Harry stands back, looking with satisfaction around his living space. The tent is simply furnished: there's a bed, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe to the right of the room, and to the left is a modest kitchen with a few cupboards, a simple hob and an oven. The only other piece of furniture is a low, oak coffee table in the middle of the room, and there's a little door that leads into the bathroom.

There are few things more bizarre in the world than a clawfoot tub in the middle of a tent, but Harry has learned to embrace the weird and wonderful over the past few years in the wizarding world.

His things are all unpacked: his trunk lies open at the end of his bed, his record player sits on the coffee table and his bits and pieces are scattered around the room - a cloak and two jackets hung on the hooks on the back of the bathroom door, his organiser settled on the dresser, his broom leaning against his wardrobe. Even his poster of Lixie Pott, the fae pop princess of 1990, is stuck up on one of the fabric walls. This isn't a cupboard under the stairs or someone else's second bedroom, and it's not a shared dormitory, either.

Surveying the scene, Harry feels a true sense of ownership, of belonging, that he's never experienced before: for the first time in Harry's life, he's looking at a home that is utterly and entirely his own. Hedwig hoots at him from her place on the bed's footboard, and Harry blows air at her: almost entirely his own.

Smiling, he steps out of his summer home, and double checks the tent ropes where he's tied them to bits of shelving around Dudley's room - they're all well secured, and Harry's content with how they're set out. He zips the tent shut and flicks closed the magical padlock on its opening: there's no sense risking Dudley going in and trashing the place, after all. There's an opening in the tent's roof that owls can enter and exit by, but beyond that it's quite secure, and he's going to keep Dudley's window open the whole summer.

He steps out of Dudley's second bedroom, pulling on his coat - the summer is warm, but it's showering outside for the time being, and he doesn't want to get wet.

"I've set myself up, Aunt Petunia," Harry says, making his way into the kitchen. She stares at Harry like he's a particularly bad smell, but Harry stares right back, unflinching. "I've got my own bathroom, my own kitchen, so I'm not going to have to eat meals with you guys." Petunia crosses her thin arms over her chest, twisting her mouth as she looks down at him.

"It's magic, is it?" Oh, good on her, Harry thinks. She's finally able to say the word.

"I mean, technically it's just a bending of the rules of physics," Harry offers, and her scowl deepens. "Do you need anything from Tesco? I need to pick up some shopping." Petunia looks angry at the very thought, as if somehow Harry being a wizard and picking up a few things from the supermarket must cancel each other out. Dudley has no concerns, though - if Harry gets something for him now, he won't have to go get it himself or wait for his mother to get it for him.

"Blue milk," Dudley demands through a thick mouthful of chocolate cereal.

"Red milk," Petunia corrects, and Dudley groans. He's been on a diet since last year, and while it doesn't seem to have made any difference to Dudley's size, it's made a big adjustment to his usual bright and sunny attitude. Harry hadn't known he could possibly get worse, but he certainly has. Skimmed milk for Dudley it is.

---

LOCKHART TO SERVE 25 YEARS

There are two photos of Gilderoy Lockhart in the paper, side-by-side: one is of him posing in bright yellow robes, tossing back his hair and performing his ridiculous little for-the-camera laugh, but the other is a stark contrast of him in court, hair stringy, skin pallid. Harry feels a deep satisfaction at seeing the transformation, and he pushes the guilt he feels for the fact away.

There's a list of his crimes in the paper, and Harry sits back on his bed, reading the entire account of the fraud: the Prophet has done a full feature on each of Lockhart's books and who he stole his apparent deeds from, and Harry can't help but read the article from its first sentence to the end.

The style is unfamiliar, sort of like the inflammatory style Harry sees in the gossip magazines Petunia pretends she doesn't buy in with the TV Times and The Daily Mail. He glances at the byline, and he sees the name: Rita Skeeter. He frowns a little, trying to remember if he's heard the name before - he thinks maybe it's been mentioned in one letter or another, but only in passing, and he doubts it was all that important.

In the post the same day are a few scattered letters - one from Theo Nott, another from Dromeda Tonks, and most importantly is his letter from Hogwarts, listing his supplies and confirming his choices for his elective subjects next year. Care of Magical Creatures looks to be interesting, especially if it involves animals a bit tamer than basilisks and three-headed dogs, and he and Hermione had agreed to take Ancient Runes together. Harry had taken recommendations from different people last year, but one of them had stuck with him: Lucius Malfoy had mentioned that Runes were a crucial element to learning how to cast long-term wards, and had even listed a few book titles on the subject.

Harry knows better than to trust Lucius Malfoy, but the man usually knows what he's talking about, and warding is a fascinating area of magic.

He glances through the rest of the envelope, scanning his equipment list, and then he picks out the unfamiliar form about Hogsmeade visits, glancing over it. Sighing, he pulls himself up and heads downstairs, leaning into the kitchen: immediately, he shoves his permission letter behind his back.

"Oh, there's the boy," Marge grumbles, turning up her fat nose, and Harry sets his jaw. She's sat down in the kitchen with Vernon and Dudley, and Harry glances back into the hall, where the shrew's suitcases are settled next to the door, and he sighs. Why would he have assumed that the summer would be alright for him? Why on earth would he have thought it might be enjoyable for once?

"Here he is," Harry says dryly. "Just letting you know I'm going out, Aunt Petunia." Aunt Petunia is distracted, looking with disgust at Marge's dog where he sits at her feet, and Harry doesn't mind her attention being focused on something other than him.

"Where are you going?" Marge and Vernon demand at the same time, and Harry rolls his eyes, seeing their family resemblance more than ever.

"The off-license, where else?" he retorts, and he shoves his permission letter into his pocket, ignoring whatever insult Marge calls after him. He refuses to listen to any of it - she can say whatever she likes about his parentage or whatever, but he doesn't have to sit there and let her direct her bile at him.

He picks up some eggs, and he stops as he leaves the corner shop off Kellogg's Walk, scanning the notice board beside the exit. There are different adverts for around Little Whinging, selling lawnmowers or advertising child minding services, and Harry goes back to the counter. "Sorry," he says, "Have you got a card for the board?"

---

"You're filthy," Marge says as Harry enters the house a few weeks later, and he ignores her: this is the fourth or fifth time she's hovered in Privet Drive's hall, waiting for him to come back, and apparently she still doesn't completely understand the idea that doing odd jobs in people's gardens might get a bit of dirt on someone's trousers.

"Don't mind me, Marge," Harry replies in as airy a tone as he can muster. He has twenty five pounds neatly settled into his wallet for his day's work, and for once he's grateful that Petunia had him spend so much of his time before Hogwarts tending the flowerbeds and keeping her lawn in such keen shape. "I'll just be up in my room, making no noise and pretending that I don't exist!"

When he gets into his tent, he sets his new Muggle money in the cheap money box he'd bought for his dresser: he'd had several calls the very morning that he'd put his little advert in the shop, and he'd started immediately. It isn't all that hard - he mows lawns, prunes rose bushes, paints fences. He does everything he'd had to do in the summers before he started going to Hogwarts, but now he gets a bit of money for it, and the people he does the work for are both nicer and more grateful than Aunt Petunia.

He sets his coins and five pound note in the box, closing it up, and then he puts on the Celestina Warbeck record Mrs Weasley had sent him as a birthday present, settling down in front of the coffee table to work on a jigsaw. Harry had never done a jigsaw before this summer - Dudley had never liked them, so Harry had never really gotten the opportunity to do them before, but he finds he quite likes the process. He hasn't yet decided whether the moving image on the jigsaw - a Welsh Green asleep on a hillside - makes it easier or not.

He hears a knock on the bedroom door, and he absent-mindedly calls, "Come in!" Aunt Petunia appears in the tent's doorway, and she's stopped short, her eyes wide as she glances around the room, her eyes wide and her lips parted in utter surprise. Lixie Pott gives her a seductive wave and blows her a kiss from her place on the wall, and Aunt Petunia turns her head away, tutting, before looking at Harry severely.

"Marge is leaving," Petunia says crisply, "If you'd take her suitcases out to the car?"

"Sure," Harry says, pulling himself up off the floor, and Aunt Petunia lingers in the doorway, looking around the room with curious eyes. It's the same curiosity that makes her buy the stupid celebrity gossip magazines and peek out of the curtains if Mr Perkins is late coming home from work on a Friday night - she just can't help but be nosy. He doesn't bother to point it out, though - he just walks past her, grabbing his coat and heading downstairs. He doesn't talk to Marge or Vernon, and just gets on with dragging both of her cases out to the car and dropping them heavily into Uncle Vernon's boot.

He needs to grab some more pasta for himself, so he walks straight away from Privet Drive. Kellogg's Walk is a good fifteen minutes away, but the big Tesco is twenty minutes further, but Harry's not going to bother walking all the way for a packet of pasta.

It's nearly six o'clock in the evening when Harry starts walking back, and Harry enjoys the golden light streaking across the sky: Harry despises the perfectly manicured lawns, middle class window dressings and pretentious hedges of Little Whinging, but he loves the warmth of the sky, the lack of light pollution, the fields that go on for miles if you walk the right way out of town. Were the suburban houses removed from the equation, Harry would love Little Whinging - he thinks he'd like to live somewhere rural one day. Maybe have a cottage.

"Harry," says a hoarse voice from behind him, and Harry turns. On pure instinct, he takes a stumbling step back, clutching his bag of pasta illogically to his chest as he stares in front of him. The man is gaunt and emaciated, his black hair and beard sticking filthily to his head, and he's dressed in stinking grey rags that must leave him freezing even in the August warmth. Outstretched to Harry, his hands are shaking, but Harry makes no move to take one.

"How do you know my name?" Harry demands, staring into the man's eyes. He's some kind of tramp, Harry's sure, but he can't really gauge his eyes when he's hidden under such thick beard and filth, and the man shakes his head.

"Needed to, needed to see that you were alright, Harry, are you alright, Harry, alright?" The man looks so desperate to know, his eyes wide where they're sunken into his face.

"I'm fine," Harry says, "Who are you?"

"Need to get to Hogwarts, now," the man says, his voice hoarse and croaking, and he sounds as if he hasn't spoken to someone else for years, "He's at Hogwarts." The man begins to totter away from Harry, his gait unstable, and Harry looks after him, but he knows better than to follow him.

When he gets home, Uncle Vernon is watching the news, and Harry stands stock still in the living room doorway as he holds out his Hogsmeade permission form for his uncle to sign. "Hang on!" Vernon snaps distractedly at the newsreader, scribbling his signature on Harry's bit of parchment. "You haven't told us where he's escaped from!" The face in the image is much younger looking, much more handsome and clearer, without so much beard covering his face, but Harry recognizes the tramp on Kellogg's Walk.

"I think he's escaped from the wizard prison, Azkaban," Harry says quietly, staring at the picture on the screen and feeling a cold shiver run up his spine. The Dursleys are all staring at Harry, slack-jawed with their eyes wide, but Harry doesn't, can't, say anything more on the subject: he walks up the stairs and into his tent in a dream-like state.

He knows it already, feels it in his bones. He's not going to have a normal year at school after all.

SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPED FROM AZKABAN

The name rings in Harry's ears again and again: Sirius Black, Sirius Black, sing-song and mocking. The paper had sprinkled little details in the article about the man, that he'd killed thirteen people and just stood there, laughing, that he'd been a follower of You-Know-Who, that nobody had ever escaped Azkaban before, and each one of them bounces around the inside of his skull, forcing him to try and think.

Sirius Black had escaped from prison after twelve years, but he'd come to see Harry. And not to try and kill Harry, either - the man had been unhinged, but it had been obvious he hadn't meant Harry any harm. Harry lies in the bath, drumming his fingers on the edge of the tub and trying his best to think.

Hermione is coming to pick him up next week, as the Grangers are coming through Little Whinging on their way back from the airport, and they'll all stay in Diagon Alley for a few days before he and Hermione catch the Hogwarts Express on September 1st, but he wants to know more in the meantime: he just needs to figure out how to phrase what he's asking.

---

Dear Mrs Weasley,

Thanks for your letter last weekend - I've been listening
to that record you sent me, and I really do quite like her
voice, I think, though she just can't compare to Lixie
Pott.

I just wanted to ask you as I'm still home from school for
another week or so before I head into London with the
Grangers the Friday after next - should my Muggle
relatives be doing any particular thing to stay safe from
Sirius Black?

I saw in the paper that he'd killed Muggles, and I just
wanted to make sure they'll be alright once I've gone off
to school.

Harry Potter

It's a similar phrasing to what he uses with Amelia Bones, and he sends a small note to Professor McGonagall, too - he knows that Narcissa Malfoy or Theodore's dad would probably know more about the political side of Black's escape, but they wouldn't care about the well-being of any Muggles, related to Harry or not.

He gets responses in the next few days, but all of them remain utterly vague - the majority of Mrs Weasley's letter is about Celestina Warbeck's crooning songs versus the more updated, poppy style of Lixie Pott: she barely mentions Black at all, except to say that he probably shouldn't worry, and McGonagall's letter is curt and just tells him to remain safe.

Letting out a little groan, Harry drops face-first onto his bed and gives up for the time being. Even if Mrs Weasley won't say anything about this by post, he'll be able to get more out of her once he can see her in person, and for the time being, at least, he knows Sirius Black is heading North.

---

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about him, Mrs Granger," Harry says casually, "He probably didn't even survive the swim over to Britain, and even if he did, his wand will have been snapped and he won't be any threat." Mrs Granger breathes in, but then she gives a little nod of her head as Harry and Hermione move into the Leaky Cauldron.

"They don't snap people's wands for going to Azkaban," Hermione whispers. "That's only if you get expelled."

"Did you want to tell your mum the truth about the mass murderer who's just escaped from prison?"

"No," Hermione retorts, "I'm just saying my lie would have been based in more truth." Harry rolls his eyes, and he drags his trunk into the Leaky Cauldron. September 1st is on Monday morning, so the four of them are staying in the Leaky Cauldron until Hermione and Harry are put on the train, and then the Grangers are going to return home.

"Oi, Potter!" comes a loud yell, and Harry automatically grabs for his wand, but before he can draw it out of his trousers he's being wrestled to the floor, and Harry lashes out as best he can. George grabs at his wrists, holding them above his head, and Fred sits on top of him with a triumphant yell.

"Get off, you ginger bastards-"

"Fred! George!"

"George, don't do that-"

"I swear, I'm gonna kill you two before the year is out-"

"Get off him, Fred!" Harry twists his waist to the side, making Fred lose his balance, but he can't quite kick himself free of George's grip until Hermione smacks George upside the head, making him let out a wounded sound and release Harry's arms. Percy drags Fred up by his shirt collar, and Hermione shoves George in the chest, scowling up into his face. George is about a head taller than her, and she's forced to tilt her head up to look at his face.

"You seem a bit angry, Granger," George says playfully, not seeming to mind Hermione's obvious wrath at all. "Feeling a bit protective?"

"Don't call me Granger." George leans down a little, so that him and Hermione are nose-to-nose.

"What, we on first name terms now, are we?" Harry can see Hermione's skin darkening slightly as she blushes, and he winces as he watches George let out a little chuckle: Hermione delivers a sharp punch to George's chest, making him choke out a noise and bend over, gasping in his breaths. Grabbing at her trunk, she stomps up the stairs after her parents, and Harry shakes his head.

"You idiot," Harry says disapprovingly, "She doesn't take all that well to being teased like that. Too physical."

"So I've seen," George says hoarsely, and Fred laughs at him freely. Arthur sympathetically pats George's back, and Molly just makes her way over, pulling Harry into a hug: it's a much less aggressive greeting than the twins', and Harry relaxes into it, letting Molly hug him tightly. Harry gives Ginny, Ron and Percy a wave in comparison, but Percy seems to still be getting over the shock of seeing his brothers tackle another boy to the ground. Ron's arms are crossed over his chest, a scowl pulling at his face, and Ginny just seems to be enjoying the chaos.

Harry likes that about her.

"You want to carry my trunk upstairs, Fred?" Harry asks with a little raise of his eyebrows, and the older boy gives a mocking little bow.

"Mr Potter, I would be honoured," Fred says mockingly, grabbing Harry's trunk, and Harry grabs Hedwig's cage, letting her out. She decides to settle on George's shoulder, and he lets out a put-upon sigh as he follows his brother and Harry up the stairs. As soon as the door is shut behind them, Hedwig settles on top of her cage, and Fred and George throw themselves onto Harry's bed. "What did you want to know, then?"

"Everything you know about Sirius Black," Harry answers immediately, and the twins share a glance. They're taking Harry's demand seriously, though, and he can see the both of them mulling over the details they're aware of before they answer.

"Not much," George admits. "Dad said we had to be careful when we got back, and that he was really a risk."

"We heard him and Bill saying to Percy that he wasn't to let you wander off on your own without an adult behind you, though," Fred adds, and Harry groans, hiding his face in his hands. "He's head boy now, Harry, with all his adult responsibilities: he's probably got tucking you into bed at night on the top of his to-do list. What do you know about him?"

"Only what was in the Prophet," Harry answers with a shrug of his shoulders. "That's why I was hoping you'd know something." There's a knock on the door, followed immediately by the door opening, and Hermione steps in.

"We could have been naked!" Fred protests. "You're supposed to wait before you come in."

"Oh, shush," Hermione says, and she looks to Harry, "Mum and Dad are ready to go for books and clothes. You coming?"

"Yeah, sure," Harry says, nodding his head. "Have you guys got all your stuff yet?"

"Mum's splitting us into two groups. Us two, Dad and Percy are going around tomorrow, and Ginny, Mum and Ron are going around today. It's almost like she doesn't trust us," George says, and Hermione hmphs at him. Harry frowns at her as they begin to make their way down the stairs, but he doesn't actually ask any questions until they're walking to Flourish and Blotts.

"What's up with you and George?" Harry asks, and Hermione glances at him, frowning.

"What do you mean?" she asks sharply, and Harry can see she's a bit touchy about the subject, so he decides to back off.

"Nothing, nothing," Harry says, spreading his hands innocently, and they follow Mr and Mrs Granger towards the bookshop.

---

Harry slips carefully past Tom's front desk as he comes back into the Leaky Cauldron on Sunday afternoon, exiting into the Muggle side of London before Percy can follow him. Percy, true to Fred and George's word, had been watching Harry like a hawk the entire weekend, and by now Harry is more than tired of it - he can only hope he doesn't get the same treatment once he's at Hogwarts.

He walks a few streets away, slipping into a charity shop and beginning to browse. After weeks of solitude in Little Whinging, doing any and all shopping on his own and having time to just browse at leisure, it had been annoying to have the Grangers and the Weasleys telling him where to go and when.

Harry picks up a few Muggle paperbacks, and then he begins to browse through the records. He only ends up picking up a few compilation albums, though, and he pays at the counter just a few minutes before the shop closes its doors. He settles his purchases in a plastic bag before moving outside, taking a shortcut back to the Leaky Cauldron through an alleyway.

"Harry," he turns, staring at Black where he stands, shivering, in the middle of the little street.

"Why do you keep following me?" Harry demands. "You were one of Voldemort's followers, weren't you? A Death Eater?" Black shakes his head, letting out a little noise.

"Just wanted to check you'd bought some Boney M.," Black says, and then lets out a ridiculous laugh, tossing back his head. He sounds like he's been gargling broken glass, and Harry can't help but wince at the awful sound, despite Black's obvious humour. "I wasn't a Death Eater. Neve a Death Eater - he was."

"Who was?"

"The rat."

"What rat?"

"He's-"

"He's at Hogwarts, yeah, I know," Harry finishes, frowning at the older man. There must be something he can do - the man just seems damaged, not dangerous, and Harry doesn't want to just leave him to wander up to Hogwarts. "Look-" There's a clatter as a cat jumps onto a bin up the road, and Sirius flinches wildly, running away at speed. Just before he turns off the alley, Harry sees him morph, hitting the ground on four paws, and he can't help but stare after him.

No wonder he broke out of Azkaban. The man's an Animagus.

---

"You shouldn't have stayed up all night," Hermione says disapprovingly as they climb onto the Express, and Harry sighs. Even had he tried to lie in bed, he doesn't think he would have slept in the silence of Leaky Cauldron, so he'd stayed up the whole night playing cards with Fred and George.

"You shouldn't have bought a cat when you were meant to get an owl," Harry returns, and Hermione frowns at him as she sets Crookshanks down in the compartment, letting him clamber up onto one of the seats. Harry lies down across from him, setting Hedwig's empty cage on the floor, and Crookshanks immediately changes his mind: he launches his fat, bandy-legged body across the room, landing heavily on Harry's chest, and he groans.

"You shouldn't complain," Hermione says, popping their trunks up on the shelves and settling down on the floor, a stack of books beside her. "He loves you."

"I can feel that," Harry says half-heartedly, patting Crookshanks' head. "All two stone of it."

"He doesn't weigh two stone!"

"He will if you keep feeding him chicken."

"Oh, go to sleep!" Harry chuckles, closing his eyes: he strokes Crookshanks' back absently as the big, flat-faced monster purrs on top of him. Crookshanks' heavy weight is completely different to the occasional dainty step of Winston over Harry's pillow, but he doesn't really mind. The cat obviously means well, and Harry's glad to see Hermione's found a pet that suits her so much. "Are you worried about him? Black? I heard what Mr Weasley said to you at the station, about how you should be careful, about how you shouldn't seek him out."

"Don't worry, Hermione," Harry lies, "I'm not going to do anything of the sort.

Harry is stirred from sleep when Hermione gently shakes him up, and Harry glances blearily up at her. Hermione's now dressed in her school robes, her hair tied at her neck, and he glances around. Crookshanks' weight has moved from his chest to his feet, and outside the train the sun is beginning to go down: in the distance, Harry can see the lights of Hogsmeade, and he shifts himself up, rubbing at his eyes and gently pushing Hermione's cat off his legs.

"Thanks," he murmurs, making his way past her to go and change into his robes, and then he settles across from her. "You get much reading done?"

"I've nearly finished Slytherin's Secrets," Hermione says, holding up the book. Its cover is a deep green leather, and in silver letters on its spine Harry sees the words Lindon Sartorius. "It's really good, Harry, even better than A Serpentine History. They found out so much around the castle last year - and look!" She leans forwards, pointing to the dedication near the front leaf, and there it says,

With special thanks to Harry Potter, without
whom this book could never have existed.

"He sent me a copy in the summer, when it was published," Harry admits, "But I haven't read it yet." Harry had made his way through a fair few books that summer, but for entirely sentimental reasons, he'd been saving Slytherin's Secrets for when he could actually lie in his bed or sit in the Slytherin library to enjoy it: there's something about the idea that just appeals to him. "You hungry?"

"Extremely," Hermione says, reaching up and dropping her books into her trunk before latching it shut. "Dad's cooking is great, but he can't match the food at Hogwarts." Harry chuckles, and he pulls Crookshanks' basket down, gesturing for the cat to climb inside. Crookshanks does so, but only with a whining grumble and a slow gait, and Harry shuts the basket's gate behind him. "Don't worry, Crookshanks, you'll have the run of the castle, soon."

"Along with the hundred other cats in the castle." Harry and Hermione step out of their carriage, heading towards the train's door, "Do you think he'll be territorial?"

"I hope not," Hermione says quietly, a little worry on her face, "Magical cats and owls are meant to be much happier with sharing roosts and territory, because they're bred to have so much more intelligence and awareness, but he could pack a mean punch if he wanted to."

"Bit like his mistress, really, then," Harry says, and Hermione sticks her tongue out at him, making him laugh. "What are they?" The black-robed figures stand - no, hover - at the gates of Hogwarts, two of them illuminated by the moonlight, and he can see more of them on the path up the hill and scattered around Hogsmeade.

"Dementors," Hermione answers, giving a shiver. "A few of them checked out the train, but you were asleep." Harry connects the floating spectres with the pictures of Azkaban he's seen in books, and he frowns slightly. The air feels cold, bitingly so, and there's a heavy weight in the air that he suspects is from the dementors more than the chilly wind.

"The carriages are up here, children," calls Professor Flitwick as he comes down the road with a clipboard in his hand. "Up you come!" Harry and Hermione begin to walk up, but one of the dementors turns its odd head towards Harry, and Harry takes a step back, frowning at it. It only comes closer, though, and as it does Harry feels like his chest is being filled with ice water: his vision begins to darken at the edges, and he can hear the ghost of a scream- "Get away from him!" snaps Flitwick shrilly, and he comes forwards, brandishing his wand at the dementor, which shifts right back from him. "How dare you? Does he look like Sirius Black to you!?"

The dementor glides off, and Flitwick's nostrils flare behind his beard as he glares after it.

"You alright, Potter?"

"I'm fine, sir," Harry says.

"Horrible monsters, these bloody dementors. As if we can't protect you quite adequately from Black ourselves - could never cast a good charm, that one. The only damned spell he could manage was a Permanent-" Flitwick seems to realize who he's ranting to, and he presses his lips together, waving for Hermione and Harry to head up to the carriages.

"I think he's right," Harry murmurs, and Hermione nods as they clamber into a carriage. "Alright, Ginny?"

"Hi, Harry!" Ginny says, shifting over slightly so Hermione can sit beside her. "This is my friend, Luna Lovegood. Luna, this is Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, the man himself." Harry sits next to Luna Lovegood, who is blond-haired and wide-eyed: she seems to examine Harry for a few moments, her blue eyes seemingly impossibly deep, and then she smiles. She has a pretty smile, Harry thinks, but there's something odd about it - as if she knows about a thousand things that you don't.

"Nice to meet you," she says sweetly, "I believe you've written to my father, Harry."

"Oh, Xenophilius Lovegood," Harry nods his head, doing his best to ignore the horrified look Ginny shoots him, "He's your dad?"

"Yes," Luna says, leaning back in her seat and peering out of the carriage window. "He said you sounded rather an odd boy."

"Did he now?" Harry asks, finding the idea a little amusing - he'd only written Lovegood once, when he'd read a reference to the Quibbler in the Prophet and wanted to ask what exactly it was about. Lovegood's response had been... Well. Harry had elected not to take out a subscription, and the man had struck him as a bit mad. "Well. Is the magazine going alright?"

"Oh, it's selling just fine," Luna answers distractedly. "I do hope they've got some parsnips at dinner tonight."

---

There are parsnips at dinner that night. Harry turns to show his plate of them to Luna, who's sat behind him on the next table, and she beams, showing her plate in response. The main difference between their two plates, of course, is that Harry's plate has other things on it too. "Have you read Slytherin's Secrets yet, Harry?" Theo asks when Harry turns back around, and he shakes his head.

"I've been saving it." Theo gives a little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Me too."

"Me three," admits Daphne from across the table, and Harry laughs, shaking his head.

"Hermione just read most of it on the train, but there's a certain..." Harry trails off, trying to think of the right word.

"Romance?" Daphne offers.

"Irony?" comes Theodore's suggestion, but Harry shakes his head to both.

"Magic," Harry decides, "To choosing to read it here." They settle into their usual conversation after that, chattering back and forth - Draco is going to try out for the Quidditch team this year, and Blaise Zabini's mother is getting married again during the Christmas Holidays, apparently. At the end of dinner, Dumbledore stands to address the students, and they stop their conversation to look his way.

"You have no doubt noticed the new faces amongst our staff," Dumbledore says, standing at his lectern, and he gestures to his right, "This is our new Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher, Professor Remus Lupin." Lupin is about the same age as Snape, Harry guesses, but even though he's not as ugly he's prematurely aged - there are lines on his face and his hair is going grey, and he looks... Well. Frankly, the man looks ill. "And taking over the Care of Magical Creatures staff position is Professor Gladys Gudgeon." Gudgeon is a lady in her early sixties, blond hair trimmed into a neat bob around her head: her robes and hat are lilac, and she wears lipstick of a similar shade.

"She's a bit different to Kettleburn, isn't she?" Draco says quietly as Dumbledore continues to talk, and Harry nods his head. She's a dainty looking woman, and she reminds Harry a bit of the Muggle Princess Diana - much older, obviously, but with the same sort of grace and poise to her. Harry thinks about her as they make their way down to the Slytherin common room - she doesn't really look like the sort of woman who embraces magical creatures, in all honesty, but maybe he'll think differently once he sees her in action.

Harry walks with the other third years down towards the Slytherin common room, but one of the suits of armour steps in front of his path. Harry stops short, staring up at it and glancing behind him at the other Slytherins, who seem equally puzzled. He knows that the suits of armours move around now and then, but they don't normally do it in sight of the students, and his one is standing right in the middle of the corridor, as if it doesn't want them to pass by.

"Uh, excuse me?" Harry says to the suit of armour, and it slowly raises the mace it holds in his hand, wielding it over Harry's head. His eyes widen behind the glass of his specs, and he dodges just before the empty knight slams its mace down where Harry's head had been a second before. Harry scrambles down the corridor as the suit of armour slowly turns, facing Harry. It walks slowly down the hall, its feet making loud, clanking sounds on the floor as it moves, and Harry keeps on moving, doing his best to get out of the thing's way.

