunching his shoulders again, Harry took a quick glance around the room. Reactions ranged from wariness from the upper years, to horror from the second years, to outright panic from the first years. Harry dropped his gaze to the floor. It was obvious that Sprout and the rest of the Hufflepuffs didn’t want him. Why had Professor McGonagall done this to him? Or perhaps it was the Headmaster’s idea and she’d just gone along with it.

The feeling of loneliness and betrayal rose in Harry’s throat until he thought he’d choke on it. Guess that’d solve everyone’s problem, he thought, rather hysterically.

“But, Professor—!” several people were chorusing. Sprout held up a hand.

“I know, I know,” she said. “Unfortunately, there was no choice. Mr Potter used a Dark talent against one of our House, and must make amends for it.”

Harry gulped. He really wished people would stop saying he’d used a Dark talent against someone. And how was he supposed to make amends for saving someone? It wasn’t the kind of thing that usually needed to be made up for!

“Remember,” said Sprout, “we are Badgers. If anyone feels the need to talk, you all know how to find me.”

What if I need to talk? Harry wondered, hopelessly.

Sprout was already making her way back through the portrait hole, leaving Harry standing in the entrance to the common room, with the entire House staring at him.

His first morning in Hufflepuff did not get off to a rousing start.

The dorms in Hufflepuff were rectangular, rather than the all but circular shape of Gryffindor, which meant that the second year boys’ dorm had had four beds all along one wall. To add Harry’s bed in, the house-elves had simply placed it against the opposite wall, leaving Harry figuratively – and literally – the odd one out.

Of course, Harry hadn’t discovered this until almost everyone else had left the common room, as he hadn’t dared to go through the crowd to reach the dorms. Instead, he had hung around the entrance, feeling very conspicuous but not knowing what else to do.

By the time he reached the dorm, and discovered the new setup, although he was exhausted, the tension had kept Harry awake all night, afraid that one of the boys would do or say something to him. It was the worst night he’d ever had since coming to Hogwarts.

By the time dawn arrived, Harry had given up trying to sleep, and had decided to wait in the common room to follow some of the others to breakfast, hoping for a chance to snatch a quick word with Ron and Hermione.

Unfortunately, either the upper years he’d chosen to follow were in a rush, or they knew he was following and didn’t like it, as they went through corridor after corridor after corridor, before suddenly disappearing through what looked like a solid wall. Harry had no idea how to get into the secret passage – if it was one, and not just a way reserved for upper years – and now he also had no idea where on earth in the castle he was.

Except lost. That he knew.

By the time he finally stumbled his way out into the main corridor where the kitchens were, he was ten minutes late to his first lesson, and he made himself even later by automatically heading for the first Gryffindor lesson, before suddenly remembering that he wasn’t a Gryffindor anymore, but a Hufflepuff.

Typically, of course, his first lesson was Transfiguration, and his tardiness cost his new House ten points. McGonagall then took another five for not having his homework – despite the fact that she hadn’t set this particular homework for the Gryffindors yet, and therefore Harry couldn’t have known about it nor done it.

Protesting, however, would have only gotten him into more trouble, so he just ducked his head and stoically took the scolding and glares of his new Housemates.

That particular problem plagued him for the rest of the day. None of his homework matched up to the rest of the Hufflepuffs – either he’d already done it for Gryffindor, or it hadn’t been set for him yet.

Harry also hadn’t realised before that Houses didn’t have the same break times, so he didn’t even get to see his friends. He was desperate to see a friendly face, as none of the Hufflepuff second years were talking to him.

On the other hand, most of the first years, and even some third years, had taken to talking loudly around him about how far back they could trace their magical bloodlines. Harry had tried explaining that he didn’t care about that, but it just made them more frantic to assure him that they were very definitely, one hundred percent, pureblood.

“Whole school’s going bloody mental,” was Ron’s opinion when they finally met up outside the Great Hall just before dinner that night.

Hermione was frowning, as several of their Hufflepuff yearmates inched around them to get into the Hall without actually coming nearer to Harry than they had to.

Harry spotted this. “How am I supposed to ‘make amends’, when Justin won’t come near me?” he asked. “And just how do you make up for stopping an attack?”

“Kill ‘em?” Ron suggested.

“Somehow,” said Hermione, dryly, “I don’t think that will help.” She shook her head. “Come on,” she continued. “Let’s go and eat in the kitchens.”

Gratefully Harry agreed. It was nice to finally be able to chat to his friends, and they commiserated with him over the homework situation.

“It does seem very unfair,” said Hermione, frowning. “The professors know you’ve changed Houses, so why punish you on the very first day for something you can’t control?”

Harry poked at his mashed potatoes with his fork. “I don’t know,” he said, miserably. “Maybe McGonagall told them to – she was the first one to do it.”