"Potter?" comes Frank's voice from down the hall.

"Help, please!" Harry replies as he rushes out from under the mace again, and Frank runs forwards, glancing between the suit of armour and Harry: Frank is Slytherin's head prefect, now, with Afifa having finished her N.E.W.T.s last year, and he steps between Harry and the empty knight without any fear at all.

"Reducto!" he yells, and he shields Harry behind him as the armour explodes outwards, bits of gauntlet and chest plate clanging against the walls. "You alright, Harry?"

"Yeah," Harry says, and he leans to look to the other third years, who nod their heads to say they're alright. Frank keeps Harry close to him as they make their way into the common room, and he sends one of the new prefects to go and tell Snape what had happened. Blaise is sprawled on Harry's mattress when he gets into his dormitory, and Theodore is sat beside Draco on the other bed; pushing the door closed, Harry ignores Blaise, beginning to unpack his things.

"You know what that was about, don't you, Harry?" Draco asks as Harry rifles through his trunk, pushing his tent aside to pull out his record player and his records.

"Why don't you enlighten me, Draco?" Harry asks, doing his best to be sardonic: he's a little shaken, truth be told, but he doesn't want to display that to the other Slytherin boys. Blaise puts out his hands, and Harry drops his stack of records into the other boy's grasp, letting him curiously glance through Harry's ten-piece collection. He doesn't normally unpack the night of his arrival, but Harry's too full of energy to sit down right now, and he doesn't want to laze like Draco and Blaise.

"Sirius Black," Draco says, and Harry turns his head, glancing at the other boy with interest. "He wants you dead - that's why he escaped Azkaban. It was him that betrayed your parents to the Dark Lord." Harry keeps on shelving his books, but it's done absently, with no semblance of order, and he keeps his gaze on Draco. He's ecstatic to be the centre of attention, Harry can see, but he doesn't want to take the piss out of him for it just now - he just wants Draco to keep talking. "He and your father were good friends at school, Father told me, and they were friends with Pettigrew, too. After he betrayed your parents to the Dark Lord, and he had killed them both, Black sought Pettigrew out - he didn't kill those Muggles out of chance. They were in the blast radius when he blew Pettigrew up. He must have enchanted that suit of armour to kill you."

Draco is taking pleasure in regaling the story, but he's not getting the rise out of Harry that he wants, Harry can see: Harry's merely made more curious by the story, and he's not at all angry. He'd seen Black, after all, and the man had been utterly mad: he wouldn't have the faculties to Summon a feather right now, let alone enchant a suit of armour to come after Harry. The idea of Black, desperately asking after Harry's health and obsessively searching for a rat is at odds with the image of him as a bloodthirsty traitor, and Harry frowns slightly, considering the disparity.

"Why did he do it?" Harry asks. "Do you know?" Draco seems thrown by the question, and stares at Harry blankly.

"Why did he do what? Betray your parents?" Theodore asks.

"Yeah," Harry says, nodding his head. "I mean, there must have been some reason, right? What did he say at trial?"

"There wasn't a trial," Blaise says dryly, handing Harry his Michael Jackson record. "Black was mad when they caught him - he just laughed and laughed. They sent him straight to Azkaban. It wasn't as if they were short of evidence." Harry frowns, stacking his records together beside his turntable, and then he drops onto the bed, over Blaise's legs.

"You seem a bit calm," Theodore points out, and Harry nods his head.

"No sense taking it personally, is there?" Harry asks. He's not going to talk to the Slytherin lads about his meeting Black, so he only needs to brush off the concerns about him. "I feel that it's quite in vogue to try and kill me."

"Vogue?" Whoops. It's a Muggle magazine, isn't it? Vogue?

"Er," Harry waves his hand dismissively. "Fashionable. Popular. It doesn't matter. What electives did you take, guys?" They settle around, beginning to chat about more normal things, and Draco is even relatively pleasant to Winston when he clambers up onto Draco's knees to go to sleep.

"Well," Harry murmurs, chopping the daisy stems as neatly as he can as Hermione crushes some newt's eyes with a mortar and pestle. "She was, uh. Nice."

"Yeah," Hermione says, "And she did seem to know what she was talking about, too." Professor Gudgeon's classroom had been neatly decorated, with simple pictures of flowers on the walls, and she'd laid out a neat syllabus for them: Lesser Fae, Nymphs, Magical Equines, Magical Snakes and Magical Birds. She had seemed focused and organized, but she was still... "She was a bit strange, wasn't she?"

"Really strange," Harry agrees. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on - she just seemed to zone out every once in a while, and when Lavender Brown had mentioned Gilderoy Lockhart's imprisonment in Azkaban, she'd gone utterly silent for about four minutes. "Did you see the photo she had framed on her desk?"

"No," Hermione says. "Why?" Harry only got a glimpse of the photograph, but he'd seen he blond hair and the dazzling white teeth.

"I think-"

"Was this photograph, Mr Potter, of your pain relief potion?" Snape stands directly behind Hermione, scowling down at Harry, and Harry sighs.

"No," Harry says, "I don't think so, sir."

"Then discuss it later."

"Sir?" Harry asks, and Snape glances back towards him, arching one of his eyebrows. "Are you going to be continuing Duelling Club this year?" Harry can hear the intake of breath around the room, and he can feel the sudden tension as every Gryffindor and Slytherin leans forwards to listen intently to Snape's answer. Snape shows the mildest fraction of surprise on his face as he glances at the third years watching him, and then he sets his jaw.

"No, Mr Potter, I will not." There are sighs and small noises of disappointment around the room, and if anything they only seem to alarm Snape, who scowls and quickly moves to breathe down Neville Longbottom's neck. Duelling Club, once Lockhart had been dropped from the idea, had been really amazing, and Harry had learned a lot through the course of the year, but it's a disappointment to hear Snape drop it. He wonders, vaguely, if he'd be able to get Lucius Malfoy to convince him otherwise - they're friends, after all, and Harry suspects if he phrased it in a way that benefitted Draco, Lucius would want to engineer the club's return.

It's certainly an idea.

---

"What did Malfoy say about Duelling Club?" Hermione asks, craning her neck to see the letter the Malfoys' eagle owl, Hedone, had just delivered. Harry sighs, passing it over to her, and she holds it in one hand, holding her toast in the other. Her eyes scan the page quickly, and she sighs. "Of course he already asked."

"I don't know why I bothered," Harry says, folding the letter and slipping it into his bag. "There's no getting Snape to do a thing he doesn't want to do. Maybe we could get Lupin to do it, if he can cast a few spells without fainting."

"Harry!" Hermione scolds him, and she sets down the uneaten crust of her toast on the edge of her plate, wiping her hands on a napkin. "Don't be horrible."

"What do you think is wrong with him?" Harry asks, and Hermione shrugs her shoulders, shaking her head. They have their first class with Lupin this afternoon, and Harry's interested to see his teaching style - he can't possibly be as weird as Gudgeon, anyway. "Are you really going to just eat toast for lunch?"

"I haven't just had toast, and I'm not very hungry, alright?" Harry looks at her skeptically, and Hermione leans forwards, lowering her voice a little to say, "If you must know, my stomach hurts!" For a second, Harry's completely thrown by the statement, and then he understands, and rolls his eyes.

"Just get some Auxilian Elixir from Madam Pomfrey. That's what Snape brews it for." Hermione's cheeks darken slightly, and she huffs out a noise. "Hermione-"

"I don't need a potion. I'll eat a banana and I'll be fine."

"You're such an idiot-"

"I'm not an idiot, Harry, but I'm not in agony, and there's no need for us to use magic for everything-"

"It's just like taking paracetamol!"

"I wouldn't take paracetamol for this either!"

"What are you two arguing about?" Ron Weasley demands as he sits down a little further up the table, late for lunch, as usual. Hermione's cheeks darken a little further, and Harry tries to stifle a little laugh. "What? What?" Weasley's own cheeks colour, and he seems to have taken Harry's chuckle to mean that they're arguing about him, the utter idiot.

"Nothing, Ron," Hermione snaps, glaring at Harry, who only laughs a little louder. "Come on, let's go up to class."

"Fine, fine," Harry says, and he shoulders his bag, following Hermione up and out of the hall. "You have your first Arithmancy class today, right?"

"From four until six," Hermione agrees, seeming glad of the change of subject. "I'm glad Professor Vector agreed to teach me."

"Well, three subjects isn't as bad as trying to take five at once," Harry says. "You regret not taking them?" Hermione hums, shifting her head from side to side as she considers the question. She'd desperately wanted to take all of the electives offered, but she'd eventually settled on just Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures - after speaking to McGonagall, though, she'd been allowed to take up Arithmancy out of class hours.

"Well, Divination is a fascinating subject, I'm sure, but Lavender and Parvati were talking about it, and it does sound... Well, to be honest, it sounds a bit wishy-washy to me." It seems to pain Hermione to admit it, and Harry nods his head. Some of the Slytherin lads had talked about Divination, but none of them had really been interested in taking it, and Harry is fairly certain Tracey Davis is the only Slytherin third year who'd opted for it.

"And Muggle Studies would have been a bit redundant."

"But I could have studied the Muggle world from the wizarding point of view!"

"You can do that by reading books, though," Harry points out, and Hermione sighs her resignation before reluctantly nodding her agreement. When they reach the defence corridor, Lupin is dragging a wardrobe into the classroom with a surprising strength to his movements, pushing it up beside the desk. He'd redecorated the classroom with new images of different magical creatures, but on the centre wall remains the framed article about Lockhart. "I guess he couldn't get it down," he murmurs. "Or he decided to leave it up." Hermione chuckles.

"Hello, Harry, Hermione - could you two start moving these desks out of the way? Just pop them to the side of the room."

"Yes, sir," Harry says, and he and Hermione get to work, pushing the first row aside and then levitating the other rows to stack on top of them, leaving a clear space in the middle of the room. Harry's not used to being addressed by his first name, not by teachers, but he doesn't complain: he just files it for reference. Lupin's face looks a little familiar, though, and he frowns at the man slightly.

"Something wrong?" Lupin asks.

"I recognize you," Harry says, but he can't think where from. "Have you been in the paper?" Lupin laughs, and when he smiles a few of the lines disappear from his face: he looks more his age with a grin on his face. There's something sad about that.

"No, not that I'm aware of."

"How old are you, sir? Like, thirty-something?"

"Thirty three," Lupin answers simply, and he's smiling, as if being asked random questions by thirteen-year-olds is his idea of a good time.

"Did you go to school with my parents? Maybe I saw you in a photo." Lupin's face seems to pale slightly, and Harry furrows his brow; Lupin draws his hand over his jaw in a slightly nervous motion, thumbing over his thin moustache, and then he nods his head.

"I did, yes. I was in the same year as your father, and the same house." He seems worried all of a sudden, the smile going weak and melting off his features, but Harry has no intention of drawing back and letting him be. He has things he needs to know.

"So you knew Sirius Black, then?" Harry queries.

"Pardon?"

"My father was friends with Sirius Black, right? You were too, I guess?" There's something in Lupin's face that Harry doesn't like the look of - he seems angry, or upset, or-- Threatened. Threatened is the word, and as Lupin flusters, obviously trying to find an answer, Harry says, "Guess you were lucky he went after Pettigrew before he went after you, sir, or we wouldn't be having this conversation." Remus' eyes flare with anger, hurt, his gaze flickering from Harry's face to the Slytherin crest on his robes, and Harry knows he's onto something.

"Go and get the rest of the class into the room, would you, Harry?" Lupin says stiffly, setting his jaw, and Harry gives him a smile.

"Of course, sir. Happy to help," Harry says with faux brightness, and he goes to get the rest of the class into the room. Lupin does his best to hide his newly sour mood as he begins to teach, and Harry has to admit he's a good teacher - he's bright and engaging, and he truly knows his subject matter: he's a far cry from Lockhart.

"Now, today you'll be facing a Boggart," Lupin says, gesturing to the wardrobe he'd set up before his desk. "Boggarts morph themselves into that which their opponent fears most: we will be using a spell called Ridikkulus. It forces a Boggart into a more humorous form, as laughter is confusing to the Boggart." Harry raises his hand, and he sees the hesitation in Lupin's face before he nods his head.

"Why?" Harry asks. "I mean, I can see the use of fear as a defence mechanism, but why does laughter confuse a Boggart?"

"It's simply the opposite of the behaviour it expects," Lupin says simply. "Remember, Boggarts have no wish to prey on their victims - they merely wish to keep them away." He claps his hands, giving his class a grin. "Now, who would like to go first?" No one in the room seems keen, so Harry raises his hand once more, and Lupin presses his lips together, obviously reluctant, but then he nods his head. "Alright, Harry, up you come."

After a few repetitions of the spell, Harry stands before the wardrobe, wand wielded before him. He's fairly certain of what he'll see - Voldemort, maybe, or- No. No, he remembers the feeling of the dementor leaning over him, freezing his insides and making him shudder.

Setting his jaw, he tries to think of a way to make the dementor funny. Have someone drop out of its cloak, maybe, or leave it just a plastic skeleton with a cloak on...

"Ready, Harry?"

"Ready, Professor," Harry says determinedly, and Lupin opens the wardrobe's doors. The dementor glides slowly from between its doors, focused on Harry as it raises up its clawed, decaying hands, and Harry tries to think of how to make the thing look funny, but all he can think of is his freezing skin, his shaking wand hand, and he can hear the ghost of that scream again as the dementor comes closer, closer still. Harry's vision is going dark at the edges as the thing comes closer, but he's not going to faint or scream or die, he's determined not to, he- "Bombarda!"

The Boggart lets out a harsh, guttural scream, falling back onto the ground and barely crawling over the wooden boards, pieces of black cloth fluttering into the air as Harry breathes heavily, staring at it. His vision keeps dimming, and he feels himself stumble back: strong hands grasp at the back of his knees and his back, and Harry blearily finds himself being placed in one of the chairs at the edge of the classroom.

"What are you going to do next, Goyle?" Harry asks, trying to force his eyes to focus, "Carry me over the threshold?" Goyle huffs out a half-laugh.

"See, Granger? He's fine."

"Shut up, Malfoy, else I'll hex your hair to look like Snape's!" Harry blinks rapidly, trying to get rid of the darkness at the edges of his vision, and he feels Remus lean over him.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Harry says firmly, "Sorry. The dementor- I acted on instinct." Lupin is staring down at him, his gaze concentrated on Harry's face: concern is obvious in the professor's eyes, and Harry files that away for future reference. It might just be his devotion to teaching, but this is his first week at Hogwarts - it seems a bit unlikely.

"Bombarda was your instinct?"

"Well, to be honest, sir," Harry says, "I didn't think a Tickling Charm would work too well. They don't seem like a bundle of laughs, dementors." Laughter echoes around the Gryffindors and the Slytherins - even Ron Weasley has a little grin on his face - but no one laughs louder than Lupin himself, who seems relieved that Harry's cracked a joke. Harry pulls himself up and out of the chair, shoving Blaise away when he offers Harry his hand, and they all look to Lupin.

"Well, Harry's incapacitated our Boggart, so... Why don't we learn that Explosive Charm? It's an easy one to learn." It's a fun lesson, in honesty - Lupin gets everyone casting the charm, and then he conjures targets that zoom around the room, testing their ability to cast quickly and accurately. Everyone is laughing as they leave the classroom, but Lupin calls him back. "Harry? Can I have a word?"

"Sir, I've got Transfiguration."

"I'll send a note with you when you go to Professor McGonagall," Lupin assures him, and Harry waves for Draco and the others to go onto Transfiguration without him. Harry pushes the door shut behind them, and he turns to face Lupin, who looks like he's picking his words carefully.

"Sorry about the Black comment," Harry says in a light tone, but by no means is he insincere, "No one will tell me a thing about him, and I wanted to see how you'd react." His moment of honesty is well-rewarded: Lupin peers down at him, seeming utterly taken aback by what Harry's said to him. "It was nasty of me, Professor. I really am sorry."

"You've seen me?" Lupin asks quietly, "In photos of your father?"

"You and Pettigrew, I think. None of Black - I think people were careful not to send me pictures with him in." Lupin watches Harry for a long few moments.

"The dementor affected you strongly."

"I heard a scream. A woman's scream. My mother's, I think, just before Voldemort killed her. I used to have nightmares about that." Lupin swallows, his Adam's apple obviously bobbing in his throat, and Harry says, "You knew her too, huh?" Lupin sighs, setting his jaw for a moment.

"Are you always this manipulative?" he demands, and Harry smiles at him.

"You always this easy to read?"

"You look like your father," Lupin murmurs.

"Yeah," Harry agrees. "People always say so. But I've got Mum's eyes. Look, do you actually need something, or...?" Lupin gives a rueful little huff of laughter, running his hand through his tired, greying hair, and he looks down at Harry for a few moments.

"I can teach you a charm to protect yourself against dementors: the Patronus Charm. If you'd like to learn it." Harry looks at Lupin for a few moments, at his tired face: he looks so old, for someone so young, and Harry wonders again what's wrong with him, what makes him look so obviously sick. He doesn't ask, of course - he'll push a few of Lupin's buttons, but he won't go that far.

"I'd like that, Professor," Harry says quietly, "Thanks for the offer."

"You're like your mother," Lupin says as he opens the door, gesturing for Harry to go. Harry frowns at him, tilting his head slightly, and when Lupin smiles it's nostalgic. "She could be manipulative too, if she needed to be."

"Really?" Harry asks: the idea fills him with a sudden warmth. He's barely been told anything about his mother, over the year - all her friends seemed to have died during the war, and no one ever writes him much about her.

"Really. She had a subtlety and a way with people James often liked - he was charming, but charm will only get you so far." Lupin writes a quick note on a piece of parchment, handing it to him, and Harry gives the man a little wave as he hurries up the corridor to Transfiguration. He's nice, Harry thinks, this Remus J. Lupin, and not nearly as weird as Gudgeon.

---

It's approaching half-past six as Harry makes his way down the path towards Hagrid's hut. Hermione is finishing up with Sinistra, and he just wants to drop in and say hello to Hagrid before the week is out. He doesn't want the man to feel neglected, after all - Hagrid is one of the most kind, gentle people in Harry's life, even if he is a bit mad. Harry glances to the Whomping Willow, which is moving gracefully in the wind, and then he looks to the shadow at its feet.

Harry frowns, but he stares at the shadow of the big, black dog. Its eyes glow amber in the moonlight, and, slowly, Harry raises his hand, giving it a little wave. Black is mad, but he can't be that mad, right?

The dog barks, giving a little wag of its tail, and it bounds back slightly in an unmistakable invitation to follow it. Harry glances to the light flickering in Hagrid's hut.

Well, he can always see Hagrid tomorrow morning.

Harry runs off the path, following the dog as it runs closer to the tree. It taps a knot near the Willow's base, and for a few moments the branches stop their motion - it's a good trick, and Harry will be sure to remember it. He follows the dog to the edge of the tree, slipping into the little hollow underneath it, and he lets out a little, surprised sound as he finds himself in a tunnel.

"Where does this lead?" he asks, but Black just barks and runs off down the corridor. Well, Harry thinks. No point in turning back now. He follows the dog further down, rushing to keep up with him.

Harry climbs up the little set of steps after Black, and he watches with fascination as Black morphs into a human form. He stands up straight, and he smiles at Harry, putting out his arms, but Harry steps back.

"Sorry, not quite at the hugging point yet," Harry says, and Black looks hurt. Harry doesn't think pointing out they've only met three times will make much difference to him, given that he's obviously crazed, so he says, "You should have a shower first." Black seems to accept this as reason not to hug him, and Harry looks curiously around the room around them. The room around them looks as if someone had released a hundred kneazles into it: the wallpaper is cracked and ripped, parts of the wood panelling torn from the wall, and there are pieces of damaged furniture strewn all around, each covered with a layer of dust.

Black begins to walk up the stairs, and Harry follows him, watching from the doorway as he enters a room and clambers onto a magnificently red, four poster bed. Its curtains are ripped and torn, and some of the mattress' stuffing bulges from tears in its surface, but it too is thickly blanketed with dust. Black lies like a dog, Harry sees, folding his body in on itself.

"Where are we?" Harry asks, sitting slowly down on the edge of the bed, and Black peers up at him.

"Shrieking Shack," he says, as if it's obvious.

"The Shrieking Shack?" Harry repeats blankly.

"Yeah," Black replies simply. "You good, Harry?"

"I'm fine," Harry answers, frowning down at Black. Could this man have killed thirteen people? Probably. But had he? "What about you?"

"I'm good. It's nice here." Harry glances around the room, at the splintering floors and ripped doorframes.

"Well," Harry says. "Compared to Azkaban, I guess." Black laughs, the sound as grating and ugly as before, and Harry offers him an awkward smile. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do with Black, but he definitely can't report him to anyone on the staff - he'll be brought before the dementors immediately, and Harry doesn't want to see that happen. "Are you staying here?"

"Mmm," Black says distractedly, playing over his lip with the knuckle of his index finger. "'Til I get the rat."

"What does the rat look like?" Harry asks, and Black leans back, peering at Harry.

"Brown. Fat. Missing a finger."

"Which one?" Black holds up his left hand, holding up his pinky finger, and Harry nods his head. Do rats even have fingers? Is that what they're called? Black looks so small, curled into the sad little ball he is, but what can Harry do? It's not like he can bring Black a house-

"Where're you going?" Black demands anxiously.

"I'll be right back, okay? I'm just gonna head up to the castle."

"Harry-"

"I'll be back in just a few minutes, I promise," Harry says, and he runs down to the tunnel again.

---

"Hey, Draco," Harry catches the other boy by the arm before he can go into the Great Hall, and the other boy frowns at him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just need you to cover for me, okay? Tell Frank I'm not feeling too great, and that I'm down in the dorms." Draco's blond brows furrow, and he stares at Harry suspiciously.

"Why?"

"I'll pay you back," Harry promises. "Come on, Draco, just tell him."

"You'll pay me back threefold," Draco says firmly, but then he gives a nod of his head, and Harry runs as fast as he can down to the Slytherin common room.

---

"Mr Black?" he calls as he enters into the Shack, and he makes his way up the stairs. Black is in the same position as he was when Harry left, and Harry gestures for him to come downstairs. Black follows him cautiously, his lips pressed together, and he flinches when Harry steps too hard on one of the stairs - but then, Harry's only spent five minutes around dementors, and if he'd spent twelve years of the same, he probably wouldn't even be alive right now. "Come on, help me." Harry drops the tent's bag on the ground, beginning to set out its poles and pegs, slamming the pegs hard between the boards of the floor.

Black doesn't help. He stands to the side, watching Harry with perplexity and a little fear on his features, until the whole tent is set up. Harry gestures for him to follow, and he steps inside the tent. Black hovers in the tent's doorway, peering in. His bare feet touch the carpet, and he lets out a soft, quiet sigh.

"Look, I just used this in the summer, but you can have it, okay? Look, there's a bath through here-" Harry pushes open the door, and Black almost creeps forwards, as if he's terrified a dementor is going to jump out of the enchanted shower head. "Have a shower, okay? There are towels in there, and this bath-robe that came with the tent, it's too big for me. I can get your clothes back to the castle, wash them - you can't keep wearing them like that."

Black is staring down at him, his lip quivering, and then he stumbles forwards, grabbing Harry and pulling him tightly against his body. He stinks of filth and sweat and dried blood, but he holds Harry as if Harry's the only thing anchoring him to the world: Harry hears the man let out a sob against his hair, and he stays still, awkwardly patting Black's back.

"Harry," Black whispers in the tiniest, softest, hoarsest voice.

"Yeah?"

"You're a good boy." Black's hand cups the back of Harry's head, clutching at him, and he draws away, rubbing roughly over his eyes with his filthy, filthy sleeve. "You're a good boy." He staggers into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and Harry hears the water start to run. There's a loud howl from the room, and for a second Harry grabs his wand, wondering if Black had got a shock, but the howl devolves into crazed laughter, and then sobs, and Harry connects the dots. He realizes.

It's probably the first time he's had a hot shower in over a decade.

---

Black looks utterly ridiculous in the bright yellow bathrobe that had come free with Harry's tent, but who wouldn't? He slips slowly into the main room of the tent, and Harry stares at him. Black's hair comes down to his mid-back, wet and unbrushed, and with the dirt washed away from his face he looks- Well. He doesn't look all that much younger, in truth, but he certainly looks better.

"The bath," Black says, and he laughs. "It's- uh-" He trails off, gaze focusing on the floor.

"Dirty?" Harry offers.

"Ha! Yes. Very." Black touches his face, feeling the thick hair of his beard, and Harry holds out his own wand for the other to take. Black stares down at it, uncomprehending, but Harry had decided while Black was in the shower that he'd trust him.

"I can't do it," Harry says quietly, "I've got the Trace, and we're out of the castle's boundaries, right?" Black nods, slowly, and he takes Harry's wand, stepping outside of the tent. Harry watches him from his seat beside the coffee table, as Black trims his hair and beard with a shaking hand. The hair that falls slowly to the ground is thin, dry and unhealthy looking, but when Black is clean-shaven he looks like a new man.

He shakes his head like a dog, throwing off the hair that clings to him and the yellow fabric of the robe, and then he moves into tent again, holding Harry's wand out to him. Harry takes it back, and he looks up at Black for a few long moments.

"I need to go back to the castle," he says. "They'll miss me if I'm gone too long, but I'll come see you tomorrow night. I'll bring you some clothes, some real clothes. You'll be warm in here, and I can bring you some food - there's a half bag of pasta in the kitchen, and a few cans of stuff-"

"Pasta?" Black repeats, as if Harry's just offered him a whole Christmas banquet.

"Yeah, but you'll have to cook it yourself. Is that okay?" Black hesitates, looking back towards the simple stove in the kitchen. "Uh, don't worry, don't worry. I can stay another half an hour - I haven't eaten yet, anyway." Black sags in obvious relief, and it hurts just to look at him. Harry doesn't think this man betrayed his parents, just can't believe it as he looks at the sad and broken person Sirius Black seems to be, and Harry can't help the heavy sympathy that weighs him down.

"Thank you," Black whispers. "Thank you, Harry."

---

It's nearing midnight when Harry creeps back into castle. Harry had eaten a little of the pasta he'd cooked, but Sirius had wolfed down two plates of it despite it being plain, and after that Black had crawled into bed, on top of the covers. He'd laid there, told Harry to go back to the castle, but Harry had begun to talk. He hadn't wanted to leave the man alone and awake, and so he'd talked - he'd told him all about being Sorted, about his fear when he came to the castle, about everything that happened when Harry was in his first year at Hogwarts.

Black had slowly drifted off, then, and Harry had taken his leave.

The castle is obscenely quiet as he makes his way into the castle, and unfortunately the common room is well-populated - it's a Friday night, after all, and a few of the seventh years are up. Harry has no chance of creeping past them, so he elbows a decorative shield on the wall, making it fall to the floor with a clatter. "Shit!" he hisses, and he pretends to be surprised when Francois Richelieu grabs him by the collar.

"Frank, come on!" Harry complains, but he doesn't try and pull himself away, letting the older boy drag him to the dormitory corridor.

"If you skip dinner, Potter, it's down to you. You're not sneaking down to the kitchens at this time of night." Frank shoves him into his and Draco's room, shutting the door behind him, and Harry breathes out a sigh of relief. The curtains are still drawn around his bed.

"Harry?" Draco asks sleepily, shifting in bed.

"It's alright, Draco, go back to sleep," Harry murmurs in a soothing voice, and he pushes back the curtains on his bed, stripping off his clothes and sliding under the covers. He can't stop his mind from reeling as he settles down under the covers, as he tries to think - where can he get food for Black? Clothes? Stuff for him to do? He falls asleep quickly, exhausted as he is, and he doesn't dream of Sirius Black.

He dreams of dementors, and women screaming, and green, green light.

Harry eats breakfast with Hermione the next morning, the both of them settled together on the Gryffindor table. It's something Harry likes about Hogwarts in the mornings - because of the more lax nature of breakfast and lunch, the both of them being open over several hours rather than at a particular time like at dinner, one can sit wherever they like.

But Harry knows better than to ever take Hermione over to the Slytherin table to eat.

"I didn't see you at dinner last night," Hermione says, and Harry gives a small nod of his head. He trusts Hermione with every fiber of his being, but he doesn't know if he can tell her about Black. Hermione will abandon the rules in a second if she feels it necessary, but school rules and the law aside, would she believe that Black was safe? Would she believe that she could trust him, just because Harry trusts him? Does Harry trust him? He'd handed Black his wand, and Black hadn't murdered him or done him any harm, but on the chance that Black does turn out to be utterly mad, that he does try to murder him, Harry needs someone else to know. He needs Hermione there.

"Nah, I didn't go," Harry replies, and he glances up and down the Gryffindor table. It's still early in the morning, and the activity on the table is scattered; none of the other third year Gryffindors are downstairs yet, but Harry can see Percy eating alone near the top of the table, and occasionally the head boy will glance down at them. "I need to tell you something, but not here." Hermione frowns at him, concern obvious in her features, but Harry just slowly shakes his head, and she takes his meaning.