“That . . . doesn’t seem likely, Harry,” Hermione said, gently. “I know she’s strict, but she’s usually fair—”

“Yeah, but I’m not one of her Lions anymore, am I?” Harry pointed out. “She couldn’t wait to get me out of Gryffindor last night.”

“Ohh . . .” Hermione couldn’t seem to find anything else to say to that, so she settled for absent-mindedly patting his hand, instead.

It was nearly curfew when they left the kitchens and reluctantly separated. Harry eyed the corridor turn-off with trepidation. He had absolutely no faith that he’d be able to find his new common room, so he’d made Ron and Hermione swear to send a teacher after him if he didn’t turn up the next morning.

It was well past curfew by the time he finally stumbled into the corridor that held the badger painting. Harry could have wept with joy to see it. How on earth did the first years manage, he wondered?

“Um, a badger’s home is their sett?” he said, tentatively, to the badgers, who were still – or again – gambolling around the meadow. The largest one paused, and gave him a dubious look. Harry felt his shoulders slump. Even the portrait didn’t want him in Hufflepuff!

Scraping the ground with a forepaw, the badger made a movement with its shoulders that looked almost like a shrug, and the portrait swung slowly open.

It felt like a repeat of the night before. Every single Hufflepuff seemed to be gathered in the common room. Professor Sprout was in the middle, and quite a lot of them were crying.

“Potter!” Sprout exclaimed, angrily, when she finally caught sight of him through the crowd. Everyone hurriedly backed away from him, leaving a clear path to the professor. “Where have you been?”

“I’m sorry, Professor, I got lost trying to find the common room,” Harry said, wondering if he was about to lose even more points.

“A likely excuse,” a fourth year muttered.

Sprout frowned at the boy. “I’ll deal with this, Tompkins,” she said, and strode towards Harry. Harry had to control an urge to cringe away from her. He hadn’t known the usually genial professor could be this fierce. “Come with me, Potter,” Sprout barked at him, and Harry stifled a sigh before following her back out of the portrait hole.

After a twisty, winding route that still seemed shorter than the original way she’d taken him, Sprout led Harry into the corridor and stopped in front of the gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore’s office. Harry had a split second of wondering whether he was going to get kicked out of another House, and then he heard the distant sound of Peeves yelling.

“ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAACK!”

Harry’s spirits fell further. Someone else had been attacked.

“Ah, Harry,” said Dumbledore’s voice from further down the corridor. He nodded in dismissal to Sprout. “Thank you, Pomona.”

“I’ll be with my House, Headmaster,” Sprout said, wrinkling her nose as she looked at Harry. “They’ll need comforting tonight.”

Dumbledore inclined his head again. “Of course,” he said, and turned to the gargoyle. “Sherbet lemon,” he told it, and it obediently sprang aside.

Harry followed Dumbledore onto the revolving staircase. “Sir?” he asked, hesitantly. “Who was attacked this time?”

Dumbledore stepped off the staircase and entered his office, heading straight for his desk. He waved a hand, and a chair popped into existence. He gestured for Harry to take it. “Before we get into that, Harry, could you please tell me your whereabouts this evening? It was noted that you didn’t attend dinner in the Great Hall.” He seated himself, and gazed steadily at Harry.

Harry’s shoulders hunched again. “I was in the kitchens, with Ron and Hermione,” he muttered. “We stayed until just before curfew, then went back to our dorms. I got lost trying to find the Hufflepuff dorm.” He felt a blush creeping up his cheeks at that admittance. It sounded so stupid.

“I see,” Dumbledore murmured, stroking his beard with one hand. “I am afraid, Harry, that I must inform you that the victims of tonight’s attack were Sir Nicholas . . . and Mr Finch-Fletchley.”

“How can they possibly think it was you?” Hermione demanded, two days later as they made their way to the library.

“Apparently, because of that stupid incident with the snake at the duelling club, I ‘had it in for Justin’,” said Harry, kicking at a nearby wall. “He’s Muggle-born, apparently, so they’re all saying I took offense to him, and when one attack didn’t work, I used another.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Hermione was swelling up with indignation.

“Yeah,” added Ron. “Besides, you were with us until just before curfew.”

Harry scoffed. “But it took me so long to find my way back to Hufflepuff, and Justin was attacked on his way back to the dorm just before curfew, too. So they think I left you two and went looking for him, then doubled back and just pretended I got lost.”

“Honestly, this whole thing has been blown right out of proportion!” Hermione grumbled, scowling at a trio of first year Ravenclaws that were passing. Already wary about their proximity to Harry, this evidence of his friend’s displeasure with them caused them to squeak in alarm and double their pace until they were almost running.

“I wish I’d never told that snake to leave Justin alone,” said Harry, miserably. “Then I’d still be in Gryffindor, and not in this mess.”