"Er- well, did you enjoy Transfiguration yesterday?"

---

Just as Harry and Hermione are standing to leave the great hall, the Weasley twins appear in the great hall's doorway, their matching gazes focused on Harry. They don't seem to be all that cheery - if anything, their focus is determined, and they move towards Harry.

"We need to talk to you about where you were last night, Harry," Fred says, waggling his eyebrows, and Harry stares at him. How had he and George known? Fred and George glance between Harry and Hermione, and Harry knows Fred was intentionally vague, but...

"We need to go somewhere private," Harry murmurs impatiently, and he gestures for the three of them to follow him. They walk quickly to the Astronomy Tower, and Harry finds the brick Celia Hayworth had pointed out last year, hissing a command in Parseltongue and allowing the stone to open up. Fred and George look delighted, stepping eagerly aside, and Harry shuts the entrance behind the three of them, hissing for the torches around the cupboard to light themselves.

Harry immediately drops himself onto the floor, leaning against one of the walls: the little storeroom is utterly clean of dust, and the shelves are empty, but George and Fred still each peer curiously onto every one as Hermione slowly sits down on the floor beside him.

"How did you know where I went?" Harry asks, and the twins share a glance, frowning and crossing their arms over their chests as they look down at Harry and Hermione. Harry's too tired to bargain with them this morning - he already owes Draco three favours for last night. "No favours, no swapping, no back-and-forthing. I'll be honest with you if you're honest with me." Hermione is silent, watching them all carefully, but she's being patient, Harry can see. She wants to know what all of this is about more than she wants to take control.

"Shall we tell him?" Fred asks, and George gives a slow nod of his head.

"It's worth it if we can get down to Hogsmeade another way." Harry frowns, narrowing his eyes slightly, and the twins kneel together. George pulls a piece of old parchment out of his back pocket, spreading it on the stone floor. It's an odd, old piece of blank parchment, ripped in some of its corners, and Harry raises his eyebrows, but then George taps its middle with his wand. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." Harry and Hermione watch in fascination as black ink bleeds up from the parchment, spreading over its surface.

"The Marauder's Map?" Hermione repeats, peering at it with interest, and then she goes silent again: there's awe on her features as a map of Hogwarts spreads over the parchment's surface, with little dots labelled individually. "Where are we?"

"They mustn't have known about this place," Fred says, shaking his head. "When they made the map, I mean, Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs: the Chamber of Secrets isn't on it either. We saw you here." Fred points to the Whomping WIllow out on the grounds, and Harry can see the passage arcing off it and off the edge of the map's boundaries, into Hogsmeade. "We've never been able to get down there, but we saw your name disappearing off the edge of the map. How did you do it?"

"It's part of a long story," Harry says, "I was about to explain to Hermione when you guys came down. Uh- look, everything I'm about to say can't leave this room, okay? I'm trusting you two, and you have to understand, this isn't just about secret passages or whatever. There's more to it than that." The twins lean back on their heels, sharing a look, and then they sit down cross-legged on the ground, nodding their heads.

"Where were you last night, Harry?" Hermione asks, and Harry sighs.

"I was walking home in Little Whinging this summer, early evening. And this bloke came up to me, a proper tramp, and I just assumed he'd ask me for a quid or something, but he didn't do that..."

---

Harry breathes in when he finishes telling the three of them all about Black: to their credit, Hermione and the twins had stayed utterly silent throughout his entire explanation, but Harry has no idea if that's a good sign or not. Hermione does look utterly horrified, after all, and the twins look positively solemn as they press their lips together, obviously thinking deeply.

"You really think he's innocent?" Hermione asks seriously.

"I don't know," Harry admits. "But I know he didn't set that knight on me, and I know he's not here at Hogwarts to kill me. He's obviously sick in the head, after all those years in Azkaban. I can't know for certain if he betrayed my parents or not, but I know that I don't believe he did. I don't think he can really lie properly at the moment, Hermione: what the dementors must have been like over all that time..." He trails off, giving a little shake of his head, and Hermione bites her lip.

"What's the rat?" George asks.

"No idea," Harry says, rubbing at his eyes. "Talking to him is hard, it's like getting blood out of a stone just to get him to answer a question."

"He sounds crazy," Fred says.

"He is," Harry agrees. "But I don't think it's his fault. So, from what I know... Okay, the actual story is that when my parents were in hiding, Black and this other bloke, Pettigrew, both knew where they were hiding. Apparently, Black betrayed my parents to Voldemort, and then ran off to get Pettigrew. He murdered the guy, along with a dozen Muggles, in this big explosion, and they sent him straight to Azkaban, no trial."

"Pettigrew?" George repeats suddenly, "Peter Pettigrew?"

"Yeah. Peter, that was his name. But the two of them were friends with my dad here at school - as well as Remus Lupin."

"No, no," Fred says suddenly, and he grabs at the map, turning it around and scanning the pages with urgent eyes. "Look, look. There he is." Fred jabs at the page, where the Gryffindor tower is drawn, and there's a little dot on the page: Peter Pettigrew. Harry and Hermione both lean forwards, staring at the page.

"I don't understand," Hermione says. "I thought Harry just said he was dead?"

"It's an error in the magic," George explains. "We think that when they were originally making the map, they must have used Pettigrew as an experiment to hold up the charm. He was the first one they added to the charm: when he left Hogwarts, the map mustn't have known what to do, so it just started showing old haunts of his."

"He's not really there," Fred adds, "We've looked for him a few times, and there's never been a person where his dot is on the map. But that's too big of a coincidence, right? We figured Pettigrew must have been someone they knew, or even one of them."

"How old is this map?" Hermione asks. "Maybe Black's seen it before." George gives a shrug of his shoulders.

"We don't know," Fred says. "We nicked it out of Filch's office a few years back."

"We should show it to him," Hermione says firmly. Harry glances to her, and she meets his gaze, confused. "What?"

"You believe me?" Harry asks. "You're not going to go tell McGonagall I'm harbouring a fugitive or something?"

"Don't be stupid," Hermione says sharply, "If he is innocent, he'll get the Kiss. We need proof one way or the other." Harry throws himself forwards, wrapping his arms tightly around her, and he lets out a relieved laugh against her chest. Hermione hugs him back, tightly, and when he draws back, she focuses on the map again. "Does it show Black?"

"It should, if he comes onto Hogwarts grounds," Fred says. "But it only covers the castle - it doesn't go all over Hogsmeade, and that's where the Shrieking Shack is."

"It's an amazing piece of magic," Hermione murmurs, stroking absent-mindedly over the Astronomy Tower. "So. What are we going to do now?"

"I need to bring him some clothes," Harry says. "I told him I would. And food, too. There's some cans in the cupboard of the kitchen, but they're just some tomatoes, some baked beans, stuff like that, and we almost finished the bag of dried pasta I had left last night. I didn't bother stocking it up for next summer."

"What else is in the tent?" George asks.

"Well, this bathrobe that came free with it. About four towels, two sets of bedsheets, my cousin's old radio... Other than that, it's just the furniture and the hangers in the wardrobe." Fred rubs his chin as he looks down at the map, seeming to consider the thought. "I can't order stuff in by owl."

"No," Fred agrees. "That'll be way too suspicious, even if all four of us order little things. There's no need for any of us to want a jar of spaghetti or some adult-sized robes. Well, food we'll just nick out of the kitchens. We've taken food for parties from the elves before, and they never ask any questions."

"How big is Black?" George asks. "How tall is he?"

"Not that tall," Harry says. "Maybe five foot eight, five foot seven?"

"Percy's old robes," George says firmly. "That set he was going to chuck out after his last growth spurt."

"Perfect," Fred says with a nod of his head. "We can nick his old jumpers from the bottom of his trunk, too. The fourth and fifth year ones should fit Black, and he never notices what he's missing unless it's his special quill or his glasses case." Harry looks between the two of them, taken aback.

"Are you guys really going to do this? Help me help him?"

"'Course," George says simply. "You think he's an innocent man, right, Harry? We'll stand by your stupid, serpent self. You can always trust Gred and Forge."

"Well," Hermione murmurs. "That's not strictly true." George grins at her, showing all his teeth.

"Oh, come on, Hermione. You know you love us." Hermione snorts, shaking her head, and she begins to talk rapidly, pulling a piece of parchment out of her bag and making a list of things they need to get for Black as George and Fred nod their heads, adding things to the list or thinking of solutions, and for a few long minutes Harry stays utterly quiet, shocked into silence by the gratitude, the wonder, warming his chest.

---

"Okay, take the bag," Fred says, handing it off to Harry, and Harry nods his head. "Make sure you stay under the cloak, okay? You don't want anyone to see you going down there."

"We're not stupid, Fred," Hermione says, and he pats her head.

"It's sweet that you think that." George laughs, but he gives her a wink.

"Good luck, guys. Don't get murdered."

"Yeah," Fred says seriously. "Because we want that map back." Harry shakes his head back as Hermione shoves George in the arm, muttering something about that's not funny, George, Fred, stop it. Harry slips the cloak over the both of them, and they creep carefully out of the castle as Fred and George push the doors open. The grass is indented under their feet as they make their way down the hill, but it springs back soon enough, and Harry tries to ignore it.

They creep under the swinging branches of the Willow, and Hermione gets out from under the cloak and into the passage first, Harry following her down. It's a long passageway, Harry realizes the second time around - last night, he'd been so focused on rushing after Black that he hadn't really considered how long he'd been running, but it truly is.

"Just up these steps," Harry says, and Hermione lets him past her. He folds up the cloak, peering into the Shrieking Shack: the lanterns in the tent are on, as golden light streams out of the tent's open flap, and he calls, "Mr Black?" Wrapped in the same yellow bathrobe as last night, Black slowly pokes his head out of the tent's entrance, and he smiles. Sleeping in a real bed must have done him the world of good - the bags under his eyes aren't quite as pronounced, and his smile seems more natural, less forced. "Me and my friend have brought some things for you."

"Friend?" Black repeats, and Harry reaches back for Hermione's hand, pulling her to come forwards.

"My name's Hermione Granger," she says, giving a little nod of her head: her grip on Harry's hand is so tight Harry wonders for a second if she's going to break some of his fingers. "It's nice to meet you." Black beams at her, and he slowly puts out his hand. His hand shakes violently in its place, but Hermione releases Harry's hand and takes Black's nonetheless, shaking it.

"Thank you," Black whispers, meeting her gaze, and he retreats back into the tent. Harry puts the bag down on the coffee table, beginning to unpack what they'd managed to get hold of that morning, and Hermione walks across the room, grabbing at Dudley's old radio from on top of the wardrobe and starting to try and tune it. "What are you doing?" Black asks.

"I think I can get you one of the wizarding stations," Hermione says, shifting the dial slowly. "Then you can have some music in here."

"Music," Black says, seeming utterly mystified at the concept, and then he looks to Harry. Harry takes out all the food, first - twelve eggs, a load of bread, a packet of bacon, some sausages... George had really gone out of his way to fill an entire compartment of the enchanted rucksack with all the food he could pilfer, and it would be obvious to Harry just looking at the pile of food that he's a child of Molly Weasley. "Food?"

"Yeah, just take whatever to cook, Mr Black-"

"Please," Black interrupts him, desperately, "Not Black." Harry stops short for a second, staring up at the convict in front of him, and he seems so upset all of a sudden, but-

"It's okay, Sirius," Hermione says from her place on the edge of the bed, looking cautiously at him. "We can call you that, if it's better."

"Always Black," he says in his small, hoarse voice, "Twelve years, always Black."

"Sorry, Sirius," Harry says, the name falling awkwardly off his tongue. Black looks so small where he stands, shrunken in on himself, and Harry wonders what he was like before he went to Azkaban - was he always so nervous, so quiet? "Uh, look, if you wanna take some food-"

"I'll do it," Hermione says, abandoning the radio and coming over. She turns on the hob, putting a pan on and grabbing a packet of bacon and some of the eggs. As she works, she begins to put the food away, into the cupboards and onto the side. "Write down oil, would you, Harry? I've only got butter here."

"Oh, yeah," Harry says, writing it down on a piece of parchment as he unpacks the last of the stuff in the bag, a few tomatoes and apples, a cucumber, some bananas. Black stands mutely between him and Hermione, glancing between the both of them. "We've got you some clothes," he says. "Uh, a set of robes - they're Hogwarts robes, but they should fit you for now, and then two pairs of trousers, two jumpers... Sorry there's not more." He begins to unpack the clothes of Percy's Fred and George had managed to get hold of.

Black looks utterly overwhelmed, and Harry says quietly, "Maybe you should sit down." He does, dropping down onto the edge of the bed, and Harry puts the clothes on the top of the dresser. With that, Harry unpacks the last of the stuff he had gotten hold of - a few of his Muggle paperbacks, some wizarding fiction, and then shampoo, soap, a sponge, two toothbrushes, a comb. And then he draws out from the bottom of the bag his photo album, setting it aside. Hermione brings the plate over to Sirius, setting it down in his lap, and then helps Harry put the toiletries away and set the books on the shelf.

It barely takes them five minutes, and in that time Black has utterly emptied his plate, leaving it clean in his lap.

"Can you cook, Sirius?" Hermione asks quietly, and Black hesitates.

"Can. But- Not since-" Black breathes in, letting out a shuddering sigh, and then he says, "Cooked last for Harry. Harry and James." Harry stares at him, and he feels tears burning at the edges of his eyes that he tries to rapidly wipe away. Hermione looks at him, obviously not knowing what to say, and so she turns back to Black.

"That's okay," Hermione says softly. "That's okay. Harry's a really good cook."

"We brought you some stuff," Harry says. "Brought you some books, too, and there's soap in the bathroom now." Black takes his plate over to the kitchen, putting it slowly into the sink, and Harry collects his unused knife and fork from the bed, dropping that into the sink too. Black sits beside Harry on the floor beside the coffee table, and Harry pushes the photo album and the map onto the table.

"We need to ask you, Sirius," Hermione says quietly, sitting across from them. "What exactly happened." Black looks away, staring into the middle distance, and Harry gives a little shake of his head to her. "But we've got some stuff for you first."

Sirius looks at the contents of the table, and then he smiles, reaching for the Marauder's Map and holding it up. "You found this? Filch took it." Harry and Hermione share a look over the table, and then they nod their heads. Black smiles, setting it aside, and then he reaches, slowly, for the photo album. "This?"

"It's mine," Harry murmurs. "People sent me photos of my family. And them some of me, my friends. Thought you'd like to look through it." Slowly, Black gives a nod of his head, and opens the album to its first page.

Sirius spends ages pouring over the photographs in Harry's album. He points the people Harry hadn't known the names of, and even though all he can tell Harry is their names, it's something, and it means a lot to him. Sirius' smile lingers on his face the way the ghosts linger in the Hogwarts corridors sometimes - it's like he's forgotten he's even smiling, like he's forgotten he even exists for a few minutes as he browses through the photographs.

The ones he'd been sent are mostly of his mum and dad, but a few of them have Lupin in too, and he smiles at the picture of him.

"He's teaching here now," Hermione says quietly, "Lupin."

"He wanted to teach," Sirius replies simply, paging forwards, and then he grins. "Ah. You." It's a Muggle picture Jon Granger had taken of Harry and Hermione eating ice cream a few years ago, and Sirius smiles at it. The rest of the photos are of them, now - the photo Harry had clipped out of the Prophet last year, photos of Harry with the twins, of Hermione mid-argument with Padma Patil, and a photo of Harry talking to Snape. He'd liked that photo when Creevey had shown it to them - in the picture, Snape looks like he's almost in a good mood, arching an eyebrow as Harry says something vaguely insulting about Gilderoy Lockhart.

Sirius frowns at it. "Snape," he mutters. He taps the photograph as the picture Harry grins up at Snape, twisting his mouth in apparent disgust. Snape is about the same age as him, though, so Harry supposes they probably knew each other at Hogwarts.

"My head of house," Harry says, and Sirius lets out a noise that can only be described as a growl, flicking through the other photos. "You don't like him?"

"Snivellus," is the only response Harry gets, and he elects not to press any further. "None of the rat."

"I don't know any rats, Sirius," Harry says. "Sorry."

"No, no, no," Black says impatiently, and he pushes the album aside, his hand hovering over the map. Hermione reaches forwards, tapping it and activating it, and he gives her a grateful little smile as he folds the Marauder's Map out on the table. Harry wants to ask him questions, wants to ask who made the map, if Sirius knew the makers, what really happened when Harry's parents were killed... But he can't. Not yet. "He'll be here. The rat. He's at Hogwarts."

"Sirius," Harry says quietly, "Do you mean Pettigrew?"

"Yes. The rat, snivelling little- there." Black jabs at the little dot in the Gryffindor common room. "Pettigrew."

"But there's no one there, Sirius," Hermione says, and he groans, shaking his head.

"No, no. He's hiding. Look. Look." He goes silent for a few moments, eyes moving wildly as he tries to think, and then he says, "I'm dog. James was a stag. Him, him! The rat!"

"He's an Animagus?" Harry repeats.

"Yes! That's it. Animagus." Sirius makes a loud spitting sound, shaking his head firmly. "Should have known. Was always a rat, showed he was a rat. Need to get him, kill him." The words alarm Harry a little bit, so he pulls out the pack of cards he'd shoved into his pocket that morning, and he sets them on the table.

"Why don't we play a game, Sirius?" He furrows his brow, peering down at Harry, but then he nods his assent, and Harry deals them out. They're the funny cards he'd bought a while ago - a Muggle set with ridiculous wizards and witches as kings and queens, and occasionally Sirius will let out a bark of a laugh at an image he likes. Harry and Hermione stay with him for hours and hours, and when they finally leave, Sirius hugs them both like he's known them for a decade.

---

"Hi, Professor Lupin," Harry says lightly the next evening. The Marauder's Map has been returned to Fred and George, Sirius is settled in bed with The BFG to entertain him and the radio on in the background, and Harry just can't keep the smile from his face.

"Harry," Lupin says, offering Harry a small smile, and he taps a small trunk he has laid on its side beside his desk. "I've got another Boggart here. Thought it'd be better than bringing a real dementor in." Harry nods his head, and Lupin examines him for a moment, asking, "Having a good day?"

"A pretty great day, actually," Harry agrees. "So, what is the Patronus Charm?"

"Well," Lupin starts. "It's deceptively simple."

---

It becomes a routine for Harry. Every day, in the morning or in the evening, he'll creep out to the Willow to see Sirius, under the Invisibility Cloak to ensure he isn't seen. Sometimes, Hermione will go with him. Other times, it will be Fred or George. Most of the time, Harry heads down alone. Cooking for Sirius isn't hard, and by October he cooks himself, so that Harry doesn't have to worry that he'll only eat bread and apples all day: by mid-October, Sirius looks almost healthy, and he seems mentally healthier too.

It's obvious to Harry that there's still a lot wrong, but Sirius can hold a real conversation, and Harry's finally able to actually talk to him. Harry tells him about his day, and Sirius actually responds; more excitingly, Sirius talks right back. He tells Harry how he liked this book or that article in the Prophet, or what he heard on the radio yesterday, and it's- It's strange. Talking to Sirius feels like talking to an imaginary uncle, one that doesn't despise him, and when Harry voices the thought he laughs.

"Well, I'm your godfather, Harry," he says one early afternoon, and the thought rings through Harry's entire being. It seems completely right, somehow.

"Really?"

"Really," Sirius confirms, giving a nod of his head, and he shifts his position in the chair he'd conjured a few days ago before he says, "I'm not surprised no one told you. I wouldn't have."

"Will you tell me what happened?" Harry asks quietly. "That night?" Sirius slowly inhales, gripping at the arm of the chair he's sprawled in before he releases it: he wears some of Percy's old trousers and a yellow jumper, a collared shirt underneath. Harry's first Hogsmeade trip is next week, and Harry has plans to buy him some more things to wear. This is the first time Harry's actually questioned Sirius on the subject, but Sirius doesn't react that badly - he fidgets a little, but he doesn't explode. Harry feels like he might have, a month ago.

"Firstly, you have to understand, Harry. At school, me, James, Peter and Remus - we were the best of friends. There were crucial things we bonded over... Have I told you it was us that made the Marauder's Map?"

"You hadn't mentioned that, actually," Harry says wryly, and Sirius laughs.

"Well, we did. We bonded so closely, and upon leaving Hogwarts, James and I became Aurors, but... There was a prophecy. A prophecy that talked about you, and Voldemort: that's why he pursued you, tried to kill you when you were a child. There was someone else-" Sirius focuses for a second, pressing his lips together, but then he shakes his head. "I don't remember. But it could have been another boy, and it wasn't: he chose you. We hid James and Lily under a Fidelius Charm. Have you heard of it?"

Harry shakes his head. "It hides knowledge from outsiders, and only the Secret Keeper can reveal that knowledge. Lily and James were hidden in Godric's Hollow, but even if you were looking into Lily's eyes, you couldn't have known she lived there without the Secret Keeper telling you. We thought-" Sirius' face becomes a mask of pain and grief for a second, and then he says, "We thought Remus was feeding information to Voldemort. We thought he was betraying us, and I believed that were I to be made Secret Keeper, they'd come after me first. I thought I was too obvious, so we chose Peter."

"And it was him. It had been him all along - I ran to the home in Godric's Hollow, saw James' body on the floor, saw Lily in front of your crib- And Merlin, Harry, how you cried. There was blood all over your face, and I picked you up, held you, tried to stop you crying... But you were alive. I brought you outside to my bike, and Hagrid - you know him, Hagrid? - he said he needed to take you. Well, I let him - I gave you straight over, because I needed to go after Pettigrew. Hell, I told him to take my bike, even. And I went after him."

"People celebrated that night," Harry murmurs. "Were you the only one...?"

"No one else knew. I tracked him to this Muggle street, and he blew up the whole street, cut off one of his fingers and dropped into the sewers."

"As a rat."

"As a rat." Sirius shakes his head slowly, and says, "I was crazed, hadn't slept in days- I couldn't do anything but laugh. All I could do was laugh."

"I'm sorry," Harry murmurs, and Sirius meets his gaze. His eyes look so old, Harry thinks, so much older than they should. "And escaping?"

"I saw him, Peter. In the paper. This family, they'd won money, gone to Egypt. This boy, this one boy- he had him in his hands for the photo." Sirius lets out a low, sharp noise of frustration, shaking his head. "I've not gone into the castle yet - but I could, Harry, I could-" Harry interrupts him.

"Family...? What, you mean the Weasleys?" Sirius shrugs. "Sirius, Fred and George - they're Weasleys. They just got back from Egypt this summer, and their brother, Ron, he has-" Harry goes abruptly silent. He feels stupid for having waited so long to ask Sirius about this, because all that time, Pettigrew has been in the Gryffindor common room. "He calls him Scabbers. I've got to go."

"What?"

"I'll have you pardoned by tomorrow night," Harry promises, running out of the tent. "I promise, Sirius!"

---

Harry couldn't possibly luckier than he is in this moment. As he enters the great hall, lunch is just beginning to finish up, and he can see Ron Weasley at the Gryffindor table, trying to get Scabbers to eat, but Scabbers just keeps trying to struggle free: Harry runs up to Snape at the table. He's heard Sirius talk a little about Snape, about how much he hates the man, and how it was always mutual...

"Sir," Harry says urgently, "What should I do if I believe there's an unregistered Animagus in the castle?" Snape stares at him, taking a slow, measured sip from his drinking glass. Harry can see Flitwick and Sprout craning to listen, obviously curious, but they don't interrupt.

"You ought report it, Potter, to a member of staff."

"And what would you do?" Snape sets his jaw.

"Potter, barring Professor McGonagall, there are no Animagi in the castle."

"I bet you ten Galleons that there is one, sir." Sprout does her best to hide a snort of laughter, and Snape shoots her a glare that only serves to make her laugh more. "I think he's helping Sirius Black." Something flashes in Snape's eyes, and Harry knows he's used the right strategy: even without Sprout and Flitwick there, Snape would be willing to listen.

"Do you, indeed?"

"Isn't there some way to tell?" Snape sighs, doing his best to look put-upon, but Harry can see the slight tension in his jaw and his neck.

"Oh, humour the boy, Severus," Flitwick says, offering his coworker a gleaming grin, and Snape "reluctantly" moves to stand, scowling down at Harry.

"Where is this Animagus, Potter?"

"Right over here, sir, at the Gryffindor table."

Harry sits down in the trophy room, staring at the unconscious form of Peter Pettigrew as they wait for the Aurors to arrive. Snape is furious with him, but Harry truly doesn't care at this moment in time, and he just stares at Pettigrew. Lupin comes slowly towards him, and he sets a hand on Harry's shoulder, gently: he's become more friendly in the past few weeks, over the course of Harry's unsuccessful Patronus lessons, and Harry an tell he's upset.

People keep asking him questions about how he knew, but all Harry can think about is the horrified, choked scream Ron Weasley had made as Pettigrew had tried to scramble away on the floor, and the cry Pettigrew had let out when Snape had stunned him.

"They're here," McGonagall says, and Harry looks up at the two Aurors who enter the room, followed by a man in an ugly bowler hat. Minister Fudge himself.

"Now, now," Fudge says, nervously glancing from Pettigrew to Harry. "What have we here?"

"Minister Fudge," Harry says cleanly, before any of the teachers can speak, "Do you know what arm Death Eaters carry their Dark Mark on?" Fludge flusters, shifting on his feet, and the two Aurors either side of him roll their eyes. Harry recognizes the younger one as Nymphadora Tonks, Andromeda's daughter, but the other, a tall, black man, is unfamiliar to him.

"The left, I believe, Mr Potter."

"Right," Harry says, and he makes his way forwards, towards Pettigrew's form on the floor. He grabs at the sleeve of the man's shabby robes and pulls up so hard that the fabric rips: faded and barely distinguishable is a dark tattoo. Harry stares down at it, stares down at Pettigrew in utter disgust, and then he slowly meets Fudge's gaze. "Is it or is it not the case, Minister Fudge, that Sirius Black was sent to Azkaban without trial?" He speaks very quietly, deliberately. Lupin shudders, staring at Harry with something like horror in his eyes.

"I- Well, Mr Potter," Fudge says, gesturing for Tonks and the other Auror to make their way forwards, towards Pettigrew. He hears the Auror casting spells, presumably to stop Pettigrew from transforming, and then they haul him up, tying him soundly with an Incarcerous. "That was Minister Bagnold-"

"I don't actually care, Minister Fudge," Harry says coldly. "Blaming it on another politician won't help my opinion of you." Fudge stares at him, horrified, and Harry wonders stupidly for a moment if he has the influence to get rid of him. He doesn't - he's not stupid, he just sends a few letters now and then, and he's only a kid. But one day, maybe, he'll have the right political capital to drop Fudge out of the Ministry and onto his fat behind.

"Mr Potter," Dumbledore says quietly, but when he tries to put his hand on Harry's shoulder Harry shrugs it abruptly off, shooting Dumbledore a nasty look before turning to the Aurors.

"Thanks for coming quickly," he says, honestly, ignoring Fudge. "What happens now?"

"We question him," the one Auror says in a slow, measured voice. "We take any and all statements. He'll then be sentenced." Harry stares at Pettigrew's Stunned form, and then he looks away, not saying anything more. The Auror, whose name is apparently Kingsley Shacklebolt, takes Pettigrew back with Fudge to the Ministry, and it's Tonks that stays to take their statements.

"How did you know Mr Pettigrew was an Animagus?"

"I'd seen Ron Weasley hold Scabbers - he was very old, for a rat, and apparently he just turned up in their garden twelve or so years ago. That wasn't that suspicious, but then I noticed that he was missing one of his fingers, and when I saw Professor McGonagall transform one day in class, it made a suspicion click in my head. Thus why I went immediately to my head of house, Professor Snape. I trusted him to take me seriously and, of course, deal with the situation with any necessary severity."

---

"You're an idiot and a liar, Potter," Snape says sharply as they walk down to the Slytherin common room. He looks ready to kill a man, but Harry refuses to be intimidated. "How did you know he was an Animagus?"

"Didn't you hear me when I explained to Auror Tonks, Professor?" Snape whirls on him, and Harry stares up at him defiantly as Snape glowers down at him. "Sorry for being manipulative, sir."

"Detention with me for three weeks." Snape growls, and Harry thinks he expects Harry to flinch, but Harry doesn't.

"Yes, sir," Harry says quietly. They start to walk again, and Harry asks, "Do you think he'll get the Kiss? Pettigrew?" Snape glances at him, perplexity mixing in with his anger and his irritation, and Harry says, "He deserves it. He betrayed my dad, my mum. He had as much hand in their deaths as Voldemort did." For a fair while, Snape doesn't reply: they walk through the corridors and down into the dungeons, Harry's boots making quiet noise on the stone floors, and Snape's making none at all.