“And Justin might be dead, rather than just Petrified,” Hermione pointed out. She pushed open the library doors, and the trio headed towards their usual table in the back. Dropping her bag on the table with a thud, Hermione gazed at the stacks for a moment. “I’m just going to—” she began as she wandered off. Ron and Harry stared after her, before glancing at each other and shrugging.

“I think she’s gone to look up exactly why you’ve been kicked out of Gryffindor,” said Ron, sitting down and rummaging in his own bag.

“What? Why?” asked Harry as he sat down too. A sudden thought struck him, and he straightened, feeling a breathless hope fill him. “Is she looking for a way to get me back in Gryffindor?”

Ron shrugged. “Dunno,” he grunted. “But I’m sure she’ll tell us.”

He was proved right when Hermione returned to their table fifteen minutes later, hugging a large, leather-bound book to her chest. She let it drop to the table with a bang that caused Madam Pince to “Shhhhhh!” at them, and the resulting cloud of dust had the boys coughing for another five minutes.

“It appears,” Hermione began, flipping through pages to find the one she wanted, “that when Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin quarrelled and Slytherin left, Gryffindor declared to everyone who’d listen that he wouldn’t have anything to do with the Dark Arts, and therefore neither should anyone who was in his House. In fact, he turned it into an official Hogwarts Law – and anybodye so found using the most Darkest of Arts shall henceforth be caste from the noble House of Gryffindor, never to darken thy door again,” she read.

Harry felt his heart sink again. “So does that mean I’ll never be allowed back into Gryffindor?” he asked.

Hermione shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. You see, Gryffindor’s grandson was practicing duelling with a friend, and he mispronounced a spell. The spell he’d intended to use was nothing more than a harmless household charm, but the mispronunciation turned it into a Dark curse instead. Gryffindor didn’t want to expel his own flesh and blood, but because of his own law, he had no choice.

“What he did manage to do,” she continued, flicking past another couple of pages, “was adjust the law, so that inadvertent use of the Dark Arts meant the person who’d used them only had to change Houses until they’d made amends to the person they’d accidentally cursed, and then, once they’d done something to prove themselves worthy of Gryffindor again, they were allowed to change back.” She looked triumphantly at Harry.

Harry, however, could see at least two glaring problems with this. “Even if I manage to make up to Justin for saving him—” he began.

“Provided that someone manages to unPetrify him first,” Ron muttered.

Harry glared at him. “Yes, provided that,” he agreed. “Say I manage to make amends . . . what am I supposed to do to prove that I’m a Gryffindor?”

After looking down at the book for a few moments, Hermione reluctantly closed it. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she said, softly. “I just don’t know.”

The next morning, the castle began to empty as people went home for Christmas. Harry had put his name down to stay before the whole Duelling Club incident, and he hadn’t seen a reason to change that. There was only one other Hufflepuff who’d stayed behind – a seventh year girl, who wanted the peace and quiet for a bit more studying time before her N.E.W.T.s – but once she realised she’d be sharing the dorm with Harry, she had requested – and received – permission from Professor Sprout to temporarily move into the Ravenclaw dorm instead.

The isolation didn’t help Harry’s mood. Nor did the fact that, when he tried to accompany Ron and Hermione into the Gryffindor common room for a little while, the Fat Lady had refused to let him in. She had been apologetic, but the magic dictating the rules had been unbreakable.

Anyone who had used something Dark was not allowed in Gryffindor territory. At all.

Harry had left them standing forlornly in front of the Fat Lady’s portrait, Hermione almost in tears, and slouched his way down to the Great Hall.

Unfortunately, nobody in the Great Hall looked willing to acknowledge him, never mind do something like play a game of wizard’s chess with him. Heartily cursing that snake in his mind – and Draco Malfoy, for good measure – Harry reluctantly took himself off into the maze that led to the Hufflepuff dorm.

Once he finally got there, he spent all of about two seconds glorying in the quiet, before he admitted the truth to himself. It was basically a bigger version of his cupboard at the Dursleys’.

The next few days weren’t any different, either. The only thing that was different was that Dudley wasn’t there, and considering the hulking third year brute from Gryffindor who had stayed behind and took great delight in letting Harry know he was a disgrace and not wanted by polite Wizarding folk, then really, it was as if Dudley were there anyway.

“Harry, you have to tell someone!” Hermione demanded, when she noticed him limping as they went into the library. This and the kitchens were the only places they could spend any time together anymore – they’d been categorically shunned when they’d attempted to sit near one of the fireplaces in the Great Hall. “McLaggen can’t be allowed to get away with it!”

“There’s no point in telling anyone,” sighed Harry, trying to discreetly massage his hip when she wasn’t looking. “The professors don’t care.”

“Of course they care!” exclaimed Hermione, looking scandalised. “That’s their job, it’s what they do!”

“Except they don’t – not when it’s me,” Harry corrected. “Look, just forget about it, okay? I’ve had worse.” Hermione didn’t look at all happy about that, but Harry rushed on before she could say anything else. “How much longer before the—” he looked around, carefully “—potion is ready?”

Hermione gave him a gimlet-eyed stare, before reluctantly allowing the change of subject. “It’s almost done,” she informed them. “We just need something from Crabbe and Goyle.”

“Have to wait until they come back, then,” Ron guessed, and Hermione nodded at him.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” she agreed. “But in the meantime, why don’t we go over this essay for Professor Binns. . . .”

“Honestly, Potter, are you colour blind that you can’t tell the difference between turquoise and aqua?” Snape tutted. “Five points from Gryff— no, from Hufflepuff,” he finished, a victorious sneer curling his mouth.

Harry looked down into his cauldron as his Housemates glared at him. Snape had been doing this for weeks, delighting in emphasising just what House he was – and was not – a member of. He fully expected Snape to take points for breathing too loudly by the following week.

The Ravenclaws who shared their double period weren’t happy with Harry, either. Snape had taken to asking him all the questions, completely ignoring anybody else who wanted to answer. Whether Harry actually could answer the questions or not apparently made no difference.

On the bright side, he had finally caught up with the Hufflepuff’s homework schedule, so at least he wasn’t constantly losing points for that. Nor was he having to do assignments twice, as Sprout had made him do. He couldn’t tell whether Sprout was just worried about Justin, or offended on Justin’s behalf because of the snake incident, or whether she really did dislike having him in her House that much, but Sprout had become almost as vicious in her interactions with Harry as Snape was.

Harry hadn’t known that was even possible, but the usually easy-going professor was doing it.

To make matters worse, Hermione had figured out something about what was attacking people, but on her way back from the library had been attacked herself, along with a fifth-year Ravenclaw prefect. The two of them had been placed with the other Petrified victims.

As a result, the castle was all but on lockdown. The professors were escorting students to every class, and nobody was allowed out of the dorms after dinner. This had severely curtailed the amount of time he’d been able to spend with Ron, and Harry’s spirits were flagging. Nobody seemed to stop and think that of course Harry wouldn’t have attacked Hermione, because she was his friend.

Instead, everyone seemed to regard this newest attack as a warning not to get too close to him.

So nobody did.

It would have been laughable, how quickly a gap always opened up around him, if it hadn’t been so very pathetic.

Quidditch had, of course, been cancelled, which was apparently another reason to hate Harry’s existence. He’d heard several people whispering about how he was furious at not being automatically put on the Hufflepuff team, after being kicked off the Gryffindor team, and so had arranged matters to ensure nobody else could play, either.

The final straw came when one of the upper year Hufflepuff’s casually dropped the Daily Prophet on top of Harry’s breakfast one morning with the muttered comment of, “Secret’s out now, huh, Potter.” Glancing around, Harry realised that people were reading the paper, then looking up at him, then turning back to the paper, whispering excitedly with their friends.

He didn’t need to read further than the headline – Have We Been Fêting The Next Dark Lord?! by Rita Skeeter, which took up a good quarter of the whole page – to know that it was bad.

Swallowing around the urge to cry, Harry looked around the Great Hall again. Aside from Ron and his twin brothers, there wasn’t a friendly face in the entire room. Even the professors looked as if they fully agreed with the article.

I can’t do this anymore! Harry thought, his thoughts bordering on hysterical. Even the Dursleys are better than this!

And with that thought, a vague idea solidified, and he nodded firmly to himself.

I should have stayed at Hogwarts, was the only thing Harry could think. Around him was absolute chaos – blood and shouting and the boy nearby staring with blank eyes and oh, please, don’t be dead!

He didn’t even really know how this had all happened. He’d been creeping through Hogsmeade under his Invisibility Cloak, trying not to bump into anybody and also trying to avoid the two unsavoury looking men outside of a building that a sign proclaimed ‘the Hog’s Head’, when an unexpected breeze had rippled down the street.

His Cloak had rippled right along with it, and the leaner of the two men had suddenly spotted him. A feral grin stretching his lips, the man had eagerly nudged his companion – who looked to be barely a small step away from homeless – and had then, for some reason, touched his left forearm. The men had then brandished their wands straight at him.

Drawing the Cloak around himself, Harry had tried to make a quick getaway, but several pops announced the arrival of more men, who didn’t look any better than the original two. After a quick consultation between themselves, the men had all spread out, and begun firing spells at anything that moved.

Nobody had really paid any attention, until a Slytherin had spotted someone he knew. His yell of “Uncle Tiberus?!” had drawn everyone’s notice. At the same time, a Ravenclaw girl had been struck by a stray spell, and had gone down clutching her arm, screaming, as blood fountained into the air.