Finally, they come to the split in the hall where right leads to the common room and left to the Potions classroom, and Snape says, with an air of finality, "He'll get the Kiss, Potter." Harry's never heard Snape try and be even the slightest bit comforting to anyone, but he's grateful for it.

"Thank you, sir," Harry murmurs, and Snape turns on his heel towards the dungeons.

---

SIRIUS BLACK PARDONED

Harry doesn't look back as soon as he gets his copy of the Prophet that morning - he runs so fast down to the Whomping Willow he skids once he gets into the passageway, and he grins as he rushes up the steps into the Shrieking Shack to find-

Sirius is gone.

Harry calls his name, but he doesn't appear to be in the Shrieking Shack at all, and nor is he inside the tent - he hadn't even left a note.

Harry moves slowly back towards the castle, running his hand through his hair and clutching his copy of the Prophet mutely in his hands as he joins the group of students assembled in the entrance hall. McGonagall holds a list of students in her hands, and she scans the students before her.

"Hey," Hermione murmurs, passing Harry his bag, and he takes it, dropping it over his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"Sirius isn't in the Shack," Harry answers quietly, shoving his paper into his bag, and Hermione turns her head to stare at him, concern obvious on her face.

"Where is he?" Harry shrugs, setting his jaw, and they move down the path with the other students towards the Hogwarts gate. Despite Harry's worry about Sirius, he embraces exploring town with Hermione, and he has a decent enough time searching through Honeydukes. Harry picks out a box of sugar quills extra, and when they enter the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer, he sees Ron sat alone at a table, waiting for Seamus and Dean.

Harry heads over, and he pulls the box out of his bag, holding it out for Ron to take. Ron stares at it, uncomprehending, and then he meets Harry's gaze. "What do you want, Potter?"

"I wanted to apologize," Harry says, "For how I pointed Pettigrew out. I was gonna try and get Snape to just come get him from your common room, but I couldn't let him stay there. He could have done anything." Ron is paler than usual, his freckles standing out obviously on his skin, and Harry can see the bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. "You okay?" He looks for a moment like he's ready to tell Harry to just piss off, but he doesn't.

"Could be better, to be honest," he admits, and he takes the box of sugar quills. "Cheers."

"No problem," Harry says, and he gives Ron a small smile before he heads back to Hermione, taking his mug from her. They settle together for a little while, drinking together, but despite the strange and novel taste of the butterbeer, which bubbles on his tongue, Harry is distracted. Where had Sirius gone? Is he alright?

Harry frowns as he steps slowly out of the Three Broomsticks, waiting for Harry to catch him up.

"Oi!" comes a loud, sharp call. "Potter!" Harry looks up, and then he sees him. Sirius is dressed in tight, black jeans that come high on his waist, their fabric ripped and distressed in places, coupled with a bright pink, floral shirt, and over top of all of this is a red leather jacket. Harry starts to laugh, and Sirius grins at him, offering him finger guns that go well with his utter mess of a dated outfit.

"What are you wearing?" Harry demands, running forwards.

"Had to look sexy for Rosmerta, didn't I?" Sirius answers, "I've waited twelve years to flirt with that woman again!" Harry grins, throwing himself forwards, and Sirius hugs him tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. There are people staring at them, Harry knows, but he ignores every single one of them, gesturing for Sirius to come back towards the Three Broomsticks with him. "Hallo, Hermione."

"God, what are you wearing?" Hermione asks, staring at Sirius in horror, and he seems to take this as a compliment.

"This was the height of fashion when I went to prison."

"It really wasn't," Hermione disagrees, and Harry lets Sirius pull him against his side and ruffle his hair. "Where've you been?"

"I headed to the Ministry as soon as the pardon came through at about four this morning," Sirius explains, patting Harry's shoulder before letting him go. "Went to the bank, got out some cash, went back to my old flat, got out some clothes... Oh, and best of all!" Sirius pulls his wand out of his pocket, and he reaches forwards, conjuring a flower that settles brightly behind Hermione's ear.

Harry laughs, liking the way Hermione smiles at the sudden burst of colour. "What are you going to do now?" Harry asks quietly.

"Do you know, Harry," Sirius says, "I have absolutely no idea." He breathes in the cool hair, putting his hands on his hips. "It's quite liberating."

"Sirius!" comes a call from behind them, and Harry turns to see Remus Lupin standing in the middle of the street, staring at Sirius with his lips parted, his eyes wide. "Merlin's beard, you're not wearing that."

"As I was explaining, Moony, to my dear godson and his friend," Sirius says, tossing his hair in a dramatic fashion, "I have to look attractive for Rosmerta." Remus laughs, and when he laughs this time he looks so much younger, so much healthier, as he looks at Sirius, and they step together, embracing tightly. Remus whispers something into Sirius' ear, but Sirius just murmurs something back, patting the side of Remus' cheek, and they draw apart.

"We're going to head back up to the castle, Sirius," Harry answers, and Sirius gives him a thumbs up, letting him and Hermione walk away. Harry glances back as Sirius and Remus go into the Three Broomsticks, their arms around each other's shoulders, and he wonders what Sirius must feel like, being free, all of a sudden. It's all happened so fast - all of a sudden, Sirius is free, and Harry has a godfather, a real godfather...

It's amazing, he thinks. Utterly amazing.

"Potter!" calls Ron Weasley urgently from up the hill, staring down at Harry with horror painted on his freckled features. "Look out!" Harry glances around, perplexed, and then he sees it: coming right towards him at fifty miles an hour are two rogue bludgers, and Harry throws himself to the side to avoid their path. They whistle through the air, but Harry can tell by the way they turn back that they're focused on him.

"Hermione! Get out of the way!" Harry runs off the path and onto the side of the hill, away from the village, and the bludgers both swing around in the air, focused on him. He curses as one of them flings itself an inch from his head, and he yells, "Arresto momentum!" One of the bludgers abruptly slows itself down, but the other one clips Harry hard in the shoulder, and he feels the sharp shift as the blade is pulled out of place. He cries out, trying to keep his other wand hand steady, and this time he tries an explosion charm, but he misses the bludger twice as it swings one way and then the other in the air.

Harry scrambles back, but he twists his ankle on an outcrop of stone with a quiet crack and drops hard down the side of the hill, rolling on his injured shoulder and sending agony screaming through his back and his right leg. He hears someone else yell out a Reducto, and then running towards him comes, of all possible saviours, Percy Weasley. "Potter? Are you alright?"

"Not really," Harry retorts, pressing his face into the cool, dewy wetness of the grass beneath him. "Think I dislocated my shoulder." Percy kneels down beside him, grasping him carefully at his hips and lifting Harry bridal style off the grass, shifting him so that his weight is against Percy's chest and there's no pressure on his injured shoulder. "You're quite strong." Harry hears the words come out of his mouth, but he doesn't recall giving his tongue permission to say them, and Percy lets out a short, wry laugh.

"A point to Slytherin for stating the obvious," Percy says, and Harry laughs, keeping his injured arm on his belly. The twinge he'd felt the summer before last comes back to him, and he breathes in, trying to ignore the way Percy Weasley smells (like parchment and pine needles and ink): closing his eyes, Harry lets Percy carry him into the village. "Why is it always you, Potter?"

"You tell me, Perfect Percy," Harry mutters, "You tell me."

Harry shifts in bed, pressing his lips together. The crack in his ankle had been a clean break, so he just needs to wait an hour or so for the bones to knit themselves back together; Madam Pomfrey had easily pushed his shoulder back into place, and while it had certainly hurt, Harry had been grateful the bludger hadn't hit him somewhere worse, like his spine or the back of his head.

"Awake, Potter?" comes a voice, and Harry glances towards it.

"Wide awake, sir," Harry replies as Snape glides into the hospital wing. "Madam Pomfrey says I'll be healed up by dinner." Snape gives an incline of his head, and he holds out a newspaper to him as he hovers beside Harry's bed. Frowning, Harry reaches out, taking it, and then he stares at the image that takes up the majority of the page: Pettigrew shakes as he kneels in the photo, cowering as best he can, and then a dementor blocks all view of his face as it leans over him. Pettigrew drops forwards onto the ground as the dementor draws away, eyes open but unseeing, and Harry watches the photo repeat its animation half a dozen times before he glances up to Snape.

"Special evening edition," Snape says dryly, "Just for that." His tone is disparaging as he spits out the words, and Harry gives a slow nod of his head, holding the paper in his hands. It's a disgusting, disturbing sight, the way Pettigrew tumbles forwards again and again, but it fills Harry with a dreadful satisfaction.

"Will Voldemort know?" he asks, and Snape stares down at him, his brow furrowing.

"What do you mean, Potter?" Snape doesn't flinch at the use of Voldemort's name, Harry realizes - most of the teachers twitch slightly, at the very least, but Snape doesn't seem to twitch at anything at all. Does nothing scare the man? Other than being nice, presumably.

"The Dark Mark on his arm... Voldemort's inner circle had them, right, so he could summon them? Pettigrew's not dead, but he's- well, he's empty now. He's gone. Will Voldemort feel that?"

"An interesting query," Snape murmurs, arching an eyebrow as he stares down at Harry, and not for the first time Harry has the same, bizarre inclination that Snape might be able to read minds. The way he stares into Harry's eyes is positively unnerving, and for a few seconds Harry doesn't know what to say, but it's Snape that breaks the quiet, "I don't know, Potter. But Pettigrew's body will expire soon, without his soul to animate it."

"Thanks, Professor," Harry says, "For bringing my paper. You glad?" The question slips from his tongue without his thinking about it, but Snape doesn't necessarily seem angry.

"That Pettigrew received the Kiss?" Snape presses his lips together, letting them thin, but Harry can see that he's thinking about his answer, formulating it. He's just a bizarre and hateful man, but Harry can't help but be curious. "Why should I be glad?"

"He was a mass murderer, a Death Eater," Harry shrugs his shoulders, folding a corner of the Prophet over itself to create a little piece of concertina in the parchment. "Seemed a bit of a bastard, really." Snape lets out a sort of huffing sound that might be a laugh - Snape looks truly awful when he laughs, though, so Harry's almost glad it's not a fully-fledged laugh. Lupin and Sirius' laughs make them seem younger, but Snape's always just makes him look even worse than he usually does.

"What are you doing here?" Sirius is sneering as he swaggers into the Hospital Wing, a package under his arm, and he seems to hope that Snape will flinch back away from him, but he doesn't. Sirius steps right into Snape's space, until they're nose to nose, and says, "Long time no see, Snivellus." Harry had known the both of them disliked each other, but he hadn't really thought about it like this.

"As clever as always, Black," Snape says icily. "One would think with all that time alone with your thoughts you might have had time to formulate a better insult." Harry stares between the two of them, utterly taken aback.

"Shut up, Sirius," Harry says loudly before his godfather can reply, and he stares at Harry, apparently surprised by Harry's interruption. "Cheers, Professor. See you at dinner."

"Assuming you survive that long, Mr Potter. Do try not to be assassinated," Snape replies, and he leaves the room with the same smooth, silent motion he always seems to employ.

"Yes, sir," Harry agrees, and he looks to Sirius. He'd disappeared for a few hours after Harry had been brought up to the infirmary, claiming he had an appointment, but it's obvious he had no issue coming into the castle.

"What was that?" Sirius demands, dropping himself onto the edge of Harry's mattress, and Harry shakes his head.

"I was just about to ask you the same question, Sirius," Harry says, shifting his leg a little to the side so that Sirius has more space. "You can't talk to him like that."

"Why not?" Sirius' tone is almost petulant, and Harry can't honestly believe he's having this conversation.

"Because I'm the thirteen-year-old and you're the thirty-year-old, to begin with," Harry says, and he watches the annoyance and the honest irritation on Sirius' face - Harry had never seen the man sneer before, and it hadn't been a good look. He's glad to see Sirius look well-rested and better than he had done, but he doesn't want to deal with the man bickering with his professors. "He's my head of house, Sirius, you don't have to talk to him like that."

"He's disgusting," Sirius says firmly, crossing his arms over his chest and sprawling back against the footboard of Harry's bed. "Don't trust him, Harry: he was always into all sorts of dark magic at school, constantly tried to get James, me and Remus into trouble."

"I promise not to trust him so long as you calm down when you talk to him," Harry says, and Sirius lets out a loudly dramatic sigh, but then he spreads his hands in an innocent gesture, relenting. Today, Sirius is wearing actual robes in bright, dappled blue: his clothes are as flamboyant as Lockhart's had been, but certainly less... Well. They look less foppish. Instead of big, fluid stretches of fabric designed to accentuate any swirls and turns, Sirius' clothes are closely tailored to his body, tight at the waist and the arms and only going loose at their skirt. "Did Dumbledore say anything to you about the bludgers?"

"Nothing," Sirius answers, "No idea where they came from. They're not from the Hogwarts supplies, but they were enchanted to focus on you, Harry, just like that knight down in the dungeons was." Harry gives a nod of his head, fidgeting uncomfortably. His leg is beginning to tingle and tickle, and he can't quite ignore the feeling. "Any idea who it is?"

"Well, no one's told me they want me dead recently," Harry says, and Sirius looks at him with his eyes focused on Harry's face. Sirius' eyes are a deep blue, and he's let a little stubble grow over his face. "You think it's Voldemort?"

"No," Sirius says firmly, shaking his head, "No, this isn't his style. This is clumsy."

"Glad to know my would-be assassin is an amateur," Harry mutters, and Sirius laughs. His laugh doesn't sound harsh and painful anymore, and Sirius' voice no longer sounds painful to use. His voice isn't especially low, but it's rich and resonant, and he talks well, now that he's had a little more time to recover.

"That's the spirit!" Sirius catches the green-wrapped package he'd brought in with him, sliding it across the mattress: it's a relatively small, square box tied off with a white ribbon, and Harry examines it for a second, feeling its minimal weight. At a nod from Sirius, he undoes the ribbon, setting it aside and pulling the wrapping aside to reveal the box inside: on a little presentation pillow, shining in the evening light, are two keys on a ring. Harry pulls them out, staring at them, and Sirius says, "One for the Black family home at Grimmauld Place, and another for my flat in London. The Ministry never found it, so they just gave me the keys back."

"You have a flat? A Muggle flat?" Harry asks skeptically, and Sirius grins at him.

"I've maybe upgraded some of the Muggle things a bit. It's dusty, of course, and I need to have a bit of a clean-out, but it's all mine. Well. Yours too, of course. I've already asked Dumbledore, but it's all up to you."

"Asked Dumbledore what?" Harry asks, because Sirius has a sort of secret smile on his face as he shifts back and forth on the side of Harry's bed. Harry stares at the keys in his hands, and wonders what the Hell his godfather is- "Oh," Harry says softly. Sirius is offering for Harry to come and live with him. Sirius is offering to take care of him, let Harry stay with him instead of going back to the Dursleys every summer.

"You don't have to," Sirius says urgently, looking uncertain as to what Harry's "oh" had meant. "Obviously, I mean, it's just an offer-" Harry throws himself forwards, wrapping his arms tightly around Sirius' neck, and Sirius laughs as he pats Harry's back. Harry's leg is twinging for the position, but he does his best to ignore it for a few moments.

"Yes," Harry says, "Yes, God, thank you, thank you, Sirius-"

---

Harry has a grin on his face as he makes his way into the great hall, and he settles down in between Draco and Blaise, throwing his arms around both of their shoulders. "Hello," Blaise says pleasantly, leaning into Harry as Draco lets out a garbled protest, but Harry refuses to let the other Slytherin go. Draco groans, glaring at the hand on his shoulder as if it's some sort of disgusting spider. "You're in a good mood."

"I, gentleman, will no longer live with the most boring, irritating and downright awful family in all of Little Whinging," Harry proclaims. "All post ought be forwarded to my new address in Central London, with my dear, ex-convict, not-a-Death-Eater godfather, Sirius Black." Across the table, Theo laughs, and Draco shoves Harry's hand off of his shoulder, elbowing him in the side.

"You're such an idiot, Potter," he says, but Harry's good cheer is obviously infectious, because he smiles too, and Harry leans in, delivering a loud, dramatic kiss to Blaise's cheek. Zabini laughs, pulling himself out from Harry's arm, and he shakes his head.

"Glad to hear your living situation's improving, Potter. Was it really that simple?"

"He had to sign a fair bit of paperwork, but yeah. The Ministry's bending over backwards to do what he wants at the moment." Blaise nods his head, seeming to approve: Harry is already drafting letters in his head, thinking of what he'll ask everyone in his address book about Sirius, and he wants to know everything. Now that Sirius is officially innocent, maybe he'll be able to get a bit more information about him.

"I wonder why," Theodore says wryly, pouring a glass of pumpkin juice for Harry as he shakes his head. "No real trial, didn't realize a man had gotten away, and wrongfully imprisoned in Azkaban for twelve years." Theo lets out a low whistle, giving a small shake of his head, and Harry picks up his glass, taking a small sip. "How did he escape, anyway?"

"He was," Harry says in a low voice, "An unregistered Animagus. Now, of course, he's registered, and he's done more than enough time in Azkaban to make up for his previous crime. He slid out of the bars in dog form, swam out. Apparently they're going to change the jail a bit, add some more enchantments so that people can no longer utilize similar magic."

"Most of the time people aren't sound enough to try escaping," Blaise says, drumming his fingers on the table. "But all security's good security."

"You don't think Azkaban's a bit extreme? I don't see why they need the dementors there. Surely imprisonment would be enough."

"What else are we supposed to do with them?" Draco asks, putting his nose in the air. "Sorry, Potter, would you rather the dementors were hanging around your front garden?"

"What Draco is trying to say," Theo says, kicking the other boy under the table, "Is that we had an agreement with the dementors long ago. We send them our prisoners, and they stay around Azkaban. They're sentient, but they're satisfied with that much." Harry thinks of the dementor that had crowded him against a wall in Hogsmeade that September, at the look of its clammy, rotting hands... They're back in Azkaban now, all of them, but it's not enough, not for Harry.

"We should destroy them all," Harry murmurs. "Wipe them out.

"Send your method to the head of the Aurors," Blaise suggests. "I'm sure they'd love to hear it. It's not like you can kill them."

"Not even with a strong Patronus?" Draco shakes his head.

"They act as shields, standing between you and the dementor: because they're held up by happy thoughts, they're of the right substance to shove a dementor out of the way, but they can no more kill one than a dagger could." Harry frowns, turning the problem over in his head, and Draco says, "Let's change the subject to something a little more cheery. Hogsmeade."

"You mean where he just got attacked by two rogue bludgers?" Blaise asks.

"Without mentioning Potter," Draco amends, and Harry snorts, reaching for some potatoes as food appears on the table.

"Expecto Patronum!" Harry grits his teeth as he casts, narrowing his eyes behind the glass of his specs as he concentrates on the charm. A light, blue-silver mist springs forth from his wand tip, forcing the Boggart back slightly, and he lets out a sharp, irritated noise as he flicks his wand aside, giving up.

"Harry-"

"Expecto Patronum!" Harry repeats, and more mist springs from his wand, a little thicker this time and forming a heavy shield between him and the Boggart, forcing it back by a foot, but it's not enough - it's not corporeal, not yet, and Harry wants it to be. He's determined to get this spell right, if he has to practice every day between now and the day he dies. "Expecto-" Lupin's hand touches Harry's hand, stopping him short, and he gives a flick of his own wand, forcing the Boggart back into its wardrobe.

"Professor, I can do it," Harry argues, and Lupin gives a rueful little laugh, reaching for the bar of chocolate on his desk and offering Harry a few pieces, which he reluctantly takes. Lupin sits back against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at Harry with a fond smile. "I can."

"I have no doubts, Harry," he assures him quietly, watching Harry for a few minutes. "It's just a matter of finding the right memory. What are you concentrating on when you cast?" Harry thinks about it. He focuses on the feel of his wand in his hand, the shift of his arm and his hand as he moves it, the slight hiss of magic in the air as the Patronus comes forwards.

"Er," Harry says, glancing away for a moment, and Lupin laughs. It's a kindly laugh, and Harry sighs as he drops back against a desk. "It just feels- I don't know, stupid."

"A Patronus is a concentration of happy thoughts, of happy memories," Lupin explains, meeting Harry's gaze and looking at him seriously. Harry never feels like Lupin is talking down to him or patronizing him - he's not like some people when explaining a concept, and Harry's glad of that. "You're effectively creating an avatar the dementor is forced to concentrate on instead of yourself - by externalizing some of that happiness, you create a shield that the dementor can't quite attack. This isn't like a Cheering Charm or a Summoning Spell, Harry. It's more intuitive than that. You need a truly happy memory to anchor your Patronus to." Harry scans his mind, trying to pull at happy thoughts - seeing the presents beneath his Christmas tree in first year, seeing Hermione the next summer... Seeing the contract Sirius had laid out on a table for him to read, the one transferring Harry's care from Vernon and Petunia Dursley to Sirius Black.

"Once more," Harry says determinedly.

"You're very focused on something, once you want it, aren't you?" Lupin asks, and Harry gives a simple nod of his head; Lupin steps back and away from the desk, flicking the latch on the wardrobe open, and Harry stares at the "dementor" as it slowly pushes the wardrobe open, gliding out. Harry breathes in, and he focuses on everything he felt when he saw Sirius spread out the piece of parchment on the table, the relief, the excitement, the pure contentedness at the idea of living with anyone, anyone, other than the Dursleys, but especially with Sirius.

"Expecto Patronum!" A blue-mist shape glides through the air from Harry's wand: it's vague and only lasts a few seconds but Harry can see that it has four legs and a large body. He grins, and Lupin slides the wardrobe door shut behind the Boggart.

"Well done," he says quietly, honestly. "We'll have a corporeal Patronus out of you in no time, Harry."

---

"You don't seem too happy," Blaise says as he enters Harry and Draco's dorm room, dropping Draco's Nimbus 2001 onto his bed. He'd borrowed it to play a game with some of the fourth years out on the pitch, and now that he's inside Blaise is windswept and slightly muddy. Harry sighs, running his hand through his hair and setting a letter aside.

"I've just been getting a lot of the same letters," he admits. "Just a lot of nonsense, really. "Oh, I always knew he was innocent!" That kind of thing." He shakes his head, shoving his parchments and papers to the side of the bed so that Blaise can sit down. "Only Augusta Longbottom has referenced it honestly."

"What did the old bag say?" Blaise asks, and Harry pulls the parchment out from the pile, clearing his throat to read from it.

"Honestly thought Black would be in prison for years, but if he's innocent, he's innocent. Typical of the Ministry to fumble the Quaffle. Tell him hello. He won't care that I said so, arrogant little bastard that he always was, but it's polite." Blaise laughs, and Harry grins, setting Mrs Longbottom's letter back on the pile. Harry leans back, putting his feet in Blaise's lap, and asks, "You looking forward to the holidays?"

"Yeah, Mother and I are going to New York for the holiday," Blaise says casually as he leans back against the post of Harry's bed. "What about you? First Christmas with Black, eh?"

"That's right," Harry says, with a little grin on his face. "We're gonna meet up with Hermione and her parents on Boxing Day, and I've made plans to see the twins, too."

"Don't tell me those are the only people you're socializing with over the holiday?" Blaise asks, pinching his face in an obvious display of disgust, and Harry arches an eyebrow.

"Don't be snooty, Blaise, or I'll hex you out of the room."

"What I mean," Blaise amends, doing his best to make his expression a little more neutral, "Is that you should see more people. Proper people."

"Blaise."

"It's politics! You write everyone letters, but you should go to Christmas balls and the like. Especially with a Black as your guardian - there are expectations of a young man," Blaise says, and Harry rolls his eyes.

"That's why you and your Mum are going to New York, is it?" Blaise huffs, shooting him a scowl and shoving Harry's feet from his lap before he leaves the room. Harry sighs, but despite Blaise's general prejudices, Harry supposes he can't ignore everything the other boy had said. He reaches for his letter from Lucius Malfoy, scanning the page. It's politics, isn't it? Just politics.

---

"I'm not going to go," Hermione says sharply as she and Harry walk down towards the pen Professor Gudgeon had set up beside the Forbidden Forest.

"Hermione, come on, there'll be all sorts of important wizards and witches in attendance-"

"All of them bigots!" Hermione snaps, and Harry sighs, trudging along beside her. "I'm not going to go to a party hosted by Lucius Malfoy, Harry - he'd be happy if I were dead. Honestly, how could you think I'd want to come?"

"You could prove him wrong," Harry offers. "Look at Draco - you and him almost get on, sometimes."

"When he's utterly silent," Hermione says, "Though as soon as he opens his mouth I remember his true colours. It's like asking me to go to a dinner hosted by a Neo-Nazi, Harry."

"No, it's not!" Harry protests loudly. "It's not the same thing-"

"It's exactly the same thing." Hermione stops short, and Harry has to skid slightly on the wet grass to keep from going past her: she points her finger into his face as she meets his gaze, and he finds himself wishing her were, at the very least, the same height as her. She's had a growth spurt recently, and he's been rather left behind. "You can go, and you can drag Sirius along, but you're not going to get me to come. It's different for you, Harry - as soon as I walked into that Christmas gala in my dress robes, every eye would be on me, because they wouldn't recognize my name, and they'd know what I am. I'm not going to have dinner with people who'd like me and my parents dead." She stalks off, and Harry sighs, watching after her with a resigned expression on his face. It's not as if he can make her come with him.

The invitation for the gala had been printed in neat, green ink on fancy parchment, on Christmas Eve at Malfoy Manor. It had allowed for a plus one, as well as Sirius, but Harry supposes his plus one isn't going to be Hermione, and he's hardly going to invite just one of the twins, even if either of them would come.

"You're late, Mr Potter!" tinkles Professor Gudgeon as he rushes down the rest of the hill, and he gives her a shrug.

"Sorry, Ma'am," he says insincerely, and she gives a little, disapproving moue. Professor Gudgeon is wearing a set of robes today made of pink, satiny material, covered over with black polka dots and tied at the waist with a black sash: the skirt of the robes comes out from her body like a 50s party dress, and Harry can't help but think the ensemble is a little over the top for an afternoon of classes in the mud.

"Now, children," Gudgeon says, putting her chin high as she gestures to the pen behind her. "This afternoon we will be acquainting ourselves with the most noble of magical equines: the unicorn." Gudgeon's smile is momentarily fixed on her face, her made-up lips not moving and her eyes strangely frozen as she stares at Harry, and Harry shifts uncomfortably under her gaze, glancing at the others for help. None comes. "Why don't you introduce yourself first, Mr Potter?"

"Don't unicorns like girls, Professor?" Harry asks.

"Well, they prefer virgins as well, but they're just fine with me!" Gudgeon lets out her feminine little titter: nobody else laughs. "These unicorns are rather young, so they are not as cautious of men as older ones." Harry stares over the fence at the bright, white bodies of the six unicorns assembled, each of their horns seeming razor sharp in the afternoon sun.

"Right," Harry says awkwardly, and he moves to the fence, slowly climbing over and into the pen. He takes a slow step forwards: the unicorns assembled turn to look at him, and Harry doesn't like the looks in their eyes, nor the way their golden hooves shift in the grass. "It's okay," he says in what he hopes is an appropriately soothing tone, taking slow steps forwards. One of the unicorns turns its head abruptly towards him, lowering its forehead slightly so that its horn is roughly in line with Harry's head. "Or it's not," Harry corrects himself. Already halfway across the paddock, he begins to walk rapidly to the side, towards the edge of the fence, but four of the unicorns are already walking slowly towards him, lowering their heads and shielding the other two, which he thinks are the males, from Harry.

Harry turns and just runs to the edge of the paddock, throwing himself over the fence as the unicorns give chase, skidding to a stop at the edge of the fence.

"Right!" Harry says to them, breathing a little heavily. "Glad to see we don't get on." One of the unicorns tosses its head and lets out a whinny, glaring at Harry as if he's just tried to kill one of them.

"Potter! What are you doing!?" Professor Gudgeon calls from the other side of the fenced-in area, and Harry stares at her.

"Uh, not letting a unicorn make me into a kebab!" Harry snaps back. "What does it look like I'm doing?" He can see Draco trying not to laugh, hiding his mouth behind his hand, but Hermione is shifting anxiously from one foot to the other, looking at Harry with obvious concern on her features.

"Come here!" Harry sighs, beginning to walk around the edge of the paddock, but there's a loud splintering of wood from beside him, and he stares at the fencing as it just crumbles into wood shavings, leaving a two metre gap in the fence. The four female unicorns, who'd been returning to the males, turn and look at Harry.

"Hermione!" Harry yells, not breaking the stare he keeps up with the biggest female unicorn. "How fast can a unicorn run!?"

"Faster than you, Potter!" shouts back Theo before Hermione can reply, "Start running and weave!" Harry doesn't need telling twice. He shoots back into the Forbidden Forest, throwing himself over tree roots and through little ditches, doing his best to weave one way and then the next to make it more difficult to run after him in a straight line. Throwing himself forwards and into a piece of trunk, he crawls forwards and inside, ducking down to try and keep himself hidden.

He hears the pound of hooves on the ground around him, and he waits for a few minutes before he slowly pulls himself out of the trunk he'd hidden in: as he stands, the wood behind him comes apart with an odd ripping sound, and he turns to stare at it.

With a sick, discomforting feeling, he realizes he isn't looking at a piece of wooden trunk, but a thick, yellowing snake skin, at least six feet across.

Swearing under his breath, Harry begins to run back to the edge of the forest, and he heaves in breaths as he goes back to Professor Gudgeon and the rest of the students, who are staring at Harry in obvious horror. "I need to go up to the castle," he says firmly.

"Class is still in session, Mr Potter," Gudgeon says sharply.

"Well, class nearly just killed me, so I'm going up to the castle," Harry retorts, and he ignores the woman as she yells "Ten points from Slytherin!" after him.

---

"Professor Snape, sir," Harry says as he pushes open the door to the Potions classroom, and his head of house gives him a withering stare from behind Luna Lovegood's cauldron. Luna gives him a little smile and a wave, which Harry awkwardly returns. "Uh, it's not exactly an emergency, but it could become an emergency, sort of, maybe."

"What are you blabbering about, Potter?" Harry gives Snape an urgent look, glances at his students, and tries to silently convey that he doesn't want to impart this information in front of Snape's second year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. Sighing, Snape says, "Into my office, Potter. I'll deal with you in a moment." Harry nods, pulling the Potions door shut.

Just before the latch clicks, he hears Luna say, "He'd be rather dashing if he wore the right sort of chain mail, don't you think, Professor?"

---

"Does she always talk to you like that?" Harry asks as Snape enters his office a few minutes later, and Snape stares at him. "Luna, I mean?"

"Mr Potter," Snape says in a low, threatening tone, "If this query is why you have interrupted my lesson, very bad things will happen to you."

"No," Harry hurries to say, "No, um, some unicorns nearly killed me just now-"

"What?"

"And when I ran into the forest to get away from them, I found a snake skin. A, uh, a really big snake skin." Snape is silent for a few moments.

"The Basilisk has shed its skin?" Snape asks slowly: Harry gives a nod of his head.

"Which means it's still alive," Harry says, and Snape pinches the bridge of his nose, setting his other hand on the back of his chair. "Should I tell Dumbledore?" Snape pauses for a few long moments, and then gives a nod of his head.

"Go. The current password is Aniseed Balls." Nodding his head, Harry rushes out, and hopes that Dumbledore is in his office. God knows this isn't the time for the headmaster to go wandering.

"It was just this way," Harry says, walking over a thick tree root spanning a ditch with Snape, Dumbledore and McGonagall in pursuit. He jumps over a little dip full of nettles, and then he points to the "trunk" he'd seen earlier. He now sees the slightly torn piece of shed skin that had once covered the Basilisk's eyes, deep, brown-red blood clinging to the shed skin around the eye holes. "Ugh," he mutters.

Dumbledore and McGonagall stand back, and Snape moves forwards, tearing a piece of skin from the yellow husk. The Majority of it is hidden in the undergrowth, and Harry can see it between Snape's fingers: it's not parchment-thin and a little transparent, like pictures of shed snake skin he'd seen before, but a dirty brown colour as thick as a piece of honeycomb.

"How old is it, Severus?" Dumbledore asks, and Snape gives a shrug of his shoulders.

"I'm hardly an expert, Headmaster, but I would estimate the skin has been here a few months. Certainly the Basilisk has lived for a few months in the Forest, at least. With the width and breadth of the Forest, however, one could hardly expect to pinpoint its exact location."

"You said you could kill a Basilisk with cockerels," Harry says, looking at Dumbledore. "Can't you just send some into the Forest?"

"They'd not survive long, Potter," McGonagall says, staring at the huge skin with a terse expression on her face, her lips pursed. "There are a number of predators here."

"The spiders," Snape offers, looking to Dumbledore, and the old man gives a quiet hum, rubbing his knuckles over his beard. Harry glances between the two of them, trying to figure out what the spiders are, but Dumbledore just shakes his head.

"They don't take kindly to intruders, Severus. We could hardly make our way into their den."

"I didn't mean us," Snape retorts, crossing his arms over his chest. "I meant-"

"I took your meaning, Severus," Dumbledore interrupts in his most kindly tone, and Harry can see the way Snape's lips thin as he glares at the older man, see the way his knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip on his own sleeves. "But nor can Hagrid go alone. In the meantime, we might exercise patience."

"Patience?" Harry repeats. "Sir, it's a fifty-foot long, poisonous snake."

"Venomous," Snape corrects. Harry stares at him.

"I have no doubt it will remain within the boundaries of the Forest, Mr Potter," Dumbledore says. "Perhaps we ought decide what is to be done with the skin."

"I found it," Harry says quickly. "Doesn't that make it mine?" Dumbledore peers down at him, his blue eyes twinkling.

"And what are you going to do with it, Mr Potter?" It had been automatic for him to ask, in all honesty - he's learned to grasp at all available opportunities, but the Basilisk's skin isn't something he really wants to cart back to his dormitory, and nor does hs really think he can use it.

"Donate it," Harry says slowly, "To the Hogwarts Potions department?"

"How very generous of you, Potter," Snape says dryly as McGonagall hides a very small chuckle against her wrist. Harry feels his cheeks redden, and he feels like more than a bit of an idiot, standing before the three teachers.

"Can I go back to the castle now?"

"Come, Potter," McGonagall says, giving him a very small smile.

"He was going to give it to Snape anyway, wasn't he?" Harry asks.

"Indeed," McGonagall agrees, and Harry sighs. Either way, Snape is getting skin for Christmas, even if Harry is a bit embarrassed.

---

"So they're just going to let this serpent wander around the Forest?" Draco asks, and Harry gives a nod of his head.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's pretty much what I was told."

"This school is going to the dogs," Draco says, opening his Charms textbook with a huffy sound, and Harry just shakes his head.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Hermione asks, rushing forwards and settling at the table with them. It's coming up to five o'clock, now, and Harry knows Hermione's just come from an Arithmancy session with Vector. "Those unicorns-"

"They didn't hurt me," Harry assures her, and then goes onto explain the skin he'd found in the Forest, and how he'd brought Dumbledore and the rest to examine it. Hermione is silent, putting her hand on her chin as she considers the idea, and she frowns deeply. "So, you know. Don't go wandering by the lake at night, or a snake will eat you."

"Oh, don't say that." Draco snickers.

"Scared of the snake, Granger?"

"At least I don't cry at the thought of werewolves, Draco," Hermione shoots back archly, and Draco's expression abruptly sobers, and he goes quiet. For once, Harry wishes Draco could keep his mouth shut around her, but apparently that's beyond him. "Now then, who's going to be your plus one, Harry?"

"I thought you were?" Draco asks, looking at Hermione with a momentary intensity, and Hermione gives a minute shake of her head.

"No," she says firmly. "I'm not." Draco opens his mouth, looking like he's going to ask why, but Harry doesn't need to deal with that.

"I don't know," Harry admits. "I don't even know for certain if I'm coming, yet."

"You can't not come," Draco protests, as if Harry missing a party is the most offensive idea he's ever come across. "Everyone will be there. Just- Well. Don't bring a Weasley."

"Given your dad's sad little feud with the Weasleys, Draco, I wasn't planning on it."

"What do you mean, sad?" Harry doesn't have the patience for this right now, and so he turns around, glancing around the Great Hall.

"Hey! Luna!" Luna Lovegood turns from her place at the Ravenclaw table, regarding Harry with her strange, blue eyes.

"Yes?"

"You want to come to a gala with me Christmas Eve?" Luna blinks, staring at him. "You know, a party?"

"Oh," Luna says, tilting her head slightly, and then she says, "Yes, alright. Do write me the details, Harry."

"Will do," Harry agrees, and he turns back to Draco and Hermione. Draco is staring at him, his icy eyes wide, and Hermione looks equally taken aback. "What? She's nice."

"Harry," Hermione says delicately, "Don't- Well, isn't she a bit mad, Luna? I've heard people call her Loony Lovegood." Harry's heard the same name repeated now and then, but it's certainly not a nickname he approves of. He doesn't see why everyone's so opposed to Luna's company - she's a bit strange, certainly, but she's always nice to him when she sees him, and Harry sees no sense in being unpleasant to her.

"She's utterly batty," Draco says in a much harsher tone, "I can't believe you've just invited her to my house."

"Who did you want me to bring, Draco? Cho Chang?"

"Yes!" Draco snaps. "That would have been quite nice!"

---

"I'm not going," Sirius says as a form of greeting. Harry stares at him, holding Hedwig's cage carefully in his hands as Sirius picks up his trunk.

"Why not?" Harry asks. He'd wished Sirius had said outright that he wouldn't come in the past few weeks, and Sirius lets out a little groan of noise.

"Because Lucius Malfoy is the scum of the earth," Sirius says. "And I don't want to spend an evening eating fancy food and making small talk with the worst of society."

"Alright," Harry says. "Me and Luna will just Floo over without you." Sirius stiffens, glancing at him.

"Without me?" he repeats. Harry looks at Sirius innocently.

"Well, we've already RSVPed. I can't not go. But you don't have to come, obviously, if you don't want to."

"I'm coming," Sirius says firmly, and Harry feels the mildest bit of guilt for having pushed him into direction he'd wanted, but he would have gone on his own, had Sirius refused. The Malfoys' views are outdated and ridiculous, but it's not as if they're going to be the only people present at the gala, and the Malfoys are... Well. Harry likes them. It's difficult to completely hate them when he's met them in person and when Lucius is normally so pleasant and warm when he writes his letters. "How was the ride home?"

"It was alright," Harry says. "Hermione and I played a game of chess."

"Are you any good?" Sirius asks. They'd played once or twice when Sirius had been hidden in the Shrieking Shack, but the other man had never been in completely the right state to concentrate on them.

"Not really," Harry says, "But nor is she, so we were pretty evenly matched."

"Remus is terrible at chess," Sirius says affectionately. "James wasn't too great, either. Normally I had to play with one of the girls." Harry glances at him, listening carefully, and Sirius continues, "Lily was alright at chess. She didn't find much fun in it though."

"What sort of thing did she like?"

"Oh, Charms. She went to Charms club religiously, pursued all these little projects of her own, charming everything in sight. Especially your dad, obviously." Harry laughs, and Sirius continues, "She played a few things with the girls, I think, but she wasn't big on games. More of a talker." Harry nods his head, and Sirius stops short in front of a red-painted door with a 16B. Harry can see a set of steps leading down to a flat below Sirius', and a second door that presumably leads up to the flat on the next floor. "This is us."

"Really? This isn't even five minutes' walk from the station."

"Yeah," Sirius agrees. "Diagon Alley's nice and close, as well. Open the door then, Harry. Give your old godfather's arms a break so he can put his trunk down." Harry reaches for the door handle, which turns easily under his hand, and he pushes it open.

The door opens into a hallway, and Sirius drops Harry's trunk beside the door, kicking it closed behind them. Already, the magic in the building is obvious: the hallway is long and winding, much longer than should be physically possible in a poky little London flat, and Harry grins.

"Go on then," Sirius says, grinning at him. "Explore." Harry needs no more prompt than that.

16B Argyle Street has two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, a library, two bathrooms and, illogically, an attic. Despite 16C's flat being above them, a ladder in the library leads up into the humble little loft, in which is a large piece of white fabric stretched on the ground. Tools are scattered around the room, in tool boxes, and Harry can see the black shine of oil stains all over.

Sirius' bedroom is ridiculously plush, decorated in garish reds and golds with pillows on every other surface; the library and living room are much the same. The colour scheme is almost blinding, actually, and if Harry had had doubts at to his godfather's Hogwarts house, they'd be gone by now. The library is modest, with a dining table accompanied by plush dining chairs in its centre, but there are all sorts of interesting books on the shelves, a mix of wizarding and Muggle.

The living room has a wonderful fireplace that's carved a stag on its one side and a large dog on the other: the mantel looks as if it had once had a pattern carved into it too, but it's been smoothed away. It's a comfortable lounge, though, and Harry likes the framed photographs of his parents, Remus and Sirius around the room. There's even one photo of Sirius with his arm around the shoulders of a dark-eyed, attractive woman Harry recognizes as a young Andromeda Tonks. He doesn't mention the two or three gaps in the walls where photos have obviously been torn down.

The most exciting room of them all, though, is Harry's own bedroom. It's currently undecorated, with simple wood boards flooring it, and plain white paint covering the walls. There are no sheets on the double bed, and there's currently no furniture at all in the room bar the bed itself and Harry's trunk, but it's his. It's Harry's own bedroom, and it's not in some magical tent - it's in Harry's new home, with his godfather.

"I thought we'd buy some furniture and some paint tomorrow," Sirius says, appearing in the doorway and leaning against the frame, crossing his arms over his chest. He's the very image of casual: he's just wearing a set of flared jeans and a shirt emblazoned with made-up men captioned with KISS despite the cold outside. "You can set up your tent in the living room for now." Harry laughs a little.

"Camp out in the living room?"

"Why not? Put a record on, play some cards... Just like old times." Harry smiles at his godfather, and then he gives a nod of his head.

"Just like old times," he agrees quietly. "Sounds good."

"Stop looking at the prices," Sirius says firmly, and Harry lets out a little groan as he glances back at his godfather. Sirius and Remus stand together, letting Harry pick out his own furniture in the odd little shop: Harry had said he'd prefer to get secondhand pieces than new ones, and Sirius had been glad to comply, but... Well. Harry doesn't know that he sees the sense in getting a wardrobe worth more than a Nimbus 2000.

"Sirius, I-"

"Look, Harry, whatever takes your fancy, we'll get," Sirius interrupts him, looking at Harry as sternly as he can manage. "Think of it as picking out new heirlooms." Harry glances at the wardrobe, tracing the runes carved neatly into its wood and shifting uncertainly on his feet.

"Are you sure?" Remus steps forwards, leaning and reading the card beside the wardrobe. It's a beautiful old thing, carved of mahogany, and it's enchanted with extra space so that one can fill it with as much clothing as one needs. "It's-"

"Harry," Remus says quietly, putting his hand on Harry's shoulder. "This price is very reasonable for a cabinet of this quality, even secondhand. Besides, this furniture is well made and will last you years upon years - when you live alone, you'll likely bring it with you. It's an investment." Harry bites his lip, glancing at Sirius again.

"I'd like this wardrobe," he says. "Please."

"Finally!" Sirius declares, and Remus tuts at him.

"Calm down. He hasn't picked out any other furniture yet, nor sheets, nor paint." Sirius' euphoria drains away, and Harry feels a little bit bad for being so picky and uncertain, but over the past few years he's done his best not to spend his money stupidly or rashly. Sirius has no such qualms - he'd already offered to buy Harry his own motorbike, which Remus had scolded him for.

In the end, Harry settles on the wardrobe, a dresser, an escritoire, some bookshelves and a bedside table, all made of roughly similar mahogany wood: the desk is to be settled in front of his window, which overlooks Argyle Street, and the rest will settle easily around the walls. Barring his apparent distaste for the "boring" colour of Harry's furniture, Sirius is quite happy to buy it all - Harry's colour scheme brooks less approval.

"Silver and green," Sirius repeats, both of his hands on his face as he stares down at his godson. "Silver and green? You want silver and green? What, do you want me to buy you a dado rail carved with snakes?"

"What the bloody Hell is a dado rail?" Harry asks.

"It's a wooden separation between one part of the wall and the other," Remus answers. "Rather like a paper border, but in three dimensions."

"Oh," Harry says. "Then yes, actually, that sounds quite nice." Sirius lets out a loud and dramatic groan. "Don't give me that! Your room is so red and gold you could sell it to a Chinese emperor!"

"That's different! I'm a Gryffindor!"

"Well, I'm a Slytherin, and they're nice colours!" Sirius looks at Remus for help, but the other man just shakes his head, refusing to join the dispute. In the end, Sirius lets Harry pick his colours, and Harry chooses a dark ivy wallpaper to put on the lower part of his room's wall, with silver paint to go on the upper part. Sirius arranges for all of the new things to be delivered, and they make their way down to Madame Malkin's.

"Dress robes," Sirius says in disgust, shaking his head as he reluctantly follows Harry inside, and Remus laughs. "Why don't you come, Moony? Why must you force me to go alone, with only my godson and his girlfriend to protect me?"

"She's not my girlfriend, Sirius," Harry says. "I barely know her."

"All the better!"

"I can't come," Remus says simply, and Harry glances back at him as he and Sirius share a look. "Don't worry. I'll be fine on my own." Harry frowns, wanting to ask what exactly they're talking about, but then Madam Malkin's assistant points him over to a rail of dress robes, and Harry begins to sort through.

---

"Oh, look at you!" Sirius says, putting on an accent uncomfortably similar to Lucius Malfoy's, "Oh so refined, Mr Potter!"

"Shut up," Harry says, and he looks at himself in the mirror. The dress robes are nice, he thinks, in a deep, simple blue, and they don't have any of the lacings or ribbons or excessive silver clasps a lot of the other sets do. "These will be fine, right?"

"No doubt all the girls will swoon at your arrival," Sirius promises, and Harry rolls his eyes. "But not as much as they swoon at mine."

"Didn't you say were going to wear those orange and purple robes that look like they've been copied from curtains?"

"I don't believe that's how I described them, dear godson," Sirius says, ignoring Remus' laughter. "But yes, indeed." Harry chuckles, shaking his head, and he goes to take the robes off and change into his normal ones. He has no idea how the gala is going to go, but he has the sneaking suspicion he won't be able to go the whole evening without one disaster or another.

Especially with Sirius in tow.

---

"You got me a dado rail," Harry says as he enters the room, and Sirius bows with a flourish, grinning at him. All of his furniture and decorations are now in place, with Harry's trunk at the foot of his bed, his record player on his dresser, his letter organizer on his desk: Sirius has even hung Harry's poster of Lixie Pott on the wall over his new nightstand, and she seems ridiculously out of place amongst the sombre decoration in her little white dress.

The dado rail is made of the same mahogany as the furniture, and Sirius has had little leaves and flowers carved into it to match the ivy wallpaper: it's nice, and Harry lets Sirius pull him into a hug.

"Nothing I would have picked out, obviously," Sirius says.

"I wouldn't be able to sleep in a room that you picked out," Harry says. "I'd be afraid a lion was going to jump off the upholstery." Sirius scoffs, but he presses a kiss to the top of Harry's head: he doesn't do that all that often, despite being obviously tended towards physical affection, and it's... It's not something Harry's ever experienced before, before Sirius came to advertise his newfound freedom in Diagon Alley, and not something he ever expected to experience. The Malfoys or Mrs Weasley will hug him like Sirius does, but it's not the same, not quite.

"Speaking of upholstery," Sirius says, and he slides forwards, across the room. Reaching out, he grabs at thin air, pulling back Harry's Invisibility Cloak, and Harry laughs. The armchair is black and made of some sort of corduroy fabric, and Sirius has settled it across from the shelves to make a little reading nook. "Surprise!"

"Is that my Christmas present?" Harry asks, and Sirius gasps, looking horrified.

"No. Merlin, no, Harry. I spent much more on your Christmas present."

"Sirius!" Sirius starts to laugh, and Harry realizes that he's just joking. "You're too casual about money."

"So you keep telling me," Sirius says, dropping himself into the new armchair with his legs dangling haphazardly over the arm. "But if you think I'm too casual about money, you're in for a shock this week."

"At the gala, you mean?" Harry asks, sitting on his trunk to face his godfather, and Sirius nods his head, looking serious for once.

"Gala is the big clue, as a name," he says. "Let alone that it's hosted at Malfoy Manor."

"Is it actually a mansion?" Harry asks, and Sirius considers the question for a few moments, searching his mind. Harry can tell he doesn't immediately remember, can't recall automatically, and he opens his mouth to change the subject, but Sirius waves his concern away.

"It's a fairly big house. A dozen bedrooms, big kitchen downstairs, that sort of thing - a lot of it's built out of stone, and it's belonged to the Malfoys for centuries, maybe even a millennium. Don't completely remember. Most of the effort's put into the gardens, of course. There used to be a huge maze pruned of all different bushes, then the fields, several greenhouses, and Lucius' pigeon coop."

"They're doves," Harry says with a mild amount of reproach, and Sirius shrugs his shoulders.

"He's a strange one. Bloody bird fancier. Well, bats too, I suppose - he virtually adopted Snape when he came into Hogwarts." Harry frowns at Sirius, leaning forwards. Sirius notices his renewed interest, and adds, "He was in his final year when Snape came in, I think, but he really took to him. Made it bloody hard to get at Snape, to begin with."

"What do you mean, get at him?" Harry asks, frowning, and Sirius chuckles.

"We took immediate dislike to each other, me and James against Snape. We'd hex each other, get at each other, any chance we got - he was bloody vicious, too, but if we tried to get back at him, Uncle Lucius would normally step in. Gave me the worst cuff upside the head, once, nearly knocked me down." Sirius gives a little, wistful sigh, as if that's the sort of day he longs for, and then he looks to Harry. "Let's get something to eat. No point talking about the Malfoys. We'll be seeing them soon."

"You'll be polite, won't you?" Harry asks quietly. "I know you don't want to come, but for my sake-"

"I'll exercise myself with all decorum," Sirius promises. "Within reason."

---

"Cissy!" Sirius yells loudly as the cross the threshold of Malfoy Manor, throwing his arms around his cousin's neck and delivering a loud, sloppy kiss to her cheek. "So good to see you, dear cousin," he says, and Harry can see Narcissa stiffen slightly before she brings a smile to her face, engaging in the same faux affection as Sirius is, albeit with less passion.

"Sirius," she says warmly, patting his cheek. "So good to see you free at last." Lucius looks ready to break his champagne flute between his fingers, and Harry mouths a Sorry at Draco as he steps forwards. "Merry Christmas, Harry."

"Thank you, Mrs Malfoy," Harry says. "Ma'am, Mr Malfoy, this is my friend Luna." They'd picked Luna up from Ottery St Catchpole and taken the Knight Bus up to Malfoy Manor, and Harry had hovered at the gates, staring in with utter wonder. The snow-dusted pathway up to the house had been lit with real fairy lights, floating three metres in the air and illuminating the gravel: in the distance, Malfoy Manor had looked like some French palace with its snowy roofs and wide windows shining with light from inside. Harry is no less enamoured with the place from the inside.

"Luna," Lucius says, holding out his hand and shaking hers: Harry notices the broadness of his hand in the dainty one of Luna Lovegood, despite the fact that they both have skin the colour of porcelain. "Luna...?"

"Lovegood, Mr Malfoy," Luna says sweetly; Malfoy's eyes widen a fraction, but he keeps the polite smile firmly on his face. "My father says you're quite the man." He coughs delicately, giving a nod of his head, and he lets Narcissa shake her hand instead.

"Do speak with us later in the evening, Harry," Narcissa says affectionately, but she catches Draco's shoulder before he can follow Luna and Harry into the main hall. "We've still guests to greet, Draco." The youngest Malfoy presses his lips together, obviously annoyed, but he just gives Harry a small wave and stands between his mother and father once again.

The main hall has a high, square ceiling with dark brown beams spanning across its surface: from these beams hang gold-lit lanterns, and around the edges of the room are white-clothed tables holding all manner of different finger foods. The décor is more of the same white and gold decoration, and it's tasteful, pleasant. It's much warmer than he'd have expected for a party hosted by the Malfoys, but by no means is the surprise a bad one. He glances at Luna, who's peering around the room with interest.

"Quite the man, huh?"

"He's not actually a man at all," Luna confides in him quietly. "The Malfoys come from a long line of male Veela."

"Can you get male Veela?" Harry asks.

"Oh, yes," Luna says in an authoritative tone. Sirius, standing behind her, shakes his head no, and Harry smiles, giving a nod of his head. "Excuse me, Harry," Luna says, and she walks off into the mix of people towards the bathrooms: she's wearing the most bizarre set of blue robes decorated with red mushrooms, but despite the oddity of them they're rather beautiful, and they fit her perfectly.

"Go on, then," Sirius says, giving a little wave of his hand. "Off you go."

"You don't mind?" Harry asks.

"I'll go chat with Cissy," Sirius says resignedly. "Go on, my snake-ish little socialite. Go be the little terror I'm raising you to be." Harry snorts, and he steps back from Sirius and into the crowd.

---

Harry's head is awash with information as he looks around the room, doing his best to recall names and recognize faces and crests and styles: he sees reporters from the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly and Quidditch In Colour, high-end politicians and Minister Fudge himself, top healers, herbologists, potioneers, inventors, writers, chefs. In the past few years, Harry has truly come to be fascinated by all the big names of the wizarding world, and now?

Everyone is at the Malfoy Christmas Gala. Well, that's not strictly true. There are no Weasleys, obviously, and-

Harry stops short, staring across the room: he's standing beside a man Harry recognizes as Bartemius Crouch, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. They're in deep conversation, but Harry can see the freckles on his cheeks under his flush, see his carrot-red hair curling around his ears, sees the way his dress robes hang from his skinny, beanpole body. Percy Weasley at the Malfoy Christmas Gala, like a cat among the pigeons - or a gnome among the doves, really.

"Hey," Harry says, joining the conversation, and Percy glances down at him, keeping his chin in the air. He's doing the whole pompous thing, and Harry wishes it didn't make him shiver. "Alright?"

"Mr Crouch," Percy says, reaching out and putting his hand on Harry's shoulder. "This is a schoolmate of mine. Harry Potter."

"Ah, Mr Potter!" Crouch doesn't really smile, but he puts out his hand, and Harry shakes his hand. "A pleasure to meet you in the flesh."

"You too, Mr Crouch," Harry says warmly, "I saw you in the paper the other day, with Mr Moody." Crouch's lip twitches, and he lets out a noise that's almost a chuckle without really letting his lips quirk.

"Alastor was reluctant to pose," Crouch says, giving a nod of his head. Percy, beside them, looks utterly flabbergasted by the fact that Harry's talking to Crouch like this, and Harry decides to take mercy on him and bring him into the conversation.

"Are you guys talking Ministry business?"

"I was telling Mr Weasley my assistant is retiring this summer: he and his wife are going to have children, and he wants to raise them," Crouch says with a quiet tut of sound, as if spending so much time on raising children is a bit of a waste. Percy holds his breath, forgetting how to speak for a moment.

"Oh, make sure you take down Percy's details then, sir," Harry says firmly. "He's head boy at the moment, and he's a stickler for organisation. You won't find a better assistant elsewhere." Crouch blinks, peering down at Harry for a second, and then he glances at Percy.

"I, er. I'm- well, as he says, I'm head boy, and I shouldn't say I'm a stickler, but I am rather organized, focused, even, and I'm quite capable of-" He coughs. "That is, I know my way around a filing system and I can keep books in order and-"

"It's alright, Percy," Harry breaks in. "You can send him your CV. Right, Mr Crouch?"

"Right," Mr Crouch says. "Indeed." He walks away, leaving Percy and Harry stood together, and Harry looks up at the older boy, raising his eyebrows.

"Does your dad know where you are?" Harry asks, and Percy scowls at him.

"Does my mother know where you are?"

"I won't tell if you won't," Harry says, and Percy's lip gives a little twitch. He pats Harry on the back, and he slips into the crowd. Harry wonders who he came with, given that he knows Malfoy wouldn't have invited him on his own, but then he drops the thought for the time being. He can ask later, after all, and there are more people to talk to.

"I should doubt it, Ms Lovegood," he hears behind him, and he turns, approaching Luna when she appears in sight. She's methodically eating a small cob of corn, one piece at a time, and in mid-conversation with, of all people, Snape. His dress-robes look exactly the same as his Hogwarts robes at first glance, but even looking closer Harry can see they're made of a slightly sleeker fabric than usual, and that's all. "Though you might always experiment."

"I wish there were more potions texts based in experimentation in the library," Luna says softly. "I have a great love of certain effects. Hello, Harry. Professor Snape and I are discussing bubbles." Snape arches an eyebrow at Harry, but he doesn't offer any actual greeting, so Harry doesn't either.

"Bubbles?" Harry repeats. "In potions?"

"Out of potions," Luna corrects him. "The sort that rise up and out of the potion, you know? They look so beautiful in the light, but then they pop... My current formula is unfortunately rather acidic. It leaves terrible burns." Harry laughs despite himself, and he gives Luna a little grin. She must be extremely clever, he knows, to be able to actually put together her own potion to do something, but... It seems an odd effect to work towards.

"You can't just use the Muggle ones?"

"Bubbles formed of soap and water lack the long-lasting effect, and there's no latent magic in them to affect them to traverse a room," Snape says dryly, "They merely sink with gravity." Harry glances at Snape, who seems completely serious, and Harry wonders if he's stepped into some alternate reality. He doesn't even look the slightest bit annoyed at the conversation, and when Luna rushes off to greet a pop star Harry's never heard of, Harry peers up at his head of house. "Can I help you, Potter?"