Pandemonium had promptly ensued, with villagers and students alike yelling and shoving to try and get away. Some of the older students had drawn their own wands to protect the younger years, but they were hopelessly outmatched.

One man had gotten close enough to grin delightedly at Harry, in a way that caused him to tense. “Hey, now, little Potter,” he said in a sing-song tone. “Gonna be mine now, huh? Then I get your power and can make sure the Dark Lord gets it when he returns.” He nodded emphatically, long stringy hair flopping into his eyes. “’Cause he’s gonna come back, yes he is!” he crooned, and aimed his wand at Harry. “Nighty-night, little Potter!”

Harry had pointed his own wand at the man, but it was shaking badly enough that he didn’t think he’d be able to get a spell off. Not that he knew what spell he could use. Somehow, he didn’t think the ability to transfigure a needle into a matchstick would help him now.

Then, suddenly, he remembered the event that had led him to this moment – the Duelling Club. What was that spell that Snape had used to blast Lockhart into the wall? Oh, yes . . .

“Expelliarmus!” Harry bellowed, and to both of their surprise, the man’s wand shot straight out of his hand as though greased with soap. They both blinked at where it had disappeared, and then the man turned back to Harry with a fierce growl. Harry took a step backwards.

“Protego!” someone else shouted, and a shimmering materialised in the air in front of Harry. A Gryffindor prefect was running towards them, her wand in her hand. “Potter, run!” she cried.

Torn between running and hiding, and staying to help, Harry hesitated as the man turned to face the newcomer. He knew, though, that there really wasn’t anything he could do to help. He was a second year – he wasn’t capable of duelling an adult wizard.

Turning and ducking around the nearest corner, Harry paused again as a horrible gurgling noise reached his ears, along with a shriek of cackling laughter. Swallowing hard, he made sure the Cloak was fully covering him, and scurried for cover.

He found a hiding place behind a pile of barrels, ironically at the side of the very inn the two men he’d been trying to avoid had been at. Crouching behind them, Harry stuffed a fist in his mouth to try and stifle his panicked breathing. Being invisible wouldn’t do him much good if people could hear him.

Dumbledore will come, he chanted to himself, over and over. Dumbledore’s the greatest wizard ever – everyone says so. Dumbledore will come and defeat them. Dumbledore will come.

What came instead was a burst of red and orange flames, right beside his hiding place. Harry almost gave himself by screaming, before he realised it was a bird. The bird was holding a brown bundle in its claws. It trilled softly at Harry, and he felt himself relax. Then it dropped the bundle in his lap, and disappeared in another burst of flames.

Stunned, Harry slowly unwrapped it. It looked to be an old hat, very dirty and ragged.

So would you be, if you’d been carried by a phoenix, snapped a voice in his head, and Harry almost dropped the hat.

“You . . . you talk!” he exclaimed, quietly. Then he realised just what it was he was holding. “Hang on – you’re the Sorting Hat!”

Correct, the Hat said, and if a hat could smirk, this one surely was.

“Um . . .” Harry didn’t want to offend it, but he didn’t see what use it could possibly be to him. He wanted something that would help him. Somehow, he didn’t think men capable of injuring young children – or worse – would quail much at the sight of a dusty old hat.

You want something that will help you to fight, eh? the Hat asked.

“People out there are getting hurt because of me. Again,” said Harry, ignoring the bitter edge that had crept into his words. “I have to do something. But I don’t know enough spells . . .”

Hmm, I think I have just the thing, the Hat purred into his mind. How’s your sword arm?

Harry was blinking at the Hat when something long and metallic and silver dropped out of it, landing at his feet with a clatter. Harry changed his gaze to blink at the long sword that had impossibly just appeared.

Go on, urged the Hat, take a look. You might find something . . . surprising.

Giving the Hat a dubious look, Harry gingerly prodded at the sword. It sure felt real, and very possibly sharp enough to lose him a finger if he wasn’t careful. And he would be careful – mainly because he didn’t know how to use the sword.

It won’t bite, the Hat said, its tone infused with amusement. It knows its job well. It will look after you.

“Oh, but – what about you?” Harry asked.

The Hat smirked at him again. I’ll return to the castle, don’t you worry, it told him. I’m enchanted against straying too far. Fawkes should be back along soon to collect me.

“Uh, okay, then,” Harry said, and gripped the handle of the sword tightly.

Instantly, he felt about ten feet tall, and muscled enough to swing the sword about as if it were a toothpick. Somehow, he knew just how to move the sword that so every spell shot at him ricocheted off. Most of them even hit others of the men who were fighting. He was soon coated in blood, and most of him revelled in it, although a small part of his brain was gibbering in panic and terror.

When the battle finished, it seemed to end very abruptly. One moment Harry was dispatching an enemy and looking around for more, the next the strength drained out of him, and the sword instantly drooped towards the ground, much too heavy for him to lift properly.

There was a stunned silence all around, before people finally began to creep out of hiding. Harry didn’t want to get any closer to the ones on the ground, so instead, he stumbled off down a side-street.

Halfway down the street, a man was sitting with his back to a shop front, his legs stretched out in front of him. It took Harry a moment before he recognised the man. “Pro-professor?” he stammered.

Snape rolled his head to the side, almost as though he’d lost the bones in his neck. He looked exhausted, filthy and in pain. “Potter,” he croaked, and coughed harshly, then hissed in pain. “Are you injured?”

“No-not really.” Harry stumbled forward a step, his gaze falling on Snape’s leg. Something wasn’t right about it . . .

And then he realised – the lower leg was almost completely severed from the rest. A large pool of blood had spread out from underneath Snape. Harry felt himself go light-headed, and he desperately hoped he wouldn’t pass out on top of Snape. “S-sir, you-your l-leg—” he stammered, then felt like smacking himself in the head with the sword. It wasn’t as if Snape wouldn’t have noticed the injury.

“There’s nothing you can do for it,” Snape informed him, nastily, but the tone went straight over Harry’s head. He’d seen something, just past Snape, lying on the ground. An elderly witch, with tartan robes and grey hair pulled back into a tight bun . . .  

Harry gasped, and dropped the sword, which landed with an echoing, metallic clangggg. “Pro-professor McG-McGonagall?” he breathed. “No. Oh, no!” He fell to his knees beside Snape, hiding his face in his hands for a moment.

“Potter . . .” Snape’s voice trailed off.

Harry didn’t listen anyway. Professor McGonagall was . . . dead. He’d resented her, a bit, when she’d seemed so eager to get him out of her House, and hadn’t even looked at him, almost as if she were afraid of him, or disgusted. He’d also felt the way she’d treated him the first day as a Hufflepuff had been horribly unfair.

But he hadn’t wished her gone!

“Potter . . .” Snape said again, but then seemed to change his mind about whatever he’d been going to say. “Where did you get that sword?” he asked instead.

Harry glanced down and behind him, to where the sword lay glistening in the spreading pool of Snape’s blood. He’d almost forgotten the thing. It probably wasn’t a good idea to leave it just lying there, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to touch it again so soon.  

“Fawkes brought the Sorting Hat to me,” Harry told the professor, his voice low and hesitant. “I disarmed one man, but then one of the prefects found me and told me to hide.” He closed his eyes, remembering the horrible noise and the demented laughter. “I don’t know why Fawkes thought the Hat would be a good thing for me to have,” he continued, “but I was holding it, and wishing for something that would help, and suddenly the sword fell out of the Hat.”

Snape raised his eyebrows, dubiously. “The sword . . . fell out of the Hat,” he repeated, in a tone that made it clear he thought Harry had taken some kind of head wound in the battle.

“I know how it sounds!” Harry burst out.

Snape opened his mouth, but was interrupted by the sounds of people just around the corner. Just as a small silhouette that could only belong to Professor Flitwick appeared at the other end of their street, the Potions professor suddenly went even whiter than usual, and abruptly slumped to the side.

Harry felt a pang go through him. Was Snape dead, too? Had he delayed the man from getting help by talking to him?

“Potter, what are you doing here?” Flitwick squeaked, doing a double-take at the boy. He looked at Snape and tsked under his breath. He waved his wand, and a shimmering silver bird appeared. “Albus, Severus is severely injured. I’m creating a portkey to take him straight to Poppy. Minerva . . .” Flitwick trailed off, and he glanced at the crumpled heap, before taking a deep breath and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Albus, but Minerva is gone. I have Potter with me, and will escort him back to the castle after I’ve seen Severus off.” The bird bounced a little, then spread its wings and soared off towards Hogwarts.

Harry wanted to protest, but knew Flitwick would never let him go. He couldn’t fight his way out, either. There had been plenty of rumours before the ill-fated Duelling Club that Flitwick would be one of the teachers, as he was supposedly a duelling champion. Reluctantly, he waited for someone to escort him back to the castle.

A couple of hours later, Harry had been shuffled off into a corner of the Hospital Wing. He hadn’t purposefully been put there – as the knowledge of how to use the sword had apparently included the knowledge of when to duck – but Flitwick had been forced to send Harry to the castle along with Snape, and when they’d arrived, Harry had been edged away as Madam Pomfrey dashed over, clucking and scolding the unconscious professor in equal measures.

After that, it was as though people had forgotten his existence, but he couldn’t just sneak out, because there were people between him and the door, and he was fairly certain that leaving would alert everyone.

Considering the state of things, he didn’t want anyone to notice him.

But now it was getting late, and most ambulatory people were leaving. Professor Snape was lying asleep on one of the beds nearest him, with the other professor who’d been in the village on the one beyond that. Harry didn’t know her name, but he thought she taught a class for the upper years. From what he’d heard the other professors discussing during the brief periods when Snape had been awake and lucid, Lockhart had been the other chaperone for today’s Hogsmeade visit.