"Do you like champagne, sir?"

"No," Snape says, and takes a sip from the golden, bubbling liquid in his glass. Very few people in the room are wearing black, and subsequently Snape, despite his average height and his obvious disinterest in idle chat, stands out amongst the crowd. Harry leaves him be, though, and speaking to a white-haired woman with bright, amber eyes, he sees Gladys Gudgeon.

"Harry!" she says loudly, and Harry gives her a polite, awkward smile. "Come. Jacqueline, this is Harry Potter."

"Oh, is it?" Jacqueline says, her amber eyes settling on Harry's face, and Harry glances between the two of them, furrowing his brow. "Pleasure to meet you."

"You too, Mrs...?"

"It's Miss," she corrects, "Flockhart."

"Flockhart," Harry repeats. "Right. Well, nice to meet you, Merry Christmas, I'll just be right back-" He reaches for a glass on a table, taking one of the ones marked for those under the age of seventeen, and he takes a sip, scanning the room. He sees the ridiculous flower pattern easily enough, and he makes his way towards Sirius.

Sirius and Lucius are both talking to a rather old, corpulent gentleman in dress-robes that are somehow even more dated than Sirius': despite their ugly paisley pattern, Harry can see the fabric is well-cut and expensive, even if it's made to stretch a little. "Ah, here he is," Sirius says, looking relieved as he sees Harry. "My godson, Prof- Er- Horace. Harry Potter, this is Horace Slughorn."

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but he stops short for a few moments, feeling his throat suddenly dry. He coughs quietly, reaching up to massage his neck, but when he breathes in next he feels the intake of air scratch over his closing throat, and he tries to cough to clear it, but he can't. He chokes out a strangled noise, dropping the glass to the ground beside him, and he stumbles a little leaning on Sirius.

"Severus!" Lucius yells sharply across the room, and Harry grabs desperately at his godfather's robes as he tries to breathe. Lucius disappears from view for a second, and then he returns, putting his hand on Harry's jaw.

"Get off, Malfoy-"

"Hush, Black," Lucius bites out, and he presses something odd and bitter tasting against Harry's lips; he tries to lean away from it, but Lucius pushes it into his mouth, holding his jaw shut tightly as Harry tries to struggle away, but Harry can feel his throat beginning to slacken, and he heaves in a gasp of relief, nearly choking on the stone on his tongue.

He spits it out onto his palm, and he stares down at it as the burning in his throat begins to slowly recede.

"It's a bezoar," he says hoarsely.

"Yes, Potter," Snape says, murmuring a diagnostic spell and looking at him seriously. "A point from Slytherin for stating the obvious."

"You can't do that!" Harry argues hoarsely as Lucius ushers him into a side room and onto a low sofa. "We're not in school!"

"My apologies, Potter," Snape says dryly. "I hadn't realized you were enrolling elsewhere." Sirius looks furious, and he shoves Snape away from Harry: Lucius responds by grabbing Harry's godfather by the collar of his robes and dragging him back by a foot.

"If you hadn't noticed, Sirius," Malfoy murmurs, obviously trying to speak lowly enough that Harry can't hear, "Severus is distracting your godson from panicking in this situation." Sirius opens his mouth, then seems to reconsider his position, and just scowls at Snape as he comes back to Harry. Harry isn't panicking. In fact, he feels surprisingly calm: the idea that someone's just tried to poison him settles in his mind like a stone, but doesn't really cause him any undue distress. Maybe he's starting to get used to attempted murder - it would make sense, at this point.

"I'm not panicking," Harry says, accepting the glass of water Lucius pushes into his hand. He drinks from it greedily, letting it soothe the prickling sensation in his throat, and he looks down at the bezoar in his other hand. "Do you just keep these to hand?" Bezoars seem a strange thing to keep immediately in reach, but Lucius gives him a serious little look.

"I'm poisoned rather often," Lucius says dispassionately, settling on the edge of the sofa and looking down at Harry with his silver brows furrowed and an expression of concern on his face. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Harry says, swallowing hard.

"Was that the whole plan, Malfoy? Bring my godson here and then get him killed?" Snape rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment, and Harry watches him as he makes his way towards the door.

"I'll speak to Narcissa, Lucius, and find Ms Lovegood amidst the chaos." Lucius nods his head, pouring a glass of something else for Harry, and Harry is relieved to find when it touches his lips that it's pumpkin juice.

"Were I to kill Harry, as I'm sure the young man is aware, I wouldn't be so stupid as to do it in my own home," Lucius says. Sirius shuts his mouth for a little while, but he's all but vibrating with anger, and Harry puts his hand on his godfather's arm, hoping he'll just calm down. "Now, we can call in Bartemius Crouch and see that he creates an investigation," Lucius says quietly, "Or-"

"We keep it under our hats, don't panic anyone unnecessarily, and bide our time. Yeah, I've already made my decision." Harry speaks firmly, considering it carefully. He doesn't want everyone in the next room to fuss over him, and he especially doesn't want this whole ordeal to appear in the Prophet.

"Harry!" Sirius protests sharply.

"No, Sirius - if Aurors get involved, I won't get any whys or hows, and I'll probably end up with some bodyguard. It'll be all over the papers, there'll be all this ridiculous fuss..." Harry shakes his head. "No." Lucius gives a small nod of his head, and Sirius looks between the two of them, shaking his head.

"Strange things happen to people in Slytherin," he says with a mild element of disgust.

"Sirius," Harry says quietly, "Can you go see if Luna's alright? I feel really bad that I brought her here, and I know that Mrs Malfoy is probably sorting stuff out, but-" Sirius is standing immediately, nodding his head and obviously ready to do his duty as a devoted godfather: he leaves the room in a hurry, shutting the door behind him, and Harry looks at Lucius' back. He's pouring a drink of some amber liquid that smokes slightly, and Harry guesses he's looking at Firewhiskey.

"You didn't do it, did you?" Harry asks quietly, and Lucius turns to stare at him, his eyes widening slightly. He doesn't look irked like he had with Sirius - he looks honestly offended, and Harry's glad of that.

"No," he says firmly, taking a sip of his drink and staring at Harry coolly. "I would never."

"Never?" Harry asks.

"Never," Lucius says. "You're a friend of Draco's, and no less, a young man I know."

"I believe you," Harry says, and he actually does - Pureblood honour is a weird thing, full of contradictions, but in some ways it's simple. "Can I ask you a favour?"

"Of course," Lucius assures him.

"Can you show me your left arm?" Lucius stares down at him, his lips pressed tightly together. The question has shocked him, but Harry just needs to know, needs to know. And even without Lucius rolling up his sleeve to show Harry, Harry already knows what he'd see there.

"Harry, I-"

"Never," Harry repeats again. "Even if he came back tomorrow?" Lucius' nostrils flare, and his grip is so tight on his glass it looks like it might shatter at any moment, but Harry doesn't break the other man's gaze or shrink back from him. "Even then, you wouldn't?"

"Even then," Lucius says quietly, in a very serious tone. "Draco told me what happened in your first year - Quirrell, the Dark Lord, the Philosopher's Stone. Were Draco to have reached that final chamber with you, he would have been killed with no remorse."

"Okay," Harry says. Lucius icy gaze is focused on Harry's face, scanning his features.

"Okay?" he repeats. "What does that mean?"

"I can't out you as a Death Eater, or someone would have done so already. Can't kill you. I can take your word that you won't try and murder me anytime soon, though, and just bide my time." Lucius opens his mouth to say something, but the door comes open, and Snape slips into the room.

"People are beginning to notice your absence, Lucius." Snape leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, and Harry watches him.

"Is Slughorn blabbering?" Lucius asks tersely, and Snape gives a slow, slow shake of his head.

"No. I've told him it was a mere allergy. He's drunk." Snape says this with an obvious disgust, curling his lip slightly, but Lucius just nods his head. "Go, Potter. Take care not of what you eat and drink."

"Yes, sir," Harry agrees, and he rushes out of the little room and into the hall again, quickly finding Luna. He glances around the room, at Percy and Draco, Daphne, Pansy, Theodore, Frank, at Snape and Gudgeon, at Cedric Diggory and Septima Vector. Three attempts to kill him so far, and whoever they were must have had access to Hogwarts.

All of a sudden, he feels very, very tired of all this stuff.

---

The last of the guests filter out of the doors of the Manor at around eleven o'clock, slowly, and in dribs and drabs. Sirius is Apparating Luna home, and Harry waits with Draco at a table in a comfortable little lounge. He's tired, fatigue weighting heavily on him, and he tries not to think about the mark he knows is on Lucius Malfoy's arm. "You alright?" Harry asks as Draco gives a little yawn, and the other boy shrugs.

"Fine," he says. "No one's tried to kill me tonight."

"Don't get too jealous," Harry replies. "Or your Christmas present will be a knife in the back." Draco laughs. Gryffindors, Harry has discovered, don't take as well to this kind of humour as Slytherins do.

"Speaking of," comes a voice from behind them, and Narcissa enters the room with five matching packages flanking her. "Let's get onto something more cheerful, shall we?" Draco smiles, and Harry pulls his chair back, letting Narcissa sit next to him as Lucius settles himself by Draco. "Merry Christmas, boys."

"Merry Christmas," Harry says with the Malfoy men, and he reaches for the gift the Malfoys' have got him.

---

"Those are nice," Sirius admits, sounding almost annoyed as Harry carefully sets the new set of robes on a hanger to put in his wardrobe. They are nice: the robes are a deep, plum red with golden hummingbirds embroidered on their long sleeves and on their hood, and despite the Gryffindor colours, he likes them. They really did spend far too much on him. "You excited for tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Harry says quietly. "Yeah, I am. Just me, you and Remus, right?"

"It's not how it should be," Sirius murmurs in a wistful tone. "Your first Christmas, it was the six of us. Me, Remus, James and Peter, then Lily, and you." His fists clench at his sides, and Sirius grits his teeth. "I bet he was spying on us even then. A bloody Death Eater." The anger fades a little from Sirius' face, and for a few seconds he just looks sad - sad, and utterly exhausted.

"Don't think about it," Harry advises. "Merry Christmas, Sirius."

"Merry Christmas, kid," Sirius returns, and he offers Harry a small smile as he pulls his door shut. Harry glances at the clock on his bookshelf, which is ticking slowly towards midnight: he feels tired, but not tired enough to sleep, and so he picks up the Prophet he'd received and not even glanced at that morning. When he settles in his armchair, Hedwig joins him, settling herself on the back of the seat and nuzzling the top of Harry's head affectionately.

"Merry Christmas, Hedwig," he murmurs, reaching up to give her a little scratch on the belly. Catching his eye on the back page of the Prophet is a private advert, asking for any and all information about Muggle explosives. Harry recognizes the name printed in neat letters at its base: Jacqueline Flockhart.

Harry's head pounds. His ears ring. There's blackness at the edges of his vision, and one lens of his glasses is smashed so badly he can barely see out of it.

We met the Grangers for lunch. I sat with Hermione. I ordered- What did I order?

His hands hurt, stinging pain running over his palms, and he awkwardly pulls himself to his knees, looking down at them: his hands are bloody and raw, covered in sharp little grazes.

We decided to go to Diagon Alley and browse a little. Remus and Sirius were looking at telescopes, Sirius made a joke about folding telescopes. We laughed. I laughed. Then- Then?

Harry looks blearily around, trying to focus his eyes to focus; the side of his head feels wet, his hair stuck down to the side of his face, but he knows it isn't raining. His head doesn't hurt, not exactly, but he knows that it's bleeding. Rubble, shrapnel and pieces of junk are strewn all around the alley: the explosion had come from a carpenter's shop a few storefronts away, and it had blown directly through the potions store and the astronomy one.

A cauldron. It had been a cauldron that had hit him in the head, skimmed him with its edge: the edge of it glints silver and red in the December sun.

He sees the sleeve of Sirius' green robes sticking out from under a beam; Remus is nowhere to be seen; Hermione lies on her belly beside him, unmoving. Wood shavings and chips of brick dust her hair, and there's a jagged tear up one side of her arm. Harry can't really breathe, and he feels awkward, disoriented.

There's a man stood in the middle of Diagon Alley, and he's laughing. Harry can't hear him - all he can hear is the pounding, loud ring of his own ears - but he can see his open mouth, see the wand in his hand, see that he's unscathed.

He went through the wall before us, Harry remembers. I recognize the ribbons in his robes.

Harry stumbles as he tries to stand: it hurts to pull in the big exhalation he does, and he raises his wand, doing his level best to focus on the figure before him. "Stupefy!" he yells, and he feels the shift in his throat, but the word he says sounds far away: the beam hits, and the man tumbles to the ground.

Harry stands in the middle of it all, staring at the chaos around him: a woman comes forwards, puts her hand on Harry's shoulder and pushes him gently to sit down on the floor. Her robes are important. They're a bright colour, they're a healer's robes. A mediwitch. She's talking, but Harry can't hear her, and the blackness is beginning to overtake more of his vision. He can see odd colours in front of his eyes, and he feels himself retch.

What did I order for lunch? I can't remember.

---

"Is Sirius okay?" Harry asks hoarsely as Remus enters the room. Harry sits cross-legged on Hermione's bed, his own neglected. They both look a mess, he's aware - the cut on Harry's head has been healed, but his hair is still stuck down to his head by caked blood, and Hermione looks positively grey where she's covered with concrete dust. Blood is soaked into her sleeves and the chest of her robes, and Harry knows that the both of them look like they're extras in a horror movie.

"He'll be fine," Remus says. There's a short, jagged cut across Remus' jaw that he obviously hasn't had healed: it's beginning to close itself up, slowly, but it makes Remus look somehow more haggard than he usually does. "He has a few broken ribs, and the blast dislocated his hip, but they're healing him up."

"What happened?" Hermione asks, before giving a sharp, sudden squeak of noise.

"That's the Skele-Gro," Harry supplies, looking sympathetically at Hermione's left hand, which she's currently holding flat on a board. "It feels weird, I know, but it shouldn't take long to fix the bones." Hermione grits her teeth, nodding her head, and she looks back to Remus. He sits on the edge of Harry's bed, letting out a low sigh and rubbing his hands up the sides of his cheeks.

"The man Harry stunned - his name is Chad Arnett. He's American, used to run a haberdashery on Slip's Crescent, off Diagon Alley. He set explosives up along the street, blew them all apart." Remus breathes in. "We don't know why he did it. He's in the Ministry right now, the Aurors took him in."

"Is anyone dead?" Harry asks. Hermione gasps, glancing at him, but then she looks desperately to Remus for the answer: she hadn't thought about that until now, Harry can see, and she's as relieved as Harry is when Remus shakes his head.

"Some serious injuries here and there. The assistant in the apothecary was in the supply cupboard when the blast hit, and she was hit by thirty or forty potions at once, let alone the glass holding them in their bottles." Harry had vomited earlier, emptied what felt like his entire body, but the thought of that makes him gag slightly. "No one's died, though, and no one is expected to."

"Hermione!" comes a call from the edge of the room, and Mr and Mrs Granger run forwards: Mr Granger throws his arms around Hermione, and Mrs Granger does the same to Harry before they swap places. Hermione coughs hard, doing her best to keep her hand still as Mr and Mrs Granger sit themselves down. "Are you alright, Remus? Is Sirius? Arthur Weasley had to accompany us here - we were in the ice cream parlour, still..."

"Where is Arthur?" Remus asks.

"He's gone to see Sirius," Mrs Granger explains. "Look, why don't you and Jon go find them? I'll stay with these two." Remus and Mr Granger nod, leaving the room, and Mrs Granger looks down at Harry and Hermione, her hand over her mouth.

"Are you and Dad okay?" Hermione asks, and Mrs Granger nods her head.

"Yes, darling: we were talking to Mr Fortescue. We heard the explosion, of course, but no one would let us through."

"That's good," Harry says quietly. "No offence, Mrs Granger, obviously, but a wizard's body can take more than a Muggle's. If there'd been a secondary blast you could really have been hurt."

"Like you two, you mean?" Mrs Granger says, and Harry gives a rueful little laugh that makes his chest hurt.

"Maybe," Harry says. "Maybe."

---

"Sirius needs to stay here overnight," Remus says quietly, meeting Harry's eyes in the mirror. Harry sighs, carefully washing a little more of the blood on his face into the sink. Remus comes forwards to help, but Harry shakes his head, pushing the other man back and holding his wand up to wash off the last of the red slick sticking to him. "I thought if I took you home tonight-"

"No," Harry says. "I'll stay here, thanks." Remus sighs.

"Harry, you can't. You-"

"Look, Remus," Harry says, and he turns, looking at the man for a few moments. Harry feels tired, and he can see from the mirror that his face is pale, but he feels a little anger nonetheless. Yesterday had been awkward enough - Remus, Sirius and Harry had opened presents together, had a little dinner, and Harry had felt like Remus shouldn't have been there. He and Sirius were friends, sure, but Remus keeps acting like he's Harry's godfather, like he has any right to fuss over Harry's well-being. "I don't mind that you and Sirius are bosom buddies, but I don't care that you knew my dad before the war. I don't care if you were best friends - Hell, I don't care if you, Dad and Sirius had some illicit, secret affair, or if you were all swingers with my mum!

"You didn't come for me. You didn't help me. I didn't even know you bloody existed until this year, so stop acting like you're my guardian, or a weird uncle, or anything like that. Sirius is my godfather, Remus - his excuse for not being there was twelve years in Azkaban. What was yours?" Remus pales slightly, staring at Harry with his mouth slightly agape and his eyes tortured, but Harry doesn't care. Harry's too tired to care, too angry to care. "You don't get to do this! You don't get to just come into my life because Sirius has. Just stop it, alright?"

Harry shoves his wand into his pocket, pushing his wet hair back, and he leaves the bathroom as quickly as he can, heading down to Sirius' room. They'd settled him in a private room, out of the way of the wards - he's covered in the most terrible bruising, and a little of his hair had been ripped from his scalp as they'd pulled him out of the rubble: he looks an utter mess, but Harry doesn't care.

"Oh, you look better," Sirius says casually. "I like this slicked back look."

"Thanks," Harry says sarcastically. "I try and look good for you." Sirius laughs, but he regrets it immediately, and does his best to stop himself. Breathing shallowly with his eyes closed, Sirius concentrates for a few seconds, and then he glances back to Harry.

"Remus is going to take you home."

"No," Harry says. "He's not." Sirius frowns at him, furrowing his brow in obvious perplexity. "I don't want to leave you, Sirius," Harry explains, and it's the truth. "I'll stay here." Sirius expression softens, and he gives a nod of his head, patting the edge of his bed.

Harry sits down, and he and Sirius begin to talk about anything and everything - except, obviously, everything that had happened that day. Harry sees Remus hover in the doorway, but he leaves soon enough, and Harry is grateful for that.

---

"Forty people injured," Harry reads from the Prophet. "Four businesses experiencing structural damage, twelve more heavily affected." Hermione shakes her head, leaning back against the seat. Crookshanks sits next to her, sprawled out in a patch of sun coming in through the window, is belly on display. "Chad Arnett, haberdasher and ex-President of the Official Gilderoy Lockhart fanclub is being shipped out to Azkaban today."

"Do they actually say that?" Hermione asks, furrowing her brow. "That he was president of...?"

"Yeah," Harry says, nodding his head as he looks at the photograph of Arnett in the paper, his arms thrown around a slightly uncomfortable looking Lockhart. "He said at his trial he wanted Lockhart free."

"Talk about devotion to his cause," Hermione says quietly, looking horrified, and Harry nods his head, dropping the paper aside and shaking his head. Hermione sighs, gently petting Crookshanks' chin and letting him let out his jet-engine purr. "I can't believe someone would do something like that."

"Especially in the name of a pillock like Lockhart." Harry says, and Hermione snorts, looking out of the window. The Hogwarts Express chugs along at its usual quick pace: the last few days had mostly involved staying inside and doing jigsaws with Sirius - Harry hadn't felt like going out anywhere after what had happened on Boxing Day. "Then again, Gladys keeps trying to do me in to."

"We don't know that it's just for Lockhart, though," Hermione argues with a mild element of reproach.

"She's got a framed photo of him on her desk," Harry points out, and Hermione makes a face as she remembers the fact.

"Yeah," she admits. "It's just for Lockhart." They'd discussed the matter last night, when Mr and Mrs Granger had let her stay at Sirius'. They'd narrowed down those responsible, and while Sirius had offered (four times) his theory that Snape was trying to kill Harry, they'd decided Gudgeon was probably the culprit. Harry isn't yet sure how exactly they're going to deal with it, but for the time being it's just to be accepted. "At least she's not very good at it."

A knock on the compartment door makes them look up, and Harry fights the irritation in his chest as he sees Remus in the doorway.

"Hello, Professor Lupin," Harry says pointedly. Remus' jaw tenses for a moment, but he steps inside and closes the compartment door behind him: he'd avoided Harry for the last few days, even when he was in Sirius' flat, but today it seems like he's determined. "Do you need something?"

"I was thinking last night," Remus says quietly, "And I believe Gladys Gudgeon is your would-be assassin."

"No!" Harry says, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "You don't say?" Remus blinks, staring at him.

"We were just talking about it," Hermione mildly replies, giving a sympathetic shrug of her shoulders.

"Well," Remus says. "I just wanted to let you know I'll keep an eye on her."

"Yeah, I'll tell Professor Snape, thanks," Harry says, and he ignores the hurt on Remus' face as he gives a small nod of his head and leaves. Harry presses his lips together, looking out of the window, and he can feel Hermione's stare. "What?"

"Why are you being so nasty to him all of a sudden? There could have been loads of reasons he couldn't take you in, Harry," she says. "I mean, he's obviously ill. Maybe he wasn't fit to." Harry huffs out an irritated noise - even if he couldn't have actually taken care of Harry for whatever reason, he could have spoken to him once, twice. He could have visited, told Harry about his parents, about magic, about literally anything.

"That's not enough, Hermione," Harry states, brooking no argument, and he lets Crookshanks clamber into his lap, stroking over the cat's bitten, scarred ears. "Too little, too late."

"And you believe Professor Gudgeon is attempting to kill you?" Snape asks, looking skeptical as he watches Harry from behind his desk. Harry crosses his arms over his chest, meeting his head of house's eyes and refusing to back down.

"Whoever it is has to have access at Hogwarts, or they wouldn't have been able to enchant the knight, and they would also need to have been at Lucius'-"

"Mr Malfoy's," Snape corrects.

"Lucius' party," Harry continues, ignoring him. "Let alone the whole thing with the unicorns - no one else has been nearly killed by magical livestock this year. And she has motive - she's got a picture of Lockhart on her desk, and I bet you she used to be in his fan club. I'm not asking you to send her to Azkaban this minute, sir! I just want you to you know, keep an eye on her." Snape stares at him for a long few moments, curling his lip before he finally replies.

"Is there no need to your arrogance, Potter? Do you truly believe me to be your personal guard?"

"You act like you are, half the time," Harry points out, and Snape scowls at him.

"Ten points from Slytherin." Harry scowls right back. "Go away, Potter. In the event of your death, I will investigate Professor Gudgeon's involvement to the best of my ability."

"That's all I wanted!" Harry retorts, and he leaves Snape's office, shutting the door behind him before he heads up to the great hall for breakfast. He has no Care of Magical Creatures today, at least, so his first day back in classes will hopefully be less than life-threatening. He settles himself down with Blaise and Theodore, who give him little grins.

"Amazed you survived the holiday," Theo says, and Harry wonders for a second if Draco had told him about the poison at the Christmas Gala, but then he says, "You just had to be in the middle of some madman's attack on Diagon Alley, didn't you?"

"Oh, you know me," Harry says, pretending to preen, "I do love to be at the centre of the action." Blaise snorts, and they settle into breakfast together.

It's a slow day - after so many days of just playing games and reading all day, being back in classes is something of a drag, but it's a relief, too: Harry really does enjoy a lot of his lessons, and it's nice to be using magic all day again. He'd been afforded just a warning for Stunning Arnett in Diagon Alley, but beyond that he hadn't been able to use any. He can't wait to be seventeen.

Assuming he lives that long, anyway.

---

"You alright, Ron?" Harry asks as he leaves the great hall that dinner: Weasley glances at him, obviously suspicious for a moment or two, and then he offers a small smile.

"Yeah, mate. I'm doing pretty well. Have a good Christmas?"

"Oh, yeah. I'll be wearing your mum's jumper all next Saturday." Ron laughs a little, and then he shakes his head.

"You won't be seeing me in mine. She made it maroon. I bloody hate maroon." Harry chuckles, and he gives the Gryffindor a little wave as he pushes the entrance hall's door open, stepping out into the courtyard. The moon is half-full but it's bright, and Harry sits down on one of the benches just outside the hall, enjoying the way the light of it gleams brightly on the water in the fountain.

It's cold outside, but the chilliness isn't biting - if anything, it's refreshing, and Harry decides to just enjoy it for a little bit. His gaze is caught by a bird flapping above him, and he looks up at it curiously: it's a screech owl with a golden ribbon around its neck, and it slows itself down as it approaches Harry, settling itself on the bench beside him and putting out its leg.

Harry frowns at it, wondering who's sent a letter to arrive at this time of night, but he takes the letter attached, having a glance over its contents.

Dear Harry Potter,

I heard my Aunt Jackie talking about meeting you at the Malfoy Christmas Gala a few weeks back, and I just wanted to offer a little friendly advice. Jackie Flockhart? Absolutely bonkers. All her friends - Gladys, who's the Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts - Sara Dean-Smith, Bonnie Darling or whoever? Much the same. Jackie was friends with Chad Arnett, to put this sort of thing in perspective.

I know it's probably weird of me to tell you this out of the blue, given that she's my aunt and that, but I just wanted to give you a warning.

She's not a fan of you after you "got" Gilderoy Lockhart sent to prison "for no reason", so just watch your back.

Feel free to write me,
Joaquin Lockhart
Flockhart's Locks
19 Slip's Crescent

Harry studies the curling handwriting on the page, and then he glances back into the entrance hall. It's a little past eight, and everyone will be heading up to their dormitories for the night: leaning behind the door for a moment, Harry pulls his cloak out of his back and pulls it over his head. Sirius had advised he keep it on hand with him, like his dad had used to do, just in case, and it's advice Harry is glad to take.

He makes his way quietly up the stairs and towards the Gryffindor common room, waiting for a gaggle of fifth year girls to say the Fat Lady's password and get the door open. He sees Hermione straight away, sat alone in a big armchair beside the fire: she has a book in her lap, and is utterly and completely focused on it.

"Hey," Harry whispers as he gets close enough, sitting on the edge of her chair.

"What are you doing?" Hermione hisses, keeping her gaze on her book.

"I've got something I need to show you." Harry goes quiet, leaning back against the arm of the chair and being careful to keep his feet under the cloak. No one really looks in Hermione's direction, though, and by half past nine the Gryffindors have gone up to their dorms. They're not asleep, Harry knows - he can hear laughter from different dormitories drifting down the stairs, but for the time being, they're out of the way.

Harry pulls the cloak off, folding it and slipping it back into the bottom of his bag, and he and Hermione sit on the sofa across from the fireplace. "Joaquin?" Hermione says, peering down at the page.

"Is that how it's pronounced?" Harry asks. "Wha-keen?"

"It's Spanish," Hermione explains, her gaze still focused on the parchment. "It means phoenix." Harry can't help himself: he sniggers. "Don't! It's quite a nice name. My parents-"

"They would not have called you that if you were a boy," Harry protests, horrified.

"It's a nice name, Harry!" Hermione argues, and Harry groans, putting his face in his hands. Hermione looks back to the letter, thoughtful, and says, "Well, at least this confirms the Lockhart thing. Didn't you say Jacqueline Lockhart put an advert in the paper, too?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "Asking about Muggle explosives." Hermione is silent for a few moments, glancing at him. "You thinking about Arnett?"

"Yes," Hermione answers quietly. "What sort of explosives did he use?"

"The paper never said," Harry answers. "What is with these people? Have you ever heard of these other two, Bonnie Darling and Sara Dean-Smith?"

"Bonnie Darling sells designs cleaning products, I think," Hermione says. "She's got all these different cleaning agents and stuff out - Mrs Weasley was buying Darling Doxycide in Diagon Alley last summer. She's listed as a contributor in Lockhart's book about household pests."

"How do you remember this stuff?"

"There was a picture of her," Hermione says. "I remember thinking her hair was too blonde to be real."

"So, this team of five people love Gilderoy Lockhart, and presumably all want me dead, but aren't very good at managing it. Great. Just fabulous." Hermione laughs, passing him the letter back, and he waggles his finger at her. "Don't you laugh, now. It'll be you, next."

"I doubt it," she says, and she leans back against the sofa. He drops the letter into his bag, to be set with the rest of his letters tonight, and he leans back too, facing her. "At least you've got me."

"That's true," Harry says. "Wish I could trade you in for a better model, but you know-" Hermione slaps his shoulder, and Harry laughs, keeping her gaze and smiling at her fondly. "No, really, Hermione, thanks. I'm glad you're here."