According to what one of the villagers had told Flitwick, Lockhart had been holding court in the Three Broomsticks inn when the ruckus had started. He had instantly started looking for a hiding place, but when one of his admirers had pointed out his supposed fighting skills, he had stalked out of the inn, and then dashed away to hide in the rear courtyard. He had ambled back into the castle not long after the rescue teams had returned, not a scratch on him, nor a hair out of place, casually bragging about how many opponents he had ‘dispatched’.

The professors had been very scathing about this story. Two of the surviving prefects had been passing him in the Entrance Hall when he’d mentioned it, and they’d had to be dragged off him, screaming.

Harry peered around the darkening Hospital Wing, and figured his chances of getting out would be better if he left with the last group. He reached under his robes for the Invisibility Cloak.

“Not so fast, Potter,” a voice croaked, and Harry jumped. Professor Snape wasn’t asleep after all, but was glaring at him. Sighing in resignation, he ruefully realised he should have tried to escape when the Hospital Wing was busier. Snape crooked a finger at him, and Harry sidled the couple of steps to the man’s bedside. “Just what were you doing in Hogsmeade, Potter?” Snape demanded, no less forceful for being flat on his back.

“Umm, helping?” Harry tried, twisting his fingers into his robes.

Snape actually sneered at him. “Try again,” he suggested, in his I’m-about-to-take-points tone.

Sighing again, Harry’s shoulders slumped. “I was running away,” he muttered, quietly.

“Excuse me?” Snape said, his expression indicating more incredulous disbelief, rather than he hadn’t heard.

“I couldn’t take it anymore!” Harry burst out, then cringed, expecting Madam Pomfrey to come bearing down on him for disturbing her patients. Luckily, the medi-witch didn’t appear.

Snape now looked disgusted. “The brave Gryffindor running away?” he sneered.

Harry interrupted whatever else he would have continued with. “But I’m not a Gryffindor anymore!” he protested, hotly. “That’s the whole problem! I’m a Hufflepuff now.”

“Not good enough for you?” asked Snape.

“More like I’m not good enough,” admitted Harry. His gaze dropped to the floor. “Nobody wants me there, anyway. Even Professor Sprout.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Snape said, although he was beginning to look a bit doubtful. “Everyone wants the Boy-Who-Lived.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, until he accidentally uses a Dark talent that he didn’t even know he had, to save a classmate, no less! Then everyone just wants him to leave.”

Snape was silent for a moment, apparently digesting that. “And where would you have gone?” he asked, finally. “Or did you just rush in with no plan worthy of the name?”

Stunned, Harry stared at the professor for a minute, before bursting into slightly hysterical-sounding giggles. The fact that Snape was apparently more annoyed with his lack of forethought and planning, rather than his idea of running away in the first place, was just too funny.

Snape glared at him, as his giggles continued, and he doubled over, arms wrapped around himself. “Potter, get a hold of yourself!” the man snapped. “Stop that noise, this instant!”

“So-sorry, s-sir,” Harry gasped out, and slowly managed to calm himself down, until he was only hiccupping every so often.

“Perhaps Madam Pomfrey should look you over,” said Snape, turning his head as though to call for the medi-witch.

“No, really, sir, I’m fine!” Harry protested, with a last hiccup, slowly straightening up. His stomach muscles ached from the exertion – it had been far too long since he’d last laughed at anything, let alone so hard and for so long.

“Considering your actions over the last day, that is debatable,” Snape muttered, but made no other move to summon Madam Pomfrey.

“Sir, really, I’m fine!” Harry reiterated. He waved a hand at himself. “Not even a scratch on me. Unlike some people who are in bed after having one of their legs all but cut off,” he added, in what he thought was a low voice, but Snape scowled at him anyway.

“My leg will be as good as new come the morning,” he stated, firmly. “Perhaps you are in need of a decent rest as well.”

“No, I—” Harry began to protest, but suddenly felt a huge wave of lassitude engulf him, and he yawned, widely, instead.

“Professor Snape is right, Mr Potter,” said Madam Pomfrey’s voice from behind him, and Harry felt a twinge of betrayal as he realised that the potions master had somehow signalled the medi-witch anyway. “Sleep now. Things will be sorted in the morning.”

“Ah, Harry, my boy,” Albus greeted Potter, as Severus escorted the boy into the Headmaster’s office the following afternoon. The Sorting Hat winked at the boy from its regular shelf, and Fawkes chirruped a greeting, although Potter didn’t appear to notice either of them. The sword he’d been carting was lying front and centre on Albus’ desk, cleaned of all the dirt and blood, and polished so brightly that Severus wondered Albus could see anything else around it.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Potter replied, but he sounded a bit hesitant. Considering how much his life had been disrupted the last time he’d been called here, Severus couldn’t blame him.

Well, not completely, anyway.

“It seems you had quite the exciting time yesterday,” Albus started, and Severus barely restrained a snort as he took the chair he hadn’t been offered. Exciting – that’s one way of putting it! Potter was apparently in agreement, as he just smiled weakly and sank into the offered chair, refusing both tea and lemon drop. “I’m sure your friends will be glad to see you’re back safe and sound.”

Potter’s eyes dropped to his lap, as he murmured a “Yes, sir.”

“Although, despite the holidays beginning in a few days, I do suggest you don’t stay up too late discussing things,” the Headmaster continued.

Potter’s head shot up again. “Sir?” he asked, puzzled. “We couldn’t be out too late anyway because of curfew . . .”

Albus smiled, delighted with himself. Severus winced at the twinkle in his eyes, which almost rivalled the sword’s glow. “Why, my boy, have you not noticed your House crest?” he asked, indicating the boy’s robes. Potter looked down again, and gasped.

“B-but, s-sir,” he stammered, pulling his robe away to get a better look at the Gryffindor crest, as if determining whether his eyes were playing tricks on him. “H-how can I be in Gryffindor again? Hermione said I had to make things up to Justin, and then do something worthy of a Gryffindor—”

This time, Severus couldn’t stop himself. He snorted, loudly and disdainfully. “Really, Potter,” he drawled. “What else would you call inserting yourself into the middle of a full blown battle with nothing more than a sword, which you don’t know how to use, brought to you by a piece of haberdashery?”

Potter shot him a quick sideways glance, then went back to gaping at his crest. “Um,” was all he said.

Albus nudged the sword closer to Potter. “Perhaps you should take a closer look at this, my boy,” he suggested. “At the hilt, in particular.”

Slowly, Potter stretched out a hand and drew the sword towards himself. He stared at the hilt, then down at his House crest, then back at the hilt. “That’s the Gryffindor crest,” he said. The boy’s thumb rubbed over where Severus knew the sword had the initials ‘GG’ imprinted on it. “This is Gryffindor’s sword?” Potter asked, hesitantly.

“Indeed it is, Harry!” exclaimed Albus, beaming. “Only a true Gryffindor could have called it, so therefore, you have automatically been moved back to your rightful House.”

“I—” Potter’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “Thank you, sir,” he settled on, finally, gingerly putting the sword back onto the desk.

Albus waved a hand, dismissively. “Nothing to do with me, my boy,” he said. “It was always in you; you were Sorted into Gryffindor, after all.”

Perhaps it was Severus’ imagination, but Potter seemed to slide a sideways glance at the Sorting Hat at those words, and the Hat screwed up its brim in a way that – if you were inclined that way – looked as if it were smirking.

Obviously the pain potions hadn’t completely left his system yet.

“Now, I believe your friends are currently in the Great Hall, diligently working on their homework,” Albus said. That was too much to even rate a snort – Severus probably would have burst a blood vessel if he’d tried to convey all of his disdain for that comment – so instead he settled for just shaking his head.

“Er, if you say so, sir,” said Potter, his tone not disguising his amusement. He bounced to his feet and scurried for the door, barely stopping to say again, “Thank you, professors,” before disappearing down the spiral staircase.

Albus shuffled some papers on his desk, and Severus finally realised that the glow hadn’t all been coming from Gryffindor’s Sword. Albus had a mirror hidden underneath the paperwork. Subtly craning his neck, Severus could see it was showing the interior of the Great Hall, specifically the section that contained the youngest male Weasley and the bushy-haired know-it-all.

“Look, Severus,” Albus said, tilting the mirror so he could see it properly. Apparently he hadn’t been subtle enough. “Is there anything better than a happy child?”

“Yes, a quiet, obedient one,” snapped Severus, but even he recognised that it lacked his usual bite.

Albus just laughed at him. Severus sank back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. He wasn’t sulking, he told himself. In the mirror, they could see Potter enter the Great Hall and make his way over to sit with his friends. They both glanced up, and then leapt to their feet to throw their arms around him – in Granger’s case – and slap him on the back – in Weasley’s.

After a couple of minutes of discussion, Granger suddenly gasped, one hand going to her mouth and the other pointing at Potter’s chest. Weasley goggled at it for a moment, and then they both descended on Potter again, laughing and cheering.

“Isn’t that wonderful,” Albus sniffed. Severus shot him a sceptical look. If the Headmaster was going to start crying, he would be out of there like a shot. Then he remembered what Albus had called him there for, and smirked.

“Let’s see if they’re so happy after dinner,” he said, his eyes glinting at Albus. Albus suddenly looked worried. “Especially when you announce that for the rest of the year, I’ll be the acting Head of Gryffindor.”