"I'm glad I'm here too," she murmurs. He's aware, suddenly, of how close they are on the sofa: there's not even half a foot of space between them, and the Gryffindor common room is warm with its thick carpets and the crackling fire beside them. The silence between them grows, pregnant, and Harry licks his lips nervously as Hermione leans towards him slightly. He bridges the gap, hesitating for a second, and then his mouth meets hers: it's wet, and odd, and when her tongue brushes his he pulls himself back, laughing.

Hermione is laughing too, hiding her face in her hands.

"Well, let's never do that again," Harry says.

"Yeah, that was terrible," she replies, biting her lip to try and stop herself from giggling too badly. "You sure you're not gay?"

"Shut up!" Harry says, shoving her, and they share a wide grin. "I hope boys are better kissers than you."

"Me too," Hermione agrees philosophically, "The girls too, I suppose, for your sake." Harry shakes his head, leaning forwards and pulling up his bag. "You heading to bed?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "Night, Hermione. Bet you I'll get a decent kiss from someone before you will."

"Bet not taken, because I'm not that cruel," Hermione retorts, and Harry laughs, running over to the portrait and pushing it open.

---

"There you are!" Blaise says as Harry enters his and Draco's bedroom. Theodore and Draco are sat together on Draco's bed, but Blaise is sprawled across Harry's. "We did wonder."

"Do you two not like your room or something?" Harry asks, kicking the door shut and dropping his bag beside his bed.

"We like the atmosphere in this one," Theodore answers. "We're feeling Lixie's absence keenly, though."

"I forgot to pack her," Harry admits, looking at the blank space beside his bed. "I've got one of Celestina Warbeck, but it's just not the same." Blaise snorts, drawing his legs back so Harry can sit against the footboard of his bed. "What are you talking about?"

"We're making fun of Draco," Theodore says, and Draco kicks the other boy in the thigh. "Because he's young and ignorant."

"Isn't Draco older than you, Theo?" Blaise asks.

"Shush."

"I'm not any more ignorant than he is," Draco maintains sharply, jabbing his finger at Harry. "Do you know what a Dead Arm Charm is?" Harry furrows his brow, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"Uh, no?"

"Ha!" Draco says triumphantly.

"It's different for him to not to know something," Blaise says, shaking his head, and Harry frowns at him.

"And why's that?"

"Because, Potter. You're an idiot." Harry grabs a a pillow, doing his best to smother Blaise with it, and the two of them wrestle across his bed for a minute until Harry manages to shove him off and onto the floor. Blaise accepts it, lying on his back on the carpet, and he crosses his arms over his chest. "What about the Dead Arm Charm, anyway?"

"I got an incantation," Theo says, and Blaise sits up, looking at him seriously. "My cousin Glyn was over for Christmas, and he left a copy of this behind when he went home." Theo holds a bright purple book up, emblazoned with its title in silver: Sex Charms for The Discerning Solo Artist. Harry reaches for it, but Blaise grabs it first, opening it up in his lap and laughing.

"What does it do?" Draco and Harry demand at the same time, and Theo snorts.

"Look, Harry, give me your right arm. Katarnarkis." Theo taps the back of Harry's hand, and he shivers, feeling a strange tingling run up his arm, but after it's passed, he doesn't feel anything. He gives Theodore a perplexed look, but the other boy just smirks. "Touch your nose." Harry reaches up, touching his nose, and then he lets out a surprised noise.

"That's so weird!" he declares. He can move his arm just fine, but touching his nose feels like someone else is touching him, like he's momentarily detached it. "How is this a sex charm?"

"The idea is touching something other than your nose, you dunce," Blaise says from the floor.

"Oh," Harry says. "Let me see that book-"

"No, I'm reading it!" Blaise retorts, and Harry groans, throwing himself onto the bed.

"Now, now, boys," Theo says. "Learn to share. It's not like we can get another copy."

"Is it from that shop on Fargo Alley?" Draco asks, not showing especial interest. "The one with the ageline?"

"The very one," Theo agrees, giving a nod of his head. "Shame. They've got sex books, posters that strip for you, all sorts of dirty stuff." Harry sighs. Now he really wishes he was seventeen already.

"Hey, guys," Harry asks, leaning back. "Someone mentioned Flockhart's Locks the other day - what is that?"

"It's a hairdresser on Slip's Crescent," Draco answers. "It's where Mother and Father get their hair done."

"It's expensive, then?" Draco frowns at him.

"Well, I suppose. Flockhart's a good hairdresser, though, so it's well worth the money." Harry nods his head, lying on his side in bed and doing his best to read over Blaise's shoulder about lubricant conjuration. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no real reason," Harry says, giving a shrug. "Sirius mentioned it, that's all."

"Does anyone here have a toad?" yells Francois, and Harry sticks his head out of the dorm, peering at it.

"That's Trevor," Harry says, coming out of his and Draco's room, putting out his hands. "He's Neville Longbottom's."

"How the Hell did it get down here?" Frank demands, and Harry shrugs his shoulders.

"He gets everywhere, Frank. They found him at the top of the Astronomy Tower last May." The prefect raises his eyebrows, glancing down at Trevor appraisingly. The toad gives a rather feeble croak, and Frank hands it over. Shouldering his bag, Harry makes his way out of the dorm - it's a Friday, and although it's early in the morning he can always just keep Trevor to hand until Neville comes down to breakfast.

"You're alright, aren't you, Trevor?" Harry says quietly, absently thumbing over the toad's head as he walks up towards the entrance hall, weaving through the familiar dungeon passageways. "Just a bit of an escape artist." Trevor croaks, and Harry smiles at him. The great hall, as expected, is almost devoid of anyone: Snape and Sinistra are the sole teachers at the table, and they're engaged in quiet conversation; the only students are a few prefects all sat together on the Hufflepuff table. "Hey, Percy. You want to take this off my hands?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Trevor," Percy scolds, taking the toad from Harry, and Harry gives the older boy a little nod before he backs out of the hall. It's still dark outside, and cloud obscures the bare amount of light there is: the barest sliver of the full moon is visible as it disappears beneath the horizon. Harry sees Gladys Gudgeon in the courtyard, and he meets her gaze as she looks up from the fountain.

"Mr Potter," she says, arching one of her greying brows. He walks towards her: this close to the doors of the castle, he feels fairly confident, and he fingers his wand in the pocket of his robes.

"Professor Gudgeon," Harry replies. "D'you mind if I ask you a question?"

"Please, young man," she says, spreading her hands. "Do."

"Are you trying to emulate Lockhart? I mean, you keep trying to kill me, but you're so bad at it - I can't help but feel it's some kind of tribute act." She laughs. It's a high, musical laugh - the sort of laugh Harry imagines would fit in well at an ambassador's dinner party, and Gudgeon smiles beatifically at him.

"Do you honestly believe I'm trying to kill you, Mr Potter?"

"What, you're denying it?"

"Of course!" Harry lets out a surprised little laugh, shaking his head.

"What, you didn't enchant that night, those bludgers-"

"Of course I did," she interrupts, still smiling that high-class smile and showing all of her teeth, "But you don't truly believe any of that was going to kill you, do you?" Harry falters, and he stares at her, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"I- sorry, what?"

"Mr Potter, I'm not some second year Hufflepuff doing my level best to do you in. I'm not an idiot - if I wanted to kill you, I'd have no trouble at all." Harry opens his mouth, then closes it, unsure how to respond to this - on the one hand, it's obvious that anyone really trying to kill him is going the wrong way about it. Even Dobby's attempts had been generally more potentially lethal, and he'd been trying to keep Harry alive.

"Why the Hell are you doing it, then?"

"Why not?" Gudgeon asks, giving a delicate shrug of her violet-clad shoulders. "It's enjoyable to watch you struggle. You did, after all, make Mr Lockhart flustered and uncomfortable a fair few times last year."

"Yeah, but not by poisoning him!" Harry snaps.

"Hardly my fault you lacked creativity, Potter," Gudgeon says, and she laughs again, walking away through the courtyard and down the path, out towards the greenhouses. Harry stands in silence as the sun begins to rise, perplexed. What sort of woman goes to that kind of effort to not kill someone?

"Harry!" comes a call from the entrance hall, and Harry sees Ginny and Luna peering out of the entrance hall at him. "You want to eat breakfast with us?"

"Sure, sure," Harry says, glancing back at Gudgeon's retreating form, and he makes his way into the great hall again, settling at the Ravenclaw table with the two girls. He's quieter than usual. He needs time to think.

---

The vague sense of triumph Harry had felt on the train home has utterly dissipated. "What do you mean, she isn't trying to kill you?" Hermione asks, staring across the table at him.

"She just said, straight to my face, she was doing it to make me uncomfortable. Not to actually kill me - because obviously none of that stuff would work. She's just doing it because she can." He'd seen one of Mrs Figg's cats crowd a mouse into corner, once, and it had batted at it for ages: it hadn't really hurt the thing, but it had pushed at it and played with it, herding it one way and that.

That's how Harry feels right now, and he's too surprised to be angry about it. The knowledge just settles in his belly like a weight.

"Why's she here, then?" Hermione asks, and Harry glances up from where he'd been staring into space.

"What?"

"Well, think about it, Harry. If she isn't actually here to kill you, why is she here?" Harry blinks.

"I don't know," he admits. "I mean- she can't just have wanted the job, randomly, or she wouldn't be doing this to me. It wouldn't be worth risking getting fired." He meets Hermione's eyes. "Why is she here?"

"No idea," Hermione answers. "Maybe we should try to find out."

"You've gotten so rebellious," Harry says. "I love it."

---

Harry stares down at the notes on his desk, frowning. Lupin is late to class today, but he doesn't really care: it gives him more time to think. GLADYS GUDGEON. Loves Lockhart. Jacqueline Flockhart > Muggle explosives in newspaper. Chad Arnett > used Muggle explosives? Test? Blow thing up? Blow Hogwarts up? The door is thrown open, and Snape stalks into the room. Harry shoves his notes under his defence text book.

"Werewolves," Snape says simply. "They are our subject."

---

Harry and Hermione both walk slowly out of the room. Harry thinks of the full moon he'd seen that morning, tucking itself carefully behind the horizon: beside him, Hermione is equally slow about moving, her expression the same mask of realization as Harry's.

"How can we not have figured this out?"

"Snape hates him," Harry whispers. "He wanted us to figure it out. So we'd get him kicked off the staff."

"Do you want to?" Hermione asks. Harry shakes his head. He wonders, vaguely, how easy it is for a werewolf to get custody of his friend's son. Then, he thinks of Lycanthropy In Society, and wonders how easy it is for werewolves to even have friends.

He'd never asked about Remus' Animagus form. He hadn't even thought about it - Sirius had skipped so smoothly over the subject it had never even occurred to him to ask. Hermione and Harry move at a measured pace until they reach the Defence office, and Harry doesn't even bother to knock: quietly, he just pushes the door open.

Remus is asleep in the armchair beside his desk, his skin a sickly white, his position painful to even look at. Hermione closes the door quietly behind them, and she sets the kettle on the counter to boil, grasping at a cup and tea bag for him.

"Remus," Harry murmurs quietly: he reaches out, gently touching the other man's shoulder. The werewolf flinches, lurching awake, and he looks wildly around the room before his gaze calms slightly, becoming more guarded. "Snape just taught us."

"Oh, yes," Remus says hoarsely, sitting up in his chair and doing his best to straighten out his tired, worn-out robes. "I, er, I've been feeling under the weather-" Hermione pushes the steaming cup of tea silently into his hands, and he glances down at it, obviously surprised. "Oh. Thank- thank you, Hermione."

"He didn't teach us about hinkypunks," Harry says.

"Or grindylows," Hermione agrees. "He moved ahead in the curriculum. To werewolves." Remus sips slowly at his tea, staring between the two of them.

"Oh," he says succinctly.

"Yeah," Harry says. "We wanted to talk."

"Lock the door, Hermione," Remus murmurs, setting his mug down on his desk, and Harry drags over two chairs for he and Hermione to sit in. Remus looks exhausted, but Harry has too many questions to wait.

---

"Shit," Hermione hisses as they leave Remus' office.

"What?"

"I've got Arithmancy and I'm late!" Hermione runs off down the corridor, at high speed, and Harry wanders alone. He doesn't really want to go anywhere in particular, so he just meanders in the rough direction of the Astronomy Tower, thinking he might sit up there for a while. It's technically out of bounds, but the Chamber of Secrets doesn't really have the same calming atmosphere.

He tries to ignore the guilt that claws at the back of his mind, and instead he pushes himself to think about Gladys Gudgeon again, instead of Remus Lupin. He runs over the list in his head, of what Flockhart had said, of what Arnett had done. It had to be all connected, but what exactly was the plan? Why was Gudgeon at Hogwarts?

There's an odd noise in the corridor, and Harry glances down it. One of the doors is slightly ajar, and he pushes it open, peering inside. He's never been to this part of the castle before, but he vaguely knows where it is - he's seen Ron Weasley in his Muggle Studies class on the Marauder's Map, and this is the Muggle Studies office.

At her desk, Charity Burbage is crying.

"Uh, Professor?" Harry asks, and she startles, staring at him. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her face wet with tears, and Harry hovers, awkwardly. "Are you okay, Ma'am? Do you want me to make you some tea?" She lets out another wet sound, putting her hand over her mouth, and Harry elects to make tea nonetheless, glancing around for her kettle. She has a normal, cast-iron one over a burner, and Harry sets it to boil, but beside it, with a little label, is a Muggle one. "I, er, I guess this one doesn't work at Hogwarts, huh?"

Burbage mutely shakes her head, drawing in ragged little breaths as she watches him, and Harry makes her tea as quickly as he can, dropping in some milk and sugar before bringing it over to her. She sips at it, staring into the middle distance, and then she offers him a very, very weak smile.

"You're- Harry, aren't you? Harry Potter?" He nods, and she smiles at him.

"I went to school with your mother," she says. "I was the year above - the reason I took Muggle Studies in the first place, actually. Such a nice girl." She sniffles, wiping at her nose with a tissue, and Harry slowly sits down. "I- I'm so sorry, I just got some bad news." Harry sort of wants to run as fast as he can down the corridor, but he's here now, and he can't just leave.

"What happened?" Harry asks, mildly unconvincingly.

"A few friends- Well, technically they're missing, but their house was covered in blood." A sob wells up in her throat, and she drinks from her mug. "They were Muggle Studies experts - studied Muggle military history, if you can believe it. Can't imagine doing something so dull."

Harry glances from Burbage to the animated poster of spark plugs pinned on the wall behind her, then back to her teary face. "Uh, yeah, no," he says awkwardly. "Can't imagine that." Letting out a quiet, woeful noise, Burbage leans back in her seat. "Do you want me to get you anything? I could, uh, I could go down for the kitchens for you...?"

"No, no, no," Burbage says, reaching over the desk and gently tapping Harry's hand. Her hand is slightly wet with her own tears. It's horrible. "Thank- thank you, Harry. I'll be alright, thank you." Harry nearly jumps out of his seat to get out of the room, and he pulls the door closed behind him.

In the hall, before his feet, is Trevor. Harry stares down at him, perplexed, but there's a croak from down the hall, and when Harry looks there are two more toads slowly making their way down the corridor. Harry hadn't even known Trevor wasn't the only toad at Hogwarts, but--

What the bloody Hell are they doing in the hallway?

---

"Sorry," Neville mumbles gratefully as Harry hands the toad over. Trevor is all but straining in Neville's hand, and Harry stares down at him, frowning. "He just keeps getting away."

"It's alright," Harry says. "It's just fine." What's not fine is the three toads on the ground beside him. They're following Harry like he's some sort of amphibious messiah, and Harry stares down at them, glancing to the one that's just making its way into the entrance hall.

"Potter," McGonagall says lowly. "Why are there toads in your pursuit?"

"I wish I could tell you," Harry admits. "I really wish I could." As he enters the great hall, Gudgeon meets his gaze, and she beams at him, giving a little wave. Harry scowls, and glaring at his entourage of green, warty followers, wishes the old biddy would go back to faux attempts at murder.

For two weeks, Harry has toads following him to every class, to every meal, even to his dormitory at night. Hard as he tries, it's impossible to completely avoid them, and it's when he reaches under the bed for a lost quill that his fingers touch the reason why: it's dried out, but when he pulls it into the light it's easily recognizable. The dead toad has runes carved into the flesh of its belly and its back, and Harry groans, pulling out the second one from under his bed.

He walks straight to Snape's office, and when he enters, Snape is bent over a cauldron, focusing carefully on it.

"Is that Remus' Wolfsbane?" he asks as he enters, and Snape makes a tch of sound, but otherwise ignores him. Harry waits patiently until Snape sets his stirrer aside, and the man turns to stare down at Harry. "What do I do with these?" Harry holds out the dead toads, and Snape glances from them to the two toads that had managed to follow Harry into the office.

"Where did you get them?"

"From under my bed," he answers, letting Snape take one of them and examine it. Harry hadn't closely examined the runes on the toad's corpse, but Snape does so with deep focus, arching his eyebrows slightly.

"An odd concentration of resources for a mere prank," he comments dryly, reaching for the other toad. Harry lets him take it, and Snape pulls a Size 1 cauldron out of a cupboard, setting it on the floor with a clatter. He drops the toads into it, and then he takes a fairly large, stoppered jug from a top shelf, pouring it into the cauldron.

There's a rather sickly, bubbling sound, and Harry does his best not to retch as he watches the toads melt into the hissing drink.

"What is that?" he demands.

"Acid," Snape replies. "The easiest way to destroy them." He points with one pale finger to the toads, who are no longer focused on Harry and are instead wandering the room. "It's a very old ritual, fiddly and... Disgusting. It affects non-sentient and semi-sentient beings to converge on a target."

"How?"

"One feeds its anchors the target's hair, blood, or flesh. Said anchors are dessicated, properly carved, and placed in decent proximity to the target. Then, one simply sits back and watches the convergence." Harry stares at Snape for a few long moments: the man had delivered the information simply, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

"That's disgusting," Harry says.

"But effective," Snape points out, and he kicks the cauldron to the side. "Go away."

"Thanks," Harry says awkwardly, and Snape ignores him, looking back to the Wolfsbane on his desk. Sighing, Harry makes his way out of the room, shaking his head. He looks up the ritual that day, though: the ritual had been used by druids, and had once been called the Banding of Beasts. It had once been used to impress Muggles in ancient times, or to scare them - with the right anchors used, any semi-sentient creature could be compelled to follow a target.

There aren't explicit instructions as to the ritual in the old text, which isn't that surprising - most of the more dangerous magic in the library is talked about vaguely so that students don't attempt it - but it involves a lot of focus on lunar cycles and fiddly work with potions ingredients and different forms of magic.

It's an extremely odd thing to use to just make him a bit uncomfortable, and reading through the texts available, Harry can't understand why Gudgeon would send toads to follow him.

He keeps his eye on Gudgeon the next few days, and it's a Wednesday evening when Harry and Hermione are walking up from Hagrid's house that they see Gudgeon at the gates of Hogwarts. Harry and Hermione pull themselves under the Invisibility Cloak, rushing as fast as they can to see her accompany her visitors to the gates.

"You're sure they're ready?" a Scottish woman asks.

"Completely," Gudgeon replies. "The walls will be utterly destroyed. We'll get them out quite easily, ladies. I'll see you." The two women nod their heads, and they leave through the gates: Hermione and Harry watch as Gudgeon locks them closed again.

"Do you think she's going to try and blow Hogwarts up?" Harry whispers to Hermione, and he feels her shake her head.

"You can't. In the 40s, they got really paranoid about Muggle bombs from the war. Professor Flitwick was telling me about it one day - there are all sorts of charms so that you can't bring Muggle explosives over the threshold, and missiles and bombs dropped from above are just rerouted into the sea." They follow Gudgeon slowly up to the castle, slipping into the great hall for dinner, and Harry is pensive as he sits with Draco.

"What's wrong with you?"

"If there was one structure in Wizarding Britain that you could blow up to scare the population, and it wasn't Hogwarts, what would you choose?"

"Uh, the Ministry of Magic?" Theodore suggests.

"St Mungo's. Diagon Alley."

"The Knight Bus station is Aberystwyth."

"Hogsmeade." The Slytherins take it for a hypothetical - they eagerly drop into conversations about strategy and history, and they're all so focused on the discussion they don't realize that Harry doesn't join in. He listens to them as they talk back and forth, going from one target to another. None of them strike him as quite correct.

He looks up to Gudgeon where she sits at the table, chatting energetically with Flitwick, and he drums his fingers on the table in front of him.

He barely eats that night.

But he sleeps. Oh, Merlin, does he sleep.

---

Harry wakes with a harsh gasp at four thirty in the morning, grabbing tightly at the arm that had touched him, but he stops short as he realizes who the arm belongs to. "Get up, Potter," Snape orders cleanly, and he does the same to Draco, shaking the boy quickly out of his sleep. "Don't bother getting dressed - just put on your dressing gowns and your shoes. Now." Snape sweeps from the room, and Draco looks blearily around.

"Wha's goin' on?"

"Not sure," Harry says, putting on his glasses and grabbing his wand, slipping it into his dressing gown's pocket. "Come on, Draco. I think this is serious." They move into the corridor, which is full of confused, sleepy Slytherins, and prefects snap orders from the common room, ordering people into lines.

They move up ot the great hall in a big mass, and Harry can see the Hufflepuffs are being ushered in the same direction: the Ravenclaws are already in the room, and Flitwick is running back and forth, Conjuring chairs and beds for them to settle in. There's anxious, quiet chatter between the students, but it's obvious no one knows what's going on - the prefects look as pale, worried and tired as everyone else, and it's plain they have no inside knowledge.

Rain pounds loudly on the castle roofs, the enchantment looking more like that of the lake than the usual night sky, and Harry flinches along with every other student in the room as lightning flashes across the enchanted ceiling, followed by a loud blast of thunder.

Hermione beelines straight for Harry when she enters the room, and Harry reaches for her hand, holding it tightly as they look to the doors. Dumbledore is dressed in a silken purple nightshirt, a thick, fluffy dressing gown of a similar colour pulled over it, but despite the rather whimsical look of the outfit, he's as serious as Harry has ever seen him. His gaze doesn't twinkle in the slightest, and his lips remain pressed together as he looks around the room.

"Is everyone here?" he calls.

"All of the students, Headmaster," McGonagall replies. She puts her hand on Filch's shoulder, stopping him from leaving the room. Harry watches as they argue for a moment, and then Filch goes over to Flitwick, turning away from the doors. Other teachers filter into the room - Burbage, Sinistra, Vector, even Sybil Trelawney, who doesn't look as if she's stepped into the great hall in six lifetimes.

When Hagrid brings Fang into the room, pushing him to go and sit with the Weasley twins, Harry gestures for him to come over. "What's happening?" he asks hurriedly, and Hagrid just shakes his big, shaggy head.

"Dementors, Harry. They've left Azkaban."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asks sharply. "They can't leave Azkaban - they don't. There's an agreement."

"They've left," Hagrid says. "And they're headin' North. That's why we want you all in here. Safe, like."

"Where's Professor Gudgeon?" Harry asks, looking hurriedly around the room. He feels sick as he realizes the woman is nowhere to be seen, and he runs over what he'd heard her say that night. They'd get them out. That's what she'd said. They'd get them out. "Oh, my God."

"What?" Hermione asks.

"They're not just blowing things up," Harry says. "They're blowing up- They're not blowing anything up. Structural damage, Hermione. Chad Arnett's explosives in Diagon Alley didn't blow up the street or anything - they blew out walls." Hermione stares at him, her eyes flicking over his face, and he sees understanding and horror dawn on her face.

"They're going to break him out." Harry's blood feels cold in his veins, and he runs across the room, slipping to a stop in front of Snape and grabbing at his sleeve. Snape is in mid-conversation with Remus, the two of them talking rapidly, and Snape stares down at Harry's hand on him as if Harry's touch is going to give him cholera. "They're going to break him out," Harry says urgently. "The dementors are gone, because they're going to break him out."

"What the Hell are you babbling about, Potter?"

"The dementors have left Azkaban," Hermione says sharply. "Gudgeon, she was friends with Chad Arnett, who attacked Diagon Alley in December. They're going to blow out some of the walls in the jail - they're going to break Lockhart out."

"Oh, fuck," Remus says, and then shoves his hand over his mouth, looking horrified with himself, but Snape doesn't seem to hear him. "We need to-"

"Come," Snape orders, and Harry and Hermione follow after the two teachers, ignoring the protests from Frank Richelieu and Percy Weasley as they run out of the great hall and through the corridors. Snape snaps out a spell that breaks the door before them off their hinges, and Remus just kicks it down and out of the way, like it's normal - they step inside, and Harry looks around the empty set of staff quarters. There's only bare pieces of furniture, nothing on the walls - even the ugly fruit bowl on the table is empty.

Harry and Hermione keep close to the two professors as they walk back towards the great hall - for once, Snape isn't continuously putting jibes in Remus' direction, and the two of them speak quietly and seriously, using defensive terms Harry wishes he could understand.

Burbage, Flitwick, Sinistra and McGonagall are in the entrance hall, and Snape joins them. Lupin rushes to find Dumbledore with Hermione following him, but Harry hovers, listening to the staff members talk.

"We can't strengthen the wards against these," Flitwick says. "This isn't an attack by wizards - dementors are barely on this plane, Severus. If they come here, Patronuses are our best defence."

"Twelve Patronuses against several thousand dementors," Sinistra says sarcastically, her melodic voice ringing in the hall. "A perfect balance."

"There are other defences," Snape agrees, "We can-"

"If you dare suggest Fiendfyre-"

"It's one of the only things that destroys them!" Snape says urgently, and McGonagall lets out a sharp little noise of frustration.

"And it destroys everything else, Severus. Would you have the castle destroyed!?" Harry's never seen teachers argue like this, and the spectacle is fascinating despite the situation, but before he can listen any more Snape notices him.

"Go, Potter." Harry opens his mouth to refuse, but there's a loud pound on the entrance hall door before it's thrown open. Harry stops short, staring slack-jawed at the two figures standing in the wet darkness, soaked to their greying, greenish skin: they're dressed in rags, blood seeping through the white cloth from their chests and their backs, and when they step forward it's the unnatural, clumsy step of something no longer alive. Harry's seen Muggles try to emulate it in horror movies Dudley's secretly watched in the middle of the night, but this is so much worse: he can smell the rotting stink of the two bodies as they shuffle forwards, their limbs at odd, broken angles. They move like strings are holding them up, just barely.

"Oh, Merlin," Burbage cries out, staring at the two monsters in horror. "That's- Severus, that's-"

Harry recognizes them from their photo in the Gazette, even though Padraic Fenton's eyes are sunken deep into his head, even though Darla Fenton's hair is coming away in sickly clumps from her scalp.

"Stupefy!" Snape casts sharply, and the red beam hits one of the zombie-like figures, but it doesn't so much as stumble - the magic hits it and seems to just disappear.

Harry heaves in a breath, grabbing for his own wand as the figures shuffle forwards: all the teachers are casting spells, but none of them seem to have any effect, and Harry gets himself ready to cast. He can see their eyes, now: the two of them have white, empty eyes, and Harry's horrified to realize as they come closer to him that they're breathing. Their chests rise and fall in slow, shaky breaths that make quiet groans of sound, and Harry's faced Voldemort, but he hadn't scared him like these two living corpses do.

Harry stumbles back, down and towards the hall of staircases, but the two of them follow him: they're focused on him, only him.

Silhouetted by another shot of lightning, Harry sees the first dementor out on the hill, and he realizes with a sick shock down his spine that it's focused on him. Gudgeon had done the same ritual again, with the Fentons as anchors: the dementors are coming after him.

Harry needs to get outside. It's the only thing he can think of as he sees the billowing robes of the two dementors outside in the distance - they're coming towards the castle, but everyone's in the great hall, and he doesn't want to draw them inside.

"Bombarda!" Harry yells, and the male corpse flies backwards, away from him, chunks of red-grey flesh spattering across the wall, but barely any blood does the same - it's like they've been chilled, or- or exsanguinated, somehow.

"Reducto!" Flitwick squeaks out, and the walking corpse of Darla Fenton flies hard against the wall, hitting it with a sickening crack of bone as a fair bit of her chest and a few ribs are sent flying. Harry runs towards the front door, and Snape tries to grab at him, but he succeeds only in grasping at the hood of Harry's dressing gown.

He shrugs it off before Snape can get a better grasp, his slippers pounding wetly on the grey brick of the courtyard.

"Potter!" Snape yells, and Harry can hear the teachers in pursuit of him but he ignores them, focusing only on running forwards and through the courtyard, out onto the hillside of the Hogwarts grounds. He can see them in the sky, hundreds of them in the distance with their dark robes illuminated by moonlight and by lightning flashes: close to hand, there are maybe a dozen, and the chilly night air is made bitingly cold by their presence.

Rain water soaks into Harry's hair and the flannel of his pyjamas, drops of moisture clinging to his glasses, but he ignores it, stumbling down the hill. He can hear teachers yelling as they exit the castle, but he focuses just on the dementors, on dementors and Sirius - he thinks of Sirius and Remus at Christmas, thinks of laughing with Hermione after a terrible kiss by the Gryffindor fire, thinks of feeling like a Weasley sibling, thinks of the way he knows Sirius will hug him after all of this is over, and how he'll kiss the top of Harry's head.

"Expecto Patronum!" Harry screams, his voice twisted by the whistling wind, and the burst of white-blue light that flies from his wand has four hooves, a broad, tall body, and its antlers shine brilliantly silver as it lets out a silent warcry, charging at the dementors around him. They're forced back, drawing in their horrible, rattling breaths as Harry makes his way further down the hillside, drawing them further from the castle.

The two corpse puppets are slowly stumbling down the hill toward him.

"Sir!" Harry yells up the hillside, and he scrambles towards Snape, who is back to back with Charity Burbage, the both of them casting their Patronuses to the sky. "How do we destroy them?"

"Get inside!" Snape hisses.

"They'll follow me! They're the same as the toads!" Harry yells back, refusing to pack away his defiance, and Snape stares at the figures in the distance. "Can't you just use acid again?"

"Of course, Potter! Just find me a cauldron big enough!" Snape retorts - they have to shout to be heard over the howling wind, and Harry casts his Patronus again, rushing over the grass as the two corpses slowly step towards him. They're slow, at least - he's glad they're not actual dementors. "You saw the runes carved into the flesh of the toads? You need to destroy the runes carved into their flesh!"

"How the fuck am I meant to do that!?"

"Ten points from Slytherin!" squeaks Flitwick as he comes up behind Harry.

"Is this really the time?" Harry demands incredulously, and Flitwick rolls up his pink pyjama sleeves, brandishing his wand.

"Remember your explosive charm, Potter," Flitwick says, and Harry stares at the two sliding, slow figures.

"They're still alive," Harry says.

"They're not!" comes Burbage's voice as she ducks slightly, letting Snape cast at a dementor over their heads. "They're Inferi, Potter, they're not alive any more." But they're breathing, Harry wants to cry. They're breathing, how can they be Inferi?

But they're coming too close, and Harry doesn't want either of them touching him.

"Bombarda!" Harry yells, aiming at the male corpse's neck. He tries to remember where the runes had been carved into the toads - just the chest and the back, he thinks, but will it be the same for these things? The grey flesh comes apart easily once it's torn from the monster's body, and Harry hopes he doesn't step in any of it as he casts again, and again, and again.

Flitwick is doing the same beside him, but it gets worse - more Patronuses are flying over their heads, pushing back the dementors, but like Sinistra had said inside, there are too many dementors converging on Hogwarts for the Patronuses to be any good. They circle over head, occasionally dipping down towards Harry, completely focused on him - Harry doesn't think they're even aware of what's happening. There's a magical focus in their heads, and they want Harry.

It's hard work, constantly moving over the grass and casting a new Patronus whenever his fades: he's tired, and he's freezing cold and wet, and he feels like he's going to die at any moment. "Bombarda!" His spell misses the half-skeletal female corpse, hitting a standing stone and sending chunks of sharp stone flying through the air - Harry feels a thick, jagged piece of stone bite hard into the side of his cheek, smacking his teeth, and can only be grateful it didn't hit his eye.

Harry stumbles, slipping hard on muddy grass, and he loses one slipper: he kicks the other off too, his bare feet better able to gain purchase on the surface of the ground beneath him. "Expecto Patronum!" he yells, and he produces only silvery mist - the staff's Patronuses are flagging, too, and Harry looks to the stumbling body of the male corpse. The female lies still on the ground, missing most of its flesh, but the male is still moving.

Harry is exhausted, feels like he's going to be sick or faint or drop dead any second now, so he yells at the top of his lungs, casting forwards, "Bombarda maxima!" It hurts. Merlin, it hurts worse than anything else he's ever felt before - it hurts like it had in first year, the tearing, burning pain of magic biting and clawing under his skin, but he doesn't care: the skeletal figure bursts into shards of bone and gore, and Harry drags in a breath, dropping to his knees.

A hooded figure ducks down towards him, and he flinches away, but Hagrid lifts him off the ground, his brown cloak hanging heavily on his body. The dementors seem disoriented as they fly higher into the sky, and Harry chokes down a gag as he tastes his own blood in his mouth, dripping down from a cut on the side of his nose.

"Am I gonna die?" Harry asks hoarsely as Hagrid carries him inside, and then he chokes on his own blood, coughing and spitting it out onto the floor.

"Nah, nah, course not," Hagrid assures him, though he sounds doubtful. Harry struggles in the groundskeeper's arms, pushing himself onto the ground, and he tries to stand on his own two feet, but his knees are weak and he drops onto the floor in the entrance hall. He spits more blood on the ground, and then realizes the blood isn't coming from the cut on his mouth. He puts his thumb in his mouth, pressing, and the damaged gum shifts under his touch, dropping out the tooth it had been holding.

Putting his other hand to his cheek, he feels the thick, wet wound the stone had left earlier, cutting right into his flesh. He spits the tooth out, staring at it where it lies, surrounded by red, in his palm. He's been punched a lot of times in his life, but he's never been hit hard enough to knock out a tooth, and he can't believe a piece of rock has done the job.

"Harry!" he hears Remus yell, and Harry touches the man's sleeve, pressing the tooth into his hand.

"Keep that safe, would you?" Harry says tiredly. "I think I want to keep it." He breathes in, heavily, and he drops back on the ground, lying on the cool stone of the entrance hall: he's bloody and muddy, he's missing his tooth, and he can't move his right arm.

Other than that, he thinks to himself, the day could have gone worse. He laughs to himself, unable not to, and he lets his eyes close. Not the best place to sleep, really, but you can't take points of an unconscious student, can you?

---

"Here," Remus says quietly, and he puts a jar on the desk beside Harry's bed. Harry picks it up with his left arm, peering into the glass: in a pool of clear, thick liquid settles his tooth, perfectly suspended. "Madam Pomfrey couldn't put it back in."

"That figures," Harry mutters. "What does Harry Potter need a tooth for? He's got loads of them."

"Glad to see you're so light-hearted," Remus says, sitting slowly on the edge of Harry's infirmary bed, and Harry watches him for a few seconds, meeting the werewolf's gaze.

"Crying never got me much," Harry says. "I'm more of a grin and bear it sort of bloke. You want to see something cool?"

"Sure," Remus says, and Harry shifts slightly in bed, pulling the sheet away from his right arm. Remus gasps, looking horrified: Madam Pomfrey had easily healed the nasty cuts on Harry's face, but he'd missed a shard that had cut through side of his pyjamas on the left. The scar bites past Harry's chest, jagged and red on the skin. "She couldn't heal that?"

"She could have," Harry admits. "Asked her to let it scar." Remus lets out an obviously uncomfortable, forced laugh, reaching out and gently touching Harry's hair.

"Sirius will be here tomorrow," Remus says quietly. "What about the exertion damage?"

"It's not as bad as last time," Harry says, shrugging. Remus stares at him.

"Last time?" he repeats, and Harry nods his head.

"Yeah, I did this in first year, too." Harry looks up as the infirmary doors swing open, and Harry is disappointed when he sees Snape instead of Hermione. "Does that ten points Flitwick took off me earlier count?"

"Yes," Snape says firmly.

"They were extenuating circumstances," Harry argues.

"Shut up, Potter," Snape says, and Harry lets out a loud, exaggerated sigh, but at Snape's utterly serious expression,, he sobers slightly, sitting up. "The Auror force has just sent word to Professor Dumbledore. Azkaban is in ruins."

"What do you mean, in ruins?" Harry asks. "They can't have destroyed the whole thing - it's been there like, half a millennium." Snape gives a very small shakes of his head, and Harry goes silent. "What about the other prisoners? They got Lockhart and Arnett, right, but...?"

Snape and Remus go very, very quiet, and Harry glances between them.

"They've all escaped?"

"Some are dead. Thirty or so prisoners. A few were injured seriously enough to be left behind. The rest are gone." Harry is silent for a long, long while. Snape doesn't say anything more - he slips quietly out of the room, and Remus stays still, watching Harry as he thinks about the prisoners that had been in Azkaban. How many were murderers? How many were Death Eaters?

A fair few, Harry guesses. A lot.

---

Harry doesn't read the special on Azkaban's destruction in the Prophet. He specifically goes out of his way not to do so, simply because he knows he'll only find extra information about the escaped prisoners depressing and upsetting; he'll only feel more guilty and stupid for not having been able to somehow stop it sooner, and he'll only obsess over the names of the people now free.

It doesn't make any difference.

It's the talk of the school. Why wouldn't it be?

Wherever he walks in the halls, he hears someone discussing one prisoner or another. Some of the names he recognizes, and others he doesn't, but he learns the names as the next week or so goes by. Sightings of Bellatrix Lestrange are reported in Essex, and of Keating Travers in Durham - there are sightings of murderers and monsters all across Britain.

"It's not your fault," Hermione murmurs. Harry sighs, rubbing over his chin. "You couldn't have done anything different."

"Maybe," Harry says. "Maybe not. I can't believe she was able to just- Five people. Just five very dedicated, very crazy people, and they brought Azkaban to the ground." That particular explanation Harry has heard a hundred times over - they sent in Chad Arnett with a date in mind, so he could communicate to Lockhart to get himself safe, surrounded the place with Muggle explosives, and it was really that simple. It was that simple.

The idea makes Harry sick with anger. How could anyone rely on only dementors to keep a jail running? How could there not have been any human guards?

He glances to the side as Draco slides into the seat beside him, and Hermione and Harry both frown at him, silent for a few moments. "I don't want to sit at the Slytherin table today," Draco says, reaching for a jug of pumpkin juice. His hand shakes, and Hermione takes it off him, pouring his glass for him. Draco had had his curtains shut tightly around his bed, but Harry can see from the greying bags under Draco's eyes that he'd barely slept.

"Ask Snape if you can Floo your mum," Harry says quietly. Draco shakes his head, drinking from his glass, and Hermione frowns at them.

"What are you so worried about?" Hermione asks. She speaks in a very soft tone, but it's clearly audible - the whole school has been under a state of complete hush the past few days, with people quietly, constantly, discussing Azkaban, and nothing else.

"You know how I explained to you," Harry murmurs, "About how Drom Tonks is Sirius' cousin, and how Narcissa is too? But that Drom was disowned?"

"Yeah..."

"Bellatrix Lestrange is the third Black sister." Hermione pours Draco a little more pumpkin juice, pushing a little buttered toast his way, but Draco just drinks, avoiding even looking at the food on the table. Harry reaches out, very gently patting Draco's back, and the other boy doesn't lean away or complain, like he usually would. "If you don't Floo her, I will."

"He's going today," Draco says quietly. "To see Father. She'll want him dead. She'll want so many people dead."

"Me included," Harry agrees. Draco's laugh is hoarse, and awkward, and it makes Harry flinch slightly. "They'll be fine. Don't worry."

"I'm not," Draco lies.

"Good," Harry lies back. "Nor am I." Harry shoves a piece of toast into Draco's hand, forcing him to take a small bite, and he meets Hermione's concerned gaze. He's never felt as out of depth as he does this week, and he can't help but wonder if she feels the same.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"I'd rather you did not," Snape replies, but he looks up from his book, looking Harry in the face.

"She didn't use dementors. She used people," Harry says. He's been staring at ancient, dusty book pages for most of the day, and he still doesn't understand it.

"Padraic and Darla Fenton were the leading experts on Muggle warfare and explosives this side of the Pacific," Snape says simply, marking his page and setting the book aside. He speaks seriously, quietly, and then adds, "In using their bodies, they were killing two birds with one stone. They took two of the only people who might comment on the use of Muggle explosives in magical areas out of the equation whilst using ideal channels."

"But they weren't dementors," Harry says. "They were people. You said they had to be the same species."

"Sara Dean-Smith has studied traditional magic for the past sixty years, Potter. Evidently, she was capable of tweaking necessary requirements in ritual magic." Snape slides his book over the desk, leaning back in his seat. Harry, for the first time, doesn't want to be at Hogwarts right now. He wants to be in his room in Sirius' flat, under the covers of his bed with just books and books around him. Whenever he looks out of a window he thinks about the dementors, or the corpses of the Fentons stumbling over the grass, bloody and open to the bone.

"What do you think they're going to do, now he's out? Lockhart, and his little fanclub? Lockhart just wants attention, but they've just killed like forty people to get him out. What are they going to do?"

"I don't know, Potter."

"What about the dementors? Now there's no prisoners in Azkaban, so what are they going to do with them?"

"I don't know, Potter."

"Do you think Voldemort's going to come back?" Harry asks, feeling a sick lurch in his belly as he asks the question. "The Death Eaters, they've all escaped. Do you think they'll bring him back?"

"I don't know, Potter," Snape says, for the third time, in the same simple, neutral tone, and Harry can't stand it, can't stand the fact that the man isn't even offering theories as to what the Hell is going to happen.

"How can you not know?" Harry demands, and then he feels stupid, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away.

"Contrary to your evident belief, Potter, I do not know everything." Snape stands up, plucking the book from his desk and settling it on a shelf. He looks down at Harry, and then says, "Go to bed."

"Why? Will it make me feel better?" Harry asks sardonically.

"Probably not," Snape allows. "But it will make me feel better, as you will be elsewhere."

"You're a terrible mentor." Harry makes his way to the door nonetheless, stepping out into the corridor. Maybe going to sleep for a bit will make him feel better. He can only hope.

"Good," Snape retorts, and slams the door shut behind him.

---

"Excuse me, Professor McGonagall," Harry turns, staring with wide, surprised eyes at his godfather. He stands in the doorway of the Transfiguration classroom, expression serious. "Can I borrow my godson and Draco, please? They've been called up to the headmaster's office." Harry looks to McGonagall, who seems surprised, but not really annoyed.

"Off you go, Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy. Take your satchels with you - there's only twenty minutes left to the period." Harry and Draco exchange looks, and Harry's glad to see the other boy looking as uncertain as he is, but they both shoulder their bags and follow Sirius out into the corridor. He doesn't talk as he leads them down to the entrance of Dumbledore's office, and he hurries them up the stairs after telling the gargoyle, "Liquorice bootlaces."

As soon as they cross the threshold, Draco lets out a horrified sound, running across the room and throwing his arms around his mother.

Harry hovers in the doorway, looking between the pale-faced Malfoy couple. Narcissa has a black eye, her hair singed heavily in places, and the skirt of her robes is torn to the calf, revealing harsh grazes over the skin there. Lucius looks even worse, though - blood soaks brightly into the silver-blond of his hair, and Snape is bending over him, carefully drawing his wand over the cut in his scalp to heal it closed. The front of Lucius' robes are shredded, claw marks digging into the chest, and under the green fabric his chest is a mess of red and white.

"Mother, Father-"

"It's alright, Draco," Narcissa whispers, holding him tightly. "We're quite fine. Quite alright." Lucius reaches out, and Draco takes his father's hand, squeezing it tightly under his own.

"That's healed closed," Snape murmurs quietly. "You can do your chest yourself?"

"Of course," Lucius says. "Don't insult me, Severus - I taught you that spell." Snape lets out a low, amused sound, and he turns to Narcissa, drawing a canister of balm from inside his robes and beginning to carefully apply it to her bruised left eye.

Harry feels Sirius standing beside him, and he looks to the man. His godfather looks exceedingly serious, but he gives Harry a small, encouraging smile, pushing him into the room. Dumbledore stands before his desk, watching the Malfoys seriously as Lucius heals the cuts on his chest and Narcissa does her best not to wince as Snape fixes up her eye.

"What happened?" Harry asks quietly, dropping his bag on the ground.

"Malfoy Manor was attacked by escapees this morning," Dumbledore says in a very sombre tone. "Bearing stolen wands, they attacked the ward structure and brought it down.

"Stupid of me," Lucius mutters. His eyes are wide, and he's breathing slightly heavily as he returns his wand to its hidden place sheathed in his cane. Harry's never seen the man look so tortured. "Of course that bitch recalled the position of the ward stones. I-"

"Lucius," Narcissa reproaches, and he seems to remember himself slightly, gritting his teeth.

"The Lestranges each knew the position of the ward stones," Lucius says. "As well as to bring them down. The wards at Hogwarts are imbued into everything, but mine were merely strengthened by a few central pieces of infrastructure - perfectly usable structure, so long as one doesn't know the weak points."

"Why did they attack Malfoy Manor?" Lucius drums his fingers on the chair he's sat heavily in, and it's Narcissa who answers.

"It was requested that we offer Bellatrix and the others sanctuary," she says. "That they might have safe headquarters whilst they search for the Dark Lord. I refused."

"And dear Bella needed no more invitation to turn on her own sister?" Sirius asks, bitterly. Narcissa purses her lips tightly together, saying nothing more at all. "I don't understand why I'm here, nor Harry," he adds, frowning at Dumbledore, and Dumbledore offers a very small smile.

"It is my suggestion, Sirius, and my request, that you offer Mr and Mrs Malfoy sanctuary in the Black home, in Grimmauld Place." Sirius laughs.

"Why? The place is a hellhole." Lucius stares at Dumbledore.

"There is no need," he says cleanly. "With due thanks," Lucius says the word with all the acidity he can back into it. "We will travel to France. There is an unused cottage of my family's in Marseille." Narcissa nods her head, seriously.

"Oh?" Dumbledore asks, and he gives a quiet, thoughtful sound before looking between the Malfoys again. "And who will cast the Fidelius Charm for you, once you are there?" Lucius' lips part, and he goes utterly slack-jawed. Harry watches Snape, who furrows his brow at Dumbledore, obviously confused at the implied offer.

"The Fidelius Charm?" Narcissa repeats, her gaze utterly concentrated on Dumbledore's face. "Were we to stay, you would cast it for us?" It must be complicated magic, Harry thinks - Harry's not been able to read many books that talk about it in detail, but Dumbledore seems to be one of the only people who can cast it.

"What is that?" Draco asks hurriedly. "The Fidelius Charm?"

"It conceals a secret," Harry answers. "Like an address. You know how my parents lived in Godric's Hollow, with me? They were hidden under a Fidelius Charm - that's how Pettigrew betrayed them, by telling Voldemort-" All three Malfoys flinch. "where they were." Draco gives a small nod of his head, and looks to Dumbledore with everyone else.

"Were you to assist our effort against the Death Eaters, Mr Malfoy, I would be glad to protect you in any way possible." Harry peers up at Dumbledore - on the one hand, he's irritated that Dumbledore would force the Malfoys' hand like this, but on the other... It's an extraordinarily canny way to get the Malfoys onto his side, however unwillingly. Lucius and Narcissa exchange a serious look: the conversation they share with only their eyes seems to go on for ages, and then they nod together.

"Very well," Lucius says sharply. "Draco- he'll be safer here. He'll still come here." Draco swallows, giving a small nod of his head when his father meets his gaze.

"Very good," Dumbledore says cheerfully. "We need only select a Secret Keeper."

"Severus-"

"No," Snape says. Lucius sighs in a dramatic fashion, and Snape rolls his eyes.

"I'll do it," Narcissa says quietly. Dumbledore's smile unsettles Harry a little - it's kind and warm, but Harry's just seen the way he pushed the Malfoys around like chess pieces, and it's... Bizarre. Strangely, Harry feels a little more respect for the headmaster than he had before, but by no means does it make him feel more affection.

"Come then," Dumbledore says. "Let us begin."

---

"Oh, it's nothing that bad," Harry assures Theo as he and Draco walk down to Care of Magical Creatures with him. "The Malfoys are coming to stay with me and Sirius in the summer, that's all." He speaks as casually as he can, and Draco gives a nod of his head. "Should be fun." Theo opens his mouth to say something, but he's distracted as Harry hurries a little further down the hill, waving to Hermione.

Hagrid stands at the edge of the paddock beside his hut, awkwardly holding his hands in front of his chest. Fang sits on Hagrid's doorstep, surveying the scene, and Harry really, really hopes that this is going to go alright. He loves Hagrid, of course he does, but the man can be...

Well. Harry just hopes there aren't any baby dragons waiting for them in the paddock.

"Alrigh', settle down now, settle down," Hagrid says, gesturing for the students to gather around. Harry stands with Theodore, watching Hagrid carefully as he offers them a big, wide smile. It's blatantly obvious that the man is nervous, but he forces himself to say, "Now, thought we'd start off with a nice, practical lesson. In the paddock here, we've got some Hippogriffs."

Harry stares as the little herd makes its way closer, their bright eyes peering with obvious interest at the students: they're beautiful animals, with their soft hair and feathers, but they're very, very big.

---

"Oh, hey, Buckbeak," Harry says, and he gives a little laugh as the Hippogriff gives him a little headbutt. He reaches behind the bizarre animal's ear, scratching gently underneath the feathers there and smiling. Buckbeak is an intimidating animal, but he's not a cruel one, and Harry finds he rather likes Hippogriffs once he's assured they're not going to rip out his throat.

He looks around the paddock at the other students. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil are cooing over a Hippogriff that's a little smaller than the others, assuring him of how pretty he is and how lovely his eyes are - the Hippogriff seems to be basking under the attention. Hermione is talking awkwardly to a silver-brown Hippogriff, obviously not all that great with animals any bigger than Crookshanks, and Harry watches as Draco makes his way over to her.

He's got that irritating swagger to his movements, and Harry says to Buckbeak, "Watch this. This'll be good." Buckbeak tilts his head, and looks in the direction Harry nods his head.

Harry can't see what Draco says as he puts his hands on his hips, as he's facing away from Harry, but it makes Hermione roll her eyes and say something back Harry thinks is "Go away, Draco." He really needs to learn to lipread. Draco tosses his head, gesturing to the Hippogriff and presumably saying something: the Hippogriff's head whips towards Draco, and Harry's eyes widen.

It lunges towards Draco, and Hermione pulls him out of the way, tumbling onto the ground with him. Harry pats Buckbeak on the side of his shoulder, running towards them.

"Whoa, whoa, hey there," Harry says, catching the Hippogriff Hermione had been petting before it can grab Draco by the calf. "Ignore him, whatever he said, he's an idiot. Look, you're so handsome, he obviously doesn't compare." The Hippogriff seems to consider this, peering into Harry's face as he does his best not to look directly into its eyes, and then it lets out a warbling coo, batting him with its wing.

Hermione drags Draco off the ground and then lets him go, shaking the dust off her robes: Draco is stockstill, though, and he's looking at Hermione with a slightly faraway expression in his eyes. It only lasts for a few seconds, and then Draco shakes himself off, looking to Crabbe and Goyle and doing his best to show off his bravado, but Harry had seen it. "Oh, God," Harry mutters, patting the Hippogriff's head.

---

"Don't," Hermione says firmly.

"Don't what?"

"Don't- don't point it out." Hermione gives a shake of her head, sitting herself down on the grass, and Harry drops down next to her, looking out over the lake. The giant squid is making lazy circles of it, its tentacles just brushing the surface before disappearing under the water again, and the slow movements are hypnotizing. "I'm not going to pay him any attention."

"He's paying enough attention for the both of you," Harry says dryly, and she elbows him hard in the side. "You could always give him a go."

"Give him a go?" Hermione repeats, utterly horrified.

"I meant- I don't know, try him! Hang out with him!" Harry says hurriedly, amending his phrasing, and she huffs.

"No. Draco Malfoy could fall to his knees at my feet and I wouldn't so much as kiss his cheek." Harry snorts, watching as the squid does a strange twirl in the lake water. "You've only just noticed it. George was making jokes about it when he sent me letters last summer." Harry glances at her, making the connections in his head.

"Is that why you were in such a mood with him in Diagon Alley? Because he told you Draco had a crush on you?" Harry laughs, and Hermione crosses her arms over her chest, pursing her lips together in a tight moue of displeasure. "You want me to talk to him?"

"No," Hermione says. "He'll grow out of it." Harry's not really seen Draco show any interest in girls before - unlike Theo and Blaise, he never seems to make all that much fuss of the posters on their walls, or join in the conversations about pretty girls in the years above. Nonetheless, Hermione's probably right - Draco preens under Pansy's attention, but he always gets bored of her soon enough.

"Or you'll grow into it, I suppose."

"Harry James Potter, I will throw you to that squid right now." Harry grins at her, throwing his arm around her shoulders. "I mean it, Harry. Just- just leave it."

"I will, Hermione, I will," Harry promises. She half hugs him, and they sit there for a little while, watching the squid. "Ah, my little Hermione. All grown up and rejecting the menfolk." Hermione snorts.

"You can't really call me little, Harry. I'm two inches taller than you." Harry lets her go, standing up and shouldering his bag.

"Friendship revoked!"

"Harry!" Hermione says, laughing as Harry mock-stalks up the hill, and she follows him up to lunch soon enough.

---

Harry holds his copy of the Prophet in one hand, scanning the headline; in his other, he keeps Hedwig off the ground, carrying her cage carefully through the crowd before settling down on a bench. Hogsmeade Station is in utter chaos with people running back and forth, having forgotten things up at the castle or whatever, and Harry is going to do his best to just ignore it until he can board the train.

Aurors clashed once again with Gringotts goblins this week. The Gringotts policy continues to refuse entry to law enforcement wishing to arrest Azkaban escapees within the bank's walls; Gringotts has refuted three times now the validity of Ministry warrants within their walls. Sighted this week alone within the bank have been Bellatrix Lestrange, Gilderoy Lockhart and Alecto Carrow, all of which escaped from Azkaban last April.

Nymphadora Tonks, one Auror involved, said...

"Hey, Harry," Hermione says, setting Crookshanks' basket down beside Hedwig's cage, and Harry gives her a small smile of greeting, handing her the paper. Despite the chaos continuing outside of the castle's walls, within Hogwarts things had progressed much as usual, and Harry is more than satisfied with his performance at the end of year exams.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," she mutters, frowning at the paper. "Is money really that important to them?"

"Lindon was writing me the other day - he said it isn't about the money," Harry says, giving a shrug. "Something about drama with the Goblin Liaison Office? Goblins are treated as second-class citizens, so ignoring wizarding law in this case is a form of protest." Hermione shakes her head, passing the paper back to him.

"Seems a bit extreme when Bellatrix Lestrange is involved," she murmurs, and they both look up as the Hogwarts Express lets out a sound of its whistle. Students begin boarding, and Harry shoves his Prophet under his arm, standing up. "Did Sirius-"

"Harry!" comes a yell from up the hill, and Harry glances up as Percy Weasley rushes down towards him with a letter held in his hand and Hermes flapping urgently after him. Harry frowns, opening his mouth to ask a question, but Percy's already on him - the older boy throws his arms around Harry, pressing a kiss to his forehead and letting out a loud laugh. "I got the job, Harry!" Percy declares excitedly: his freckled cheeks are bright red from exertion and excitement, and he ruffles Harry's hair. "I'm the new assistant for Bartemius Crouch! Can you believe it!?"

"Of course I can," Harry says awkwardly, trying not to think about how good Percy smells - he must use some sort of cologne, but Harry shouldn't ask about that right now. "Well done!" Percy grins at the both of them, and then he lets Hermes alight on his shoulder, stepping onto the train.

Harry sighs.

"You're such an idiot," Hermione says, picking Crookshanks up, and Harry frowns at her, letting her step onto the train before him. "What I was going to say, was did Sirius say anything more about staying with you this summer?"

"Yeah," Harry says, walking with her until they find an empty compartment and slipping inside. They let Crookshanks and Hedwig out as soon as the door is closed, and Crookshanks leaps up to a luggage rack, curling in a ball beside it. Within a few moments, Hermione and Harry's trunks appear with house elves carrying them, and they both chorus "Thank you!"s before they disappear. "He said so long as your parents are alright with him he'd like you to come and stay." He lifts up Hermione's trunk, carefully setting it beside Crookshanks without disturbing him. "We're all staying at Grimmauld Place together - apparently Dumbledore is setting up some kind of group there."

"What do you mean, group?" Hermione asks, frowning and furrowing her brow. "I thought the Malfoys were just going to stay there?"

"Yeah, I think they thought that too," Harry says, sitting against the window and stroking Hedwig's feathers. "Sirius couldn't go into too much detail, but it's some kind of light wizard group."

"I bet the Malfoys are pleased about that," Hermione says dryly.

"I think they're willing to deal with it at the moment, to be honest," Harry murmurs, and Hermione's expression falters a little. She's not going to be sympathetic, of course, but nor can she really be completely hostile where the Malfoys are concerned, even though Harry has seen her try. "You excited for the summer?"

"Oh, yeah," Hermione says. "Stuck in a big house with you, the Malfoys, the Weasleys, and Sirius Black. It's my dream, Harry." Harry laughs, feeling the chug of the train beneath them as it leaves the station.

"Yeah, Hermione. Mine too."